The Last Gunfighter: Hell Town Page 6

  “That’s a good point,” Frank agreed. “Shouldn’t hurt anything to have a glance around, though.”

  Frank found the trail that veered off toward the other mine, and he and Claiborne followed it for the next quarter of an hour as it ran around rugged hills and along spiny ridges. They came to a shelf of land that jutted out from a gray cliff that rose almost straight up for a couple of hundred feet. Several squarish towers of rock stuck up from the top of the cliff, like battlements on a castle or fortress. They were natural formations, but they had a striking, man-made look about them.

  “I can see how the mine got its name,” Claiborne commented as he and Frank approached. “The original owner must have been a world traveler. That cliff bears a distinct resemblance to the Spanish palace known as the Alhambra.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, since I’ve never been there myself,” Frank said, “but I’ll take your word for it, Garrett.”

  He reined in when they were still about fifty yards from a group of ramshackle buildings and the black mouth of a mine shaft in the hillside. From the looks of things, the Alhambra was in worse shape than the Crown Royal. Claiborne brought the buggy to a halt beside Frank.

  “I don’t see any signs of life,” the engineer said. “Munro’s men must not have gotten here yet.”

  “You’re sure this fella Munro’s going to open up this mine again?”

  Claiborne smiled. “The mining industry is like any other business, Marshal. It’s full of rumors, and everyone tries to keep up with everyone else’s activities. From everything I’ve heard, Hamish Munro has high hopes for this—”

  Before Claiborne could go on, Frank shouted, “Get down!” He had seen a telltale glint of sunlight on metal just inside at one of the windows in the old mill building.

  Claiborne just looked confused and wasn’t budging, so Frank kicked his feet from the stirrups, leaped from the saddle, and landed in the buggy. He grabbed Claiborne and dived out the other side of the vehicle, dragging the startled engineer with him.

  If that reflection he had seen didn’t mean anything, Frank was going to feel mighty silly when they hit the ground.

  As they sprawled on the rocky earth, however, a rifle cracked and sent a bullet whistling through the space where Claiborne had been a few seconds earlier. Frank’s instincts had been right again—there was a bushwhacker lurking in the old stamp mill.

  But as more shots slammed out and slugs began to kick up dust around them, Frank figured this was one time when it might have been better to be wrong!

  Chapter 8

  Frank surged to his feet with one hand hooked in Claiborne’s collar. He hauled the smaller man upright and hustled him around to the rear of the buggy. The vehicle wouldn’t provide much cover, but it was better than nothing. As they ran, Frank heard the wind-rip of another bullet close beside his ear. It was a sound he had heard all too many times in his eventful life.

  They ducked behind the buggy as another shot ricocheted off some of the brass trim on it. The horse hitched to the front of the buggy snorted in fear and moved around skittishly. If the horse bolted, they would be left out in the open, exposed to the bushwhacker’s fire.

  “My God!” Claiborne exclaimed in a shaken voice. “Why are they shooting at us?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Frank said. He drew his Colt as he crouched there. The range was a little far for a handgun, but his Winchester was in the saddle boot strapped to Goldy. The gelding had trotted off a few yards and then stopped. Frank could have tried to whistle him over, but since Goldy seemed to be out of the line of fire, Frank wanted him to stay there.

  As the shots paused for a moment, probably so the bushwhacker could reload, Frank shouted, “Hey, you in the mill! Hold your fire, blast it! We don’t mean you any harm!”

  The only reply was a resumption of the shooting. Bullets tore through the canvas canopy over the buggy’s seat.

  Frank glanced over at the big cur and snapped, “Dog! Go get him!”

  Dog took off running toward the mill. His powerful muscles bunched under his shaggy hide as he raced over the ground. Bullets plowed into the dirt around him, but he darted from side to side so that, as fast as he was moving, he was an almost impossible target to hit.

  Dog disappeared around the back of the mill. His instincts and animal cunning told him to come at the bushwhacker from the rear.

  Frank just hoped the rifleman was the only one in the old mill; otherwise Dog might be in for a hot lead welcome.

  Sure enough, a moment later he heard shots from inside the building. With a grimace, he told Claiborne, “Stay here and keep your head down!”

  Then he burst out from behind the buggy and sprinted toward the mill, weaving in his approach as Dog had done.

  Riding boots weren’t made for running, but Frank managed to get up some pretty good speed as he ran toward the mill. No more shots were coming in his direction. If nothing else, Dog had provided a good distraction for the would-be killer.

  Frank hoped that wasn’t going to cost his shaggy trail partner his life, though.

  When he got close to the door, he lifted his foot and slammed his boot heel into the wood just below the knob. The door crashed open. Frank went through it in a crouch, the Colt up and ready. His keen eyes took in the scene instantly. Four men were in the room, which at one time must have been an office. One of the men was down on the floor, rolling around trying to keep a snarling, snapping Dog from ripping his throat out. The other men held guns, but couldn’t fire at the big cur for fear of hitting their friend instead.

  Frank’s noisy entrance drew the attention of the others away from the struggle between man and dog on the floor. One of them yelled, “Look out, Gunther!”

  A tall, burly man holding a rifle swung toward Frank, but found himself staring down the barrel of The Drifter’s Peacemaker. That was the last sight a great many men had seen in their lives.

  This time, instead of shooting, Frank gave the man in front of his gun a chance to surrender. “Drop it,” he said. “Now!”

  The man called Gunther was bald except for a pair of dark, bushy eyebrows. He scowled in anger, but with Frank’s gun on him, he had no choice but to bend and place the rifle on the floor at his feet.

  “Slide it over here,” Frank ordered. “You other men, I want your guns too.”

  “Somebody help me!” the man wrestling with Dog screamed. He was already gashed and bloody, his shirt in ribbons from the big cur’s sharp, rending teeth.

  “Dog!” Frank snapped. Instantly, Dog backed off, still growling as his hackles stood up menacingly.

  The other men had pistols in their hands. Since the bushwhacker’s shots had come from a rifle, Frank had no doubt that Gunther had been the one firing them. As Frank gave them a cold, level stare, the men put their guns on the floor and kicked them across the room.

  “You’re gonna be damn sorry about this, mister,” Gunther blustered. “Threatenin’ us and siccin’ that damn wolf on us…we’ll have the law on you!”

  “He’s a dog, not a wolf,” Frank said, “and I am the law. Besides, you were the one who came close to killing me and my friend, remember?”

  Gunther didn’t back down. He said, “I had a right to shoot at you! You’re on private property, mister.”

  “That’s Marshal to you.”

  Gunther sneered. “Marshal o’ Buckskin?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You got no authority out here. Your jurisdiction ends at the edge of the settlement.”

  Technically, he was right. But as the only star-packer in this area, Frank figured that as a practical matter, his authority extended a little farther than Buckskin itself.

  The man Dog had savaged was helped to his feet by his friends. His injuries looked worse than they really were, Frank knew.

  “That…that varmint’s loco!” the man said as he pointed a shaking hand at Dog. “Came at me like a hydrophobia skunk!” He let out a groan of dismay. “Is he mad, mist
er? Am I gonna start foamin’ at the mouth from them bites?”

  “I’m more worried about Dog coming down with something,” Frank said. “Who are you men?”

  Gunther thumped his chest with a malletlike fist. “We work for Hamish Munro…and in case you don’t know, mister, Hamish Munro is the owner of the Alhambra Mine! That means we belong here, and you’re nothin’ but a damn trespasser! We’ve got a right to shoot trespassers.”

  From just outside the door, a tentative voice asked, “Marshal Morgan, are you all right?”

  Gunther’s eyes widened in surprise. “Claiborne!” he bellowed. “Is that you?”

  Garrett Claiborne appeared in the doorway. “Good lord,” he muttered. “You.”

  “You fellas know each other?” Frank asked.

  A look of stern disapproval appeared on Claiborne’s normally mild face. “Yes, I know this man, Marshal. He’s Gunther Hammersmith. We’ve encountered each other before. He’s also a mining engineer.”

  An ugly smile twisted Gunther’s mouth. “And a helluva lot better one than you’ll ever be, Claiborne.”

  Frank was surprised to hear that the big, bald man was any sort of engineer. He had the look of a bruiser and a brawler, the sort of brutal hired hardcase who followed orders instead of giving them.

  Gunther looked at Frank and went on. “Mr. Munro hired me and my boys to get this mine open and working again. Like I said, we’ve got a right to be here, and you don’t.”

  “Haven’t seen you around Buckskin,” Frank said.

  Gunther snorted in disgust. “Why would we bother going into your two-bit town? We brought our own supplies with us. We’ve been inspecting the mine and shorin’ up what needs to be shored up. We won’t need to go to Buckskin until we’re ready to hire miners, and that won’t be for a few days yet.”

  Frank had to admit that the man sounded like he was telling the truth. He wasn’t completely convinced, though.

  “You got any proof of what you’re telling me?” he asked.

  “I don’t have to show you any proof of anything!”

  “No,” Frank said, “but I’m the one holding the gun, and I’m still a mite riled up about those shots you took at us.”

  “All right, all right,” Gunther said. He reached into a hip pocket and took out a folded envelope. He removed a sheet of paper from it, unfolded it, and held it out. “This is a letter from Mr. Munro authorizin’ us to be here.”

  Without taking his eyes off the four men, Frank asked Claiborne, “Would you recognize Munro’s signature, Garrett?”

  “Yes, I think so. I’ve seen it on quite a few documents.”

  “Take a look then.”

  Claiborne took the sheet of paper from Hammersmith, being careful not to get in Frank’s line of fire. He read the letter and then said, “It’s what he said it was, and Mr. Munro’s signature appears to be genuine.”

  “All right.” Frank lowered the Colt but didn’t holster it. “Mr. Claiborne and I will be leaving now. We’re going to take your guns with us, though.”

  “You can’t do that!” Hammersmith protested.

  “We’ll leave ’em a half mile down the trail,” Frank went on as if he hadn’t heard the objection. “That way, we’ll already be gone by the time you get them back, and you won’t be tempted to take any more shots at us.”

  “This ain’t right. It ain’t legal.”

  “If you want to file a formal complaint, you can ride into Buckskin and do so.”

  Hammersmith glared but didn’t say anything else. Claiborne gathered up the guns and, staggering a little under the weight of all the hardware, carried them back to the buggy. Frank backed out of the office, keeping his Colt trained on the open door. He whistled for Goldy, and he was thankful when the horse came trotting up to him. Obviously, one of his prior owners had trained the horse.

  With practiced ease, Frank swung up into the saddle using only his left hand to grip the horn. His right was still filled with the butt of the Peacemaker. He waited until Claiborne had climbed into the buggy, turned it around, and sent it rolling along the trail at a quick pace before he turned Goldy around and rode away as well. Dog loped alongside, tongue lolling from his mouth, obviously pleased with himself.

  Frank glanced over his shoulder several times, just in case Hammersmith and the others had more guns hidden somewhere in the mill, but by the time he and Claiborne were out of sight of the mine, they hadn’t emerged from the building.

  He called a halt half a mile down the trail, and Claiborne dumped the guns out of the buggy as Frank had promised. As they set off toward Buckskin again, Frank said, “I got the feeling you and that fella Gunther don’t like each other very much.”

  “Gunther Hammersmith is a brute,” Claiborne said with more genuine anger in his voice than Frank had heard from him so far. “He’s the sort of man who thinks he has to enforce his will on the men working for him by means of fear and violence. He’s beaten a couple of men to death when they stood up to him. The last time was at a mine in Colorado. He was fired as superintendent, and I was brought in to take his place. He’s hated me ever since. I think he believes that I was responsible for him being discharged from the job.”

  “If he beat a man to death, why wasn’t he put in jail instead of being fired?”

  Claiborne shrugged. “The man who owned the mine had a considerable amount of influence. And some of the other miners swore that the man Hammersmith killed attacked him first. Hammersmith claimed he was just defending himself. Everyone was too afraid of him to contradict his story.”

  “Sounds like the sort of gent this Hamish Munro would hire, if he’s as ruthless as you say he is,” Frank commented.

  “Yes, Munro and Hammersmith certainly make a good match. Hammersmith has worked for Munro before, and I’m not surprised to see that he’s the one Munro picked up to supervise the Alhambra’s operation. This is going to complicate the situation, especially for you, Marshal.”

  “You’re saying that I’m going to have trouble with him when he comes into Buckskin?”

  “After today, with the grudge that he’s bound to hold against you…I’d say you can count on it.”

  Chapter 9

  Frank and Claiborne didn’t run into any more trouble on their way back to the settlement. By the time they reached Buckskin, it was early afternoon. Claiborne still hadn’t met Tip Woodford, so when they passed the rotund, overall-clad mayor on the street, Frank reined in, hailed him, and motioned him over.

  “Tip, I’d like for you to meet Garrett Claiborne.”

  “Yeah, you’re the minin’ engineer, come to take over the Crown Royal,” Tip said as he stuck out his hand. “My gal told me about you comin’ into the office. Put ’er there, Claiborne. I’m glad to meet you.”

  Claiborne smiled as he shook hands with Tip. “I must say, that’s a friendly greeting considering that we’re competitors, Mr. Woodford. The pleasure is mine.”

  “I don’t see us as competitors,” Tip explained. “I got my claim, and the folks who own the Crown Royal got theirs. I’m hopin’ there’s plenty o’ silver in the hills to go around for all of us.”

  “That’s my hope as well.”

  “Diana said for me to invite you to supper tonight if I happened to run into you.” Tip glanced toward Frank. “And you too, Marshal.”

  “That’s very considerate of you and your daughter, sir, but—”

  “We’ll be there,” Frank said. He still had hopes of getting Claiborne and Diana together.

  After Tip had moved on, Claiborne frowned at Frank and said, “I had hoped to get started lining up workers for the mine.”

  “You’ll still have time this afternoon to do that. Start at the Silver Baron Saloon. It’s Tip’s place, but all the prospectors show up there sooner or later, and Tip won’t mind you doing a little recruiting in there.”

  Claiborne looked a little dubious, but he said, “All right. I’ll take your advice, Marshal.”

  Frank gave Claiborne di
rections for finding the Woodford house, in case they didn’t run into each other again before it was time to go there for supper, then headed for the marshal’s office after putting up his horse at Hillman’s livery. He wondered if he ought to tell Claiborne that he was part-owner of the Crown Royal. Obviously, Conrad hadn’t seen fit to share that information with the mining engineer, so Frank decided he would follow his son’s lead.

  The door to the marshal’s office was jerked open just before Frank got there, and Catamount Jack came out carrying a shotgun. A grim look was on the old-timer’s face, and Frank knew right away there was trouble.

  “Marshal!” Jack said. “Glad you’re back.”

  “What’s going on, Jack?”

  “Fella came by just a minute ago and said a bad ruckus was about to break out down at one o’ them new whiskey palaces. Kelley’s Top-Notch, I think he said. I was about to go see about it.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Frank said.

  Jack extended the shotgun. “Want the Greener?”

  “No, that’s all right. If I need a gun, I’ve always got my Colt.”

  Jack grunted and said, “I reckon that’s usually been plenty for you, ain’t it, Marshal?”

  Frank didn’t reply to that. His reputation as a gunfighter dogged him enough already without him talking about it.

  As he strode away from the marshal’s office, he recalled that Kelley’s Top-Notch Saloon, which had been in operation for a little over a week, was a hole-in-the-wall place around a corner, facing one of Buckskin’s side streets instead of the main street. Hardly a palace, as Jack had described it. As Frank’s long legs carried him around that corner, he heard a sudden crash from inside the saloon. He broke into a run and slapped the batwings aside.

  The Top-Notch was a long, narrow room with the bar on the right, a scattering of tables on the left, and a big potbellied stove that was cold at the moment in the rear of the room. One of the tables had been knocked over and the chairs around it upset. Playing cards were strewn around on the floor, along with some bills and coins. That was enough to convince Frank that the fight now going on had its origins in a poker game gone bad.