The Last Gunfighter Hell Town

you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Claiborne replied. “I’d like that very much.” He poured himself a cup from the pot on the stove, took a grateful sip, and then said, “I’ve come to report some trouble at the mine, Marshal.”

Frank sat up, his interest quickening. “What sort of trouble?”

“Sometime last night, someone pried up some of the rails leading from the shaft to the stamp mill, so that we can’t use the ore carts. They scattered the ties as well, so we’re having to practically rebuild the line.”

“Who would do a thing like that?” Frank asked with a frown.

“I have no idea.” Claiborne took another sip of the coffee, then added, “Actually, I do. I suspect Gunther Hammersmith and his men of being behind the damage.”

“Why would Hammersmith do that?”

“It’s the sort of mischief he’s capable of. Just yesterday, we finished the repair work inside the shaft and brought out our first carts of ore. I think Hammersmith had someone spying on us, watching the mine through field glasses or something like that, and he knew we were about to start production in earnest again. By sabotaging the rail line, he’s slowed us down. It’ll take several days to repair the damage that was done.”

Frank shook his head. “He’s got his own mine to operate. Well, I guess it’s Hamish Munro’s mine, but you know what I mean.”

“And if the Alhambra can outproduce the Crown Royal, that will make Hammersmith look better in Munro’s eyes,” Claiborne pointed out.

“I don’t know,” Frank said with a dubious shake of his head. “Seems like a stretch to me.”

“Someone damaged those rails. Who else would have a reason to do such a thing, even a far-fetched reason? Our only other real competition is the Lucky Lizard, and I can’t imagine Mr. Woodford doing anything like that, or employing someone who would.”

“No, that’s not Tip’s way of working,” Frank agreed.

Claiborne went on. “And I heard when I rode into town that Munro himself arrived today. Is that true?”

Frank nodded. “It is. He brought his wife and his confidential secretary with him.”

“The fact that Munro is on hand is all the more reason for Hammersmith to try to make himself look better by making us look worse. I’m convinced he’s behind what happened.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Claiborne shrugged and said, “I’m not sure. I know you don’t have any jurisdiction out at the mines. I suppose you could confront Gunther Hammersmith the next time he comes into town….”

“And he’d just deny having anything to do with it.”

“Yes, you’re probably right about that.”

Frank sat back in his chair and frowned. As the marshal of Buckskin, he might not have any jurisdiction in this matter, but as a part-owner of the Crown Royal—even though Claiborne was unaware of that fact—he sure as hell had an interest in what happened out there.

“Let me think about it,” he said to Claiborne. “And in the meantime, you’d better start posting guards at night. I reckon you didn’t have any sentries out before, or whoever tore up those rails wouldn’t have been able to do it without being discovered.”

“That’s true,” Claiborne said with a rueful shake of his head. “I didn’t think guards were necessary. I should have known better with Hammersmith in the vicinity.”

“Just be careful,” Frank advised. “Don’t jump to conclusions. You don’t want to get into a shooting war with Hammersmith without good reason.”

“And if there is good reason? If he tries something else even worse?”

“Then leave it to somebody whose business is shooting,” Frank said. “Like me.”

Chapter 13

With Gates Tucker and Dagnabbit Dabney both dead, the woman called Hannah had moved in with Jory Pool. She had been with Pool at times before, and she figured that getting her back was one reason Pool had gunned down the other two men—besides sheer, cussed meanness, that is, which Pool had plenty of.

With the interest Pool had shown in hearing about Buckskin, Hap Mitchell and Lonnie Beeman had supposed that he intended on raiding the town right away. Considerable time had gone by since then, however, and the gang was still tucked away in its canyon hideout. They were starting to get restless, running short of supplies, cash, and patience. Everybody had a hankering to pull another job.

Nobody questioned Pool, though, because none of them had a hankering to die swiftly and violently. They grumbled about the delay amongst themselves, though.

When the boss outlaw sent for them one night, Mitchell and Beeman thought maybe he was getting ready to plan the attack on the town. They went to Pool’s cabin, where Hannah opened the door to Mitchell’s knock.

“Come on in, boys,” Pool called from inside the cabin.

As they entered the room, they saw Pool sitting at a rough table with some greasy playing cards spread out in front of him in a solitaire hand. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat close at hand. Pool waved his visitors over and told them to have a seat on the other side of the table.

Hannah came to stand beside him. He reached up and caressed her meaty rump, digging his fingers in. “Get the boys something to drink,” he ordered.

She nodded and said, “Sure, Jory honey,” then fetched another bottle and a couple of tin cups. She poured