me! You’ve got to stop them! The governor would want you to protect me! Order your men to fire, damn you! Fire!”
Frank could tell from the stony look on Starkwell’s face that wasn’t going to happen. The colonel knew the same thing that everyone else in Buckskin did: Munro and Hammersmith were responsible for all the trouble that had plagued the area.
But then, horribly, a shot rang out. Frank wasn’t sure where it came from, but he saw Dave Rogan stagger back a step as the bullet smashed into his body. Rogan clutched his chest, and blood welled between his fingers. He fell heavily in the street.
“One of the soldiers shot Dave!” a miner howled. “Get ’em!”
The militia men jerked their rifles up. The miners surged forward.
And Hammersmith leaped at Frank, slapping the Colt aside and swinging a big fist at the marshal’s head.
Curls of smoke still drifted from the muzzle of Clint Farnum’s gun as he ducked back into the alley mouth. Lining up the shot through the crowd in the street had been tricky, but he had done it. The miner named Rogan had fallen to Clint’s slug, and now more shots rang out and men shouted curses as tight-strung nerves snapped and the two groups opened fire on each other.
Clint had done what he had to do for Jory Pool. Now the gang could sweep into Buckskin and wipe out any resistance before the citizens knew what was going on. Clint’s job was over, so he could find a hole and hide until the killing was over. All he had to do was wait it out and collect his share of the loot. It would be easy.
But if it was so easy, why were his guts clenched in a tight ball of sickness? Why did he feel like something had died inside him?
In the darkness of the alley, he pressed his back against the wall of a building and shuddered. Cold sweat beaded on his face. He lifted the gun in his hand and listened to the shots and the cries and the screams.
All that hell unleashed, and all he’d had to do was squeeze a trigger.
Frank ducked under Hammersmith’s roundhouse blow as guns began to roar. As Hammersmith stumbled forward, thrown off balance by the missed punch, Frank stepped closer. He had managed to hang on to his gun even though Hammersmith had knocked the barrel aside. Now he slapped the Colt against Hammersmith’s head, putting enough power behind the blow to knock the mine superintendent to his knees, stunned.
With Hammersmith out of the fight for the moment, Frank whirled around and shouted at the miners, “Hold your fire! Stop shooting!”
At the same time, Colonel Starkwell was bellowing, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
But it was too late. Both sides had come here tonight ready to fight. The miners believed that one of the militia men had shot down Dave Rogan, and the soldiers were just fighting back as they were attacked. Already, the street was turning into chaos as the two sides splintered and broke up to do battle in small groups, sometimes firing at each other as they darted for cover, other times grappling hand to hand.
Frank grabbed Tip Woodford’s arm and shoved the mayor toward the office of the Lucky Lizard. He saw that Garrett Claiborne had already hustled Diana off the boardwalk and inside the building. Frank was grateful for that, but knew Claiborne and Diana weren’t out of danger. With all the lead flying around, some of the slugs might penetrate the walls of the buildings. He hoped everybody in town had enough sense to get down behind something solid and stay there until the shooting was over.
As Frank hurried Tip out of the line of fire, a bitter taste welled up in his mouth. He was supposed to protect the townspeople, and all he had managed to do was start a small-scale war right in the middle of the settlement. This was proof, as if he needed it, that he wasn’t cut out to be a lawman. He never should have tried to settle down and give up his drifting ways.
Violence followed him. Always had, and likely always would.
For now, though, all he could do was try to put a stop to this ruckus, once he got Tip to relative safety. He didn’t know who had fired the shot that had started the ball, but he hoped he could find out and deal with the damn fool later.
As they reached the boardwalk, a fresh volley of shots broke out, but these came from the edge of town. As a bullet whistled past Frank’s ear, so close that he felt it as much as heard it, he twisted his head and saw a totally unexpected sight. Dozens of hard-faced, roughly dressed men on horseback were galloping into town, blazing away with the six-guns in their hands as they thundered down the main street.
Tip yelped in pain, drawing Frank’s attention. “How bad are you hit?” Frank asked over the rattle of gunfire.
“Just creased my arm!” Tip replied. “Who the hell are those fellas?”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t know. Get inside and look after Claiborne and Diana!”
He gave Tip a shove that sent the burly older man stumbling through the open door of the office, then whirled back to the street, where a three-way battle was now going on. Four-way, if you counted the citizens of Buckskin who had been posted along the street with rifles and shotguns. They had sought cover behind water troughs, rain barrels, and parked wagons in order to swap lead with the murderous newcomers.
The men on horseback had scattered the battling militia men and miners, riding down some of them and shooting others. As Frank darted along the boardwalk with bullets knocking up splinters from the planks around his feet, he got a look at the big, blond-bearded man who seemed to be the leader of the strangers. A shock of recognition went through him. He hadn’t seen Jory Pool in several years, but the big outlaw hadn’t changed that much. They had been in some of the same places but had never actually met, which was the way Frank wanted it because he was aware of Pool’s reputation as a cunning but brutal and possibly deranged gunman and outlaw. Pool was supposed to be the head of a gang almost as bad as he was.
Frank had no doubt that Buckskin was now under assault from that gang. By busting in and raiding the settlement right now, Pool and the rest of the owlhoots had taken everybody by surprise.
Frank squeezed off a couple of shots, and saw one of the outlaws tumble out of the saddle. Some of the other members of the gang were down too.
But there were too many of them, and even though the militia and the miners would have outnumbered the outlaws by almost two to one if they had been working together, there was no organized defense, and too many of
