Frank didn’t see anything of Gunther Hammersmith, although he heard that the superintendent of the Alhambra had been in town looking for workers too. That was Hammersmith’s right, Frank supposed. After their run-in at the mine, he didn’t like the man, but as long as Hammersmith didn’t break any laws, Frank was prepared to tolerate him.
New settlers continued to show up in Buckskin just about every day. Some came on horseback, some in buggies or wagons, some even walked in, carrying all their belongings on their backs. As Frank had been expecting, a madam showed up, bringing four girls with her. They moved in to one of the empty houses and set up for business right away, and they certainly didn’t lack for customers. Prospectors who hadn’t been with a woman for months flocked to the place. Some of the more respectable citizens, like Leo and Trudy Benjamin and Professor Burton, disapproved, but Frank knew there was nothing he could do about it. In their own way, the prostitutes provided a valuable service and a civilizing influence. A man who wasn’t boiling over with repressed lust was less likely to start trouble in other ways.
As a precaution, Frank paid a visit to the madam, who introduced herself as Rosie, and told her that he expected her and her girls to conduct their business in a quiet manner, without any problems.
Rosie laughed and said, “Believe you me, Marshal, nobody wants things to stay peaceful more than we do. Ruckuses are bad for business. Now, before you go, how’d you like to spend some time with one of the gals? On the house, of course.”
Frank declined. He had seen too many corrupt star-packers who accepted favors and collected graft from the townspeople they were supposed to be serving. He might still be relatively new to the law business, but he was determined to do it the right way.
A week after Claiborne’s arrival in town, the encounter with Hammersmith, and the trouble with Rogan, Frank was lounging in front of the marshal’s office, sitting in a chair that was tipped back against the wall, balancing himself with a booted foot propped against the railing along the front of the boardwalk, when he saw a couple of men riding into town. The front legs of his chair hit the boardwalk with a thump as he recognized one of them. He stood up and stepped to the edge of the walk.
The two men saw him and angled their horses in his direction. As they reined in, the smaller of the two nodded and said, “Howdy, Frank. It’s been a while.”
“Ten years at least, Farnum,” Frank replied. “How are you?”
The man shrugged. He had a broad, friendly face and curly, graying hair under a thumbed-back Stetson. With his sly grin and small stature, Clint Farnum had always reminded Frank a little of a gnome or some sort of creature like that from a children’s fairy tale book. Despite his size, he was fast on the draw and a lethal gunman.
“I’m all right,” Farnum said in reply to Frank’s question. “I’m a mite surprised you didn’t say something about how you figured I was dead by now.”
“I hadn’t heard anything about you getting killed,” Frank said with a shrug. “I assumed you were still around.” He inclined his head toward Farnum’s companion, who was at least a head taller than the affable little gunslinger. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Charlie Hampton. Wouldn’t say that we’re friends, but we’re riding together for the time being, anyway.”
“You’re Frank Morgan?” Hampton asked in a heavy, unfriendly voice.
Frank nodded. “That’s right.”
“You don’t look like much. Hell, you’re supposed to be as fast on the draw as Smoke Jensen or Matt Bodine. Maybe even faster.”
Farnum laughed. “The Drifter’s fast enough to have stayed alive this long, Charlie. How much faster’n that does a man have to be?”
“He won’t be alive much longer,” Hampton said. He started to dismount.
Frank waited until the man was halfway out of the saddle, with his right foot out of the stirrup and his right leg lifted over the horse’s back. Then he palmed out his Colt, leveled it at Hampton, and said, “Hold it right there.”
Hampton froze in that awkward position and said, “What the hell!”
“That ain’t hardly fair, Frank, gettin’ the drop on a man like that,” Farnum said, grinning so that he looked more like a gnome than ever.
“I don’t give a damn about fair,” Frank said. “I knew as soon as I saw you fellas ride in that one or both of you were looking for a gunfight—”
“Not me,” Farnum said. He held up both hands, palms out toward Frank. “I’ve been in my share of showdowns, but I’m not a big enough fool to go up against The Drifter. Charlie here was the one who wanted to test his rep. I’d heard you had pinned on a badge here in Buckskin, so we moseyed on over to see you.”
“Damn it, Morgan,” Hampton said, his voice showing the strain of maintaining his uncomfortable position. “How long you expect me to stay here like this?”
“Until I tell you to move,” Frank snapped. “Nobody asked you to come here and cause trouble.”
Even in the position he was in, Hampton managed to sneer. “Looks to me like you’re afraid of me, Morgan,” he said. “Afraid to face me man-to-man.”
Farnum tsk-tsked and shook his head. “Charlie, Charlie,” he said. “That wasn’t a smart move. But then, nobody’s ever accused you of being too smart, now have they?”
“What’s going on here, Farnum?” Frank asked. “You get tired of riding with Hampton or something, so you brought him here to have me kill him for you?”
Before Farnum could answer, Hampton said, “You’re the only one who’s gonna die, old man!”
“You might as well get it over with, Frank,” Farnum advised. “Charlie here is a stubborn one. He’s not going to give up or go away until he gets what he wants—a crack at you.”
By now, the confrontation had begun to draw some attention from the citizens of Buckskin. Hampton’s awkward pose and the gun in Frank’s hand caused a murmur of conversation as some of the townspeople started gathering nearby.
Frank turned his head to say in a sharp, commanding tone, “You folks move along.” He hoped to avoid any gunplay, but if lead started to fly, he didn’t want any stray bullets cutting down innocent bystanders.
That second when his attention wasn’t on Hampton anymore was the break the would-be gunfighter had been waiting for. He dived the rest of the way out of the saddle, jerking his revolver from its holster as he tumbled to the street. He rolled over and came up shooting.
Frank had already dropped into a crouch and pivoted toward Hampton before the gunslinger could squeeze the trigger, so Hampton’s first shot whined harmlessly past his head to thud into the thick, log wall of the marshal’s office. That was Hampton’s first shot—and only shot, because in the next heartbeat Frank’s Colt blasted twice and flame geysered from the mouth of the Peacemaker’s barrel.
The heavy .45-caliber slugs slammed into Hampton’s chest and threw him backward in the street. Frank twisted again, back toward Farnum, in case the little man was going to make a try for him. Farnum hadn’t moved, though, except to lift his hands and hold them in plain sight, so that Frank could see right away they were empty.
“Don’t shoot, Morgan,” Farnum said. “This was all Charlie’s play, not mine. I told him he was a fool to try to take you.”
Frank’s instincts told him that Farnum spoke the truth. He stepped down off the boardwalk and walked over to where Hampton lay. The gunfighter was on his back, arms and legs splayed out, his revolver lying beside his hand where it had slipped from his nerveless fingers. Frank kicked the gun out of reach, just as a precaution, then toed Hampton’s shoulder. The man’s head lolled loosely on his shoulders. The glassy look in Hampton’s eyes had already told Frank that he was dead, but it never hurt to make sure of these things.
The sudden blast of gunshots had made the gathering crowd scurry for cover, but now as silence reigned in Buckskin’s main street, their curiosity drove them from their hiding places. A murmur of questions grew in volume.