Hell Town

Chapter 11

Frank let Dave Rogan out of the jail cell early the next morning. The miner, whose heavy-jawed, beard-stubbled face seemed to be set in a permanent scowl, said, “You’re gonna be sorry for lockin’ me up, Marshal. And that bastard Kelley’s gonna wish I’d never set foot in his place.”

“I’d say there’s a good chance Kelley already feels that way,” Frank said. He took a step closer to Rogan and his voice turned cold and hard as he went on. “Listen to me, mister. If you start any more trouble in Buckskin, you’re liable to get a lot worse than you got this time. I won’t stand for it, you hear me?”

Rogan met Frank’s level gaze with a defiant stare, but after a moment he glanced away and muttered, “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.”

“Then you’d better remember what I said.”

Rogan turned and stomped toward the door. Frank stopped him by saying, “Rogan! Since you don’t have a job anymore, maybe it’d be a good thing for you to move on and find something somewhere else.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Rogan asked, “Are you runnin’ me out of town?”

“I’m just saying that it might be wise to move on.”

“I like it here.” Rogan jerked the door open and stomped out.

With a sigh, Frank watched him go. He had a feeling that he hadn’t seen the last of Rogan—nor the last of any trouble caused by the man.

As the days passed, though, Rogan didn’t show his face in Buckskin, and for the most part, things in the settlement were quiet and peaceful. With the help of Frank and Tip Woodford, Claiborne found half-a-dozen men who were tired of prospecting and not finding any silver and willing to go to work for the Crown Royal. When Frank rode out to the mine to check on how they were doing, he found the air full of the ring of picks and shovels, the rasp of saws, and the biting chunks! of axes, as the men worked to clean out, shore up, and extend the shaft. They were hard workers, Claiborne reported, and the job of reopening the mine was progressing on schedule, or maybe even a little ahead of schedule.

Frank didn’t see anything of Gunther Hammersmith, although he heard that the superintendent of the Alhambra had been in town looking for workers too. That was Hammersmith’s right, Frank supposed. After their run-in at the mine, he didn’t like the man, but as long as Hammersmith didn’t break any laws, Frank was prepared to tolerate him.

New settlers continued to show up in Buckskin just about every day. Some came on horseback, some in buggies or wagons, some even walked in, carrying all their belongings on their backs. As Frank had been expecting, a madam showed up, bringing four girls with her. They moved in to one of the empty houses and set up for business right away, and they certainly didn’t lack for customers. Prospectors who hadn’t been with a woman for months flocked to the place. Some of the more respectable citizens, like Leo and Trudy Benjamin and Professor Burton, disapproved, but Frank knew there was nothing he could do about it. In their own way, the prostitutes provided a valuable service and a civilizing influence. A man who wasn’t boiling over with repressed lust was less likely to start trouble in other ways.

As a precaution, Frank paid a visit to the madam, who introduced herself as Rosie, and told her that he expected her and her girls to conduct their business in a quiet manner, without any problems.

Rosie laughed and said, “Believe you me, Marshal, nobody wants things to stay peaceful more than we do. Ruckuses are bad for business. Now, before you go, how’d you like to spend some time with one of the gals? On the house, of course.”

Frank declined. He had seen too many corrupt star-packers who accepted favors and collected graft from the townspeople they were supposed to be serving. He might still be relatively new to the law business, but he was determined to do it the right way.

A week after Claiborne’s arrival in town, the encounter with Hammersmith, and the trouble with Rogan, Frank was lounging in front of the marshal’s office, sitting in a chair that was tipped back against the wall, balancing himself with a booted foot propped against the railing along the front of the boardwalk, when he saw a couple of men riding into town. The front legs of his chair hit the boardwalk with a thump as he recognized one of them. He stood up and stepped to the edge of the walk.

The two men saw him and angled their horses in his direction. As they reined in, the smaller of the two nodded and said, “Howdy, Frank. It’s been a while.”

“Ten years at least, Farnum,” Frank replied. “How are you?”

The man shrugged. He had a broad, friendly face and curly, graying hair under a thumbed-back Stetson. With his sly grin and small stature, Clint Farnum had always reminded Frank a little of a gnome or some sort of creature like that from a children’s fairy tale book. Despite his size, he was fast on the draw and a lethal gunman.

“I’m all right,” Farnum said in reply to Frank’s question. “I’m a mite surprised you didn’t say something about how you figured I was dead by now.”

“I hadn’t heard anything about you getting killed,” Frank said with a shrug. “I assumed you were still around.” He inclined his head toward Farnum’s companion, who was at least a head taller than the affable little gunslinger. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Charlie Hampton. Wouldn’t say that we’re friends, but we’re riding together for the time being, anyway.”

“You’re Frank Morgan?” Hampton asked in a heavy, unfriendly voice.

Frank nodded. “That’s right.”

“You don’t look like much. Hell, you’re supposed to be as fast on the draw as Smoke Jensen or Matt Bodine. Maybe even faster.”

Farnum laughed. “The Drifter’s fast enough to have stayed alive this long, Charlie. How much faster’n that does a man have to be?”

“He won’t be alive much longer,” Hampton said. He started to dismount.

Frank waited until the man was halfway out of the saddle, with his right foot out of the stirrup and his right leg lifted over the horse’s back. Then he palmed out his Colt, leveled it at Hampton, and said, “Hold it right there.”

Hampton froze in that awkward position and said, “What the hell!”

“That ain’t hardly fair, Frank, gettin’ the drop on a man like that,” Farnum said, grinning so that he looked more like a gnome than ever.

“I don’t give a damn about fair,” Frank said. “I knew as soon as I saw you fellas ride in that one or both of you were looking for a gunfight—”

“Not me,” Farnum said. He held up both hands, palms out toward Frank. “I’ve been in my share of showdowns, but I’m not a big enough fool to go up against The Drifter. Charlie here was the one who wanted to test his rep. I’d heard you had pinned on a badge here in Buckskin, so we moseyed on over to see you.”

“Damn it, Morgan,” Hampton said, his voice showing the strain of maintaining his uncomfortable position. “How long you expect me to stay here like this?”

“Until I tell you to move,” Frank snapped. “Nobody asked you to come here and cause trouble.”

Even in the position he was in, Hampton managed to sneer. “Looks to me like you’re afraid of me, Morgan,” he said. “Afraid to face me man-to-man.”

Farnum tsk-tsked and shook his head. “Charlie, Charlie,” he said. “That wasn’t a smart move. But then, nobody’s ever accused you of being too smart, now have they?”

“What’s going on here, Farnum?” Frank asked. “You get tired of riding with Hampton or something, so you brought him here to have me kill him for you?”

Before Farnum could answer, Hampton said, “You’re the only one who’s gonna die, old man!”

“You might as well get it over with, Frank,” Farnum advised. “Charlie here is a stubborn one. He’s not going to give up or go away until he gets what he wants—a crack at you.”

By now, the confrontation had begun to draw some attention from the citizens of Buckskin. Hampton’s awkward pose and the gun in Frank’s hand caused a murmur of conversation as some of the townspeople started gathering nearby.

Frank turned his head to say in a sharp, commanding tone, “You folks move along.” He hoped to avoid any gunplay, but if lead started to fly, he didn’t want any stray bullets cutting down innocent bystanders.

That second when his attention wasn’t on Hampton anymore was the break the would-be gunfighter had been waiting for. He dived the rest of the way out of the saddle, jerking his revolver from its holster as he tumbled to the street. He rolled over and came up shooting.

Frank had already dropped into a crouch and pivoted toward Hampton before the gunslinger could squeeze the trigger, so Hampton’s first shot whined harmlessly past his head to thud into the thick, log wall of the marshal’s office. That was Hampton’s first shot—and only shot, because in the next heartbeat Frank’s Colt blasted twice and flame geysered from the mouth of the Peacemaker’s barrel.

The heavy .45-caliber slugs slammed into Hampton’s chest and threw him backward in the street. Frank twisted again, back toward Farnum, in case the little man was going to make a try for him. Farnum hadn’t moved, though, except to lift his hands and hold them in plain sight, so that Frank could see right away they were empty.

“Don’t shoot, Morgan,” Farnum said. “This was all Charlie’s play, not mine. I told him he was a fool to try to take you.”

Frank’s instincts told him that Farnum spoke the truth. He stepped down off the boardwalk and walked over to where Hampton lay. The gunfighter was on his back, arms and legs splayed out, his revolver lying beside his hand where it had slipped from his nerveless fingers. Frank kicked the gun out of reach, just as a precaution, then toed Hampton’s shoulder. The man’s head lolled loosely on his shoulders. The glassy look in Hampton’s eyes had already told Frank that he was dead, but it never hurt to make sure of these things.

The sudden blast of gunshots had made the gathering crowd scurry for cover, but now as silence reigned in Buckskin’s main street, their curiosity drove them from their hiding places. A murmur of questions grew in volume.

Frank replaced the two rounds he had fired with fresh cartridges from the loops on his shell belt, then pouched the iron. A bitter taste filled his mouth. He turned his head toward the bystanders and said, “Somebody fetch Langley.”

One man hurried off to let the undertaker know what had happened. The others stayed where they were and stared at Hampton’s corpse.

“Is it all right if I get down off this horse?” Farnum asked.

Frank made a curt gesture with his hand indicating that Farnum could dismount. He swung down from the saddle and looped the reins around the hitch rack in front of the boardwalk.

“I’m sorry about this, Frank,” Farnum said, and he sounded sincere. “I know you and I have never been what you’d call friends—”

Frank grunted to show his agreement with that statement.

“But I tried to talk him out of it,” Farnum went on. “He was bound and determined to give it a try, though. He said you were the last really famous gunfighter who’s left, and if he ever wanted to make his rep, he’d have to go through you to do it.”

“Why would a man want a reputation as a gunfighter in this day and age?” Frank said. “Men like us are relics, Clint. The West the way we knew it as youngsters is getting farther and farther away with each passing day.”

Farnum shrugged. “True enough. But as long as folks still remember what it used to be like, it’s not going to go away completely. There’ll always be somebody who wants to try to recapture it.” Farnum nodded toward Hampton’s body. “Like him.”

“Yeah, I reckon you’re right.” Frank looked along the street, and saw Claude Langley’s wagon rolling toward the scene of the shoot-out. He looked back at Farnum and asked, “You plan to stay in Buckskin for long?”

“Haven’t decided yet. I might. Seems like a nice enough little town.” That sly smile stole across Farnum’s face again. “And it’s got a good marshal to enforce law and order.”

Frank jerked his head toward the Silver Baron. “Come on down to the saloon with me. Least I can do is buy you a drink, for old time’s sake.”

“I’m much obliged for your hospitality.”

Farnum fell in step beside Frank as they started toward the saloon. Farnum had to take three steps for every two strides that Frank’s longer legs made, but Frank didn’t slow down to make it easier for him to keep up.

They hadn’t reached the Silver Baron yet when Frank saw dust boiling up from the trail leading into town. He stopped and frowned as he heard pounding hoofbeats and the rattle of wheels. “What the devil?” he muttered.

A moment later, a stagecoach came into view, pulled by a good-looking six-horse hitch. Rather than the red and yellow of a typical Concord coach, this vehicle was painted a dark blue. The side curtains were pulled over the windows to keep the dust out, so Frank couldn’t see who was inside as the stagecoach rolled past.

“I didn’t know Buckskin was on one of the stage lines,” Farnum commented.

“It’s not.”

“Then where’d that coach come from, and what’s it doing here?”

Frank shook his head. “I have no idea, but I reckon I’d better find out.” He started back up the street, adding over his shoulder, “We’ll have that drink later.”

“I’ll be around,” Farnum said.

The stagecoach came to a stop in front of a building that had once been a hotel. Prospectors had moved into the place, taking it over and using it as a rooming house. Frank crossed the street at an angle toward the place, walking past the spot where Claude Langley and his helper were loading Hampton’s body into the back of the undertaker’s wagon. Frank didn’t even glance in that direction. That violent incident was over, and now his attention was focused on the newcomers to Buckskin.

The man handling the stagecoach’s reins was accompanied on the driver’s box by another tough-looking hombre holding a Winchester. Both of them climbed down from the box as Frank approached. The driver headed for the back of the coach while the guard stepped over to the door on the side closest to the boardwalk and opened it.

Then he turned toward Frank and brought the rifle’s muzzle up. He watched Frank in a somewhat threatening manner.

“Take it easy, mister,” Frank said. “I’m the law in these parts.”

A man climbed out of the coach and stepped down to the street. He wore a dark, expensive suit, and a diamond stickpin sparkled on his cravat. A derby hat perched on his head. He wasn’t overly big, but he appeared to have a wiry strength to him. He looked at Frank with cold blue eyes and said, “You’re the marshal?”

“That’s right,” Frank replied with a nod. “Name’s Frank Morgan.”

The man in the suit didn’t offer to shake hands. He nodded toward the old hotel instead and said, “I own this building. I’ll expect you to immediately evict anyone who’s living here illegally.”

That demand took Frank by surprise. “You got proof of that, mister?”

“Of course,” the man snapped. “My secretary will provide you with any documentation you need. Right now, I expect you to do your duty, though, and carry out my request so that my companions and I can move in without being disturbed.”

The stranger’s arrogant attitude rubbed Frank the wrong way, so he didn’t really care whether or not he gave any offense as he asked, “And just who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Hamish Munro. Now hop to it, Marshal.”

Without waiting to see what Frank was going to do, Munro turned toward the open door of the coach and extended a hand. A woman’s arm reached out of the vehicle, and Munro took her hand.

One of the loveliest women Frank had seen in a long time stepped out of the coach, looked around, and said, “So this is Buckskin.”