The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground

by William W. Johnstone

  Claiborne said, “You’re talking about the ambush you believe was set up after somebody stole that letter you sent me?”

  Morgan nodded. “Yeah, the letter you never got. Somebody saw it, recognized my name on it, and snagged it in hopes of finding out when I was going to be arriving in Buckskin. Somebody who didn’t want me to get there alive.”

  One possibility burst on Luther’s brain like a rocket. “Dex Brighton!” he exclaimed.

  Frank looked over at him and nodded. “Could be, but there’s no way of knowing for sure—yet. Brighton didn’t try to ambush me himself, or else Dog would have caught his scent in town, as much as Brighton has been around. But he could have hired somebody to kill me, and he could have hired the same hombre and some partners of his to carry out this attack on the mine.”

  “But why?” Claiborne said. “I suppose Brighton might not want you around because he’s trying to bully the Lucky Lizard away from Tip Woodford and he knows that you and Tip are friends. But what does the Crown Royal have to do with any of that? This mine isn’t connected to the Lucky Lizard case at all.”

  Morgan rubbed his jaw in thought and then said, “There’s one connection…me.”

  Luther was thinking the same thing. And as those thoughts went through his head, he happened to glance up at a rocky knob some three hundred yards behind Morgan. The sun struck a bright, almost blinding reflection off something up there…

  “Look out, Marshal!” Luther cried as he leaped toward Morgan. All he was trying to do was to get the man to move. He certainly didn’t intend to get in the way of a would-be murderer’s bullet.

  But as something struck him a heavy blow and knocked him backward so that he sprawled on the ground, he realized to his horror that was exactly what he had done.

  Chapter 15

  Frank heard Claudius Turnbuckle’s shout at the same time as the distant crack of a rifle sounded. A shaved fraction of a second later something buzzed past his ear, and he knew it was a bullet. He had shifted a little, though, as Turnbuckle leaped toward him, so in that instant he knew that the attorney had probably just saved his life.

  Turnbuckle cried out in pain as the slug knocked him backward. Frank caught a glimpse of blood spurting from the lawyer’s arm. He whirled around since the shot had come from behind him. In the same motion he reached for the butt of the Winchester that stuck up from the saddle boot strapped to Goldy. His fingers closed around the rifle’s stock. He pulled the weapon from its sheath as he called to Claiborne, “Garrett! Get Turnbuckle out of here!”

  Frank didn’t have time to see if the mining engineer followed the order. His keen eyes had already spotted a thin curl of powder smoke coming from a rocky knoll a few hundred yards away. He had been able to tell from the sound of the first shot that the bushwhacker was too far away for a handgun to do any good; that was why he had grabbed for the Winchester right away.

  He saw a spurt of orange flame from the muzzle of a gun as the sound of another shot came to his ears. The bullet smacked into the trunk of a pine tree about five feet to his right. Frank knew the rifleman would try to correct his aim, so he darted toward the spot where the previous shot had struck. Sure enough, the next bullet screamed through the air to his left. He ducked behind the thick trunk, braced the Winchester’s barrel against it, and opened fire.

  Frank heard more shots coming from behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see that Claiborne had dragged Turnbuckle behind some of the trees and rocks, then gotten his own rifle and was joining in the fight. Together they poured lead toward the knob where the bushwhacker was hidden. A couple of return shots struck the tree Frank was using for cover, but after that the rifleman must have given it up as a bad job. Frank didn’t hear any more shots coming from up there, nor did he see any tendrils of powder smoke climbing into the clear air above the knoll.

  “Hold your fire, Garrett,” he called to Claiborne. “I think the varmint’s gone.”

  “How can you be sure?” Claiborne asked.

  “Can’t. That’s why we’re going to wait right here for a few minutes, just in case he’s trying to trick us.” Frank paused. “How’s Turnbuckle?”

  “Hurting like blazes, but I don’t think he’s hit too bad. It looked like the slug just creased his arm. He looked pretty shook up, though. Guess he’s not used to getting shot.”

  Frank gave a grim chuckle. “Nobody ever gets used to that, I reckon.” He watched the knob where the would-be assassin had hidden and saw no sign of movement. He thought he heard the sound of hoofbeats, though, coming faintly from a distance.

  Claiborne heard them, too. “You think that’s our man?”

  “Likely,” Frank said. “Give it a few more minutes.”

  He didn’t want to wait too long before checking on Turnbuckle’s injury himself, so when his instincts told him it was safe to move, he said to Claiborne, “Cover me. I’m going to see if I can get Turnbuckle back on his horse.”

  “Let me do that,” Claiborne suggested. “If anybody needs covering, you’re a better shot than I am, Frank.”

  After a second’s thought, Frank nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll keep an eye on those rocks where the hombre was hiding.”

  Claiborne leaned his rifle against the tree he was using for cover and ran back to the spot where he had left Turnbuckle. Frank heard the lawyer groaning in pain as Claiborne lifted him to his feet and then half-carried, half-dragged him toward their mounts. The horses had drifted back deeper into the trees when the shooting started, so they had remained relatively safe.

  Nobody tried to take any more shots at Claiborne and Turnbuckle. After a moment, Claiborne called, “I’ve got him in the saddle, Frank!”

  “Head for the mine office!” Frank told him. “I’ll bring up the rear.”

  As he began withdrawing, he grabbed up Claiborne’s rifle and tucked it under his arm while still holding his own Winchester ready to fire. A low whistle came from his lips, and Goldy trotted to him, meeting him halfway. Frank put his rifle into the saddle boot, then holding Claiborne’s weapon, swung up onto the gelding’s back and sent it loping after the horses carrying his two companions.

  In a matter of minutes, they reached the building that housed the Crown Royal’s office. Frank had caught up to Claiborne and Turnbuckle by then, so he dismounted quickly and helped Claiborne get the wounded lawyer out of the saddle. Turnbuckle still seemed a little stunned, and his face was drained of color from the shock of being shot. Frank saw a crimson stain on the sleeve of Turnbuckle’s coat, but it didn’t look like the wound on his arm had bled a dangerous amount.

  With Frank on one side of him and Claiborne on the other, they didn’t waste any time getting Turnbuckle into the office. Turnbuckle groaned again as they lowered him into the chair behind Claiborne’s desk.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the porch. Frank wheeled around, his hand going to the Colt on his hip, but it was only a couple of the miners who crowded into the office. He recognized both of them from their visits to Buckskin.

  “We heard shots, Mr. Claiborne,” one of the men said. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Claiborne replied, “but Mr. Turnbuckle here got creased.”

  “Who was doing the shooting?” the second man asked.

  “We don’t know. He was hidden in the rocks on that big knoll to the northeast.”

  “Want us to go take a look around up there, Boss?”

  Claiborne looked at Frank, deferring the decision to him. Frank said, “No, boys, just steer clear of there for now, if you would. I’ll go check it out later, once I’ve seen to Mr. Turnbuckle’s wound.”

  That prompted Turnbuckle to mutter, “Need…need a doctor…”

  “We’ll get you some medical attention back in Buckskin,” Frank promised. “Right now, though, we need to make sure we get the bleeding stopped in that arm.”

  “I think my arm…was shot off…”

  Frank managed not to chuckle. He was sure that Turnbuckle was in a great deal of pain. �
�Your arm’s not shot off. That first bullet just nicked it. Likely would’ve blown my brains out, though, if you hadn’t yelled and jumped at me. It came that close to my head before it hit you.”

  Turnbuckle nodded, but Frank wasn’t sure if the lawyer really understood what he was saying or not. He worked Turnbuckle’s suit coat off, then ripped the shirt sleeve down to expose the wound. As Claiborne had guessed, the slug had ripped a shallow furrow along the outside of Turnbuckle’s upper left arm. Blood had run down to his elbow.

  Frank glanced at Claiborne. “You’ve got a bottle of whiskey in that filing cabinet, don’t you, Garrett?”

  “I do.”

  “Get it and a clean cloth, if you’ve got one.”

  “Of course.”

  Claiborne fetched the whiskey and the cloth, and Frank used them to clean away the blood around the wound. Turnbuckle winced and whimpered as some of the fiery liquor touched raw flesh.

  “Sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Turnbuckle,” Frank said, “but it’s going to burn a lot worse before it gets any better.”

  “Just…warn me…first,” Turnbuckle said between gritted teeth.

  “Sure,” Frank said, and then with no warning at all poured the whiskey over the bullet crease.

  Turnbuckle opened his mouth like he was going to scream, but no sound came out. After a moment, his head fell back.

  “He’s passed out,” Claiborne muttered.

  “Probably a good thing,” Frank said. “That wound’s not bleeding bad. We’ll tie it up, and he’ll be fine until I can get him back to Buckskin.”

  “You won’t be taking him back there alone,” Claiborne said. The mining engineer’s face was grim. “I’ll be going with you, and so will some of the men. That bushwhacker was after you, Frank. Somebody tried to kill you…again.”

  Frank nodded and said, “Sure looked like it, all right.”

  “The attack on the mine earlier was just to lure you out here so that the killer could make another try for you,” Claiborne went on, a tone of bitterness coming into his voice. “And I played right into his hands by running straight to Buckskin to tell you what happened.”

  “You didn’t have much choice in the matter,” Frank said. “And you weren’t alone either. Conrad was with you.”

  “Yes, but this mine is my responsibility, and I almost got you killed by going to you for help.”

  Frank put a hand on Claiborne’s shoulder. “Don’t start thinking like that, Garrett. There’s only one person to blame for Turnbuckle being wounded and me nearly getting ventilated, and that’s the son of a buck who pulled the trigger.”

  “Well, you’re right about that, I suppose,” Claiborne admitted. “Still, I don’t like being used that way.”

  “Don’t blame you a bit for feeling that way.”

  Turnbuckle moaned and started trying to sit up.

  “He’s coming around,” Frank said. As Turnbuckle’s eyes flickered open, Frank lifted the whiskey bottle and held it to his lips. “Take a slug of this, Mr. Turnbuckle.”

  The lawyer complied, not really seeming to know what he was doing. His eyes opened wide, though, as the whiskey burned its way down his gullet and landed in his stomach. Turnbuckle opened his mouth, too, and gasped.

  “My God! What…what was that?”

  “Whiskey,” Frank said with a chuckle. “Strictly for medicinal purposes, you know.”

  Some of Turnbuckle’s strength seemed to have returned. He even reached for the bottle. Frank let him take another long swallow from it.

  “Arm doesn’t…hurt quite so bad now. Must be…good medicine.”

  “Think you’re up to riding back to Buckskin.”

  “Of course. I can make it. I’ll be fine.”

  Claiborne turned to the miners who had come to the office to find out what was going on. “I want six men, armed with rifles and mounted on saddle horses, back here in ten minutes.”

  “I appreciate the thought, Garrett,” Frank said, “but I don’t need an escort back to town. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, you know.”

  “Of course you have, but now you have Mr. Turnbuckle to look after, too. Whoever that bushwhacker was, he’ll be less likely to try another shot at you if you’re surrounded by me and my men.”

  “I still own half of this mine, you know…and I’m the marshal of Buckskin.”

  “Yes, but with all due respect, sir, your jurisdiction as a lawman runs out at the edge of the settlement. And I’ve always had the authority to assign whatever tasks I saw fit to the men who work here at the mine.”

  Frank didn’t want to waste time arguing the point, and he figured Turnbuckle wouldn’t want him to either. So he just nodded and said, “All right. I’m much obliged for the help. I want to take a look up on that knoll before we start back to town, though.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  Frank shook his head. “No, stay here with Turnbuckle. I’ll have Dog with me. He’ll be enough company right now.”

  He left the office and found Dog waiting outside with the horses. “Come on,” he said to the big cur as he swung up into the saddle. He pulled his Winchester from the boot again as he turned Goldy toward the rocky knob where the bushwhacker had lurked, waiting for his target to show up after being summoned from Buckskin by Conrad and Claiborne.

  There was no doubt in Frank’s mind now about the motivation of the earlier attack. The only explanation that made any sense was the gunmen had been baiting a trap for him by shooting up the mine. He was lucky that only one of them had stayed behind to wait for his arrival and then try to kill him.

  They might not make that same mistake again. The whole bunch might come after him next time. He was going to have to be more watchful from here on out…not that he had ever been all that careless. He wouldn’t have lived as long as he had if he’d been in the habit of taking foolish chances.

  Frank sent Dog on ahead to make sure no one was hiding on the knoll. The big cur bounded away eagerly, happy to be on the hunt again. No man could have asked for a more dependable trail partner. When Dog came loping back, his tongue lolling from his mouth, Frank knew that the coast was clear. The bushwhacker really was gone.

  Approaching the knob from this side, the slope was too steep for Goldy to ascend it comfortably, so Frank dismounted and went the rest of the way on foot, carrying the rifle with him. When he got to the top and looked around in the rocks, he found a few scuff marks that he assumed had been left by the bushwhacker’s boots. Dog confirmed that by sniffing at the ground and growling.

  “Same hombre, eh, boy? We’ll cross trails with him again and settle up the score one of these days.”

  The slope was gentler on this side. Frank walked down into a grove of aspen and found where the rifleman had left his horse. The freshness of the droppings on the ground there were proof enough of that. Again, there was nothing distinctive about the few hoofprints Frank found.

  He paused at the top of the knoll and surveyed the field of fire that the unknown gunman had had. It was a long shot from here to where Frank, Claiborne, and Turnbuckle had been standing, but certainly within range for a man who was good with a Winchester. The bushwhacker had been good. He had come too blasted close with all of his shots. That told Frank he was a professional. Frank had dodged two attempts by the man to kill him. How much longer, he had to wonder, could that sort of luck hold out?

  Of course, he wasn’t going to leave it to luck. He was going to find out for sure who was trying to kill him, and why. He knew a good starting place.

  Dex Brighton.

  Frank rode back down to the mine office. The armed men Claiborne had sent for were gathered there, along with horses. These were miners, not professional fighting men, but they were tough and canny and as Frank looked around at them, he knew they would be good allies.

  Claiborne helped Turnbuckle out of the office. The lawyer was steadier on his feet now than he had been right after he was wounded, but he swayed a little and looked rathe
r bleary-eyed as Claiborne helped him across the porch. Frank guessed that Turnbuckle had had a few more slugs from that whiskey bottle.

  “Find anything?” Claiborne asked.

  Frank shook his head. “No more than we did before, when we were looking at the sign those other gunmen left.”

  “You agree that it was just a scheme to get at you, Mr. Morgan?”

  “That’s the only thing that makes sense,” Frank agreed. “So I reckon I’m obliged for the company on the way back to town.”

  “We’re glad to go with you. Some of you men give me a hand with Mr. Turnbuckle here.”

  Turnbuckle looked around owlishly and announced, “I’ve been shot.”

  “Yes, sir, you sure have,” Frank said, trying not to grin. “But you’ll be just fine.”

  Turnbuckle reached over with his right hand to clutch his injured left arm. “Badge of honor,” he said.

  Frank didn’t see anything particularly honorable about getting shot by a bushwhacker, but if Turnbuckle wanted to think there was, then Frank supposed that was all right. With help from several of the miners, Turnbuckle climbed up into his saddle.

  “Sorry I wasn’t…any more help,” Turnbuckle said as the group of riders started toward Buckskin.

  “You were plenty of help,” Frank told him. “There’s a good chance I’d be dead now if not for what you did.”

  “Really?” Turnbuckle looked like he was having trouble grasping that. “Wouldn’t think…somebody like me…could do something like that…would you?”

  Frank wasn’t quite sure what Turnbuckle meant by that. The man had a long record of accomplishments as a lawyer and had helped a lot of people.

  “Just take it easy,” Frank said. “We’ll have you back to Buckskin before you know it, and then the doctor can take a look at that arm.”

  Turnbuckle didn’t seem particularly worried about his wound anymore, though.

  In fact, he looked downright happy.

  Chapter 16

  Luther had never before experienced this disconcerting blend of pain, shock, and giddiness. The pain and shock came from his wounded arm, of course. The giddiness was the result of the whiskey he had slugged down from the bottle in Garrett Claiborne’s office. The loss of blood might have had something to do with it, too.