The Last Gunfighter: Hell Town

by William W. Johnstone

  He dragged in a deep breath in an attempt to get control of himself. He said, “I really did want to talk to Mr. Munro about some things. Can you tell him that Morgan was out at the mine again this morning?”

  “You mean Marshal Morgan?” Jessica asked with a frown.

  “Yeah. He was talking about that cave-in and the strike over at the Lucky Lizard.”

  Jessica shook her head. “That doesn’t have anything to do with the Alhambra, does it?”

  Hammersmith thought for a second about how to approach this, then said, “No, but Morgan’s got a burr under his saddle about it anyway. Everything bad that happens around here, he blames on me and your husband. I think Mr. Munro needs to know that Morgan’s still causing trouble.”

  “But what can be done about that?”

  Hammersmith’s massive shoulders rose and fell. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “Mr. Munro handles all the problems like that. Just tell him about Morgan coming out there, and if he wants me to do anything about it, he can let me know.”

  “All right.” She gave a little laugh. “I’m glad I don’t have to worry about all these things. I just don’t have any head for business at all.”

  “Well, that doesn’t matter,” he assured her. “You’ve got me and your husband looking out for you.”

  “That’s right.” She rubbed her hand up and down his arm. “And I know I can count on you, can’t I, Gunther?”

  He swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am. You sure can, Mrs. Munro.”

  “Oh, I think when we’re alone, you can call me Jessica. Would you like that?”

  He bobbed his head and said, “Yes, ma’am. I mean, Jessica.”

  She pointed to a chair on the other side of the room. “Now, I think you should go over there and sit down, because I think I hear Evers coming back.”

  Sure enough, by the time Hammersmith was seated in the chair Jessica had indicated, Evers was right outside the door. He came in carrying a silver tray with two cups of coffee on it. Jessica was all the way across the room, standing by the window. Judging by appearances, nothing improper had happened here while Evers was gone.

  He looked suspicious anyway, and Hammersmith wondered if he would tell Munro about him being here alone with Jessica. Well, Munro either trusted Jessica or he didn’t—and any man with a young, beautiful wife like that shouldn’t trust her too much, in Hammersmith’s opinion. He had acted on impulse and couldn’t do anything about it now.

  And remembering the sweet warmth of Jessica’s lips and the pliant heat of her body, he wouldn’t change anything even if he could.

  Except for maybe killing Frank Morgan before now. That he wished he had done.

  * * * *

  When Hammersmith was gone, Nathan Evers asked, “What did he tell you, Mrs. Munro?”

  “I believe that’s between Mr. Hammersmith and myself,” Jessica replied. She didn’t fully trust Evers, mostly because he had never acted the least bit interested in her as a woman. Any man like that had to have something wrong with him, as far as she was concerned.

  It was a shame too, because he was rather handsome in a bespectacled way.

  “If it has to do with the mine, I should be privy to the information as well,” Evers insisted. “I am Mr. Munro’s confidential secretary, after all.”

  “If Hamish wants you to know something, he’ll tell you,” Jessica snapped.

  She went back into the bedroom, leaving Evers fuming in the sitting room. As she sat down at the dressing table and began to brush her hair, like she usually did whenever she was worried or upset about something, she thought about what Hammersmith had told her.

  This lawman Morgan was becoming a problem. Even though Hamish would never take her into his confidence, Jessica was convinced that her husband and Hammersmith were responsible for the explosion at the Crown Royal and the cave-in at the Lucky Lizard. Those were the sorts of things that Hamish would do, although Hammersmith would take care of all the details so that Hamish could keep his own hands clean.

  Still, somewhere there might be some bit of evidence tying him to the sabotage, and if that connection ever came out, Hamish Munro would be ruined. He would wind up in prison or worse. Jessica had never planned to wait years before making her move, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready for Munro’s downfall just yet.

  On the other hand, it would simplify things if the law did some of her work for her. If anything happened to Hamish, she would inherit his business empire. His first wife had died years ago, without ever having any children. Jessica was the only heir left. Of course, she was sure that Hamish would leave his lawyers in charge of everything…but they would just see how long that lasted. Men always underestimated her. She would wrest control away from those stuffy old attorneys in their suits before they knew what was happening.

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Jessica,” she told her reflection in the mirror. “Nothing has happened to Hamish yet.”

  Perhaps it was time to tilt the odds a little more in her favor.

  * * * *

  From inside the marshal’s office, Frank had seen Hammersmith ride up to the hotel, dismount, and go inside. The burly mine superintendent had stayed in there for a while and then left. Frank could make a pretty good guess why Hammersmith had ridden into town. Hammersmith had come to warn Munro that Frank was pushing his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Probably, he would have tried to talk Munro into sanctioning an ambush attempt, too, if Munro had been there.

  Unfortunately for Hammersmith, Munro wasn’t at the hotel. Frank had seen him leave earlier, and he hadn’t come back yet.

  A few minutes after Hammersmith rode off, Jessica Munro emerged from the hotel, wearing a long, dark blue skirt and a pale blue blouse. Frank saw her through the open door of the marshal’s office. She angled across the street, seemingly unaware of the avid stares directed toward her by most of the men she passed.

  Frank realized to his surprise that she seemed to be heading for his office. He got to his feet.

  Jessica stepped onto the boardwalk and came straight to the door. “Marshal,” she said as she paused there, “I’d like to talk to you.”

  Frank came out from behind the desk and held out a hand. “Come on in and sit down, Mrs. Munro,” he said. “The furnishings aren’t fancy, but that chair’s not too uncomfortable.”

  Jessica came in and sat down. Frank perched a hip on a corner of the desk and asked her, “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Mr. Hammersmith, the superintendent of my husband’s mine.”

  Frank nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I know who he is. What about him?”

  “I think…” She drew in a deep breath, making her breasts lift. Frank tried not to notice that, but he wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t. “I think he’s been doing some things behind my husband’s back that aren’t in Hamish’s best interest.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I believe he may have had something to do with the trouble at the other mines in the area. You know, that explosion at the Crown Royal and the cave-in and strike at the Lucky Lizard.”

  Frank’s interest quickened. “You think Hammersmith was responsible for those things?”

  “I…I don’t know. I think, from a few things he said, that he might have some connection with them.”

  “But your husband wouldn’t know anything about any of that?”

  Jessica stared at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “No, of course not. Hamish is an honest businessman, Marshal. He would never resort to unscrupulous tactics like that.”

  Frank scratched at his jaw with a thumbnail. “Why are you telling me this, ma’am?”

  “Because I don’t want Hamish getting into any trouble for something that’s not his fault! If Mr. Hammersmith is responsible for what’s been happening at those other mines, I’m sure he’s doing it to help the Alhambra, but at the same time he’s been acting without my husband’s permission or knowledge. I don’t want Hamish being b
lamed for those things.”

  “Does your husband know that you’re here?”

  She shook her head. “No, certainly not, and I don’t want him to know. He doesn’t like for me to involve myself in his business affairs.” She laughed. “He says I shouldn’t worry my pretty little head about such things.” A look of concern appeared on her face. “You won’t tell him, will you? You can look into Mr. Hammersmith’s actions without Hamish having to know that I talked to you?”

  “I reckon I can try to keep your name out of it,” Frank promised.

  She sighed in relief. “Thank you, Marshal. I’m just trying to help Hamish, not get him angry.”

  “I can understand that, what with you being his wife and all.” Frank stood up. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. You will try to find out what Mr. Hammersmith has been up to?”

  “Yes, I will.” Frank didn’t tell her that he had already suspected Hammersmith before she ever came over here. He didn’t share her conviction that her husband was blameless in the matter, though. But she didn’t have to know that.

  Jessica stood up and offered him her hand. “Thank you, Marshal. You don’t know what a load this is off my mind.”

  “Might be a good idea not to say anything to Mr. Munro about Hammersmith,” Frank said as he took her hand. It was warm and supple. “Just let me look into it.”

  “All right.” She smiled, making her face light up. “Good-bye, Marshal.”

  Frank said good-bye and watched her walk out of the office. As he settled back down in his chair, he thought about what she had told him. The more he thought about it, the less sure he was that he believed anything she had said. Was she really so trusting that she thought Hammersmith would be carrying out that sabotage without her husband’s knowledge?

  Just because she acted like a pretty, brainless fool didn’t mean she actually was one. Maybe she was trying to increase Frank’s suspicions not only of Hammersmith but of Munro as well. But why would she do such a thing?

  Frank couldn’t answer that question just yet, but he was going to keep it in mind. It looked like Jessica Munro was playing some sort of game of her own. She might turn out to be just as dangerous as her husband and Hammersmith.

  And the female of the species, Frank reminded himself, was often deadlier than the male….

  Chapter 26

  Frank went about his business in a normal fashion for the next couple of days, waiting to see how—or if—Hammersmith and Munro would react to the prodding he had given them. If anyone tried to kill him, he planned to capture the bushwhacker and force him to reveal who had hired him. Most hired gunmen would spill their guts when faced with the prospect of hanging—or having Dog turned loose on them.

  On the evening of the second day, Frank was making his rounds when Colt flame suddenly spurted from the darkness of an alley mouth he was passing. He had heard a faint noise just before the gun went off, nothing solid enough to identify, but alarm bells had gone off inside his head anyway, sending him plunging forward. The bushwhacker’s bullet went just behind his head, close enough so that he felt the wind-rip of its deadly passage.

  By the time Frank landed on one knee, his Peacemaker was already in his hand and he was twisting toward the spot where the muzzle flash had lit up the shadows. Aiming low, he triggered twice, in hopes that he could knock the would-be killer’s legs out from under him.

  The gunman must have been moving as soon as he fired his first shot, though, because two more blasts came from the far side of the alley. Either that or there were two bushwhackers, Frank thought as slugs chewed splinters from the planks of the boardwalk—in which case his attempts to draw an ambush might have worked a little too well.

  He dived off the boardwalk into the street as more bullets whistled around his head. As he landed on the dirt, he rolled fast to his left, a move that brought him behind a water trough. He came to rest on his belly with the Colt still clutched in his hand. Slugs thudded into the thick wood of the trough, but didn’t penetrate it.

  Running footsteps pounded on the boardwalk from both left and right. Frank lifted his head and shouted, “They’re in the alley! Go around back!”

  The men who had been running toward him darted into other alleys, heading for the narrow lane that ran behind the buildings. When Frank started on his rounds tonight, Clint Farnum had been about a hundred yards ahead of him, while Catamount Jack trailed him by an equal distance. Both deputies stayed hidden in the shadows as much as possible, so that anyone laying a trap for Frank would be less likely to notice them. Unknown to the bushwhackers, Frank had been setting his own trap, and the gunmen in the alley had sprung it.

  As the shots fell silent, Frank heard a muttered curse and then a man said in an alarmed voice, “They’re gonna get behind us!” That confirmed there were at least two bushwhackers.

  “Blast our way out the front!” a second man urged. “We gotta get to the horses!”

  A couple of saddle mounts were tied to a hitch rail in front of the next building along the street. Frank figured the horses belonged to the two gunmen. The men must have reloaded, because they burst out of the alley firing their six-guns like they had an endless supply of bullets. Frank had to stay low, behind the water trough, or else the deadly storm of lead would have ventilated him.

  The killers dashed for their horses. The one in front made a leap for his saddle. Frank rose up and snapped a shot at him. The other man returned the fire, and Frank felt a bullet tug at the side of his shirt. It missed the flesh underneath, though.

  Frank must have missed the first man to try to mount up, because the hombre reached the saddle and jerked his reins loose as he twisted around and threw more lead. Bullets kicked up dust around Frank and forced him to roll behind the water trough again. That gave the second man time to leap onto the back of his horse. Now they were both mounted and ready to gallop out of Buckskin.

  Frank wanted to take at least one of them alive. He came up on his knees and drew a bead on one of the killers, aiming at the man’s shoulder. The light was uncertain and a haze of dust hung in the air, but Frank trusted his aim. He pulled the trigger.

  At that instant, the other man’s horse, evidently spooked by all the gunfire, danced to one side. That unexpected movement brought his rider directly in line with Frank’s shot. Frank heard the grunt of pain as his bullet thudded into the man’s chest. The bushwhacker was rocked backward and slid out of the saddle.

  That left the other man, who by now was leaning forward and raking his spurs against his horse’s flanks as he raced down Buckskin’s main street.

  A figure dashed out to try to stop him. “Hold it!” Frank heard this man shout, and he recognized Catamount Jack’s voice. The old-timer must have realized that the bushwhackers were no longer in the alley and doubled back.

  The rider didn’t slow down. He fired from the back of his horse, and Frank saw Jack stumble and go to a knee. Fearing that his deputy was hit, Frank leaped to his feet.

  The shotgun in Jack’s hands boomed, twin flowers of flame blooming from its barrels. Horse and rider both went down.

  Frank ran along the street. He heard someone huffing and puffing behind him, and glanced back to see Clint Farnum trying to catch up. “Check on that one!” Frank called as he waved his gun at the man he had inadvertently shot. Then he dashed on past.

  Catamount Jack was getting to his feet by the time Frank reached him. The old-timer leaned on the empty shotgun, using it as a makeshift crutch.

  “Jack, are you all right?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah. The sumbitch nicked my leg with that shot, but it ain’t nothin’ to worry about. I had a grizzly just about gnaw that leg clean off one time. This ain’t near that bad.”

  Frank was willing to take Jack’s word for that, for the time being. He turned toward the man and horse lying in the street. The horse was struggling to get up, and as Frank reached the animal, it made it to its feet. Frank saw several dark
streaks on the horse’s hide that he knew were places where buckshot had raked it, but the animal didn’t seem to be hurt too badly.

  The same couldn’t be said of its former rider. Most of the double load of buckshot had ripped into the gunman’s body, shredding flesh and shattering bone. Frank felt for a pulse in the man’s neck, but knew he wasn’t going to find one. Jack had blasted the hell out of the hombre.

  Sure enough, the man was dead. Although Frank was disappointed, he couldn’t blame Jack for what had happened. In the heat of a gun battle, already wounded, Jack had just obeyed his instincts and blown his enemy out of the saddle. Anybody else would have done the same thing.

  Clint Farnum trotted up. Frank turned to him and asked, “What about the other one?”

  “He’s dead,” Clint replied. “This one too?”

  “Yeah,” Frank said.

  Clint shook his head. “That’s a tough break. I know you wanted to take at least one of them alive.”

  “Bullets don’t always follow the plan.”

  “Yeah,” Clint agreed. “They sort of have minds of their own sometimes, don’t they?”

  People came along the street, drawn by the sounds of the gunfight. Frank sent someone to fetch Claude Langley, then told Catamount Jack, “Let’s get you down to Dr. Garland’s and let him patch up that bullet hole.”

  “I ain’t sure it’s worth the bother,” Jack protested.

  “Come on,” Frank insisted. “You can act like a stubborn old pelican some other time.”

  Jack grumbled about it, but he did as Frank said.

  The wound was minor, as Jack had said. Dr. Garland cleaned and bandaged it, then said, “Just out of curiosity, is there anywhere on your body that doesn’t have a bullet or a knife scar on it?”

  Jack grinned and said, “Only the parts that been chewed on or clawed by grizzly bears, wolves, and mountain lions. You think this is bad, you ought to see an old mountain man I used to know called Preacher. That hombre was nothin’ but a walkin’ scar. Probably still is, if he’s still alive. Wouldn’t doubt it for a second. He’d only be in his nineties by now, and he was always tough as whang leather.”