The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground

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The Last Gunfighter: Killing Ground Page 26

by William W. Johnstone


  The mine wasn’t far out of town, and within minutes of leaving the settlement they heard gunfire coming from that direction.

  “It’s too late,” Luther said. “Brighton and his men have already attacked.”

  “Too late to warn Tip and Diana maybe,” Frank said, “but not too late to lend a hand. The fight’s still going on.”

  And from the sound of the shots, it was quite a battle. Frank knew it wouldn’t last too long, though, if Brighton really did have forty gun-wolves with him. The miners would have been taken by surprise, and they wouldn’t be a match for such a crew of hardened killers.

  Frank signaled a halt before they reached the mine. They couldn’t just gallop in blindly. That would be a good way of getting themselves shot to pieces. Instead, he swung down from the saddle and motioned for the others to dismount. Then he shucked his Winchester from the saddle boot and trotted forward through a screen of pines to get a look at the situation. The other three followed him carefully.

  Frank saw that Brighton’s gunmen were spread out in a long line, using trees, rocks, and anything else they could find for cover as they poured hot lead at the office building, the stamp mill, the miners’ barracks, and the entrance to the mine tunnel. Puffs of gun smoke from the buildings and the tunnel mouth showed that the men who worked there were putting up a fight.

  However, as Frank watched, some of the outlaws began to circle around, coming at the office, barracks, and stamp mill while the others covered them, and he knew that in a matter of moments the defenders in those buildings would be caught in a cross fire and overwhelmed. In fact, a group of four men had just reached the rear of the office building. Dex Brighton was among them, and although Frank snapped a shot at him with the Winchester, the bullet missed and Brighton kicked the rear door open. He disappeared inside the building, followed by the three killers with him.

  Frank bit back a curse as shots roared inside the office. That was the place where Tip and Diana were most likely to be. He was about to tell the others to cover him and make a dash for the building when Luther Galloway suddenly burst out of cover, streaking toward the office. He had pulled his left arm out of the sling, and the black silk flapped behind him as he ran, the borrowed pistol clutched in his other hand.

  “Blast it!” Frank looked toward Buckskin and saw the cloud of dust rising in that direction. Catamount Jack and Phil Noonan were on their way with that posse, but it would be another few minutes before help arrived. “Stay here!” he told Conrad and Rebel. “See if you can pick off a few of the varmints!”

  Then he ran after Luther.

  Neither of them reached the office before the front door opened and Dex Brighton stepped out onto the porch, holding a pale and obviously frightened Diana Woodford in front of him. She didn’t look like she had been hurt yet, but the barrel of Brighton’s gun was jammed cruelly into her side.

  Behind them came another man, craggy-faced and ugly, with Tip Woodford as his prisoner. Blood dripped down Tip’s face from a gash on his forehead, and crimson stained the left sleeve of his shirt, too.

  “Morgan!” Brighton shouted. “Stop right there!”

  Frank threw on the brakes, and Luther had no choice but to do the same.

  “It’s over, Morgan,” Brighton called. “Unless you want Woodford and the girl to die, you’ll back away from here, and if that dust I see is from a posse, you’d better call them off. I’ll kill everybody here if I have to.”

  “Take it easy, Brighton,” Frank said, hoping to keep the man from getting trigger-happy. “Nobody’s got to die.”

  “You’re wrong there,” Brighton snarled. His eyes were those of a rabid animal. Hate and greed had turned him mad. “The man who ruined everything has to die.”

  With that, he jerked the pistol he held away from Diana’s side and pointed it at Luther Galloway, his finger whitening on the trigger.

  Chapter 31

  Luther didn’t hesitate. He charged forward toward Brighton and Diana even as flame jetted from the barrel of Brighton’s gun.

  But Diana had lurched backward against Brighton just as he pulled the trigger, and the bullet whistled past Luther’s left ear. Before Brighton could fire again, Luther bounded onto the porch and crashed into both of them. That knocked Diana free of Brighton’s grip. All three of them tumbled to the planks.

  At the same time, Tip Woodford began struggling with his captor, wrestling desperately with him over the man’s gun. The craggy-faced outlaw slammed a fist into Tip’s face and knocked him over, but that proved to be a mistake because he had knocked Tip out of the line of fire. The man must have realized that a split second later, because he tried to turn back toward Frank Morgan and bring his gun up…

  Frank let the outlaw’s revolver come level before he fired. The bullet punched into the man’s chest and knocked him back a step. The gun in his hand sagged, but he struggled to lift it again. Frank’s Colt roared twice more, the slugs crashing into the outlaw’s body and driving him into the log wall of the office building. He dropped his gun and slid slowly down the wall, his face already going slack in death.

  At the other end of the porch, Dex Brighton hammered a couple of savage blows into Luther’s face, stunning him. Brighton rolled away, snatched up the gun he had dropped when Luther barreled into him and Diana, and leaped to his feet. Splinters flew from the corner of the building next to him as a shot from Frank’s gun narrowly missed him. Brighton fled around the corner.

  Frank went after him, ducking as Brighton twisted and fired. The bullet came close enough for Frank to feel the wind-rip of its passage next to his ear. But then the hammer of Brighton’s gun clicked on an empty chamber. His face contorted as he flung the gun away.

  Frank holstered his Colt and pounded after Brighton. Like most men who had spent a great deal of their lives in the saddle, Frank wasn’t a great runner, and his boots weren’t made for it either. He had the advantage of wanting Brighton to answer all the crimes the man had committed, though, and it gave him the extra burst of speed he needed to bring Brighton down with a flying tackle.

  Both men crashed to the ground with stunning impact. Brighton recovered first, by half a second, but that was long enough for him to lash out and slam his boot against Frank’s chest in a brutal kick. Frank went down again and Brighton leaped after him, snatching up a rock and lifting it over his head so that he could bring it down in a bone-crushing blow on Frank’s skull. Frank jerked his head aside at the last second. The rock scraped his ear as it went by.

  Frank sledged a blow against the side of Brighton’s head and sent the man rolling away. Now it was Frank’s turn to pounce. He landed on Brighton with a knee in the belly and chopped a couple of punches into his face. Brighton heaved up and threw Frank to the side.

  They came up slugging.

  Left, right, fists hammering home, eyes swelling, blood dripping…Frank Morgan and Dex Brighton were approximately the same size and weight, and they were evenly matched in fighting ability. Brighton was younger, but Frank had justice on his side. He bored in as Brighton stumbled back. A left hook to the midsection doubled Brighton over, putting him in perfect position for the looping right that Frank brought around.

  Brighton flew backward, his feet leaving the ground, and crashed down in a limp sprawl. He groaned once and then was out cold.

  The popping of gunshots made Frank swing around. He saw that the posse had arrived from Buckskin, and now Brighton’s gunnies were the ones caught in a cross fire. They tried to shoot their way out of the jaws of this unexpected trap. Several of them were cut down by the deadly accurate fire of the miners and the possemen before the others flung their guns down and shoved their hands in the air. The battle of the Lucky Lizard had been fierce for a while, but now it was over.

  Frank would have dragged the unconscious Brighton back to the office building, but Catamount Jack and Phil Noonan showed up to do it for him. When he got back there, he found Luther sitting on the steps next to Tip Woodford while Diana fussed
over both of them.

  “You get winged, Tip?” Frank asked his friend, pointing to the bloody sleeve.

  Woodford grinned. “Just a scratch. I’ll be fine. How about you, Frank? You look a mite like you tangled with a wildcat.”

  “Just Brighton. And I’m all right, too.”

  Luther asked, “Where’s Brighton? Did you get him?”

  “Jack and Phil are bringing him back. He’s busted up worse than I am, but he’ll live to stretch a rope for killing O’Hara, I reckon. He deserves it for plenty more than that, but they can only hang him once.”

  Tip Woodford grunted. “Once’ll do it. He’s got it comin’, sure enough.”

  Dog had accompanied the posse from town, and now the big cur was nosing around the body of the craggy-faced outlaw Frank had shot. A deep, angry growl came from Dog’s throat, and the fur on his neck rose.

  Frank looked down at the man and nodded. “This must be the fella who took those potshots at us, Luther. Dog caught his scent a couple of times, and he never forgets the smell of no-good skunk.” He looked closer at the young man. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Luther replied with a sigh. “I just wish I’d been able to capture Brighton myself. I guess I’m not cut out to be a hero.”

  “Are you crazy?” Diana asked. “You charged right into the barrel of his gun when he tried to shoot you, just to save me! How much more of a hero could you be, Luther?”

  “Hero…or fool.”

  She sat beside him, took his chin in her hand, and turned his head to face her.

  “Sometimes it’s the same thing,” she said, and then she kissed him.

  Tip Woodford stood up and came over to join Frank. “Boy ain’t too big of a fool,” he said with a chuckle. “He’s lettin’ her kiss him.”

  “Looks to me like he’s kissing her right back,” Frank said with a grin. “Yeah, Luther’s pretty smart. Reckon he’ll be a real lawyer before you know it.”

  The craggy-faced owlhoot was Brighton’s lieutenant, Cy Stample. Frank found that out from questioning some of the hired gunmen who had surrendered rather than be killed in the fight. Frank had reward dodgers on him that said he was wanted from Oregon to Texas, for rustling, bank robbery, murder, and just about everything else under the sun. Nobody was going to miss him or the other hired killers who had crossed the divide during the ruckus.

  Judge Caldwell and Claudius Turnbuckle promised to see to it that Dex Brighton answered for his crimes. He would be taken to Carson City to be tried, but given O’Hara’s deathbed indictment of him, a conviction and a hanging seemed like foregone conclusions.

  Frank wouldn’t be around to see it. He had reached a decision.

  He came into the Silver Baron the next day and found Tip and Diana there, along with Conrad and Rebel. Luther was there, too, sitting next to Diana, who didn’t look too happy.

  As he pulled back a chair and sat down, Frank asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Luther’s going back to San Francisco,” Diana said.

  “I have to,” the young man explained. “I still work for Mr. Turnbuckle, you know. He decided not to fire me after all.”

  Conrad said, “My job offer is always open, Luther.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Browning. I appreciate that. And I may take you up on it one of these days, depending on how my other plans work out.”

  “What plans are those?” Frank asked.

  “To become a lawyer for real…and come back here to Buckskin to practice.”

  Diana’s face lit up at that. “Really?”

  Luther nodded and said, “Really.”

  Tip reached over and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Buckskin can always use another good citizen, son. We’ll be happy to have you hang out your shingle here.”

  Frank wondered briefly how things were going to work out with Diana and Luther and Garrett Claiborne. He had a feeling the mining engineer wasn’t going to give up his budding romance with Diana without a fight. But again, they would have to just work that out among themselves, because Frank wasn’t going to be here to get involved…not that he would have, even if he hadn’t reached the decision he had.

  “I’ve got something for you, Tip,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  Frank unpinned the badge from his shirt and slid it across the table toward the mayor.

  Tip’s eyes widened and he started shaking his head.

  “Now, dadgum it, Frank, you can’t do that—”

  “It’s already done,” Frank said. “I’m resigning as marshal of Buckskin, Tip. Give the badge to Catamount Jack. He deserves it, and he’ll do a fine job for you. He’s spent more time being the marshal lately than I have.”

  “He can’t handle the same sort of trouble that you do, though. He’s not a—”

  Woodford stopped short and looked embarrassed.

  “He’s not a gunfighter,” Frank finished for him. “That’s what you were going to say, Tip. It’s all right. And it proves my point. Buckskin doesn’t need a gunfighting marshal anymore. Things are settling down a little more every day. You’ll still have some trouble, but Jack and Phil Noonan will be able to take care of it. They’re mighty good men.”

  “You can say that after everything that happened with Brighton?”

  “Varmints like Brighton are few and far between.” Frank tapped the badge. “My mind’s made up, Tip. It’s time for me to be riding on.”

  Rebel spoke up, saying, “You’ve already stayed here longer than I thought you would, Frank. If you’re not careful, you’ll put down roots.”

  Frank grinned at his daughter-in-law. They understood each other and always had.

  “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  “Not when there’s a good reason people call you The Drifter.”

  “You’ll come back this way sometime, though, won’t you?” Conrad asked.

  “Probably.” The question took Frank by surprise. “What would it matter to you?”

  “Well,” Conrad said, “if you’re in this area, you can stop by Carson City and see us. We’re moving there from Boston.”

  A grin broke out across Frank’s face. “I knew you were thinking about moving West, but I figured you’d wind up in Denver or some place like that.”

  “We considered that,” Conrad said, “but Rebel liked Carson City when we passed through there, and with the way the Browning holdings are expanding all through the West, it’s centrally located. Handy for any troubleshooting I need to do.”

  “You have any trouble you need me to shoot, just let me know,” Frank said, still grinning.

  “I always do.”

  Tip Woodford leaned forward and put his hand over the badge that still lay on the table.

  “You sure I can’t talk you out of this, Frank?”

  “Positive.”

  Tip sighed. “All right. When are you leavin’?”

  “Later today. I’ve never seen any point in waiting, once my mind’s made up.”

  “Well, then, you’d damned well better have a drink with me before you go.”

  “With all of us,” Luther said.

  Frank looked around at them and nodded, feeling the warmth of their friendship filling him, easing the ache of the long, lonely years he had spent on the trail.

  “I reckon I can manage that,” he said.

  Frank led Stormy and Goldy out of Amos Hillman’s livery stable. Dog padded alongside them. Goldy was saddled, and Stormy would carry the supplies Frank was taking with him, for now anyway. He planned to switch back and forth between the mounts.

  He had already shaken hands with Amos and said his good-byes. He was going to miss the irascible old liveryman. In fact, he was going to miss a lot of people in Buckskin…Claude Langley at the undertaking parlor, Leo and Trudy Benjamin at the general store, Johnny Collyer and Professor Burton and Doc Garland and Vern Robeson…Lauren and Ginnie and Becky at the café had all hugged and kissed him and shed tears when he told them good-bye, and Lauren’s
kiss had been especially bittersweet. If Frank had stayed in Buckskin, there might have been something between the two of them, and they both knew it. But the time had come for him to move on, and even though he felt plenty of regrets, he knew it was the right thing to do.

  “Frank!”

  He looked around and saw Catamount Jack walking toward him. The marshal’s badge shone on the old-timer’s vest, but Jack didn’t look happy about it.

  “Doggone, Frank, this ain’t right,” Jack insisted. “I’ll talk your ear off if I got to, but I got to make you see you need to stay right here in Buckskin.”

  “I’ve got two ears, Jack,” Frank said with a smile. “Don’t worry, you’ll do just fine.”

  “Aw, hell, I know that! I been carryin’ you ever since you took the marshal’s job.”

  “And don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

  “But it just ain’t gonna be the same around here without you. This is your home now.”

  To tell the truth, Frank thought, that was why he was leaving. He was starting to feel too much that way himself.

  Before Jack could continue his attempts at persuasion, another voice spoke up, calling, “Mr. Morgan! A word with you, please.”

  Frank and Catamount Jack swung around to see Claudius Turnbuckle coming toward them. The San Francisco lawyer wore an even more worried look than usual.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Turnbuckle?” Frank asked.

  “There’s a rumor going around town that you’re leaving,” Turnbuckle said.

  “It’s no rumor, sir. I’ve resigned as the marshal of Buckskin.”

  “What are your plans now? Where are you going?”

  Frank shrugged. “Don’t have any plans, and I reckon I’ll go wherever the trail takes me.”

  “Then perhaps I could ask a favor of you. Before I came down here to Buckskin to find out what that young pup Luther was up to, I received a telegram from my partner, Stafford, that’s causing me a considerable amount of concern. He’s down in southern California, tending to some affairs for another client of ours in Los Angeles, and he’s run into some trouble. I had to read between the lines of his wire, you understand, but I’m afraid it’s the, ah, sort of trouble in which you frequently become involved.”

 

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