Hell Town. William W. Johnstone
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can’t be that many gunfighters left. I mean—”
“I know what you mean. Smoke Jensen and Matt Bodine are settled down with families and spend most of their time on their ranches. Nobody messes with them. But there are still a handful of old-timers, like this hombre Clevenger who showed up today, and more importantly, there’ll always be green kids who think they’re fast on the draw and want to prove it. Dime novels have been around long enough now so that some of them have grown up reading the blasted things. They think the West is nothing but shoot-outs and showdowns, and they want to get in on the action. I’m a prime target for youngsters like that, Tip.”
“I don’t doubt any of what you say, but I’m not sure what you’re gettin’ at, Frank.”
“I’m saying that as long as I’m the marshal here, you’re going to have men riding into Buckskin for no reason other than to try their hand at killing me. That can’t be good for the town.”
Tip’s eyes widened. “You want to quit?”
“I don’t want to. I like it here. But I don’t want to be the cause of bringing trouble down on the town.”
Tip scratched at his jaw with a blunt finger and frowned in thought. “Listen here, Frank. When Dutton’s gang rode in here and took over, you were the one who came along and saved us. They might have killed all of us before they were through. Might’ve done even worse.”
Frank knew what he meant. The hired killers who had worked for Charles Dutton would have gotten around to raping Diana and the other women in town sooner or later, before murdering all the inhabitants and burning Buckskin to the ground.
“Buckskin’s just now turnin’ into a real town again,” Tip went on, “but it can’t do it without you. The folks who come here know that you’ll keep ’em safe. Without a good marshal to keep the lid on, you know how fast a boomtown can boil over. That’s no good for anybody.”
Tip was right about that too, but it didn’t ease Frank’s mind completely. He said, “You’re sure you’ve thought this over enough?”
“I don’t have to think it over for very long to know that I damn sure want Frank Morgan to be the marshal o’ my town,” the mayor declared. “Buckskin just wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Frank took a deep breath and then nodded. “All right, if that’s the way you want it. I felt like I ought to warn you, though, that the violence is liable to get worse before it gets better.”
“Shoot, that’s gonna be true whether you’re here or not,” Tip said with a smile. “Why do you reckon I asked you to pin on that badge in the first place?”
Several days of relative peace and quiet went by. Frank had to break up a few drunken fights in the Silver Baron and the other saloons, and once one of the combatants was so determined to keep the brawl going that Frank had to tap him on the head with the butt of his Colt and drag the fella down to the jail to sleep it off. That was the biggest ruckus that occurred.
Harry Clevenger had been dead broke when he got to Buckskin, so Amos Hillman sold the gunfighter’s horse to pay for his burial. Clevenger’s saddlebags contained a letter, from a woman in St. Louis named Ida Skillery. Frank felt uncomfortable reading the letter, but glanced over it enough to discover that she was Clevenger’s sister. He wrote her a letter telling her that her brother had passed away from a sudden illness and expressing his sympathy. In this case, he didn’t think it would do any harm to fudge the truth a little.
Nobody else showed up gunning for him, but in the middle of a bright Nevada afternoon, a dusty buggy rolled into the settlement carrying a man who was looking for Frank.
At that moment, Frank happened to be standing on the boardwalk in front of the marshal’s office with his left shoulder leaning against one of the posts holding up the awning over it. His right thumb was hooked in his gunbelt, near the butt of the Colt.
He straightened from that casual pose as the buggy veered toward him. The man handling the reins brought the single horse to a halt in front of the boardwalk.
“Frank Morgan?” he called.
“That’s right,” Frank said.
The man looped the reins around the brake lever and climbed out of the buggy. He was in his thirties, short and stocky, wearing a town suit. A soup-strainer mustache drooped over his mouth, and a pair of rimless spectacles perched halfway down his long nose like a bird on a fence.
“I’m Garrett Claiborne,” he said, introducing himself as he stepped up onto the boardwalk. The way he said his name seemed to indicate that he expected Frank to recognize it.
Frank stuck out his hand and shook with the newcomer. “Welcome to Buckskin, Mr. Claiborne. What brings you here?”
“You didn’t get the wire about me coming out?” Claiborne asked with a frown.
“I haven’t gotten any wire,” Frank said. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but the telegraph wires don’t run all the way out here. We have to ride up to Virginia City to send telegrams or get any replies, and I don’t think anybody’s been that way lately.”
“Well, this is distressing,” Claiborne said, “but I don’t suppose it really matters. I can just tell you now.”
“Tell me what?”
“Mr. Browning sent me to take over the Crown Royal Mine.”
That came as a shock to Frank. “You mean Conrad Browning?”
“That’s right. I’m a mining engineer and superintendent. I’ve managed several mines that are part of the Browning holdings.”
Frank had to take a minute to digest that. Conrad Browning was his son, but Frank hadn’t seen him or been in touch with him in over a year. For a long time, they had been estranged, and it hadn’t helped matters when Frank had reconciled with Vivian Browning, his first love and Conrad’s mother, only to have her gunned down by outlaws not long afterward. In his grief, Conrad had blamed Frank for that.
The gulf between them had shrunk over time, though, and they had even managed to work together when gun trouble plagued a railroad Conrad was building down in New Mexico Territory. Vivian Browning had been a canny businesswoman, building a fortune in holdings that included banking, railroads, mining, freighting, and even a stagecoach line or two. She had left part of those holdings to Frank, and as a result he was a very wealthy man, but he had little interest in such things and was more than content to allow Conrad to run the business however he saw fit. That was good judgment, because Conrad had made it even more successful and lucrative than before.
One of the Browning holdings in years past had been the Crown Royal Mine, in the hills near Buckskin. It had closed down about the same time as the Lucky Lizard, and hadn’t been worked in more than ten years. But Frank and Conrad still owned it, so when Frank had learned that the silver vein in the Lucky Lizard wasn’t played out after all, he had ridden into Virginia City and sent a wire to Conrad informing him of that fact. He hadn’t really considered the possibility that Conrad would send someone to reopen the mine.
That was what had happened, though, because the hombre was standing right in front of Frank, waiting for him to respond to the surprising news.
“Come on in the office,” Frank said. “I reckon we’ve got things to talk about.”
“Indeed we do,” Claiborne agreed.
When they were settled down in chairs, the mining man went on. “Mr. Browning has given me carte blanche to operate the mine as I see fit, assuming that’s all right with you, Mr. Morgan.”
Frank chuckled. “I have a hard time believing that Conrad put it quite that way. More than likely, he told you to run things and to hell with whatever I thought.”
“Mr. Browning does place a great deal of trust in my abilities,” Claiborne replied, but Frank thought he heard a hint of amusement lurking