Frank replaced the two rounds he had fired with fresh cartridges from the loops on his shell belt, then pouched the iron. A bitter taste filled his mouth. He turned his head toward the bystanders and said, “Somebody fetch Langley.”
One man hurried off to let the undertaker know what had happened. The others stayed where they were and stared at Hampton’s corpse.
“Is it all right if I get down off this horse?” Farnum asked.
Frank made a curt gesture with his hand indicating that Farnum could dismount. He swung down from the saddle and looped the reins around the hitch rack in front of the boardwalk.
“I’m sorry about this, Frank,” Farnum said, and he sounded sincere. “I know you and I have never been what you’d call friends—”
Frank grunted to show his agreement with that statement.
“But I tried to talk him out of it,” Farnum went on. “He was bound and determined to give it a try, though. He said you were the last really famous gunfighter who’s left, and if he ever wanted to make his rep, he’d have to go through you to do it.”
“Why would a man want a reputation as a gunfighter in this day and age?” Frank said. “Men like us are relics, Clint. The West the way we knew it as youngsters is getting farther and farther away with each passing day.”
Farnum shrugged. “True enough. But as long as folks still remember what it used to be like, it’s not going to go away completely. There’ll always be somebody who wants to try to recapture it.” Farnum nodded toward Hampton’s body. “Like him.”
“Yeah, I reckon you’re right.” Frank looked along the street, and saw Claude Langley’s wagon rolling toward the scene of the shoot-out. He looked back at Farnum and asked, “You plan to stay in Buckskin for long?”
“Haven’t decided yet. I might. Seems like a nice enough little town.” That sly smile stole across Farnum’s face again. “And it’s got a good marshal to enforce law and order.”
Frank jerked his head toward the Silver Baron. “Come on down to the saloon with me. Least I can do is buy you a drink, for old time’s sake.”
“I’m much obliged for your hospitality.”
Farnum fell in step beside Frank as they started toward the saloon. Farnum had to take three steps for every two strides that Frank’s longer legs made, but Frank didn’t slow down to make it easier for him to keep up.
They hadn’t reached the Silver Baron yet when Frank saw dust boiling up from the trail leading into town. He stopped and frowned as he heard pounding hoofbeats and the rattle of wheels. “What the devil?” he muttered.
A moment later, a stagecoach came into view, pulled by a good-looking six-horse hitch. Rather than the red and yellow of a typical Concord coach, this vehicle was painted a dark blue. The side curtains were pulled over the windows to keep the dust out, so Frank couldn’t see who was inside as the stagecoach rolled past.
“I didn’t know Buckskin was on one of the stage lines,” Farnum commented.
“It’s not.”
“Then where’d that coach come from, and what’s it doing here?”
Frank shook his head. “I have no idea, but I reckon I’d better find out.” He started back up the street, adding over his shoulder, “We’ll have that drink later.”
“I’ll be around,” Farnum said.
The stagecoach came to a stop in front of a building that had once been a hotel. Prospectors had moved into the place, taking it over and using it as a rooming house. Frank crossed the street at an angle toward the place, walking past the spot where Claude Langley and his helper were loading Hampton’s body into the back of the undertaker’s wagon. Frank didn’t even glance in that direction. That violent incident was over, and now his attention was focused on the newcomers to Buckskin.
The man handling the stagecoach’s reins was accompanied on the driver’s box by another tough-looking hombre holding a Winchester. Both of them climbed down from the box as Frank approached. The driver headed for the back of the coach while the guard stepped over to the door on the side closest to the boardwalk and opened it.
Then he turned toward Frank and brought the rifle’s muzzle up. He watched Frank in a somewhat threatening manner.
“Take it easy, mister,” Frank said. “I’m the law in these parts.”
A man climbed out of the coach and stepped down to the street. He wore a dark, expensive suit, and a diamond stickpin sparkled on his cravat. A derby hat perched on his head. He wasn’t overly big, but he appeared to have a wiry strength to him. He looked at Frank with cold blue eyes and said, “You’re the marshal?”
“That’s right,” Frank replied with a nod. “Name’s Frank Morgan.”
The man in the suit didn’t offer to shake hands. He nodded toward the old hotel instead and said, “I own this building. I’ll expect you to immediately evict anyone who’s living here illegally.”
That demand took Frank by surprise. “You got proof of that, mister?”
“Of course,” the man snapped. “My secretary will provide you with any documentation you need. Right now, I expect you to do your duty, though, and carry out my request so that my companions and I can move in without being disturbed.”
The stranger’s arrogant attitude rubbed Frank the wrong way, so he didn’t really care whether or not he gave any offense as he asked, “And just who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Hamish Munro. Now hop to it, Marshal.”
Without waiting to see what Frank was going to do, Munro turned toward the open door of the coach and extended a hand. A woman’s arm reached out of the vehicle, and Munro took her hand.
One of the loveliest women Frank had seen in a long time stepped out of the coach, looked around, and said, “So this is Buckskin.”
Chapter 12
Somehow, Frank wasn’t surprised to learn Hamish Munro’s identity. Everything he’d heard from Garrett Claiborne had indicated that the mining magnate was a thoroughly unpleasant individual, and this dapper stranger certainly fit the bill. Frank had halfway expected Munro to show up in Buckskin sooner or later.
He was a little startled that Munro would bring such a stunning woman to a rugged Nevada boomtown, though.
The woman was young, no more than twenty-five. She wore a dark blue traveling outfit, the color of which pretty well matched that of the stagecoach. It was an Abbott & Downing coach, Frank noted, the same sort used by most of the stagecoach lines, but Munro must have purchased it from the company for his personal use and had it repainted and fitted out with lots of fancy silver trim. The horses pulling the coach had that same silver trim on their harness.
Frank turned his attention back to the young woman. Thick masses of blond hair so pale as to be almost white were piled atop her head, under a neat little blue hat. The dress she wore was tight enough that it clung to the lines of a slender but well-curved body. Her lips were full and red, her eyes gray. She managed to be sensuous and reserved at the same time, not an easy feat.
Munro didn’t offer to introduce her. Instead, he took her arm in a smug, possessive manner and said, “Come along, my dear.”
They started toward the doors of the old hotel.
“Hold on a minute,” Frank said. “There are folks who have been living here, and they’re liable to not take kindly to being tossed out on their ears.”
Munro looked back at him and said, “As you can well imagine, Marshal, I don’t care whether they take kindly to it or not, to use your phrase. This is my building. I intend to use it as my residence and also the local office of my company. Anyone who has been staying here had been doing so unlawfully. I won’t press charges against them, since they weren’t aware of the situation, but I want them out. Now!”