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.
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.”
