And that was what he was going to do now. Just take off.
The foreman—no! he corrected that—ex-foreman…had not had a good night’s sleep since that…awfulness with Velvet Colby. He sat down at his rough-hewn desk and slowly wrote out instructions on a piece of paper. Finished with the letter, he walked to the door and opened it, calling for a puncher to get over there.
“Billy, can you read and write?”
“Yes, sir, Mister Clint,” the cowboy said. “I finished sixth grade.”
“Fine. Come on in.” With the cowboy inside Clint’s quarters, Clint pointed to the letter. “Sign your name where it says Witness.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Clint.” The cowboy did not read the letter; that wasn’t none of his business. He signed his name. “You want me to date this, Mister Clint?”
“Yes. Good thought, Billy.”
After Billy had gone, Clint looked around his spartan living quarters. Looked around for one last time. He could see nothing left that he wished to take. Outside, he rigged the pack horse and swung onto his own horse. Looking around, he spotted several punchers just down from the high country. They walked over to him.
“Where you goin’, Mister Clint?” a puncher called Rosie asked.
“Haulin’ my ashes, Rosie. And if you got any sense about you, you will too.” He looked at the others. “All of you.”
“You got a new job, Mister Clint?” a cowboy named Austin asked.
“Yeah, I do, Austin. And I’m hirin’ punchers. I’m payin’ forty a month and found. You interested?”
They all were.
Clint figured he could run his place with four hands, including himself. At least for a time.
“Pack your warbags, boys. And do it quiet-like. Meet me just north of Big Rock, south of Slumgullion Pass.”
He swung his horse’s head and moved out.
The punchers moved quietly to the bunkhouse and packed their meager possessions. One by one, they moved out, about thirty minutes behind Clint. None of them knew why the foreman was pullin’ out. But with Clint gone, damned if they was gonna stay around with all these lazy-assed, overpaid gunhands.
As they rode over and out of TF range, they met other TF punchers—not hired guns, cowboys. The punchers looked at those leaving, put it all together, and one by one, silently at first, made their plans to pull out.
“I ain’t seen my momma in nigh on three years,” one said. “I reckon it’s time to head south.”
“I got me a pard works over on the Saguache,” another said. “Ain’t seen him in two, three years. It’s time to move on anyway.”
“I know me a widder woman who owns a right-nice little farm up near Georgetown,” yet another cowboy said. “I’m tared of lookin’ at the ass end of cows. I think I’ll just head up thataway.”
“I ain’t never seed the ocean,” another cowboy lamented. “I think I’ll head west.”
Clint rode into Big Rock and tied his horses at the post outside the Big Rock Saloon. As he was stepping up onto the still-raw-smelling boardwalk, he saw Johnny North and that Belle Colby woman coming out of the general store. They stopped to chat with Lawyer Hunt Brook.
Clint removed his gunbelt and walked slowly over to them. Johnny saw the man coming at him and instinctively slipped the thongs off the hammers of his Colts. Then he noticed that Clint was not armed. His eyes found the pack horse.
“What the hell…” he muttered.
Clint had some papers in his right hand.
Clint stopped about twenty-five feet from the trio. “I’m friendly,” he said.
“Come on,” Johnny said.
Clint held the papers out to Belle. Slowly, she took them. Clint said, “It won’t make up for what was done to your daughter and your husband, but it’s something I’d like to do.” He turned and walked back to his horses.
Belle, Johnny, and Hunt watched him swing into the saddle and ride out of their lives.
“Let me see those papers, Belle,” Hunt said. The lawyer quickly scanned first one paper, then the others—older, slightly yellowing around the edges. He began to smile.
“What is it, Mister Brook?” Belle asked.
“Why, Belle…you own ten percent of the TF Ranch. I think you have just become a very wealthy woman.”
Tilden called for his houseboy.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get Clint for me, boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
The houseboy returned a few minutes later. “Sir? Mister Clint is gone.”
“Gone…where, damnit?”
“He packed up and rode out. His quarters is empty, and so is the bunkhouse. Old Ramon at the stable says all the punchers packed up and left. Following Mister Clint.”
“Get out!” Tilden said, real menace in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” the houseboy said. “I most certainly will do that, Mister Tilden.”
Thirty minutes later, the servant had packed his kit and was walking toward Fontana.
In his study, Tilden called for his houseboy. “Bring me a cup of coffee, boy!”
The big house creaked in empty silence.
“Boy!” Tilden roared. “You bring me a cup of coffee or I’ll take a whip to your lazy greaser ass!”
Silence. And Tilden Franklin, the man who would be king, knew he was alone in his large, fine home.
He walked to a large window and looked out. His thoughts were savage. “I’m gonna kill you, Jensen. I’m gonna bring Fontana to its knees first. Then I’m gonna burn your goddamn Big Rock to the ground. Then I’m gonna kill you and have your woman.”
He walked to a rack and took down his gunbelt, buckling it around his hips. He put his hat on his head and walked outside.
“Ramon?” he yelled.
“Si, señor?” the old man called.
“Bring me my horse. Then you find your mule and get Luis for me.”
“Si, señor.” Son of a bitch! he silently added.
8
The houseboy heard the thundering of hooves long before he saw them. He did not know what they meant, other than a lot of riders were in a big hurry. He shifted his heavy satchel to his other hand and trudged on, walking along the side of the rutted dirt road. As the thunder grew louder, he turned around, fear and panic on his face.
“Ride the insubordinate bastard down!” he heard Tilden Franklin scream, his voice just carrying over the steel-shod thunder.
The houseboy tried to run. He dropped his belongings and leaped to one side. He was too slow.
The rushing shoulder of a horse hit him in the back, tossing him to the road. Pain filled him as he heard his bones break. He looked up in time to see Tilden’s crazed face and his stallion rear up, the hooves flashing in the hard sunlight.
The houseboy screamed.
His screaming was cut off as the steel hooves came down on his face, crushing his skull. The riders galloped on, leaving the houseboy lying in the road, his blood staining and dampening the dust.
They were fifty-odd strong, drunk not with alcohol, but with the power given them by Tilden Franklin. Raw, unbridled, killing power. He was paying them good money, and offering them immunity and total impunity.
From the law. None of them was taking Smoke Jensen into consideration as any form of punishment. They should have.
One deputy saw them coming hard and ran for his horse. He hauled his ashes, leaving everything he owned behind him in Fontana. If it ever calmed down, he might be back. If not, to hell with it!
Yet another deputy, nicknamed Stonewall, saw the riders coming and ran across the street to the sheriff’s office. “Monte!” he hollered, jumping into the office and running to the shotgun rack. “Tilden and his gunhawks comin’ fast. Get ready.”
A third deputy ran inside the office-jail just as gunfire ripped the street. Like Monte and Stonewall, he grabbed a Greener from off the rack and stuffed his pockets full of shells