“If he isn't after you, Frank, I'm surprised he came here, knowing you're the marshal."
“I doubt if he knows."
A man came running up. “Trouble about to happen at the Red Horse, Marshal,” he panted. “Gun trouble."
“Go home,” Frank told him. “We'll handle it."
“I'm gone. I don't like to be around no shootin'."
The man hurried away.
“Let's go earn our pay, Jerry,” Frank said.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a single shot rang out from the direction of the Red Horse Saloon.
“Damn!” Jerry said, and both men took off running.
Twelve
Frank and Jerry pushed open the batwings and stepped into the smoke-filled saloon. A man lay dead on the dirty floor. Another man stood at the end of the bar, a pistol in his hand. Frank noted that the six-gun was not cocked. The crowded saloon was silent. The piano player had stopped his playing, and the soiled doves were standing or sitting quietly.
“Put the gun down, mister,” Frank ordered.
“You go to hell, Morgan!” the man told him.
“All in due time. Right now, though, I'm ordering you to put that gun away."
“And if I don't?” The man threw the taunting challenge at Frank.
“I'll kill you,” Frank said softly.
“Your gun's in leather. I'm holdin’ mine in my hand, Morgan."
“You'll still die. Don't be a fool, man. If I don't get you, my deputy will."
Jerry had moved about fifteen feet to Frank's right.
“What caused all this?” Frank asked the shooter.
“He called me a liar, and then threatened to kill me. I don't see I had no choice."
“He's right, Marshal,” a customer said. “I heard and seen it all."
“All right,” Frank replied. “If it was self-defense, you've got no problem. Why are you looking for trouble with me?"
“'Cause you ain't takin’ me to jail—that's why."
“I didn't say anything about jail, partner. I just asked you to put your gun away."
“You ain't gonna try to haul me off to jail?"
“No. Not if you shot in self-defense. Now put that pistol back in your holster."
“All right, Marshal,” the shooter said. “I'm doin’ it real easy like."
The man slipped his pistol back into leather and leaned against the bar. Frank walked over to the dead man on the floor and knelt down. The dead man's gun was about a foot from the body, and it was cocked. Obviously he had cleared leather when he was hit. Frank stood up. “I need some names."
“My name's Ed Clancy,” the shooter said. “I don't know the name of the guy who was trouble-huntin'."
“Anybody know who he is?” Frank asked. “Or where he's from?"
No one did.
“Get the undertaker. Jerry,” Frank said.
Jerry left the saloon, and Frank walked over to the shooter by the bar. “Where are you from, Ed?"
“Colorado. I come down here to look for gold."
“Gold?"
“Yeah. But there ain't none. Not enough of it to mess with, anyways."
The bartender was standing close by, and Frank ordered coffee. “You have a permanent address, Ed?"
“Not no more. You want me to stick around town for a day or so?"
“If you don't mind."
“I'll stay. I don't mind. Reason I got my back up was I figured you was gonna kill me, Morgan. I'm sorry I crowded you."
“That's all right, Ed. I understand. Where are you staying in town?"
“Over at Mrs. Miller's boardin’ house."
“Thanks, Ed. I'll probably have all the paperwork done by tomorrow, and you can pull out after that if you've a mind to."
“Thanks, Marshal. You're all right in my book."
Undertaker Malone came in, and Frank and Jerry watched as he went through the dead man's pockets looking for some identification. There was nothing.
Malone stood up. “He's got enough money to bury him proper, Marshal. But no name."
Jerry had circulated through the crowd in the Red Horse, asking about the dead man. No one knew who he was.
“Put his gun and everything you found in his pockets on the bar, Malone,” Frank said. “I'll hold it at the office."
“How ‘bout his boots?” Malone asked. “They're near brand-new."
“Bury him with them on."
“That seems a shame and a waste to me. Marshal."
“Did I ask you?"
“No, sir."
“Then get him out of here. Jerry, start poking around and see if you can locate the man's horse. I'll be here for a few more minutes."
Frank drank his coffee and watched while the body was carried out. The saloon swamper came over and mopped up the blood, then sprinkled sawdust over the wet spot. Frank waited by the bar until Jerry returned.
“Man's horse was over at the livery, Frank. But no saddlebags, and no rifle in the boot."
“All right. We'll check the hotel and the rooming houses tonight. If we don't have any luck there, we'll start checking the empty houses and tents in the morning."
“Might not ever know who he is,” Jerry opined.
“That might very well be true. Jerry. The West is full of unmarked graves.” I've put a few men in those unmarked graves myself, Frank added silently.
Frank and Jerry drew a blank at the hotel and the town's several rooming houses. At the hotel, Frank pointed out a name on the register: Robert Mallory.
“Big as brass,” Jerry said.
“He's proud of his name, for sure. Loves to flaunt it in the face of the law. Let's call it a night, Jerry. We'll start checking the town tomorrow."
“OK, Frank. You off to bed?"
“In a little while."
“You want me to make the late rounds? I'll be glad to do it."
“No. I'll do it. Thanks for the help tonight, Jer. See you in the morning."
Frank stepped into the Silver Slipper Saloon and ordered coffee. He stood at the far end of the bar and drank his coffee, looking over the now thinning-out crowd—a quiet crowd, as many had gone home for the night. A few people spoke to Frank; most gave him a wide berth, accompanied by curious glances. By now everyone in town, newcomer and resident alike, knew that one of the last of the west's most famous, or infamous, gunfighters was marshal of the town.
Frank stayed only a few minutes, and when he left he used the back door, stepping out into the broken bottle and trash-littered rear of the saloon. He stood for a moment in the darkness, further deepened by the shadow of the building.
He heard the outhouse door creak open and saw a man step out, buttoning up his pants. Frank knew who it was, for few men were as tall as Big Bob Mallory.
“Big Bob.” Frank spoke softly.
Bob paused for just a couple of seconds, then chuckled. “I know that voice for sure. Heard you was law doggin’ here at the Crossin', Morgan."
“You heard right, Bob. What are you doing in town?"
“None of your goddamn business, Morgan—that's what!"
“I'm making it my business. Now answer the question."
“Takin’ a vacation, Morgan. Just relaxin'."
“A vacation from what? All you do is back-shoot folks a couple of times a year. Doesn't take much effort to pull a trigger. I don't think you've ever had a real job."
“Ain't nobody ever proved I shot anyone, Morgan. And you damn sure can't do it. And I do work now and then, and can prove it. I do odd jobs here and there to get by. Doesn't take much for me to live on."
“Don't screw up in my town, Bob. You do, and I'll be on you quicker than a striking snake."
“You go to hell, Morgan!"
“If you've a mind to, we can sure settle it right now."
“You must be tired of livin', Morgan."
“Anytime you're ready to hook and draw."
“I think I'll let you worry and stew for a while longer."
; “What's the matter, Bob? Would it help you reach a decision if I turned my back?"
Frank watched the big man tense at that. For a few seconds, he thought Bob was going to draw on him. Then Mallory slowly began to relax.
“Good try, Morgan,” Bob said. “You almost had me goin’ then."
“What stopped you?"
Bob refused to reply. He stood there, silent.
“Don't cause trouble in this town, Bob. Any bodies show up without explanation, I'll come looking for you and I'll kill you on sight."
“That's plain enough."
“I hope so."
“Mind if I go back in the saloon?"
“I can't legally stop you, Bob. I could order you out of town. But”—Frank paused—“I won't do that. Not yet."
“Getting soft in your old age?"
“You want to keep running that mouth and find out?"
Bob laughed. “I don't think so. Maybe later."
“Anytime. Face-to-face, that is."
“It'll be face-to-face, Frank. When the time comes. You can count on that.” Bob walked up to and then past Frank without another word. He opened the back door of the saloon and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The night once more enveloped Frank.
“Getting real interesting around town,” Frank muttered. “Hope I can stay alive long enough to see how it all turns out."
Thirteen
Frank slept well that night, and no one came prowling around his house in the quiet of darkness. Jerry had fed the prisoners when Frank reached the jail the next morning. There had been no new additions to the cell block during the night. The two men walked over to the Silver Spoon to have breakfast.
“Any luck on finding out the dead man's name?” Angie asked, filling their coffee cups.
“Not yet,” Frank told her. “We're going to try again after breakfast. But I have my doubts about whether his rifle and saddlebags will ever show up."
“Another unmarked grave,” Angie said before moving off to take the order from another customer. “People ought to carry something on them in the way of identification."
“She's right about that,” Jerry said.
“I reckon so,” Frank replied, sugaring and stirring his coffee. “There might even be a law about that someday."
The men ate their breakfasts and watched as the town's population grew by about fifty people in just the time it took them to eat their food.
Several men, their clothing caked with the dirt of hard traveling, stepped into the café. “Where's the gold strike?” one of them demanded in a very loud and irritating tone.
“What gold strike?” Angie asked.
“Lady, don't act stupid,” the second man said. “We've come a long way for this."
“There is no gold here,” Frank said in a low voice. “Silver, not gold."
“Who the hell asked you?” the man asked.
“And this is only a small sample of what we'll be facing in the weeks ahead,” Frank whispered to his deputy. He pushed his chair back and stood up, facing the two men. Their eyes flicked briefly to the star on Frank's vest. “I didn't know I needed an invitation to speak."
“That two-bit star don't mean a damn thing to me,” the man said.
“Yeah,” his partner said. “Why don't you sit down and be quiet, Marshal?"
“I don't believe this,” Jerry muttered, pushing back his chair and standing up.
“Back off, mister,” a customer said softly. “That's Frank Morgan."
Both miners went suddenly slack-jawed and bug-eyed for a few seconds. They exchanged worried glances. The bigger of the pair finally found his voice. “Sorry, Marshal Morgan. I guess we stepped over the line there."
“It's all right, boys,” Frank told them. “Sit down and have breakfast and cool down. The food is mighty good here."
“Good idea,” the other miner said. “I am hungry as a hog. Ain't neither one of us et since noon yesterday. After we eat maybe we can talk about the big gold strike."
“Right,” Frank agreed with a small smile. “The big gold strike."
Frank and Jerry sat back down and Jerry said, “We're really in for it if there is a rumor about gold here."
“More than you know, Jerry. I've been in towns after several hundred very angry miners learned strike rumors were false. It can get real ugly in a hurry."
“Look there,” Jerry said, cutting his eyes to the street.
Frank turned his head and watched as a dozen or so riders, all leading packhorses, rode up the street. “Yeah. And it'll get worse."
“At least they're not gunslicks."
“Not yet,” Frank said. “They'll come next, with the gamblers and con artists and whores."
“There's Mrs. Browning's son,” Jerry said. “Sneakin’ around like he's been doin’ for the past couple of days. He seems to be watchin’ you, Frank."
Frank looked and shook his head. “I thought I saw him yesterday snooping around. That boy is mighty curious about me."
“Any reason he should be?"
Before Frank could reply, the front door burst open. “It's the Pine gang!"
“Here?” Frank blurted, jumping to his feet.
“Well...” the man said. “One of them."
Frank relaxed just a bit. “One?"
“Who is it, Pete?” Angie called.
“That Moran kid. I seen him personal on the edge of town. He's just sittin’ his horse and watchin'."
“Kid Moran?” Frank asked. “Here? Part of the Pine gang?"
“Yes,” Jerry replied. “But that can't be proved. At least no one's ever come forward. I don't think there are any dodgers out on him, either."
“Why would he be comin’ here?” a customer asked.
“Probably to try me,” Frank said. “He's a gun-happy kid looking for a reputation.
“He's already killed five or six men,” said the man who brought the news. “Maybe more than that."
“About that,” Frank said. “Wounded two, three more. He's quick, so I hear."
Jerry had a worried look. “Moran is young and fast, Frank."
Frank smiled. “And I'm older and faster, Jerry. But maybe it won't come to that. We'll see.” Frank picked up his coffee cup and drank the last couple of swallows. Then he walked toward the door.
“Frank,” Angie called.
With his hand on the door handle, Frank cut his eyes.
“It might be a setup,” she said.
“Might be, Angie. We'll see.” Frank stepped out onto the boardwalk and looked up the street. The Kid was still there, sitting his horse. Frank leaned against a support post and waited for The Kid to make the first move.
Kid Moran spotted Frank and began slowly walking his horse toward the center of town. Frank got his first good look ever at the young man with the growing reputation as a gunslick. The Kid was of average height and weight, and slender built.
As he drew closer, Frank could see only two things that were menacing about the Kid: the matched pair of .45's belted around his waist. But Frank also knew that some people saw beauty in a scorpion, a tarantula, and a rattlesnake.
Kid Moran was as deadly as they came, Frank knew, and he also knew that The Kid was lightning fast.
The Kid rode slowly toward Frank. He touched the brim of his hat and smiled at Frank as he rode past. More of a smirk than a smile, Frank thought as he held up one hand in return greeting.
He watched The Kid rein in at a hitch rail in front of the general store and dismount. Frank decided against going over to the store ... at least not yet. He did not want to provoke an incident with The Kid. Frank felt The Kid would try him, sooner or later.
Conrad Browning walked up the boardwalk—Frank had not seen him cross the street—and stopped just to Frank's left. “Good morning, Marshal Morgan."
“'Mornin', Conrad. You always up this early?"
“Always. I like to open up the office for mother. It's just one less thing for her to do."
“Very conscientious
of you."
“Marshal? May I ask you a question?"
“Sure."
“Sometimes you speak as if you had attended some sort of institution of higher education. Other times you don't. Why is that?"
Frank smiled at the question. “I read a lot, Conrad. I always have at least one book in my saddlebags. I enjoy reading."
“I see. Who is your favorite author?"
“I don't think I have one. A while back I did get interested in this fellow Plato. He has quite a way with words."
“Plato? Ummm. Yes, I would say he does."
Hal was across the street, watching Conrad as he chatted with Frank. Jimmy and Hal were taking no chances, figuring that if the outlaws couldn't grab Vivian they might try for her son. Kid Moran was still inside the general store.
“Who is that young man that just rode into town, Marshal?” Conrad asked. “He seems to be of great interest to you."
“A gunfighter. Calls himself Kid Moran."
“Kid Moran. How quaint. He appears to be still in his teen years."
“He's about twenty, I reckon. But he's shot more than his share of men."
“Why?"
“I beg your pardon?"
“Why did he shoot them?"
“I reckon ‘cause he wanted to. Trying to build himself a reputation as a gunslick."
“And that's important out here?"
Again, Frank smiled. “Well ... it is to some folks, Conrad."
“Sort of like being the town bully, I suppose."
Frank nodded his head. “Yes, that's a very good way of putting it."
“But with a gun."
“Yes."
“Thank you, Marshal. I believe I have a better understanding of the West now. You have a nice day.” Conrad strolled off toward the Henson office building.
“Strange boy,” Frank muttered, “In many ways, more man than boy."
Kid Moran stepped out of the general store and leaned against an awning post. He stared across the street at the marshal.
What's wrong with this? Frank thought. Something isn't right, but I can't put my finger on it.
Frank looked up at the buildings across the street. Was there a second shooter on a rooftop somewhere? If so, was it in front or behind him? Had Pine or Vanbergen sent The Kid in to check out things, or had The Kid come in on his own?
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