The riders could practically feel the hate from Tilden Franklin’s eyes boring into them as they rode past where he sat like a king on the hotel boardwalk. Smoke met the man’s eyes and touched his hat brim in a gesture of greeting.
Tilden did not return the greeting.
They passed Louis Longmont’s gaming tent. Most of the old gunfighters knew the gambler and they greeted him. Louis returned the greeting and very minutely nodded his head in the direction Smoke was riding.
There was something or someone down there that Louis wanted Smoke to know about. Smoke’s eyes searched both sides of the street. Then he saw them, the three of them, lounging in front of a newly erected tent saloon.
Luis Chamba, Kane, and Sanderson.
The Mexican gunfighter stood with his arms folded across his chest, his sombrero off his head, hanging down his back by the chin cord.
“See them?” Smoke whispered the words, just audible over the clop of hooves.
“I see them,” Charlie returned the whisper. “That Chamba, he’s a bad one. Kills for pleasure. Gets his kicks that way, you know?”
Smoke knew the type.
Then they were past the killers.
“Kane and Sanderson?” Smoke asked. He knew of them, but did not know them personally.
“Just as bad. They’re all three twisted. And they’ll kill anything or anybody for money.”
“Look at them punks over to your left.”
“Seen them too,” Charlie said sourly. “Lookin’ to make themselves a reputation. I hope they don’t try none of this bunch. These guys are all on the shady side of their years, but Lord God, don’t sell ’em short.”
A young man with a smart-ass look to him and dressed like a San Francisco pimp stood glaring at the men. At least Smoke figured that’s how a San Francisco pimp might dress, having never been there.
“Reckon it’s time for us to start us a Boot Hill here in Fontana, boys!” the loud-mouthed, loudly dressed young man said, raising his voice so the riders could all hear him.
The Apache Kid favored the young man with a glance and dismissed him just as quickly.
Sunset openly laughed at the dandy.
“Yeah,” another duded-up, two-gun-totin’ young man agreed, his voice loud. “And them old boys yonder ain’t got long to go no ways. Might as well start with them. How ’bout it?”
None of the aging gunfighters even acknowledged the punk had spoken. They rode on.
“Hell!” another would-be gunslinger yelled, fanning the air with his fancy hat. “They so goddamned old they done lost their balls, boys!”
“That one is mine,” Luke said, just so his friends could hear.
“He means it, Smoke,” Charlie said. “Don’t interfere none.”
“Far be it for me to interfere,” Smoke answered.
Back in the high country, Velvet Colby, her chores done for the morning, thought it would be nice to take a walk through the woods.
“Stay close, Velvet!” her mother called.
“Yes, ma’am, I will.”
Adam watched her go. He stuck his dime novel in his back pocket and picked up his .22 rifle, following Velvet but staying back, knowing how his sister enjoyed being alone.
While Ed Jackson and his brother loaded the wagon with supplies, Colby walked with Smoke over to Louis Longmont’s place. He introduced them and Louis invited them inside. Smoke had no intention of trying to shepherd and play check-rein on Charlie and the others. They’d been without his advice for a combination of about three hundred and fifty years. They didn’t need it now.
“A taste of the Glenlivet, gentlemen?” Louis asked.
“Huh?” Colby asked.
“Fine scotch whiskey,” Smoke told him.
Three tumblers poured three fingers deep, Louis lifted his glass. “Here’s to a very interesting summer, gentlemen.”
They clinked glasses and sipped.
Louis smiled. “Shall we adjourn to what laughingly passes for a veranda and watch the show, boys?”
“Sure going to be one,” Smoke agreed, moving toward the door.
Luke Nations had broken off from the others and was walking toward the knot of would-be gunslicks, walking directly toward the duded-up punk with the fat mouth. Luke stopped about twenty-five feet from him. He stood with the leather thongs off the hammers of his Colts. He stood with his feet slightly spread. He was big and bent and old and mean-looking. And the look in his eyes would have warned off a puma.
“You made a comment a minute or so ago, kid,” Luke said, his voice flat and hard. “Well, now is your chance to back up your mouth. Either that…or tuck your fancy tail between your legs and carry your ass!”
His name was Lester. But he called himself Sundance. At this moment, he felt more like Lester than Sundance.
The Silver Dollar Kid had backed up against a wall. Unlike Lester, he wasn’t afraid; he just wanted to see if the old men still had it in them. When he had studied them, then he would make his move.
“Goddamn you, boy!” Luke’s voice was so sharp, it hurt. “Do you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you.” Sundance surfaced, pushing Lester out of the way.
Monte Carson had come on the run when he heard the news of the impending shoot-out. He came to an abrupt halt, almost falling as his high-heeled boots dug into the dirt of the street. One of his deputies ran into him, and they both almost fell.
“What the hell?” the deputy said.
“Shut up and look around you!” Monte whispered hoarsely.
The Apache Kid was just across the street, standing alone, both hands to his sides, the palms very close to the butts of his Colts.
The deputy cut his eyes. Old Sunset was standing behind them, about thirty feet away.
Bill Foley stood just to their right, poised and ready for anything that might come his way.
“Ssshhittt!” Monte hissed, the breath whistling between his slightly gapped front teeth. He was looking eyeball to eyeball with Silver Jim, his long white duster brushed back, exposing the butts of the Colts, the leather hammer thongs off.
Back of them, facing Tilden Franklin and Clint, stood Moody. Moody said, “You boys come to watch or get dealt in?”
Tilden chewed his cigar soggy in a matter of a heartbeat. He felt no fear, for there was no fear in him. But he had grown up hearing stories about these old gunfighters. And at this distance, everybody was going to get lead in them. And there was something else too. Tilden knew, from hard experience, that when dealing with ballsy old men you’d best walk lightly. With their best years behind them, they had nothing to lose. Old men did not fight fair. Tilden had learned that the hard way too.
Clint cut his eyes. Louis Longmont, his tailored jacket brushed back over the butts of his guns, stood to Clint’s right. Smoke was facing Tilden’s other hands, and the other hands were looking a little green around the mouth.
And the gunslinger Johnny North had finally made his appearance. The blond-haired Nevada gunhand stood in the street, facing Luis Chamba and his two sidekicks. Johnny was smiling. And those that knew Johnny knew Johnny was not the smiling type.
All in all, as the Fontana Sunburst would later say in a column by its editor, it was a most exhilarating and tense moment. These legends of the Wild West, captivating an entire town with their bigger-than-life presence. A moment from the fading past that would be forever etched in the minds of all who had the opportunity to witness this fortuitous encounter of the last of the Bad Men.
Haywood did, on occasion, get a tad bit carried away with his writing.
But since the written word was scarce in the West, folks would read and enjoy nearabout anything. They might not understand what the hell they were reading, but read it they would.
“Do it, punk!” Luke shouted. He began walking toward the dandy. Luke had felt all along the dandy didn’t have the cold nerve to pull iron. When he reached the young man, who was beginning to sweat, he balled his left hand into a hard fist and knocked the loud-mouth to the dirt. Lester-Sundance fell hard. He lay on the dirt, looking up at Luke through wide, scared eyes.