Killing Ground. William W. Johnstone

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      Woodford sighed. “I don’t know, Frank. I honestly don’t. I thought the deal I made with Jeremiah Fulton all those years ago was on the up-an’-up, but I reckon it’s possible Fulton lied to me. If he really was partners with Brighton’s pa, and if they had a signed agreement like Brighton says…well, then, much as it pains me to say it, he might be right.”

      “I’ll have to see that document with my own eyes before I’ll believe it,” Frank said. “And even then, it’s going to have to convince the judge and your lawyer, too.”

      “What lawyer?” Woodford asked with a frown. “I don’t have a lawyer. Never needed one.”

      “You do now. And you’re going to have one as soon as I can get word to San Francisco. You’ll have the best lawyer that the Browning Mining Syndicate can provide for you.”

      Woodford looked doubtful. “I sure do appreciate the offer, Frank, but I ain’t sure how that boy o’ yours is gonna feel about it.”

      “You let me worry about Conrad,” Frank said.

      Chapter 5

      “Absolutely not. That’s a private dispute between Brighton and Mr. Woodford. The Browning Mining Syndicate can’t afford to become involved. If Brighton prevails in court, we would have made an enemy of him from now on.”

      “It’s a mite late to be worrying about that,” Frank said as he looked across the table at his son. “Brighton already knows we don’t like him.”

      They were in the hotel dining room with plates of roast beef and vegetables in front of them. A short time earlier, Diana Woodford had posted bail for her father, and Frank had released Tip with a warning to go right back to the big house on the edge of town where he and Diana lived and avoid Dex Brighton.

      Conrad studied his father’s face for a moment and then said, “You’ve already promised Mr. Woodford that we’ll provide legal representation for him, haven’t you?”

      Frank shrugged. “Pretty much.”

      Conrad put his fork down so hard that it rattled against his dinner plate.

      “Blast it, Frank! You seem to forget that Woodford is our competition, too. We don’t owe him any favors.”

      “Garrett Claiborne is convinced that the veins of silver being mined by the Lucky Lizard and the Crown Royal don’t come anywhere near each other,” Frank said. “So it shouldn’t matter to us one way or the other whether Tip’s mine is successful.”

      Conrad nodded. “That’s exactly the point. It shouldn’t matter to us. You offered to help him simply because he’s your friend.”

      “And what’s wrong with that?” Frank asked without denying Conrad’s charge.

      “It’s not good business.”

      “There are some things more important than business.”

      Rebel had been pretty quiet up to this point, but now she laughed.

      “Don’t say that to Conrad,” she told Frank. “He considers it heresy.”

      Conrad flushed. “I do not. I just take a more practical approach to these matters than either of you do.”

      “You were quick enough to ask me for help when you had trouble with that railroad spur you were building and when Cicero McCoy stole all that money,” Frank pointed out. “Anyway, I’m not asking you or the Syndicate to pay for Tip’s lawyer. I figured to send for one of my personal lawyers. Turnbuckle and Stafford are already on retainer; I reckon they might as well earn some of that money I’ve been paying them.”

      Conrad’s eyes widened.

      “Turnbuckle and Stafford are two of the top attorneys in San Francisco! In the entire country, for that matter. You’d drag them out here to this frontier town for a simple mining dispute?”

      “You’ve got to remember that there’s a lot of money at stake here,” Frank said. “Maybe it wouldn’t be that much to hombres like Leland Stanford or J.P. Morgan or ol’ John D. Rockefeller, but it’s not like a penny-ante poker game either. Anyway, I’m only going to drag one of them out here from San Francisco. The other one can stay there and hold down the fort.”

      “Hold down the fort,” Conrad muttered. “You refer to tending to the affairs of one of the top law firms in the country as holding down the fort.”

      “Call it whatever you want. I’ve already sent a rider to Carson City with a message to wire to San Francisco. With any luck, one of those fellas will be on a train heading in this direction before the day is over tomorrow.”

      Conrad shook his head. “I should have known there was no reasoning with you. You’re as stubborn as ever.”

      “I’d say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Rebel commented.

      Conrad frowned at her. “You could at least be on my side. You’re my wife, after all.”

      “I’m always on your side, Conrad.” She smiled. “Except when you’re wrong.”

      “I give up. And I hope you two enjoy your dinner.” Conrad looked around the table at them. “This is liable to be the last peaceful evening in Buckskin for quite some time!”

      Frank couldn’t argue with that.

      Things never seemed to stay peaceful around him for very long, no matter where he was.

      The next morning, Frank rode out to the Crown Royal Mine to talk to Garrett Claiborne. Stormy, the rangy gray stallion that had carried Frank over so much of the West, was clearly glad to be reunited with his master, and he stretched his legs and capered like he was a young horse again as they followed the trail out to the mine.

      Dog, the big, shaggy, wolflike cur, had reacted in much the same fashion, rearing up to put his forepaws on Frank’s shoulders and eagerly licking his face. To some people it might have looked like the dog was trying to tear out the man’s throat, but Frank knew better.

      Dog loped alongside, occasionally dashing off to check out some intriguing scent or give chase to a rabbit or prairie dog he didn’t really want to catch. He didn’t go very far, though, before returning to Frank’s side.

      Frank saw smoke rising before he reached the mine. He knew it came from the chimney of the cookhouse. Feeding a barracks full of hungry miners kept the two Mexican cooks busy most of the time.

      He heard the rumble of the stamp mill, too, and the sound of the donkey engines that pulled the ore cars out of the mine along the narrow-gauge steel rails. When you got right down to it, a mine of any sort was a noisy, smelly place, and sometimes Frank wasn’t sure that having them spread all over the West was a good thing.

      Whenever mines and railroads and all the other sorts of industry arrived, the frontier was never quite the same afterward, and for those who remembered it the way it used to be, as Frank Morgan did, there was a certain nostalgic melancholy associated with the march of progress. With each passing year, the places where a man could pause on a hilltop СКАЧАТЬ