“I’ll go put my horse up.” Clint looked back as he started to lead the animal toward the livery stable. “Again, I’m sorry for disappearing on you like that, Frank.”
“You’re here now,” Frank said. “That’s all that matters.”
He couldn’t have said for sure, but he thought he saw something flicker through Clint’s eyes just then, an unreadable expression that was still somehow troubling, as if Clint were wrestling with some sort of inner demon.
But then the little gunman’s face was as bland and smiling as ever, and Frank wasn’t sure he had even seen anything unusual. He told himself not to worry about it.
With the meeting looming between the striking miners and the mine owners—a meeting that might well turn into a violent showdown despite his best efforts—Frank figured he had bigger problems on his plate right now than whatever was bothering Clint Farnum.
Hap Mitchell walked up to the top of the ridge where Pool was studying Buckskin through a pair of field glasses. “Any sign of the signal?” he asked.
Pool lowered the glasses and glared at Mitchell. “If there was, don’t you think I’d’ve said somethin’ before now?”
“I didn’t mean any offense, Jory,” Mitchell said. “I just figured from the way you were talking earlier that we’d ride right into the settlement and start lootin’ the place.”
“It never hurts to be sure everything’s lined up just right. That’s why we’re gonna wait for Farnum’s signal before we move in.”
Mitchell nodded. “Sure, that makes sense. You know best, Jory.”
“Damn right I do,” Pool said in a harsh tone of voice that was almost a growl.
But despite what he had just said, Hap Mitchell wasn’t so sure about that anymore. There came a time when bad luck caught up to every gang, no matter how careful they were. It had happened to Frank and Jesse James and their cousins the Youngers up in Northfield, Minnesota, and just a couple of years earlier the Dalton boys had run into the same thing in Coffeyville, Kansas.
Mitchell had to ask himself if Buckskin, Nevada, might turn out to be the Pool gang’s Northfield or Coffeyville. If that was the case, he didn’t want to be there for it. He ought to get Lonnie Beeman and slip away from here while there was still time. Hap and Lonnie had been riding together for a lot of years. Maybe they should git while the gittin’ was good.
But if they did that and then the raid went off perfectly, just as planned, then not only would they miss out on their shares of the loot, but they would have earned the enmity of Jory Pool for deserting him. Jory wouldn’t take kindly to that. In fact, he might just track them down and kill them for their disloyalty.
No, Mitchell thought with a sigh, it looked like he and Lonnie were stuck. They would have to join in the raid with the rest of the gang.
As soon as Clint Farnum gave the signal.
Frank was waiting in the back room of the building that housed the Lucky Lizard’s office when dusk settled down over Buckskin. He had already lifted the trapdoor and exposed the ladder that led down to the tunnel from the mine. That tunnel ran for a mile or more into the nearby hills. Frank didn’t know when the miners would be arriving, or even if they would come. Dave Rogan could have changed his mind and backed out of the deal. There was no guarantee either that the men from the Lucky Lizard would come along, even if Rogan and the other miners from the Alhambra did as Frank had suggested.
This room was where Frank’s long vengeance quest against Charles Dutton had ended. Dutton had betrayed Vivian Browning and been responsible for her death, he had put Conrad Browning in mortal danger, and he had sent hired gunmen after Frank to kill him. Those gunmen had failed, and instead Frank had tracked Dutton to what had then been an isolated ghost town in the foothills of the Wassuck Mountains. Frank had caught up to Dutton here, and so had justice….
A faint noise caught Frank’s attention and pulled him out of his reverie. He leaned closer to the open trapdoor and listened. The echoing sounds of footsteps and voices came to his ears. Men were moving along the tunnel toward him.
A tight smile appeared on Frank’s lips. The miners were on their way.
He stepped into the front room, where Tip Woodford, Diana, Catamount Jack, and Garrett Claiborne waited. Even though Claiborne, as the superintendent of the Crown Royal, had no direct stake in what happened tonight, he was here because of his belief that Munro had been behind the explosion that had almost cost him his life, and because he and Diana had grown closer as well. Claiborne’s broken arm was still in a sling, but he was getting around well enough these days that he had been supervising the rebuilding of the mine’s stamp mill.
“They’re on their way,” Frank reported. “I can hear them coming down the tunnel.”
“I sure hope we can settle this mess,” Tip said. “It’ll get everything out in the open, anyway.”
Frank nodded. “Jack, stay here and keep Rogan and the others here for the time being. There’s no place in town big enough to hold everybody on both sides, so the meeting will have to take place in the street. I’ll go tell Munro what’s about to happen.”
“What if he refuses to negotiate?” Claiborne asked.
Tip said, “Then I’ll settle things with the fellas who work for me, and Munro’s problems will be his own lookout.” He glanced at Frank. “You know Munro’s liable to tell that militia colonel to arrest Rogan and the rest of the bunch from the Alhambra.”
“He can’t do that, because they’re already going to be in my custody. And as the duly appointed marshal of Buckskin, here in town I have the authority to make that stick.”
“You and a couple o’ deputies against a whole troop of militia?”
“I’ve been going around the town this afternoon talking to folks,” Frank explained. “Amos Hillman said he’d back my play, and so did Professor Burton. Leo Benjamin and Johnny Collyer and Claude Langley want in on it too. Ed Kelley said he would come to the meeting and would spread the word, and so did the others. The citizens of Buckskin are ready to say that enough is enough and put a stop to all this squabbling.”
“I hope you’re right, Frank,” Tip said with a sigh. “But I sure wish Hamish Munro had never come to town.”
Frank jerked his head in a curt nod as he started out of the office. “You and me both, Tip,” he said. “You and me both.”
He crossed the street at an angle, heading for the old hotel. Munro had guards posted on the porch as usual, and they moved to block Frank’s path as he started toward the door.
“You’re not welcome here, Marshal,” one of the men said. “Mr. Munro’s orders.”
“I’m here on official business,” Frank said, “so step aside.”
The men hesitated, but Frank’s steely-eyed stare reminded them that while he might be the marshal of Buckskin now, he was also still the notorious gunfighter known as The Drifter. Finally, the guard who had spoken before said, “Well, I reckon if it’s official business…”
The two of them moved away from the doors.
Frank went inside, into the lobby, and the sound of voices drew him to an arched entrance that led into the dining room. He found Hamish and Jessica Munro there, along with Gunther Hammersmith, Nathan Evers, and Colonel Starkwell. The men were gathered around a table talking while Jessica sat alone at another table.
Munro, Hammersmith, and Starkwell all glared at Frank. Evers was as blandly inscrutable as ever. Munro demanded, “What are you doing here, Morgan? I gave orders that I didn’t want to be bothered by you.”
“You’d better be bothered, Munro,” Frank snapped. “Those men of yours who are on strike have come to town to negotiate a settlement.”
Starkwell surged to his feet. “What! Those fugitives are here?”
“They’re not fugitives. They haven’t been charged with any crime. But I’ve placed them in protective custody, just as a precaution.”