“I don’t know you, mister,” the man said, “and I ain’t takin’ no chances.”
“Go tell Stample that I’m here. My name is Brighton.”
The guard looked like he might be disposed to argue the matter some more, but at that moment both of them heard the pounding of hoofbeats. Brighton looked toward the old mine and saw a figure fogging it toward them on horseback. As the rider came closer, Brighton recognized him as Cy Stample.
“You blamed lunkhead!” Stample yelled at the guard a few moments later as he reined his mount to a halt. “This is the boss.”
The scrawny gunman looked offended. “Nobody ever said nothin’ to me about the boss comin’ out here. I figured you met up with him in town, Stample.”
“I do when I have to,” Stample snapped. “Now get back behind that rock and keep your eyes open for somebody who’s not supposed to be here.” To Brighton he said, “Come on into camp, Boss.”
The two of them rode toward the mine. Brighton said, “I’m sure you can guess why I’m here, Stample.”
“Morgan,” Stample said with a bitter edge to his voice. “He got away again.”
“And so did that lawyer, Claudius Turnbuckle. You had a shot at both of them.”
“I would’ve got ’em, too, if Morgan hadn’t moved just as I squeezed off my first shot,” Stample said, defending himself. “That’s when the lawyer got hit, I reckon. Is he dead?”
Brighton snorted in disgust. “He’s just wounded. A bullet crease on his arm.”
Stample leaned over in the saddle and spat. “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all, I reckon. If I had to miss Morgan, I should’ve at least got the lawyer.”
“Yes,” Brighton agreed, “you should have.”
“If I’d got Morgan with my first shot, it wouldn’t have been any problem to pick off Turnbuckle. Chances are he would’ve started runnin’ around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
“We’ll never know,” Brighton said. They had reached the tunnel mouth. He saw several hard-faced, roughly dressed men lounging around the mine entrance. All of them were heavily armed, and their cold-eyed gazes told Brighton they were killers.
He knew that because he had seen the same look in his shaving mirror often enough.
Stample introduced Brighton to the men. He didn’t bother trying to remember any of their names. They didn’t mean anything to him. They were just tools, like a gun or a deck of cards.
Brighton refused Stample’s offer of a drink. “Morgan’s going to be on the lookout now,” he said. “Two attempts on his life will have warned him that something is going on. Chances are he’ll blame it on me, too.”
“Well…you’re payin’ for it, ain’t you?”
“Yes, but he can’t prove that,” Brighton said. “I’m counting on things staying that way, too. I don’t give a damn what Morgan suspects as long as he doesn’t have any evidence to link me to those bushwhack tries.”
“We’ll go after him again, the whole bunch of us this time,” Stample promised. “We’ll get him for you, Boss.”
Brighton shook his head. “Not now. I want you to lie low until that stagecoach holdup we spoke about. Get rid of the judge, and then we’ll deal with Morgan and Turnbuckle later.”
“You sure?” Stample asked with a frown.
“I’m certain. I want to lull Morgan into forgetting those shots you took at him.”
“You really reckon that’s gonna happen with a gunfighter like him?”
“Maybe not, but we’re going to try.” Brighton gave the leader of his crew of gun-wolves a hard look. “Just don’t foul up the job with the judge.”
“He’s as good as dead,” Stample promised.
A check at Amos Hillman’s stable told Frank that Brighton had picked up the horse he was renting and ridden out of town earlier in the afternoon, shortly after he’d left the Top-Notch, according to the gambler called Winston. Frank didn’t see any point in trying to trail Brighton; Buckskin was a busy place these days, and there was no way to pick out the tracks of his horse from the hundreds of others in the street near the livery stable.
Instead, he kept his eyes open for Brighton’s return to the settlement, and that effort was rewarded late in the afternoon when Frank saw Brighton ride into town and head for the livery stable. By the time Brighton dismounted and strolled back out of the barn, Frank was there waiting for him.
Brighton’s face didn’t show any expression except polite disinterest as he muttered, “Marshal,” and started to go on past.
“Hold on a minute, Brighton,” Frank said. “Where have you been this afternoon?”
Brighton stopped and gave Frank a cool stare. “What business is that of the law’s?”
“It was more in the nature of a personal question.”
“In that case, I don’t see any reason for me to answer it.”
“Humor me,” Frank said in a hard voice.
After a second, Brighton shrugged. “All right. It doesn’t really matter anyway. I was just out taking a ride in the countryside. It’s good exercise, you know.”
“You hear that somebody tried to kill Mr. Turnbuckle and me while we were out at the Crown Royal Mine earlier today?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Or rather, I heard that someone took a shot at you. I didn’t know the lawyer was involved. And frankly, shouldn’t you be used to people trying to kill you by now, Morgan? You’ve been a gunman practically all your life, from what I’ve heard. You’ve lost more than one wife to bullets meant for you, haven’t you?”
Frank’s breath hissed between his teeth. Vivian and Dixie had been too good to even be mentioned by a snake the likes of Dex Brighton. It was all he could do not to plant a fist in the middle of the man’s smug face. Brighton grinned as he reached inside his coat pocket and took out a cheroot. He put it in his mouth, lit a match, and puffed the thin cigar into life, seemingly unaware of just how close he had come to provoking Frank into violence.
Or maybe that was just what the bastard wanted, Frank told himself. Brighton had goaded Tip Woodford into a fight, and now Tip would be facing assault charges when the judge arrived. He would be found guilty, too, just as Frank would have been if he had hauled off and walloped Brighton like he wanted to.
“You think you’re so damn smart,” Frank grated, “coming in here and claiming things that aren’t yours, thinking you can push folks around and get everything you want. You’re going to find out that the law doesn’t work that way.”
Brighton’s teeth clamped down on the cheroot and he said around it, “You’re a fine one to talk about the law, Morgan. You pin on a badge and you think it can wipe out all the things you’ve done, all the men you’ve gunned down. You’re just a hired killer. That’s all you’ve ever been.”
“I never hired out my gun. Not like that.”
“Tell that to all the dead men whose blood is on your hands.”
Frank turned away, struggling to control himself. He knew that Brighton was wrong about him; his conscience was clear, or as clear as that of any man who was prey to human frailties could be, and that was all that really mattered. Well, that and the opinion of his friends and loved ones, and the folks here in Buckskin knew what kind of man he was. Conrad was in the process of figuring that out, despite the rough patches they’d had in the past.
“Things are going to be different around here when I’m the owner of the Lucky Lizard, Morgan,” Brighton called after him. “Then I’ll be the most powerful man in these parts, and you’ll be out of a job. You’ll have to go back to being a drifting killer with no place to call home.”
Frank tried to shove the arrogant words out of his mind.
But they haunted him all the way back to the marshal’s office.
Chapter 18
Claudius Turnbuckle did indeed look dashing in the black silk sling, Frank supposed, and he seemed to thoroughly enjoy having Diana Woodford fussing over him for the next couple of days. Diana visited him and broug
ht him his meals while Turnbuckle was still at Doc Garland’s place, and she continued doing that once he was strong enough in the doctor’s opinion to move back to his room in the hotel.
Frank tried to keep an eye on Turnbuckle, too. He didn’t believe that Brighton’s hired killers would attempt to assassinate the lawyer right there in the middle of town, as Doc had said, but when dealing with a tricky varmint like Brighton, it was wise not to put anything past him.
Because of that, Frank found himself entering the hotel dining room on Monday evening, making one of his regular checks to be sure that Turnbuckle was all right. Turnbuckle had taken his midday meal in the dining room, and he was there for supper, too, joined by Diana Woodford.
Diana wasn’t the only one at the table with Turnbuckle, though. Garrett Claiborne was there, too, and the mining engineer didn’t look happy.
Frank knew there was a budding romance between Diana and Claiborne; he knew because he had engineered it himself, Cupid with a Colt rather than that silly little bow and arrow, in order to divert Diana’s interest from him. He and Tip were roughly the same age, after all, which meant he was old enough to be Diana’s father.
Now Diana seemed to be quite taken with Claudius Turnbuckle. Maybe that was just because Turnbuckle was helping her father defend the Lucky Lizard from Brighton’s claim, or because Turnbuckle was from San Francisco, or maybe being a lawyer was just a more glamorous profession than being a mining engineer. Whatever the cause, Frank saw there was a romantic triangle in the making…and that could spell even more trouble.
He took his hat off as he approached the table. Diana was talking animatedly to Turnbuckle, who sat there with a smile on his face while Claiborne looked on with a slight frown. Diana broke off with whatever she was talking about and looked up to greet Frank.
“Oh, hello, Frank,” she said. “We were about to have supper. Would you like to join us?”
Since three was already a crowd, Frank didn’t figure four could be much worse. In fact, it might even be a small improvement. He hung his hat on the back of the empty chair and smiled.
“Thanks, Diana. Don’t mind if I do.”
The food here in the hotel dining room wasn’t as good as what Lauren, Ginnie, and Becky dished up at their café, but it was passable, about the same as the Chinaman’s. The other three had already ordered. When an apron-clad waitress came over, Frank told her to bring him the usual steak and potatoes with all the trimmings, and coffee, of course.
“We were just talking about the court case,” Diana said. “I guess the circuit judge is still supposed to arrive on tomorrow’s stage?”
“I haven’t heard any different,” Frank replied.
“Have there been any replies to the telegrams I sent?” Turnbuckle asked.
Frank shook his head. “Not yet.” He had sent Phil Noonan to Carson City with a handful of sealed messages that Phil was supposed to turn over to the telegrapher in the Western Union office there. Then Phil was to wait for the replies before he came back to Buckskin. Frank guessed that it was taking longer for those replies than either he or Turnbuckle had hoped.
Either that or something had happened to Phil, and that possibility worried Frank. He had sent word through Catamount Jack that he wanted to talk to Phil, then met with the messenger in the alley behind the marshal’s office at night, when the shadows were thick. For all Frank knew, Dex Brighton had spies keeping an eye on him, and if Brighton suspected that Phil was carrying messages that might hurt his case in court, Brighton might send gunmen after him.
Frank had made sure that Phil understood the possible danger before he took the job. Phil had laughed it off.
“Don’t worry, Marshal. I’ll slip out of town without anybody knowing about it. Besides, that pony of mine is pretty fast. I can outrun most trouble.”
“I’d go to Carson City myself, Phil,” Frank had said quietly, “but I’ve got to keep an eye on things here so that they don’t boil over.”
“You just tend to your job, Marshal. I’ll be back with the replies to those wires just as soon as I can.”
Frank had faith in Noonan’s abilities, and in fact he had begun to consider suggesting to the town council that they hire him as a part-time deputy, to give him and Jack some relief. Phil’s cough had subsided some, and his health seemed to improve the longer he stayed out of the mine. Some hombres just weren’t cut out to work underground, but they could handle other tough chores just fine.
“I really need the information that I sent for,” Turnbuckle went on with a frown. “If I don’t get it, I may have to ask for a continuance.”
Diana asked, “How likely is it that the judge would grant one?”
“Not very, I’m afraid. A circuit judge has to adhere to a fairly strict schedule. If I’m not ready to present our case, the entire affair might have to be postponed until the judge comes around again.”
“Sounds to me like you should have prepared a little faster,” Claiborne said.
Turnbuckle’s face darkened. “I was busy getting shot at and saving Marshal Morgan’s life.”
“I was there, remember?”
“There’s still time,” Frank said, cutting in, trying to head off a squabble between the other two men. “The stagecoach won’t get here until the middle of the day, and the judge probably won’t want to hold court until the next morning. So there’s no need to worry about it just yet.”
“I suppose not,” Turnbuckle said with a shrug.
The food arrived then, and for the next little while everyone was busy eating. The atmosphere of tension that hung around the table dissipated a little. Steak and potatoes had a way of doing that, Frank thought with a mental chuckle.
As they were finishing up the meal and sipping from cups of coffee, Frank suddenly straightened in his chair as he saw Dex Brighton appear in the arched entrance to the dining room. Brighton looked as smug as ever. He had a tall, stiff-backed man with him. The stranger wore an expensive suit, had iron-gray hair and a brush of a mustache. Brighton saw Frank, Diana, Turnbuckle, and Claiborne sitting at the table and pointed them out to his companion.
Then the two men started across the dining room toward the table, which came as no surprise to Frank. Brighton had been lying low since their confrontation a couple of days earlier, but now with the court date looming on the horizon, it was time for the man to start stirring up trouble again.
Turnbuckle leaned toward Frank and asked, “What do we do, Marshal?”
“Just take it easy,” Frank advised. “Brighton’s not going to try anything here in the hotel dining room. I’m sort of curious who that fella with him is, too.”
He figured he would find out soon enough, and he was right. Brighton and the other man came up to the table, and Brighton gave the four people sitting there what appeared to be a friendly nod. His eyes remained as cold and flinty as ever, though.
“Good evening,” Brighton said. “Turnbuckle, I thought you might like to meet the man who’s going to destroy you in court. This is my attorney, the esteemed Colonel Desmond O’Hara, from Chicago.”
O’Hara gave them a curt nod and said, “Hello, Turnbuckle. I’ve heard of you. Always nice to meet a fellow counselor-at-law, even though we’ll be opponents in the courtroom.”
Turnbuckle stood up and extended his uninjured right arm. “It’s good to meet you, too, Colonel,” he said as he shook hands with the man. “When did you get into town? The stagecoach doesn’t arrive until tomorrow.”
“Oh, I have my own transportation,” O’Hara replied vaguely with a wave of his hand. He turned to the others and gave Diana a chilly smile. “Since no one had introduced us, my dear, I’ll take care of that myself. Colonel Desmond O’Hara, at your service. You’re Miss Woodford?”
“That’s right,” Diana said.
“I assure you, I bear no ill will toward you or your father. When the trial begins I’ll simply be representing my client to the best of my ability, as is my duty.”
“Of course.”
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A faint sneer curled O’Hara’s lip as he looked at Frank. “And you’d be the famous gunman, I suppose? I’ve heard a great deal about you, Morgan.”
“Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of you, Colonel,” Frank replied, unable to resist the temptation to prick O’Hara’s vanity.
Sure enough, the man’s face flushed a little. He turned back to Turnbuckle and asked, “Are you acquainted with the judge we’ll be facing in this case, sir?”
“All I know is his name,” Turnbuckle replied. “Judge Grampis. I’ve never appeared before him.”
“Nor have I, so we’ll be on equal footing there.”
“Let’s go, Colonel,” Brighton said to O’Hara. “I’ll buy you a drink, and we can talk about the case.”
“All right. I’d like to get some of the details straight in my mind.” O’Hara glanced around the table. “Good evening. I’ll see you in court, Turnbuckle.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Turnbuckle said.
When Brighton and O’Hara were gone, Diana said in a worried voice, “The colonel seemed confident of victory, Mr. Turnbuckle.”
The lawyer tried to wave away her concern. “No more than I am.”
“And, well, no offense…but he’s considerably older than you, too.”
“Age doesn’t necessarily mean wisdom or legal skills. More importantly, we have the facts of the case on our side. We’ll prevail no matter what Brighton throws at us, Diana.”
“I hope so,” she said. “It would destroy my father to lose the Lucky Lizard.”
“That will never happen,” Turnbuckle vowed.
Frank took a sip of his coffee and hoped that the lawyer would be able to keep that promise.
When they left the hotel, Brighton and Colonel O’Hara turned toward the Top-Notch. “I thought that went quite well,” O’Hara declared.
Brighton didn’t sound as confident as he said, “You might’ve thrown a little scare into Turnbuckle. Not Morgan, though.”
O’Hara made a slashing motion with his hand.
“Morgan is nothing but a cheap gunman. If we have the law on our side—”
The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground Page 14
