Hell Town. William W. Johnstone
could reload, Frank shouted, “Hey, you in the mill! Hold your fire, blast it! We don’t mean you any harm!”
The only reply was a resumption of the shooting. Bullets tore through the canvas canopy over the buggy’s seat.
Frank glanced over at the big cur and snapped, “Dog! Go get him!”
Dog took off running toward the mill. His powerful muscles bunched under his shaggy hide as he raced over the ground. Bullets plowed into the dirt around him, but he darted from side to side so that, as fast as he was moving, he was an almost impossible target to hit.
Dog disappeared around the back of the mill. His instincts and animal cunning told him to come at the bushwhacker from the rear.
Frank just hoped the rifleman was the only one in the old mill; otherwise Dog might be in for a hot lead welcome.
Sure enough, a moment later he heard shots from inside the building. With a grimace, he told Claiborne, “Stay here and keep your head down!”
Then he burst out from behind the buggy and sprinted toward the mill, weaving in his approach as Dog had done.
Riding boots weren’t made for running, but Frank managed to get up some pretty good speed as he ran toward the mill. No more shots were coming in his direction. If nothing else, Dog had provided a good distraction for the would-be killer.
Frank hoped that wasn’t going to cost his shaggy trail partner his life, though.
When he got close to the door, he lifted his foot and slammed his boot heel into the wood just below the knob. The door crashed open. Frank went through it in a crouch, the Colt up and ready. His keen eyes took in the scene instantly. Four men were in the room, which at one time must have been an office. One of the men was down on the floor, rolling around trying to keep a snarling, snapping Dog from ripping his throat out. The other men held guns, but couldn’t fire at the big cur for fear of hitting their friend instead.
Frank’s noisy entrance drew the attention of the others away from the struggle between man and dog on the floor. One of them yelled, “Look out, Gunther!”
A tall, burly man holding a rifle swung toward Frank, but found himself staring down the barrel of The Drifter’s Peacemaker. That was the last sight a great many men had seen in their lives.
This time, instead of shooting, Frank gave the man in front of his gun a chance to surrender. “Drop it,” he said. “Now!”
The man called Gunther was bald except for a pair of dark, bushy eyebrows. He scowled in anger, but with Frank’s gun on him, he had no choice but to bend and place the rifle on the floor at his feet.
“Slide it over here,” Frank ordered. “You other men, I want your guns too.”
“Somebody help me!” the man wrestling with Dog screamed. He was already gashed and bloody, his shirt in ribbons from the big cur’s sharp, rending teeth.
“Dog!” Frank snapped. Instantly, Dog backed off, still growling as his hackles stood up menacingly.
The other men had pistols in their hands. Since the bushwhacker’s shots had come from a rifle, Frank had no doubt that Gunther had been the one firing them. As Frank gave them a cold, level stare, the men put their guns on the floor and kicked them across the room.
“You’re gonna be damn sorry about this, mister,” Gunther blustered. “Threatenin’ us and siccin’ that damn wolf on us…we’ll have the law on you!”
“He’s a dog, not a wolf,” Frank said, “and I am the law. Besides, you were the one who came close to killing me and my friend, remember?”
Gunther didn’t back down. He said, “I had a right to shoot at you! You’re on private property, mister.”
“That’s Marshal to you.”
Gunther sneered. “Marshal o’ Buckskin?”
“That’s right.”
“You got no authority out here. Your jurisdiction ends at the edge of the settlement.”
Technically, he was right. But as the only star-packer in this area, Frank figured that as a practical matter, his authority extended a little farther than Buckskin itself.
The man Dog had savaged was helped to his feet by his friends. His injuries looked worse than they really were, Frank knew.
“That…that varmint’s loco!” the man said as he pointed a shaking hand at Dog. “Came at me like a hydrophobia skunk!” He let out a groan of dismay. “Is he mad, mister? Am I gonna start foamin’ at the mouth from them bites?”
“I’m more worried about Dog coming down with something,” Frank said. “Who are you men?”
Gunther thumped his chest with a malletlike fist. “We work for Hamish Munro…and in case you don’t know, mister, Hamish Munro is the owner of the Alhambra Mine! That means we belong here, and you’re nothin’ but a damn trespasser! We’ve got a right to shoot trespassers.”
From just outside the door, a tentative voice asked, “Marshal Morgan, are you all right?”
Gunther’s eyes widened in surprise. “Claiborne!” he bellowed. “Is that you?”
Garrett Claiborne appeared in the doorway. “Good lord,” he muttered. “You.”
“You fellas know each other?” Frank asked.
A look of stern disapproval appeared on Claiborne’s normally mild face. “Yes, I know this man, Marshal. He’s Gunther Hammersmith. We’ve encountered each other before. He’s also a mining engineer.”
An ugly smile twisted Gunther’s mouth. “And a helluva lot better one than you’ll ever be, Claiborne.”
Frank was surprised to hear that the big, bald man was any sort of engineer. He had the look of a bruiser and a brawler, the sort of brutal hired hardcase who followed orders instead of giving them.
Gunther looked at Frank and went on. “Mr. Munro hired me and my boys to get this mine open and working again. Like I said, we’ve got a right to be here, and you don’t.”
“Haven’t seen you around Buckskin,” Frank said.
Gunther snorted in disgust. “Why would we bother going into your two-bit town? We brought our own supplies with us. We’ve been inspecting the mine and shorin’ up what needs to be shored up. We won’t need to go to Buckskin until we’re ready to hire miners, and that won’t be for a few days yet.”
Frank had to admit that the man sounded like he was telling the truth. He wasn’t completely convinced, though.
“You got any proof of what you’re telling me?” he asked.
“I don’t have to show you any proof of anything!”
“No,” Frank said, “but I’m the one holding the gun, and I’m still a mite riled up about those shots you took at us.”
“All right, all right,” Gunther said. He reached into a hip pocket and took out a folded envelope. He removed a sheet of paper from it, unfolded it, and held it out. “This is a letter from Mr. Munro authorizin’ us to be here.”
Without taking his eyes off the four men, Frank asked Claiborne, “Would you recognize Munro’s signature, Garrett?”
“Yes, I think so. I’ve seen it on quite a few documents.”
“Take a look then.”
Claiborne took the sheet of paper from Hammersmith, being careful not to get in Frank’s line of fire. He read the letter and then said, “It’s what he said it was, and Mr. Munro’s signature appears to be genuine.”
“All right.” Frank lowered the Colt but didn’t holster it. “Mr. Claiborne and I will be leaving now. We’re going to take your guns with us, though.”
“You