But they never seemed to stay that way for long, Frank reflected as he watched the buggy approach. Conrad was still handling the reins, and Rebel had the Winchester across her lap. He wondered if she was the one who had taken those shots at the bushwhacker, instead of Conrad. It was certainly possible, given Rebel’s feisty nature.
“Fella name of Dex Brighton,” Catamount Jack said in answer to Frank’s question. “He showed up a while back and started tellin’ folks that he’s the real owner of the Lucky Lizard.”
So it was Tip Woodford’s claim somebody was trying to move in on. That was a relief in one way, Frank thought, but still mighty bad news. Tip was the mayor of Buckskin and a good friend. The settlement might not even still be here if it weren’t for Tip Woodford.
“Hold on and wait for Conrad and Rebel to get here so you’ll only have to tell the story once,” Frank told Catamount Jack.
The old-timer snorted.
“I’d just as soon not have to tell it at all, but I reckon you’d better hear about it. If Brighton gets away with his thievin’, he’s liable to go after the other mines next.”
That was one of Frank’s worries, too. An outlaw who went unchallenged usually kept trying to grab more and more.
Of course, he didn’t know that this fella Brighton was an outlaw, he reminded himself. As a lawman, he was supposed to keep an open mind.
But it was hard to believe that anything about Tip Woodford’s operation wasn’t honest and aboveboard.
Conrad brought the buggy to a halt.
“Frank, are you all right?” he asked, and Frank thought he sounded genuinely concerned.
“Probably picked up a bruise or two when I hit the ground, but I’ll be fine,” he said. “How about the two of you?”
“That varmint didn’t even take any potshots at us,” Rebel replied. “Looked like it was you he was after, Frank.”
“Appeared that way to me, too.” Frank looked at his son. “Did you let anybody here know that we were coming?”
Conrad shook his head. “Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
Frank must have put the question a little sharper than he intended, because he saw Conrad’s back stiffen.
“I sent a letter to Garrett Claiborne a couple of weeks ago, while you were still involved in that Ambush Valley business, advising him that we would be paying a visit to Buckskin once you returned. It’s possible that he’s received it by now.”
Frank thought it was likely. There was no telegraph line into Buckskin yet, but mail deliveries on the stage line that ran down here from Carson City were pretty dependable.
Catamount Jack shook his head. “I saw Claiborne just a couple o’ days ago, and he ain’t said nothin’ to me about you bein’ on the way back here yet, Frank. I reckon he would have if he knew. Could be he never got the letter.”
“But somebody else could have gotten his hands on it,” Frank mused, “and decided that he wanted to give me a hot lead welcome when I came back.”
“Makes sense,” Jack said with a nod. “And I wouldn’t put a little dry-gulchin’ past that son of a bitch Brighton.” He tugged on the brim of his hat as he nodded at Rebel. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. I sometimes forget to watch my language.”
“It’s easy to forget when you’re talking about a son of a bitch,” she said with a smile. “Don’t worry, Jack. I heard a lot worse than that from my brothers every day when I was growing up.”
Conrad looked a little scandalized, though. Frank figured that in some respects, Conrad would never completely get used to the rough-and-tumble ways of the West.
“All right, Jack,” he said to his deputy. “Tell us about Brighton.”
“Wait a minute,” Conrad said. “Do you mean to conduct a serious discussion out in the sun, right next to this dead horse?”
“It’d be a mite more pleasant in the Silver Baron, all right, Marshal,” Jack said. He licked his lips, no doubt thinking of the cool beer available in the saloon as well.
Frank chuckled. “All right. Let me just climb up in the back of the buggy…”
He stepped into the vehicle, crouching in the area behind the seat. Conrad got the pair of horses moving again, and they set off for town, accompanied by Catamount Jack and Professor Burton. Amos Hillman and Junior Ledyard remained behind to finish stripping the gear off the fallen bay. They would dispose of the horse’s body later.
A lot of people in the settlement had heard the shooting from the meadow, which was only about half a mile away. Because of that, there were quite a few curious folks still on the street when the buggy and the two riders arrived.
As they went past the hotel, Frank noticed a man standing on the building’s front porch, a shoulder leaned casually against one of the posts holding up the awning. The man studied the newcomers with a cool but intent interest. He was well dressed in a brown tweed suit, matching vest, and dark brown Stetson. His face was tanned, in sharp contrast to the white hair under the hat. That hair color was premature, though, because Frank estimated that the man was no more than thirty-five years old.
The townspeople flocked around the buggy to find out what had happened, and within seconds the word was going through town that Frank Morgan was back in Buckskin. Conrad stopped the buggy at the hitch rack in front of the Silver Baron Saloon, which was also owned by Tip Woodford, and when Frank swung down from the vehicle the townspeople crowded around him, eager to shake his hand and welcome him back.
Frank still enjoyed that, because it was so different from the way he had been treated in so many places he had visited. In most settlements, people had shunned him and been afraid of him because he was a gunfighter. The local badge-toter usually showed up pretty quickly, often carrying a shotgun, to warn him about causing trouble and suggest that it would be better for all concerned if he would just vamoose out of town. Women stared at him like he was some sort of monster, and children stared wide-eyed at him as if they could see the blood of all the men he had killed on his hands.
Not here, though. Here he was a respected member of the community. Quite a change. So Frank made sure he shook hands with and spoke to everyone who wanted to greet him before he made his way into the saloon and took a seat at a big table in the rear along with Conrad, Rebel, and Catamount Jack. Conrad looked like he didn’t care for the idea of his wife being inside a saloon, but give the boy credit for some brains, Frank thought. Conrad had figured out by now that it wasn’t going to do any good to argue with her.
Johnny Collyer, the head bartender and the fella who ran the Silver Baron for Tip Woodford, brought over a pitcher of beer and some mugs himself, rather than sending the drinks with one of the waiter gals. He shook hands with Frank and said, “It’s mighty good to have you back, Marshal. Buckskin just hasn’t been the same without you.”
“Thanks, Johnny. Is Tip around?”
Collyer shook his head. “Out at the mine, I reckon. Miss Diana, too.”
Diana Woodford, Tip’s daughter, kept the books and ran the mine office. Like Rebel, whom she actually resembled slightly in her blond beauty, she was a bit of a tomboy, and she’d had quite a crush on Frank Morgan when he first came to Buckskin. Frank was old enough to be her father, though, and he had successfully deflected her interest to Garrett Claiborne, who was younger and a more appropriate beau for her.
Johnny Collyer poured beers for everybody, even Rebel, and then went back behind the bar. Frank sipped from his mug, enjoying the way the cool beer cut the trail dust. He wasn’t much of a drinker, preferring a good cup of coffee or even a phosphate to hard liquor, but sometimes a beer went down just fine.
He said, “All right, Jack. Tell us about Dex Brighton.”
Jack took a healthy swallow of beer, his corded throat working as he swallowed, then lowered the mug and wiped the back of his other hand across his whiskery mouth.
“Fella rode into town about a month ago, not long after you left for Arizona Territory, Frank,” the old-timer began. “Nobody p
aid much attention to him at first. You know how it is, folks come and go all the time.”
Frank nodded. Ever since the silver boom had gotten rolling again, new folks showed up in Buckskin nearly every day.
“Brighton wasn’t a miner or a cowhand or anything like that,” Jack went on. “You could tell that by lookin’ at him. I took him for a gambler maybe, and sorta kept an eye on him for a day or two, just to make sure he wasn’t a tinhorn who was gonna try to set up a crooked game or anything like that. I reckon he was just gettin’ the lay o’ the land, though, before he sprung his surprise. He went into Tip Woodford’s office one day and told ol’ Tip that he was the real owner of the Lucky Lizard.”
“That’s not possible,” Conrad said. “Mr. Woodford has owned the Lucky Lizard claim for years, ever since the first silver boom in Buckskin.”
“Yeah, well, that ain’t the way Brighton tells the story. Y’see, Tip Woodford bought that claim from a fella years ago, before there ever was a Lucky Lizard Mine, before anybody had found any silver in these parts at all. Brighton says that his pa was partners with the hombre Tip bought the claim from, and that they had a deal so that they could only sell out to each other, not to anybody else. So accordin’ to Brighton, it weren’t legal when Tip bought the claim, and since both o’ the original partners is dead, that means the Lucky Lizard belongs to him.”
Frank frowned in thought. The story was a bit convoluted, but no more so than plenty of other circumstances surrounding various mines and mining claims in the West. Disputes over the ownership of such rights were commonplace.
“What did Tip do?” he asked.
“Well, I reckon he wanted to throw Brighton out on his ear, but Diana was there so he didn’t. He just told Brighton he figured he was mistaken about that and even offered to show him all the paperwork provin’ that Tip owned the mine. Brighton said that that didn’t mean anything, but he appreciated ever’thing Tip did to get the mine operatin’, so he said he was willin’ to let Tip keep a one-quarter share for himself. He said he figured that was a mighty generous offer.”
“I’m guessing Tip didn’t see it that way.”
Jack snorted. “Not hardly. He got a little hot under the collar finally, and told Brighton to go peddle his papers elsewhere. Brighton said he’d be sorry for that and said when he took over, Tip wasn’t gonna get nothin’.” The old-timer’s bony shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “That’s how things stand, as far as I know. Brighton’s still hangin’ around town tellin’ folks that he’s the real owner o’ the Lucky Lizard, and there’s not much Tip can do about that. Word is that Brighton’s got some fancy lawyer comin’ in to take Tip to court and try to take the mine away from him that way. But Brighton’s been seen talkin’ to some hard-lookin’ hombres, too, and Tip’s a mite nervous. He thinks Brighton might try to take over the Lucky Lizard with hired guns, if it comes to that.”
“It won’t,” Frank promised with a grim look on his face. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Well, maybe you can start now,” Jack said. He nodded toward the batwings at the saloon’s entrance, which had just been pushed aside to let a man stroll in. Somehow, Frank wasn’t surprised to see the hard-faced, white-haired gent from the hotel porch walking toward them as Jack added, “Here comes Brighton now.”
Chapter 3
Dex Brighton came straight toward the table where Frank sat with Conrad, Rebel, and Catamount Jack. Frank rose to his feet as the man approached, wanting to meet Brighton on an equal basis. Brighton stopped a few feet away and gave Frank a curt nod.
“You’re not wearing a badge, but I assume you’re the town marshal. Frank Morgan, right?”
“That’s right,” Frank said.
Brighton extended a hand.
“I’m Dexter Brighton. It’s good to meet you, Morgan. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
His affable manner didn’t extend to his eyes, which remained cold and hard. Frank hesitated before shaking his hand, but only for a second. If Brighton was trying to cause trouble for Tip Woodford, then Frank had to regard him as an enemy, because Tip was his friend.
At the same time, it was possible that Brighton had legal grounds for his claim on the Lucky Lizard, in which case Frank was sworn to uphold the law. He gripped Brighton’s hand, which was hard, dry, and strong. The man was well dressed and had the look of money about him, but he had done plenty of hard work in his life, too.
“I’ve heard a few things about you, too, Brighton,” Frank said.
Brighton chuckled, but again, the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure you have.” He nodded to Catamount Jack. “Hello, Deputy.”
Jack just grunted.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Marshal,” Brighton went on.
“I generally don’t. I like to see things with my own eyes before I make up my mind about anything—or anybody.”
Brighton nodded. “That’s wise. I think you’ll find that I’m just a man who wants what’s rightfully his.”
“We’ll see,” Frank said.
Conrad cleared his throat.
Frank half-turned and waved his left hand toward the table. “My son, Conrad Browning, and his wife.”
Conrad stood up and shook hands with Brighton as well. “Mr. Brighton,” he said.
“Conrad Browning of the Browning Mining Syndicate,” Brighton said with a smile. “Owner of the Crown Royal Mine. You see, I looked into the situation here in Buckskin before I ever came out here. I hope we’ll be friendly competitors once I take over the Lucky Lizard. Enough silver to go around for everyone, eh?”
“Your business affairs are your own, Mr. Brighton,” Conrad replied, his voice cool. “They have nothing to do with the Crown Royal or the Browning Mining Syndicate.”
“And we’ll have to see about that claim of yours on the Lucky Lizard,” Frank put in. “I haven’t seen anything to indicate that it doesn’t belong to Tip Woodford free and clear, just the way it always has.”
“Not always,” Brighton said, and for the first time a tone of clipped anger crept into his voice as his polished façade slipped. “And as far as evidence goes, I have the partnership agreement between Jeremiah Fulton and my father, Chester Brighton. It clearly states that if either of them wanted to sell his share in the mining claim they owned jointly, it could only be sold to the other partner. Fulton’s sale of the claim to Woodford was in violation of that agreement. Therefore, the sale was null and void. The agreement also states that in the event of the death of one partner, his share would pass to the other partner. Fulton died first, so legally the entire claim went to my father. And when he died, it passed on to me. It’s just that cut-and-dried, gentlemen.”
“You talk like a lawyer,” Frank said. His tone of voice made it clear he didn’t think that was a good thing.
Brighton smiled and shook his head. “No, I’m a businessman, not an attorney. But I have had some excellent legal advice on this matter.”
“Where’s that partnership agreement you mentioned? You’re going to have to produce it if you want to convince me or anybody else that you’re telling the truth about your claim on the Lucky Lizard.”
“In due time, Marshal. When the time is right.”
“And when is that going to be?”
“I believe a circuit court judge is due to arrive here in another week or so on his usual rounds,” Brighton said. “My attorney should be here by then, too.”
So that was his plan, Frank thought. He wasn’t sure why Brighton had come to Buckskin ahead of the judge, instead of showing up at the same time and springing his surprise then, so that Tip Woodford wouldn’t have had any time to prepare a defense. But if this was the way Brighton wanted to play it, that was all right with Frank.
He nodded and said, “I reckon we’ll let the court settle it then. In the meantime, there’s no need for you to be stirring up trouble around town.”
Brighton spread his hands. “What have I done to stir up trouble?”
&nb
sp; “I hear you’ve been talking to some hardcases. Hired guns maybe, in case this legal challenge of yours doesn’t work out and you try to take over Tip’s claim by force.”
Brighton’s face darkened with anger. “That’s scandalous talk, Marshal. I haven’t broken any laws, and I don’t appreciate being treated as if I have. I think it’s obvious, too, that you’re not going to be impartial in this matter since you and Woodford are friends. He’s the one who hired you for your job here, isn’t he?”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with me warning you not to cause trouble,” Frank snapped.
“Doesn’t it? Before you pinned on a badge here, you were nothing but a cheap, drifting gunman, isn’t that right, Morgan? It seems to me that if anyone’s got a hired killer on his side, it’s Woodford, not me.”
Frank tightened the reins on the anger that welled up inside him. Catamount Jack wasn’t as restrained. He leaped to his feet.
“Why, you slick, no-good polecat! You can’t talk that way about Frank Morgan!”
He started toward Brighton, his hands balling into knobby-knuckled fists.
Frank moved quickly to get between Brighton and his deputy before Jack could throw a punch. It wouldn’t make a judge any more kindly disposed toward Woodford’s case to have one of the local lawmen physically attacking Brighton. That could make it look like Tip was trying to use his position as Buckskin’s mayor to intimidate his opponent—even though Tip really had nothing to do with it.
Putting a hand on the old-timer’s chest to hold him back, Frank said, “Take it easy, Jack. That won’t do any good.” He looked over his shoulder at Brighton. “I think you’d better move along, mister.”
An arrogant smile appeared on Brighton’s face as he said, “As far as I know, Marshal, this is a public place, and you don’t have any right to order me out unless I’m causing a disturbance.”
The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground Page 2