right, Jack,” he said to his deputy. “Tell us about Brighton.”
“Wait a minute,” Conrad said. “Do you mean to conduct a serious discussion out in the sun, right next to this dead horse?”
“It’d be a mite more pleasant in the Silver Baron, all right, Marshal,” Jack said. He licked his lips, no doubt thinking of the cool beer available in the saloon as well.
Frank chuckled. “All right. Let me just climb up in the back of the buggy…”
He stepped into the vehicle, crouching in the area behind the seat. Conrad got the pair of horses moving again, and they set off for town, accompanied by Catamount Jack and Professor Burton. Amos Hillman and Junior Ledyard remained behind to finish stripping the gear off the fallen bay. They would dispose of the horse’s body later.
A lot of people in the settlement had heard the shooting from the meadow, which was only about half a mile away. Because of that, there were quite a few curious folks still on the street when the buggy and the two riders arrived.
As they went past the hotel, Frank noticed a man standing on the building’s front porch, a shoulder leaned casually against one of the posts holding up the awning. The man studied the newcomers with a cool but intent interest. He was well dressed in a brown tweed suit, matching vest, and dark brown Stetson. His face was tanned, in sharp contrast to the white hair under the hat. That hair color was premature, though, because Frank estimated that the man was no more than thirty-five years old.
The townspeople flocked around the buggy to find out what had happened, and within seconds the word was going through town that Frank Morgan was back in Buckskin. Conrad stopped the buggy at the hitch rack in front of the Silver Baron Saloon, which was also owned by Tip Woodford, and when Frank swung down from the vehicle the townspeople crowded around him, eager to shake his hand and welcome him back.
Frank still enjoyed that, because it was so different from the way he had been treated in so many places he had visited. In most settlements, people had shunned him and been afraid of him because he was a gunfighter. The local badge-toter usually showed up pretty quickly, often carrying a shotgun, to warn him about causing trouble and suggest that it would be better for all concerned if he would just vamoose out of town. Women stared at him like he was some sort of monster, and children stared wide-eyed at him as if they could see the blood of all the men he had killed on his hands.
Not here, though. Here he was a respected member of the community. Quite a change. So Frank made sure he shook hands with and spoke to everyone who wanted to greet him before he made his way into the saloon and took a seat at a big table in the rear along with Conrad, Rebel, and Catamount Jack. Conrad looked like he didn’t care for the idea of his wife being inside a saloon, but give the boy credit for some brains, Frank thought. Conrad had figured out by now that it wasn’t going to do any good to argue with her.
Johnny Collyer, the head bartender and the fella who ran the Silver Baron for Tip Woodford, brought over a pitcher of beer and some mugs himself, rather than sending the drinks with one of the waiter gals. He shook hands with Frank and said, “It’s mighty good to have you back, Marshal. Buckskin just hasn’t been the same without you.”
“Thanks, Johnny. Is Tip around?”
Collyer shook his head. “Out at the mine, I reckon. Miss Diana, too.”
Diana Woodford, Tip’s daughter, kept the books and ran the mine office. Like Rebel, whom she actually resembled slightly in her blond beauty, she was a bit of a tomboy, and she’d had quite a crush on Frank Morgan when he first came to Buckskin. Frank was old enough to be her father, though, and he had successfully deflected her interest to Garrett Claiborne, who was younger and a more appropriate beau for her.
Johnny Collyer poured beers for everybody, even Rebel, and then went back behind the bar. Frank sipped from his mug, enjoying the way the cool beer cut the trail dust. He wasn’t much of a drinker, preferring a good cup of coffee or even a phosphate to hard liquor, but sometimes a beer went down just fine.
He said, “All right, Jack. Tell us about Dex Brighton.”
Jack took a healthy swallow of beer, his corded throat working as he swallowed, then lowered the mug and wiped the back of his other hand across his whiskery mouth.
“Fella rode into town about a month ago, not long after you left for Arizona Territory, Frank,” the old-timer began. “Nobody paid much attention to him at first. You know how it is, folks come and go all the time.”
Frank nodded. Ever since the silver boom had gotten rolling again, new folks showed up in Buckskin nearly every day.
“Brighton wasn’t a miner or a cowhand or anything like that,” Jack went on. “You could tell that by lookin’ at him. I took him for a gambler maybe, and sorta kept an eye on him for a day or two, just to make sure he wasn’t a tinhorn who was gonna try to set up a crooked game or anything like that. I reckon he was just gettin’ the lay o’ the land, though, before he sprung his surprise. He went into Tip Woodford’s office one day and told ol’ Tip that he was the real owner of the Lucky Lizard.”
“That’s not possible,” Conrad said. “Mr. Woodford has owned the Lucky Lizard claim for years, ever since the first silver boom in Buckskin.”
“Yeah, well, that ain’t the way Brighton tells the story. Y’see, Tip Woodford bought that claim from a fella years ago, before there ever was a Lucky Lizard Mine, before anybody had found any silver in these parts at all. Brighton says that his pa was partners with the hombre Tip bought the claim from, and that they had a deal so that they could only sell out to each other, not to anybody else. So accordin’ to Brighton, it weren’t legal when Tip bought the claim, and since both o’ the original partners is dead, that means the Lucky Lizard belongs to him.”
Frank frowned in thought. The story was a bit convoluted, but no more so than plenty of other circumstances surrounding various mines and mining claims in the West. Disputes over the ownership of such rights were commonplace.
“What did Tip do?” he asked.
“Well, I reckon he wanted to throw Brighton out on his ear, but Diana was there so he didn’t. He just told Brighton he figured he was mistaken about that and even offered to show him all the paperwork provin’ that Tip owned the mine. Brighton said that that didn’t mean anything, but he appreciated ever’thing Tip did to get the mine operatin’, so he said he was willin’ to let Tip keep a one-quarter share for himself. He said he figured that was a mighty generous offer.”
“I’m guessing Tip didn’t see it that way.”
Jack snorted. “Not hardly. He got a little hot under the collar finally, and told Brighton to go peddle his papers elsewhere. Brighton said he’d be sorry for that and said when he took over, Tip wasn’t gonna get nothin’.” The old-timer’s bony shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “That’s how things stand, as far as I know. Brighton’s still hangin’ around town tellin’ folks that he’s the real owner o’ the Lucky Lizard, and there’s not much Tip can do about that. Word is that Brighton’s got some fancy lawyer comin’ in to take Tip to court and try to take the mine away from him that way. But Brighton’s been seen talkin’ to some hard-lookin’ hombres, too, and Tip’s a mite nervous. He thinks Brighton might try to take over the Lucky Lizard with hired guns, if it comes to that.”
“It won’t,” Frank promised with a grim look on his face. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Well,
