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 U.S. marshal be sent down here to restore some real law and order.”
“You go right ahead and do that if you want to, mister,” Frank bit off. “You just go right ahead.”
He wasn’t worried about Brighton’s threat. Getting a U.S. marshal in here might even be a good idea. Most of the federal lawmen who worked west of the Mississippi were tough, competent, and had some common sense.
Tip Woodford stepped around Frank and said, “You’ll never get your hands on the Lucky Lizard with your legal trickery, Brighton. That mine belongs to me, fair and square. Jeremiah Fulton had every right to sell it to me. He never even said anything about havin’ a partner!”
“Of course he didn’t. He knew he was swindling you.” Brighton laughed curtly. “But this will all come out in court. You’re a fool, Woodford. You could have had a quarter-share in the mine, strictly out of the goodness of my heart, but now I’m going to take all of it away from you. Every last penny. You and your daughter will be left with nothing, you pathetic old oaf.”
Tip’s face flushed a dark brick-red, and he moved with more speed than Frank anticipated. He didn’t have the old revolver anymore, but he still had a big, beefy fist and the strength that came from swinging a pick thousands of times. He lunged at Brighton and smashed a blow into the Easterner’s jaw.
Brighton appeared to be taken by surprise by Woodford’s attack, just as Frank was. The punch rocked him back a step, but he didn’t go down. As he caught his balance he struck back, hammering a left into the mayor’s midsection and then chopping a sledging right across his face.
“Pa!” Diana cried.
Woodford was driven back by Brighton’s powerful blows. He outweighed Brighton, but the other man was younger and stronger. As Woodford sagged to one knee, Brighton closed in on him, drawing back a leg to kick him in the face.
Frank grabbed Brighton’s shoulder and shoved him away instead. “That’s enough, blast it!”
Brighton’s face was dark with fury. He ignored Frank and went for Tip Woodford again. This time Frank caught him around the middle. The muscles in Frank’s shoulders bunched as he flung Brighton back. The man fell this time, his hat flying off as he rolled in the street.
Brighton came up spitting curses. With a visible effort, he brought his rage under control and pointed a finger at Woodford.
“You saw it, Marshal!” he shouted at Frank. “If pointing a gun at me wasn’t enough, now he’s physically attacked me! If you’re a real lawman and not just Woodford’s lapdog, you have
