The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground

by William W. Johnstone

  Luther turned to look at her. He had been struck by the young blonde’s beauty as soon as he walked into the office with Morgan, and now he had an excuse to look directly at her. Her blue eyes seemed huge, and he could tell she was worried about her father’s future. Nor did she seem to have a great deal of faith in Luther’s ability to help.

  What would the real Claudius Turnbuckle do in this situation? Even as Luther asked himself that question, he knew the answer. Turnbuckle never doubted his abilities. The lawyer’s brash self-confidence bordered on arrogance.

  Luther clenched his right hand into a fist and thumped it on his knee. “Of course we can win!” he declared. “I can tell already that this man Brighton has no real case other than his word and a mysterious document that will probably turn out to be a complete fake. Once I’ve demonstrated that to the judge, Brighton will be exposed as a swindler who’s trying to cash in on all the hard work you and your father have done to turn the Lucky Lizard Mine into the highly successful operation that it is, Miss Woodford.”

  There, he thought. That little speech must have raised her opinion of him. If he was actually going to continue his audacious pose as the real Claudius Turnbuckle, he would have to keep in mind at all times the way Turnbuckle would behave in these situations. He wasn’t as physically imposing as the real Turnbuckle, so he couldn’t match the lawyer’s domineering presence, but he could imitate Turnbuckle’s attitude.

  Luther found himself on his feet. “In fact,” he said, “I think I should pay a visit to this man Brighton right now, just to let him know that he’s in for a fight.” Luther summoned up a laugh. “Who knows, perhaps when he sees the sort of opponent that he’s up against now, he’ll decide not to pursue his spurious claim at all. He might just abandon the idea and leave Buckskin.”

  Tip Woodford looked up at him, clearly impressed. “You really think he might light a shuck?”

  Luther frowned briefly in confusion, until Frank Morgan leaned forward and said, “Leave town, like you were talking about, Mr. Turnbuckle.”

  “Oh,” Luther said, nodding in understanding. “Yes, I think there is indeed a chance that Mr. Brighton might…light a shuck. We won’t know until we try, will we?”

  Morgan stood up. “Brighton’s got a room over at the hotel. We’ll see if he’s there.”

  “You plan to accompany me, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Yeah, I think that’d be a good idea.”

  “Very well then.” Luther had taken off his hat when they came into the room. He placed it firmly on his head now, trying not to wince as he did so. He still had a bit of an ache behind his eyes from the bumpy, dusty ride on the stagecoach. “Let’s go confront Mr. Brighton. Mr. Woodford, Miss Woodford, don’t worry about a thing. Claudius Turnbuckle is on the case.”

  “I feel better already,” Woodford said.

  So did Luther…except for the part of his brain that was still trying to convince him he had gone totally, irrevocably mad.

  Frank didn’t know what to make of Claudius Turnbuckle. When he’d first seen the lawyer in the stagecoach, Turnbuckle had seemed to be one of the most miserable, unimpressive specimens of humanity he’d ever seen, not to mention being way too young. Frank’s opinion hadn’t risen any during the first few minutes of talking to Turnbuckle. The man looked totally lost, completely out of his element, as well as being downright sick.

  Turnbuckle had started to get more animated, though, as they walked down the street to Tip Woodford’s office and discussed the case, and he had perked right up when he entered the office, met Tip and Diana, and started getting the details of the job that had brought him here.

  Some men were only at their best when they were working, and Frank thought that maybe Claudius Turnbuckle was one of them. Turnbuckle certainly seemed to have a new spring in his step as they left the Lucky Lizard office and started toward the hotel to confront Brighton…assuming that Brighton was in his room. The lawyer’s features were still pale and showed lines of strain, but he was stronger now. He was throwing off the effects of the stagecoach journey.

  “Is this man Brighton dangerous?” Turnbuckle asked. “Physically dangerous, I mean?”

  Frank nodded. “I’ve got a hunch he can be. He and Tip got in a pretty bad ruckus a few days ago. Tip’s a tough old bird, but I think Brighton would have hurt him pretty bad if I hadn’t stepped in to put a stop to it. To make things worse, I had to arrest Tip, because Brighton filed a charge of assault against him.”

  “I can defend him against that charge as well,” Turnbuckle said without hesitation.

  Frank chuckled and said, “You’ll lose if you do. A lot of people saw him throw the first punch. I’m not saying that he wasn’t provoked, but he started the ball. Reckon the judge will probably fine him, maybe sentence him to a night or two in jail. Tip can handle that.” Frank grew more solemn. “This business about who really owns the Lucky Lizard is the real case. That’s where we need your help.”

  “And you shall have it,” Turnbuckle promised. “To the best of my ability.”

  “Nobody can ask for any more than that,” Frank said.

  Turnbuckle rubbed his jaw, and for a second a look of doubt and worry passed across his face. It disappeared quickly, though, and Frank didn’t think anything of it. Everybody had those moments, even someone as supremely self-confident as Claudius Turnbuckle seemed to be.

  When they reached the hotel and went into the lobby, Frank spoke to the desk clerk. “Mr. Brighton in his room?”

  The man checked the key rack, then turned back to Frank and Turnbuckle and nodded. “His key’s not here, so I assume he is, Marshal. Room Twenty-seven.”

  Frank nodded. “Much obliged.” He put a hand on Turnbuckle’s shoulder and steered the lawyer toward the staircase.

  A few moments later, Frank knocked on the door of Brighton’s room. He glanced over at Turnbuckle as he did so, and again he saw a flash of nervousness on the lawyer’s face. It disappeared as soon as the door was opened, though.

  Dex Brighton stood there with his coat off and his collar loosened. He had a drink in his hand, and when Frank looked past him he saw the bottle on the table next to the bed. Brighton wasn’t drunk, though. His gaze was too keen for that.

  “Hello, Marshal,” he said. “What brings you here?” He gave Turnbuckle a dismissive glance. “And who’s this?”

  “I’ll tell you who I am, sir,” Turnbuckle said without giving Frank a chance to answer Brighton’s question. “I am Claudius Turnbuckle, attorney at law, and I’ve come to Buckskin to expose your scheme to obtain the Lucky Lizard Mine through fraudulent means.”

  Turnbuckle might look a mite mousy, but he obviously believed in putting his cards on the table, Frank thought. Turnbuckle stared defiantly at Brighton and waited to see how the man was going to react.

  If Brighton was surprised, he didn’t show it. He lifted his glass to his lips and casually tossed off the rest of the whiskey in it. “Is that so?” he said as he lowered the glass.

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  Brighton looked at Frank again. “So this is that bulldog of a lawyer you called in, Morgan. I’ve got to say that he’s a little smaller and younger than I expected.”

  Frank didn’t let on that he’d had the same reaction when he first saw Turnbuckle. “I don’t reckon it matters how big you are or how old you are in court, as long as you’ve got the facts on your side.”

  “You’re awfully quick to assume that I don’t,” Brighton snapped.

  “If the partnership agreement you have is genuine,” Turnbuckle said, “why don’t you go ahead and produce it? Why didn’t you show it to Thomas Woodford as soon as you came to Buckskin? The two of you might have been able to settle this matter without ever taking it to court.”

  “I offered to settle with Woodford. He threw me out of his office.”

  “You didn’t show him the document.”

  “That paper is staying in a safe place until I’m good and ready to use it,” Brighton said. �
�Anyway, if Woodford wouldn’t take my word to start with, why would he believe the partnership agreement was real? He would’ve just claimed it was a fake, like he’s saying now.”

  “Am I to understand that you intend to prove in court the document isn’t a fake?”

  Brighton smiled coldly. “I don’t give a damn what you understand or don’t understand, Turnbuckle. And I’m sure as hell not going to tell you what I intend to do. What kind of fool do you take me for?”

  “A greedy one, sir, who has overreached with this scheme to steal the Lucky Lizard Mine from its rightful owner.”

  Brighton’s face darkened, and his hand closed more tightly around the empty glass. Frank kept a close eye on the man, ready to step in if he needed to. He had been content for the moment to stand back and watch Brighton and Turnbuckle spar verbally with each other, but if it came down to a real fight, Frank didn’t figure the lawyer would stand a chance.

  Brighton reined in his anger, though, and forced a smile back onto his face with a visible effort. “And you’ll have to prove that in court, Turnbuckle. Until that time comes, I don’t think you and I have anything else to say to each other. If you came here hoping to arrange a settlement, you failed miserably.”

  “I would never advise a client to settle with a thief,” Turnbuckle shot back. “Good day, sir.”

  He turned and stalked off down the hall toward the stairs.

  Frank lingered for a second, and Brighton said, “Where’d you find that little banty rooster, Morgan? He’s not going to stand a chance once my lawyer gets through with him.”

  This was the first time Brighton had mentioned an attorney of his own, although Frank had assumed that the man intended to be represented by one when the judge arrived. He had figured as well that Brighton would bring in somebody from out of town. There were several lawyers practicing in Buckskin, but none of them were the sort Brighton would pick to handle a case like this, Frank thought.

  “Just who is your lawyer?” Frank asked. He didn’t know if Brighton would tell him or not, but the question was worth asking.

  A smug smile spread over the man’s face. “Desmond O’Hara.”

  “Don’t reckon I’ve heard of him.”

  “You will have by the time this is over, Morgan. You will have.”

  Frank jerked his head in a curt nod and followed Turnbuckle. The lawyer was already halfway down the stairs. Frank caught up to him in the hotel lobby.

  “So that’s our opponent, eh?” Turnbuckle mused. “I agree with you, Mr. Morgan. Brighton is a ruthless, dangerous man. You can see it in his eyes. But no man is bigger than the law. He’ll be cut down to size once I get him in a courtroom.”

  For Tip Woodford’s sake, Frank hoped that Turnbuckle was right about that.

  Chapter 12

  “Tell me everything you can remember about Jeremiah Fulton,” Luther said to Tip Woodford that evening. “I want to know how you met him, anything he said about his background, how it came about that you bought his mining claim from him…You understand, Mr. Woodford, that any detail, no matter how small, may turn out to be the vital piece of evidence in our attempt to derail Brighton’s claim.” Luther shrugged. “Unless, of course, it turns out that the partnership agreement is blatantly false, in which case that will be all we need to bring this affair to a successful conclusion.”

  “Well, all right. I’ll try to remember as much as I can, but that’s been a while back. You want a cigar, maybe some brandy?”

  The real Claudius Turnbuckle would never have refused such an offer, Luther thought. He nodded and said, “That sounds excellent, Mr. Woodford. Thank you.”

  “How about you, Frank?”

  Morgan shook his head. “You know me, Tip. I’m not much of a drinking man, and the most I smoke is a pipe now and then.”

  They were in Woodford’s study in the big house on the outskirts of Buckskin where Woodford and Diana lived. Woodford had had the house built during the first silver boom, when the Lucky Lizard originally made him a rich man. The boom had collapsed, Woodford had lost his fortune, and his wife had taken their young daughter and gone back East to live, leaving Woodford to cling stubbornly to his faded hopes and dreams.

  Then, a few years earlier, Diana’s mother had passed away, and she had returned to Buckskin to live with her father. The big house had fallen into disrepair by then, although Woodford was still living in it. The discovery of a new silver vein had changed everything, and Woodford was once more a rich man. Diana had taken charge of the household and seen to it that things were put back in order. It was a grand place. Nothing to compare to the fine houses in San Francisco, of course, but certainly the most opulent dwelling in Buckskin. Probably in this entire part of Nevada.

  Frank Morgan had told Luther about Tip Woodford’s history that afternoon, after Luther had rested for a while in his hotel room. Morgan had come to the hotel to inform Luther that Woodford wanted both of them to have dinner at his house that evening. Even though Luther was still exhausted from the grueling trip from Carson City, he hadn’t hesitated in accepting the invitation. It would give him a chance to discuss the case some more with Woodford, and it was exactly what Mr. Turnbuckle would have done in this position.

  Besides, dining at the Woodford house meant that he would have the opportunity to spend more time with Diana Woodford, and that prospect was definitely appealing to Luther. He’d always had an eye for a pretty woman, and Diana had an elegance and grace about her, to go with her physical beauty, that Luther wouldn’t have expected to find in a frontier settlement such as Buckskin.

  She was a good cook, too, as she had demonstrated with the meal she’d prepared for them—steaks cooked in some sort of light, crispy breading the likes of which Luther had never encountered before, potatoes, gravy, incredibly light and fluffy biscuits…simple fare really, but Diana made all of it delicious.

  They hadn’t talked about the case during dinner. Diana had lived in St. Louis, so she was familiar with cities, but she had never been to San Francisco and wanted to know about it. Having grown up there, Luther knew all about it and was more than happy to spin tales about the city’s history and describe its attractions. Morgan had been to San Francisco on numerous occasions and knew most of the places Luther talked about.

  That made Luther appreciate even more the stroke of luck that had prevented Morgan from ever making Claudius Turnbuckle’s acquaintance in the past. If the two men had ever met, Luther couldn’t have even attempted this ruse.

  That might have been better, the cautious part of him insisted. He had never been one to take a lot of chances.

  Which was probably one reason why it felt so good to attempt something this daring. Despite his fears, he was beginning to enjoy playing this role.

  Dinner was over now, and the men had withdrawn into Woodford’s combined study, library, and office. Woodford took cigars from a humidor on his desk and handed one to Luther. Luther recalled seeing Mr. Turnbuckle trim his cigars before lighting them, and Woodford was doing the same thing. He took a penknife from his pocket and followed suit, then puffed the fat cylinder of tobacco into life as Woodford held a match for him.

  The smoke was harsh in Luther’s lungs, but even though he choked a little, he managed not to cough. Sipping the brandy from the snifter Woodford handed him helped. Luther might not have ever smoked an expensive cigar before, but he’d had brandy on numerous occasions.

  Woodford had donned a suit and vest and cravat this evening, and he actually looked a little like a businessman instead of a hardrock miner, although his attitude was still somewhat rough around the edges. Case in point. He said, “I met Jeremiah Fulton in a Virginia City whorehouse.”

  Luther couldn’t stop his eyebrows from rising.

  Woodford looked around the room, as if to make sure that Diana hadn’t slipped in while he wasn’t looking, and went on. “I ain’t proud of some of the things I’ve done, Mr. Turnbuckle, but I won’t deny ’em either. I’m as human as the next fella and a
lways have been. But I don’t want to hurt Diana’s feelin’s.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Luther said. “I won’t share any details with your charming daughter except the ones that are absolutely necessary.”

  “Anyway,” Woodford went on, “I ran into Fulton in the bar of this sportin’ house, and since we were both prospectors we got to talkin’. You know, tellin’ each other about places where we’d looked for gold and silver, places where we’d had a little luck and them where we hadn’t had any.”

  Luther puffed on the cigar and nodded. “Of course.”

  “Fulton told me about this spot that he swore was a natural for silver. He’d had a mite of education and said all the signs were there, the right kinds o’ rocks and stratification and such like. But he’d sunk a couple of shafts and hadn’t found a thing, so he’d decided that he was wrong about it and was wastin’ his time.”

  “This was the claim that turned out to be the Lucky Lizard?”

  Woodford nodded. “That’s right. Fulton had filed on it with the land recorder, all properlike, and he said he’d sell me the claim if I was interested in givin’ it a try.”

  Morgan said, “Why would you be interested in prospecting a claim that hadn’t panned out?”

  “You know the answer to that, Frank,” Woodford said with a smile. “Fellas like me, and ol’ Jeremiah Fulton, too, for that matter, always think that we’re luckier than the next fella, that fate’s gonna smile on us and we’re gonna be the ones to find the strike. Anyway, Fulton sounded like he knew what he was talkin’ about with all that talk about geology and such, so I decided to take a chance. He sold me the claim for twenty dollars.”

  “Such a small amount?” Luther asked in surprise.

  “Well…Fulton was flat broke. He’d just spent his last coin on a drink. And twenty bucks would buy quite a bit of what the place we were in had to sell, if you know what I mean. That was all Fulton was interested in right then.”

  Frank chuckled. “So he was really just trying to promote enough dinero to take one of the girls upstairs.”