behind the water trough again. That gave the second man time to leap onto the back of his horse. Now they were both mounted and ready to gallop out of Buckskin.
Frank wanted to take at least one of them alive. He came up on his knees and drew a bead on one of the killers, aiming at the man’s shoulder. The light was uncertain and a haze of dust hung in the air, but Frank trusted his aim. He pulled the trigger.
At that instant, the other man’s horse, evidently spooked by all the gunfire, danced to one side. That unexpected movement brought his rider directly in line with Frank’s shot. Frank heard the grunt of pain as his bullet thudded into the man’s chest. The bushwhacker was rocked backward and slid out of the saddle.
That left the other man, who by now was leaning forward and raking his spurs against his horse’s flanks as he raced down Buckskin’s main street.
A figure dashed out to try to stop him. “Hold it!” Frank heard this man shout, and he recognized Catamount Jack’s voice. The old-timer must have realized that the bushwhackers were no longer in the alley and doubled back.
The rider didn’t slow down. He fired from the back of his horse, and Frank saw Jack stumble and go to a knee. Fearing that his deputy was hit, Frank leaped to his feet.
The shotgun in Jack’s hands boomed, twin flowers of flame blooming from its barrels. Horse and rider both went down.
Frank ran along the street. He heard someone huffing and puffing behind him, and glanced back to see Clint Farnum trying to catch up. “Check on that one!” Frank called as he waved his gun at the man he had inadvertently shot. Then he dashed on past.
Catamount Jack was getting to his feet by the time Frank reached him. The old-timer leaned on the empty shotgun, using it as a makeshift crutch.
“Jack, are you all right?” Frank asked.
“Yeah. The sumbitch nicked my leg with that shot, but it ain’t nothin’ to worry about. I had a grizzly just about gnaw that leg clean off one time. This ain’t near that bad.”
Frank was willing to take Jack’s word for that, for the time being. He turned toward the man and horse lying in the street. The horse was struggling to get up, and as Frank reached the animal, it made it to its feet. Frank saw several dark streaks on the horse’s hide that he knew were places where buckshot had raked it, but the animal didn’t seem to be hurt too badly.
The same couldn’t be said of its former rider. Most of the double load of buckshot had ripped into the gunman’s body, shredding flesh and shattering bone. Frank felt for a pulse in the man’s neck, but knew he wasn’t going to find one. Jack had blasted the hell out of the hombre.
Sure enough, the man was dead. Although Frank was disappointed, he couldn’t blame Jack for what had happened. In the heat of a gun battle, already wounded, Jack had just obeyed his instincts and blown his enemy out of the saddle. Anybody else would have done the same thing.
Clint Farnum trotted up. Frank turned to him and asked, “What about the other one?”
“He’s dead,” Clint replied. “This one too?”
“Yeah,” Frank said.
Clint shook his head. “That’s a tough break. I know you wanted to take at least one of them alive.”
“Bullets don’t always follow the plan.”
“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “They sort of have minds of their own sometimes, don’t they?”
People came along the street, drawn by the sounds of the gunfight. Frank sent someone to fetch Claude Langley, then told Catamount Jack, “Let’s get you down to Dr. Garland’s and let him patch up that bullet hole.”
“I ain’t sure it’s worth the bother,” Jack protested.
“Come on,” Frank insisted. “You can act like a stubborn old pelican some other time.”
Jack grumbled about it, but he did as Frank said.
The wound was minor, as Jack had said. Dr. Garland cleaned and bandaged it, then said, “Just out of curiosity, is there anywhere on your body that
Jack grinned and said, “Only the parts that been chewed on or clawed by grizzly bears, wolves, and mountain lions. You think this is bad, you ought to see an old mountain man I used to know called Preacher. That hombre was nothin’ but a walkin’ scar. Probably still is, if he’s still alive. Wouldn’t doubt it for a second. He’d only be in his nineties by now, and he was always tough as whang leather.”
“Well, if you ever run into him again, bring him to see me,” Garland said. “A specimen like that should be written up in the medical journals.”
Since the doctor was finished, the three lawmen told him good night and headed for the marshal’s office. “What now, Frank?” Clint asked as they walked along the street. “You think maybe anybody can testify that there was a connection between Hammersmith and Munro and those two dead bushwhackers?”
Frank shook his head. “Munro is too smart and careful for that, and Hammersmith probably is too. I’d say I’m back where I started.”
“Not quite,” Jack said. “Them two hired guns are dead. They won’t be comin’ after you again.”
“No, they won’t,” Frank said, “but I’m afraid there are plenty more where those two came from.”
If Munro was disappointed that the marshal of Buckskin was still alive, he gave no sign of it when Frank went to see the mining magnate the next morning. He found Munro and his wife in the dining room of the hotel, having breakfast. Munro didn’t invite Frank to join them.
“What can I do for you, Marshal?”
Frank had decided it was time to change tacks for the moment. “You know that strike is still going on out at the
