The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground

by William W. Johnstone

  “Where are we going?” O’Hara whined as he struggled to keep the horses on the trail.

  Brighton reached over and snatched the reins away from him. “Give me those,” he snapped. “I’m going to do what I should have done to start with. I’m going to take what I want.”

  O’Hara frowned worriedly, but didn’t say anything else except to mutter, “I never claimed to be a real lawyer.”

  Brighton ignored him.

  A short time later, they approached the abandoned mine where Cy Stample and the rest of the hired gunmen were waiting. Stample strode out to meet the buggy, an eager expression on his craggy face.

  “Is the trial over?” he asked, getting right to the point. “Did you win?”

  The bleak expression on Brighton’s face gave Stample the answer to his question. The gunman cursed and smacked his right fist into his left palm.

  “You didn’t get the mine!”

  “No,” Brighton said. “The judge ruled against me.”

  “Damn it,” Stample grated, “the boys ain’t gonna like it when they find out they came all this way and did the things they did for nothin’.”

  “It won’t be for nothing,” Brighton insisted. “We won’t come out with as much as we hoped, but there’s a considerable amount of silver on hand out at the Lucky Lizard. We’re taking it.”

  “Raidin’ the mine, you mean?”

  Brighton jerked his head in a nod. “That’s right. I’ve been paying attention, and I happen to know that it’s been a while since any silver shipments left the mine. There has to be quite a bit of bullion stored at the stamp mill, enough for you to pay your men and leave good shares for the two of us.”

  O’Hara protested, “You’re talking about being outlaws! You can’t do that!”

  Brighton gave him a cool look. “Why not?”

  “You’d be fugitives from now on. And I’m sure men would be killed when you raided the mine. You’d have murder charges hanging over your heads.”

  “Mister,” Stample drawled, “there ain’t a one of us who ain’t already killed somebody who got in our way.”

  “Well, I haven’t!” O’Hara snapped. “I may have been a criminal, but I’ve never been a murderer and I’m not going to start now. You can count me out of this madness.”

  “I already have,” Brighton said as he turned toward O’Hara and pressed the barrel of the pistol he had slipped from his pocket against the phony lawyer’s side. O’Hara’s body muffled the faint crack of the weapon as Brighton fired. His eyes bulged in shock and pain, and he groaned as he slumped to the side. Brighton gave him a shove that finished the job. O’Hara fell from the buggy and landed on the ground with a heavy thud. Blood trickled from his open mouth.

  “Figured that’s what you had in mind when you said there’d be good shares left over for the two of us,” Stample said. “I’ll go tell the boys to get ready to ride. You comin’ with us, Boss?”

  “Damn right I am,” Brighton said. “I haven’t come this far not to be in at the finish.”

  Luther still had a hard time believing that everyone in Buckskin didn’t hate him. Once the Silver Baron had been transformed from a courtroom back into a saloon, though, Frank Morgan insisted that he sit there at one of the tables, along with Tip Woodford and Diana, and Conrad and Rebel Browning, and explain everything about his masquerade.

  He did so, and when he was finished, Morgan said, “Maybe you shouldn’t have done it, but everything worked out all right, Luther.”

  “Mr. Stafford’s going to fire me when he finds out what I did,” Luther said.

  “Maybe not. I’d be willing to write a letter to Stafford saying what a fine job you did of handling Tip’s case. Might make him think twice about getting rid of you. I reckon in the long run you’d be an asset to the firm.”

  “But I can’t pass the bar exam!”

  Diana rested a hand on Luther’s arm and said, “I think you’re just too nervous about it, Luther. You’re smart, you know the law, and you’ve got common sense.” She smiled. “Well, some common sense anyway. I’ll bet you do fine when you take that test again.”

  “Well…perhaps. I suppose I should try.”

  Morgan said, “Nobody accomplishes anything without trying. You just remember that, Luther.”

  “I will. And I appreciate the offer of that letter, Mr. Morgan—”

  “Call me Frank, remember?”

  “That was when I was Claudius Turnbuckle.”

  Frank picked up the cup of coffee that Johnny Collyer had brought to him and sipped from it.

  “I sent for Stafford or Turnbuckle because I wanted Tip to have the best legal representation he could. As far as I can see, that’s just what he got.”

  A warm feeling filled Luther’s chest as he looked around the table at the smiling faces. He was beginning to understand these people a little better. Here on the frontier, what a man did was the most important thing. Luther had lied, but he had come through when he needed to, and he had learned his lesson about deception. It wasn’t necessary. A man who stood up and did what was right would always be respected here in the West, no matter who he was or what failures lurked in his past.

  Tip Woodford got to his feet. “I’m gonna go out to the mine and let the fellas know they’re still workin’ for me,” he said.

  “I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear it,” Frank said.

  Diana stood, too. “I’ll go with you, Pa. I need to check on some things in the office.” She smiled at Luther. “We’ll see you later, Mr. Galloway? For supper at our house tonight, maybe?”

  “I…I’d like that,” Luther said. “I’d like that very much.”

  When Tip and Diana were gone, Conrad Browning said, “I’d be willing to write a letter to John Stafford, too, Galloway. I like a man who’s not afraid to take a chance and seize an opportunity. If Stafford doesn’t want to continue employing you, I might be interested in finding a spot for you in one of my companies.” He looked over at Frank. “Our companies, I should say.”

  Frank waved a hand and said, “I leave the running of them to you, Conrad, you know that. That includes who you want to hire. Can’t say as I think it would be a bad idea, though. Luther here is pretty sharp, and he’s tough, too. He’s been shot and stabbed and blackmailed, and he kept right on fighting.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Luther said.

  “Just remember to tell the truth in the future,” Frank said, “and you’ll be all right.”

  Luther smiled, but that smile suddenly froze on his face as he glanced toward the saloon’s entrance and saw who was just now pushing his way through the batwings. Shock sent his heart racing. The man strode into the Silver Baron, moving a little slower than usual and leaning more on his heavy walking stick, but his voice was as strong as ever as he spotted Luther at the table and bellowed, “Galloway!”

  “Who in blazes is that?” Frank asked with a frown as he turned his head toward the newcomer.

  “Claudius Turnbuckle,” Luther said in a voice as hollow as death. “The real Claudius Turnbuckle.”

  Chapter 30

  Well, this was an unexpected development, Frank thought. Luther had seemed pretty sure that Turnbuckle was dead.

  But the lawyer had been alive when Luther left him, Frank recalled from the story Luther had told. The doctor who had been tending to Turnbuckle’s wounds had assured Luther that his boss couldn’t survive. Obviously, that diagnosis had been incorrect…

  Because here was Turnbuckle in Buckskin, big as life and twice as angry.

  “Mr. Turnbuckle!” Luther gasped as he shot to his feet. “I…I thought—”

  “I know what you thought!” Turnbuckle snapped. “You thought you could leave me for dead and take my place! I heard all about it from some fellow called Catamount Jack, when I stopped at the marshal’s office.” His gaze swung toward Frank. “You’d be Frank Morgan?”

  “I would,” Frank said as he got to his feet and extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you at la
st, Mr. Turnbuckle. I figured I’d never have the pleasure.”

  Turnbuckle snorted, but he shook Frank’s hand.

  “After the pack of lies this young whippersnapper fed you about me being dead, you mean,” he said. “After he lied and claimed to be me.”

  “The doctor told me you wouldn’t live,” Luther said with a hard, nervous swallow. “He said you couldn’t possibly survive the wounds you received in that train robbery.”

  Turnbuckle snorted again. “Clearly, he was wrong about that, wasn’t he? He underestimated how strong I was, and how determined to live.”

  “Are…are you all right?”

  “A bit weak, still, but I’ll be fine.” Turnbuckle shook the head of his cane at Luther. “Marshal, why isn’t this man behind bars?”

  “Charged with what crime, sir?” Frank asked.

  “Impersonating one of his betters!”

  “It’s true he lied to us about who he is,” Frank admitted, “but you can’t arrest a man for lying unless he’s doing it to carry out some crooked scheme. Luther here was just trying to help. After you got shot, he could have turned around and gone back to San Francisco, you know.”

  “No, he couldn’t have,” Turnbuckle insisted. “I ordered him to come to Buckskin and tell you what happened to me.”

  “Well, he carried out half of that order,” Frank pointed out.

  Luther cleared his throat. “Mr. Turnbuckle, you told me that the client had to come first. I thought I should try to help Mr. Woodford, just as Mr. Morgan wanted. But I didn’t think anyone would pay any attention to a lowly law clerk, so I…I pretended to be you. I admit that. But I meant no harm. I just wanted to help.”

  “And he did,” Conrad said. “He won the case, and quite handily, too.”

  Turnbuckle glared at him and demanded, “Who are you?”

  “Conrad Browning.”

  Turnbuckle’s attitude changed, but only subtly, Frank noted. He wasn’t the sort of man to kowtow to anyone, even a business magnate like Conrad who provided a lot of income to the firm of Turnbuckle and Stafford.

  “Good to meet you, Browning,” he said as he shook hands with Conrad. “No offense, but you’re younger than I expected you to be.”

  Frank chuckled. “That’s what we all told Luther when we thought he was you.”

  Turnbuckle was still angry, but he seemed to be slightly mollified. He told Luther, “You should be grateful that I haven’t sacked you on the spot, young man.”

  “I am, sir.”

  Turnbuckle gestured toward the sling in which Luther’s left arm rested.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I, uh, got shot.”

  “And stabbed,” Frank added. “In fact, the varmints who caused all the trouble around here tried to kill him several times. That would have been you on the receiving end of those bushwhack attempts if you’d been here, Mr. Turnbuckle.”

  The lawyer’s bushy eyebrows rose.

  “Is this true, Galloway?”

  Luther nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “And yet you carried on and won the trial anyway?”

  Luther looked like he didn’t want to answer, so Frank said, “He sure did. Brighton and his phony lawyer never had a chance.”

  Turnbuckle frowned. “Well, that’s…surprising.”

  Frank clapped a hand on Luther’s shoulder and said, “You’ve got the makings of a mighty good lawyer here, Mr. Turnbuckle. If I was you, I wouldn’t let him get away.”

  Turnbuckle rubbed his jaw for a moment before saying, “I’m going to have to think about this…”

  “Go right ahead,” Conrad said, “but you should know that if you decide to terminate Mr. Galloway’s employment, I intend to hire him myself.”

  “I never said I was going to fire him, just that I ought to.”

  Frank expected Turnbuckle to say that Luther could have his old job back, with a chance to become a practicing attorney and join the firm, but that decision was postponed by a sudden commotion. Phil Noonan ran into the saloon and said, “Marshal, come quick!”

  Frank picked up his hat from the table and put it on as he headed for the entrance. He heard footsteps behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see the others following him.

  “What is it, Phil?”

  “A fella just brought in that other lawyer, that Colonel O’Hara. He’s in bad shape, Marshal. He’s been shot.”

  “Shot!” Frank exclaimed. “Who’d shoot him?” He looked at Luther. “Although I reckon you might’ve felt like it.”

  Luther held up his good hand and swore, “I’ve been right here in town the whole time, Frank.”

  “I know that. Come on. Let’s see what it’s about.”

  As the group hurried toward Dr. Garland’s house, where O’Hara had been taken, Phil explained that a rider had come into town with the phony lawyer’s body slung over his saddle.

  “Jack took him on down to the doc’s place and sent me to fetch you, Frank.”

  “Do you know who found him?”

  “Monte Calhoun. He was on his way into town when the fella came staggerin’ out of some trees alongside the trail. Monte said he looked like he’d been wanderin’ around for a while and Monte thought at first that he was just lost, but then he saw that somebody’d shot him.”

  Frank knew Calhoun; the man was a drifting cow-poke who had worked for all the spreads south of Buckskin at one time or another. He was honest and not a troublemaker, other than the occasional saloon ruckus that cowboys were prone to on payday.

  Catamount Jack was waiting on Dr. Garland’s front porch when Frank and the others arrived. The deputy shook his head and said, “The doc says it don’t look good for O’Hara, Frank. I figured you’d want to talk to him if you could, before he cashes in his chips.”

  “Did he say who shot him?”

  “Yeah,” Jack replied with a grim nod. “Dex Brighton.”

  Somehow that didn’t surprise Frank. A falling-out among thieves, complete with gunplay, never did.

  They went inside and found an equally grim-faced Dr. William Garland standing beside the bed where Desmond O’Hara lay. O’Hara’s eyes were closed and his face was as pale as the sheets on which he lay. His chest still rose and fell, but the movements were feeble and ragged.

  “Is he unconscious?” Frank asked.

  “I’m not sure if he can hear you or not, Marshal,” the doctor replied.

  Frank took off his hat and moved closer to the bed.

  “O’Hara? It’s Frank Morgan. Listen to me, O’Hara. Did Brighton do this to you?”

  O’Hara’s eyelids fluttered. He forced them open with an obvious effort and looked up at Frank with bleary, pain-wracked eyes.

  “B-Brighton…shot me,” he rasped. “Dirty…double-crosser…”

  “Where is he now? I’ll track him down and see that he pays for what he’s done.”

  “Gone to…mine…”

  Frank frowned and bent closer as O’Hara’s voice weakened.

  “What mine?”

  “L-Lucky…Lizard…”

  Frank sent a sharp, worried glance toward the others who had crowded into the little room, then said to O’Hara, “Brighton’s gone to the Lucky Lizard? Why?”

  “He and his…gunmen…raid the mine…steal silver…”

  Frank stiffened. If O’Hara was telling the truth—and the dying man had no reason to lie under these circumstances—Brighton was trying to salvage what he could from his failed plot by openly turning outlaw and stealing the bullion that was on hand at Tip Woodford’s mine. Frank had no trouble believing that Brighton would resort to such a thing.

  “How many men does he have?”

  “D-don’t know…for sure…He said…thirty or…forty…”

  The grotesque rattle that came from O’Hara’s throat following the last word was vivid evidence that he would never speak again. Death had claimed him.

  “Good Lord!” Catamount Jack exclaimed. “Thirty or forty owlhoots fixin’ to raid the Luc
ky Lizard? We got to get out there, Frank!”

  “Round up as many men for a posse as you can, Jack,” Frank said. “Let them know it’ll be dangerous, though.” He clapped his hat on his head. “You and Phil follow me as soon as you can, with as many men as you can find.”

  “You’re headed out there now?”

  “Might still be time to warn Tip and his men. He rode out there a while ago.”

  Luther Galloway clutched Frank’s arm as Frank started past him.

  “Diana was going to the mine with her father,” he said.

  Frank nodded. “I know.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  A grimace tugged at Frank’s mouth as he said, “You’re not a fighting man, Luther. You’re better with words than guns.”

  “But I’m tough,” Luther insisted. “You said so yourself.”

  “Suit yourself. I don’t have time to argue with you.”

  Luther hurried after him as Frank left the doctor’s house. Claudius Turnbuckle called after them, “Galloway, wait! Have you lost your mind?”

  Luther ignored him.

  By the time they reached the livery stable, Conrad and Rebel had caught up to them.

  “We’re going, too,” Conrad said.

  “Thought you said Tip Woodford’s problems weren’t any of your concern,” Frank said.

  “They’re not, but you are. If you get yourself killed, it’ll mean a lot of paperwork for me straightening out your half of our holdings.”

  Rebel added, “And Diana and I have gotten to be friends. I want to help her if I can.”

  “I don’t think you should go,” Conrad complained. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Frank couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “I figured you would have learned by now that you can’t win that argument, son. Anyway, Rebel’s a better shot than you are.”

  “Damn straight,” she agreed with a grin.

  With the help of Amos Hillman and Vern Robeson, they had horses saddled within minutes. Frank handed one of the two spare pistol from his saddlebags to Luther, and Conrad took the other one. Rebel already had a gun in her handbag, a silver-plated .38. The four of them rode out, pounding along the trail to the Lucky Lizard.