The Last Gunfighter: Hell Town

by William W. Johnstone

  And the smoke curling from the barrel of the gun in Evers’s hand made it clear who had killed him.

  Evers lifted the gun toward Hammersmith. “Stay back!” he said in a panicky voice.

  “Nathan!” Jessica said. “You’ve killed Hamish!”

  She didn’t have a chance to tell him that was all right before his lip curled in a sneer and he thrust the gun toward her. “That’s right!” he snapped. “And I’ll kill you too if you get in my way, you bitch!”

  Thunderstruck, Jessica could only stare at him. Beside her, Hammersmith growled as he stood there with his hands balled into malletlike fists.

  “Always parading yourself around,” Evers went on in a voice trembling with rage and hate. “Munro never saw you for the slut you really are. He was a fool, a blind fool, but not for that reason alone. He never had any idea that I’ve been bleeding his fortune away from him for years!”

  That brought another gasp of horror from Jessica. “You…you stole from him?”

  “Thousands and thousands of dollars,” Evers gloated, “and he never knew. Now he never will. He’s dead, and you and Hammersmith soon will be too. All I’ll have to do is say that some of those crazy gunmen broke in here and shot the three of you, and no one will ever suspect otherwise. This is the perfect opportunity for me. I can finally stop groveling!”

  “You’re the one who’s crazy,” Hammersmith said. “Put that gun down.”

  Evers shook his head as he swung the pistol back toward Hammersmith. “No. You first, and then the slut.”

  With a roar of rage, Hammersmith threw himself toward Evers. The gun in the treacherous secretary’s hand blasted again and again as Evers jerked the trigger and screamed. Hammersmith stumbled a little as the bullets thudded into him, but they didn’t really slow him down. Evers was cut off in mid-shriek as Hammersmith crashed into him and drove him over backward. Hammersmith’s sausagelike fingers closed around Evers’s neck and twisted hard as both men fell. Jessica heard a loud cracking sound, and then the crash as the two men hit the floor.

  A shudder ran through Hammersmith, and then he lay still as he sprawled on top of Evers. Jessica stood there motionless as she stared at them for a long moment. Then, carefully, she moved closer, bending over to take a look at them. Evers had dropped the gun, which was probably empty now anyway. His eyes were open and blankly staring. His head was twisted at an impossible angle on his shoulders. Hammersmith had broken his neck.

  Jessica couldn’t see the wounds in Hammersmith’s chest, but she saw the pool of blood creeping out onto the rug around the two men. Blood ran from Hammersmith’s mouth too, and his eyes were as empty and lifeless as Evers’s were. Jessica straightened, confident that both men were dead, as was Hamish Munro. She was alone in the hotel room with three corpses.

  And as the full implications of that sunk in on her, she began to smile.

  * * * *

  Frank knew he couldn’t stop all the outlaws who were charging his position behind the water trough, but he gripped the Colt tightly and steeled himself to take as many of them with him as he could.

  At that moment, a shotgun boomed and several shots blasted from a handgun, and as Frank raised himself into firing position, he saw that a couple of the outlaws’ horses were now riderless. As a bullet ripped past his head, he triggered the Peacemaker and sent slugs pounding into the other two desperadoes. They somersaulted backward off their mounts.

  Tip Woodford and Garrett Claiborne ran toward Frank, reloading as they came. Tip had the scattergun, while Claiborne clutched a Colt revolver in his good hand. As the two men came up to Frank, Tip shouted, “We got to get folks organized! Who the hell are those raiders?”

  “An outlaw gang led by a man named Jory Pool,” Frank replied. “Pool’s the big hombre with the blond beard.” He thumbed more cartridges into his Colt as he added, “Come on. We’ll form up at the Silver Baron!”

  As they ran through chaos and flying lead toward the saloon, Frank spotted Leo Benjamin, Professor Burton, and Ed Kelley, all of whom were armed and trying to mount a defense against the invaders. Frank called to them and waved for them to follow him and Tip and Claiborne.

  As they neared the Silver Baron, the group of defenders picked up three more members in Amos Hillman, Claude Langley, and Langley’s helper Roy. Frank saw Starkwell and shouted, “Colonel! We’re forming up at the saloon!”

  Starkwell nodded as he squeezed off a shot from his revolver and sent another outlaw tumbling out of the saddle. The colonel began shouting orders to his men, some of whom were still able to respond. Frank yelled at the miners he saw as well, and they joined the band of fighters headed for the saloon.

  Fighting their way along the street, the group of defenders numbered about twenty strong by the time they reached the Silver Baron. Miners and militia men were fighting side by side now instead of battling against each other. Johnny Collyer pushed through the batwings to join them, coughing but determined, the sawed-off Greener he kept under the bar now clutched in his hands.

  About a dozen of the outlaws were down, which made the odds roughly even now. The deadly accurate fire of the defenders had drawn Jory Pool’s attention. He bellowed orders to his surviving men, gathering them around him for an all-out assault on the Silver Baron. “Kill ’em!” he screamed as he kicked his horse into a run. “Kill ’em all!”

  The gang surged forward like a tidal wave of death. As bullets flew, men on both sides dropped. A huge gray cloud of gunsmoke filled the street and stung the noses and mouths of the men who were fighting desperately. A militia man beside Frank grunted and doubled over as he was hit in the belly. He dropped his Winchester as he fell. Frank’s Colt had just run dry again, so he jammed it back in its holster and snatched up the fallen rifle. He brought it to his shoulder and began to fire as fast as he could work the weapon’s lever.

  The huge, mounted figure of Jory Pool suddenly loomed up right in front of him. Frank had to dive to the side as Pool leaped his horse onto the boardwalk. Shouting curses, Pool yanked the animal around in a tight turn and began firing at Frank, who rolled across the planks as the boss outlaw’s bullets chewed splinters from them. Frank knew he was only a heartbeat from death.

  Then someone leaped past him, gun blazing, and Frank heard Clint Farnum shouting, “No, damn it, no!” The little gunfighter went right at Pool, firing wildly, but he had taken only a couple of steps before a pair of slugs crashed into his chest and picked him up, driving him backward.

  Clint’s valiant action had given Frank the chance to come up on his knees and lift the Winchester again. He didn’t know how many rounds were left in the rifle, but he prayed at least one still remained. As Clint fell, Pool tried to swing his gun toward Frank again, but he was too late. Frank pressed the Winchester’s trigger.

  Pool’s head practically exploded in a grisly spray of blood, brains, and bone as the rifle bullet smashed through his skull. The outlaw leader toppled out of the saddle, falling to the boardwalk.

  Pool’s death took the fight out of the remaining outlaws. Some of them whirled their mounts and retreated, trying to get away before they could be cut down. A few made it. The others threw down their guns and thrust their hands in the air, shouting for the defenders not to kill them. Seeing that the back of the attack was broken, Frank surged to his feet and shouted, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” He looked along the boardwalk, saw Catamount Jack among the defenders, and told the old-timer, “Jack, start rounding up the prisoners and take them down to the jail.”

  “Them cells are gonna be crammed plumb full,” Jack said with a grin. He had been nicked a couple of times by flying lead, but seemed to be as spry as ever.

  Frank turned to Starkwell and asked, “Colonel, will you give my deputy a hand?”

  Starkwell glanced at his men, who were now eyeing the miners with suspicion once more, then said, “Of course, Marshal. I think we could use a truce right about now.”

  Frank nodded in agreement. The last thing he wante
d after fighting off this outlaw raid was a resumption of the hostilities that had been going on before Pool and his gang rode in.

  He turned toward Clint Farnum and knelt at the little gunfighter’s side. The front of Clint’s shirt was soaked with blood and more crimson leaked from his mouth, but he was still alive. His eyelids flickered open as Frank put a hand on his shoulder.

  “F-Frank…” he rasped out. “You’re…all right?”

  “Yeah, thanks to you,” Frank told him. He could tell that Clint didn’t have much time left. Minutes maybe, or even less. “Thanks to you,” Frank went on. “You saved my life, Clint. Pool would have ventilated me in another second.”

  “That’s…good…I’m sorry I…”

  Whatever Clint was trying to apologize for, it went unsaid, because at that moment a long sigh came from him and his bloody chest ceased to rise and fall. The light went out of his pale blue eyes.

  “You were a good deputy, Clint,” Frank said, hoping that somehow Clint could still hear him. Gently, he closed the man’s eyes and then stood up.

  Dr. Garland had arrived on the scene and was checking over the wounded defenders. Frank walked along the boardwalk, noting that Roy was dead, along with a couple of the miners and one of the militia men. A number of others had wounds of varying seriousness, but Garland seemed to think that all of them would pull through.

  The doctor paused in his work long enough to tell Frank, “Considering how badly the town was shot up, we’re lucky more people weren’t killed.”

  Frank couldn’t bring himself to feel all that lucky at the moment, but he knew what Garland meant. “If there’s anything I can do to help, Doc, just let me know.”

  Tip Woodford and Garrett Claiborne came up to Frank. “We still got the same mess as before,” Tip said. “What’re we gonna do about those strikin’ miners?”

  “Now that the parts Munro and Hammersmith played in everything have come out, maybe we can talk some sense into them,” Frank said. “We’ll have to have another meeting.”

  Claiborne looked around and asked, “Where are Hammersmith and Munro? I don’t see them in the street or anywhere along the boardwalk.”

  “They must have made it back to the hotel when all hell broke loose.” Frank had set the Winchester aside and was reloading his Colt. “I’ll go find them.”

  “Better let us come with you,” Tip suggested. “Since they know they’re facin’ a lot of legal trouble now, they’re liable to put up a fight. That bruiser Hammersmith anyway. I ain’t sure Munro knows how to fight with anything except money.”

  Frank considered the offer, but then shook his head. “You fellas have already fought your battle today. This is a job for Buckskin’s marshal, and that’s who I am, at least for now.”

  He started toward the hotel. Behind him, Tip called, “Frank? What do you mean by that, Frank? Dadgummit—”

  Frank didn’t pay any attention. He kept walking until he reached the boardwalk in front of the hotel. As he stepped into the lobby, he stopped short at the sight of Jessica Munro sitting on the stairs leading up to the second floor. Her face was red and streaked with tears, but she was still beautiful despite that.

  “Marshal,” she said as she looked up and saw Frank. She came to her feet. “It’s terrible. They’re dead. They’re all dead.”

  She hurried across the lobby to Frank, threw her arms around him, and sobbed.

  Chapter 33

  “She claims that Hammersmith shot Munro, then Evers shot Hammersmith and Hammersmith broke Evers’s neck before he died,” Frank told the others gathered in the office of the Lucky Lizard Mining Company.

  “You reckon she’s tellin’ the truth?” Tip Woodford asked.

  Frank shrugged. “I can’t prove that she’s not. My gut says she’s lying, at least about part of it, but that doesn’t change anything. Munro is dead, so that makes her the owner of the Alhambra. She wants you to settle the strike with all the miners, Tip, and she says she’ll go along with whatever agreement you negotiate with them.”

  Diana said, “What’s she going to do? She’s not staying here in Buckskin, is she?” Her dislike for Jessica Munro was plain to hear in her voice.

  Frank shook his head. “No, Mrs. Munro told me she’s going back to San Francisco as soon as she can. She’s not interested in having anything to do with running the mine. She’s going to hire a new superintendent and leave everything to him.”

  “All she’ll do is collect the money,” Diana said.

  “Yeah. I reckon she’ll do that, all right.”

  Colonel Starkwell was also at this gathering. He said, “I don’t like the way Munro tried to use me and my men, Marshal, but I feel a responsibility to remain here and help maintain order until everything is settled.”

  “And I appreciate that, Colonel,” Frank said with a nod. “All the miners are getting together over at the Silver Baron. Mayor Woodford and I will go talk to them. It might be best to keep your men outside for now, where they’ll be handy but the miners won’t feel threatened by them.”

  Starkwell agreed. “But if you need our help, don’t hesitate to ask for it.”

  “I won’t,” Frank promised, but he hoped above all else right now that the miners’ strike could be settled without any more violence.

  Buckskin had seen enough bloodshed to last it a long time.

  * * * *

  The meeting didn’t last long. Fighting a common enemy had rebuilt some of the bonds that had existed between Tip and the men who worked for him, and with Hamish Munro and Gunther Hammersmith both dead, along with Dave Rogan, the miners from the Alhambra had lost some of their anger. Tip’s workers knew that the Fowler brothers had been responsible for the cave-in and for stirring up the strike, and since Red Mike and Gib were dead as well, the miners were willing to get back to work with only a few concessions from Tip. The men from the Alhambra were willing to accept the same proposal, and Frank promised on behalf of the Crown Royal’s management to go along too, so that the wages and hours and safety conditions would be roughly consistent at all three of the major mines.

  “You reckon young Claiborne will go along with that?” Tip asked after the meeting broke up and the workers headed back to the mines.

  “I think I can pretty well guarantee it,” Frank said.

  “Yeah, I forgot you own part o’ the Crown Royal.”

  “But my real job is here in Buckskin.” Frank shook his head. “I’m just not sure I ought to be wearing this badge anymore.”

  “You got to stop talkin’ like that,” Tip protested as he and Frank walked toward the Silver Baron. “Nobody wants you to turn in your badge. Hell, if you hadn’t rallied everybody together when them outlaws come chargin’ in, they’d have looted the town and likely burned it to the ground. You said that’s what Pool usually did.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t stop Munro and Hammersmith from causing a lot of trouble before that happened. We had a full-scale riot going on, if you remember.”

  “I remember all right, and I remember you riskin’ your neck and doin’ everything in your power to head things off before they got that far. It ain’t your fault you couldn’t.”

  Frank shrugged. The mayor might be willing to let him off the hook, but he wasn’t sure if he was.

  “I’ll think about it,” was all he said as they reached the saloon.

  Before they could push through the batwings, a man who had just ridden up in front of the Silver Baron said, “Morgan? Frank Morgan?”

  Frank stopped, stiffening as he recognized the tone of voice. He had never seen this hombre before, but he knew the man anyway, knew him as well as he knew his own face in the mirror.

  “I’m Morgan.”

  “I got a bone to pick with you, Morgan. Folks say you’re mighty fast with a gun, but I think I’m faster.” The man dismounted, dropped his reins, and faced Frank in a crouch, his hand hovering over the butt of his Colt, ready to hook and draw. “I aim to prove it,” he added.

  Before Frank co
uld respond, Tip Woodford said, “Then you’re a damned fool, mister. You know who this is?”

  The gunfighter sneered. “Yeah, he’s Frank Morgan, but he don’t scare me. I can beat him to the draw.”

  “No,” Tip said, “he’s the marshal of Buckskin, and he’s our friend. Even if you do beat him, which I seriously doubt you can, you’ll have to shoot me next. And then him—” Tip nodded toward the batwings, where Johnny Collyer had appeared carrying his sawed-off shotgun. “And him.” That was Leo Benjamin, stepping out onto the porch of the general store with a rifle in his hands. “And him.” Catamount Jack eased along the boardwalk, his gnarled old hand on the butt of the cap-and-ball pistol at his hip.

  Tip pointed out half-a-dozen other townspeople whose attention had been attracted by the confrontation between Frank and the would-be fast gun. The stranger looked around, his face growing taut with worry as he realized he was surrounded by hostility.

  “So you see, mister,” Tip concluded, “when you go up against the marshal o’ Buckskin, one way or another you’re gonna wind up blowed full o’ holes. Don’t you reckon the smartest thing to do would be to climb back on that horse and ride outta here while you got the chance?”

  The man hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he snarled, “You’re the luckiest hombre I ever saw, Morgan.” He grabbed his reins, swung up into the saddle, and rode out.

  Frank watched him go and said, “Yeah. I reckon I sure am.”

  About the Author

  William W. Johnstone was born in Southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. Raised with strong moral values by his minister father, and well-tutored by his school teacher mother, William quit school when he was fifteen.

  He was kicked out of the French Foreign Legion for being under age and joined the carnival. But still valuing his education, he returned home to finish his high school education in 1957.