Hell Town

Chapter 28

Frank rode on out to the Alhambra and talked to Dave Rogan, warning him that any violence connected with the strike wouldn’t be tolerated. Rogan remembered Frank from the ruckus in Kelley’s, and for a few moments things had been pretty tense as Rogan debated whether to indulge his old grudge and try to cause more trouble for the lawman.

But in the end, Rogan had just said, “Talk to Hamish Munro, Marshal. If anybody causes any bloodshed, it’ll be him.”

Frank wasn’t going to be surprised if Rogan turned out to be right. One thing seemed certain: Munro wouldn’t take this setback lying down. He would fight and would try to hurt the striking miners just as much as they were hurting him.

For a couple of days, an uneasy pause seemed to hang over Buckskin. The strike at the Lucky Lizard continued, in addition to the one at the Alhambra. The new equipment for the stamp mill at the Crown Royal arrived, as well as a dozen hard-bitten, well-armed men who had been hired by Conrad Browning to keep any more sabotage from occurring at the mine. Their leader, a tall, rusty-bearded man named Burke, came to see Frank.

“We have our orders,” Burke explained. “We’re to protect the Crown Royal, and that’s it. Mr. Browning doesn’t want us getting mixed up in any other local troubles.”

Frank nodded. “That’s fine with me. I’d just as soon give things a chance to settle down on their own. We don’t need a war here in Buckskin.”

That looked like what the town might get, though, because a day later the army rode in.

Frank was in the office when Catamount Jack stuck his head in the door and said in an excited voice, “You’d better come take a gander at this, Marshal. Looks like Buckskin’s bein’ invaded.”

Frank didn’t know whether to be alarmed or puzzled by Jack’s comment. He stood up and moved to the door, not wasting any time.

Sure enough, a military force was entering the settlement, riding into town from the northern end. The natty blue uniforms made Frank take them for United States cavalrymen at first, but he realized a second later that the markings and insignia were different. These uniforms were a little gaudier, a little fancier, than regular cavalry uniforms. All the riders, about two dozen of them, wore sabers in brass scabbards and had Winchesters in saddle boots instead of the usual army carbines.

The soldiers rode with their eyes fixed straight ahead, not paying any attention to the commotion their arrival was causing in the settlement. They came on down the street to the marshal’s office, where the officer leading them reined in and raised a hand. The man right behind him, evidently a sergeant of some sort, turned in his saddle and bellowed, “Company…halt!”

The officer dismounted, handed his horse’s reins to the sergeant, and stepped up onto the boardwalk. He tugged a gauntlet off his right hand and offered that hand to Frank. “Marshal Morgan?” he said. “I’m Colonel Jefferson Starkwell, Nevada State Militia.”

Frank had already started to wonder if these newcomers were members of the state militia. That was the only explanation that made any sense. What they were doing here in Buckskin was still an open question, though.

Frank shook hands with Starkwell and said, “Colonel. What brings you to Buckskin?”

Starkwell was a tall, stiff-backed man with iron-gray hair and a neat mustache and goatee. He said, “The governor has ordered us here to maintain law and order in the face of mounting civil unrest.”

A frown creased Frank’s forehead. He had been afraid that Colonel Starkwell would say something like that. Waving a hand toward the street, which was thronged at the moment with curious bystanders, he said, “What civil unrest? You can see for yourself that the place is plumb peaceful right now.”

“At the moment, perhaps,” Starkwell replied, unfazed by Frank’s question. “But the governor has been informed that violent strikes have broken out at two of the area mines and may spread to other mines in the vicinity. Riots have been reported.” A cold, thin smile curved Starkwell’s lips. “Dealing with such problems is beyond the scope of local law enforcement; therefore the governor dispatched us to see to it that things don’t get even more out of hand. The citizens must be protected.”

“And the mine owners have to be protected too, is that it?” Frank didn’t bother trying to hide his irritation now. “Since Jack and me and my other deputy are that local law enforcement you were talking about, don’t you think we ought to have a say in whether or not we need help from a troop of militia men?”

“The governor received a full report on the situation here, Marshal, and he acted in what he believes to be everyone’s best interests.”

Frank looked at Jack and said, “Munro. He’s the one behind this.”

The old-timer nodded. “Sure as shootin’.”

As far as Frank had known, Hamish Munro had been holed up in the hotel for the past few days, consulting with Hammersmith and Nathan Evers about the strike going on at the Alhambra. Now Frank realized that Munro had already taken action without him knowing about it. Munro must have sent a rider into Virginia City to wire the governor in Carson City and ask for help putting down the strike. The governor, like all politicians mindful of anyone with wealth and influence who might help him get elected again, had been only too glad to help. He had sent in the militia, ostensibly to keep order, but Frank knew how these things worked. He had seen similar situations in other places. Starkwell and his company of soldiers would actually be working for Munro, and their real goal would be to crush the strike crippling production at the Alhambra.

To accomplish that goal, they would crush the strikers if they had to.

Even though Frank knew it probably wouldn’t do any good, he said, “Colonel, I’d appreciate it if you and your men would turn around and ride right back to Carson City. Tell the governor we appreciate his concern, but we don’t need any help keeping a lid on things here.”

“I’m sorry, Marshal,” Starkwell said, not sounding the least bit apologetic, “but our orders are clear. We won’t be leaving until the miners’ strike is over, the men have returned to work, and the danger is ended.”

“But that ain’t right,” Catamount Jack protested. “You can’t force them fellas to work for Munro, nor for Tip Woodford neither.”

“The governor disagrees, sir. He views continued silver production as vital to the state’s interest. I’ll be riding out to the Alhambra Mine to issue a warning to the striking workers. I’m sure they’ll be reasonable.”

“Damn it, if you go out there, those men are liable to think you’ve come to arrest them.”

“If they don’t cooperate, they’ll be right about that,” Starkwell snapped.

Frank thought about how hotheaded Dave Rogan was and said, “They’re liable to open fire on you.”

“If they do, they’ll wish they hadn’t. Our orders empower us to use all necessary force to maintain order.”

Anger welled up inside Frank as he realized what Starkwell intended to do. Under the guise of “maintaining order,” the colonel planned to massacre the striking miners, or at least some of them, in hopes that the others would surrender and go back to work. If not, Starkwell would wipe out all of them so that Munro could start over. This “militia” was really nothing more than a gang of hired killers.

“I’m going out there with you,” Frank snapped. “Let me talk to those men first.”

“You’ve had plenty of chances to talk to them before now, Marshal. I can’t stop you from riding out there, but I warn you…. Stay out of our way.”

Frank suppressed the impulse to knock the arrogant smirk off Starkwell’s face. Instead, he turned to Jack and said, “Find Clint and tell him what’s going on. The two of you stay here in town and be ready for trouble.”

Jack nodded. “You be careful, Frank.”

“It may be too late for that,” Frank said. He headed for the livery stable. As he hurried along the street, he glanced up at the hotel.

Hamish Munro stood in one of the windows of his suite, the curtain pulled back so that he could gaze out at the street. The mining magnate wore a self-satisfied smile, and the nod that he gave Frank was even more infuriating. Munro thought that everything was going his way again. He believed that his money and influence could always get him whatever he wanted.

And so far, Frank reflected with a grim, silent curse, nobody had proven that idea wrong.

Starkwell mounted up and the militia moved out, riding past Amos Hillman’s place. Frank heard them go by as he was throwing his saddle on Goldy. The uniformed riders were still in sight as he emerged from the livery barn a couple of minutes later. They were following the main trail toward the Alhambra. Frank figured he could circle around and beat them to the mine, since he knew the area better than the militia men did.

Hearing his name called, he turned in the saddle to see Catamount Jack hurrying toward him. “I can’t find Clint,” the old-timer said.

“He’s bound to be around somewhere. Keep looking, and warn the townspeople that there’s liable to be more trouble.”

Jack nodded. “All hell’s about to bust loose, ain’t it, Frank?”

“Not if I can help it,” Frank said.

Problem was, he didn’t know if he could.

A breeze set the leaves of the aspens to rattling together as Clint Farnum rode up the slope. It was a beautiful day, the sort of day he would have enjoyed getting out of the settlement and just riding around the hills, taking in the magnificent scenery. The years had taught him to appreciate such things. All the long, solitary, dangerous years of riding the owlhoot trail, never knowing when a day might be his last one on this earth….

He hadn’t ridden out here into the hills west of the settlement to look at the scenery, though. He had a job to do, and he intended to carry it out. He might not like it much anymore, but there was no turning back now.

The smell of tobacco smoke drifted to his nose. He grimaced. That was careless. Didn’t really matter, though. Not now.

Clint topped the hill and saw the riders waiting on the other side. Between thirty and forty, he estimated. Roughly dressed and heavily armed, with a brutal eagerness stamped on their beard-stubbled faces.

The big, blond-bearded man spurred out to meet Clint and said, “I got the word you sent and brought the boys right on. What’s goin’ on down there?”

“A company of state militia rode in just as I was about to leave to meet you, Jory,” Clint replied.

That brought mutters of concern from the outlaws. Jory Pool turned in his saddle and silenced them with a look. He swung back around to face Clint and asked, “What are they doin’ there?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I imagine they came to bust that strike out at the Alhambra Mine. The gent who owns it, Hamish Munro, is friends with the governor.”

One of the other men said, “I guess that means we’ll have to call the raid off, Jory. We can’t attack the town if the militia is there.”

“The hell we can’t,” Pool said. “This is a stroke of good luck for us.”

Clint frowned. “I don’t follow you, Jory.”

A grin spread across Pool’s face. “The soldier boys and them miners will be too busy fightin’ with each other to worry about us. And the people in town will be so caught up in that they won’t expect trouble to come at them from any other direction.”

“I don’t know,” Clint said.

“What’s the best time to jump somebody?” Pool asked. “When he’s watchin’ two other hombres fight. That’s when you hit him with a sucker punch.” He gave an emphatic nod. “That’s what we’re gonna do to Buckskin.”

Clint knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue. Once Jory Pool’s mind was made up, especially when it came to the tactics of a raid, nothing would change it.

Like it or not, even more hell was about to come to call on Buckskin.

“What about Morgan?” Pool asked.

“I was watching from one of the hills,” Clint said. “I saw him ride out toward the Alhambra. My guess is that he was trying to get there before the militia did, so he could warn those miners.”

“So the only law left in town is one old pelican.”

Clint thought about Catamount Jack and nodded. “Yeah.” His throat was tight for some reason, and the word didn’t much want to come out.

Pool nodded and said, “You’ve done a mighty fine job spyin’ out this job for us, Clint. You’ve already earned your share of the loot. I reckon you can be right proud of yourself.” Pool leaned forward in the saddle and waved his men forward. “Let’s go.”

As the gang moved out, bound for Buckskin, Clint Farnum thought about what Pool had just said to him. Proud of himself? Clint thought about how Frank had given him a chance to wear a deputy’s star, about how Catamount Jack had befriended him, about how folks in the settlement had started smiling at him and looking at him with something like respect in their eyes. He thought too about how Frank had saved his life during that shoot-out with the drunken miner who’d had the fight with Professor Burton.

Funny…he didn’t feel proud of himself at all. He felt almost…ashamed, in fact.

But it wasn’t the first time in his life he’d been ashamed of something he was doing, not by a long shot. And as he sighed and hitched his horse into motion, Clint thought that he was too old to change now.

Besides, money spent just as good whether you were ashamed of how you got it or not.

He spurred ahead to catch up to Jory Pool.