“Yep. And I came out of it with a claim that made me a rich man, not once but twice.”
Luther asked, “At any time during this conversation you had with Fulton, did he make any mention of having a partner in this claim?”
Woodford shook his head firmly and emphatically. “He didn’t say a blessed word about that. He didn’t mention anybody named Chester Brighton.”
“You remember that clearly, even though it’s been years since the conversation took place?”
“A fella tends to remember things that have a big effect on his life. Nothin’s ever had a bigger effect on mine than buyin’ that claim.”
“What about finding the silver on the claim? How did that come about?”
Woodford grinned. “That’s the best part of the story. I had just about as much luck as Fulton did at first, namely none at all. I was about to give up on the claim, too. I didn’t figure I could even sell it to some other poor deluded fool and get my twenty bucks back. Then I saw this little lizard run up into a crack in the rocks, and for no real reason, I looked to see where he’d gone.”
“And that’s where you found the silver vein!” Luther guessed.
“Yep. It come up almost to the ground. It was pure luck I followed that lizard to it, though, so when it came time to name the mine, I knew what I was gonna call it.”
Luther couldn’t help but laugh. It was a colorful, amusing story, and he didn’t doubt the veracity of it. But whether or not it would help them win the case…well, that he didn’t know yet.
“Thank you, Mr. Woodford. You’ve given me several ideas for approaches we may take in our legal efforts. I’m still confident that we’re going to emerge from this affair victorious.”
“I sure hope so. I’ve lost one fortune already, Mr. Turnbuckle. Don’t reckon I could stand to lose another one. Especially not for Diana’s sake.”
“Miss Woodford doesn’t need to worry. Claudius Turnbuckle won’t let either of you down.”
Luther didn’t even have to remind himself this time that when he spoke of Claudius Turnbuckle, he meant himself. He wasn’t going to let them down.
Especially not Diana Woodford…
Dex Brighton stepped out of the Top-Notch Saloon and turned toward the hotel. The Top-Notch wasn’t as fancy as the Silver Baron, but it would do since he couldn’t very well patronize his enemy’s place of business. He had played poker for a couple of hours this evening and come out almost a hundred dollars ahead. And since none of the other players had been very good, he hadn’t even had to resort to any of the tricks he had learned back in his card-sharp days, when he’d had to settle for little payoffs.
He was on the trail of a big payoff now, and he wasn’t going to let anything stop him from getting his hands on it.
He was passing the mouth of an alley when he heard a hiss from the shadows. “Boss! Hey, Boss!”
Brighton recognized Cy Stample’s voice. Anger welled up inside him. Stample wasn’t supposed to be here in Buckskin. He and the rest of the gunmen who were working with Brighton were supposed to stay out of sight for now, which meant not straying far from the old abandoned mine they were using as a hideout.
Quickly, Brighton glanced around and saw that no one on the street was watching him. He stepped into the darkness of the alley and whispered, “Damn it, Stample, what are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to let you know that all the boys finally got here except for Deuce Dooley, and he ain’t gonna make it.” A callous chuckle came from Stample. “He come down with a bad case o’ lead poisonin’ over in El Paso. Damn fool tried to draw on Falcon McAllister. Asa Perkins told me about when he rode in this evenin’.” Stample paused. “So I reckon we’re ready to grab that mine whenever you give the word. There’s eighteen of us, all good men. That’s more’n enough to handle a bunch o’ damn miners.”
Stample was a deadly fighter and was fiercely loyal to whoever was paying him, but he was as dumb as a rock, Brighton thought. Suppressing the impatience he felt, he said, “I told you, Stample, we’re not going to attack the mine and take it over that way. Only as a last resort. I still think I can convince Woodford to sign it over to me peacefully.”
Brighton heard a faint rasping sound in the darkness, and realized it was Stample’s fingertips rubbing over the beard stubble on his jaw. “I dunno about that, Boss. Old-timers like this fella Woodford are usually pretty damn stubborn.”
“He’ll come around to my way of thinking,” Brighton insisted, “especially when he doesn’t have Frank Morgan as an ally anymore. I want you to draw Morgan out of town so that you and your men can get rid of him.” Brighton thought about the problem for a moment, then went on. “Maybe some trouble at the Crown Royal would do it. Morgan and his son own that mine. Take care of that before you deal with the judge coming into town on that stagecoach next week.”
“Sure, we can handle that,” Stample said. “Morgan’s gonna die this time. I guarantee it.”
“I hope you’re right. Once Morgan has been dealt with, there’ll be just one more thing I need you to do. Woodford has a lawyer now, a man that Morgan brought in from San Francisco. He doesn’t look like much, but he has quite a reputation.” Brighton nodded, sure now that he was on the right track and even glad that Stample had come into Buckskin so that they could talk about how to proceed.
It was simple really.
“Yes, once Frank Morgan is dead,” Brighton told the leader of his crew of gun-wolves, “I want you to kill Claudius Turnbuckle.”
Chapter 13
Garrett Claiborne had brought the latest mining techniques with him when he began supervising the operation of the Crown Royal Mine, and as a result it had become quite profitable. When Tip Woodford’s discovery of a new vein in the Lucky Lizard had prompted Conrad Browning to order that the Crown Royal be reopened and explored more extensively, Conrad had hoped for a modest success. Claiborne had delivered much more than that, locating a particularly rich vein deep in the mine. The ore coming out of the Crown Royal these days assayed just as much silver per ton as that from the Lucky Lizard—and a little better than what the Alhambra Mine was producing.
Conrad was pleased, and although he wasn’t one to heap extensive amounts of praise on his employees, he didn’t mind telling Claiborne as much. The two men sat in Claiborne’s office at the mine, going over the assay reports for the past month. Rebel was back in Buckskin; Conrad had driven out here alone in the buggy early this morning while the dew was still on the grass.
“You’ve done good work here, Garrett,” Conrad said as he placed the sheaf of papers back on Claiborne’s desk. “Excellent work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Clearly, I made the right decision when I hired you to be the Crown Royal’s superintendent. How long do you think the mine will continue at this level of production?”
Claiborne shook his head. “That’s impossible to say, Mr. Browning. The vein could run out tomorrow, for all we know. I will say this, though…at this point the vein shows no signs of ending. It’s as solid as ever.”
“That’s a good, honest answer,” Conrad said with a nod. “Stay with it as long as you can…and when it does run out, we’ll see if we can find another one.”
The men grinned at each other. Claiborne asked, “Would you like a drink before you head back to town, sir?”
Conrad pulled a gold turnip watch from his pocket and opened it to check the time before he answered. “It’s late enough, I suppose. I wouldn’t mind.”
Claiborne got up and went to a filing cabinet, opening the bottom drawer to take out a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses. He splashed a couple of inches of the amber liquid into each glass and handed one to Conrad.
“To the Crown Royal’s continued success,” Conrad said as he lifted his glass.
“Indeed,” Claiborne responded. They drank, and the mining engineer went on. “When do you plan to head back East?”
“I don’t really know. I’d thought that we m
ight start back before now, but Mrs. Browning seems to be enjoying herself out here so much that I hate to ruin her fun.”
“She’s originally from…New Mexico Territory, is it?”
Conrad nodded, thinking of the dangerous adventure during which he and Rebel had met. She was a Western girl through and through, and he had to wonder if he was stifling her by insisting that they live in Boston. She had adjusted to life there, or so she claimed, and seemed happy enough most of the time, but he had seen with his own eyes how she had blossomed during their sojourn out here in the West.
Maybe it was time to start thinking about moving the headquarters of his business ventures to Denver, say, or possibly San Francisco. With all the modern advances in telegraphic communications and the speed and efficiency of the postal system, it was possible to run a company from almost anywhere these days.
“Well, I hope you’ll stay out here as long as you want to,” Claiborne was saying. “I know that Mr. Morgan enjoys your visits.”
“He does, does he?” Conrad murmured. Even though he and his father had grown closer over the past couple of years, he was still leery about fully accepting their relationship. It was difficult to forget all the things Frank Morgan had done in the past, all the men he had killed…
The sudden crash of gunshots somewhere outside made both men jerk their heads up in surprise.
“What the devil!” Claiborne exclaimed.
They started for the doorway at the same time. Conrad was closer, so he reached it first. When he stepped outside onto the porch, another shot blasted out. The bullet whipped past him to chew splinters from the doorjamb. He felt their sting on the back of his neck and cursed in pain.
Claiborne had followed closely behind him. As another slug thudded into the wall of the office building, the mining engineer grabbed Conrad’s collar and hauled him backward. The two men stumbled into the office. Claiborne kicked the door closed.
“Sorry about handling you so roughly, Mr. Browning,” Claiborne said as he hurried over to a gun rack on the wall and reached for a Winchester.
Conrad rubbed the back of his neck, which was still smarting from the splinters. He would have to get someone to dig out the ones that were still stuck in his skin, which wasn’t a pleasant prospect.
But it beat actually getting shot all to hell, and he said, “No apologies necessary, Garrett. I was a damned fool for running out there like that before I knew what was going on, and you probably saved my life. Could you tell what was happening?”
“I didn’t get much of a look, but from what I saw and heard, several men are firing from the trees downslope, just spraying lead around wildly. It sounds like they’re still at it.”
As a matter of fact, the ragged volley of rifle fire had picked up in intensity. A few of the bullets struck the log walls of the office building, but didn’t penetrate them. The gunmen were probably shooting at the stamp mill and the mine entrance, too, judging by the amount of powder they were burning.
Claiborne went to one of the windows and pushed up the pane, crouching low so as to keep out of the line of fire as much as possible. Conrad started to follow him, but Claiborne motioned him back.
“I’ll see if I can get a shot, sir.”
Claiborne edged the Winchester’s barrel over the windowsill and risked a look. Then he swiftly brought the rifle butt to his shoulder, nestled his cheek against the smooth wood of the stock, and began firing. Three shots crashed out as fast as he could work the Winchester’s loading lever. He had to duck back down as a bullet shattered the windowpane and sprayed glass over him.
“I seem to have drawn their attention,” he said with a wry grin as he crouched among the shards and splinters of glass. “But the men in the stamp mill are returning their fire, too. I don’t know what those bushwhackers hope to accomplish. If they’re trying to waltz in here and take over, they’re going to have a big fight on their hands.”
Claiborne waited a moment and then rose up and opened fire again, sending several more shots toward the places in the trees where he had spotted powder smoke rising. This time there wasn’t any response. Claiborne ceased fire and waited.
After a few moments, he said, “They seem to have called off the attack. The only shooting is coming from the stamp mill now.”
“Do you think it’s safe to go outside?” Conrad asked.
“Better wait a few minutes just to be sure. Those varmints could be trying to trick us.”
That sounded just like something his father would say, Conrad thought. Spending all that time around Frank Morgan must have rubbed off on Claiborne.
Gradually, the firing from the stamp mill died away, too, and the eerie silence that always followed a gun battle hung over the mine headquarters. Claiborne stood up, said, “Wait in here, sir,” and pushed the door open with the barrel of his rifle.
When there were no shots, he stepped outside. Conrad followed far enough to see the stamp mill and saw men armed with rifles emerging from that building, too. Claiborne hustled over to join them. A short time later, a group of men headed for the trees to see what they could find.
Conrad watched with interest. The searchers returned a short time later and spoke to Claiborne, who then returned to the office.
“The bushwhackers lit a shuck, all right,” Claiborne reported. “The men who went out there found shell casings and the tracks of their horses, but if any of the riflemen were wounded or killed by our fire, the others took them with them when they pulled out.” Claiborne shook his head. “That’s about what I expected. They wouldn’t want to leave anyone behind to possibly be identified.”
“Who could they have been?” Conrad asked. “Indians perhaps?”
“Not around here,” Claiborne stated with certainty. “The Utes and Paiutes who live in the area have all been pacified and haven’t cause any trouble for quite a while.”
“Outlaws then. Maybe they thought you had a payroll on hand and intended to steal it.”
“Then they would have tried to get to the office here and take us by surprise.” Claiborne shook his head. “No, it doesn’t make any sense. It was like they started shooting willy-nilly, just trying to shake us up and do whatever damage they could.”
“Well, whatever they were up to, I know someone who can probably figure it out,” Conrad said.
Claiborne nodded. “I was just thinking the same thing. We need to go tell Mr. Morgan what happened.”
Luther Galloway understood fully now what the old saying about waiting for the other shoe to drop meant. He was astounded that his masquerade as Claudius Turnbuckle had continued unchallenged for a couple of days. He kept waiting for someone to tell him that he was too young and too incompetent to possibly be the esteemed attorney from San Francisco.
In the meantime, though, he was enjoying getting to know Diana Woodford, who had proven to be as charming as she was beautiful. He was getting a considerable amount of satisfaction out of preparing Tip Woodford’s case for trial, too. He had always enjoying doing the legal research that Mr. Turnbuckle called on him to do, and he had assisted in the writing of enough briefs so that he had no trouble getting the facts of the case down in clear, logical fashion.
He and Woodford had gone over the story several more times while waiting for the circuit judge to arrive, until Luther was confident that he knew it backward and forward. He had devised a possible angle of attack, but the first step in it would be to force Dex Brighton to produce that so-called partnership agreement between his father and Jeremiah Fulton. Luther’s course of action after that would depend on whether or not he was successful in persuading the judge to order Brighton to produce the document immediately…and if so, what he found in it.
And in addition to all that, Luther found that the clear mountain air seemed to have put some extra spring in his step. It certainly wasn’t like the dank, oppressive atmosphere to be found in San Francisco most of the time.
When he left the hotel on Monday morning, the day before the judge was due
to arrive on the stagecoach, Luther found Frank Morgan waiting for him on the porch.
“Had breakfast yet?” Morgan asked.
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t, Marshal.”
Morgan grinned. “Come on over to the café with me then,” he invited. “Best flapjacks you’ll find anywhere in these parts.”
“Well, that sounds…appetizing, I suppose.”
“Wait’ll you wrap your gums around them. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Luther couldn’t imagine being quite so impressed with a stack of flapjacks that he would consider them divine, but he supposed he should reserve judgment. He walked down the street with Morgan, cutting across its dusty width diagonally to reach the café.
They went inside the neatly kept establishment, which was doing a brisk business. A couple of tables covered with red-checked tablecloths were empty, though, and Luther and Morgan took one of them. A young, blond woman, a little plump but still extremely pretty in a gingham dress and white apron, came over to them and greeted them with a smile.
“What can I get you and your friend, Marshal?” she asked.
Morgan glanced at Luther. “You have any preferences?”
“Whatever you think is good,” Luther replied with a shake of his head.
Morgan smiled. “All right.” He turned to the young woman. “Big stack of flapjacks, hash browns, and plenty of bacon, for both of us. And a pot of coffee.”
“Strong enough to get up and walk off under its own power?” the waitress asked.
“You bet,” Morgan told her.
The blonde went back to the kitchen. Luther saw two other women working there, one of them a redhead with a ready smile and a slight Southern drawl, the other a brunette who was a few years older. Like the blonde, both of the other women were very attractive, Luther noted, and he commented on that fact to Morgan.
The marshal nodded. “Lauren and Becky and Ginnie used to work in one of the houses in Virginia City, before they came here. I’m not sure where all they’d been before that, but I’m glad they decided to settle down in Buckskin. They’re hard workers, and this place has the best food you’ll find in these parts.”
The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground Page 10
