He kissed Sally and swung up into the saddle, thinking that it had certainly been a short homecoming. He looked at Bob, standing tall and very young beside Sally.
“You stay with Sally, Bob. Don’t leave her. I’ll square that with your Pa.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Smoke,” the boy replied.
“Can you shoot a short gun, Bob?”
“Yes, sir. But I’m better with a rifle.”
“Sally will loan you a spare pistol. Wear it at all times.”
“Yes, sir. What are you gonna do, Mister Smoke?”
“Try to organize the small farmers and ranchers, Bob. If we don’t band together, none of us will have a chance of coming out of this alive.”
Smoke wheeled Drifter and rode into the timber without looking back.
He headed across the country, taking the shortest route to Colby’s spread. During his ride, Smoke spotted men staking out claims on land that had been filed on by small farmers and ranchers.
Finally he had enough of that and reined up. He stared hard at a group of men. “You have permission to dig on this land?”
“This is open land,” a man challenged him.
“Wrong, mister. You’re on Colby land. Filed on legally and worked. Don’t be here when I get back.”
But the miners and would-be miners were not going to be that easy to run off. “They told us in Fontana that this here land was open and ready for the takin’.”
“Who told you that?”
“The man at Beeker’s store. Some others at a saloon. They said all you folks up here were squattin’ illegal-like, that if we wanted to dig, we could; and that’s what we’re all aimin’ to do.”
So that was Tilden’s plan. Or at least part of it, Smoke thought. He could not fault the men seeking gold. They were greedy, but not land-greedy. Dig the gold, and get out. And if a miner, usually unarmed, was hurt, shot in any attempt to run them off, marshals would probably be called in.
Or…Smoke pondered, gazing from Drifter to the miners, Tilden might try to name a marshal for Fontana, hold a mock election for a sheriff. Colorado had only been a state for a little over two years, and things were still a bit confused. This county had had a sheriff, Smoke recalled, but somebody had shot him and elections had not yet been held to replace the man. And even an illegally elected sheriff would still be the law until commissioners could be sent in and matters were straightened out.
Smoke felt that was the way Tilden was probably leaning. That’s the way he would play it if Smoke was as amoral as Tilden Franklin.
“You men have been warned,” he told the miners. “This is private property. And I don’t give a damn what you were told in town. And don’t think the men who own the land won’t fight to keep it, for you’ll be wrong if you do. You’ve been warned.”
“We got the law on our side!” a miner said, considerable heat in his voice.
“What law?”
“Hell, man!” another miner said. “They’s an election in town comin’ up tomorrow. Gonna be a sheriff for a brand-new town. You won’t talk so goddamned tough with the law lookin’ over your shoulder, I betcha.”
Smoke gazed at the men. “You’re all greedy fools,” he said softly. “And a lot of you are going to get hurt if you continue with this trespassing. Like I said, you’ve been warned.”
Smoke rode on, putting his back to the men, showing them his contempt.
An hour later, he was in Colby’s front yard. Wilbur Mason had joined Colby by the corral at the sound of Drifter’s hooves. A bloody bandage was tied around Wilbur’s left arm, high up, close to the shoulder. But Smoke could tell by looking at the man that Wilbur was far from giving up. The man was angry and it showed.
“Boys,” Smoke said. “You save anything, Wilbur?”
“Nothing, Matt…Smoke. You really the gunfighter?”
“Yes.” He swung down and dropped Drifter’s reins on the ground. “Do any of you know anything about an election coming up tomorrow in town?”
“No,” they said together. Colby added. “What kind of election, Smoke?”
“Sheriff’s election. Tilden may be a greedy bastard, but he’s no fool. At the most, there is maybe twenty-five of us out here in the high country. There is probably two or three thousand men in Fontana by now. Our votes would be meaningless. And for sure, there will be Tilden men everywhere, ready to prod some of you into a fight if you show up by yourselves in town. So stay out until we can ride in in groups.”
“Who’s runnin’ for sheriff?” Wilbur asked.
“I don’t know. A TF man for sure, though. I’ll check it out. Bob is staying with Sally, Colby. That all right with you?”
“Sure. He’s a good boy, Smoke. And he’ll stand fast facin’ trouble. He’s young, but he’s solid.”
“I know that. He said Adam was riding out to check the others…what’s the word so far?”
“They’re stayin’, Smoke. Boy’s asleep in the house now. He’s wore out.”
“I can imagine.” His eyes caught movement near the house. Velvet. “Keep the women close by, Colby. This situation is shaping up to be a bad one.”
“Velvet’s just a kid, Smoke!” her father protested. “You don’t think…” He refused to even speak the terrible words.
“She looks older than her years, Colby. And a lot of very rough people are moving into this area. Tilden Franklin will, I’m thinking, do anything to prod us all into something rash. He’s made his intentions toward my wife public. So he’s pulling out all the stops now.”
Both Colby and Wilbur cursed Tilden Franklin.
Smoke waited until the men wound down. “How’s your ammo situation?”
“Enough for a war,” Colby said.
“Watch your backs.” Smoke swung into the saddle and looked at the men. “A war? Well, that’s what we’ve got, boys. And it’s going to be a bad one. Some of us are not going to make it. I don’t know about you boys, but I’m not running.”
“We’ll all stand,” Wilbur said.
Smoke nodded. “The Indians have a saying.” His eyes swept the land. “It’s a good place to die.”
8
Smoke touched base with as many small ranchers and farmers as he could that day, then slowly turned Drifter’s head toward the town of Fontana. There was no bravado in what he was about to do, no sense of being a martyr. The area had to be checked out, and Smoke was the most likely candidate to do that.
But even he was not prepared for the sight that greeted him.
Long before he topped the crest overlooking the town of Fontana, he could see the lights. Long before the rip-roaring town came into view he could hear the noise. Smoke topped the crest and sat, looking with amazement at the sight that lay beneath and before him.
Fontana had burst at the seams, growing in all directions within three days. From where he sat, Smoke could count fifty new saloons, most no more than hurriedly erected wooden frames covered with canvas. The town had spread a half mile out in any direction, and the streets were packed with shoulder-to-shoulder humanity.
Smoke spoke to Drifter softly and the big, mean-eyed stallion moved out. Smoke stabled Drifter in the oldest of the corrals—a dozen had suddenly burst forth around the area—and filled the trough with corn.
“Stay away from him,” he warned the stable boy. “If anyone but me goes into that stall, he’ll kill them.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said. He gazed at Smoke with adoration-filled eyes. “You really the gunfighter Smoke Jensen?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on your side, Mister Smoke. Name’s Billy.”
Smoke extended his hand and the boy gravely shook it. Smoke studied the boy in the dim lantern-light of the stable. Ragged clothes, shoes with the soles tied so that they would not flop.
“How old are you, Billy?”
“Eleven, sir.”
“Where are your folks?”