A burly hombre wearing work boots, overalls, and a flannel shirt was trading punches with a slightly smaller man whose suit and fancy cravat marked him as a gambler. The professional cardplayer was no effete fop, though. He was standing toe to toe with the miner and slugging it out. Both men had bruises on their faces already.
A bartender with a turkey neck and no chin stood behind the hardwood, watching the battle with a worried, pop-eyed expression. Three other men, all dressed like prospectors, stood back on the other side of the room, also intent spectators to the fisticuffs.
Frank thought about drawing his gun and firing a shot into the ceiling. That would probably put a stop to the fracas, but it would also needlessly damage the roof. Rain leaked through bullet holes just as easily as through any other opening.
Instead, he bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Hey! Break it up, you two!”
The battlers ignored him and continued to swing wild, looping punches. Most of the blows missed, which was a good thing. If they had all connected, the men might have done some serious damage to themselves by now.
With a disgusted sigh, Frank moved toward the two men. As the tides of battle made them sway closer to him, he reached out and caught hold of the miner’s collar. He hauled back hard and flung the surprised man toward the bar. The gambler had just thrown a punch that missed because Frank pulled the miner out of its path. He stumbled forward, off balance because of the missed punch, and Frank caught hold of his arm to keep him from falling.
The gambler glared at Frank, his bruised and battered face twisting with anger. “What the hell do you think—” he started to demand, but then he looked over Frank’s shoulder and his eyes widened with surprise. “Look out!”
Frank let go of the gambler and twisted around to see the miner lunging at him and swinging a bottle of whiskey he had snatched up off the bar. In his blind rage, he was now attacking the man who had interfered in his fight with the gambler.
Frank jerked his head to the side, knowing the bottle might crush his skull if it connected. It slammed into his left shoulder instead and sent pain shooting through Frank’s body. Not the left arm, though. It went numb.
Hunching over a little against the pain, Frank hooked a hard right into the miner’s belly. It was almost like punching a slab of wood. The blow had enough power behind it to knock the man back a step, though. Still using his right fist because his left arm was useless for the moment, Frank clubbed the miner on the left side of the head, just above the ear.
That staggered the man but didn’t put him down. He dropped the bottle, caught himself, and roared in furious defiance as he lunged forward, tackling Frank around the waist.
The miner was heavier than Frank and bore him backward. Frank tripped on some of the debris from the broken table and fell backward. He crashed to the floor, and the miner’s weight came down on him with stunning force. The breath was knocked out of his lungs, and the room flashed red and black around him as his head bounced off the rough floor.
Hamlike hands fastened around his neck, the fingers digging in with cruel force as they cut off his air. Since the hard landing had already knocked the breath out of him, Frank didn’t have any air in reserve. He knew he would pass out in a matter of seconds, so he had to do something fast. He clawed at his holster, intending to draw the Colt and slam it against his attacker’s head.
But the holster was empty. The gun had fallen out sometime during the struggle, probably when Frank was knocked off his feet.
He tried to heave himself up off the floor, but the miner weighed too much. Consciousness began to slip away from him. He heard his own blood pounding in his head like the frantic beat of a drum.
Even over that racket, he heard the loud thud that sounded somewhere close by, followed by a second one. The terrible pressure on Frank’s throat eased and then went away entirely as the miner’s fingers loosened. He slumped to the side, falling off Frank. With the weight gone, Frank’s chest heaved as he dragged life-giving breaths of air into his lungs again.
He looked over and saw the miner sprawled on the floor beside him, out cold. Blood trickled from a cut in the man’s thick brown hair and ran down the side of his face. Somebody had clouted him a couple of good ones—it had taken two blows to knock him out—and when Frank glanced up he wasn’t surprised to see the gambler standing there with a broken table leg clutched in his hand.
The man reached down with his other hand and said, “Let me help you up, Marshal.”
Frank and the gambler clasped wrists, and the man lifted Frank with seemingly little effort. When he was back on his feet, Frank gave a shake of his head to clear the lingering cobwebs out of his brain. He nodded toward the unconscious miner and said, “You could have killed him, you know, hitting him with a table leg like that.”
The gambler laughed. “Not very damned likely. Bastard’s got a skull made out of iron, and it’s thick too. Anyway, if somebody had to die, I figured he was a better choice than Buckskin’s marshal.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Frank said. He flexed the fingers of his left hand. Feeling had begun to return to that hand and arm. “I’m obliged to you.”
The gambler shrugged. “Hell, the only reason you got mixed up in this fracas was because you tried to keep him from busting up me and my place any worse than he already had.” He held out his hand again. “I’m Ed Kelley, with two e’s. I own this saloon.”
Frank shook hands with him. He had seen Kelley around town but hadn’t met the man yet. Kelley was about thirty-five, with broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and a narrow mustache. He was disheveled from fighting at the moment, but he had the look of a man who would usually be pretty dapper.
Frank’s hat had come off during the fight. He picked it up, slapped it against his leg to get the sawdust from the floor off it, then settled it on his head.
“What started this ruckus?”
Kelley shrugged. “The usual misunderstanding. Rogan thought I was cheating because I won a big pot from him.”
“Were you?”
Kelley’s eyes narrowed for a second, as if he were thinking about taking offense at that question, but then he chuckled and shook his head.
“I guess being a lawman you have to ask that question, eh?”
“I like to know what’s going on in my town,” Frank admitted.
It was amazing how quickly he had come to think of Buckskin as his town.
“Well, in the interests of full disclosure…no, I wasn’t cheating, Marshal. I don’t have to cheat to win. Rogan is a reckless, impulsive player. I could clean him out any day of the week without half trying.”
Frank nodded. “All right. That’s pretty much the answer I was expecting, so I’ll take your word for it, Kelley. Just make sure you continue to run clean games here.”
“That’s what I’ve done every other place I’ve been.”
Frank turned to the other three miners and said, “This fella Rogan a friend of yours?”
“We work together at the Lucky Lizard,” one of them replied. “I wouldn’t say we were his friends.”
“Well, pick him up anyway and haul him down to the jail for me.”
Another of the men scowled. “We ain’t deputies that you can boss around, Marshal.”
“No, but you work for me,” Tip Woodford said from the doorway, “and if you want to keep on workin’ for me, you’ll do what the marshal asked.”
Some grumbling went on, but the three men did as they were told and lifted the still-unconscious Rogan. As they carried him out of the saloon, Frank called after them, “Tell my deputy to lock him up and keep him there until tomorrow morning.” Then he turned to Woodford and said, “I’m obliged for the helping hand, Tip.”
The owner of the Lucky Lizard frowned. “I heard that Rogan was in here raisin’ hell and got over here as soon as I could. Feel like it’s sort of my fault, since he works for me.”
“Just because you pay a man wages doesn’t make you his keeper,” Frank pointed o
ut.
“Maybe not, but Rogan ain’t gonna be gamblin’ away any more money I pay him, because as soon as he comes to, I’m firin’ him. He’s been a troublemaker from the start, always complainin’ and tryin’ to stir up the men against me. I pay ’em decent wages and treat ’em decent too. I don’t need somebody like Dave Rogan around causin’ an uproar for no good reason.”
“I hope you don’t attach any blame to me for what happened, Mr. Woodford,” the saloon keeper said. “We haven’t met. I’m Ed Kelley.”
Tip shook hands with him and said, “No, I don’t blame you, Kelley. Ain’t your fault that Rogan’s an ornery bastard.”
“You own the Silver Baron Saloon as well as that mine, don’t you?”
“That’s right.”
Kelley slid a cigar from his vest pocket and put it in his mouth, leaving it unlit as he clamped his teeth on it. “Biggest saloon in Buckskin, or so I’ve heard. I haven’t checked it out for myself yet.”
“Stop by any time and have a drink on me,” Tip offered.
Kelley nodded. “I’ll do that.” He took a neatly folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and touched it to a cut on his forehead. “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’d like to go clean up.” He gave Frank and Tip a pleasant nod and turned toward a door in the rear of the room. As an afterthought, he said to the bartender, “Get this mess straightened up in here.”
“Right away, Boss,” the man responded.
Frank and Tip left the saloon. “You’ve had a mighty busy day,” the mayor commented. “Trouble every which way you look, seems like.”
Frank nodded. “That’s what life is like in a boomtown,” he said.
Chapter 10
Back at the jail, Catamount Jack jerked his thumb over his shoulder when Frank came in and said, “I got that fella locked up back yonder in one o’ the cells.”
Frank nodded. “That’s fine. You can let him out in the morning if you’re here. If not, I’ll take care of it.”
“Gonna fine him for tryin’ to kill you?”
Frank touched his throat, which was a little sore from Rogan trying to strangle him. “I probably ought to, but he lost all his money to Ed Kelley at the Top-Notch. That’s what he was so upset about. I reckon spending a night in jail will have to be punishment enough for him. That and losing his job, because Tip’s going to fire him for causing another ruckus.”
“Serves him right. We don’t have to feed him, do we? Can’t we at least let him go hungry tonight?”
“That wouldn’t be humane,” Frank said with a chuckle. “I’ll talk to the ladies over at the café and see if they’ll bring a tray over to him.”
Jack scowled in disapproval.
“And one for you too,” Frank added.
The old-timer perked right up at that. “See if that gal Ginnie can bring it over,” he suggested. “I think she likes me a mite.”
Frank tried not to grin. Plump, blond Ginnie Carlson liked most men; it was in her nature. It was a wonder that being a soiled dove for several years and dealing with them on a regular basis hadn’t soured her on the entire male population, but it hadn’t.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.
A groan from the small cell block prompted him to step over to the door and look through it. Rogan stirred on the bunk where he had been placed, but he wasn’t fully conscious yet. Frank wondered if he ought to have Professor Burton take a look at Rogan, since the professor was the closest thing Buckskin had to a doctor. Frank hoped that Ed Kelley hadn’t cracked Rogan’s skull with that table leg.
A couple of minutes later, though, Rogan sat up, swung his legs off the bunk, and began cursing in a low, monotonous voice. Frank decided he was all right after all, probably just had one hell of a headache. Maybe a night in jail would help cure Rogan of that.
Frank lifted a hand in farewell as he left the office. “See you later,” he said to Jack.
He went over to the café, which wasn’t busy at the moment because the midday rush was over and it wasn’t time for supper yet. In fact, Lauren Stillman was the only person there. Older than Becky and Ginnie, she was in her early thirties. Rather than being classically beautiful, she was what some people called a handsome woman. The thick brown hair that fell around her shoulders softened her looks somewhat. She smiled at Frank and said, “Hello, Marshal. What can I do for you?”
He explained about wanting a couple of meals for Catamount Jack and the prisoner, and Lauren promised to take care of it, even down to agreeing to have Ginnie deliver the food to the jail.
“I heard about that fight you had with Dave Rogan,” she said.
“Word’s gotten around already?”
“Buckskin is a small town. Everybody knows everybody else’s business.” Lauren paused. “For example, I know that you’re having dinner with Diana Woodford tonight.”
“Well, not just with Diana,” Frank said. “Her pa will be there too, as well as that new mining engineer, Garrett Claiborne.”
“Yes, but the only one Diana is really interested in is you.”
Frank started to get uncomfortable. Lauren must have seen that, because she laughed.
“Surely I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, Frank,” she said with a hint of familiarity in her voice. The two of them had taken an easy, instinctive liking to each other as soon as the women arrived in Buckskin a few weeks earlier. “Like I said, in a small town everybody knows everybody else’s business.”
“There’s no business involving me and Diana Woodford,” Frank insisted.
“But that’s not because she wouldn’t like for there to be.”
Frank just shrugged. “Diana’s wasting her time. A young woman like her needs to find herself a more suitable fella. Somebody a whole lot younger than me.”
“With people like us, it’s not the years so much as it is the miles.”
“That’s the truth,” Frank said.
Lauren waited, as if halfway expecting him to say something else, but after a minute he just went on. “If you’ll see that those meals get sent over to the jail…”
“Of course,” she replied, her tone brisk and businesslike now. “Don’t worry about it, Marshal.”
“I’ll pay you for them—”
“No need. I’ll bill the mayor. It’s the town’s responsibility to feed prisoners, not yours.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“All right then.” Frank gave the brim of his hat a tug. “Be seeing you.”
As he turned and left the café, he thought he heard a sigh escape from Lauren Stillman. But he couldn’t be sure, so he just closed the door and kept walking.
* * * *
Jack had been stuck in the office most of the day, so Frank relieved him for a while, giving the old-timer a chance to go back to his cabin and check on Eldorado, the rangy mule that had accompanied Jack on numerous prospecting trips. Eldorado was semiretired now, as was Jack himself. A man never really got the lure of gold and silver out of his veins, but some of them learned to live with it. Jack had, and he didn’t want to go prospecting anymore. At least, that was what he claimed.
When Jack got back to the office, Frank walked over to the small cabin the town was providing for his residence. Claiborne was inside, shaving and cleaning up. “Just thought I should make myself presentable,” he said.
“Good idea,” Frank agreed. Since Claiborne had a fire going in the stove, he heated some water for himself and got his razor out.
As dusk settled down over the rugged Nevada countryside, the two men walked toward the Woodford house, both of them freshly shaven and smelling of bay rum. Tip and Diana lived in the largest house in town, built with the proceeds from the first strike at the Lucky Lizard Mine more than a decade earlier. During the years Tip had lived there alone, after his wife left him and moved back East, taking Diana with her, he had allowed the house to deteriorate quite a bit. When Diana returned, she had taken one look at th
e place, rolled up her sleeves, and started in on the task of cleaning it up and fixing it up.
She had done a good job. The Woodford place was once again the nicest home in town. The picket fence in front had a fresh coat of whitewash on it, as did the walls of the two-story house itself. The flower beds had all the weeds pulled out of them, and flagstones had been carefully placed to make a walk leading to the front porch steps. The windows were all clean and glowed with warm yellow light from the lamps inside filtering through the curtains Diana had hung over them.
“What a lovely home,” Claiborne said as he and Frank went up the walk to the porch.
“You can give Diana credit for that,” Frank said. “An old pelican like Tip would just as soon live in a tent or a shack. Diana’s the one who fixed the place up. Yes, sir, she’ll make some lucky man a fine wife one of these days.”
“Indeed.”
They climbed to the porch and Frank knocked on the door. It opened a moment later. Diana greeted them with a smile and said, “Hello, gentlemen. Come right in.”
She wore a pale blue dress that went well with her blue eyes, fair skin, and blond hair, Frank thought. This was one of the few times he had seen her when she wasn’t wearing boots and jeans and a man’s shirt. This evening she looked utterly feminine—and so lovely she’d almost take a fella’s breath away.
She seemed to have that effect on Claiborne too, because he was having trouble finding his tongue. Finally, he said, “Ah…thank you, Miss Woodford. And thank you for inviting us to dinner.”
“We want to make you feel welcome in Buckskin, Mr. Claiborne.” She turned to Frank. “Let me take your hat, Marshal.”
Frank handed her his high-crowned Stetson. She took Claiborne’s bowler hat too, but seemingly as an afterthought.
Tip came down the stairs and joined them in the foyer. He wore a dusty brown tweed suit. His shirt had a stiff collar and there was a tie around his neck. He dug a finger under his collar and tugged on it as he grunted and said, “Howdy.”
The Last Gunfighter: Hell Town Page 7