Killing Ground. William W. Johnstone

been out here for two months. Isn’t that long enough?”

      “I wouldn’t mind staying out here for good,” Rebel said softly.

      Conrad frowned.

      Frank sensed that the question of where they should live was an ongoing discussion between Conrad and Rebel. It was also none of his business, so he stood up to leave.

      “Reckon I’ll go on over to the office and see if there’s any paperwork I need to catch up on. I knew I could trust Jack to keep the peace around here while I was gone, but he’s not much on reading and writing.”

      “We’ll see you later,” Conrad said. “We’ll be staying at the hotel tonight. Perhaps you’d like to join us in the dining room for dinner?”

      Frank would have preferred eating at the Chinaman’s hash house or the café run by Lauren Stillman, Ginnie Carlson, and Becky Humphries, the three soiled doves who had retired from the world’s oldest profession and settled down in the second-oldest—filling the bellies of hungry men.

      But he wasn’t going to turn down the invitation from Conrad, so he smiled, nodded, and said, “Sure. I’ll see you there.”

      He stopped at the bar on his way out to pay Johnny Collyer for the beer, even though the bartender tried to say the drinks were on the house. Frank had to pause and shake hands with several of the men at the bar, too, since they wanted to welcome him back to Buckskin. Claude Langley, the dapper, goateed Virginian who ran the undertaking parlor, said in his Southern drawl, “Things just haven’t been the same around here with you gone, Marshal.”

      “Not as many bodies to bury, huh?”

      Claude frowned. “Well, that’s not exactly the way I meant it, but now that you mention it…and I mean no offense, Marshal…”

      Frank clapped a hand on his shoulder.

      “I know you don’t, Claude. I’ll see you around.”

      And probably all too soon, Frank thought, if his past history was any indication.

      He went to the entrance and pushed the batwings aside to step out onto the boardwalk. The afternoon was well advanced by now, and night would be falling soon. Some of the workers from the mines would show up for an evening’s raucous entertainment. Quiet hung over Buckskin at the moment, though, almost as if the settlement was holding its breath.

      As the batwings flapped closed behind Frank, the quiet in the street was shattered by a hoarse shout. He looked around and saw a man running toward him.

      “Marshal, you’d better come quick!” the townie called in an urgent voice. “Tip Woodford’s about to kill that Brighton fella!”

      Chapter 4

      Frank caught hold of the man’s arm to stop him as he stumbled.

      “Take it easy,” he said. “Catch your breath and tell me what’s going on.”

      The man nodded and dragged in a lungful of air. Frank recognized him as Vern Robeson, who worked at Amos Hillman’s livery stable.

      After a moment Robeson was able to say, “I was runnin’ down to the marshal’s office to fetch Catamount Jack. I’d heard you were back in town, Mr. Morgan, but I didn’t know where you were. Just lucky I ran into you, I guess.”

      “What about Tip Woodford and Brighton?” Frank prodded.

      Robeson’s eyes widened.

      “Oh, yeah! They’re down at the Lucky Lizard office. I heard Tip say he was gonna shoot Brighton if he didn’t get outta there!”

      Frank nodded and let go of Robeson’s arm. He took off at a fast walk toward the building that housed the mining company’s office, saying over his shoulder, “Go get Jack anyway and tell him to hurry on down there.”

      “Sure thing, Marshal!” Robeson said as he broke into a run again.

      It wasn’t far to the Lucky Lizard office, and when Frank got there he saw that the confrontation had spilled out of the building and into the street. Tip Woodford stood on the sidewalk, an old-fashioned cap-and-ball revolver in his hand. Red-faced with anger, he brandished the heavy gun, threatening Dex Brighton with it as Brighton stood a few yards away in the street.

      Thomas “Tip” Woodford looked more like a miner than a mine owner. He had graying red hair, and his blocky body was clad in overalls, a slouch hat, and work boots, the same sort of outfit he had worn when he was still a penniless prospector. He had made a fortune, lost it, then made another one, and stayed pretty much the same throughout. His wealth hadn’t changed him and probably never would.

      His daughter Diana, wholesomely pretty in a gingham dress, clung to his left arm with a scared expression on her face. Tip shrugged her off and jabbed the old revolver’s barrel toward Brighton.

      “I’m sick and tired o’ you, mister!” he bellowed like a wounded buffalo. “You come around here botherin’ us again with that line o’ bull you been spoutin’, and I’ll blow a hole in you, I swear I will!”

      Brighton didn’t appear to be frightened, even though he had to know that an old horse pistol like that was a touchy weapon and might go off at any moment. Frank certainly knew that. He slowed as he approached, not wanting to spook Woodford, and called, “Tip! It’s Frank Morgan! Put that gun down before you hurt somebody.”

      Woodford’s eyes darted toward Frank for a second, but he didn’t lower the gun and his attention went right back to Brighton.

      “Heard you were back in town, Frank,” the mayor said. “Good to see you.”

      “It’s good to be back. At least, it was until you started threatening to ventilate folks.”

      Woodford grunted. “This thievin’ varmint don’t qualify as folks. He’s like a hydrophobia skunk that you got to shoot before it gets in your chicken house.”

      As cool and calm as ever, Brighton said, “You heard the man, Marshal. He’s threatened my life. I want you to arrest him.”

      “There’s no need for that,” Frank said. “Tip’s not going to hurt anybody. He’s just mad, and he’s going to put the gun down! Do it now, Tip.”

      Diana took hold of her father’s left arm again.

      “Please, Pa,” she said. “It’s not going to help anything if you shoot that fella. Then you’ll just go to prison for murder.”

      “Or the gallows,” Brighton gibed

      Frank said, “You’re not helping matters, Brighton.”

      He moved forward, holding his hand out toward Woodford, palm down, making gentle motions toward the ground. The mayor didn’t lower the gun, though, until Frank eased between him and Brighton.

      “Dadgum it, Frank,” Woodford said. “You’ve been gone. You don’t know what this varmint’s been up to.”

      “I’ve heard quite a bit about it already. Why don’t you give me that hogleg, and we’ll go in the office and talk about it.”

      Woodford hesitated, then finally shrugged and placed the cap-and-ball in Frank’s hand.

      “Aren’t you going to arrest him, Marshal?” Brighton demanded from behind Frank. “I’ll swear out a formal complaint.”

      Frank swung around to face the man.

      “Back East you might get away with that, Brighton, but not here. No harm’s been done, so move along. Anyway,” he added, “you shouldn’t have come down here and provoked the situation. I want you to steer clear of the Lucky Lizard office from now on.”

      Brighton sneered. “You’re a poor excuse for a lawman, taking sides this way, Morgan. Maybe I should get in touch with the authorities in Carson City and request that a