18
“That is The Apache Kid?” Sally said, speaking to Smoke. “I have heard stories about The Apache Kid ever since I arrived in the West. Smoke, he looks like he might topple over at any moment.”
“That’s him,” Smoke said. “Preacher told me about him. And I’ll make you a bet right now that that old man can walk all day and all night, stop for a handful of berries and take a sip of water, and go another twenty-four hours.”
“I ain’t dis-pootin’ your word, Boss,” Pearlie said. “But I’m gonna have to see it to believe it.”
Smiling, Smoke bent down and picked up a small chunk of wood. “Apache!” he called.
The old, buckskin-clad man turned and looked at Smoke.
“A silver dollar says you can’t knock it out of the air.”
“Toss ’er, boy!”
Smoke tossed the chunk high into the air. With fifty-odd years of gunhandling in his past, Apache’s draw was as smooth and practiced as water over a fall. He fired six times. Six times the hardwood chunk was hit, before falling in slivers to the ground.
“Jesus!” Pearlie breathed.
“That’s six silver dollars you owe me,” Apache said.
Smoke laughed and nodded his head. The Apache Kid turned to talk with Charlie.
“That Jensen?” Apache asked, as the other old gunfighters listened.
“That’s him.”
“He as good as they say?” Bowie asked.
“I wouldn’t want to brace him,” Charlie said, paying Smoke the highest compliment one gunhand could pay to another.
“That good, hey?” Luke Nations asked.
“He’s the best.”
“I heared he was that,” Dan Greentree said. “Rat nice of him to in-vite us on this little hoo-raw.”
Smoke and Sally had gone into the cabin, leaving the others to talk.
Pearlie shyly wandered over to the growing knot of men. He was expecting to get the needle put to him, and he got just that.
“Your ma know you slipped away from the house, boy?” a huge, grizzled old man asked.
Pearlie smiled and braced himself. “You be Pistol Le Roux?”
“I was when I left camp this mornin’.”
“I run arcost a pal of yourn ’bout three years ago—up on the Utah-Wyoming line. South of Fort Supply. Called hisself Pawnee.”
“Do tell? How was ol’ Pawnee?”
“Not too good. He died. I buried him at the base of Kings Mountain, north side. Thought you’d wanna know.”
“I do and I ’preciate your plantin’ him. Say a word over him, did you?”
“Some.”
“This is Pearlie, Pistol.”
“Pleased. Join us, Pearlie.”
Pearlie stood silent and listened to the men talk. Charlie said, “This ain’t gonna be no Sunday social, boys. And I’ll come right up front and tell you that some of you is likely to be planted in these here mountains.”
The sounds of horses coming hard paused Charlie. He waited until the last of the old gunslicks had dismounted and shook and howdied.
Charlie counted heads. Twenty of the hardest, most talked-about, and most legendary men of the West stood in the front yard of the sturdy little cabin. Only God and God alone knew how many men these randy old boys had put down into that eternal rest.
The Apache Kid was every bit of seventy. But could still draw and shoot with the best.
Buttermilk didn’t have a tooth in his head, but those Colts belted around his lean waist could bite and snarl and roar.
Jay Church was a youngster, ’bout Charlie’s age. But a feared gunhawk.
Dad Weaver was in his mid-sixties. He’d opened him a little cafe when he’d hung up his guns, but the rowdies and the punks hadn’t left him alone. They’d come lookin’ and he’d given the undertaker more business. He’d finally said to hell with it and taken off for the mountains.
Silver Jim still looked the dandy. Wearin’ one of them long white coats that road agents had taken to wearing. His boots was old and patched, but they shined. And his dark short coat was kinda frayed at the cuffs, but it was clean. His Colts was oiled and deadly.
Ol’ Hardrock. Charlie smiled. What could he say about Hardrock? The man had cleaned up more wild towns than any two others combined. Now he was aging and broke. But still ready to ride the high trails of the Mountain Men.
Charlie lifted his eyes and spotted Moody. Ol’ Moody. Standin’ away from the others, livin’ up to his name. Never had much to say, but by the Lord he was as rough and randy as they could come.
Linch. Big and hoary and bearded. Never packed but one short gun. Said he never needed but one.
Luke Nations. A legend. Sheriff, marshal, outlaw, gunfighter. Had books wrote about him. And as far as Charlie knew, never got a dime out of any of them.
Pistol Le Roux. A Creole from down in Louisiana. As fast with a knife as with a gun…and that was plenty fast.
Quiet Bill Foley. Wore his guns cross-draw and had a border roll that was some quick.
Dan Greentree. Charlie had riden many a trail with Dan. Charlie wondered if these mountain trails around Fontana would be their last to ride.
Leo Wood. Leo just might be the man who had brought the fast draw to the West. A lot of people said he was. And a lot of so-called fast guns had died trying to best him.
Cary Webb. Some said he owned a fine education and had once taught school back East. Chucked it all and came West, looking for excitement. Earned him a rep as a fast gun.
Sunset Hatfield. Supposed to be from either Kentucky or Tennessee. A crack shot with rifle or pistol.
Crooked John Simmons. Got that name hung on him ’cause he was as cross-eyed as anybody had ever seen. Had a hair-trigger temper and a set of hair-trigger Colts.
Bull Flagler. Strong as a bull and just as dangerous. Carried him a sawed-off shotgun with a pistol grip on his left side, a Colt on the other.
Toot Tooner. Loved trains. Loved ’em so much he just couldn’t resist holding them up back some years. Turned lawman and made a damn good one. Fast draw and a dead shot.
Sutter Cordova. His mother was French and his dad was Spanish. Killed a man when he was ’bout ten or eleven years old; man was with a bunch that killed his ma and pa. Sutter got his pa’s guns, mounted up, and tracked them from Chihuahua to Montana Territory. Took him six years, but he killed every one of them. Sutter was not a man you wanted to get crossways of.
Red Shingletown. Still had him a mighty fine mess of flamin’ red hair. He’d been a soldier, a sailor, an adventurer, a rancher…and a gunfighter.
And there they stood, Smoke thought, gazing at the men from the cabin. I’m looking at yet another last of a breed.
But did I do right in asking them to come?
Sally touched his arm. Smoke looked down at her.
“You did the right thing,” she told him. “The trail that lies before those men out there is the one they chose, and if it is their last trail to ride, that’s the way they would want it. And even though they are doing this for you and for Charlie, you know the main reason they’re doing it, don’t you?”
Smoke grinned, wiping years trom his face. He looked about ten years old. All except for his eyes. “Ol’ Preacher.”
“That’s right, honey. They all knew him, and knew that he helped raise you.”
“What do you plan on having for supper?”
“I hadn’t thought. Why?”
“How about making some bearsign?”
“It’s going to run me out of flour.”
“Well, I think me and Charlie and some of those ol’ boys out there just might ride into Fontana tomorrow. We’ll stop by Colby’s and get him to take his wagon. Stock up enough for everybody. ’Sides, I want to see Louis’s face when we all come ridin’ in.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, poking him in the ribs and tickling him, bending him over, gently slapping at her hands. “But mostly you want to see Tilden Franklin’s face.”
“Well…He suddenly swept her up in his arms and began carrying her toward the bedroom.