Killing Ground. William W. Johnstone
“I doubt it. Help me get my saddle off this horse, and you can tell me all about it.”
Hillman motioned for Junior to give Frank a hand, and as the hostler was doing that, Jack said with sudden alarm in his voice, “Somebody comin’.”
Frank glanced up and saw the buggy rolling out of the trees.
“Don’t worry,” he assured the deputy. “That’s my son and daughter-in-law.”
Jack’s bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“Conrad’s back? He didn’t seem too fond o’ the place last time he was here. He must’a heard about Brighton.”
“Who’s Brighton?” Frank asked. All he knew, and all Conrad knew, was that there was some question about the legitimacy of the ownership of one of the silver mines near Buckskin.
At one time, during the settlement’s first boom days, there had been dozens of mines around here. But then the veins of silver had seemed to play out, the mines had closed down, and Buckskin had almost dried up and blown away. Only a handful of stubborn folks had remained in the settlement, among them Thomas “Tip” Woodford, the owner of a busted mine called the Lucky Lizard.
Then silver had been rediscovered, and with the advances in mining techniques that had been made since the first boom, three of the claims had become highly profitable again, including Woodford’s Lucky Lizard and the Browning Mining Syndicate’s Crown Royal. The third mine was the Alhambra, owned by Jessica Munro, widow of Hamish Munro. Jessica was an absentee owner, since some folks around here still held grudges because of all the gun trouble and bloodshed caused by her late husband. She had hired a competent superintendent to run the mine, and things had settled down again.
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