to him. “You promised you’d keep Hamish out of it.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Frank said, “but you know as well as I do that Hammersmith isn’t the sort of man to go behind your husband’s back. Mr. Munro knows everything that Hammersmith has been doing.” Frank gave a little shrug. “Except maybe for that ambush last night. That might’ve been Hammersmith’s doing.” He looked past her at the front doors of the hotel. “I’m surprised your husband would let you come after me like this.”
“Hamish doesn’t know. He went upstairs in a rage to talk to Nathan Evers about going to Carson City and complaining to the governor about your actions. He doesn’t know that I’ve ever even spoken to you, certainly not alone.”
Frank gave her a faint smile. “Well, then, it seems more like
She gave him a long, cool look for a moment, then said, “Are you implying that I’m your enemy as well, Marshal?”
“I’m just saying that the trouble’s gone on long enough. I’m going to end it…whatever that takes.”
“I’m
Frank nodded. Jessica turned and hurried away, going back into the hotel.
Frank’s intention had been to stir things up. He figured he had done that. He didn’t know what would happen now, but at least everything was out in the open. Things would start to move faster now.
But he didn’t expect what happened late that afternoon, when one of the men from the Alhambra rode into town and announced to a crowd of drinkers in the Silver Baron that the miners who worked for Hamish Munro had just gone on strike.
Chapter 27
Gunther Hammersmith was in the office at the mine when one of the guards ran in and reported in a breathless voice, “Trouble in the shaft, Boss.”
Hammersmith came to his feet. “What sort of trouble?”
“The men are talkin’ about goin’ on strike.”
Hammersmith grunted as if he had been punched hard in the belly. He had orchestrated the strike at the Lucky Lizard by sending the Fowler brothers in to stir up unrest. The cave-in was their work too. Hammersmith hadn’t ordered them to cause the deaths of any of Woodford’s miners, but the luck that had dropped those rocks on the two men had been good for Hammersmith, if unfortunate for the miners who had died. The deaths had made it that much easier to get the strike started.
In the meantime, Munro had raised the wages of the men working at the Alhambra, and Hammersmith had taken it easier on them than usual. What the hell were they thinking, talking about a strike under these conditions?
Balling his hands into fists, Hammersmith strode out of the office. “I’ll put a stop to this,” he told the guard.
“Want me to come along with you just in case there’s trouble?” the man asked, hefting his rifle.
Hammersmith started to tell him no, that this was nothing he couldn’t handle with his fists, but then he thought better of it. He was a match for any two or three or even more of the miners, but a whole mob of them might be too much. They were tough men too—just not as tough as him.
“Yeah, come on,” he snapped as he stalked off toward the mine entrance. The rifle-toting guard followed him.
A tight knot of men had gathered just in front of the shaft’s mouth. Hammersmith heard their angry voices, one in particular. As he drew closer, he recognized the burly, beard-stubbled figure. Dave Rogan had been working for the Alhambra for a couple of weeks, ever since he’d been fired from the Lucky Lizard after causing some sort of ruckus in town. He was a good worker, tireless with a pick and shovel, but surly all the time and prone to getting into fights with the other miners. Hammersmith wasn’t surprised to see that he was the troublemaker.
“—ain’t just the Lucky Lizard,” Rogan was saying. “Sure, Munro’s payin’ us more than Woodford pays his men, but it’s only a few cents an hour! That ain’t enough more to make a real difference. We ought to be gettin’ two bits more an hour at least! And you know damn well Hammersmith’s gonna start workin’ us like dogs again. You saw how he was up until a few days ago. Easin’ up on us is just a damned trick! Hammersmith and Munro don’t want us lookin’ at what’s goin’ on at the Lucky Lizard and gettin’ any ideas!”
One of the other men spotted Hammersmith coming and nudged Rogan to shut him up. Rogan didn’t take the hint, though. He turned and saw Hammersmith approaching, and a snarl twisted his mouth.
“Here he comes now,” Rogan said. “Gonna try to shut me up and scare you boys into not thinkin’ for yourselves.”
With an effort, Hammersmith reined in his temper. What he wanted to do was to sledge a couple of blows into Rogan’s face and knock that smirk off the man’s lips. Instead, he demanded in a harsh voice, “What the hell’s goin’ on here?”
“We’re tired of bein’ taken advantage of, Hammersmith,” Rogan replied. “Ain’t that right, boys?”
A cheer went up from the miners. Like any mob, they were brave, but it was a collective courage, not an individual one. Split them up and they’d be as craven as they normally were, Hammersmith knew.
And the first step in splitting them up was dealing with Rogan. The man was almost as tall as Hammersmith and only about twenty pounds lighter. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were corded and ropy from swinging a pick for endless hours. Despite that, Hammersmith had no doubt that he could defeat Rogan in a fight.
He might get the chance to find out, because Rogan had a crazed light in his eyes that said he wasn’t going to be cowed. A man like that lived for conflict, and the more violent the better.
Hammersmith decided to try talking first for a change. He hadn’t been around Munro so much without learning
