Hell Town

Chapter 31

The sound of galloping hoofbeats were loud in the gathering shadows. The men who waited on horseback leaned forward in their saddles. They could tell that only one man was approaching, and since there were about three dozen of them, they weren’t worried.

“Hold it right there!” Pool called as the rider loomed up out of the darkness.

“Jory!” Clint Farnum exclaimed. “Thank God I found you. We’ve got to call it off. The state militia’s in town, along with a bunch of well-armed miners who’re on strike. Even a lot of the townspeople have got guns and are ready for trouble tonight.”

“Call it off?” Pool repeated, as if he were amazed by the idea. “I don’t call off a raid once the time’s come. We’re goin’ in there, and we’re gonna loot that town from one end to the other and then burn it to the ground, just like we done in a dozen other towns.”

“I tell you, you can’t!” Clint cried in a ragged voice. “The militia—”

Pool’s hand shot out to grab Clint’s arm in a cruelly painful grip. “To hell with the militia, and everybody else in Buckskin! They won’t know what’s hittin’ ’em, because they’ll be too busy fightin’ each other.” With his other hand, Pool drew his Colt and jammed the barrel under Clint’s jaw. “This is even better than I hoped,” the boss outlaw went on. “From what you’re tellin’ me, that town’s like a giant keg o’ gunpowder tonight. All it needs is one spark to set it off. Are you gonna go give us that spark, Farnum…or do I pull this trigger and blow your head off?”

Clint had no choice. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I’ll do it, Jory. Just…give me a couple of minutes to get back down there. You’ll know it…when the ball starts.”

Pool let go of Clint’s arm, but kept the gun barrel pressed against his neck for a second. “You double-cross me and you’ll live to regret it,” he said in a low voice. “You just won’t live long. Long enough to wish you were dead, though.”

He lowered the gun.

Clint took a deep breath and rubbed the spot where the hard metal had bruised the flesh of his neck. Then he wheeled his horse around and rode off, vanishing in the darkness as he headed for town.

Down below in Buckskin, big fires had been kindled at both ends of the main street. By the light of those blazes, the outlaws could see the men who had gathered there. Even at a distance of several hundred yards, the tension could be felt.

As Jory Pool had said, Buckskin was ready to explode.

And when it did, these vicious outlaws would be ready to sweep in and turn the situation to their advantage.

“Murder!” Red Mike Fowler yelped. “Gib and me didn’t murder nobody!”

“This is crazy!” Munro cried, a note of panic creeping into his voice. “Colonel, I demand that you put a stop to this! Arrest the marshal so that we can settle the strike.”

“I don’t believe I have the authority to do that anymore, Mr. Munro,” Starkwell replied. “Besides, I sort of want to hear what Morgan has to say.”

Frank drew the piece of timber from his pocket and held it up where everybody could see it. “This came from the cave-in at the Lucky Lizard,” he said, raising his voice so that it could be heard by all. “If you take a close look at it, you can see that it’s been damaged. Practically burned through by sulfuric acid, in fact. Somebody doped those timbers with acid so that the wood was eaten away and the timbers gave out. That’s what caused the cave-in.”

“You can’t blame that on us!” Red Mike said. “Gib and me didn’t have nothin’ to do with that!”

“You had more reason to do it than anybody else,” Frank shot back. “You’d just come over to the Lucky Lizard from the Alhambra.”

“We got fired over there!”

“That makes a good story, especially when you were still working for Munro.”

“I don’t know anything about this,” Munro insisted. “You’re grasping at straws, Morgan. You’re just trying to stir up hard feelings toward me.”

Frank shook his head. “I’m just trying to get to the truth.” He looked at the miners from the Lucky Lizard. “Did any of you men see either of the Fowler brothers messing with those timbers before the ceiling collapsed?”

The miners muttered among themselves for a second; then one of them spoke up, saying, “Red Mike and Gib were both hangin’ around that area not long before the cave-in. I didn’t see ’em put anything on the timbers, but that don’t mean they didn’t. They sure enough could have.”

“That ain’t proof of anything,” Gib Fowler said, his voice wavering.

“Then maybe we should search your gear at the mine,” Frank suggested. “You might still have some of that acid you used stashed away.”

It was a shot in the dark, but it paid off. Red Mike leveled an accusing finger at Gunther Hammersmith and yelled, “It was all his idea. He made us do it!”

Hammersmith, pale and wide eyed with fury, looked like he wanted to lunge at Fowler and snap his neck. He wasn’t the only one who wanted to get at Red Mike and Gib. The men from the Lucky Lizard, who had lost a couple of friends in that cave-in, surged forward, their faces twisted in righteous anger.

Frank turned toward Hammersmith and palmed out his gun, covering the big mine superintendent. “Looks like you’ll hang too, Hammersmith,” he said.

“The hell I will!” Hammersmith responded. “It was all Munro’s doing! He’s the one who wanted the strike at the Lucky Lizard—”

“Shut up!” Munro screamed. “Lies, all lies!”

“Just like he told me to have the stamp mill at the Crown Royal blown up!” Hammersmith roared. Just as Frank had hoped, the rats couldn’t turn on each other fast enough. Threaten one and they would all go down.

Angry shouts filled the air now as the group of miners continued to edge forward like an inexorable tide. Munro turned to Colonel Starkwell and grabbed his uniform, shaking him. “It’s a riot!” he screeched. “They’re going to kill me! You’ve got to stop them! The governor would want you to protect me! Order your men to fire, damn you! Fire!”

Frank could tell from the stony look on Starkwell’s face that wasn’t going to happen. The colonel knew the same thing that everyone else in Buckskin did: Munro and Hammersmith were responsible for all the trouble that had plagued the area.

But then, horribly, a shot rang out. Frank wasn’t sure where it came from, but he saw Dave Rogan stagger back a step as the bullet smashed into his body. Rogan clutched his chest, and blood welled between his fingers. He fell heavily in the street.

“One of the soldiers shot Dave!” a miner howled. “Get ’em!”

The militia men jerked their rifles up. The miners surged forward.

And Hammersmith leaped at Frank, slapping the Colt aside and swinging a big fist at the marshal’s head.

Curls of smoke still drifted from the muzzle of Clint Farnum’s gun as he ducked back into the alley mouth. Lining up the shot through the crowd in the street had been tricky, but he had done it. The miner named Rogan had fallen to Clint’s slug, and now more shots rang out and men shouted curses as tight-strung nerves snapped and the two groups opened fire on each other.

Clint had done what he had to do for Jory Pool. Now the gang could sweep into Buckskin and wipe out any resistance before the citizens knew what was going on. Clint’s job was over, so he could find a hole and hide until the killing was over. All he had to do was wait it out and collect his share of the loot. It would be easy.

But if it was so easy, why were his guts clenched in a tight ball of sickness? Why did he feel like something had died inside him?

In the darkness of the alley, he pressed his back against the wall of a building and shuddered. Cold sweat beaded on his face. He lifted the gun in his hand and listened to the shots and the cries and the screams.

All that hell unleashed, and all he’d had to do was squeeze a trigger.

Frank ducked under Hammersmith’s roundhouse blow as guns began to roar. As Hammersmith stumbled forward, thrown off balance by the missed punch, Frank stepped closer. He had managed to hang on to his gun even though Hammersmith had knocked the barrel aside. Now he slapped the Colt against Hammersmith’s head, putting enough power behind the blow to knock the mine superintendent to his knees, stunned.

With Hammersmith out of the fight for the moment, Frank whirled around and shouted at the miners, “Hold your fire! Stop shooting!”

At the same time, Colonel Starkwell was bellowing, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

But it was too late. Both sides had come here tonight ready to fight. The miners believed that one of the militia men had shot down Dave Rogan, and the soldiers were just fighting back as they were attacked. Already, the street was turning into chaos as the two sides splintered and broke up to do battle in small groups, sometimes firing at each other as they darted for cover, other times grappling hand to hand.

Frank grabbed Tip Woodford’s arm and shoved the mayor toward the office of the Lucky Lizard. He saw that Garrett Claiborne had already hustled Diana off the boardwalk and inside the building. Frank was grateful for that, but knew Claiborne and Diana weren’t out of danger. With all the lead flying around, some of the slugs might penetrate the walls of the buildings. He hoped everybody in town had enough sense to get down behind something solid and stay there until the shooting was over.

As Frank hurried Tip out of the line of fire, a bitter taste welled up in his mouth. He was supposed to protect the townspeople, and all he had managed to do was start a small-scale war right in the middle of the settlement. This was proof, as if he needed it, that he wasn’t cut out to be a lawman. He never should have tried to settle down and give up his drifting ways.

Violence followed him. Always had, and likely always would.

For now, though, all he could do was try to put a stop to this ruckus, once he got Tip to relative safety. He didn’t know who had fired the shot that had started the ball, but he hoped he could find out and deal with the damn fool later.

As they reached the boardwalk, a fresh volley of shots broke out, but these came from the edge of town. As a bullet whistled past Frank’s ear, so close that he felt it as much as heard it, he twisted his head and saw a totally unexpected sight. Dozens of hard-faced, roughly dressed men on horseback were galloping into town, blazing away with the six-guns in their hands as they thundered down the main street.

Tip yelped in pain, drawing Frank’s attention. “How bad are you hit?” Frank asked over the rattle of gunfire.

“Just creased my arm!” Tip replied. “Who the hell are those fellas?”

Frank shook his head. “I don’t know. Get inside and look after Claiborne and Diana!”

He gave Tip a shove that sent the burly older man stumbling through the open door of the office, then whirled back to the street, where a three-way battle was now going on. Four-way, if you counted the citizens of Buckskin who had been posted along the street with rifles and shotguns. They had sought cover behind water troughs, rain barrels, and parked wagons in order to swap lead with the murderous newcomers.

The men on horseback had scattered the battling militia men and miners, riding down some of them and shooting others. As Frank darted along the boardwalk with bullets knocking up splinters from the planks around his feet, he got a look at the big, blond-bearded man who seemed to be the leader of the strangers. A shock of recognition went through him. He hadn’t seen Jory Pool in several years, but the big outlaw hadn’t changed that much. They had been in some of the same places but had never actually met, which was the way Frank wanted it because he was aware of Pool’s reputation as a cunning but brutal and possibly deranged gunman and outlaw. Pool was supposed to be the head of a gang almost as bad as he was.

Frank had no doubt that Buckskin was now under assault from that gang. By busting in and raiding the settlement right now, Pool and the rest of the owlhoots had taken everybody by surprise.

Frank squeezed off a couple of shots, and saw one of the outlaws tumble out of the saddle. Some of the other members of the gang were down too.

But there were too many of them, and even though the militia and the miners would have outnumbered the outlaws by almost two to one if they had been working together, there was no organized defense, and too many of them were still fighting each other, not yet aware that an even greater threat had just galloped into Buckskin.

Frank emptied his Colt at Jory Pool, but the boss outlaw chose that moment to whirl his horse and start charging back the way he had come. The bullets whined past him, all of them missing. Frank sprawled full-length behind a water trough and began reloading, dumping the empty shells from the Peacemaker’s cylinder and thumbing fresh cartridges into it.

He hadn’t seen Hammersmith or Hamish Munro since the shooting started, he realized, and he wondered what had happened to them.

But he wondered for only a second, because he had bigger worries at the moment. Several of the mounted outlaws charged the water trough where he had taken cover, and a hailstorm of lead scythed through the air around him.

Hamish Munro was shaking with fear as he scrambled up the stairs in the hotel. He had never come so close to death in his life as he just had in the street outside. It was bad enough that everyone was turning on him like that—the Fowler brothers and even Hammersmith—but then to have all that shooting going on around him, with bullets flying through the air so close to his head that he could hear them….

He hadn’t thought about it. The instinct for self-preservation had taken over and he had dashed for the boardwalk, getting out of the street as fast as he could, leaving Hammersmith behind—the traitor! If Hammersmith had been more careful…if he had hired men who were more dependable than the Fowlers…if that damned Morgan hadn’t kept pushing and poking his nose in where it didn’t belong…

Yes, Munro thought, when you got right down to it, everything was Morgan’s fault. He would see the man dead. If, of course, Morgan lived through the battle that was going on outside.

Munro became uncomfortably aware that the front of his trousers was wet. Terror had made him lose control of his bladder as he ran for cover. He hated for Jessica to see him this way, but it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t like she actually loved him. At least, not nearly as much as she loved his money. As long as he had his riches, nothing else really mattered to her.

He paused at the top of the stairs to draw a deep breath and try to collect himself. He had always carried himself with dignity, and there was no reason to change that now. With a furious glare on his face, he stalked along the corridor toward his suite. Jessica had probably heard the shooting and would be scared. She was like a little girl who was easily frightened. Munro would calm her down, and then they would wait out the trouble. He was confident that Colonel Starkwell’s militia would suppress the riot going on outside, even though he was still angry at Starkwell for disobeying his orders.

Munro opened the door and stepped into the suite. He didn’t see anyone. “Jessica!” he said, raising his voice because even in here, the sound of gunfire was loud. “Jessica, where are you?”

He heard something behind him, the scrape of shoe leather on the floor perhaps, and started to turn, but before he could swing around, something hard and round jabbed against the back of his head and there was a loud noise and a white-hot explosion burst in Hamish Munro’s brain. He didn’t feel himself falling, wasn’t aware of it when he landed facedown on the floor with the back of his head a bullet-shattered ruin. He shouldn’t have even been able to think anymore with a bullet in his brain that way, but a few swiftly fading shreds of consciousness remained, just enough for him to think that he couldn’t be dying. He was Hamish Munro, damn it. He had money and power. Politicians did his bidding, and a beautiful young woman was his wife….

Jessica.

That was his last thought before oblivion claimed him.