“Well, if you ever run into him again, bring him to see me,” Garland said. “A specimen like that should be written up in the medical journals.”
Since the doctor was finished, the three lawmen told him good night and headed for the marshal’s office. “What now, Frank?” Clint asked as they walked along the street. “You think maybe anybody can testify that there was a connection between Hammersmith and Munro and those two dead bushwhackers?”
Frank shook his head. “Munro is too smart and careful for that, and Hammersmith probably is too. I’d say I’m back where I started.”
“Not quite,” Jack said. “Them two hired guns are dead. They won’t be comin’ after you again.”
“No, they won’t,” Frank said, “but I’m afraid there are plenty more where those two came from.”
* * * *
If Munro was disappointed that the marshal of Buckskin was still alive, he gave no sign of it when Frank went to see the mining magnate the next morning. He found Munro and his wife in the dining room of the hotel, having breakfast. Munro didn’t invite Frank to join them.
“What can I do for you, Marshal?”
Frank had decided it was time to change tacks for the moment. “You know that strike is still going on out at the Lucky Lizard.”
Munro patted his lips with a napkin and his wife looked disinterested. “I’m afraid I haven’t been keeping up with that, since it’s not really any of my business,” Munro said.
Tip Woodford had been by the office earlier that morning to talk to Frank about the strike, and he seemed very discouraged about it. The miners were standing firm in their demands for higher wages, shorter hours, and more safety precautions in the mine. As Tip had put it, “I can go along with shorter shifts, and I already want the mine to be as safe as I can get it, but I just can’t afford to pay the wages they’re askin’ for.”
Now Frank said to Munro, “I’m a mite curious about the way you’re paying your workers more than Tip Woodford was paying the fellas who were working for him.”
Munro shrugged and said, “I don’t know what concern it is of yours what I pay my men, Marshal. It’s not really a matter for the law, now is it?”
“It might be, if you were paying those wages in a deliberate attempt to cause a strike at the Lucky Lizard and put Woodford out of business.”
“It’s called competition,” Munro snapped.
“Yeah, but if you sent those Fowler brothers over there to stir up trouble—”
“Hammersmith fired the Fowler brothers,” Munro cut in.
“So he claims. What I’m wondering is if they’re still working for the Alhambra.”
Munro glared up at Frank. “Those are very serious accusations,” he said.
“I’m not finished.” Frank reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a bit of wood. He placed it on the table. “This came from one of the timbers inside the Lucky Lizard where that cave-in happened. Somebody used acid to weaken it and some of the other timbers, so they would give way and let the ceiling collapse.”
Munro shot to his feet and asked in a cold, angry voice, “What are you saying, Marshal?”
“I’m saying that I think you’re behind that cave-in and the strike at the Lucky Lizard, and I think you had something to do with the explosion at the Crown Royal’s stamp mill too.”
Munro trembled with rage. His face was flushed a dark red by now. “By God, you go too far, Marshal! To come in here and…and accuse a man of cold-blooded murder in front of his wife like this! The gall of it!” He leaned forward and rested his knuckles on the table. “Well, you’ll be sorry, Morgan. You’ll rue the day you decided to take on Hamish Munro!”
Frank ignored the apoplectic mining magnate for the moment and looked over at Jessica Munro instead. He nodded to her and tugged on the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, ma’am,” he said, although as far as he could see, Jessica wasn’t upset at all. She was keeping her face carefully expressionless, as if she didn’t really understand what was going on, but Frank saw the intelligence and awareness in her eyes. Again, he wondered if in the long run she might be more dangerous than her husband.
“Get out!” Munro said, flinging up an arm and pointed at the door. “This is private property, and I want you out of here, Morgan!”
“I’m the law in Buckskin,” Frank pointed out. “That gives me the right to go pretty much where I need to.”
“No crime has been committed here. Get out of here, and I warn you, if you continue to spread vicious lies about me, I’ll take legal action against you!”
“I reckon you already took action against me,” Frank said in a calm voice, “although it sure wasn’t the legal kind.”
Munro stared at him. “What are you talking about now?”
“Maybe you heard…a couple of hombres tried to kill me last night.”
Munro sneered and said, “From what I’ve seen, people are always trying to kill you. It must have something to do with the fact that you’re a notorious gunfighter.”
“This was different. This was an ambush, by the same sort of hired guns who blew up the Crown Royal for you.”
“Not for me,” Munro insisted with a shake of his head. “And I didn’t have anything to do with any attempt on your life last night either.”
“So you say,” Frank said. “So you say.”
“Are you going to leave us alone?” Munro asked in a voice that shook with rage.
“I reckon I’ve said what I came to say. All the cards are on the table now, Munro. We both know what you’ve been doing around here, you and Hammersmith. And one way or another, it’s going to end.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Frank shook his head. “Just letting you know that there comes a time when all the sneaking around and trying to manipulate things behind the scenes is over. When you have to make a stand for good or bad and settle things like men.”
“I’m not going to fight you,” Munro said. “Good Lord, I’m not a gunslinger!”
“No,” Frank said. “You just pay them to do your killing for you.”
With that, he turned and walked out of the hotel. He had accomplished what he had come here to do. He had put Munro on notice that all hell was about to break loose. He was sick and tired of trying to play out this hand with all the legal niceties and pussyfooting around. If he had to take off his badge to settle things, that was just what he would do.
The sound of hurrying footsteps on the boardwalk made him pause and look around. Jessica Munro was coming after him. He stopped to wait for her.
“I told you my husband isn’t involved in what Hammersmith has been doing, Marshal,” she said as she came up to him. “You promised you’d keep Hamish out of it.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Frank said, “but you know as well as I do that Hammersmith isn’t the sort of man to go behind your husband’s back. Mr. Munro knows everything that Hammersmith has been doing.” Frank gave a little shrug. “Except maybe for that ambush last night. That might’ve been Hammersmith’s doing.” He looked past her at the front doors of the hotel. “I’m surprised your husband would let you come after me like this.”
“Hamish doesn’t know. He went upstairs in a rage to talk to Nathan Evers about going to Carson City and complaining to the governor about your actions. He doesn’t know that I’ve ever even spoken to you, certainly not alone.”
Frank gave her a faint smile. “Well, then, it seems more like you’re the one used to going behind his back, not Hammersmith.”
She gave him a long, cool look for a moment, then said, “Are you implying that I’m your enemy as well, Marshal?”
“I’m just saying that the trouble’s gone on long enough. I’m going to end it…whatever that takes.”
“I’m not your enemy,” Jessica insisted. She started to back away. “I have to go.”
Frank nodded. Jessica turned and hurried away, going back into the hotel.
Frank’s intention had been to stir things up
. He figured he had done that. He didn’t know what would happen now, but at least everything was out in the open. Things would start to move faster now.
But he didn’t expect what happened late that afternoon, when one of the men from the Alhambra rode into town and announced to a crowd of drinkers in the Silver Baron that the miners who worked for Hamish Munro had just gone on strike.
Chapter 27
Gunther Hammersmith was in the office at the mine when one of the guards ran in and reported in a breathless voice, “Trouble in the shaft, Boss.”
Hammersmith came to his feet. “What sort of trouble?”
“The men are talkin’ about goin’ on strike.”
Hammersmith grunted as if he had been punched hard in the belly. He had orchestrated the strike at the Lucky Lizard by sending the Fowler brothers in to stir up unrest. The cave-in was their work too. Hammersmith hadn’t ordered them to cause the deaths of any of Woodford’s miners, but the luck that had dropped those rocks on the two men had been good for Hammersmith, if unfortunate for the miners who had died. The deaths had made it that much easier to get the strike started.
In the meantime, Munro had raised the wages of the men working at the Alhambra, and Hammersmith had taken it easier on them than usual. What the hell were they thinking, talking about a strike under these conditions?
Balling his hands into fists, Hammersmith strode out of the office. “I’ll put a stop to this,” he told the guard.
“Want me to come along with you just in case there’s trouble?” the man asked, hefting his rifle.
Hammersmith started to tell him no, that this was nothing he couldn’t handle with his fists, but then he thought better of it. He was a match for any two or three or even more of the miners, but a whole mob of them might be too much. They were tough men too—just not as tough as him.
“Yeah, come on,” he snapped as he stalked off toward the mine entrance. The rifle-toting guard followed him.
A tight knot of men had gathered just in front of the shaft’s mouth. Hammersmith heard their angry voices, one in particular. As he drew closer, he recognized the burly, beard-stubbled figure. Dave Rogan had been working for the Alhambra for a couple of weeks, ever since he’d been fired from the Lucky Lizard after causing some sort of ruckus in town. He was a good worker, tireless with a pick and shovel, but surly all the time and prone to getting into fights with the other miners. Hammersmith wasn’t surprised to see that he was the troublemaker.
“—ain’t just the Lucky Lizard,” Rogan was saying. “Sure, Munro’s payin’ us more than Woodford pays his men, but it’s only a few cents an hour! That ain’t enough more to make a real difference. We ought to be gettin’ two bits more an hour at least! And you know damn well Hammersmith’s gonna start workin’ us like dogs again. You saw how he was up until a few days ago. Easin’ up on us is just a damned trick! Hammersmith and Munro don’t want us lookin’ at what’s goin’ on at the Lucky Lizard and gettin’ any ideas!”
One of the other men spotted Hammersmith coming and nudged Rogan to shut him up. Rogan didn’t take the hint, though. He turned and saw Hammersmith approaching, and a snarl twisted his mouth.
“Here he comes now,” Rogan said. “Gonna try to shut me up and scare you boys into not thinkin’ for yourselves.”
With an effort, Hammersmith reined in his temper. What he wanted to do was to sledge a couple of blows into Rogan’s face and knock that smirk off the man’s lips. Instead, he demanded in a harsh voice, “What the hell’s goin’ on here?”
“We’re tired of bein’ taken advantage of, Hammersmith,” Rogan replied. “Ain’t that right, boys?”
A cheer went up from the miners. Like any mob, they were brave, but it was a collective courage, not an individual one. Split them up and they’d be as craven as they normally were, Hammersmith knew.
And the first step in splitting them up was dealing with Rogan. The man was almost as tall as Hammersmith and only about twenty pounds lighter. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were corded and ropy from swinging a pick for endless hours. Despite that, Hammersmith had no doubt that he could defeat Rogan in a fight.
He might get the chance to find out, because Rogan had a crazed light in his eyes that said he wasn’t going to be cowed. A man like that lived for conflict, and the more violent the better.
Hammersmith decided to try talking first for a change. He hadn’t been around Munro so much without learning something. Munro used words—backed up by the threat of violence, of course—to get what he wanted.
“Listen, you men,” Hammersmith began. “You know you just got a raise, and you’re working ten-hour shifts now, not twelve.”
“You can’t buy us,” Rogan shot back. “Not with a measly ten cents more than what caused the miners over at the Lucky Lizard to go on strike.”
“You know it wasn’t just the pay that made those men decide to strike,” Hammersmith argued. “They had a cave-in too. They don’t trust Woodford to keep ’em safe anymore. You don’t have to worry about that here.”
“No?” Rogan asked. “Woodford claimed his mine was safe too, until the ceiling came down in the shaft!”
“You can see for yourself, damn it!” Hammersmith paused and forced himself to draw a deep breath. In a calmer tone, he went on. “Just look at the timbers and everything else in the Alhambra. You’ll see that it’s a safe place to work.”
“Any mine can have a cave-in,” one of the other miners pointed out. “It’s a dangerous job, no matter how careful you are.”
“Yeah!” another man called. “That’s why you ought to pay us better, Hammersmith. We’re riskin’ our lives down there!”
“Blast it, that’s true of any mine anywhere in the world!” Hammersmith said.
Rogan folded his arms across his brawny chest and glared at Hammersmith. “We’re goin’ on strike,” he declared. “We want two bits more an hour, eight-hour shifts, and an independent inspection of the mine to prove that it’s safe. And until we get what we want, we ain’t goin’ back down there.” He turned to look at the other miners. “Are you with me, boys?”
Again, they cheered. Some snatched their hats off and waved them over their heads. Others pumped their fists in the air. Hammersmith couldn’t believe what he was hearing and seeing. How had things gone so wrong so quickly and unexpectedly? It had never occurred to him that the strike at the Lucky Lizard might spread over here to the Alhambra!
Munro was going to be mad. Damned mad.
That was why Hammersmith had to put a stop to this now before it got more out of hand than it already was.
He stepped closer to Rogan and said between clenched teeth, “Get into that mine and get back to work, mister. Right now, or you’re fired!”
Rogan gave a stubborn shake of his head. “You can’t fire me,” he said. “I’m on strike!”
And with that, he spit in Hammersmith’s face.
That was more than Hammersmith could stand. With a howl of rage, he slammed a punch into Rogan’s jaw. The blow landed with a solid thud and knocked Rogan back a couple of steps, but the miner didn’t go down. He stayed on his feet, caught his balance, and roared in defiance as he charged Hammersmith.
The battle was on. A clash of titans, a poet might have called it. Actually, it was just two big men beating the hell out of each other. They slugged, they wrestled, they threw each other down and rolled on the ground. Hammersmith tried to knee Rogan in the groin, but Rogan twisted aside and took the blow on his thigh. Rogan tried to dig his thumbs into Hammersmith’s eyes, but Hammersmith caught one of them in his mouth and bit down hard, tasting blood as his teeth went all the way to the bone. Rogan screamed, pulled free, and flailed at Hammersmith. Blood from the injured thumb spattered on Hammersmith’s face as some of the punches got through and battered him.
All the while, the assembled miners cheered and shouted. Some of them grabbed the guard and took his rifle away from him, as well as the pistol on his hip. The man tore out of their grip and spri
nted away, fearing for his life if he tried to stay and help Hammersmith.
The mine superintendent roared like a maddened bull, grabbed Rogan by the shoulders, and pitched him off to the side. Rolling to his feet, Hammersmith charged after Rogan and kicked him hard in the side, hard enough to maybe break a rib. Rogan grunted in pain and tried to get up, but Hammersmith’s foot thudded into his chest and knocked him onto his back. Hammersmith lifted his foot again, ready to drive the heel of his work boot down into Rogan’s face. Caught up in the grip of rage like he was, he didn’t care if he stomped the life out of the bastard.
Before Hammersmith could bring his foot down, the mob surged forward. Strong hands gripped him and pulled him back. He yelled in alarm as he felt himself lifted off his feet. He struck out, throwing wild punches as fast and hard as he could, in every direction. He knew that if he allowed himself to be overwhelmed by the miners, he might be the one who wound up being stomped to death.
“Hold it!” The shouted command cut through the noisy confusion. “Let him go, damn it! If you kill him, you’ll be playin’ right into Munro’s hands!”
The orders came from Dave Rogan. He continued to shout as Hammersmith was shoved roughly back and forth. Gradually, the miners let go of him and moved back a little to give him some breathing room, although he was still surrounded. They looked like a pack of wild-eyed wolves, Hammersmith thought as he stood there with his chest heaving. His muscles already ached from the battering he had received, and his left eye was trying to swell shut.
“If you kill him, Munro will have the law on us,” Rogan said as he shouldered his way through the crowd to confront Hammersmith again. “It’s legal for us to strike, as long as we don’t murder anybody.” He sneered at Hammersmith. “No matter how much they might deserve killin’.”
“Why the hell do you hate me?” Hammersmith burst out, genuinely puzzled. “I never did anything to you!”
“You work for Munro. That’s enough. But I’ve heard plenty about you, Hammersmith. You’ve beaten men to death before for not obeying your orders. And you’ve worked them to death in the mines, damn you.”
The Last Gunfighter: Hell Town Page 21
