But mainly, he kept thinking that Diana Woodford had to be impressed with him now. He had saved the life of the famous Frank Morgan. Morgan himself had said so. He, Luther Galloway, law clerk and failed law student, was a hero.
Unfortunately, Diana didn’t even know who Luther Galloway was. She believed he was Claudius Turnbuckle, the successful attorney from San Francisco.
When they got back to Buckskin, Luther thought as he swayed slightly in the saddle, he ought to tell Diana the truth about who he really was. If she was going to like him, he wanted her to like him for himself.
The problem with that idea was that when she learned what a big liar he was, she was bound to hate him. His only hope was to make her fall so in love with him that she wouldn’t be able to hate him when she finally found out the truth, as she inevitably would.
So, like it or not, the masquerade had to continue, Luther decided.
Morgan rode beside him on his left, with Garrett Claiborne on his right. The miners from the Crown Royal were ranged around them, rifles held ready across their saddles in case they ran into trouble.
Although Luther was having a little trouble thinking straight because of the whiskey, the attempts on Morgan’s life kept cropping up in his mind. If Dex Brighton was behind those attempts, he must have wanted to get Morgan out of the way so that his chances of stealing Tip Woodford’s mine would improve. Likewise, if Brighton regarded Morgan as a threat because the marshal was Woodford’s friend, then how would Brighton feel about the man who had been brought in to plead Woodford’s case in court…?
Luther suddenly sobered a little as he put that chain of thought together. He seemed to feel a cold spot right in the middle of his back, and it took him a moment to figure out what it was.
The bull’s-eye on a target—because that’s what he would be wearing as long as Brighton was trying to steal the Lucky Lizard out from under Tip Woodford.
Sunk in thought, Luther started slightly as Morgan spoke to him. “How’re you doing, Mr. Turnbuckle?”
Luther swallowed. “I…I’m fine. My arm hurts, of course, but I suppose that’s to be expected when you’ve been shot.”
“Always hurt when I got shot,” Morgan said with a wry chuckle.
“Have you been…wounded in battle often?”
Morgan nodded. “More than I like to think about. I’ve got bullet scars all over, and a few from knives and tomahawks, too. I was shot up so bad one time it took me several months to recover.”
“And yet you come back for more,” Luther said with an amazed shake of his head.
“Life hasn’t given me much choice in the matter,” Morgan said heavily. “One reason I drifted around so much over the years was that I was looking for a place where I might find some lasting peace and quiet. It took me a long time before I realized that probably wasn’t going to happen. Buckskin has come closer to that for me than most places, and even here it seems like a week doesn’t go by without somebody shooting at me.”
“What a terrible thing to have following you around and hanging over your head,” Luther murmured. “To always travel in the shadow of death.”
Morgan’s face was grim as he nodded. “That’s about the size of it. It’s not going to change any time soon either, at least not as long as Brighton is around trying to steal the Lucky Lizard.”
“Well, the judge will be here in a few days, and we ought to be able to move pretty quickly with the case. Once Brighton has lost, do you think he’ll slink away with his tail between his legs?”
“No telling. I’ve got a feeling he’s not going to be a gracious loser, though…assuming that the judge doesn’t rule in his favor.”
“He won’t,” Luther declared. “I’m going to destroy his claim, especially if I can send some wires from Carson City and get the replies back in time.”
“Write out the messages,” Morgan said. “I’ll see to it that they get sent. There are several fellas in town I can trust to take the wires to Carson City and then wait for the replies.”
Not long after that, the group of riders reached Buckskin. At the edge of town, Morgan thanked Claiborne and the miners, and the men turned their mounts around and headed back to the Crown Royal. Luther and Morgan headed their mounts on down the street toward the office of Dr. William Garland.
Diana must have been watching for them, because she hurried out of the mining company office and met them in the road. Her father followed her out of the office.
Luther was still coatless, and the bloodstain on his torn shirt sleeve was clearly visible, as was the makeshift bandage tied around his arm. When Diana saw those things, she exclaimed, “Oh, no! You’re hurt, Mr. Turnbuckle!”
“Call me…Claudius,” Luther said. He had started to use his real name and had caught himself just in time. He didn’t think anyone had noticed his hesitation, though. Diana and Woodford were too surprised and upset by the fact that he was wounded.
Diana looked at Morgan. “How bad is it, Frank?”
“Not too bad,” he assured her. “The bullet just creased Mr. Turnbuckle’s arm. I would have been a lot worse off if he hadn’t acted when he did, though. He spoiled a bushwhacker’s play for me.”
“Really?”
Luther glowed warmly inside at the look in Diana’s eyes. He saw worry there, of course, but also admiration. Just as he had hoped. Not that he had wanted to get shot when he rode out with Morgan…but if he had to suffer a wound, this one was just about perfect.
Quickly, Morgan filled in Diana and her father about what had happened at the Crown Royal, then concluded by saying, “Mr. Turnbuckle and I are on our way down to Doc Garland’s office so the doctor can take a look at that crease.”
“Do you need any help?” Diana asked.
“We’ll be fine,” Morgan answered before Luther could say that it might be a good idea for Diana to come along. That way she could see how brave he was while the doctor was tending to his injured arm. But since he’d been a little too slow to get the words out, all he could do now was nod in agreement with Morgan’s reply.
“Yes, don’t worry about me, Miss Woodford,” he managed to say. “I’ve suffered much worse than this in the pursuit of justice.”
Tip Woodford said, “I’ll bet a hat Brighton had something to do with the attack on the mine and that dry-gulch attempt on you, Frank.”
Morgan nodded and said, “That’s what Mr. Turnbuckle and I think, too, and Garrett Claiborne goes along with it.”
“How is Garrett?” Diana asked. “He wasn’t hurt, was he?”
“No, Claudius here is the only one who got elected. I heard the nomination speech, though, when that slug went right past my ear.”
Morgan heeled his horse into motion again. He had the reins of Luther’s mount, so Luther had no choice but to go with him. And as a matter of fact, his arm was starting to hurt a little worse, so he thought it would be a good idea for the doctor to look at it. Luther turned slightly in his saddle and lifted his good arm in a small wave of farewell to Diana and her father.
“This doctor of yours,” he said to Morgan, “he knows what he’s doing?”
“Yeah, he’s a good sawbones. He’ll be able to patch you up better than I could. Your arm should be fine, providing that you don’t get blood poisoning.”
“That sounds bad.”
“It would be, if you wanted to keep that arm, which I reckon you do.”
“Of course.” Luther paused. “I imagine that having the arm in a sling will look fairly dashing, though. Might make a good impression on a jury, if it ever comes to that.”
Frank chuckled. “Yeah, Counselor, you’re a lawyer, all right.”
Luther was starting to think there might be some truth to that.
At one fairly recent point in the settlement’s existence, Professor Henry Burton was the closest thing to a doctor that Buckskin had. When the town began to grow as news of the silver spread, Dr. Garland had arrived and hung out his shingle. He was young, not that long out of medical
school, but he had proven to be a good physician and was tougher than his rather mild appearance indicated.
While Frank looked on, Garland carefully removed the bandage from Claudius Turnbuckle’s arm, using a wet sponge to soak away the dried blood that made the cloth want to cling to the wound. Turnbuckle turned pale again at this fresh pain, but he didn’t moan or cry out. Frank could tell by the tense set of the lawyer’s jaw that he was gritting his teeth.
“You did a good job, Marshal,” Dr. Garland told Frank. “I think it would be a good idea, though, to clean out the wound a little better and take some stitches in it before I bandage it again.”
“Stitches,” Turnbuckle repeated. “That will leave a scar, won’t it?”
“A small one,” Garland said. “But your sleeve will cover it.”
Turnbuckle nodded. “All right, Doctor. Do whatever needs to be done.”
“Well, first off, I’m going to give you a dose of laudanum.”
“Is that absolutely necessary?” Turnbuckle asked with a frown.
“I think you’ll be a lot more comfortable if I do.”
Turnbuckle still looked leery of the idea, but after a moment he nodded. “All right, Doctor. Go ahead.”
Garland took a small brown bottle from a cabinet and poured a dose of laudanum from it. Frank didn’t like the sickly sweet smell of the stuff and was glad when Turnbuckle downed it.
Within moments, a sleepy glaze came over Turnbuckle’s eyes. Frank and Garland stretched him out on the examination table, and Garland went to work cleaning and stitching up the wound in his arm.
Turnbuckle began muttering as he drifted into semi-consciousness under the influence of the laudanum. Frank asked, “What’s he saying?”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Garland replied. “I’ve learned not to pay any attention to what patients say after they’ve been given an opiate. It usually doesn’t make any sense.”
Frank leaned closer anyway, trying to make out the words the lawyer was slurring. He thought he heard “Turnbuckle” several times, along with either the name “Luther” or the word “loser.” He wasn’t sure which. Finally, shaking his head, Frank gave up on the effort. Turnbuckle seemed more asleep than awake now anyway.
It didn’t take long for Garland to finish with his efforts. As he tied the bandage around Turnbuckle’s arm in place, he said, “I’ll fix up a sling for him to wear on that arm, so he can keep it still.”
Frank smiled. “He’ll be glad to hear that. He thought a sling would look dashing. I expect black silk would be best.”
“I think I can manage that,” Garland replied with a laugh. “I also think it would be a good idea for him to stay here for a while, at least until that laudanum wears off.”
“That’s fine. I appreciate what you’ve done for him, Doctor. I think I should warn you, though…There’s a possibility that whoever took those shots at us may make another try on Mr. Turnbuckle here.”
Garland’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Really? No offense, Marshal, but I just assumed that you were the target and Mr. Turnbuckle was hit by accident.”
“That’s what I figured at first, too, but that might not be the case. Are you sure you want him to stay here?”
“No one’s going to bother him in the middle of town,” Garland declared. “Besides, I have a medical responsibility, and I’m not going to shirk it.”
“All right, Doctor. I just wanted you to know. I’ll be back by to check on him later.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Marshal, does this have something to do with that man who claims he owns Mayor Woodford’s mine?”
“That’s what I’m going to try to find out right now,” Frank said.
Chapter 17
Frank knew that Dex Brighton was usually in his hotel room or at the Top-Notch Saloon. He checked at the hotel first and was told that Brighton wasn’t there. So he headed for the Top-Notch.
Catamount Jack intercepted him on the way. “I heard about what happened out there, Frank,” the deputy said. “Are you all right?”
Frank nodded. “I’m fine.”
“That lawyer fella got hit, though?”
“Yes, but he should be all right, too. He’ll be laid up for a short time, but he’ll still be able to handle the court case when it comes up next week.”
“Brighton,” Jack said, glaring. “Got to be.”
“That’s what I thought, too. I’m looking for him now, to see what he’s got to say for himself.”
Jack snorted. “Nothin’ good, I’ll bet. I’m comin’ with you.”
“Glad for the company,” Frank said.
When they entered the Top-Notch, which was a narrow, dingy establishment that didn’t really live up to its name, Frank looked around the place and didn’t see Brighton. A balding man named Mason was behind the bar, wearing a dirty apron. He had a prominent Adam’s apple, and it bobbed up and down nervously as Frank and Catamount Jack approached the bar.
“Howdy, Marshal,” he said, nodding and trying to look friendly. “Deputy. You fellas want a drink? It’s on the house.”
“No, thanks,” Frank said, ignoring the way Jack licked his lips in anticipation. “We’re looking for Dex Brighton.”
Mason shook his head. “Haven’t seen him, Marshal. Sorry.”
“Your eyesight’s not very good, Mason.” The drawling words came from a man who was sitting alone at one of the felt-covered poker tables, dealing a hand of solitaire. Frank turned to look at him and recognized him as a gambler called Winston. The man had been around Buckskin for a while, and even though Frank suspected he was no more honest than he had to be, Winston hadn’t caused any trouble that Frank knew of.
“What do you mean by that, Winston?” Frank asked.
“Brighton was in here until about forty-five minutes ago,” the gambler said. “About the same time you and that lawyer fellow arrived to such commotion, in fact. Someone came in here talking about how you and Turnbuckle had been shot at out at the Crown Royal Mine, and how Turnbuckle was wounded. Brighton left right after that.” Winston looked at the bartender. “I don’t see how you missed that, Mason.”
“I was busy, all right?” Mason replied in a surly voice. To Frank he said, “Sorry, Marshal, but I can’t be expected to keep up with the comin’s and goin’s of everybody who comes in here. I got work to do.”
Frank nodded. “Sure, Mason. I understand.”
He did understand. Mason was either afraid of Dex Brighton, or else Brighton had paid him off to keep quiet about his whereabouts.
Frank went over to the table where Winston sat. “I don’t suppose you heard Brighton say where he was going.”
Winston shook his head. “He didn’t say anything about it, at least not in my hearing.”
“Why are you being helpful, Winston? You and Brighton have some trouble between you?”
“I wouldn’t call it trouble. He’s won more than his share of poker hands since he’s been in town, though.”
“You think he’s cheating?”
Winston gave a curt laugh. “No, he’s winning fair and square. That’s even more annoying. I don’t mind losing, but I hate losing to an honest man.”
Frank chuckled, too. “All right. I’m obliged. And I figure I should tell you, when word of this gets to Brighton, you’re liable to have made an enemy of him.”
“I’ll worry about that tomorrow…if I get around to it.”
As Frank and Jack left the saloon, the deputy said, “Brighton lit a shuck when he heard that the ambush he set up didn’t do for you, Frank.”
“That’s the way it sounds to me, too.”
“You reckon he’ll be back, or has he left Buckskin for good?”
“Oh, I think we can count on him being back,” Frank said. “He’s not going to let us off that easy.”
Brighton seethed as he rode toward the abandoned mine that his men were using as a hideout. Things had been on the verge of working out perfectly. In a lucky break, the lawyer Turnbuckle had ridden
out to the Crown Royal with Morgan, and Stample had had a chance to get rid of both men. If he had been able to handle that simple chore, then kill the circuit judge a few days hence, then Tip Woodford would have been left without any powerful friends or any legal recourse. He could have been pressured into accepting Brighton’s claim on the Lucky Lizard. Probably, all it would have taken was a subtle threat to his daughter’s safety.
Instead, Morgan and Turnbuckle had escaped from the ambush attempt, even though Turnbuckle had been slightly wounded, according to what Brighton had heard. With the two men still alive to help him, Woodford would remain stubborn. Worse still, Morgan would be on the alert now, more so than ever after two attempts on his life in the past week or so. The man was no fool.
Brighton was still several hundred yards away from the mouth of the abandoned mine when a voice called out from behind a boulder beside the trail. “Hold it right there, mister!” The command was punctuated by the unmistakable sound of a Winchester being cocked.
Brighton reined to a halt. His right hand moved toward the butt of the pistol he carried in a shoulder rig under his coat.
“Don’t try it!” the voice warned. “Who are you, and what do you want out here?”
Brighton realized that this unseen gunman must be a guard that Stample had posted. That meant he was one of the hired killers recruited by Stample.
“You damned fool,” Brighton bit off, too irritated by everything that had happened to be careful about what he said. “I’m the man you’re drawing your pay from.”
The sentry stepped out from behind the boulder. He was lean and unshaven, with dull eyes that indicated he wasn’t too bright. His big hands cradled the Winchester with natural ease, though. A man didn’t have to be smart to be an efficient killer…even though it often helped, as Dex Brighton knew from experience.
The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground Page 13