A part of Frank was tempted to tell Hammersmith that he had gotten just what he deserved. Frank was as convinced as ever that Hammersmith and Munro were behind the strike at the Lucky Lizard. Now their tactics had backfired against them, as their own workers, inspired by the strike at the other mine, had walked out on their jobs.
“You want anything else, Morgan?” Hammersmith snapped. “I got to tell Mr. Munro about what happened.”
Frank would have enjoyed being a fly on the wall during that conversation. That wasn’t going to happen, though, so he waved a hand in the direction of Buckskin and said, “Go ahead. I’m warning you, though, Hammersmith…. Your labor troubles had better stay confined to the mine. If they start reaching into town, I’ll put a stop to all this myself if I have to.”
Hammersmith’s lip curled. “What can you do? There ain’t no law against striking. More’s the pity.”
Again, Frank was struck by the irony of it. Hammersmith and Munro had struck at the Lucky Lizard, using the strike there as a weapon, but Hammersmith didn’t like it so much when the tables were turned and there was nothing he could do about it.
Frank moved aside to let Hammersmith pass. The man rode off toward the settlement. Frank started again toward the mine, chuckling as he said to Dog, “Wonder what they’ll do now.”
He didn’t figure he would have to wait very long to find out.
And he wasn’t expecting to be pleased when he found out, either.
Chapter 28
Frank rode on out to the Alhambra and talked to Dave Rogan, warning him that any violence connected with the strike wouldn’t be tolerated. Rogan remembered Frank from the ruckus in Kelley’s, and for a few moments things had been pretty tense as Rogan debated whether to indulge his old grudge and try to cause more trouble for the lawman.
But in the end, Rogan had just said, “Talk to Hamish Munro, Marshal. If anybody causes any bloodshed, it’ll be him.”
Frank wasn’t going to be surprised if Rogan turned out to be right. One thing seemed certain: Munro wouldn’t take this setback lying down. He would fight and would try to hurt the striking miners just as much as they were hurting him.
For a couple of days, an uneasy pause seemed to hang over Buckskin. The strike at the Lucky Lizard continued, in addition to the one at the Alhambra. The new equipment for the stamp mill at the Crown Royal arrived, as well as a dozen hard-bitten, well-armed men who had been hired by Conrad Browning to keep any more sabotage from occurring at the mine. Their leader, a tall, rusty-bearded man named Burke, came to see Frank.
“We have our orders,” Burke explained. “We’re to protect the Crown Royal, and that’s it. Mr. Browning doesn’t want us getting mixed up in any other local troubles.”
Frank nodded. “That’s fine with me. I’d just as soon give things a chance to settle down on their own. We don’t need a war here in Buckskin.”
That looked like what the town might get, though, because a day later the army rode in.
Frank was in the office when Catamount Jack stuck his head in the door and said in an excited voice, “You’d better come take a gander at this, Marshal. Looks like Buckskin’s bein’ invaded.”
Frank didn’t know whether to be alarmed or puzzled by Jack’s comment. He stood up and moved to the door, not wasting any time.
Sure enough, a military force was entering the settlement, riding into town from the northern end. The natty blue uniforms made Frank take them for United States cavalrymen at first, but he realized a second later that the markings and insignia were different. These uniforms were a little gaudier, a little fancier, than regular cavalry uniforms. All the riders, about two dozen of them, wore sabers in brass scabbards and had Winchesters in saddle boots instead of the usual army carbines.
The soldiers rode with their eyes fixed straight ahead, not paying any attention to the commotion their arrival was causing in the settlement. They came on down the street to the marshal’s office, where the officer leading them reined in and raised a hand. The man right behind him, evidently a sergeant of some sort, turned in his saddle and bellowed, “Company…halt!”
The officer dismounted, handed his horse’s reins to the sergeant, and stepped up onto the boardwalk. He tugged a gauntlet off his right hand and offered that hand to Frank. “Marshal Morgan?” he said. “I’m Colonel Jefferson Starkwell, Nevada State Militia.”
Frank had already started to wonder if these newcomers were members of the state militia. That was the only explanation that made any sense. What they were doing here in Buckskin was still an open question, though.
Frank shook hands with Starkwell and said, “Colonel. What brings you to Buckskin?”
Starkwell was a tall, stiff-backed man with iron-gray hair and a neat mustache and goatee. He said, “The governor has ordered us here to maintain law and order in the face of mounting civil unrest.”
A frown creased Frank’s forehead. He had been afraid that Colonel Starkwell would say something like that. Waving a hand toward the street, which was thronged at the moment with curious bystanders, he said, “What civil unrest? You can see for yourself that the place is plumb peaceful right now.”
“At the moment, perhaps,” Starkwell replied, unfazed by Frank’s question. “But the governor has been informed that violent strikes have broken out at two of the area mines and may spread to other mines in the vicinity. Riots have been reported.” A cold, thin smile curved Starkwell’s lips. “Dealing with such problems is beyond the scope of local law enforcement; therefore the governor dispatched us to see to it that things don’t get even more out of hand. The citizens must be protected.”
“And the mine owners have to be protected too, is that it?” Frank didn’t bother trying to hide his irritation now. “Since Jack and me and my other deputy are that local law enforcement you were talking about, don’t you think we ought to have a say in whether or not we need help from a troop of militia men?”
“The governor received a full report on the situation here, Marshal, and he acted in what he believes to be everyone’s best interests.”
Frank looked at Jack and said, “Munro. He’s the one behind this.”
The old-timer nodded. “Sure as shootin’.”
As far as Frank had known, Hamish Munro had been holed up in the hotel for the past few days, consulting with Hammersmith and Nathan Evers about the strike going on at the Alhambra. Now Frank realized that Munro had already taken action without him knowing about it. Munro must have sent a rider into Virginia City to wire the governor in Carson City and ask for help putting down the strike. The governor, like all politicians mindful of anyone with wealth and influence who might help him get elected again, had been only too glad to help. He had sent in the militia, ostensibly to keep order, but Frank knew how these things worked. He had seen similar situations in other places. Starkwell and his company of soldiers would actually be working for Munro, and their real goal would be to crush the strike crippling production at the Alhambra.
To accomplish that goal, they would crush the strikers if they had to.
Even though Frank knew it probably wouldn’t do any good, he said, “Colonel, I’d appreciate it if you and your men would turn around and ride right back to Carson City. Tell the governor we appreciate his concern, but we don’t need any help keeping a lid on things here.”
“I’m sorry, Marshal,” Starkwell said, not sounding the least bit apologetic, “but our orders are clear. We won’t be leaving until the miners’ strike is over, the men have returned to work, and the danger is ended.”
“But that ain’t right,” Catamount Jack protested. “You can’t force them fellas to work for Munro, nor for Tip Woodford neither.”