Burton sniffed. “Simply stating a fact.”
“Shut up, Professor,” Frank snapped. “You’re not making things any better.” He jerked a thumb at the prospector again. “You. Out.”
The man went, but not before muttering a lot of curses on his way to the door. He slammed it behind him with more force than necessary.
Professor Burton straightened his coat and hooked his thumbs in his vest. “I greatly appreciate the assistance, Marshal,” he said to Frank. “While I regret that you had to see me in a moment of mortal weakness, tempted by the lusts of the flesh, I’m glad you came along when you did and saved me from being forced to hand that recalcitrant buffoon the thrashing of a lifetime.”
“Yeah, me too, Professor,” Frank said, his voice dry with sarcasm. “Now move along.”
Burton frowned. “Surely you don’t mean that I have to leave? The altercation is over, and I assumed your decree was for that lout’s benefit—”
“I said you were both leaving, and I meant it.”
Burton looked like he wanted to argue, but the cold stare that Frank gave him seemed to make him think better of it. He turned to Linda and said, “I’m forced to bid you good evening, my dear, but I’ll see you tomorrow evening—”
“I’ll be here,” she cut in, still speaking excellent English. She looked over at Frank and Clint and added with an inviting smile, “Either of you gents interested in a poke?”
Clint licked his lips and started to say something, then changed his mind and gave a regretful shake of his head. “I reckon I’m on duty,” he said.
“That’s right,” Frank told him. “We’ll make the evening rounds together, so you’ll know the routine.”
That caught Burton’s attention. “You have a new deputy, Marshal?” the professor asked.
“Yep. This is Clint Farnum. Clint, meet Professor Burton.”
The two men shook hands, with Burton saying, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, though I wish it was in more decorous surroundings.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Clint told him. “I’ve met some of my best friends in whorehouses.”
The three men left together, ignoring Rosie’s questions about how a lady was supposed to make any money in this town. The hour was late enough now so that not as many people were on the streets, even though the saloons were still open and doing a good business.
“What brings you to Buckskin, Mr. Farnum?” Burton asked.
“Oh, the marshal and I are old friends,” Clint answered. “I heard about him packing a badge here and thought maybe he could use a good man.”
The part about them being old friends was stretching the truth a mite, Frank thought. He and Clint had known each other for a long time, but they had never been close. As for the rest of it…well, time would tell.
“I hope you enjoy your stay here,” Burton went on.
“I’m sure I will, Professor.”
Burton said good night and angled off toward his cabin. Frank and Clint continued along the street, and Frank began checking the doors of the businesses they passed, making sure each one was locked up tight for the night.
“I get the idea,” Clint said. “Got to take care of the storekeepers. They pay your wages, after all.”
“It’s just part of the job—” Frank began.
He was interrupted by the sudden blast of gunshots from behind them.
Frank whirled around, drawing his Colt as he did so. Beside him, Clint Farnum’s gun seemed to leap into his hand with blinding speed, although actually he was a fraction of a heartbeat behind Frank on the draw. As Frank crouched, ready to return the fire, he realized that the shots weren’t directed at him and his new deputy. He spotted a dark form slumped in the street, in the area where Professor Burton had been walking.
“Professor!” Frank shouted as he broke into a run toward the sprawled shape. He heard Farnum pounding along behind him, but with his longer legs he outdistanced the smaller man in just a few strides.
The gunshots had stopped, leaving an echoing silence that filled the night. After a second, shouted questions began to come from the saloons. Everybody wanted to know what the shooting was all about.
Frank had a terrible feeling he knew the answer. That angry prospector had lain in wait for Professor Burton and then drygulched him. Frank hadn’t seen a gun on the man and had figured he was unarmed. If he had been packing an iron, Frank would have taken it away from him to prevent just such an ambush from occurring.
The prospector had either had a hidden gun, or he had fetched a weapon from his saddlebags. The how didn’t matter. What was important was that Burton was hit.
Frank dropped to a knee beside the professor. He was aware that he was making himself a target, but he wanted to know how badly Burton was hurt. The wounded man lay facedown in the street. Frank grasped his shoulder and rolled him onto his back. As he did, Burton’s coat fell open and Frank saw the dark stain on the professor’s vest. It was low on Burton’s right side.
Burton let out a groan, telling Frank that he was still alive anyway. Clint ran up, a little out of breath, and said, “I heard the fella running down that alley over there. I’ll go after him while you tend to the professor!”
Before Frank could countermand that decision, Clint dashed off again, toward the dark mouth of an alley where the bushwhacker must have been lurking, waiting for the professor to come along. Even though it annoyed Frank that Clint had acted on impulse that way, without waiting for orders, he knew that his new deputy could take care of himself. He ripped Burton’s vest and shirt open to see just how bad the wound was.
The light was uncertain, just what came from the moon and stars and the reflected glow from some lamp-lit windows down the street, but when Frank probed the wound with the fingers of his left hand, he found that it was just a shallow furrow in Burton’s side, a couple of inches above his waist. It had bled quite a bit, but was more messy than serious. The bullet hadn’t penetrated and done any real damage. Once the wound was cleaned and bandaged, it ought to heal without much trouble. Burton would be stiff and sore—he wouldn’t feel like visiting that Chinese girl Linda for a while, Frank thought—but in time he would be as good as new.
Claude Langley came hurrying along the street with a lantern in his hand. As the light washed over Frank and the professor, the undertaker asked, “More business for me, Marshal?”
“Not this time,” Frank said. “This one’s still alive. He needs to be patched up, though.”
“I can do that,” Langley offered. “I’ll take him down to my place.”
“Much obliged,” Frank said as he straightened to his feet. He looked toward the dark alley where Clint Farnum had disappeared in search of the bushwhacker. He hadn’t seen or heard anything of Clint since the deputy had run off.
As Frank stalked toward the alley, gun in hand, more shots suddenly shattered the night air, coming from somewhere behind the row of buildings. He broke into a run and dashed along the alley, stumbling a little over some of the trash that littered the ground. He heard two different guns, and figured Clint had caught up to the man who had shot the professor. As he reached the other end of the alley, he saw Colt flame bloom in the darkness to his right.
Pivoting in that direction, Frank spotted a dark shape as it darted behind some barrels stored at the rear of a building. Spurts of gunfire came from a clump of trees nearby. Bullets tore into the barrels and splintered the wood as they punched all the way through the empty containers. The man who had taken cover behind them dashed into the open again as he realized that the barrels weren’t providing any real shelter from the gunfire after all.
By the size of the running shape, Frank recognized the man as Clint Farnum. The deputy suddenly tripped and went down, right out in the open where he would be a perfect target for the gunman hidden in the trees.