“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a gruff voice. He put a hand on Claiborne’s shoulder and practically shoved him forward.
“It was a wonderful evening, Miss Woodford,” he said. “The food was delicious and, well, no man could complain about the company.”
“How sweet of you. Good evening, Mr. Claiborne.”
As they walked away, once they were out of earshot, Claiborne said, “Miss Woodford really is a fine young woman. You’re a fortunate man, Marshal.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Obviously, she’s fond of you. I believe she’s set her cap for you.”
“I’m old enough to be her father, blast it!” Frank turned and poked a finger against Claiborne’s shoulder. “She needs somebody younger, like you.”
“Me? Why, I would never dream of interfering with someone else’s romance.”
“There’s no romance to interfere with,” Frank insisted.
“Perhaps not in your mind, but in the young lady’s, who knows?” Claiborne laughed. “And when it comes to matters of the heart, Marshal, we both know that as men, we don’t really have all that much say in the matter, now do we?”
That was true, unfortunately, Frank thought with a frown.
But he had planted a seed anyway, he hoped, and maybe someday it would grow into something.
Chapter 11
Frank let Dave Rogan out of the jail cell early the next morning. The miner, whose heavy-jawed, beard-stubbled face seemed to be set in a permanent scowl, said, “You’re gonna be sorry for lockin’ me up, Marshal. And that bastard Kelley’s gonna wish I’d never set foot in his place.”
“I’d say there’s a good chance Kelley already feels that way,” Frank said. He took a step closer to Rogan and his voice turned cold and hard as he went on. “Listen to me, mister. If you start any more trouble in Buckskin, you’re liable to get a lot worse than you got this time. I won’t stand for it, you hear me?”
Rogan met Frank’s level gaze with a defiant stare, but after a moment he glanced away and muttered, “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.”
“Then you’d better remember what I said.”
Rogan turned and stomped toward the door. Frank stopped him by saying, “Rogan! Since you don’t have a job anymore, maybe it’d be a good thing for you to move on and find something somewhere else.”
Looking back over his shoulder, Rogan asked, “Are you runnin’ me out of town?”
“I’m just saying that it might be wise to move on.”
“I like it here.” Rogan jerked the door open and stomped out.
With a sigh, Frank watched him go. He had a feeling that he hadn’t seen the last of Rogan—nor the last of any trouble caused by the man.
As the days passed, though, Rogan didn’t show his face in Buckskin, and for the most part, things in the settlement were quiet and peaceful. With the help of Frank and Tip Woodford, Claiborne found half-a-dozen men who were tired of prospecting and not finding any silver and willing to go to work for the Crown Royal. When Frank rode out to the mine to check on how they were doing, he found the air full of the ring of picks and shovels, the rasp of saws, and the biting
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
