Killing Ground. William W. Johnstone

that needed the marshal’s attention, too.

      And as he rode toward the settlement, he wondered if that telegram had reached the law offices of Turnbuckle and Stafford in San Francisco yet…and if it had, just what sort of reaction it had caused.

      Chapter 6

      Claudius Turnbuckle wasn’t really a fire-breathing dragon, but Luther Galloway felt as if he were about to enter the lair of such a mythological creature as he approached the door of Turnbuckle’s private office with a yellow, sealed envelope in his hand.

      A lad wearing the uniform of Western Union had delivered the envelope to the law offices a short time earlier and said that the envelope contained an urgent telegram. Luther had worked for Turnbuckle and Stafford for almost two years now and knew that almost all telegrams were urgent—or at least, the people who sent them thought they were.

      Mr. Turnbuckle might not agree, and if he didn’t, Luther would take the brunt of his roaring displeasure. The telegram wasn’t addressed to either of the partners in particular, and he would have much preferred dealing with Mr. Stafford, who, while pompous and stuffy, wasn’t nearly as frightening as Mr. Turnbuckle.

      Unfortunately, Mr. Stafford was away on business for the firm, down in Los Angeles, so Luther had no choice except to draw a deep breath and rap on the heavy oak door.

      “What is it, damn it?” Turnbuckle’s deep, powerful rumble penetrated the thick panel easily.

      Luther turned the brass knob and eased the door open a couple of inches.

      “Telegram, sir. The boy who delivered it said it was urgent.”

      “Well, bring it in.”

      Luther pushed the door back far enough for him to enter the dark-paneled office with its shelves of equally dark-spined legal volumes. The lone window was covered with thick drapes. Every time Luther came in here, he thought that he would go mad if he had to spend all his time in such a gloomy, oppressive place. Maybe that was why Mr. Turnbuckle was so short-tempered. He seldom saw the sun.

      Turnbuckle sat behind a massive desk piled high with papers. A veritable flood of documents passed through the office every day, threatening to wash away the half-dozen clerks who worked in the outer office, Luther being the senior among them. Those young, would-be attorneys seldom stayed for very long, which was why it had taken Luther less than two years to move up in the ranks to his current position. He would have left by now, too…

      If he had been able to pass the bar exam. Unfortunately, that had not yet been the case.

      Turnbuckle peered over the half-spectacles that perched on the tip of his nose and extended a big, rough hand. Legend had it that the burly, balding, bushy-eyebrowed attorney had once worked on the docks here in San Francisco, loading and unloading the ships that came here from all over the world, and Luther could easily believe it. Turnbuckle looked like he could physically break in half most of his opponents in court, which added to his intimidating presence and his impressive record of success.

      “Well?” he snapped now. “Don’t just stand there gawping, Galloway. Give it here.”

      Luther hurried forward and leaned over the big desk to hand the envelope to Turnbuckle. The lawyer ripped it open with long, blunt fingers and took out a yellow telegraph form. As his eyes scanned the words printed on the flimsy, those bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. Luther was equally surprised, or perhaps even more so, when a smile appeared on Turnbuckle’s rugged face.

      He ventured a question. “Good news, sir?”

      Turnbuckle grunted and then said, “Frank Morgan needs our help.”

      The name was familiar to Luther, of course. He had seen it on countless documents.

      “The…the gunfighter, sir?”

      “The client whose business interests account for a significant amount of income for this firm, you mean,” Turnbuckle scolded.

      “Yes, sir, of course,” Luther said quickly.

      Still, he was shocked. He knew quite well that Frank Morgan was an equal shareholder with his son Conrad Browning in the many and varied Browning financial holdings, which included banks, railroads, mining ventures, shipping, and numerous other enterprises.

      But Luther was equally aware of Morgan’s notorious reputation as a gunman. There was no way of knowing how many men Morgan had killed during his long, blood-soaked career. Probably only a handful of people knew of his status as a tycoon, but everyone who had ever read one of the dime novels about him, or seen an article about him in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Weekly or Harper’s or The Police Gazette, knew Frank Morgan as The Drifter, one of the deadliest gunfighters to ever roam the West.

      Luther had read those stories. He had even perused some of the cheap, yellow-backed novels. It gave him a secret thrill whenever he handled legal documents relating to Morgan’s affairs. However, he wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone, because his interest in such violence was also something of a secret shame.

      “What does Mr. Morgan want us to do for him, sir?” Luther asked now. “Some business dealings that need our attention perhaps?”

      “You could say that,” Turnbuckle said as he dropped the telegram on the desk, where it immediately threatened to get lost in the sea of other papers. He chuckled…actually chuckled, something that had never happened in Luther’s experience. “He wants either me or Stafford to come to Nevada and help a friend of his defend a mining claim. Since Stafford’s busy, it’ll have to be me. Or rather, us, I should say.”

      Luther’s eyes widened. There was so much to be amazed at in Turnbuckle’s statement that he didn’t hardly know where to start.

      “N-Nevada, sir?”

      “That’s right. Buckskin, Nevada. I know you’ve heard of it, Galloway. The Crown Royal Mine is located quite near there.”

      “Yes, sir, of course. But…us?”

      “You’re going with me. I’ll need a clerk to handle some of the details for me, and you’re the most experienced one we have.”

      “But…but wouldn’t it be better to leave me here to make certain that the office continues functioning smoothly, sir?”

      Turnbuckle swept a hand crossways in a curt, slashing gesture.

      “The office can run itself for a while, and you damned well know it, Galloway. This is a chance to get out and see some of the country. Besides, I’ve always wanted to meet Frank Morgan. He’s supposed to be quite an individual.”

      Quite a killer, Luther thought. And what was this about seeing some of the country? Turnbuckle kept himself shut up inside this office as if he didn’t care if he ever saw anything else.

      “Get down to the depot and purchase tickets for us on the next train to Carson City,” Turnbuckle went on. “Morgan needs us there as soon as possible. The circuit court judge is due to arrive in about a week, so we’ll need time to prepare our case. Once you have the tickets, send a messenger to my house with our departure time, then go home and pack your bag.”

      “But sir, I can’t just drop everything—”

      Turnbuckle’s head snapped up, and his familiar thunderous scowl appeared.

      “And why not? You’re a single man, I believe, with no family responsibilities.”

      “That’s true, sir.”

      “And your responsibilities at work are what I say they are, isn’t that true?”

      “Yes, sir, certainly.”

      “Then get cracking, son!” Turnbuckle boomed. “There’s no time to waste. I want to be on our way to Nevada before this day is over.”

      There was nothing Luther could do except nod feebly and say, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

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