“An outlaw gang led by a man named Jory Pool,” Frank replied. “Pool’s the big hombre with the blond beard.” He thumbed more cartridges into his Colt as he added, “Come on. We’ll form up at the Silver Baron!”
As they ran through chaos and flying lead toward the saloon, Frank spotted Leo Benjamin, Professor Burton, and Ed Kelley, all of whom were armed and trying to mount a defense against the invaders. Frank called to them and waved for them to follow him and Tip and Claiborne.
As they neared the Silver Baron, the group of defenders picked up three more members in Amos Hillman, Claude Langley, and Langley’s helper Roy. Frank saw Starkwell and shouted, “Colonel! We’re forming up at the saloon!”
Starkwell nodded as he squeezed off a shot from his revolver and sent another outlaw tumbling out of the saddle. The colonel began shouting orders to his men, some of whom were still able to respond. Frank yelled at the miners he saw as well, and they joined the band of fighters headed for the saloon.
Fighting their way along the street, the group of defenders numbered about twenty strong by the time they reached the Silver Baron. Miners and militia men were fighting side by side now instead of battling against each other. Johnny Collyer pushed through the batwings to join them, coughing but determined, the sawed-off Greener he kept under the bar now clutched in his hands.
About a dozen of the outlaws were down, which made the odds roughly even now. The deadly accurate fire of the defenders had drawn Jory Pool’s attention. He bellowed orders to his surviving men, gathering them around him for an all-out assault on the Silver Baron. “Kill ’em!” he screamed as he kicked his horse into a run. “Kill ’em all!”
The gang surged forward like a tidal wave of death. As bullets flew, men on both sides dropped. A huge gray cloud of gunsmoke filled the street and stung the noses and mouths of the men who were fighting desperately. A militia man beside Frank grunted and doubled over as he was hit in the belly. He dropped his Winchester as he fell. Frank’s Colt had just run dry again, so he jammed it back in its holster and snatched up the fallen rifle. He brought it to his shoulder and began to fire as fast as he could work the weapon’s lever.
The huge, mounted figure of Jory Pool suddenly loomed up right in front of him. Frank had to dive to the side as Pool leaped his horse onto the boardwalk. Shouting curses, Pool yanked the animal around in a tight turn and began firing at Frank, who rolled across the planks as the boss outlaw’s bullets chewed splinters from them. Frank knew he was only a heartbeat from death.
Then someone leaped past him, gun blazing, and Frank heard Clint Farnum shouting, “No, damn it, no!” The little gunfighter went right at Pool, firing wildly, but he had taken only a couple of steps before a pair of slugs crashed into his chest and picked him up, driving him backward.
Clint’s valiant action had given Frank the chance to come up on his knees and lift the Winchester again. He didn’t know how many rounds were left in the rifle, but he prayed at least one still remained. As Clint fell, Pool tried to swing his gun toward Frank again, but he was too late. Frank pressed the Winchester’s trigger.
Pool’s head practically exploded in a grisly spray of blood, brains, and bone as the rifle bullet smashed through his skull. The outlaw leader toppled out of the saddle, falling to the boardwalk.
Pool’s death took the fight out of the remaining outlaws. Some of them whirled their mounts and retreated, trying to get away before they could be cut down. A few made it. The others threw down their guns and thrust their hands in the air, shouting for the defenders not to kill them. Seeing that the back of the attack was broken, Frank surged to his feet and shouted, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” He looked along the boardwalk, saw Catamount Jack among the defenders, and told the old-timer, “Jack, start rounding up the prisoners and take them down to the jail.”
“Them cells are gonna be crammed plumb full,” Jack said with a grin. He had been nicked a couple of times by flying lead, but seemed to be as spry as ever.
Frank turned to Starkwell and asked, “Colonel, will you give my deputy a hand?”
Starkwell glanced at his men, who were now eyeing the miners with suspicion once more, then said, “Of course, Marshal. I think we could use a truce right about now.”
Frank nodded in agreement. The last thing he wanted after fighting off this outlaw raid was a resumption of the hostilities that had been going on before Pool and his gang rode in.
He turned toward Clint Farnum and knelt at the little gunfighter’s side. The front of Clint’s shirt was soaked with blood and more crimson leaked from his mouth, but he was still alive. His eyelids flickered open as Frank put a hand on his shoulder.
“F-Frank…” he rasped out. “You’re…all right?”
“Yeah, thanks to you,” Frank told him. He could tell that Clint didn’t have much time left. Minutes maybe, or even less. “Thanks to you,” Frank went on. “You saved my life, Clint. Pool would have ventilated me in another second.”
“That’s…good…I’m sorry I…”
Whatever Clint was trying to apologize for, it went unsaid, because at that moment a long sigh came from him and his bloody chest ceased to rise and fall. The light went out of his pale blue eyes.
“You were a good deputy, Clint,” Frank said, hoping that somehow Clint could still hear him. Gently, he closed the man’s eyes and then stood up.
Dr. Garland had arrived on the scene and was checking over the wounded defenders. Frank walked along the boardwalk, noting that Roy was dead, along with a couple of the miners and one of the militia men. A number of others had wounds of varying seriousness, but Garland seemed to think that all of them would pull through.
The doctor paused in his work long enough to tell Frank, “Considering how badly the town was shot up, we’re lucky more people weren’t killed.”
Frank couldn’t bring himself to feel all that lucky at the moment, but he knew what Garland meant. “If there’s anything I can do to help, Doc, just let me know.”
Tip Woodford and Garrett Claiborne came up to Frank. “We still got the same mess as before,” Tip said. “What’re we gonna do about those strikin’ miners?”
“Now that the parts Munro and Hammersmith played in everything have come out, maybe we can talk some sense into them,” Frank said. “We’ll have to have another meeting.”
Claiborne looked around and asked, “Where are Hammersmith and Munro? I don’t see them in the street or anywhere along the boardwalk.”
“They must have made it back to the hotel when all hell broke loose.” Frank had set the Winchester aside and was reloading his Colt. “I’ll go find them.”
“Better let us come with you,” Tip suggested. “Since they know they’re facin’ a lot of legal trouble now, they’re liable to put up a fight. That bruiser Hammersmith anyway. I ain’t sure Munro knows how to fight with anything except money.”
Frank considered the offer, but then shook his head. “You fellas have already fought your battle today. This is a job for Buckskin’s marshal, and that’s who I am, at least for now.”
He started toward the hotel. Behind him, Tip called, “Frank? What do you mean by that, Frank? Dadgummit—”
Frank didn’t pay any attention. He kept walking until he reached the boardwalk in front of the hotel. As he stepped into the lobby, he stopped short at the sight of Jessica Munro sitting on the stairs leading up to the second floor. Her face was red and streaked with tears, but she was still beautiful despite that.
“Marshal,” she said as she looked up and saw Frank. She came to her feet. “It’s terrible. They’re dead. They’re all dead.”