Avenger Read online

  But from shore, they couldn’t cover the seaward end of the boathouse. Frank began making his way toward it, still holding the rifle and pistol up out of the water.

  He had to duck his head a little for the crown of his hat to clear as he reached the end of the boathouse. Salt water sloshed into his mouth and nose. He spit and sputtered for a second or two, then looked up at the building looming over him. He had thought that he remembered seeing a weather vane on top of the boathouse as he was running toward it, and sure enough, there it was, turning a little in the breeze that blew from offshore.

  The big doors had a little lip along the bottom of them. Carefully, Frank placed the Winchester and the Colt on that lip. Then he took the rope off his shoulder.

  His fingers were cold from the water, and the rope was the sort used on a boat, not a supple lasso like the ones Frank had used in his cowboying days. But some things, once learned, could never be unlearned, and after a minute or two, he was able to fashion a loop in one end of the rope.

  He swung the loop around his head for a couple of turns, then cast it at the top of the boathouse. Throwing a loop almost straight up that way was very difficult, and he wasn’t surprised when the toss fell short. He gathered in the loop and got ready to try again.

  The fire was burning fiercely now at the other end of the building. Frank knew he didn’t have a lot of time to waste. He cast the loop again, and although he thought at first that it was going to sail up far enough to drop over the weather vane, it fell short again. With a sense of urgency growing in him, Frank gathered in the loop.

  Whirling the rope so fast it blurred, Frank let it build up speed and then threw it again. The loop rose up and up until it reached the end of its flight, then dropped . . .

  And landed so that it was around the weather vane.

  Frank jerked the loop closed, and hoped that the weather vane was secured tightly enough to the roof to support his weight. It would have to be, since it represented his best and maybe only chance to come out of this corpse-and-cartridge session alive. He pulled down hard on the rope. It seemed strong enough.

  Holding firmly to the rope, he hauled himself up out of the water far enough so that he could get a foot on the lip at the bottom of the door. He let go of the rope with one hand and reached down to pick up his Colt and holster it. Then he retrieved the Winchester and passed the rope through the cocking lever. He shifted his grip on the rope to a spot underneath the rifle so that he could work it up with him as he climbed.

  Then he started walking up the seaward end of the boathouse.

  The strain made his arms feel like they were about to be ripped from their sockets. He gritted his teeth and kept moving anyway. When he got high enough, he could see the column of black smoke rising from the front end of the boathouse and leaning toward the mansion, bent that way by the breeze.

  When he was three quarters of the way up the wall, the weather vane gave a little, abruptly dropping him an inch or two. But then it held again, and Frank continued to climb, hurrying even more now, ignoring the pain in his arms and shoulders. When he had just a few more feet to go, the weather vane shifted again with a faint screeching of nails pulling free. Frank let go of the rope with one hand and lunged upward, reaching for the edge of the roof. He caught it and took enough of his weight off the rope to keep the weather vane from pulling loose entirely.

  His muscles trembled with relief for a few seconds after he had hauled himself over the edge and sprawled out on the roof of the boathouse. But he knew there was no time to waste because the fire had eaten away at the front of the building. He didn’t want the roof to collapse underneath him and dump him into that inferno below.

  As he rolled onto his belly, the blaze suddenly got worse with a giant whoosh! Frank knew the flames must have reached some paint or something else flammable stored in the lockers below. He had to make his move now if he was going to. He freed the Winchester from the rope, clutched it tightly in both hands, bent forward in a crouch, and ran toward the front of the boathouse.

  He left his feet just before he reached the part of the roof that was on fire, putting all the strength he could into the leap. As he sailed blindly through the thick smoke, he held his breath, but he had to keep his eyes open despite the way the smoke stung them. As he came out of the smoke he saw the ground rushing up at him. His hat flew off his head. He had jumped as far out in front of the boathouse as he could, and the slope of the ground meant that he didn’t fall the entire height of the building. But he fell far enough so that the impact when his booted feet hit the ground jolted all the way through him. He rolled forward, letting his momentum break some of the force of the fall.

  To the tensely waiting gunmen, he must have seemed like an avenging angel plummeting down out of the sky. Even as he hit the ground hard and rolled over and over, Frank was looking around for the men who wanted to kill him. Spotting a pair of them to his left, he came up on one knee and opened up with the Winchester, firing as fast as he could work the lever. Lead sizzled through the air and ripped into the gunmen, driving them off their feet.

  Frank dived forward onto his belly as a bullet burned across his upper right arm. Another slug kicked dirt into the air beside him. He twisted and fired from his prone position, sending a couple of rounds into the belly of one of the remaining gunmen. The fourth and final man turned to run, but Frank clipped him on the thigh with a slug that knocked him off his feet.

  Battered and hurting and not a little surprised that he was still alive while all of his enemies seemed to be down, Frank stood up slowly and walked toward the man he had just wounded. A glance told him that the other three were all unmoving. They might not be dead, but they were out of the fight for the moment.

  Keeping the fourth man covered with the Winchester, Frank loomed over him and said, “I can only think of one reason I shouldn’t just blow your brains out, you son of a bitch. Where’s Dutton?”

  The man stared up at him, wide-eyed with fear. “I . . . I don’t know. Honest, Morgan, I don’t have any idea. He . . . he made arrangements with Larry and Chuck for them to set up this ambush for you. They hired the rest of us. That’s all I know, I swear.”

  “Is Dutton in the house?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I got the feeling from the way Larry and Chuck talked that he left town. Left us here to deal with you.”

  That was pretty much the way Frank had it figured too. He stepped back, keeping the rifle trained on the man.

  “You’re gonna kill me, aren’t you?” the man asked, his voice rising to a ragged edge of hysteria. “You’re gonna shoot me again!”

  “Don’t reckon I have to,” Frank said. “From the looks of the way that blood’s pumping out of your leg, I must’ve nicked an artery with that shot. I expect you’ll bleed to death in another few minutes.”

  The man looked down at his wounded leg and the pool of dark red blood that was forming underneath it, and he screamed. He reached into his coat and jerked out a pistol.

  Frank shot him in the head, driving him back down onto the ground. “Or not.”

  Then he went to check on the other gunmen. They were all dead, just as he expected to find them. He knew that luck had been with him today, but it had been aided greatly by daring, audacity, and a steady hand and eye.

  As he picked up his hat and walked toward the mansion, smoke continued to billow up from the burning boathouse. Magnolia probably had some sort of fire department, and they would be heading out here in response to the smoke. Somebody had probably heard all the shooting too, even though these estates were pretty scattered out. Frank knew he ought to get out of here as soon as possible to avoid being stuck answering a lot of damned fool questions from the authorities.

  But as he approached the mansion, he saw the front door move. Somebody had just slammed it shut. Chuck’s body no longer lay there blocking the door. Frank walked faster.

  When he reached the door, he lifted his foot and slammed the heel of his boot ag
ainst it beside the knob. The door held up under the impact, but the jamb splintered. The door sprang open. Frank went through it fast, the Winchester ready in his hands.

  He almost tripped over Chuck’s body. Seeing movement on the other side of a shadowy foyer, he snapped the rifle to his shoulder and called out, “Hold it!”

  “D-don’t shoot!” a pitifully frightened voice quavered. “Please, sir, don’t kill me.”

  Frank’s eyes were adjusting to the dimness inside the house by now. He saw a skinny man in a dark suit cowering on the other side of the foyer. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “M-my name is Willoughby, sir. I am Mr. Dutton’s secretary.”

  “Is that so?” Frank asked with quickening interest. “Then I reckon you might have an idea where he is right now, eh?”

  “Please, sir.” Willoughby held out trembling hands. “I can’t betray Mr. Dutton.”

  “Why not?” Frank growled. “He’s betrayed just about everybody who ever crossed his trail. He’s a crooked, murdering skunk.”

  “If you know that about him, sir, then you know why I don’t dare—”

  Willoughby gulped and fell silent as Frank lined the barrel of the Winchester right between his eyes.

  “If you know who I am, you know I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me what I want to know,” Frank said, his voice and eyes as hard as flint. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Willoughby?”

  The man swallowed hard. “You . . . you’re the gunfighter. Frank Morgan. The man who wants to kill Mr. Dutton.”

  “Do you know why I want to kill him?”

  “He . . .” Willoughby moaned, but forced himself to go on. “Mr. Dutton was partially responsible . . . for the death of your wife.”

  “That’s right,” Frank said. “Now, about that question I asked you . . .”

  “Nevada!” Willoughby cried out abruptly. “He’s gone to Nevada!”

  That came as a surprise to Frank. He lowered the rifle barrel slightly and said, “What the hell is he doing in Nevada?”

  “I . . . I don’t know for sure. Something about finding enough gunmen to . . . to take care of you if you survived the trap he set for you here.”

  “So that’s it,” Frank mused. “He’s gone West to fort up. To make a last stand.”

  Willoughby nodded. “That’s the impression I had, yes, sir.”

  “What’s the name of this place in Nevada?”

  “I shouldn’t . . .” When Willoughby hesitated, Frank lifted the Winchester again, and the man went on hurriedly. “Buckskin! It . . . it’s an old ghost town, Mr. Dutton called it, known as Buckskin!”

  “Then that’s where I’ll be going,” Frank said calmly, knowing that Willoughby was too scared to be lying to him. “I reckon Dutton will be expecting me.”

  “Yes, he will . . . and he’ll have an army of killers with him.”

  “That’s all right,” Frank said with a humorless smile. “I’ve already waded through blood to get this far. I reckon some more of it won’t hurt me.”

  Chapter 28

  The Sierra Nevada Mountains loomed rugged and snow-capped to the west as the train rolled into Virginia City, Nevada, several days after the battle at Charles Dutton’s summer home in Magnolia, Massachusetts. Frank thought the majestic mountain range was one of the prettiest sights he had ever seen as he stepped down from the railroad car onto the station platform. The air was clear and held a hint of refreshing coolness despite the fact that it was still summer. Ever since he had crossed the Mississippi, Frank had felt a sense of contentment returning to him. It didn’t mean that his mission was any less urgent . . . but damn, it felt good to be back in the West. Back home.

  He walked along the platform to one of the baggage cars. Railroad workers slid the big door open, and a huge, wolflike cur leaped down to the platform and came to Frank, nuzzling his hand. Frank scratched Dog’s ears as he watched the workers put a ramp in place and lead Stormy down it. The big Appaloosa stallion tossed his head eagerly, ready to hit the trail after being cooped up in that baggage car all the way from Denver.

  Being reunited with his old friends, breathing crisp mountain air again . . . it all helped Frank shake off the lingering miasma of his trip back East. He got his saddle and Winchester from the baggage car, put the saddle on Stormy, slid the rifle into the fringed sheath attached to it. Then he took hold of the reins and walked away from the station, leading the Appaloosa. Dog followed, tongue lolling from his mouth.

  Virginia City had been a pretty grandiose name when this settlement was just a rough little mining camp in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. By the seventies, the first time Frank had been here, it was a bustling community. Now, twenty years on down the road, it was a real city with brick-paved streets and gaslights and large brick buildings. Frank asked a pedestrian where he could find the assay office, figuring that would be the best place to find out what he needed to know. The man gave him directions, looking warily at Dog as he did so.

  “Is that a wolf?” the man finally asked.

  “Nope, although I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that his granddaddy or great-granddaddy might have been one.” Frank shook hands with the man. “I’m obliged for the information.”

  A few minutes later, he’d found the assay office and tied Stormy’s reins to the hitch rack outside. Leaving Dog on the sidewalk, he went inside and made his inquiries of the clerk working there.

  “Buckskin?” the man repeated with a frown. “Never heard of it.” He got up from his desk and went to a long cabinet containing a multitude of narrow drawers. “But it might be on one of our maps. Let’s take a look.”

  “Probably have to be an old map,” Frank said. “I think the place is a ghost town.”

  It took some searching, but after half an hour or so, the clerk located the right spot on a map that was yellow and curled slightly with age. He held a magnifying glass so that Frank could look through it.

  “Right there, you see? It’s in the mountains southeast of here.”

  “Any roads up there?” Frank asked.

  The clerk shrugged. “Trails, I suppose. I’ve never been there, so I don’t know for sure. I can check the records and see how long it’s been since the mines were worked.”

  Taking a big book from another cabinet, he flipped through it until he located the entry he wanted. Resting a finger on it, he said, “There were three mines registered in the vicinity of Buckskin: the Alhambra, the Crown Royal, and . . .” He smiled. “The Lucky Lizard.”

  Frank chuckled. “Any of ’em still producing?”

  “Oh, Lord, no. The silver veins around there petered out a long time ago. I’m sure all the diggings are abandoned, as the town itself surely is.”

  Then that would make a good hiding place for Charles Dutton, Frank thought. Out of curiosity, he asked, “Do you have a record of who owned those mines?”

  “Of course. Let’s see . . . the Alhambra was owned by Milton Jernigan, the Crown Royal by a company called the Browning Mining Syndicate, and the Lucky Lizard by someone named Thomas Woodford.”

  Frank barely heard the last part of the clerk’s sentence. He was still stuck on the name of the company that had owned the Crown Royal mine. “Did you say the Browning Mining Syndicate?” he asked hoarsely.

  “That’s right.”

  “How long ago was the mine producing?”

  “The last record I have is . . . let me see . . . from 1885. It must have closed down shortly after that.”

  Less than ten years ago. Dutton had already been working for Vivian at that time. That was how he had known about Buckskin, known that the town would be deserted and a good place to hide out.

  “Are the claims that were registered back then still in effect?”

  “Well, yes, but they’re not worth anything. Like I told you, the silver is all gone.”

  Frank nodded. He wasn’t interested in the mine itself, but the fact that it had been part of Vivian’s holdings meant that he now owned part of the claim. I
f he had known that, he might have been able to look up the information about Buckskin in his lawyers’ offices back in Denver. Paperwork relating to the claim was probably buried somewhere in their voluminous files.

  But it didn’t matter. He was here now and he knew where he was going and he knew what he planned to do when he got there.

  The showdown with Dutton had been delayed for too long. It was time to end things, once and for all.

  Frank got a room at the International Hotel, the finest lodgings available in Virginia City. The hotel was a five-story brick building complete with gaslights, running water, and an elevator—although Frank took the stairs, since the idea of being stuck in a little room that moved up and down between floors had never appealed all that much to him.

  As he ate a fine supper in the hotel’s dining room that evening, a barrel-chested man in a black hat and brown tweed suit came into the room, looked around, and then started toward him. Frank didn’t need to see the star pinned to the hombre’s vest to know that he was a lawman. The man just had that look about him. Nor was Frank surprised when the star-packer stopped at his table.

  “You’d be Frank Morgan,” the lawman said.

  “That’s right,” Frank agreed pleasantly enough. “I would. Have a seat, Sheriff.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “I can read. Star says sheriff, so I assume it’s right.”

  The man scraped back one of the empty chairs and sat down. “I’m Sheriff Abner Lowell. One of my deputies saw you get off the train this afternoon and recognized you.”

  “And you looked me up just to say hello. Kind of you, Sheriff.”

  Lowell leaned forward and glared at Frank. “Listen, Morgan. You know damned good and well this isn’t a social call. I’m here to tell you that I don’t want you killing anybody in Virginia City, or anywhere else in the county, for that matter.”

  Frank thought back to the map he had looked at in the assay office as he memorized the trail to Buckskin, and he said honestly, “I’m not planning on killing anybody in your jurisdiction, Sheriff.”