“Please, Mr. Hammersmith!” she called. “This isn’t necessary—”
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but it is,” Hammersmith insisted as he grabbed the hapless miner again, jerked him to his feet, and poised a malletlike fist to strike another devastating blow.
Frank palmed his Colt from its holster, eared back the hammer so that the metallic ratcheting of the action sounded loud in the street, and said, “Hold it right there, Hammersmith.”
Chapter 17
Hammersmith froze with the punch undelivered. He looked over his shoulder and found himself staring down the muzzle of Frank’s gun. Eyes narrowing in anger, he said, “This is none o’ your damn business, Marshal.”
Remembering what Garrett Claiborne had told him about some of the things Hammersmith had done in the past, Frank said, “It’s my business if you’re about to try to beat a man to death in my town, mister.”
Hammersmith’s lip curled. He gave the miner a hard shove that sent the man off his feet again. “If I was to beat this bastard to death, it wouldn’t be any more than he had comin’ to him.”
“What did he do to deserve that?”
“He was tryin’ to get a peek under Mrs. Munro’s dress while she walked along that high porch!”
Frank glanced at Jessica Munro. Her face was flushed with embarrassment now as she looked down at the ground. “Is that true, ma’am?” he asked her.
“I…I don’t really know. I was just out walking…I like to take a daily constitutional, you know…and that man…that man came up in the street alongside the porch. He was talking to me…paying his respects, he said—”
“Disrespects is more like it!” Hammersmith broke in. “I was coming the other way along the boardwalk and saw what he was doin’. Sneakin’ peeks at the lady’s calves!”
“Really, Mr. Hammersmith,” Jessica said in a weak voice, and Frank wondered if she was more embarrassed by what the miner had done or by Hammersmith’s bellowing about it like an angry old bull.
Frank had seen Hammersmith in town several times over the past few weeks, usually going in or out of the hotel that Hamish Munro had taken over. Whether by accident or design, though, their paths hadn’t crossed. Frank had heard that the miners who worked for Munro had struck the vein again in the Alhambra, and the mine was producing a decent amount of high-grade ore. He knew from talk he had overheard in the saloons that Hammersmith had hired enough men to have a full crew at the mine, and he worked them hard too, keeping shifts down the shaft day and night, and the stamp mill working full-blast too. He was known to be a hard, even brutal taskmaster, just as Claiborne had said.
This incident today didn’t have anything to do with the mine, though. The man Hammersmith had been abusing wasn’t one of his workers. Frank recognized the miner as being one of Tip Woodford’s employees. He also suspected that the man had been trying to get a peek under Jessica Munro’s dress. That wasn’t a very gentlemanly thing to do, but it probably didn’t deserve a beating like the one that Hammersmith had been handing out to him.
“All right, this is over,” Frank said. “Whatever that hombre did or didn’t do, he’s been walloped a few times for it, and that’s punishment enough.” He glanced at Jessica. “Unless Mrs. Munro wants to press charges of disturbing the peace against him…”
She shook her head. “No, that’s all right. Let the poor man go, Marshal.”
The miner had managed to sit up, and was shaking his head back and forth groggily. Frank said, “He’s a mite addled right now, ma’am, but when he gets his wits about him, I’ll send him on his way.”
“Thank you.”
“As for you, Hammersmith,” Frank went on, “I reckon I can’t blame you for defending a lady’s honor. Remember, though, we’ve got law in Buckskin. If you’ve got a problem with somebody, you can come take it up with me.”
A harsh laugh came from Hammersmith. “I stomp my own snakes, Morgan. You’d best remember that. And this is the second time you’ve pointed a gun at me.”
“Second time you’re lucky I didn’t shoot you,” Frank countered.
Hammersmith glowered even more. “Next time, we’re liable to finish this,” he threatened.
Frank lowered the Colt’s hammer and holstered the gun. “Reckon that’ll be up to you,” he said.
Hammersmith glared at him for a second longer, then turned to Jessica and said, “I’ll escort you back to the hotel, ma’am.”
“Really, Mr. Hammersmith, that’s not necessary.”
“I insist.”
Jessica smiled, and Frank thought that despite her protests and her embarrassment over the incident, she was pleased that Hammersmith had been willing to give somebody a thrashing on her account. With that coy smile on her face, she allowed Hammersmith to slip his arm through hers and walk beside her as they headed along the street toward the hotel. They hadn’t gone a block before she was laughing at something Hammersmith had said.
Leo Benjamin had come out of the store to stand on the porch and watch the confrontation. He said to Frank, “That woman is the sort who can cause trouble, Marshal. She likes to have men fighting over her.”
Frank nodded. “I know. But there’s not much the law can do about something like that. It’s not a crime for a woman to be beautiful.”
“No, but perhaps flirting and stirring up trouble should be.”
Frank laughed and clapped a hand on the storekeeper’s shoulder. “Tell you what. I’ll deputize you and you can go out and arrest all the flirty females in the world. Let me know when you’re done.”
Leo just sighed, rolled his eyes, and went back in the store. Frank watched Hammersmith and Mrs. Munro go into the hotel, and his expression grew more serious.
He had been joking with Leo, but he knew that the storekeeper was right in a way. Going all the way back to Helen of Troy, some women just had a natural-born talent for getting all hell to bust loose.
Frank had a feeling that Jessica Munro was one of those women.
That evening, Frank left Catamount Jack and Clint Farnum in charge of things in town and rode out toward the Crown Royal. Clint had asked if Frank wanted him to come along, but Frank had said no. The deputies would have enough on their plate keeping things peaceful and quiet in the settlement. Frank’s interest in the Crown Royal was less official and more personal. He went out to the mine several nights a week, just to keep an eye on the place and maybe catch any would-be saboteurs.
Once again, Frank was acting on his son’s behalf. When Conrad had been building that spur rail line down in New Mexico Territory, bitter rivals had done their best to stop him. Frank had stepped in then too, taking a hand in the fight. This was no different. He had a stake in the Browning Mining Syndicate, just as he did in the Browning railroad interests.
It might have been nice, he reflected as he rode toward the Crown Royal on Stormy, if Conrad had taken the name Morgan. After all, Frank was his father.
But Vivian’s second husband had raised the boy, and Conrad had thought of that man as his father until after he was grown. Couldn’t expect him to just forget about all those years as if they hadn’t meant anything, Frank thought. At least, he and Conrad weren’t enemies anymore. They had grown to respect each other. That was something at least.
If he could have taken back all those lost years when he and Conrad hadn’t even been aware of each other’s existence, though, he would have. In a heartbeat.
Dog trotted along beside the Appaloosa. Frank intended to ride up to a hilltop overlooking the bench where the mine was located and spend a few hours there, just watching the place. He had a pair of field glasses in his saddlebags, and once the moon rose he would be able to see if anybody came skulking around the mine.
Before they reached the hill, though, Dog let out a sudden growl and took off like a shot, dashing away into the darkness. Frank started to call out after the big cur, then stopped himself. Chances are, Dog was after a rabbit or a gopher or something like that, but there was also a possibil
ity he had caught the scent of a two-legged varmint who was up to no good. Frank reined in, swung down from the saddle, and ground-hitched Stormy. The Appaloosa was well trained and wouldn’t go anywhere unless Frank whistled for him.
Frank pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot and then went ahead on foot, going the same direction Dog had. He knew that once Dog was on the scent of some prey, he would go in a straight line toward it, as much as possible, so Frank did the same. As silent as an Indian, he moved through some brush and came to the bank of a small creek that wound through the hills. Frank knew this creek ran beside the stamp mill at the Crown Royal and provided the water for the steam engine that powered the mill.
He dropped to a knee as the scent of tobacco smoke drifted to him. The smoke was a dead giveaway that somebody was out here, since no wild creature had ever mastered the art of rolling a quirly. Silent and still, Frank listened, and a moment later he heard the splashing of hooves as several riders moved along the rocky bed of the stream.
They moved into sight, heading away from the Crown Royal. Frank counted four men. They had to be riding in the shallow creek like that because they didn’t want to leave a trail, and that told him beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were up to no good. It looked like his continued vigilance might finally pay off.
“The time ought to be up already, shouldn’t it?” one of the men asked as they neared the place where Frank waited on the bank.
“Give it a few more minutes,” one of the others replied. “We want to be well away from there before it blows, so I cut that fuse plenty long.”
It was a warm night, but Frank’s blood turned cold at those words. The men had planted some dynamite or blasting powder or some sort of explosive and set it to go off soon. The only place around here they could have put a bomb like that was the Crown Royal.
Garrett Claiborne was there, along with all the other men he had hired to work the mine. Innocent men, each and every one of them, about to be blown to kingdom come.
And judging by what the riders had said, Frank had only minutes to stop the blast.
He came to his feet as his mind raced. The bomb could have been placed anywhere around the mine—in the stamp mill or the office or under the barracks or in one of the storage buildings. The Crown Royal had its own supply of blasting powder, and the bomb could be set to detonate that too. A blind search would take too much time. Frank had to force one of the men to tell him where the explosives were.
“Elevate!” he shouted as he levered a round into the Winchester’s firing chamber and brought the rifle to his shoulder. “Hands up or I’ll blow you out of the saddle!”
The men reacted instantly, as he had figured they would. They twisted toward him and clawed at the guns on their hips. In the thick shadows under the trees along the creek bank, Frank couldn’t see them very well, but they couldn’t see him either. As the first man to unlimber his Colt triggered a wild shot toward the sound of Frank’s voice, Frank aimed just above the muzzle flash and fired.
The Winchester cracked and the gunman yelled in pain as he slewed backward and toppled off his horse, landing in the creek with a splash. Frank caught a glimpse of a large, furry shape flashing through the air as Dog leaped from the creek bank toward the riders. Then Frank threw himself to the side and rolled over as a fusillade of shots roared out and orange flame jumped from gun barrels, throwing a harsh, inconstant light over the scene.
Bullets whipped through the brush around Frank as he came to a stop on his belly. From that prone position, he fired the Winchester again, working the lever fast as he cranked off four rounds. Another man fell, and a third galloped off, hunched forward over his saddle.
The fourth man was already down, thrashing around in the water and screaming as he tried to fight off Dog. The big cur had knocked him out of the saddle with that leap.
Frank surged to his feet, pivoted, and tried to draw a bead on the man who was riding off. Before he could pull the trigger, though, the man swayed violently and then toppled off his horse, falling into the creek. Obviously, he had been hit by one of Frank’s shots.
“Dog!” Frank called. “Hold!” He didn’t want the hombre Dog had been attacking to get away, but neither did he want Dog to tear out the man’s throat.
That fella might be the only one of the saboteurs left alive.
Frank ran out into the creek and checked the two men who had fallen close by. Both of them were dead, drilled cleanly through the body. The other man, who had fallen about fifty yards down the creek, had crossed the divide also. One of Frank’s bullets had caught him low in the belly, the sort of wound that took a long time to kill a man, but in this case, the fellow had passed out, fallen out of the saddle, and broken his neck when he landed. His head was twisted at an ugly angle on his neck.
Frank ran back to the survivor, who had scooted up against the bank and sat there staring in terror at the huge dog standing right in front of him. The fur on Dog’s back bristled, and his teeth were showing in a savage snarl. The animal quivered from the desire to launch himself at the man again.
“Listen to me, mister,” Frank said. “Tell me what you did at the Crown Royal, and be damned quick about it or I’ll turn him loose on you.”
“K-keep that wolf away from me, mister!” the man said. “He’s loco!”
“And he’ll be tearing your throat out in about two seconds if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”
“All right! All right. We…we planted some dynamite up there at that mine. It ought to be goin’ off any time now.”
“Where is it?”
When the man hesitated, Dog growled and leaned closer.
“In the stamp mill! Oh, God, don’t let him get me! The dynamite’s in the stamp mill!”
“What about the guards?” Frank asked.
“A couple of the boys snuck up on ’em…cut their throats…but I swear I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that, mister! I swear it!”
Frank didn’t know whether to believe the man or not, but it didn’t really matter. The bastard had been part of the killings, even if he hadn’t wielded a knife. And he had helped plant the explosives that might kill a lot more men. Frank was tempted to let Dog have him.
But instead he said, “Dog. Back.”
The saboteur started to relax and heaved a sigh of relief.
Frank stepped forward and drove the butt of the rifle against his jaw. He felt the satisfying crunch of bone shattering under the impact. The man slumped back against the bank, out cold. He wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. Frank could come back and pick him up later.
“Come on, Dog!” he said as leaped onto the bank. A shrill whistle brought Stormy pounding toward him. As the Appaloosa came up, Frank grabbed the saddle horn, stuck a foot in the stirrup, and swung up before Stormy even stopped moving. He took off toward the Crown Royal as fast as the big horse could run.
He hoped that the shots had roused the men at the mine. Maybe they had found the slain guards and discovered the dynamite as well, in time to put out the fuse. The explosion hadn’t gone off yet, so that gave Frank hope.
On the other hand, rigging a fuse was an uncertain art unless a man was an expert. Maybe the fella who had set this one cut it so that it was burning quite a bit longer than he had expected it to.
At any rate, Frank wanted to draw anybody out who might be inside the stamp mill, so as he galloped toward the mine he slid the Winchester back in the saddle boot, pulled his Colt, and began firing into the air. He shouted, “Tell it, Dog!” and the big cur began to bark. Frank yelled too, raising such a ruckus that everybody at the mine would come outside, he hoped.
As he came within sight of the buildings, he saw that was the case. A couple of dozen men were milling around in the open area between the stamp mill and the barracks. Some of them held lanterns while others clutched rifles or shotguns. As Stormy pounded closer, Frank waved his arm and shouted, “Get away from the mill! Get away from the mill!”
Then, as a huge r
ed and yellow ball of fire bloomed inside the big building, Frank knew that time was up.
The world shook, as hell came to call at the Crown Royal Mine.
Chapter 18
The blast was so strong that the ground jumped under Stormy’s hooves, making the rangy Appaloosa stumble. At the same time, the concussion struck Frank and knocked his hat off. Stormy almost went down, but Frank hauled up hard on the reins and kept the horse from falling.
Dog wasn’t as lucky. The big cur was thrown off his feet, and with a startled “Yipe!” he went rolling across the ground. He wasn’t hurt, though, and leaped right back up.
Frank pressed on toward the mine as a thick cloud of black smoke billowed up from the stamp mill. Shattered boards and other bits of debris pelted down around Frank, Stormy, and Dog. The debris had been thrown high in the air by the explosion, but what had gone up was now coming down.
A large piece of machinery crashed to the ground no more than ten yards to Frank’s left. He hoped none of the wreckage had his name on it, because he couldn’t see the stuff falling in order to avoid it.
The fire inside the stamp mill lit up the night for a long way around. In its hellish glare, Frank saw that the miners were scattered around the clearing between the mill and the barracks like ninepins. Some of them were moving around, crawling and trying to struggle to their feet, while others just lay there motionless. But at least not all of them had been killed.
That was small consolation. For all Frank knew, some of the men were dead, and the stamp mill was destroyed. If only he’d been a little quicker getting here….
He reined in and swung down from the saddle while Stormy was still coming to a halt. He ran over to the nearest man and helped the miner to his feet.
“Where’s Claiborne?” Frank asked, raising his voice so he could be heard over the loud crackling of flames from the inferno inside the mill.
The Last Gunfighter Hell Town Page 13
