The Last Gunfighter: Hell Town

by William W. Johnstone

  Hammersmith wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away bloody. “I never laid into anybody except lazy sons o’ bitches who had it comin’,” he insisted. “Either that, or they jumped me first.”

  “Well, it don’t matter now. You won’t run roughshod over us anymore.” Rogan thumped his chest with a clenched fist. “We’re on strike. Go tell Munro that he’d better meet our demands, or else he won’t ever take any more ore outta this mine!”

  Hammersmith didn’t want to tell Hamish Munro any such thing. Munro would explode with fury when he heard about this. As if they didn’t have enough trouble with that damned nosy marshal!

  Rogan waved an arm at the other miners. “Come on, boys, let’s get out of here. Somebody go down and make sure everybody’s out of the mine.”

  “You won’t get away with this,” Hammersmith warned. “You’ll all just lose your jobs and get nothin’ for it. We’ll bring in more workers.”

  “They’ll have to get through us first,” Rogan warned with an ominous glare.

  “If that’s what it takes, then so be it,” Hammersmith snapped. Munro could afford to bring in an army of armed guards if he needed to. Rogan and the others would soon see that they had bitten off a hell of a lot more than they could chew.

  But in the meantime, Hammersmith thought as he watched the miners stalk off, throwing angry glances over their shoulders at him as they did so, the Alhambra Mine was shut down.

  Like it or not, Munro had to be told about this, and Hammersmith knew he was the one who would have to bring that bad news to Buckskin.

  * * * *

  It was the guard who fled for his life, though, who reached the settlement first. He was breathless from the hard ride into town as he came into the Silver Baron Saloon, went to the bar, and asked for a drink. After he tossed back the whiskey, he began telling anybody who would listen how the miners at the Alhambra had gone on strike and were rioting.

  “They’ve probably killed poor Mr. Hammersmith by now,” he said.

  Frank was seated at one of the tables in the rear of the room with Tip Woodford. They had cups of coffee in front of them, and had been talking about Frank’s confrontation with Hamish Munro that morning.

  Now Frank stood up and strode over to the bar, where he faced the newcomer and said, “You should’ve mentioned that somebody was in danger first.”

  “Sorry, Marshal,” the man said. “I know how you and Mr. Hammersmith feel about each other, though. I didn’t figure you’d care what happened to him.”

  “I wouldn’t stand by and let any man be torn to pieces by a mob,” Frank said, not bothering to keep the scorn out of his voice.

  The guard from the mine flushed. “There was nothin’ I could do. They would’ve killed me too.”

  Frank just turned away. He said to Tip, who had followed him to the bar, “I’d better ride out there and see what’s going on.”

  “Want some company?” Tip asked.

  Frank shook his head. “No, but I’d appreciate it if you’d find Jack or Clint Farnum and let them know where I’ve gone.”

  “Sure, I can do that,” Tip said with a nod. “Be careful, Frank. You sure as blazes don’t want to get yourself killed over the likes o’ Gunther Hammersmith.”

  Frank knew what the mayor meant. Still, he had chosen to expand his jurisdiction to the mines in the area, whether he really had any legal right to do so or not, so to Frank’s way of thinking, he had a job to do and wasn’t going to shy away from it.

  He left the saloon and went to Hillman’s livery stable. Both horses were well rested, so he saddled Stormy and rode out, taking Dog with him. He headed straight for the Alhambra.

  However, he had ridden only half a mile or so when he saw a man on horseback coming toward him and recognized Hammersmith’s bulky figure. The man didn’t sit a saddle all that well, and Frank knew he wasn’t really comfortable on horseback. Hammersmith was moving along the trail at a good clip, though.

  Frank reined in to wait for him. He held up a hand in a signal for Hammersmith to stop. Hammersmith pulled his mount to a halt, but looked like he didn’t care for being delayed.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked in a guttural voice. His face was bruised and swollen and had several patches of dried blood on it.

  “I’m a mite surprised to see you alive, Hammersmith,” Frank drawled. “Fella who works for you out at the mine came galloping into town, said the men were on strike and were about to tear you limb from limb.”

  “Yeah, well, you can see for yourself that didn’t happen.”

  “What about the part about being on strike?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Anything that affects the community is my business,” Frank said, “because it might have an effect on law and order too. Just answer the question, Hammersmith.”

  “Yeah, they went on strike,” Hammersmith replied in a grudging tone. “That bastard Rogan started it.”

  “Dave Rogan?” Frank asked in surprise. “I didn’t know he worked for the Alhambra.”

  “Yeah, he hired on after Woodford fired him.”

  Frank hadn’t forgotten the ruckus at Ed Kelley’s Top-Notch Saloon. That fight had gotten Rogan discharged from the Lucky Lizard, but evidently the miner hadn’t had much trouble finding another job.

  A part of Frank was tempted to tell Hammersmith that he had gotten just what he deserved. Frank was as convinced as ever that Hammersmith and Munro were behind the strike at the Lucky Lizard. Now their tactics had backfired against them, as their own workers, inspired by the strike at the other mine, had walked out on their jobs.

  “You want anything else, Morgan?” Hammersmith snapped. “I got to tell Mr. Munro about what happened.”

  Frank would have enjoyed being a fly on the wall during that conversation. That wasn’t going to happen, though, so he waved a hand in the direction of Buckskin and said, “Go ahead. I’m warning you, though, Hammersmith…. Your labor troubles had better stay confined to the mine. If they start reaching into town, I’ll put a stop to all this myself if I have to.”

  Hammersmith’s lip curled. “What can you do? There ain’t no law against striking. More’s the pity.”

  Again, Frank was struck by the irony of it. Hammersmith and Munro had struck at the Lucky Lizard, using the strike there as a weapon, but Hammersmith didn’t like it so much when the tables were turned and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Frank moved aside to let Hammersmith pass. The man rode off toward the settlement. Frank started again toward the mine, chuckling as he said to Dog, “Wonder what they’ll do now.”

  He didn’t figure he would have to wait very long to find out.

  And he wasn’t expecting to be pleased when he found out, either.

  Chapter 28

  Frank rode on out to the Alhambra and talked to Dave Rogan, warning him that any violence connected with the strike wouldn’t be tolerated. Rogan remembered Frank from the ruckus in Kelley’s, and for a few moments things had been pretty tense as Rogan debated whether to indulge his old grudge and try to cause more trouble for the lawman.

  But in the end, Rogan had just said, “Talk to Hamish Munro, Marshal. If anybody causes any bloodshed, it’ll be him.”

  Frank wasn’t going to be surprised if Rogan turned out to be right. One thing seemed certain: Munro wouldn’t take this setback lying down. He would fight and would try to hurt the striking miners just as much as they were hurting him.

  For a couple of days, an uneasy pause seemed to hang over Buckskin. The strike at the Lucky Lizard continued, in addition to the one at the Alhambra. The new equipment for the stamp mill at the Crown Royal arrived, as well as a dozen hard-bitten, well-armed men who had been hired by Conrad Browning to keep any more sabotage from occurring at the mine. Their leader, a tall, rusty-bearded man named Burke, came to see Frank.

  “We have our orders,” Burke explained. “We’re to protect the Crown Royal, and that’s it. Mr. Browning
doesn’t want us getting mixed up in any other local troubles.”

  Frank nodded. “That’s fine with me. I’d just as soon give things a chance to settle down on their own. We don’t need a war here in Buckskin.”

  That looked like what the town might get, though, because a day later the army rode in.

  Frank was in the office when Catamount Jack stuck his head in the door and said in an excited voice, “You’d better come take a gander at this, Marshal. Looks like Buckskin’s bein’ invaded.”

  Frank didn’t know whether to be alarmed or puzzled by Jack’s comment. He stood up and moved to the door, not wasting any time.

  Sure enough, a military force was entering the settlement, riding into town from the northern end. The natty blue uniforms made Frank take them for United States cavalrymen at first, but he realized a second later that the markings and insignia were different. These uniforms were a little gaudier, a little fancier, than regular cavalry uniforms. All the riders, about two dozen of them, wore sabers in brass scabbards and had Winchesters in saddle boots instead of the usual army carbines.

  The soldiers rode with their eyes fixed straight ahead, not paying any attention to the commotion their arrival was causing in the settlement. They came on down the street to the marshal’s office, where the officer leading them reined in and raised a hand. The man right behind him, evidently a sergeant of some sort, turned in his saddle and bellowed, “Company…halt!”

  The officer dismounted, handed his horse’s reins to the sergeant, and stepped up onto the boardwalk. He tugged a gauntlet off his right hand and offered that hand to Frank. “Marshal Morgan?” he said. “I’m Colonel Jefferson Starkwell, Nevada State Militia.”

  Frank had already started to wonder if these newcomers were members of the state militia. That was the only explanation that made any sense. What they were doing here in Buckskin was still an open question, though.

  Frank shook hands with Starkwell and said, “Colonel. What brings you to Buckskin?”

  Starkwell was a tall, stiff-backed man with iron-gray hair and a neat mustache and goatee. He said, “The governor has ordered us here to maintain law and order in the face of mounting civil unrest.”

  A frown creased Frank’s forehead. He had been afraid that Colonel Starkwell would say something like that. Waving a hand toward the street, which was thronged at the moment with curious bystanders, he said, “What civil unrest? You can see for yourself that the place is plumb peaceful right now.”

  “At the moment, perhaps,” Starkwell replied, unfazed by Frank’s question. “But the governor has been informed that violent strikes have broken out at two of the area mines and may spread to other mines in the vicinity. Riots have been reported.” A cold, thin smile curved Starkwell’s lips. “Dealing with such problems is beyond the scope of local law enforcement; therefore the governor dispatched us to see to it that things don’t get even more out of hand. The citizens must be protected.”

  “And the mine owners have to be protected too, is that it?” Frank didn’t bother trying to hide his irritation now. “Since Jack and me and my other deputy are that local law enforcement you were talking about, don’t you think we ought to have a say in whether or not we need help from a troop of militia men?”

  “The governor received a full report on the situation here, Marshal, and he acted in what he believes to be everyone’s best interests.”

  Frank looked at Jack and said, “Munro. He’s the one behind this.”

  The old-timer nodded. “Sure as shootin’.”

  As far as Frank had known, Hamish Munro had been holed up in the hotel for the past few days, consulting with Hammersmith and Nathan Evers about the strike going on at the Alhambra. Now Frank realized that Munro had already taken action without him knowing about it. Munro must have sent a rider into Virginia City to wire the governor in Carson City and ask for help putting down the strike. The governor, like all politicians mindful of anyone with wealth and influence who might help him get elected again, had been only too glad to help. He had sent in the militia, ostensibly to keep order, but Frank knew how these things worked. He had seen similar situations in other places. Starkwell and his company of soldiers would actually be working for Munro, and their real goal would be to crush the strike crippling production at the Alhambra.

  To accomplish that goal, they would crush the strikers if they had to.

  Even though Frank knew it probably wouldn’t do any good, he said, “Colonel, I’d appreciate it if you and your men would turn around and ride right back to Carson City. Tell the governor we appreciate his concern, but we don’t need any help keeping a lid on things here.”

  “I’m sorry, Marshal,” Starkwell said, not sounding the least bit apologetic, “but our orders are clear. We won’t be leaving until the miners’ strike is over, the men have returned to work, and the danger is ended.”

  “But that ain’t right,” Catamount Jack protested. “You can’t force them fellas to work for Munro, nor for Tip Woodford neither.”

  “The governor disagrees, sir. He views continued silver production as vital to the state’s interest. I’ll be riding out to the Alhambra Mine to issue a warning to the striking workers. I’m sure they’ll be reasonable.”

  “Damn it, if you go out there, those men are liable to think you’ve come to arrest them.”

  “If they don’t cooperate, they’ll be right about that,” Starkwell snapped.

  Frank thought about how hotheaded Dave Rogan was and said, “They’re liable to open fire on you.”

  “If they do, they’ll wish they hadn’t. Our orders empower us to use all necessary force to maintain order.”

  Anger welled up inside Frank as he realized what Starkwell intended to do. Under the guise of “maintaining order,” the colonel planned to massacre the striking miners, or at least some of them, in hopes that the others would surrender and go back to work. If not, Starkwell would wipe out all of them so that Munro could start over. This “militia” was really nothing more than a gang of hired killers.

  “I’m going out there with you,” Frank snapped. “Let me talk to those men first.”

  “You’ve had plenty of chances to talk to them before now, Marshal. I can’t stop you from riding out there, but I warn you…. Stay out of our way.”

  Frank suppressed the impulse to knock the arrogant smirk off Starkwell’s face. Instead, he turned to Jack and said, “Find Clint and tell him what’s going on. The two of you stay here in town and be ready for trouble.”

  Jack nodded. “You be careful, Frank.”

  “It may be too late for that,” Frank said. He headed for the livery stable. As he hurried along the street, he glanced up at the hotel.

  Hamish Munro stood in one of the windows of his suite, the curtain pulled back so that he could gaze out at the street. The mining magnate wore a self-satisfied smile, and the nod that he gave Frank was even more infuriating. Munro thought that everything was going his way again. He believed that his money and influence could always get him whatever he wanted.

  And so far, Frank reflected with a grim, silent curse, nobody had proven that idea wrong.

  Starkwell mounted up and the militia moved out, riding past Amos Hillman’s place. Frank heard them go by as he was throwing his saddle on Goldy. The uniformed riders were still in sight as he emerged from the livery barn a couple of minutes later. They were following the main trail toward the Alhambra. Frank figured he could circle around and beat them to the mine, since he knew the area better than the militia men did.

  Hearing his name called, he turned in the saddle to see Catamount Jack hurrying toward him. “I can’t find Clint,” the old-timer said.

  “He’s bound to be around somewhere. Keep looking, and warn the townspeople that there’s liable to be more trouble.”

  Jack nodded. “All hell’s about to bust loose, ain’t it, Frank?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Frank said.

  Problem was, he didn’t know if he could.
>
  * * * *

  A breeze set the leaves of the aspens to rattling together as Clint Farnum rode up the slope. It was a beautiful day, the sort of day he would have enjoyed getting out of the settlement and just riding around the hills, taking in the magnificent scenery. The years had taught him to appreciate such things. All the long, solitary, dangerous years of riding the owlhoot trail, never knowing when a day might be his last one on this earth….

  He hadn’t ridden out here into the hills west of the settlement to look at the scenery, though. He had a job to do, and he intended to carry it out. He might not like it much anymore, but there was no turning back now.

  The smell of tobacco smoke drifted to his nose. He grimaced. That was careless. Didn’t really matter, though. Not now.

  Clint topped the hill and saw the riders waiting on the other side. Between thirty and forty, he estimated. Roughly dressed and heavily armed, with a brutal eagerness stamped on their beard-stubbled faces.

  The big, blond-bearded man spurred out to meet Clint and said, “I got the word you sent and brought the boys right on. What’s goin’ on down there?”

  “A company of state militia rode in just as I was about to leave to meet you, Jory,” Clint replied.

  That brought mutters of concern from the outlaws. Jory Pool turned in his saddle and silenced them with a look. He swung back around to face Clint and asked, “What are they doin’ there?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I imagine they came to bust that strike out at the Alhambra Mine. The gent who owns it, Hamish Munro, is friends with the governor.”

  One of the other men said, “I guess that means we’ll have to call the raid off, Jory. We can’t attack the town if the militia is there.”

  “The hell we can’t,” Pool said. “This is a stroke of good luck for us.”

  Clint frowned. “I don’t follow you, Jory.”

  A grin spread across Pool’s face. “The soldier boys and them miners will be too busy fightin’ with each other to worry about us. And the people in town will be so caught up in that they won’t expect trouble to come at them from any other direction.”