Frank grabbed Tip Woodford’s arm and shoved the mayor toward the office of the Lucky Lizard. He saw that Garrett Claiborne had already hustled Diana off the boardwalk and inside the building. Frank was grateful for that, but knew Claiborne and Diana weren’t out of danger. With all the lead flying around, some of the slugs might penetrate the walls of the buildings. He hoped everybody in town had enough sense to get down behind something solid and stay there until the shooting was over.
As Frank hurried Tip out of the line of fire, a bitter taste welled up in his mouth. He was supposed to protect the townspeople, and all he had managed to do was start a small-scale war right in the middle of the settlement. This was proof, as if he needed it, that he wasn’t cut out to be a lawman. He never should have tried to settle down and give up his drifting ways.
Violence followed him. Always had, and likely always would.
For now, though, all he could do was try to put a stop to this ruckus, once he got Tip to relative safety. He didn’t know who had fired the shot that had started the ball, but he hoped he could find out and deal with the damn fool later.
As they reached the boardwalk, a fresh volley of shots broke out, but these came from the edge of town. As a bullet whistled past Frank’s ear, so close that he felt it as much as heard it, he twisted his head and saw a totally unexpected sight. Dozens of hard-faced, roughly dressed men on horseback were galloping into town, blazing away with the six-guns in their hands as they thundered down the main street.
Tip yelped in pain, drawing Frank’s attention. “How bad are you hit?” Frank asked over the rattle of gunfire.
“Just creased my arm!” Tip replied. “Who the hell are those fellas?”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t know. Get inside and look after Claiborne and Diana!”
He gave Tip a shove that sent the burly older man stumbling through the open door of the office, then whirled back to the street, where a three-way battle was now going on. Four-way, if you counted the citizens of Buckskin who had been posted along the street with rifles and shotguns. They had sought cover behind water troughs, rain barrels, and parked wagons in order to swap lead with the murderous newcomers.
The men on horseback had scattered the battling militia men and miners, riding down some of them and shooting others. As Frank darted along the boardwalk with bullets knocking up splinters from the planks around his feet, he got a look at the big, blond-bearded man who seemed to be the leader of the strangers. A shock of recognition went through him. He hadn’t seen Jory Pool in several years, but the big outlaw hadn’t changed that much. They had been in some of the same places but had never actually met, which was the way Frank wanted it because he was aware of Pool’s reputation as a cunning but brutal and possibly deranged gunman and outlaw. Pool was supposed to be the head of a gang almost as bad as he was.
Frank had no doubt that Buckskin was now under assault from that gang. By busting in and raiding the settlement right now, Pool and the rest of the owlhoots had taken everybody by surprise.
Frank squeezed off a couple of shots, and saw one of the outlaws tumble out of the saddle. Some of the other members of the gang were down too.
But there were too many of them, and even though the militia and the miners would have outnumbered the outlaws by almost two to one if they had been working together, there was no organized defense, and too many of them were still fighting each other, not yet aware that an even greater threat had just galloped into Buckskin.
Frank emptied his Colt at Jory Pool, but the boss outlaw chose that moment to whirl his horse and start charging back the way he had come. The bullets whined past him, all of them missing. Frank sprawled full-length behind a water trough and began reloading, dumping the empty shells from the Peacemaker’s cylinder and thumbing fresh cartridges into it.
He hadn’t seen Hammersmith or Hamish Munro since the shooting started, he realized, and he wondered what had happened to them.
But he wondered for only a second, because he had bigger worries at the moment. Several of the mounted outlaws charged the water trough where he had taken cover, and a hailstorm of lead scythed through the air around him.
Hamish Munro was shaking with fear as he scrambled up the stairs in the hotel. He had never come so close to death in his life as he just had in the street outside. It was bad enough that everyone was turning on him like that—the Fowler brothers and even Hammersmith—but then to have all that shooting going on around him, with bullets flying through the air so close to his head that he could hear them….
He hadn’t thought about it. The instinct for self-preservation had taken over and he had dashed for the boardwalk, getting out of the street as fast as he could, leaving Hammersmith behind—the traitor! If Hammersmith had been more careful…if he had hired men who were more dependable than the Fowlers…if that damned Morgan hadn’t kept pushing and poking his nose in where it didn’t belong…
Yes, Munro thought, when you got right down to it, everything was Morgan’s fault. He would see the man dead. If, of course, Morgan lived through the battle that was going on outside.
Munro became uncomfortably aware that the front of his trousers was wet. Terror had made him lose control of his bladder as he ran for cover. He hated for Jessica to see him this way, but it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t like she actually loved him. At least, not nearly as much as she loved his money. As long as he had his riches, nothing else really mattered to her.
He paused at the top of the stairs to draw a deep breath and try to collect himself. He had always carried himself with dignity, and there was no reason to change that now. With a furious glare on his face, he stalked along the corridor toward his suite. Jessica had probably heard the shooting and would be scared. She was like a little girl who was easily frightened. Munro would calm her down, and then they would wait out the trouble. He was confident that Colonel Starkwell’s militia would suppress the riot going on outside, even though he was still angry at Starkwell for disobeying his orders.
Munro opened the door and stepped into the suite. He didn’t see anyone. “Jessica!” he said, raising his voice because even in here, the sound of gunfire was loud. “Jessica, where are you?”
He heard something behind him, the scrape of shoe leather on the floor perhaps, and started to turn, but before he could swing around, something hard and round jabbed against the back of his head and there was a loud noise and a white-hot explosion burst in Hamish Munro’s brain. He didn’t feel himself falling, wasn’t aware of it when he landed facedown on the floor with the back of his head a bullet-shattered ruin. He shouldn’t have even been able to think anymore with a bullet in his brain that way, but a few swiftly fading shreds of consciousness remained, just enough for him to think that he couldn’t be dying. He was Hamish Munro, damn it. He had money and power. Politicians did his bidding, and a beautiful young woman was his wife….
Jessica.
That was his last thought before oblivion claimed him.
Chapter 32
Jessica lunged at Hammersmith as he came stumbling in the door of the hotel, blood running down his face from the cut that Frank Morgan’s gun had opened up on his head. She caught hold of his arm and cried, “Gunther! Gunther, what’s going on out there?”
Hammersmith shook his head as if he were still groggy from the blow. “All hell’s breakin’ loose,” he muttered. “Somebody started shootin’…then some other bastards came riding in and gunnin’ people down…”
Impatience gripped Jessica. Hammersmith wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, nothing she hadn’t seen for herself through the hotel’s front window. Munro had ordered her to stay upstairs, but she had ignored him, as she always ignored him when it didn’t suit her purposes to give the appearance of compliance. She had watched anxiously as the miners and the militia confronted each other, and she had seen the big miner called Rogan fall as he was shot. Jessica didn’t know who had pulled the trigger, but Rogan’s killing had set off a firestorm in the street.