The man handling the stagecoach’s reins was accompanied on the driver’s box by another tough-looking hombre holding a Winchester. Both of them climbed down from the box as Frank approached. The driver headed for the back of the coach while the guard stepped over to the door on the side closest to the boardwalk and opened it.
Then he turned toward Frank and brought the rifle’s muzzle up. He watched Frank in a somewhat threatening manner.
“Take it easy, mister,” Frank said. “I’m the law in these parts.”
A man climbed out of the coach and stepped down to the street. He wore a dark, expensive suit, and a diamond stickpin sparkled on his cravat. A derby hat perched on his head. He wasn’t overly big, but he appeared to have a wiry strength to him. He looked at Frank with cold blue eyes and said, “You’re the marshal?”
“That’s right,” Frank replied with a nod. “Name’s Frank Morgan.”
The man in the suit didn’t offer to shake hands. He nodded toward the old hotel instead and said, “I own this building. I’ll expect you to immediately evict anyone who’s living here illegally.”
That demand took Frank by surprise. “You got proof of that, mister?”
“Of course,” the man snapped. “My secretary will provide you with any documentation you need. Right now, I expect you to do your duty, though, and carry out my request so that my companions and I can move in without being disturbed.”
The stranger’s arrogant attitude rubbed Frank the wrong way, so he didn’t really care whether or not he gave any offense as he asked, “And just who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Hamish Munro. Now hop to it, Marshal.”
Without waiting to see what Frank was going to do, Munro turned toward the open door of the coach and extended a hand. A woman’s arm reached out of the vehicle, and Munro took her hand.
One of the loveliest women Frank had seen in a long time stepped out of the coach, looked around, and said, “So this is Buckskin.”
Chapter 12
Somehow, Frank wasn’t surprised to learn Hamish Munro’s identity. Everything he’d heard from Garrett Claiborne had indicated that the mining magnate was a thoroughly unpleasant individual, and this dapper stranger certainly fit the bill. Frank had halfway expected Munro to show up in Buckskin sooner or later.
He was a little startled that Munro would bring such a stunning woman to a rugged Nevada boomtown, though.
The woman was young, no more than twenty-five. She wore a dark blue traveling outfit, the color of which pretty well matched that of the stagecoach. It was an Abbott & Downing coach, Frank noted, the same sort used by most of the stagecoach lines, but Munro must have purchased it from the company for his personal use and had it repainted and fitted out with lots of fancy silver trim. The horses pulling the coach had that same silver trim on their harness.
Frank turned his attention back to the young woman. Thick masses of blond hair so pale as to be almost white were piled atop her head, under a neat little blue hat. The dress she wore was tight enough that it clung to the lines of a slender but well-curved body. Her lips were full and red, her eyes gray. She managed to be sensuous and reserved at the same time, not an easy feat.
Munro didn’t offer to introduce her. Instead, he took her arm in a smug, possessive manner and said, “Come along, my dear.”
They started toward the doors of the old hotel.
“Hold on a minute,” Frank said. “There are folks who have been living here, and they’re liable to not take kindly to being tossed out on their ears.”
Munro looked back at him and said, “As you can well imagine, Marshal, I don’t care whether they take kindly to it or not, to use your phrase. This is my building. I intend to use it as my residence and also the local office of my company. Anyone who has been staying here had been doing so unlawfully. I won’t press charges against them, since they weren’t aware of the situation, but I want them out. Now!”
Having orders barked at him like that was more than Frank was going to stand. He moved a step closer to Munro and said in a low, dangerous voice, “Listen here, mister. I don’t give a damn who you are or what you own or how much money you have. You talk to me with some respect, or we won’t have just gotten off on the wrong foot. We’ll stay that way.”
Munro met Frank’s gaze without flinching, but didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he gave an abrupt nod. “All right, then, we understand each other. As the legal owner of this building, I request that you remove the people who have no right to be living in it.”
Frank thought it over and then said, “I reckon you have the right to make that request. This is going to be done in an orderly fashion, though. I’m not going to drive people out at gunpoint.”
“Handle the matter however you see fit, Marshal, just as long as that official, legal request that I made is carried out with a reasonable amount of promptness.”
Munro had adopted a formal attitude, but Frank could still see the anger seething inside him. He was accustomed to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, and it made him furious when anyone defied him. Munro had enough money to get away with acting like that—most of the time.
But not here. Not with Frank Morgan.
“Most of the men who have been staying here won’t be in their rooms right now. They’re out prospecting, or working at one of the mines. I’ll get my deputy and we’ll go through the place. All the gear in the rooms can be moved over to the marshal’s office for now, and its owners can claim it later. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. That suit you?”
“Where do you suggest my wife and I wait in the meantime?” Munro asked. “We’ve had a long ride, and she’s tired.”
So the blonde was Munro’s wife. Frank had wondered if she was married to the mining magnate, or if she was his daughter, because she was only half of Munro’s age.
Obviously, the stagecoach wasn’t the only thing he had bought for his personal use.
Frank pointed across the street. “There’s a nice little café over there, and I’m sure the ladies who run it would be glad to serve you some coffee and maybe something to eat, if you’re hungry.”
The blonde said, “It has been a long time since we stopped to eat, Hamish.”
Munro jerked his head in a nod. “Very well. Would you mind letting us know when you have the hotel ready for us to occupy, Marshal?”
“Not at all,” Frank said.
He thought he might send Jack to deliver that message when the time came. He wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with Hamish Munro again so soon.
As Munro and his wife walked toward the café, another man got out of the stagecoach. He wore a suit similar to Munro’s, although not as expensive, and a brown hat. About thirty, he was handsome in a pale, bland sort of way. He offered a soft hand to Frank and said, “I’m Nathan Evers, Marshal. Mr. Munro’s confidential secretary. I heard the two of you discussing this hotel, and if you’d like, I can show you the legal documents proving that Mr. Munro purchased it from the previous owner.”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t reckon that’s necessary. You wouldn’t offer to show me the papers unless you really had ’em.” A thought occurred to him. “I wonder just how much real estate Munro’s managed to buy here in Buckskin by tracking down the folks who used to own it.”
Evers smiled and said, “As I mentioned, Marshal, I’m a confidential secretary. I’m afraid I can’t discuss such business matters with anyone except Mr. Munro.”
“What about his wife?” Frank asked.
“Mrs. Munro doesn’t concern herself with her husband’s financial affairs.”
No, Frank thought, as long as Munro had plenty of money, the blonde wouldn’t care about anything else.
Evers turned to the driver and the guard and said, “Why don’t you unload the bags here on the porch, and I’ll let you know when you can bring them on into the hotel.”
The men nodded. The driver had already opened the canvas-covered boot at the rear of the c
oach, so they began taking carpetbags and trunks from it and stacking them on the hotel porch.
Frank crossed over to the marshal’s office, where the crowd had broken up and folks had gone on about their business once Hampton’s corpse had been carted off. Jack had come up while Frank was over at the hotel, and as he leaned on the boardwalk railing, the old-timer asked, “What’s goin’ on over there at the old hotel? I never seen a stagecoach painted that color before.”
“And you probably never will again,” Frank said. He explained about Hamish Munro’s arrival in Buckskin, and added that the mining magnate wanted the squatters cleared out of the hotel. “Come along and give me a hand with that.”
“Sure. I heard you had to kill another fella who showed up to try and make a name for himself as a fast gun.”
“Who told you that?”
“Hombre name of Farnum, down to the Silver Baron.”
Frank nodded. “Keep an eye on him if you happen to run into him again.”
“Farnum, you mean? He seems to be a likable, harmless little fella.”
“That’s what he wants you to think. He’s slick on the draw, and he’s never been overly particular about who he works for or who he rides with. He’s spent more time on the wrong side of the law than on the right side.”
Jack let out a whistle of surprise. “You don’t say! I damn sure will keep an eye on him then.”
They walked over to the hotel and went inside. Nathan Evers came with them, and Frank didn’t object. He figured that Evers probably had a right to be here. He also had no doubt that Evers would tell Munro everything that Frank and Jack said and did.
Let the fella spy to his heart’s content, Frank told himself. He and his deputy didn’t have anything to hide.
Only three of the men who had moved into the hotel were there at the moment. All of them lodged bitter protests when Frank told them they would have to move out.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t have any choice in the matter. The building’s legal owner showed up, and he wants everybody out.”
“We didn’t know who owned the place and didn’t figure anybody would care if we stayed here for a spell,” one of the men said.
“Nobody cared until now.”
“We ain’t gonna get in trouble for trespassin’ or anything like that, are we?”
“Not as long as you gather up your gear and move out right away,” Frank said.
A lot of angry muttering went on in the process, but the men did as they were told. Meanwhile, Frank and Jack went through the other rooms and carried out clothes, war bags, and other belongings.
“Take all this stuff over to the office,” Frank told Jack. “The men who own it can come by there later and get it.”
“Seems like we’re goin’ to a heap o’ trouble for this Munro hombre,” Jack groused.
“He’s within his legal rights.”
“There are legal rights…and then there’s what’s right,” Jack said.
Frank felt pretty much the same way, but when he had pinned on the marshal’s badge, he had agreed to abide by the law, whether he always liked it or not.
In less than an hour, the hotel had been cleaned out of squatters. Most of the building’s original furnishings were still intact. It wouldn’t take a lot of time and effort to clean the place up, and Frank was sure that Munro had the money to pay someone for that time and effort. If Munro was willing to invest even more, he could turn the hotel into a showplace again. That wouldn’t surprise Frank either.
When they were finished, Evers volunteered to go to the café and let his employer know that the hotel was ready for their occupancy. Frank was more than willing to let Evers handle that chore. He nodded his thanks and said, “Come on, Jack. Let’s get back to the office.”
As they walked away, Jack rumbled, “If you ask me, havin’ that fella here in town is gonna be nothin’ but trouble.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Frank said, but then he gave a grim chuckle and added, “But I reckon I agree with you anyway.”
By evening, word of Hamish Munro’s arrival in Buckskin had spread all over the settlement, eclipsing even the story of Frank’s gunfight with the ill-fated Charlie Hampton. The fact that Munro himself had come here meant that he was serious about making the Alhambra a going concern again, and that meant more jobs for the prospectors who hadn’t had any luck of their own in finding silver, as well as more business for the stores and saloons in town.
Garrett Claiborne came into the marshal’s office shortly after sundown. He had traded in his suit for work boots, corduroy trousers, and a flannel shirt, since he’d been spending most of his time at the Crown Royal in recent days. A fine layer of dust on the engineer’s clothing told Frank that Claiborne had just ridden in from the mine.
“What can I do for you, Garrett?” Frank asked as he sat behind the desk. “Help yourself to a cup of coffee, if you’d like.”
“Thanks,” Claiborne replied. “I’d like that very much.” He poured himself a cup from the pot on the stove, took a grateful sip, and then said, “I’ve come to report some trouble at the mine, Marshal.”
Frank sat up, his interest quickening. “What sort of trouble?”
“Sometime last night, someone pried up some of the rails leading from the shaft to the stamp mill, so that we can’t use the ore carts. They scattered the ties as well, so we’re having to practically rebuild the line.”
“Who would do a thing like that?” Frank asked with a frown.
“I have no idea.” Claiborne took another sip of the coffee, then added, “Actually, I do. I suspect Gunther Hammersmith and his men of being behind the damage.”
“Why would Hammersmith do that?”
“It’s the sort of mischief he’s capable of. Just yesterday, we finished the repair work inside the shaft and brought out our first carts of ore. I think Hammersmith had someone spying on us, watching the mine through field glasses or something like that, and he knew we were about to start production in earnest again. By sabotaging the rail line, he’s slowed us down. It’ll take several days to repair the damage that was done.”
Frank shook his head. “He’s got his own mine to operate. Well, I guess it’s Hamish Munro’s mine, but you know what I mean.”
“And if the Alhambra can outproduce the Crown Royal, that will make Hammersmith look better in Munro’s eyes,” Claiborne pointed out.
“I don’t know,” Frank said with a dubious shake of his head. “Seems like a stretch to me.”
“Someone damaged those rails. Who else would have a reason to do such a thing, even a far-fetched reason? Our only other real competition is the Lucky Lizard, and I can’t imagine Mr. Woodford doing anything like that, or employing someone who would.”
“No, that’s not Tip’s way of working,” Frank agreed.
Claiborne went on. “And I heard when I rode into town that Munro himself arrived today. Is that true?”
Frank nodded. “It is. He brought his wife and his confidential secretary with him.”
“The fact that Munro is on hand is all the more reason for Hammersmith to try to make himself look better by making us look worse. I’m convinced he’s behind what happened.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Claiborne shrugged and said, “I’m not sure. I know you don’t have any jurisdiction out at the mines. I suppose you could confront Gunther Hammersmith the next time he comes into town….”
“And he’d just deny having anything to do with it.”
“Yes, you’re probably right about that.”
Frank sat back in his chair and frowned. As the marshal of Buckskin, he might not have any jurisdiction in this matter, but as a part-owner of the Crown Royal—even though Claiborne was unaware of that fact—he sure as hell had an interest in what happened out there.
“Let me think about it,” he said to Claiborne. “And in the meantime, you’d better start posting guards at night. I reckon you didn’t have any sentries out before, or w
hoever tore up those rails wouldn’t have been able to do it without being discovered.”
“That’s true,” Claiborne said with a rueful shake of his head. “I didn’t think guards were necessary. I should have known better with Hammersmith in the vicinity.”
“Just be careful,” Frank advised. “Don’t jump to conclusions. You don’t want to get into a shooting war with Hammersmith without good reason.”
“And if there is good reason? If he tries something else even worse?”
“Then leave it to somebody whose business is shooting,” Frank said. “Like me.”
Chapter 13
With Gates Tucker and Dagnabbit Dabney both dead, the woman called Hannah had moved in with Jory Pool. She had been with Pool at times before, and she figured that getting her back was one reason Pool had gunned down the other two men—besides sheer, cussed meanness, that is, which Pool had plenty of.
With the interest Pool had shown in hearing about Buckskin, Hap Mitchell and Lonnie Beeman had supposed that he intended on raiding the town right away. Considerable time had gone by since then, however, and the gang was still tucked away in its canyon hideout. They were starting to get restless, running short of supplies, cash, and patience. Everybody had a hankering to pull another job.
Nobody questioned Pool, though, because none of them had a hankering to die swiftly and violently. They grumbled about the delay amongst themselves, though.
When the boss outlaw sent for them one night, Mitchell and Beeman thought maybe he was getting ready to plan the attack on the town. They went to Pool’s cabin, where Hannah opened the door to Mitchell’s knock.
“Come on in, boys,” Pool called from inside the cabin.
As they entered the room, they saw Pool sitting at a rough table with some greasy playing cards spread out in front of him in a solitaire hand. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat close at hand. Pool waved his visitors over and told them to have a seat on the other side of the table.
Hannah came to stand beside him. He reached up and caressed her meaty rump, digging his fingers in. “Get the boys something to drink,” he ordered.
The Last Gunfighter Hell Town Page 9
