The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground

by William W. Johnstone

  “Telegram, sir. The boy who delivered it said it was urgent.”

  “Well, bring it in.”

  Luther pushed the door back far enough for him to enter the dark-paneled office with its shelves of equally dark-spined legal volumes. The lone window was covered with thick drapes. Every time Luther came in here, he thought that he would go mad if he had to spend all his time in such a gloomy, oppressive place. Maybe that was why Mr. Turnbuckle was so short-tempered. He seldom saw the sun.

  Turnbuckle sat behind a massive desk piled high with papers. A veritable flood of documents passed through the office every day, threatening to wash away the half-dozen clerks who worked in the outer office, Luther being the senior among them. Those young, would-be attorneys seldom stayed for very long, which was why it had taken Luther less than two years to move up in the ranks to his current position. He would have left by now, too…

  If he had been able to pass the bar exam. Unfortunately, that had not yet been the case.

  Turnbuckle peered over the half-spectacles that perched on the tip of his nose and extended a big, rough hand. Legend had it that the burly, balding, bushy-eyebrowed attorney had once worked on the docks here in San Francisco, loading and unloading the ships that came here from all over the world, and Luther could easily believe it. Turnbuckle looked like he could physically break in half most of his opponents in court, which added to his intimidating presence and his impressive record of success.

  “Well?” he snapped now. “Don’t just stand there gawping, Galloway. Give it here.”

  Luther hurried forward and leaned over the big desk to hand the envelope to Turnbuckle. The lawyer ripped it open with long, blunt fingers and took out a yellow telegraph form. As his eyes scanned the words printed on the flimsy, those bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. Luther was equally surprised, or perhaps even more so, when a smile appeared on Turnbuckle’s rugged face.

  He ventured a question. “Good news, sir?”

  Turnbuckle grunted and then said, “Frank Morgan needs our help.”

  The name was familiar to Luther, of course. He had seen it on countless documents.

  “The…the gunfighter, sir?”

  “The client whose business interests account for a significant amount of income for this firm, you mean,” Turnbuckle scolded.

  “Yes, sir, of course,” Luther said quickly.

  Still, he was shocked. He knew quite well that Frank Morgan was an equal shareholder with his son Conrad Browning in the many and varied Browning financial holdings, which included banks, railroads, mining ventures, shipping, and numerous other enterprises.

  But Luther was equally aware of Morgan’s notorious reputation as a gunman. There was no way of knowing how many men Morgan had killed during his long, blood-soaked career. Probably only a handful of people knew of his status as a tycoon, but everyone who had ever read one of the dime novels about him, or seen an article about him in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Weekly or Harper’s or The Police Gazette, knew Frank Morgan as The Drifter, one of the deadliest gunfighters to ever roam the West.

  Luther had read those stories. He had even perused some of the cheap, yellow-backed novels. It gave him a secret thrill whenever he handled legal documents relating to Morgan’s affairs. However, he wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone, because his interest in such violence was also something of a secret shame.

  “What does Mr. Morgan want us to do for him, sir?” Luther asked now. “Some business dealings that need our attention perhaps?”

  “You could say that,” Turnbuckle said as he dropped the telegram on the desk, where it immediately threatened to get lost in the sea of other papers. He chuckled…actually chuckled, something that had never happened in Luther’s experience. “He wants either me or Stafford to come to Nevada and help a friend of his defend a mining claim. Since Stafford’s busy, it’ll have to be me. Or rather, us, I should say.”

  Luther’s eyes widened. There was so much to be amazed at in Turnbuckle’s statement that he didn’t hardly know where to start.

  “N-Nevada, sir?”

  “That’s right. Buckskin, Nevada. I know you’ve heard of it, Galloway. The Crown Royal Mine is located quite near there.”

  “Yes, sir, of course. But…us?”

  “You’re going with me. I’ll need a clerk to handle some of the details for me, and you’re the most experienced one we have.”

  “But…but wouldn’t it be better to leave me here to make certain that the office continues functioning smoothly, sir?”

  Turnbuckle swept a hand crossways in a curt, slashing gesture.

  “The office can run itself for a while, and you damned well know it, Galloway. This is a chance to get out and see some of the country. Besides, I’ve always wanted to meet Frank Morgan. He’s supposed to be quite an individual.”

  Quite a killer, Luther thought. And what was this about seeing some of the country? Turnbuckle kept himself shut up inside this office as if he didn’t care if he ever saw anything else.

  “Get down to the depot and purchase tickets for us on the next train to Carson City,” Turnbuckle went on. “Morgan needs us there as soon as possible. The circuit court judge is due to arrive in about a week, so we’ll need time to prepare our case. Once you have the tickets, send a messenger to my house with our departure time, then go home and pack your bag.”

  “But sir, I can’t just drop everything—”

  Turnbuckle’s head snapped up, and his familiar thunderous scowl appeared.

  “And why not? You’re a single man, I believe, with no family responsibilities.”

  “That’s true, sir.”

  “And your responsibilities at work are what I say they are, isn’t that true?”

  “Yes, sir, certainly.”

  “Then get cracking, son!” Turnbuckle boomed. “There’s no time to waste. I want to be on our way to Nevada before this day is over.”

  There was nothing Luther could do except nod feebly and say, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  Like it or not, he was going to Nevada.

  But at least Mr. Turnbuckle had said the case involved defending some sort of mining claim for one of Mr. Morgan’s friends. That was prosaic enough. Review the facts of the case, research the applicable legal precedents, prepare a brief, perhaps assist Mr. Turnbuckle with the arguments he would present to the judge…that was all it would amount to, and Luther was confident he could perform all of those tasks in a competent, efficient manner.

  Just because Frank Morgan was involved didn’t mean there would be any…gunplay…or killing…or anything like that.

  When Dex Brighton first came to Buckskin, he had made arrangements to rent a horse from the surly proprietor of the local livery stable. Not that the man had been all that surly at first, but ever since he had found out about Brighton’s claim on the Lucky Lizard, he’d been decidedly hostile, probably because he was friends with Tip Woodford. But a deal was a deal and he hadn’t tried to back out of the one he’d made with Brighton.

  Because of that, Brighton had a mount available whenever he needed one, a big gray gelding with white stockings and a white blaze on its face. He had ridden out to the Lucky Lizard several times to look over the mine that would soon be his. Today, though, he went the opposite way out of the settlement, heading into a rugged area where several played-out mines were still shut down. The renewed silver boom hadn’t extended to them. The claims were still worthless and abandoned. No one went around them anymore.

  They were perfect for Brighton’s purposes, in other words.

  He saw the outthrust sandstone brow of a ridge ahead of him and headed for it. As he drew closer, the black mouth of a mine tunnel entrance became visible at the base of the ridge, under the overhang. Brighton rode right up to the tunnel and dismounted.

  The man who stepped out of the tunnel had a gun in his hand. He wore a black vest over a shirt that had once been white, and a black Stetson was tipped back on his head so that dark, wiry curls spilled out i
n front of the hat. The man’s face was weathered and seamed by exposure, even though he wasn’t more than forty. A misshapen lump of a nose that had been broken several times jutted out over a thick mustache and a wide, arrogant mouth.

  “I thought I recognized you, Boss,” the man greeted Brighton as he holstered his gun. “Wasn’t gonna take any chances, though.”

  Brighton nodded. “That’s good. No one knows you’re here, Stample, and I want to keep it that way.” He reached into the saddlebags slung over the back of the rented horse and brought out a couple of bottles of whiskey. “I figured you could use some provisions.”

  Stample threw back his head and laughed. “You do know how to take care of a fella, Boss.” He reached for the whiskey. “These’ll come in handy when the boys get here tomorrow…assumin’ that there’s any left.”

  “I was going to ask you about that. You’re still expecting the rest of the men tomorrow?”

  Stample nodded and jerked his head toward the mine entrance. “Yeah. Come on in and have a drink with me while you’re here.”

  Brighton followed the man into the tunnel. Several crates were stacked about twenty feet inside. Brighton knew they contained food, ammunition, and other supplies.

  He knew that because he had paid to outfit Stample and the other men who would be showing up here soon. You had to spend money to make money, as the old saying went, and although Brighton didn’t like the spending part all that much, he was willing to do it if it would help him get his hands on a fabulously valuable silver mine.

  It could still turn out that he wouldn’t need any help from Stample and the other men he had hired, if he was successful in pressuring Woodford into agreeing to a settlement, but it was better to be prepared. And he was going to get some use out of them, because he had a job that he was going to explain to Stample right now.

  They sat on empty crates near the remains of a campfire. Stample found some tin cups and splashed whiskey into them, then handed one to Brighton. As they sat there, Brighton heard Stample’s horse moving around, deeper in the tunnel.

  He gestured toward the sound with the cup in his hand.

  “You’ve got your horse back there?”

  “Yeah. The tunnel widens out considerable, right around that bend. Plenty of room for my horse and for the others, too, once they get here.”

  “What about the smoke from the fire?”

  Stample pointed along the tunnel.

  “Got some little ventilation shafts back yonder, too. You can feel the draft from the tunnel mouth.”

  Brighton nodded.

  “It draws the smoke on through the tunnel,” Stample continued, “and it filters out up on top of the ridge. Nobody’ll notice it. Nobody will ever know we’re here, Boss.”

  “That’s the way I want it for now, so don’t get careless,” Brighton warned. He took a healthy swallow of the whiskey he had bought at one of the other saloons in Buckskin, not the Silver Baron. He didn’t want to give his opponent in this fight any of his trade. “I’ve got a job for you.”

  Stample grunted. “About time.”

  “Woodford’s determined to make a court case out of this. He’s going to take it before the circuit judge next week.”

  A frown added creases to Stample’s already lined forehead. “I thought you didn’t want to go to court. You said you’d run a bluff on Woodford and make him turn over his mine to you. That phony partnership agreement you got ain’t gonna stand up in court.”

  “We don’t know that,” Brighton snapped. “I paid good money to the man who faked it. But I’d rather not have to rely on that alone, and you’re my insurance so that I won’t have to, Stample.”

  “Keep talkin’,” the hired gunman said.

  “Woodford can’t take the case to court if there’s no judge, now can he?”

  Stample’s eyes widened. “You want me to kill a circuit court judge?”

  “He’ll be coming in on the stagecoach next Tuesday morning,” Brighton said. “That’s the only way to reach Buckskin since there’s no rail line yet. That stagecoach is going to be held up by masked outlaws, and there’ll be gunplay during the robbery. Tragically, the judge will be cut down by a stray bullet.”

  Stample looked intently at Brighton for a long moment and then nodded. “Yeah, I can see that happenin’,” he said.

  “That will give me more time to wear down Woodford and get him to settle this without going to court. Just be sure that no one can identify you or any of the other men, and don’t let them trail you back here.”

  “Morgan never found me, did he?”

  “And you didn’t kill Morgan the way I asked you to,” Brighton pointed out. “You missed.”

  Stample glared and then tossed back the rest of his whiskey before reaching for the bottle again.

  “I had a good bead on the son of a bitch twice,” he muttered. “He’s just lucky, that’s all.”

  Brighton finished off his drink.

  “I can promise you one thing,” he said. “If Frank Morgan keeps sticking his nose into my business…his luck is going to run out.”

  Chapter 7

  When Frank got back to Buckskin, he found that the settlement was relatively quiet. Even though it was still considered a boomtown, with new people coming in all the time, word had gotten around that the marshal was a dangerous man to cross. In fact, he had quite a reputation as a gunfighter. Because of that, even the roughest hombres tended to walk a little softer and think twice—or three times—before they started trouble.

  The exceptions to that were the hombres who came to Buckskin because Frank Morgan was the marshal. The ones who wanted to make a name for themselves by gunning down the man known as The Drifter.

  Like the two who showed up the next morning.

  Frank was still in the office, having a cup of coffee. He had been out earlier and had breakfast at the café, then returned here while Jack made the morning rounds. Frank sat at the desk with his feet propped up, flipping through the stack of wanted posters that had come in while he was gone to Arizona.

  As usual, it was a pretty sorry assortment of owlhoots. But his own face had graced a wanted poster from time to time—always unjustified, but there nonetheless—he reminded himself. Some of these fellas might not be as bad as they were made out to be. But most of them probably were.

  The door opened and Jack came into the office, hurrying enough so that Frank knew something was wrong. He took his feet off the desk and sat up straight.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked his deputy.

  Jack pulled at the tuft of whiskers on his chin.

  “Couple o’ hombres are over at the Silver Baron jawin’ about how they come to Buckskin to try you out, Frank. They think they’re fast guns, but they’re just young and stupid, as per usual.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  Jack shook his head. “Nope. Just heard about it from Vern Robeson.”

  “Vern gets around, doesn’t he?” Frank chuckled, apparently unconcerned, but a grim look lurked in his eyes.

  He had long since grown weary of killing young, ambitious men who wanted to make a name for themselves. And there was always the chance that one of these days, one of those would-be gunslingers would turn out to be faster and more accurate than him. It was inevitable that someday Frank would run into someone who could beat him to the draw…unless he hung up his guns and somehow made it stick.

  That was mighty unlikely.

  “All right.” Earlier, he had dropped his hat on the desk rather than hanging it from the nail on the wall. He reached for it now as he went on. “I’ll go see about it. Maybe I can talk some sense into their heads.”

  Catamount Jack snorted. “You’d be more likely to fill up a rat hole by poundin’ sand down it. It wouldn’t be as empty as those young fellas’ heads are o’ brains.”

  Frank put his hat on as Jack went to the wall rack and took down one of the shotguns hanging there.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Frank
asked.

  “Goin’ with you, o’ course.”

  Frank shook his head. “There’s no need for that.”

  “What if those varmints try to gang up on you? You might need me to handle one of ’em whilst you deal with the other.” Then Jack grimaced and went on. “But if they do that you’ll just have to kill ’em a mite quicker, won’t you?”

  “You’re the law in this town if anything happens to me,” Frank pointed out. “And even at this time of day, there are probably enough people in the Silver Baron that you don’t need to be firing a scattergun in there.”

  “And in a gunfight, I can’t haul out this old percussion pistol o’ mine fast enough to do you much good as a partner,” Jack said with a bitter twist in his raspy voice. “You’re tryin’ not to tell me that I’d be more of a liability than a help.”

  “I’ve never thought of you as a liability, Jack,” Frank said honestly. “If I did, I never would have gone off and left you in charge here like I did. It’s just that I’m better suited to handle some things than you are, and vice versa.”

  “Yeah, I’m better at bein’ a useless ol’ geezer.”

  Jack started toward the door, an angry look on his face.

  Some genuine anger of his own welled up inside Frank. He caught hold of his deputy’s arm and snapped, “Blast it, Jack, you’re blowing this way out of proportion. You’re about as far from useless as anybody in Buckskin. I could take this badge off right now and leave you in charge permanently, and I wouldn’t lose a bit of sleep worrying about leaving the town in your hands.”

  “I couldn’t handle gunnies like those two in the saloon, and you know it.”

  “You wouldn’t have to if I wasn’t here. The only reason men like that even come to Buckskin is to try their hands against me.”

  Jack couldn’t argue with that. They both knew it was true. From time to time a crooked gambler set up a game, or some miners got in a fight, or somebody got knocked out and robbed in an alley after leaving some soiled dove’s crib, but that was just about the normal extent of trouble in Buckskin these days. Jack was tough enough, and respected enough, to handle things like that.