Killing Ground. William W. Johnstone

research the applicable legal precedents, prepare a brief, perhaps assist Mr. Turnbuckle with the arguments he would present to the judge…that was all it would amount to, and Luther was confident he could perform all of those tasks in a competent, efficient manner.

      Just because Frank Morgan was involved didn’t mean there would be any…gunplay…or killing…or anything like that.

      When Dex Brighton first came to Buckskin, he had made arrangements to rent a horse from the surly proprietor of the local livery stable. Not that the man had been all that surly at first, but ever since he had found out about Brighton’s claim on the Lucky Lizard, he’d been decidedly hostile, probably because he was friends with Tip Woodford. But a deal was a deal and he hadn’t tried to back out of the one he’d made with Brighton.

      Because of that, Brighton had a mount available whenever he needed one, a big gray gelding with white stockings and a white blaze on its face. He had ridden out to the Lucky Lizard several times to look over the mine that would soon be his. Today, though, he went the opposite way out of the settlement, heading into a rugged area where several played-out mines were still shut down. The renewed silver boom hadn’t extended to them. The claims were still worthless and abandoned. No one went around them anymore.

      They were perfect for Brighton’s purposes, in other words.

      He saw the outthrust sandstone brow of a ridge ahead of him and headed for it. As he drew closer, the black mouth of a mine tunnel entrance became visible at the base of the ridge, under the overhang. Brighton rode right up to the tunnel and dismounted.

      The man who stepped out of the tunnel had a gun in his hand. He wore a black vest over a shirt that had once been white, and a black Stetson was tipped back on his head so that dark, wiry curls spilled out in front of the hat. The man’s face was weathered and seamed by exposure, even though he wasn’t more than forty. A misshapen lump of a nose that had been broken several times jutted out over a thick mustache and a wide, arrogant mouth.

      “I thought I recognized you, Boss,” the man greeted Brighton as he holstered his gun. “Wasn’t gonna take any chances, though.”

      Brighton nodded. “That’s good. No one knows you’re here, Stample, and I want to keep it that way.” He reached into the saddlebags slung over the back of the rented horse and brought out a couple of bottles of whiskey. “I figured you could use some provisions.”

      Stample threw back his head and laughed. “You do know how to take care of a fella, Boss.” He reached for the whiskey. “These’ll come in handy when the boys get here tomorrow…assumin’ that there’s any left.”

      “I was going to ask you about that. You’re still expecting the rest of the men tomorrow?”

      Stample nodded and jerked his head toward the mine entrance. “Yeah. Come on in and have a drink with me while you’re here.”

      Brighton followed the man into the tunnel. Several crates were stacked about twenty feet inside. Brighton knew they contained food, ammunition, and other supplies.

      He knew that because he had paid to outfit Stample and the other men who would be showing up here soon. You had to spend money to make money, as the old saying went, and although Brighton didn’t like the spending part all that much, he was willing to do it if it would help him get his hands on a fabulously valuable silver mine.

      It could still turn out that he wouldn’t need any help from Stample and the other men he had hired, if he was successful in pressuring Woodford into agreeing to a settlement, but it was better to be prepared. And he was going to get some use out of them, because he had a job that he was going to explain to Stample right now.

      They sat on empty crates near the remains of a campfire. Stample found some tin cups and splashed whiskey into them, then handed one to Brighton. As they sat there, Brighton heard Stample’s horse moving around, deeper in the tunnel.

      He gestured toward the sound with the cup in his hand.

      “You’ve got your horse back there?”

      “Yeah. The tunnel widens out considerable, right around that bend. Plenty of room for my horse and for the others, too, once they get here.”

      “What about the smoke from the fire?”

      Stample pointed along the tunnel.

      “Got some little ventilation shafts back yonder, too. You can feel the draft from the tunnel mouth.”

      Brighton nodded.

      “It draws the smoke on through the tunnel,” Stample continued, “and it filters out up on top of the ridge. Nobody’ll notice it. Nobody will ever know we’re here, Boss.”

      “That’s the way I want it for now, so don’t get careless,” Brighton warned. He took a healthy swallow of the whiskey he had bought at one of the other saloons in Buckskin, not the Silver Baron. He didn’t want to give his opponent in this fight any of his trade. “I’ve got a job for you.”

      Stample grunted. “About time.”

      “Woodford’s determined to make a court case out of this. He’s going to take it before the circuit judge next week.”

      A frown added creases to Stample’s already lined forehead. “I thought you didn’t want to go to court. You said you’d run a bluff on Woodford and make him turn over his mine to you. That phony partnership agreement you got ain’t gonna stand up in court.”

      “We don’t know that,” Brighton snapped. “I paid good money to the man who faked it. But I’d rather not have to rely on that alone, and you’re my insurance so that I won’t have to, Stample.”

      “Keep talkin’,” the hired gunman said.

      “Woodford can’t take the case to court if there’s no judge, now can he?”

      Stample’s eyes widened. “You want me to kill a circuit court judge?”

      “He’ll be coming in on the stagecoach next Tuesday morning,” Brighton said. “That’s the only way to reach Buckskin since there’s no rail line yet. That stagecoach is going to be held up by masked outlaws, and there’ll be gunplay during the robbery. Tragically, the judge will be cut down by a stray bullet.”

      Stample looked intently at Brighton for a long moment and then nodded. “Yeah, I can see that happenin’,” he said.

      “That will give me more time to wear down Woodford and get him to settle this without going to court. Just be sure that no one can identify you or any of the other men, and don’t let them trail you back here.”

      “Morgan never found me, did he?”

      “And you didn’t kill Morgan the way I asked you to,” Brighton pointed out. “You missed.”

      Stample glared and then tossed back the rest of his whiskey before reaching for the bottle again.

      “I had a good bead on the son of a bitch twice,” he muttered. “He’s just lucky, that’s all.”

      Brighton finished off his drink.

      “I can promise you one thing,” he said. “If Frank Morgan keeps sticking his nose into my business…his luck is going to run out.”

      Chapter 7

      When Frank got back to Buckskin, he found that the settlement was relatively quiet. Even though it was still considered a boomtown, with new people coming in all the time, word had gotten around that the marshal was a dangerous man to cross. In fact, he had quite a reputation as a gunfighter. Because of that, even the roughest hombres tended to walk a little softer and think twice—or three times—before they started trouble.

      The exceptions to that were the hombres who came to Buckskin because Frank Morgan was the marshal. The ones who wanted to make a name for themselves by gunning down the man known as The Drifter.

      Like the two who showed