Frank sat down behind the table. “I guess you heard what happened out at the cemetery a while ago.”
“Jack told me,” Tip said with a casual nod. “Are you all right? That hombre didn’t wing you?”
Frank shook his head and said, “I’m fine. His bullet didn’t come anywhere near me. You don’t seem too bothered by this, Tip.”
The mayor shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Why should I be bothered? It wasn’t me the fella wanted to kill. And you said yourself that you’re fine, so I don’t have to go huntin’ another marshal….”
“It’s going to happen again,” Frank said.
Tip frowned. “Somebody comin’ here to draw against you, you mean?”
“That’s right. Harry Clevenger was only the first. To tell you the truth, I expected it to happen before now. The word’s getting around that I’ve settled down in Buckskin, so now every would-be shootist in these parts knows where to look for me.”
“There can’t be that many gunfighters left. I mean—”
“I know what you mean. Smoke Jensen and Matt Bodine are settled down with families and spend most of their time on their ranches. Nobody messes with them. But there are still a handful of old-timers, like this hombre Clevenger who showed up today, and more importantly, there’ll always be green kids who think they’re fast on the draw and want to prove it. Dime novels have been around long enough now so that some of them have grown up reading the blasted things. They think the West is nothing but shoot-outs and showdowns, and they want to get in on the action. I’m a prime target for youngsters like that, Tip.”
“I don’t doubt any of what you say, but I’m not sure what you’re gettin’ at, Frank.”
“I’m saying that as long as I’m the marshal here, you’re going to have men riding into Buckskin for no reason other than to try their hand at killing me. That can’t be good for the town.”
Tip’s eyes widened. “You want to quit?”
“I don’t want to. I like it here. But I don’t want to be the cause of bringing trouble down on the town.”
Tip scratched at his jaw with a blunt finger and frowned in thought. “Listen here, Frank. When Dutton’s gang rode in here and took over, you were the one who came along and saved us. They might have killed all of us before they were through. Might’ve done even worse.”
Frank knew what he meant. The hired killers who had worked for Charles Dutton would have gotten around to raping Diana and the other women in town sooner or later, before murdering all the inhabitants and burning Buckskin to the ground.
“Buckskin’s just now turnin’ into a real town again,” Tip went on, “but it can’t do it without you. The folks who come here know that you’ll keep ’em safe. Without a good marshal to keep the lid on, you know how fast a boomtown can boil over. That’s no good for anybody.”
Tip was right about that too, but it didn’t ease Frank’s mind completely. He said, “You’re sure you’ve thought this over enough?”
“I don’t have to think it over for very long to know that I damn sure want Frank Morgan to be the marshal o’ my town,” the mayor declared. “Buckskin just wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Frank took a deep breath and then nodded. “All right, if that’s the way you want it. I felt like I ought to warn you, though, that the violence is liable to get worse before it gets better.”
“Shoot, that’s gonna be true whether you’re here or not,” Tip said with a smile. “Why do you reckon I asked you to pin on that badge in the first place?”
* * * *
Several days of relative peace and quiet went by. Frank had to break up a few drunken fights in the Silver Baron and the other saloons, and once one of the combatants was so determined to keep the brawl going that Frank had to tap him on the head with the butt of his Colt and drag the fella down to the jail to sleep it off. That was the biggest ruckus that occurred.
Harry Clevenger had been dead broke when he got to Buckskin, so Amos Hillman sold the gunfighter’s horse to pay for his burial. Clevenger’s saddlebags contained a letter, from a woman in St. Louis named Ida Skillery. Frank felt uncomfortable reading the letter, but glanced over it enough to discover that she was Clevenger’s sister. He wrote her a letter telling her that her brother had passed away from a sudden illness and expressing his sympathy. In this case, he didn’t think it would do any harm to fudge the truth a little.
Nobody else showed up gunning for him, but in the middle of a bright Nevada afternoon, a dusty buggy rolled into the settlement carrying a man who was looking for Frank.
At that moment, Frank happened to be standing on the boardwalk in front of the marshal’s office with his left shoulder leaning against one of the posts holding up the awning over it. His right thumb was hooked in his gunbelt, near the butt of the Colt.
He straightened from that casual pose as the buggy veered toward him. The man handling the reins brought the single horse to a halt in front of the boardwalk.
“Frank Morgan?” he called.
“That’s right,” Frank said.
The man looped the reins around the brake lever and climbed out of the buggy. He was in his thirties, short and stocky, wearing a town suit. A soup-strainer mustache drooped over his mouth, and a pair of rimless spectacles perched halfway down his long nose like a bird on a fence.
“I’m Garrett Claiborne,” he said, introducing himself as he stepped up onto the boardwalk. The way he said his name seemed to indicate that he expected Frank to recognize it.
Frank stuck out his hand and shook with the newcomer. “Welcome to Buckskin, Mr. Claiborne. What brings you here?”
“You didn’t get the wire about me coming out?” Claiborne asked with a frown.
“I haven’t gotten any wire,” Frank said. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but the telegraph wires don’t run all the way out here. We have to ride up to Virginia City to send telegrams or get any replies, and I don’t think anybody’s been that way lately.”
“Well, this is distressing,” Claiborne said, “but I don’t suppose it really matters. I can just tell you now.”
“Tell me what?”
“Mr. Browning sent me to take over the Crown Royal Mine.”
That came as a shock to Frank. “You mean Conrad Browning?”
“That’s right. I’m a mining engineer and superintendent. I’ve managed several mines that are part of the Browning holdings.”
Frank had to take a minute to digest that. Conrad Browning was his son, but Frank hadn’t seen him or been in touch with him in over a year. For a long time, they had been estranged, and it hadn’t helped matters when Frank had reconciled with Vivian Browning, his first love and Conrad’s mother, only to have her gunned down by outlaws not long afterward. In his grief, Conrad had blamed Frank for that.
The gulf between them had shrunk over time, though, and they had even managed to work together when gun trouble plagued a railroad Conrad was building down in New Mexico Territory. Vivian Browning had been a canny businesswoman, building a fortune in holdings that included banking, railroads, mining, freighting, and even a stagecoach line or two. She had left part of those holdings to Frank, and as a result he was a very wealthy man, but he had little interest in such things and was more than content to allow Conrad to run the business however he saw fit. That was good judgment, because Conrad had made it even more successful and lucrative than before.
One of the Browning holdings in years past had been the Crown Royal Mine, in the hills near Buckskin. It had closed down about the same time as the Lucky Lizard, and hadn’t been worked in more than ten years. But Frank and Conrad still owned it, so when Frank had learned that the silver vein in the Lucky Lizard wasn’t played out after all, he had ridden into Virginia City and sent a wire to Conrad informing him of that fact. He hadn’t really considered the possibility that Conrad would send someone to reopen the mine.
That was what had happened, though, because the hombre was standing right in front of Frank, waiting
for him to respond to the surprising news.
“Come on in the office,” Frank said. “I reckon we’ve got things to talk about.”
“Indeed we do,” Claiborne agreed.
When they were settled down in chairs, the mining man went on. “Mr. Browning has given me carte blanche to operate the mine as I see fit, assuming that’s all right with you, Mr. Morgan.”
Frank chuckled. “I have a hard time believing that Conrad put it quite that way. More than likely, he told you to run things and to hell with whatever I thought.”
“Mr. Browning does place a great deal of trust in my abilities,” Claiborne replied, but Frank thought he heard a hint of amusement lurking behind the formal words. “He said that you might be of help in acclimating me to the area and securing laborers to work in the mine.”
“You shouldn’t have any trouble finding fellas to swing picks and shovels. A lot of men have come to try their hands at prospecting since word of the new strike got out, but most of them haven’t had any luck. Some of them will be glad to work for wages again. I don’t know that you’ll find anything in the old Crown Royal, though.”
“I intend to do a thorough exploration and assessment of the mine,” Claiborne said. “Not to brag, but I’m pretty good at finding ore if it’s there to find.”
“Well, I wish you luck. I’ll introduce you to the mayor and some of the other folks around town and help you find a place to stay. There might be an empty room over at the Benjamins’ boardinghouse.”
“I plan to stay at the mine. All I need is a tent and a cot, and I have both packed in the rear of my buggy.”
Frank shrugged. “All right. You can probably manage that fine at this time of year. Might get a little chilly at night, but not too bad.”
“This mayor you mentioned…that’s Thomas Woodford, correct?”
“Right,” Frank nodded.
“One of our competitors.” Now there was a note of disapproval in Claiborne’s voice.
“Tip Woodford’s a fine man,” Frank said, and his tone was brisk and businesslike now. “I won’t stand for any cutthroat tactics just because he owns a mine too.”
“You don’t have to worry about such behavior from me, Mr. Morgan,” Claiborne said. “I’m sure Mr. Woodford and I will get along just fine. You’d be better advised to be concerned about Hamish Munro.”
“Who the hell is Hamish Munro?”
“The man who now owns the Alhambra Mine, not far from the Crown Royal and the Lucky Lizard.” Claiborne pushed his spectacles up on his nose. “And a man for whom, if I’m not mistaken, the word cutthroat was invented.”
Hell Town
Chapter 6
The canyon was located up in the Nevada high country, way the hell and gone from anywhere. That was the way the men who were camped here liked it. Isolation was their first line of defense. The way the mountains folded in on themselves, nobody would even know the canyon was here just to look at it. You had to be aware of its existence, and even then, you’d have a hard time finding the trails in and out without a guide.
And if you did, chances are you’d be shot out of the saddle before you got within a mile of the place.
Half-a-dozen log cabins were scattered around the floor of the narrow canyon, which was watered by a tiny stream that sprang from the cliffs where they narrowed back down to a solid wall. A couple of sturdy pole corrals had been erected nearby. Plenty of game still roamed the area, so the smell of roasting venison usually filled the air.
Several members of the gang had wives—at least they called themselves that, whether the unions were strictly legal or not—and they stayed here at the hideout all the time, along with a couple of old-timers who were too stove-up to go out on jobs anymore, plus any of the other men who were recuperating from bullet wounds and needed more time to get better before they resumed their careers of outlawry.
The gang’s numbers varied. At its core was a group of six men who had ridden together for years, but other owlhoots came and went. There might be twenty or thirty men in the hidden canyon at times.
Today there were fifteen, and they were bored, so they gathered in front of one of the cabins to watch Gates Tucker and Dagnabbit Dabney try to cut each other to pieces with bowie knives.
The trouble started over a woman, but it could have just as easily been a disagreement over cards, or a spilled drink, or any other excuse to break the monotony of waiting for the next job to come along. Tucker’s woman had taken up with Dabney behind Tucker’s back, and Tucker might not have found out about it if he hadn’t passed by Dabney’s cabin and overheard him saying, “Dagnabbit! Dagnabbit!” as he had the habit of doing while he was in the throes of passion. Tucker knew that Dabney didn’t have a woman in the canyon at the moment, and curious as to who it was Dabney was screwing, he’d peeked in the window and seen his own sweet Hannah bouncing her hips on a corn-shuck mattress with Dabney on top of her.
Tucker didn’t bother going around to the door. He just climbed in the window and roared, “I’ll make you think dagnabbit, you son of a bitch!”
In the resulting fracas, he had pitched a still-stark-naked Dabney out the window, and probably would have killed him if several other members of the gang who’d been attracted by the commotion hadn’t grabbed him and held him back. In order to liven things up around the hideout, and to make the fight more fair since Tucker was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier than Dabney, they had suggested that the two men settle their dispute with cold steel. The old saying was that God created all men equal but that Sam Colt made them more equal. A bowie wasn’t quite the same as a Peacemaker, but it went quite a ways toward evening things up.
So Dabney got dressed, Hannah wrapped a sheet around her, and most of the outlaws gathered to watch the fight. It went without saying that the fight would be to the death.
Tucker had the longer reach, but Dabney was quicker. They circled each other, darted in and out, thrust and parried and cut. Blade rang against blade, and sparks flew as the steel clashed. Tucker drew first blood, but Dabney returned the favor a heartbeat later. After ten minutes, both men had several bleeding cuts.
The door of one of the other cabins opened and a tall, powerful man in a fringed buckskin shirt stepped out onto its rickety porch. A blond beard covered his jaw, and fair hair hung from under a hat with a pushed-up brim. He wore a scowl on his face as he stared toward the two men slashing at each other with knives. “What the hell?” he muttered.
He went down the steps to the ground and stalked toward the group of spectators, who were yelling encouragement to the two fighters and making bets with each other over which one would survive the fight.
“What’s goin’ on here?” the newcomer demanded of one of the outlaws.
The man looked around and said, “Oh, howdy, Jory. You ain’t heard?”
“I heard all hell breakin’ loose, sounded like,” the man called Jory snapped. “Before that I was tryin’ to get some shut-eye.”
“Well, Gates and Dagnabbit is fightin’—”
“I can see that. What started it?”
“Gates found out that Dagnabbit’s been beddin’ his woman.”
Jory frowned. “Is there anybody in camp who ain’t bedded Hannah at one time or another?”
“No, I reckon not, but Gates told ever’body to steer clear of her. He’s done gone sweet on her.”
“Lord have mercy,” Jory muttered. “Nothin’ makes a man stupider’n a woman. You’re bettin’ on which one’s gonna win?”
“That’s right. You want some of the action?”
Jory scratched at his beard and thought about it for a moment, then said, “Anybody betting that neither one of them live through it?”
The other outlaw shook his head. “Nope. Ever’body’s bettin’ on one or the other.”
“Then I’ll bet that neither one of them makes it through this fight alive,” Jory said.
“Hell, I’ll take that bet!”
Several of the other outlaws joined
in and within minutes, Jory had a sizable amount of money wagered on the outcome. Meanwhile, Tucker and Dabney were bloodier than ever and were visibly tiring. It would only be a matter of minutes before one of the men made a fatal slip.
All the bets were down, so Jory shouted, “Hey! Gates! Dagnabbit!”
Both of the fighters paused, startled by the shout. As they looked around, Jory pulled his gun from its holster and shot them both, the pair of shots slamming out so close together, the reports sounded almost like one. Tucker and Dabney crashed to the ground, their brains blown out.
Jory slid his gun back into leather, smiled at the shocked outlaws, and said, “Neither one of ’em lived through the fight. Pay up, boys.”
A few jaws clenched in anger, but nobody said anything, and after a second the men began paying off on their bets.
Because this was the infamous Jory Pool they were dealing with, their leader, the fastest on the draw and the most vicious member of the bunch, and nobody wanted to cross him.
A hail from one of the lookouts posted up on the canyon wall told Pool that riders were coming in. The newcomers had to be members of the gang; otherwise they would have been gunned down out of hand if they approached the hideout. Pool collected his winnings, then walked out to meet the two riders.
He recognized Hap Mitchell and Lonnie Beeman, both of whom had ridden with the gang on several jobs in the past. They hadn’t been here to the hideout for quite a while, so as they reined in and raised their hands in greeting, Pool said, “Howdy, boys. Where you been lately?”
“Oh, here and there,” Mitchell answered, being deliberately vague about it. Pool wouldn’t have expected any less.
“You didn’t lead no posse back here, did you?” Pool asked with a scowl.
Beeman laughed and said, “You know us better’n that, Jory. No bunch of lawdogs could follow us less’n we wanted them to.”
“We came across something a few days ago we thought you might be interested in,” Mitchell said. “You heard of a place called Buckskin?”
Hell Town Page 4
