Before the bushwhacker could draw a bead on the fallen deputy, Frank leveled his Colt and squeezed off four rounds as fast as he could, leaving one round in the cylinder in case he needed it. The range was fairly long for a handgun, and the light was bad, but this was far from the first time that Frank had risked his own life, or that of someone else, on his skill with a Colt.
He had aimed at the last spot he had seen muzzle flashes. Now, as Clint pushed himself up and seemed to be waiting for slugs to smash into him and drive the life from him, the bushwhacker’s gun fell silent. Frank kept his gun trained on the trees. After a moment, a figure staggered out of the shadows. He tried to lift the gun that he still clutched in his hand, but he lacked the strength to do so. He pitched forward onto his face and lay still.
Frank covered the man as he started forward. Clint came to his feet and called, “Frank? That you?”
“Yeah,” Frank replied. “Are you hit?”
“No, just shaken up a mite from that hard fall I took. But I’d be plumb full of holes right now if not for you.”
Frank went straight to the man he had shot. He toed the body over onto its back. Clint came up and snapped a match to life with his thumbnail, and as the harsh glare spread over the face of the bushwhacker, Frank recognized the angry prospector from Rosie’s place.
“He must’ve really been mad about not gettin’ any,” Clint said with a faint chuckle.
The front of the prospector’s overalls were stained with blood in three places where Frank’s bullets had struck him. His eyes were open and staring, and his chest rose and fell a couple of times before he shuddered and his final breath rattled in his throat. The staring eyes turned glassy.
Frank started reloading the gun in his hand. As the match burned down and Clint dropped it before it could scorch his fingers, he asked, “How’s the professor?”
“Not hurt too bad,” Frank replied as he thumbed fresh cartridges into the Colt’s cylinder. “It’s a good thing this hombre wasn’t a better shot, or the professor would be dead now. As it is, all he’s got is a bullet graze in his side.”
“The professor’s a lucky hombre,” Clint said. “Like me. When I tripped and fell out there in plain sight, I figured I was a goner for sure.” He paused. “Thanks, Frank. I reckon you saved my life.”
Frank grunted. “I’d do the same for any of my deputies.”
“Hey! Hey, Marshal, you back here?”
“Speaking of which…” Frank said as he turned to look toward the new voice. Catamount Jack hurried out of the alley carrying a lantern in one hand and a six-gun in the other. Frank called to him, “It’s all right, Jack. The shooting’s all over.”
Jack came up and held the lantern high so that its light washed over all of them. “Sounded like a reg’lar war bustin’ out for a minute there.” He frowned at Clint Farnum. “Who’s this?”
“My new deputy,” Frank said.
“I’m bein’ replaced?” Jack practically yelped as his bushy eyebrows shot up.
“Not at all,” Frank hastened to assure him. “Clint’s signing on as a second deputy, because the town is growing so fast…and trouble right along with it.”
Jack grunted. “You can say that again.” He nodded toward the corpse. “I reckon this fella was tryin’ to grow some trouble of his own?”
“That’s right. He had a run-in with Professor Burton earlier and then bushwhacked him.”
“Yeah, I seen Claude Langley and some other fellas carryin’ the professor down to the undertakin’ parlor. Figured for sure he was dead, but Claude said he was just wounded and he was gonna patch him up, not plant him.”
Frank slid his Colt back into the holster. “I guess I’d better go see about him. I’ll tell Claude to come back here with his wagon for this fella too.”
“I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the carcass,” Jack offered.
“And I’ll finish making those evening rounds,” Clint volunteered.
Frank thought it over and then nodded. “I’m obliged to both of you boys,” he said. “Seems like Buckskin is in good hands.”
Chapter 15
A shudder went through Jessica Munro as she listened to the guns going off somewhere else in town. Even though she was in no danger—at least, as far as she knew—the thought that men were out there killing each other made her question her wisdom in coming here to this wild, untamed town.
But Hamish was here, and he had insisted that she accompany him. As usual, what Hamish wanted, he got.
Wearing a dark blue dressing gown—Hamish’s favorite color—Jessica thought about stepping over to the window and looking out. Perhaps she could see what was going on. At the same time, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself, so she stayed where she was, seated in front of a dressing table with a flyspecked mirror. She ran a bone-handled brush through her long, fair hair, which she had unleashed from its elaborate arrangement of piled-up curls so that it tumbled around her shoulders and down her back.
She studied the bedroom’s reflection in the mirror. It was part of the hotel’s only suite, with a small sitting room adjacent to it where Hamish was going over some papers with his secretary, Nathan Evers. The place had been cleaned up considerably since their arrival that afternoon. Hamish had seen to it that the rooms he and Jessica would be using had been dusted and swept and mopped. Fresh linens that they had brought with them from San Francisco were on the bed. The furnishings in the room were comfortable enough, Jessica supposed. A tin bathtub sat in one corner, with the soapy water she had used to soak off the dust of their journey now cooling in it.
She set the brush on the dressing table and looked at herself more closely in the mirror. Only the faintest suggestions of lines were visible around the corners of her eyes and mouth…but faint though they might be, they were there. Another five years and she would start to look her age, she guessed. She had worked hard to delay that onslaught, but there was only so much a person could do to hold back the ravages of the years. Right now she was a stunningly beautiful woman, but in time she would be merely very attractive. Would Hamish still want her then?
She grasped the lapels of her robe and pulled them apart, revealing her breasts, turning back and forth in the chair to see if she could detect any signs of sagging. No, they were still as firm as they had been when she was a girl. She wondered how the straitlaced Nathan Evers would react if she were to step into the doorway between the bedroom and the sitting room and stand there with her robe open like this, so that he could see her breasts. She could always pretend it was an accident and claim that she thought he had left. She bet Nathan’s eyes would nearly pop out of his head at the sight. She smiled at that thought.
Hamish would be angry, of course, but it wouldn’t last long. To tell the truth, she knew that deep down he enjoyed the way other men looked at her. Jealous he might be, but proud too. What greater accomplishment could a man have than to possess a wife that every other man wanted to bed?
Well, a lot of money might be almost as good, she supposed…and Hamish Munro certainly had that. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be sitting here in this godforsaken hamlet of Buckskin, Nevada.
She pulled the robe tight around her as she heard a footstep at the door between the rooms. By the time the door opened, she had the brush in her hand again and was running it through her hair. Hamish came into the room.
Jessica met his eyes in the mirror and said, “Mr. Evers is gone?”
“That’s right,” Hamish replied. “We’ve finished our work for the evening.”
He was a compact man, only an inch or so taller than his wife. A fringe of reddish-gray hair remained around his ears and the back of his head; otherwise he was bald. At first glance, he didn’t look at all impressive, but he had a fire and a ruthless determination that made larger men do his bidding without question. He had made fortunes in both railroading and mining with the same basic tactic: If anyone presented an obstacle to what he wanted, he found a way to crush them. It was as simple as that.