The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground

by William W. Johnstone

  “You’re causin’ a disturbance, all right,” Jack said, lifting a fist and shaking it. “You’re makin’ me mad as hell, you damn tinhorn.”

  Brighton ignored him and continued looking at Frank with that challenging, coolly mocking smile. He stood motionless, his thumbs hooked in his vest.

  “He’s right, Jack,” Frank told the deputy. “He hasn’t broken any laws, so I guess he’s got a right to be here. Why don’t you go on back over to the office, and I’ll see you later.”

  Jack looked like he was going to put up an argument, but after a moment he nodded.

  “All right, but watch yourself, Marshal,” he said. “This fella’s like a snake, all coiled up and just waitin’. You never know when he’s gonna strike.”

  “Don’t worry,” Frank said. “I’ve stomped plenty of snakes in my time.”

  Brighton stiffened at that, but he didn’t say or do anything. Still glaring darkly, Catamount Jack stalked out of the saloon, sort of like his namesake.

  “Well, Marshal, this has been a very informative conversation,” Brighton said when Jack was gone. “I knew that your deputy didn’t like me, and now I see that I have to regard you as an adversary, too, because of your connection to Woodford.”

  “I’m sworn to uphold the law, Brighton,” Frank said, echoing his earlier thought. “If the circuit judge supports your claim, you’ll have no trouble from me, regardless of what I might think of you personally.”

  “I hope that’s true, Marshal. I think you’ll see in time that we don’t have to be enemies.” Brighton turned to the table, tugged on the brim of his hat, and said to Rebel, “Ma’am, it was an honor and a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I apologize for any discomfort or embarrassment I might have caused you.”

  Rebel gave him a cool smile. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Brighton. I’m not uncomfortable or embarrassed.” She paused, then added, “You see, I’ve stomped a few snakes in my time, too.”

  Surprise flared briefly in Brighton’s eyes before he controlled it. Rebel wasn’t the beautiful ornament that clearly he had taken her for. He managed to chuckle and said, “I’ll bet you have, ma’am.” Then he nodded to Frank and Conrad. “Gentlemen.”

  They waited until he was gone, then sat down again. The saloon had quieted down some during the confrontation at the rear table, as the Silver Baron’s patrons turned to watch. The noise level in the place gradually returned to normal as they realized that there wasn’t going to be a brawl or a shootout after all.

  “I don’t like that hombre,” Rebel said. “He’s got some of the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  “But he certainly acts like a man with the law on his side,” Conrad said. “He seems confident of winning his case once the judge arrives.”

  Frank nodded. “Yeah, but if that’s true, why show up ahead of time like he did? Why not come into town with his lawyer just before the judge gets here?”

  “That’s a good question,” Conrad admitted. “Really, though, it’s none of our business.”

  “None of your business maybe. I’ve got to keep the peace here.”

  Conrad shrugged. “There’s no law against what he’s done so far.”

  “You almost sound like you’re on his side,” Rebel said.

  “Not at all. I don’t like the man either. But perhaps I’m more accustomed to dealing with his sort than either of you are. I’ve done business with plenty of men that I didn’t necessarily like or even trust.”

  “You won’t be doing any business with him,” Rebel snapped. “At least I hope not.”

  Conrad shook his head. “I don’t see any reason why I would be. If his claim has no legal standing and is thrown out of court, then he’s a nonentity as far as we’re concerned. If it’s upheld, then as he said, he’s a competitor. Either way, he’s got nothing to do with the Browning Mining Syndicate or the Crown Royal.” He smiled. “Which is a great relief, because it means that we can go ahead and get out of here and go home to Boston.”

  “So soon?”

  “We’ve been out here for two months. Isn’t that long enough?”

  “I wouldn’t mind staying out here for good,” Rebel said softly.

  Conrad frowned.

  Frank sensed that the question of where they should live was an ongoing discussion between Conrad and Rebel. It was also none of his business, so he stood up to leave.

  “Reckon I’ll go on over to the office and see if there’s any paperwork I need to catch up on. I knew I could trust Jack to keep the peace around here while I was gone, but he’s not much on reading and writing.”

  “We’ll see you later,” Conrad said. “We’ll be staying at the hotel tonight. Perhaps you’d like to join us in the dining room for dinner?”

  Frank would have preferred eating at the Chinaman’s hash house or the café run by Lauren Stillman, Ginnie Carlson, and Becky Humphries, the three soiled doves who had retired from the world’s oldest profession and settled down in the second-oldest—filling the bellies of hungry men.

  But he wasn’t going to turn down the invitation from Conrad, so he smiled, nodded, and said, “Sure. I’ll see you there.”

  He stopped at the bar on his way out to pay Johnny Collyer for the beer, even though the bartender tried to say the drinks were on the house. Frank had to pause and shake hands with several of the men at the bar, too, since they wanted to welcome him back to Buckskin. Claude Langley, the dapper, goateed Virginian who ran the undertaking parlor, said in his Southern drawl, “Things just haven’t been the same around here with you gone, Marshal.”

  “Not as many bodies to bury, huh?”

  Claude frowned. “Well, that’s not exactly the way I meant it, but now that you mention it…and I mean no offense, Marshal…”

  Frank clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “I know you don’t, Claude. I’ll see you around.”

  And probably all too soon, Frank thought, if his past history was any indication.

  He went to the entrance and pushed the batwings aside to step out onto the boardwalk. The afternoon was well advanced by now, and night would be falling soon. Some of the workers from the mines would show up for an evening’s raucous entertainment. Quiet hung over Buckskin at the moment, though, almost as if the settlement was holding its breath.

  As the batwings flapped closed behind Frank, the quiet in the street was shattered by a hoarse shout. He looked around and saw a man running toward him.

  “Marshal, you’d better come quick!” the townie called in an urgent voice. “Tip Woodford’s about to kill that Brighton fella!”

  Chapter 4

  Frank caught hold of the man’s arm to stop him as he stumbled.

  “Take it easy,” he said. “Catch your breath and tell me what’s going on.”

  The man nodded and dragged in a lungful of air. Frank recognized him as Vern Robeson, who worked at Amos Hillman’s livery stable.

  After a moment Robeson was able to say, “I was runnin’ down to the marshal’s office to fetch Catamount Jack. I’d heard you were back in town, Mr. Morgan, but I didn’t know where you were. Just lucky I ran into you, I guess.”

  “What about Tip Woodford and Brighton?” Frank prodded.

  Robeson’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, yeah! They’re down at the Lucky Lizard office. I heard Tip say he was gonna shoot Brighton if he didn’t get outta there!”

  Frank nodded and let go of Robeson’s arm. He took off at a fast walk toward the building that housed the mining company’s office, saying over his shoulder, “Go get Jack anyway and tell him to hurry on down there.”

  “Sure thing, Marshal!” Robeson said as he broke into a run again.

  It wasn’t far to the Lucky Lizard office, and when Frank got there he saw that the confrontation had spilled out of the building and into the street. Tip Woodford stood on the sidewalk, an old-fashioned cap-and-ball revolver in his hand. Red-faced with anger, he brandished the heavy gun, threatening Dex Brighton with it as Brighton stood a f
ew yards away in the street.

  Thomas “Tip” Woodford looked more like a miner than a mine owner. He had graying red hair, and his blocky body was clad in overalls, a slouch hat, and work boots, the same sort of outfit he had worn when he was still a penniless prospector. He had made a fortune, lost it, then made another one, and stayed pretty much the same throughout. His wealth hadn’t changed him and probably never would.

  His daughter Diana, wholesomely pretty in a gingham dress, clung to his left arm with a scared expression on her face. Tip shrugged her off and jabbed the old revolver’s barrel toward Brighton.

  “I’m sick and tired o’ you, mister!” he bellowed like a wounded buffalo. “You come around here botherin’ us again with that line o’ bull you been spoutin’, and I’ll blow a hole in you, I swear I will!”

  Brighton didn’t appear to be frightened, even though he had to know that an old horse pistol like that was a touchy weapon and might go off at any moment. Frank certainly knew that. He slowed as he approached, not wanting to spook Woodford, and called, “Tip! It’s Frank Morgan! Put that gun down before you hurt somebody.”

  Woodford’s eyes darted toward Frank for a second, but he didn’t lower the gun and his attention went right back to Brighton.

  “Heard you were back in town, Frank,” the mayor said. “Good to see you.”

  “It’s good to be back. At least, it was until you started threatening to ventilate folks.”

  Woodford grunted. “This thievin’ varmint don’t qualify as folks. He’s like a hydrophobia skunk that you got to shoot before it gets in your chicken house.”

  As cool and calm as ever, Brighton said, “You heard the man, Marshal. He’s threatened my life. I want you to arrest him.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Frank said. “Tip’s not going to hurt anybody. He’s just mad, and he’s going to put the gun down! Do it now, Tip.”

  Diana took hold of her father’s left arm again.

  “Please, Pa,” she said. “It’s not going to help anything if you shoot that fella. Then you’ll just go to prison for murder.”

  “Or the gallows,” Brighton gibed

  Frank said, “You’re not helping matters, Brighton.”

  He moved forward, holding his hand out toward Woodford, palm down, making gentle motions toward the ground. The mayor didn’t lower the gun, though, until Frank eased between him and Brighton.

  “Dadgum it, Frank,” Woodford said. “You’ve been gone. You don’t know what this varmint’s been up to.”

  “I’ve heard quite a bit about it already. Why don’t you give me that hogleg, and we’ll go in the office and talk about it.”

  Woodford hesitated, then finally shrugged and placed the cap-and-ball in Frank’s hand.

  “Aren’t you going to arrest him, Marshal?” Brighton demanded from behind Frank. “I’ll swear out a formal complaint.”

  Frank swung around to face the man.

  “Back East you might get away with that, Brighton, but not here. No harm’s been done, so move along. Anyway,” he added, “you shouldn’t have come down here and provoked the situation. I want you to steer clear of the Lucky Lizard office from now on.”

  Brighton sneered. “You’re a poor excuse for a lawman, taking sides this way, Morgan. Maybe I should get in touch with the authorities in Carson City and request that a U.S. marshal be sent down here to restore some real law and order.”

  “You go right ahead and do that if you want to, mister,” Frank bit off. “You just go right ahead.”

  He wasn’t worried about Brighton’s threat. Getting a U.S. marshal in here might even be a good idea. Most of the federal lawmen who worked west of the Mississippi were tough, competent, and had some common sense.

  Tip Woodford stepped around Frank and said, “You’ll never get your hands on the Lucky Lizard with your legal trickery, Brighton. That mine belongs to me, fair and square. Jeremiah Fulton had every right to sell it to me. He never even said anything about havin’ a partner!”

  “Of course he didn’t. He knew he was swindling you.” Brighton laughed curtly. “But this will all come out in court. You’re a fool, Woodford. You could have had a quarter-share in the mine, strictly out of the goodness of my heart, but now I’m going to take all of it away from you. Every last penny. You and your daughter will be left with nothing, you pathetic old oaf.”

  Tip’s face flushed a dark brick-red, and he moved with more speed than Frank anticipated. He didn’t have the old revolver anymore, but he still had a big, beefy fist and the strength that came from swinging a pick thousands of times. He lunged at Brighton and smashed a blow into the Easterner’s jaw.

  Brighton appeared to be taken by surprise by Woodford’s attack, just as Frank was. The punch rocked him back a step, but he didn’t go down. As he caught his balance he struck back, hammering a left into the mayor’s midsection and then chopping a sledging right across his face.

  “Pa!” Diana cried.

  Woodford was driven back by Brighton’s powerful blows. He outweighed Brighton, but the other man was younger and stronger. As Woodford sagged to one knee, Brighton closed in on him, drawing back a leg to kick him in the face.

  Frank grabbed Brighton’s shoulder and shoved him away instead. “That’s enough, blast it!”

  Brighton’s face was dark with fury. He ignored Frank and went for Tip Woodford again. This time Frank caught him around the middle. The muscles in Frank’s shoulders bunched as he flung Brighton back. The man fell this time, his hat flying off as he rolled in the street.

  Brighton came up spitting curses. With a visible effort, he brought his rage under control and pointed a finger at Woodford.

  “You saw it, Marshal!” he shouted at Frank. “If pointing a gun at me wasn’t enough, now he’s physically attacked me! If you’re a real lawman and not just Woodford’s lapdog, you have to arrest him!”

  Frank felt like taking a punch at Brighton himself. The hombre just rubbed him the wrong way.

  Unfortunately, Brighton was right. Tip had crossed the line, and the crowd that had gathered around to watch the angry confrontation had seen the whole thing. Tip hadn’t left him with any choice.

  Stepping over to the mayor, who was still on one knee, Frank reached down and took hold of his arm. “Come on, Tip,” he said.

  Woodford stared up at him. “You’re arrestin’ me, Frank? Me?”

  “You shouldn’t have taken a poke at Brighton. That’s assault and disturbing the peace.”

  “He’s the one who’s disturbed the peace o’ this town!”

  Tip was right about that, Frank thought, but that sort of disturbance wasn’t against the law, worse luck.

  “Frank, you can’t do this,” Diana said as Frank helped her father to his feet.

  “The law says I do,” Frank replied heavily.

  Woodford brushed himself off and straightened his shoulders, achieving a rough dignity despite his work clothes.

  “It’s all right, Frank,” he said. “We hired you to be the marshal and enforce the law, and I reckon that’s what you got to do, whether any of us like it or not.”

  “And I sure don’t,” Frank said under his breath.

  “Are you taking him to jail?” Brighton demanded.

  Frank turned toward the man.

  “That’s right.”

  Brighton sneered. “And I assume you’ll let him go as soon as you get there. This is all for show, isn’t it?”

  “Nope. Mayor Woodford will be treated like any other prisoner. He’ll stay in jail until he posts bail, and then his case will be heard by the circuit judge when the judge holds court here.”

  “Who’s going to set the amount of the bail?”

  Tip laughed harshly.

  “As the mayor, I gen’rally do that. Reckon this time it’ll be up to the marshal.”

  Frank nodded. “You usually set bail at twenty dollars for offenses like this, Mayor. So to make sure there aren’t any complaints about favoritism…” He shot Brighton
a dark look, then continued. “I’m going to set bail at fifty dollars for you.”

  “That’s a joke!” Brighton protested, flinging a hand angrily toward Woodford. “He can pay that without any trouble.”

  “I’ve more than doubled the usual bail,” Frank said. “If that’s not enough to satisfy you, Brighton, then you can take it up with the judge when he gets here.”

  “Don’t think for a second that I won’t.”

  Still holding Woodford’s arm, Frank steered him toward the squat stone building that housed the marshal’s office and town jail.

  “Come on, Tip.”

  Woodford looked at his daughter and told her, “Get the bail money from the office and bring it over later, honey. No need to get in any hurry about doin’ it, though. I don’t mind sittin’ in jail for a while. It’s been a long time since I been behind bars.”

  Frank led the mayor away. He cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Dex Brighton didn’t try to bother Diana Woodford.

  The Easterner didn’t even look in Diana’s direction, though. He just picked up his hat, slapped it against his thigh to remove some of the dust from it, clapped it on his head, and strode off toward the hotel.

  “That was a damn fool stunt, Tip,” Frank said under his breath to his prisoner. “You didn’t leave me any option except to arrest you.”

  “Doggone it, I know that, Frank, and I’m sorry I put you in that spot. That Brighton hombre just makes me so mad I can’t see straight. I reckon I went plumb loco.”

  Frank grunted. “Can’t say as I blame you. Fella waltzes in here and tries to take away what you’ve worked years for. That’s enough to make anybody loco.” Frank paused. “Problem is, he may have the law on his side.”

  “I don’t believe it for a minute! Brighton’s crooked. You can tell it just by lookin’ at him.”

  For Tip’s sake—and for the sake of the town—Frank hoped that the mayor was right. He had a feeling that Buckskin would be worse off with Brighton as the owner of the Lucky Lizard. Tip had always funneled some of his profits from the mine right back into the town, although not very many people knew about that.