already taken action without him knowing about it. Munro must have sent a rider into Virginia City to wire the governor in Carson City and ask for help putting down the strike. The governor, like all politicians mindful of anyone with wealth and influence who might help him get elected again, had been only too glad to help. He had sent in the militia, ostensibly to keep order, but Frank knew how these things worked. He had seen similar situations in other places. Starkwell and his company of soldiers would actually be working for Munro, and their real goal would be to crush the strike crippling production at the Alhambra.
To accomplish that goal, they would crush the strikers if they had to.
Even though Frank knew it probably wouldn’t do any good, he said, “Colonel, I’d appreciate it if you and your men would turn around and ride right back to Carson City. Tell the governor we appreciate his concern, but we don’t need any help keeping a lid on things here.”
“I’m sorry, Marshal,” Starkwell said, not sounding the least bit apologetic, “but our orders are clear. We won’t be leaving until the miners’ strike is over, the men have returned to work, and the danger is ended.”
“But that ain’t right,” Catamount Jack protested. “You can’t force them fellas to work for Munro, nor for Tip Woodford neither.”
“The governor disagrees, sir. He views continued silver production as vital to the state’s interest. I’ll be riding out to the Alhambra Mine to issue a warning to the striking workers. I’m sure they’ll be reasonable.”
“Damn it, if you go out there, those men are liable to think you’ve come to arrest them.”
“If they don’t cooperate, they’ll be right about that,” Starkwell snapped.
Frank thought about how hotheaded Dave Rogan was and said, “They’re liable to open fire on you.”
“If they do, they’ll wish they hadn’t. Our orders empower us to use all necessary force to maintain order.”
Anger welled up inside Frank as he realized what Starkwell intended to do. Under the guise of “maintaining order,” the colonel planned to massacre the striking miners, or at least some of them, in hopes that the others would surrender and go back to work. If not, Starkwell would wipe out all of them so that Munro could start over. This “militia” was really nothing more than a gang of hired killers.
“I’m going out there with you,” Frank snapped. “Let me talk to those men first.”
“You’ve had plenty of chances to talk to them before now, Marshal. I can’t stop you from riding out there, but I warn you…. Stay out of our way.”
Frank suppressed the impulse to knock the arrogant smirk off Starkwell’s face. Instead, he turned to Jack and said, “Find Clint and tell him what’s going on. The two of you stay here in town and be ready for trouble.”
Jack nodded. “You be careful, Frank.”
“It may be too late for that,” Frank said. He headed for the livery stable. As he hurried along the street, he glanced up at the hotel.
Hamish Munro stood in one of the windows of his suite, the curtain pulled back so that he could gaze out at the street. The mining magnate wore a self-satisfied smile, and the nod that he gave Frank was even more infuriating. Munro thought that everything was going his way again. He believed that his money and influence could always get him whatever he wanted.
And so far, Frank reflected with a grim, silent curse, nobody had proven that idea wrong.
Starkwell mounted up and the militia moved out, riding past Amos Hillman’s place. Frank heard them go by as he was throwing his saddle on Goldy. The uniformed riders were still in sight as he emerged from the livery barn a couple of minutes later. They were following the main trail toward the Alhambra. Frank figured he could circle around and beat them to the mine, since he knew the area better than the militia men did.
Hearing his name called, he turned in the saddle to see Catamount Jack hurrying toward him. “I can’t find Clint,” the old-timer said.
“He’s bound to be around somewhere. Keep looking, and warn the townspeople that there’s liable to be more trouble.”
Jack nodded. “All hell’s about to bust loose, ain’t it, Frank?”
“Not if I can help it,” Frank said.
Problem was, he didn’t know if he could.
A breeze set the leaves of the aspens to rattling together as Clint Farnum rode up the slope. It was a beautiful day, the sort of day he would have enjoyed getting out of the settlement and just riding around the hills, taking in the magnificent scenery. The years had taught him to appreciate such things. All the long, solitary, dangerous years of riding the owlhoot trail, never knowing when a day might be his last one on this earth….
He hadn’t ridden out here into the hills west of the settlement to look at the scenery, though. He had a job to do, and he intended to carry it out. He might not like it much anymore, but there was no turning back now.
The smell of tobacco smoke drifted to his nose. He grimaced. That was careless. Didn’t really matter, though. Not now.
Clint topped the hill and saw the riders waiting on the other side. Between thirty and forty, he estimated. Roughly dressed and heavily armed, with a brutal eagerness stamped on their beard-stubbled faces.
The big, blond-bearded man spurred out to meet Clint and said, “I got the word you sent and brought the boys right on. What’s goin’ on down there?”
“A company of state militia rode in just as I was about to leave to meet you, Jory,” Clint replied.
That brought mutters of concern from the outlaws. Jory Pool turned in his saddle and silenced them with a look. He swung back around to face Clint and asked, “What are they doin’ there?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I imagine they came to bust that strike out at the Alhambra Mine. The gent who owns it, Hamish Munro, is friends with the governor.”
One of the other men said, “I guess that means we’ll have to call the raid off, Jory. We can’t attack the town if the militia is there.”
