The Drifter

"Not a bit. It's all speculation on my part."

"Now what?"

"Now I go visit the saloons."

"You saw the men who attacked you?"

"No. But if I show up where they are, one of them just might get nervous and tip his hand."

"Could be. Want me to tag along?"

"No. You do the early business check on Main Street. I'll handle this on my own."

The men sat for few minutes and drank a cup of coffee. The cell block area of the jail, for the first time in a long time, was empty. Frank finished his coffee and stood up to leave. He really wanted another cup, for Jerry made good coffee, but he had a lot to do, and wanted to get started. He could get a cup in one of the saloons, although theirs usually tasted the way horse liniment smelled.

Frank tucked the short-barreled Peacemaker behind his gunbelt, butt forward on the left side, and headed out. He had filed the sight off so it would not hang up.

His first stop was the Silver Slipper Saloon, and it was doing a booming business. He walked through the saloon, speaking to a few of the patrons. Just as he was about to exit out the back way, he cut his eyes over to a far corner table and stopped. Big Bob Mallory was sitting alone. Frank had thought Big Bob was long gone, for he hadn't seen him in a couple of weeks. He walked over and sat down.

"Make yourself right at home, Frank," Bob said. "Uninvited, of course."

"I was hoping I'd seen the last of you, Bob. I thought you'd long rattled your hocks."

"I been here and there, Frank. But I'll leave when I get damn good and ready."

"Where were you this afternoon?"

"Not that it's any of your damn business, but I was playin' poker over at the Red Horse. All afternoon. Check it out if you don't believe me."

"I will, and I don't believe you. I wouldn't believe anything you had to say even if you were standing in the presence of God."

Bob smiled at him. "You're not goin' to rile me into pullin' on you, Morgan. Not now. I'm tellin' you the truth 'bout this afternoon. You'll see."

"Don't screw up in this town, Bob. I told you before, and I'm telling you now."

Bob smiled at him and said nothing.

Frank pushed back his chair and walked away, exiting out the back door, stepping into the night. The darkness was broken only by the faint glint off the many empty whiskey bottles that littered the ground. Someone was grunting in the outhouse. Frank ignored that and walked on, up the alley and back onto the street. He stood in the mouth of the alley for a moment.

The foot traffic was heavy early in the evening -- mostly miners wandering from saloon to saloon to whorehouses located at each end of the town, just past the town limits.

Frank stepped out of the alley and starting walking toward the Red Horse Saloon. He hadn't gone a dozen steps before three shots blasted the air. The sound was muffled, and Frank knew they came from inside a building. Probably the Red Horse.

"Here we go again," Frank said, and began running toward trouble.

--------

*Sixteen*

Just before Frank reached the entrance to the Red Horse, a man staggered out, both hands holding his bloody stomach and chest. The gut-shot man fell off the boardwalk and collapsed on the edge of the street. He groaned in pain and tried to rise. He didn't make it. He died in the dirt before Frank could reach him.

Frank pushed open the batwings and stepped inside the smoky saloon. The large crowd had shifted away from the bar, leaving the long bar empty except for two young men dressed in black, each of them wearing two guns, tied down low. Frank guessed them to be in their early twenties. The music and singing had ceased; the crowd was still, and gunsmoke hung in the air.

_Trouble-hunting punks_, Frank thought. _Well, they've damn sure found it._ "What happened here?" Frank said.

"Who the hell are you?" one of the young men at the bar asked belligerently.

"The marshal. I asked what happened here."

"He got lippy and wanted trouble -- that's what. We gave it to him."

"Both of you shot him?"

"Yeah," the other young trouble-hunter mouthed off. "What's it to you, Mr. Marshal?"

"Sonny boy," Frank said, taking a step closer to the young men. "I've had all the mouth I'm going to take from either of you. I'll ask the questions, you answer them. Without the smart-aleck comments. Is that understood?" Frank took a couple more steps toward the pair.

One of the punks feigned great consternation at Frank's words. "Oh, my! I'm so frightened I might pee my drawers! How about you, Tom?"

"Oh, me, too, Carl. The old-timer's words is really makin' me nervous."

Both of them burst out laughing.

Frank took several more steps while the pair were braying like jackasses and hit Tom in the mouth with a hard straight left. The punch knocked the punk clean off his boots and deposited him on the floor. Frank turned slightly and drove his right fist into the belly of Carl. Carl doubled over and went to his knees, gagging and gasping for air.

Frank reached down and snatched the guns from Tom, tossed them on a table, and then pulled Carl's Colts from leather. He backed up, holding the punk's twin pistols, and waited.

Tom got to his feet first, his mouth leaking blood. He stood glaring at Frank.

Someone out on the boardwalk yelled, "Here comes Doc Bracken. Get out of the way, boys!"

"Get your friend on his feet," Frank told Tom. "Right now!"

Jerry pushed open the batwings just as both young trouble-hunters were on their feet, wobbly, but standing.

"Jerry," Frank said, "I want you to get statements from as many people as you can about this shooting. Get their names and tell them to drop by the office in the morning to verify and sign all they told you."

"Will do, Frank."

Frank motioned with the muzzle of the right hand Colt. "Move, boys. To the jail."

"It was self-defense, Marshal!" Tom shouted. "He was pesterin' us."

"That's a damn lie," a miner said. "It was them pesterin' the other guy. They goaded him into a gunfight. They pushed him real hard. I wouldn't have tooken near'bouts as much as that other feller took. He had to fight. That's all there was to it. They didn't give him no choice in the matter. None a'tall."

"Yore a damn liar, mister!" Carl said.

"Give your story to my deputy," Frank told the man. "Move, boys."

"You're makin' a mistake, Marshal," Carl said.

"Shut up and move. If the other man started the trouble, you can ride on out of town."

"You son of a bitch!" Tom cussed him.

"Be careful, boy," Frank warned him. "Don't let your ass overload your mouth."

Frank locked the pair up and once more hit the streets. He began prowling the new makeshift saloons, and there were about a dozen wood-frame, canvas-covered drinking spots that had sprung up since the new silver strike and the rumors of a major gold strike.

The evening's rambling and searching produced nothing. Frank could flush no one. He finally gave it up and returned to the office.

"Any luck?" Jerry asked.

Frank shook his head as he poured a mug of coffee. "If I did see them, they're mighty cool ole boys. I didn't produce a single bobble."

"I might be on to something," Jerry said.

"Oh?"

"Four men are living in a tent 'bout a mile out of town." He pointed. "That way. Off the west trail. They staked a claim, but no one's ever seen them working it. Man I've known since I come to town told me about them. Only reason he brought it up was 'cause those ole boys is real unfriendly and surly like. I questioned him some and he said he seen them ride out 'bout noon today, and they didn't come back 'til late afternoon."

"You did good, Jerry. I appreciate it."

"There's more, Frank. My friend thinks one of them has a bolt-action rifle."

Frank sugared his coffee and stirred slowly. "I'll pay those ole boys a visit first thing in the morning. Going up there tonight would be asking for trouble."

"It sure would. And it isn't against the law to be unfriendly."

Frank smiled. "You're right about that. If it was, half the population would be in jail. How did the questioning over at the saloon go?"

"Those two trouble-hunters we have locked up started the whole thing. They needled the other fellow into pulling on them. But the other guy did go for his gun first."

"They'll probably get off, then. If the other man drew first, I don't know of any major charges that could be brought against them. But we'll keep them locked up until the judge opens court. It's his mess to deal with now. You go on to bed, Jerry. I'll make the late rounds."

"You sure, Frank?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm not a bit sleepy. Besides, I need to go over to the funeral parlor and find out what I can about the dead man."

"See you in the morning, Frank."

"'Night, Jer."

At the funeral parlor, Frank walked into the back, where the nude body of the stranger was on a narrow table. Malone was preparing the body for burial. He looked up as Frank strolled in.

"No identification on the body, Marshal. He had fifty dollars on him. Ten dollars in silver, the rest in paper. His gun and clothes and boots are over there on that table next to the wall."

Frank carefully inspected the dead man's boots and gunbelt for a hidden compartment. There was nothing. "I'll pick up the gun and rig in the morning," he told Malone.

Malone nodded his head and kept working on the body. Frank got out of there. He walked over to the livery and asked if anyone fitting the dead man's description had stabled his horse there. The night holster nodded and pointed to a roan in a stall.

"Where's his saddle?" Frank asked.

"In the storeroom. Saddle, saddlebags, and rifle in a boot. Far right-hand corner."

Frank carried the gear over to the office and stored it as quietly as possible. Jerry was already in his room, in his bunk, snoring softly. Frank would go through the saddlebags in the morning, but he didn't expect to find anything in the way of identification. The grave would be just another unmarked one in a lonely cemetery. The West had hundreds of such graves. On the Oregon Trail, it was said, there were two or three graves for every mile of the pioneer trek westward. And still the people came, hundreds every week.

During his wanderings, Frank had seen countless abandoned cabins. He wondered how many of the pioneers gave up after a few years and went back east.

Frank locked up the office and walked over to the Silver Spoon for a cup of coffee. The place was dark, closed for the night.

He began making his rounds of the town, checking the doors of the businesses. He cut up the alley and came out near the Henson Enterprises building. He watched the building for a moment, then decided to check the windows and back door. The back door was unlocked.

Frank pushed open the door and saw the faint glint of lamplight under the door, coming from Viv's office. Frank put his hand on the butt of his .45.

Then the door opened and Conrad stepped out. He spotted the dark shape of Frank and gasped, "Oh, my God! Don't shoot?"

"Damn, boy!" Frank said. "What the hell are you doing down here this time of night?"

"Marshal! Well ... doing some necessary paperwork. Mother neglected her duties this afternoon. Mr. Dutton arrived on the stage, and was displeased to find mother gone gallivanting about the countryside while so much work was left unattended here."

"Who the hell is Dutton?"

"Our company's chief attorney."

"What business is it of his what the president of Henson Enterprises does in her spare time?"

"I resent your tone, Marshal!"

"I don't give a damn what you resent. Your mother and I are old friends -- a friendship that goes back twenty years. If she wants to go riding and relax, that's her business -- none of yours, and sure as hell none of this Dutton fellow's. Is that clear, Conrad?"

"If you're such 'old friends'" -- the young man put a lot of grease on the last two words -- "why weren't you mentioned before now? Personally, I think you're both lying. What is it between you and my mother?"

"We're friends, Conrad. That's all. As to why I wasn't mentioned years back ... well, after all, I do have something of an unsavory reputation. In very polite Boston society it just wouldn't do for your mother to let people know she was friends with a gunfighter."

"Ummm. Well, you're certainly correct in that assumption. But I still believe there is more ... a lot more than either of you are willing to tell. And I shall make it my business to find out what."

Frank sighed. The young man was a bulldog, no doubt about that. "Whatever, Conrad. Where is this Dutton fellow?"

"At the hotel."

"Come on, then. Close up the place, and I'll escort you back to the house."

"I am perfectly capable of seeing myself home, Marshal. I bought a pistol today."

"God help us all," Frank muttered.

"Beg pardon?"

"Nothing, Conrad. What kind of pistol?"

"This one," Conrad said, reaching inside his coat and hauling out a Colt Frontier double action revolver. He pointed it at Frank, and Frank quickly pushed the muzzle to one side and took the weapon.

Frank stepped closer to the light streaming through the open door and inspected the pistol. A .45 caliber. "It's a good pistol, Conrad. Have you fired it yet?"

"Certainly not! And I won't until it becomes necessary."

"I ... see. I think."

"It shouldn't take too much expertise to discharge a firearm. One simply points the weapon and pulls the trigger. Right, Marshal?"

"Well -- "

"So, considering this recent firearm purchase, I shall now take over the job of protecting my mother. Your services will no longer he needed. If indeed they ever were."

"Is that right?"

"Quite."

Resisting a sudden urge to jerk a knot in the boy/man's butt, Frank instead suggested, "Why don't we let your mother decide that, Conrad?"

Conrad didn't speak for several seconds, then said, "Oh, very well, Marshal. Let's don't go into a lot of folderol about it. Now I have to lock up."

"I'll wait for you, Conrad."

"Very well, Marshal. If you insist."

Conrad blew out the lamps and locked the back door. Frank waited in the darkness of the alley. When Conrad turned around, Frank said, "Have you eaten, Conrad?"

The young man looked at Frank. Even in the darkness, Frank could feel Conrad's attitude toward him soften. "Why ... yes, I have, Marshal. Thank you for asking."

"Come on, let's get out of this alley."

On the boardwalk, in a bit more light from newly installed oil lamps along the way, Conrad asked, "Who were those gunmen after today, Marshal -- you or my mother?"

"I don't know, Conrad." Frank knew very little about the why of those wanting Vivian out of the way, but he did know he was not going to discuss it with Conrad. "Has your mother said anything?"

"Precious little. But something is weighing very heavily on her mind. I can tell that. She just won't open up to me. Perhaps she will, in time."

"I'm sure she will, Conrad."

They walked on for a half block. Frank felt his guts tighten as four men stepped out of an alley. They were lurching along as if they were drunk, but Frank wasn't sure about that. When they began singing, he was certain they were pretending.

"When I tell you to run, Conrad, don't argue with me, and for God's sake don't hesitate. Just run like the devil is after you. You understand?"

"Yes, sir. Those men up ahead of us?"

"Yes. I'm sure they're going to pull something. Get ready to flee, boy."

The four men began to separate until they were covering the whole boardwalk. Frank watched as one slipped his hand under his coat. When the hand came out holding a six-gun, Frank yelled, "Go, boy! Run!"

Conrad took off, and Frank snaked his Colt out of leather.

--------

*Seventeen*

Frank dived behind a water trough just as the quartet opened up, the lead howling all around him. He managed to snap off one shot that brought a yelp of either pain or surprise from one of the gunmen -- Frank wasn't sure.

He was astonished when a shout came from the other side of the street.

"You filthy savages!" Conrad shouted. "Damn you all!" Conrad pointed his big .45 in the general direction of the quartet of gunmen and pulled the trigger.

The bullet tore the hat off one of the men and sent him hollering and scampering toward a doorway stoop. "Jesus Christ!" he yelled.

Conrad's next shot knocked the heel off the left boot of another man and sent him sprawling to the boardwalk. "My leg!" he squalled. "I'm hit, boys!"

Jiggs from the apothecary shop came running up the boardwalk, a shotgun in his hand, just as Conrad cut loose again. The bullet whined past Jiggs's head, missing his nose by about one hot half-inch.

"Oh, shit!" the druggist whooped, and he ran for cover into the general store ... right through the closed and locked front door. Jiggs took the door with him.

"Get that punk!" one of the gunmen yelled.

Conrad pointed the .45 at the man and triggered off another round. The bullet took off a tiny piece of the man's ear, and the assassin started jumping up and down and yelling as if he'd been touched by a hot branding iron.

"I been shot in the head, boys. Oh, Lordy, I'm done for, I reckon."

Conrad shot him again ... or at least came really close to upsetting the man's evenings for a long time to come. The bullet nicked the gunman's inner thigh, just a microscopic distance from his privates.

"Oh, good God!" the man screamed. "I'm ruint, boys. He's done shot me in the balls!"

Conrad took that time to reload with a handful of cartridges from his coat pocket. Fully loaded, he continued his cussing, shouting insults, and firing.

"You rotten scalawags!" Conrad shouted. "You all belong in a cage!"

"Then put me in a cage!" yelled the man who thought he'd been shot in the doo-das. He had both hands between his legs, holding onto his precious parts ... what he thought was left of them. "Anywhere! Just get me away from that crazy kid!"

"I'm out of here," the fourth outlaw yelled, running up to where Frank lay crouched behind the water trough.

Frank reached out and grabbed the man's ankle, spilling him onto the boardwalk. The man lost his pistol on his way down, banged his head on the rough boards, and knocked himself goofy for a few minutes.

Conrad fired again, the bullet knocking splinters into the face of the man who had lost his hat to Conrad's first shot.

"I yield!" the man yelled, throwing down his gun. "Don't shoot no more."

"Somebody get me a doctor!" shouted the man who thought he'd been violently deprived of his private parts as hot blood from the nick on his thigh ran down his leg. "Oh, Lord, get me to a doctor."

Frank then realized what the man was so upset about. He got to his boots, trying to keep from laughing at the total absurdity of the entire situation, and told the man who thought he'd been shot in the gonads, "What do you think the doctor's going to do, you idiot, sew the sac back on?"

That really set the man off. He began wailing and moaning so loudly windows began glowing with lamplight all up and down the street.

Jiggs stepped out of the general store, his shotgun covering the two would-be kidnappers who were still standing and in one piece, more or less.

Jerry had showed up, and had talked Conrad into giving him his .45.

"Thank God," Frank muttered.

Doc Bracken walked up. "What in the world is going on here?"

"Here's the doctor, buddy," Frank told the man who was making moaning sounds ... sort of like a train whistle with a stopped up valve.

"What's his problem?" Doc asked.

"He thinks his balls have been shot off."

"Good Lord! That's terrible. Did you find them?" Doc asked, after glancing at the man's bloody britches. He began looking all around him on the boardwalk and in the street. "I might be able to sew them back on. I've heard it's been done."

"Do they stay on?" Frank asked.

"Not so far. Infection always sets in, and they rot off."

That really got the mournful sounds cranked up from the would-be kidnapper who thought his cojones were gone forever, and they echoed around the mountain town. A dozen hound dogs joined in from various parts of town, and the noise brought a hundred or more people out of their homes and into the street.

Conrad was shaking so much Jerry had to lead him over to the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street and sit him down.

"Oh, my God," Conrad said, his voice shrill from nervousness. "Did I actually hit somebody?"

"Way I heard it, you shot a feller's balls off," Jerry told him.

"Oh, my goodness!"

"That's him over yonder, wailing like a train whistle. I reckon he's a mite upset." Jerry paused and reflected for a few seconds. "I damn sure would be."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Conrad said, putting a hand to his mouth.

"Let me back up 'fore you puke," Jerry said quickly. "These are brand-new boots."

Frank was trying to get matters settled. He finally told everyone not involved in the shooting to go home, clear the street. After a few minutes the crowd began to disperse.

Jerry told Conrad, "You stay right here, boy, until you get to feelin' better. Then you come over and join Frank and me, OK?"

"Yes, sir," Conrad said softly. "This has really been a very traumatic experience for me."

"I'm sure it has, son. Whatever that means. You stay put, now." Jerry walked across the street and handed Conrad's gun to Frank, butt first. "The boy's cannon. That's a hell of a pistol, Frank. Where'd he get it?"

"Bought it today, I think." Frank smiled. "But he sure played hell with these four rounders, didn't he?"

Jerry grinned. "That he did. How about the feller with no balls? He quieted down in a hurry."

"He's all right. The bullet nicked the fleshy part of his inner thigh just below his privates. Gave him a good scare, that's all."

The four assailants were sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, guarded by several citizens with shotguns, while Doctor Bracken worked on them. All their wounds were very minor ones.

"These the four men who attacked you and Mrs. Browning?" Jerry asked.

"No. These men heard about the attempted kidnapping, and tried a copycat attempt. All they'll be getting out of it is long prison terms."

Jerry took off his hat and wiped his brow with a bandanna. "Stupid of them."

"Very stupid. I'll send some wires in the morning, see if they're wanted anywhere else. But I doubt they are. How's Conrad?"

"Scared, shook up some, and sort of sick to his stomach. But he's not hurt. I told him to stay put over yonder until he got to feeling better."

"Here come Vivian and Jimmy," Frank said, looking up the street as a carriage came rolling up. A servant was handling the reins, and Jimmy was sitting in the back with Viv.

Frank walked out into the street as the carriage came to a halt. "Conrad's all right, Vivian. He didn't get a scratch. Actually, he was the hero this night. Did you know he had bought a pistol?"

"Conrad?" she asked, her eyes wide. "My God. Conrad bought a pistol?"

"Yes."

"I had no idea. He's never fired a gun in his life."

"Well, he sure busted a few caps this night. He didn't kill anyone, but he sure gave a couple of those ole boys sitting over there on the boardwalk a fright." Frank couldn't help himself. He started laughing, and Vivian gave him a strange look.

"You find this funny, Frank?"

"Well, Viv," Frank said, wiping his eyes. "Yes, I do. If you'll pardon the crudeness, one of those attackers thought Conrad shot his ... well, privates off."

Jimmy almost swallowed his chewing tobacco.

Vivian tried to look stern, but just couldn't pull it off. She fought back laughter. "Well," she finally managed to say, having a terrible time attempting to control her mirth. "_Did_ he shoot the man's balls off?"

That did it for Jimmy. He swallowed his chew. "Mrs. Browning!" he gasped.

"No," Frank said. "But I have to say the man had a few anxious moments."

Jimmy got out of the carriage and was coughing and hacking and spitting.

"What's the matter with you, Jimmy?" Viv asked.

"Swallered my chew," Jimmy gasped.

"I'll get Conrad for you, ma'am," Jerry said. "And you can take him home. He's some shaky."

"Thank you, Deputy." Vivian looked at Frank in the flickering streetlamps. It was past time for them to be snuffed out. "I believe I've had quite enough excitement for one day, Frank."

"I agree, and I'm pretty sure Conrad will say the same."

"Quite. And another thing: I shall make sure he puts away that pistol."

Frank smiled. "That's wise, Vivian. At least until he puts in some long practice hours. Although I have to say it was his shooting that broke up the assault tonight."

"No, Frank. His days as a pistol shooter are over. He starts his second year at Harvard this fall. I'm tempted to send him back right now."

"That also might be wise. Viv, what about this Charles Dutton?"

"Here's Conrad. I'll talk to you about Charles tomorrow, Frank. And we must talk."

"All right. There are some things I want to tell you, Viv. No proof, just pure suspicion."

Frank watched the carriage until it was out of sight and then turned to Jerry. "Is Doc Bracken about through with those boys?"

"I think so. None of them was hurt bad."

"Let's lock them down and hit the sack."

"If I can get back to sleep," Jerry said with a smile.

"The way you saw logs, Jer, I don't think you'll have all that much trouble."

"Are you tellin' me I snore, Frank?"

"Either that, or there's a railroad runnin' through the office."

"Maybe it's my snorin' that wakes me up sometimes. You reckon?"

"Could be."

"Doc!" The voice carried to the men across the street. "Are you sure I ain't been shot in the precious parts? It's all numb down there."

"On second thought," Frank said, "if he keeps that up, maybe you won't get much sleep."

"No, damn it, you haven't been shot in your parts. Good God, man. I've told you ten times. Why don't you look for yourself, you ninny?"

"I'm afeared to. Are you real sure, Doc?" the man persisted. "You won't lie to me about that now, would you?"

"If you don't shut up about it," Doc Bracken said, clearly irritated, "I can fix it so you won't have to worry about your precious parts ever again."

"How would you do that, Doc?"

"I'll cut the damn things off!"

The man started howling again, and that started the dogs in town answering him.

"Oh, Lord!" Jerry said. "It's gonna be a long night."

--------

*Eighteen*

Just as dawn was coloring the sides over the mining town, Frank approached the tent where the four men were reported to be living. A man stepped out of a ramshackle building across the rutted trail and waved to Frank.

"Those ole boys pulled out late yesterday, Marshal. Packed up ever'thing and rode out. I'm glad to see them go, personal. Unfriendly bunch, they was."

"Did one of them have a bolt-action rifle?"

"A what?"

"A rifle with a piece of metal sticking out of the top of one side."

"Oh. Come to think of it, yeah, one did. That rifle had a telescope on it, too."

"They left their tent."

"Naw. That tent belongs to whoever claims it. It's been there for a long time. Ain't worth a damn. Leaks."

Frank pulled back the flap and looked inside the tent. The ill-fitting board floor was dirty and littered with bits of trash. The interior smelled foul. Frank backed out, wondering how anyone could live that way.

"Did any of them ever talk to you?" Frank asked the miner.

"Nope. Never said nothin' to nobody 'ceptin' themselves. They was a surly pack of yahoos. And I don't think they was up to no good, neither. Had a evil look about 'em. If you know what I mean."

Frank rode back into town and went into the Silver Spoon for breakfast. Jerry had already been in, getting breakfast for the prisoners -- biscuits and gravy. Frank did not wish any conversation that morning, and took a table away from the other diners. He was edgy; in the back of his mind was the feeling that major trouble was looming just around the next bend in the road. And Frank had learned years back to pay close attention to his hunches.

He lingered over coffee, watching the town come alive. The smelter kicked into life, along with the steam whistle telling the workmen it was time for another day's labors to begin. Frank watched as two men rode into town. It wasn't the men who caught and held Frank's attention; it was their beautiful and rugged horses, bred for staying power. A few minutes later, two more men rode in, on the same type of horses.

Frank had wandered across the line onto the hoot owl trail several times in his life, and he knew what kind of horseflesh outlaws preferred: the type of horses he'd just seen, with plenty of bottom to them. Outlaws often rode for their very lives, and their horses had to be the best they could buy or steal.

Frank sipped his coffee and watched as two more men rode in on the same type of horses.

_The Pine and Vanbergen gangs_, he thought. _Part of them, at least. Coming in a few at a time. Getting ready to make their move ... but what kind of move?_

Frank knew how Ned Pine and Vic Vanbergen operated. Neither one would risk coming into a town this size -- now that there were more than a thousand people in and around it -- and pulling anything. At least, he didn't think they would. But then, time marched on, and people changed. Lawmen around the country were getting better organized, telegraph wires were damn near everywhere, and if a bank was robbed in Springfield, Missouri, people in Dodge City, Kansas, and Louisville, Kentucky, would know about it within seconds.

So was this a breakaway part of the gangs, or some new gang that had just heard about the rumored gold strike and decided to pull a holdup ... of what?

Frank sat straight up in his chair, his coffee forgotten and cooling.

The bank, of course.

"Damn," he whispered.

Frank pushed back his chair and stood up, reaching for his hat. He paid his tab and headed for the jail. He told Jerry, "Keep the rifles and the shotguns loaded up and within reach. Maybe stick another short gun behind your gunbelt. I think we've got some trouble riding in."

"I saw those men on the fine horses, Frank. The animals were a dead giveaway."

"Six of them so far. Might be more coming in. We'll keep our eyes open."

"I'll check the livery and hotel and the roomin' houses, try to pick up some names. Not that it will do much good."

"For a fact, they'll probably all be false." He glanced at the wall clock. "I've got to meet Mrs. Browning, Jer. I'll be over at her office if you need me."

"See you later."

Walking over to Viv's office, Frank noticed that the six men had all stabled their horses at the livery. _That means they're not going to pull anything immediately_, he decided. _They'll check on the town first. And maybe won't_, he amended.

Frank glanced at the bank building. He wondered how much cash Jenkins had in his bank. Thousands and thousands of dollars, for sure. It would be a tempting target for any outlaw gang. Jenkins had a bank guard, but the old man was more for show than effect. Frank doubted the man would be very effective against a well-planned bank holdup.

He couldn't go to Jenkins with a warning, for he had no proof. The six newcomers might well be looking to invest in mining property or some other business ... but Frank felt in his guts they were outlaws.

Vivian was not in her office. The office manager said she had sent word she was not feeling well, and was staying home that morning. Conrad was staying home with her. He added that Conrad was still very shaken from the events of the past night.

Frank walked over to the livery and took a look at the horses the six men had ridden in. Fine horseflesh. Big and rangy, and bred for speed and endurance. The saddles were expensive. The men had, of course, taken their rifles and saddlebags with them. There was nothing else Frank could do, so he returned to the jail.

"Judge Pelmutter was called out of town," Jerry said. "He left on the stage about ten minutes ago ... some sort of family emergency. Said he'd be back next week ... on the Friday stage. Said unless you want to file charges against those two young punks who killed that man, cut them loose."

"I figured that much. How about the four we arrested last night?"

"Said to hold them."

"All right. Turn the two young hellions loose and tell them to hit the trail and don't come back here."

"Will do."

Frank looked out the front window of the jail office. Big Bob Mallory was sitting on a bench under a store awning across the street, staring at the jail.

"What the hell does he want?" Jerry asked, walking over to stand beside Frank.

"Me. I'm sure of that. And maybe Mrs. Browning. But he's got enough sense to know he'd better get rid of me first. He knows if he harmed Viv, I'd track him up to and through the gates of hell."

"Those six got rooms at Mrs. Harris's boardinghouse. Hotel is full up. She said they told her their names were Jones and Smith and Johnson, and so forth."

"Something is up, Jer. I just don't know what. All we can do is keep our eyes open and stay ready."

Frank left the office and began walking the town. After a while he walked over to the second livery that had just opened a week before. There were half a dozen fine-looking horses there he wanted to take another look at. They were beautiful animals that the owner had brought in with him. Several people had tried to buy them, but the livery owner had told each prospective buyer he was not yet ready to sell them.

Frank looked for the horses in the corral, but they were gone. He went inside the old barn and looked around for the owner. He was nowhere to be seen. The six horses were in stalls, all saddled up and ready to ride.

"What the hell?" Frank muttered.

Then it dawned on him. Six men ride into town on fine horses. They register at a rooming house under obviously false names. A livery man comes into town a week before, and brings six fine horses with him and opens for business, but won't sell the horses. Now those six animals are saddled up and ready to ride.

"Real good plan, boys," Frank whispered. "It almost worked out exactly as planned."

Frank walked swiftly back to the office. Jerry was out doing something. Frank paced the floor, thinking. He had no firm proof the six men were guilty of anything. Everything he had was suspicion, nothing more. He didn't want to alarm the bank personnel and have his suspicions turn out to be nothing. One of the six men was surely watching the bank, and if he spotted any panic, the robbery -- if one was planned -- would just be put off for another time ... or if it went ahead, a lot of innocent people would be killed.

"Damn!" Frank muttered, gazing out the window. The town was already getting busy, even though it was still very early. Kids were playing, and women were shopping and standing on the boardwalk talking.

"All I can do is wait," he said. "Right now I'm between a rock and a hard place."

Frank walked over to the gun rack and put his hand on a rifle. Then he pulled it back. He shook his head. If the outlaw lookout spotted him carrying a rifle around town on this beautiful peaceful day, he would alert the others, and they would immediately suspect their plans had been queered.

Frank loaded up his pistols full, slipping a cartridge into the sixth chamber, which he usually kept empty; the hammer rested on that chamber. He walked out of the office and sat down on the bench on the boardwalk. All he could do was wait. He wondered where Jerry had gotten off to.

Ladies passed by, and Frank smiled and touched his hat in greeting. Most of them spoke; some did not. Frank did not take umbrage at being snubbed. He was a notorious gunfighter and a few residents of the town still felt a man of his dubious reputation should not be wearing a badge.

Jerry came strolling up and sat down beside Frank. "Anything happening, Frank?"

Frank explained briefly what he had found and what he suspected.

Jerry didn't question Frank's suspicions. "I'll get my other pistol," was all he said. When Jerry returned a moment later, he asked, "Do we alert some other men?"

"And tell them what, Jer? We don't have a shred of hard evidence to back up my suspicions. Way I see it, all we can do is wait."

Jerry was silent for a moment. "Frank, one of those six men just sat down across the street. Just to the right of the ladies' shop."

Frank cut his eyes without moving his head. "I see him. And yonder comes the livery man with one of those fine horses he's been stabling."

"The seventh man?"

"Has to be, Jer."

They watched as the stable owner looped the reins over a hitch rail just few yards from the bank's front door and walked slowly back toward his livery.

"Two or three of the horses will probably be led around to the alley behind the bank."

"I'll take me a stroll up the street to the end of the block, howdy doin' and chattin' along the way," Jerry said. "Then I'll cut across to the other side, go into the general store, and take me a look-see out the back door."

"OK. Stay over there. I think we're going to see some action in a few minutes."

"Bank's goin' to be crowded, Frank."

"Yes. Full of people. Let's don't get any innocent person hurt or killed."

Jerry paused in his rolling of a smoke. "That might be just wishful thinkin', Frank."

"I know. But we can try."

"Here comes one of those men ridin' up to the bank big as brass."

"And not a head on the street is turning in curiosity," Frank observed. "These ole boys are pretty damn sharp in their planning."

"It's goin' to happen soon, Frank."

"Yeah. Get going. Jer? Good luck."

Jerry smiled. "All in a day's work, Frank."

"Let's hope there aren't many days like this one."

Jerry walked off up the street, speaking to the ladies as he slowly strolled along.

Frank watched as the livery man rode another of the fine horses up the street and hitched him to a rail on the other side of the bank. Then Frank watched as two of the newcomers in question came strolling up, paused for a moment, then entered the bank.

_OK, boys_, Frank thought as he spotted another of the six men come riding up. _Let's do it and get it over with._

--------

*Nineteen*

Frank walked up the block to the corner before turning and crossing the street. He had already spotted the lookout, and kept on walking past the street intersection. He quickly cut into a very narrow alley and then surprised a couple of ladies who were shopping for bustles or corsets or dainties or something along that line.

"Pardon me, ladies," Frank said, quickly walking through the store. "There is apt to be a little trouble on the street in a few minutes, so please stay inside. Thank you." He exited the store as fast as possible. Being around a gaggle of women shopping for unmentionables always made Frank nervous.

Just as Frank closed the door behind him, he heard one woman say, "I think he's so _rugged_, don't you, Ophelia?"

"And so _capable_, too."

"Oh, Lord!" Frank muttered.

Frank eased up behind the lookout man and stuck the muzzle of a .45 in the man's back. "Take a hard right, hombre, and step into this store. That's a good boy. You try to give any type of signal and I'll blow your spine around your guts."

Frank stepped out of the store just in time to see three more of the outlaws enter the bank. That left the livery owner still out somewhere. Frank and Jerry would have to worry about him later.

"What the hell is going on here, Marshal?" the man blustered as soon as Frank had him inside the store.

Frank relieved the outlaw of his guns, holstering his own .45. "Mr. Harvey!" Frank called, ignoring the outlaw's question.

"Marshal," the store owner replied.

"You have a gun?"

"I sure do."

"This man is part of a gang that is right now in the process of robbing the bank. If he tries to move or yell, shoot him. Will you do that for me?"

Harvey reached under the counter and came up with a Greener -- a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun. "Rob our bank? Why that sorry son of a bitch! You bet I'll keep him here and quiet. This here is loaded with nails and screws and bits of metal from the smithy's shop, Marshal. If that man tries to move, I'll spread him all over the store." Harvey jacked both hammers back with an ominous sound.

The outlaw paled. He wanted no trouble with a Greener. He cut his eyes to Frank. "How'd you make us, Marshal?"

"Just luck, hombre. Now you be very still and very quiet."

"I ain't movin' nothin'."

"Not if you're smart," Harvey warned. "I've fought Injuns and outlaws, and killed my share of both. One more wouldn't bother me one whit."

"I believe you, mister," the outlaw said. "I do believe you."

"Where is the man from the livery?" Frank asked.

The outlaw smiled. "He's out yonder somewheres. Chances are, he'll find you."

"Play it your way, hombre. See you in a little bit, Mr. Harvey."

"I'll sure be here, Marshal. And so will this one. Either standin' up or in pieces all over the store."

"Sit down on the floor and put your hands under your butt," Frank told the outlaw. "That's good. Now stay that way."

Stepping out of the store but staying on the stoop, Frank peeked around the corner of the stoop. He smiled when he saw the livery man standing in front of the bank, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. Frank stepped out and began walking toward the man, whistling a tune as he walked.

The livery man suddenly got really nervous as he saw Frank and no sign at all of his buddy, who was supposed to be standing in front of the store.

"Howdy, there, partner," Frank called cheerfully as he drew closer to the man. "Say, you don't have the time, do you?"

"Don't own no timepiece," the so-called livery man grumbled.

"Oh. Well. Too bad. Sure is a nice mornin', ain't it?"

"It'll do." The man cut his eyes to the bank.

"Bank's open if you're interested in opening an account," Frank told him. "Or maybe you're more interested in a withdrawal?"

"Huh? Naw. I'm just waitin' on a friend."

"Fine-looking animals there. All saddled up and ready to go, too. Got saddlebags all filled up with stuff, and bedrolls tied in place. But you have one too many horses."

"Huh? What are you talkin' 'bout, Marshal?"

"You have seven horses hitched up. There's only six of you."

Frank watched the man's eyes flick up the street toward the store where the lookout was supposed to be.

"He's not there, livery man," Frank told him.

"Huh? Who you talkin' 'bout?"

"Your friend. The rider of the seventh horse. He is, well, sort of occupied at this time."

The so-called livery man was even more nervous. Then he made the mistake of brushing back his coat and touching the butt of his pistol. Frank drove his left fist into the man's belly, knocking the air from him and doubling him over. Frank pushed him off the boardwalk, which was about two feet off the ground at this part of the street. The man bit the ground on his belly, which further knocked the wind from him.

Jerry ran up and jerked the man's pistol out of leather just as one of the bank robbers stepped into the doorway of the bank and looked out, a pistol in his hand. He leveled the pistol, taking a dead bead at Jerry.

Frank shot him, drilling the man in the center of his chest. The slug drove the man backward and knocked him into another bank -- robber. Both of them staggered back and fell to the floor.

Frank jumped into the bank, both hands filled with .45's. "That's all!" he shouted. "Give it up. You can't get out of town."

One of the outlaws cussed him and swung his pistol in Frank's direction. Frank shot the man between the eyes. The bank robber died with a very peculiar expression on his face. He slumped to the floor and remained on his knees for a few seconds before toppling over on his face.

The others gave it up. They dropped their pistols and stood with their hands in the air. A short, stocky outlaw said, "Don't shoot, Marshal. We yield."

"Good God!" another bank robber whispered. "That's Frank Morgan!"

Jenkins and two of his tellers now had pistols in their hands, as did three men who were in the bank doing some early-morning transactions, and all were damn sure ready to use them.

"Outside," Frank told the outlaws. "And keep your hands in the air."

"Wonderful work, Marshal!" said Mayor Jenkins, the banker. "By God, it certainly was!"

What was left of the outlaw gang was marched over to the jail through a gathering crowd of citizens, a few of whom had ropes in their hands and were making crude suggestions as to what should be done with the would-be bank robbers ... immediately.

"There'll be none of that!" Frank shouted, momentarily stilling the demands of the crowd. "These men are in my custody, and I'll see they'll get a fair trial. Now break this up and go on about your business."

"The marshal's right, folks," Mayor Jenkins shouted. "The excitement's over. Let's all settle down now."

Doc Bracken pushed through the crowd. "Anyone hurt over at the bank?"

"Two dead," Frank told him. "Somebody go fetch Mr. Malone and tell him he's got some business."

"I'm right here, Marshal," the undertaker called from the rear of the crowd. "I'll see to the departed immediately."

Two well-dressed men stood on the boardwalk on opposite sides of the street. One was watching through very cold and cunning eyes. The other one was scribbling furiously in a notebook.

"Very impressive," said the man with the cold eyes. "Very impressive, indeed."

"What a story this will make," said the other man. "Where is the telegraph office, friend?" he asked a citizen standing next to him.

Frank and Jerry locked up the survivors of the attempted bank robbery and Jerry set about making a fresh pot of coffee while Frank logged the events of the morning in the jail book. The coffee was ready just about the time Frank finished his report, and the men settled down to enjoy a cup.

The door to the jail office opened and a short, stocky man wearing a suit stepped in. "Gentlemen," he said. "I'm Louis Pettigrew. Marshal Morgan, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you ... finally."

"Finally?" Frank asked.

"I'm the author of the books about you, sir."

"Wonderful," Frank muttered.

* * * *

Frank finally got rid of the writer after assuring him that he would give some thought to helping the man write the story of his life ... something that Frank had absolutely no intention of doing.

"I've seen those books from time to time, Frank," Jerry said with a smile.

"Don't start, Jer."

Jerry laughed at him and got to his boots. "Maybe this writer fellow could arrange for you to go back east on a tour. You could do some trick shootin' and twirl your guns. That ought to give the folks back there a real thrill."

Frank picked up an inkwell and moved as if to throw it at Jerry. Laughing, Jerry left the office. Luckily for Frank, the inkwell was empty.

Frank locked up the office and walked over to the Henson Office building. He walked in just in time to see and hear a well-dressed man really browbeating one of the office workers. Frank listened for as long as he could take it and then walked up and deliberately bumped into the man, almost knocking him down.

The man caught his balance and turned on Frank. "You damned clumsy oaf!" he raged.

"Back off, mister," Frank warned him, "before you step into something you can't scrape off." He looked at the employee who had been the brunt of the Eastern man's rage. "You go get a cup of coffee and relax, partner."

"You stay right where you are, Leon!" the dude told the employee. "Now you see here, Marshal!" the man said, turning to Frank. "I am Charles Dutton, Mrs. Browning's attorney. And I resent your interference in a company matter."

Frank smiled and pulled out his second pistol. "You ever fired a pistol, Leon?"

"Yes, sir. During the war. I was a sergeant in a New York regiment."

"Take this pistol."

Leon took the pistol and held it gingerly.

"Now you go get a six-gun," Frank told Dutton.

"I beg your pardon?" the lawyer questioned.

"You speak to this man like he's some sort of poor cowed dog, mister, and you expect him to take it without him biting back or even showing his teeth in a snarl. That ain't the way it works out here. Now you go get a six-gun and meet this man in the street out front."

"I will not! Are you insane?"

Vivian's entrance into the building probably prevented Frank from knocking the Boston lawyer on his butt. Frank could not take an employer berating an employee in public. It was something that set him off like a firecracker.

Leon handed Frank's short-barreled .45 back to him, and Frank tucked it behind his gunbelt and turned to greet Vivian. The look that she gave Dutton was a combination of ice and fire.

"This is your friend, Vivian?" Dutton asked, referring to Frank. "This ... bully with a badge?"

Vivian ignored that. When she spoke, it was to Leon. "What is the problem, Leon? Speak freely, please. Charles Dutton has no authority here."

"It, ah, concerned the weekly reports on the grade of silver being taken from mine number three, Mrs. Browning," Leon told her.

"The analysis of the purity of the silver?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Give the reports to Mr. Dutton, Leon."

Leon held out the laboratory reports.

Dutton looked at the papers without taking them. "What is the meaning of this, Vivian?"

"The lab is about one mile out of town, Charles," Vivian told him. "Anyone can point the way. Why don't you go up there and tell the engineer in charge that you are taking over, and will personally run the tests? Can you do that, Charles?"

"I am your attorney, Vivian, not a chemist or an engineer."

"Can you do it, Charles?" Viv persisted.

"No. I cannot, Vivian."

"Then why don't you shut up and tend to your business? Stay in your area of expertise, and stay out of areas in which you have no knowledge."

For a moment, Frank thought Charles was going to pop his cork. He turned red in the face, and his eyes bugged out. He struggled to speak and then, with a very visible effort, calmed down. "As you wish, madam," he said, very slowly. "However, I was only trying to help."

"And any constructive help you might offer is certainly welcome, Charles. But I personally do not believe in berating employees in private, much less publicly."

"I shall certainly bear that in mind."

"Thank you, Charles."

"If by chance you should need me this afternoon, I will be at the hotel."

"I thought the hotel was full," said Viv.

"Not the luxury suites at the end of the hall. They have private baths. I insisted upon that."

Frank rolled his eyes and looked heavenward.

Viv caught his eye movement and fought back a smile. "Of course you did, Charles."

"It's so primitive out here," Dutton complained. "I don't understand how you tolerate these barbaric conditions, Vivian." He plopped his hat on his head and walked toward the front door without another word.

"Nice fellow," Frank remarked.

Leon muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'He's a turdface!' _But surely not_, Frank thought.

"Frank," Vivian said. She had dropped the "Marshal Morgan" when addressing him. There was no point in any further pretense. The whole town knew they were seeing each other socially. "Could I see you in my office, please?"

Seated in Viv's office, Frank asked, "How's Conrad?"

"He's all right, but I insisted that he stay home today. I've just about convinced him that he should return east as soon as possible."

"I'm not sure about that now, Viv. As long as he stays here, there are plenty of us to keep an eye on him. Back there, he would have little if any protection."

Viv frowned, then slowly nodded her head in agreement. "You're right, Frank. I hadn't thought about that."

"Might be a good thing to keep him here until we get this situation straightened out and decide who's trying to kill us both. As if we didn't already know."

Before Viv could reply, they heard the sound of running boots in the outer offices. Jerry burst into the room. "Frank! Outlaws just hit the Lucky Seven. Got the payroll and killed the owner and his foreman."

Frank was on his boots instantly. "That's the mine about four miles from town, right?"

"That's it."

"Get a posse together. I'll get my horse and meet you at the office."

"Will do." Jerry left the office in a run.

"Be careful, Frank," Viv cautioned.

Frank winked at her. "Long as I got you to come back to, Viv."

"I'll be here."

--------

*Twenty*

Frank looked at the bodies of the mine owner and his foreman and shook his head in disgust. The men had been shot to ribbons, each one more than a dozen times. Their faces had been deliberately shot away. He ordered the bodies taken back to town in a wagon.

"Marshal," said one of the men in the posse. "Those robbers used them men for target practice. They made a game of it."

"I know," Frank replied. "They shot them in the knees, then the arms, then in the belly. They tortured them for the fun of it." Jerry walked up and Frank asked him, "How about the workers -- did any of them see anything?"

"One did," Jerry said. "The other three were in a secondary shaft of the mine ... looking for gold," he added. "It was part of the Pine and Vanbergen gangs. The man is sure of that."

"How can he be sure?"

"He knows a couple of them. Was in jail with them once. They broke out, or was broke out. One or the other. He done his time for drunk and fighting, and hasn't been in trouble since."

"Those two gangs just keep getting more and more vicious," Frank said. "This is not the first time they've done something like this. It's fortunate that no women were out here. We all know what happens to women they take captive. Which way did they head out of here?"

"Straight into the mountains, Marshal," a posse member said. "They're long gone through the pass now. And I ain't goin' into the pass."

Frank did not have to question any of the others about that. He knew without asking none of the men would be willing to enter the outlaw-controlled pass through the mountains. And he really didn't blame them one bit

"Take the posse back to town, Jerry, and look after things until I get back. I'm going to prowl around some."

"You goin' to the pass, Frank?"

"I'm going to look it over, yes. I might not be back tonight. If that's the case, I'll see you late tomorrow."

After the posse was gone. Frank made sure his canteen was full of fresh water. Then he looped an ammo belt over his shoulder and across his chest. The belt was filled with .44-.40 rounds. Every loop in his gunbelt was full of .45 cartridges, and he had more rounds for the rifle and pistols in his saddlebags.

He began slowly tracking the outlaw gang through the rocky terrain. It wasn't that difficult, for the outlaws had made no effort to hide their tracks.

It took Frank a couple of slow-riding and very cautious hours to reach a good vantage spot about a hundred yards from the mouth of the pass. There he dismounted in a small patch of grass, eased the cinch strap, and let his horse blow and then graze. Frank took a pair of binoculars from his saddlebags, looped them around his neck, then slipped his .44-.40 from the boot. He climbed up the rocky ridge for about a hundred feet or so and settled himself in for a long, careful look-see.

What he saw was the nearly impassable entrance to the pass, and he had no doubts about it being guarded by at least two men around the clock. It was as he had been told: if you didn't know your way through, you would be in deep trouble. Even if you did know the tricky route, one of the Pine and Vanbergen guards would surely nail you if you tried.

The ways around the range were about forty miles east or west, and by the time a posse reached the outlaw stronghold they would be long gone.

"Damn," Frank muttered. He knew that north of the pass and the outlaw stronghold the terrain was badlands for miles and miles. A railroad spur line came down to a small town just north of the badlands, and that is where the mines in Barnwell's Crossing took their silver to be shipped out ... providing they could get it to the spur line by wagons, which meant rolling right through outlaw territory on the single road that led to the tracks. Only about half of the silver-laden wagons had made it through thus far.

Frank watched the pass for half an hour before deciding he was accomplishing nothing by staying there. The only way the outlaw stronghold could be taken was with an army, and that would still mean a terrible loss of life.

Frank climbed down to his horse, tightened the cinch strap, and swung into the saddle, holding his rifle in his right hand, across the saddle horn. He headed back to town, feeling that he had accomplished very little with his long ride to the pass.

He rode into town just after dark, stabled his horse, and walked over to the jail. Jerry had fed the prisoners after Doc Bracken had made his daily visit to check on the wounded, and he had just made a fresh pot of coffee.

"Didn't expect to see you back this early, Frank."

"I looked over the entrance to the pass and decided this was not a good day to die," Frank said, pouring a mug of coffee. "The place is a death trap."

"The south entrance sure is. The best way in is from the north."

"But we don't have any authority up there," Frank told him, "I wonder why Colorado won't deal into this game with us?"

"I don't know if they've even been asked."

"I know there's a few small towns just north of the border with us. On the edge of the badlands. But Pine and Vanbergen are smart in that they don't pull anything up there, so they're not wanted in those areas."

It was a policy that was slowly dying out in the West, but for many years if a man was not wanted in a specific area or community, the local lawman would, in many instances, leave him alone as long as he did not cause trouble within that lawman's jurisdiction.

"Was either the mine owner or the foreman married?" Frank asked.

"Yes. Both of them. Wives are here. But neither of them had kids."

"That's good ... that is, if anything about this mess can be called good."

"What about this Charles Dutton fellow, Frank? I just don't like that uppity bastard."

"Neither do I, Jer. I think something is going to break loose here in town very quickly now."

"Because this Dutton dude is here?"

"Yes. And Big Bob Mallory and Kid Moran, and those four assassins who came after Viv and me, and all the rest of it. Dutton is tied in with it all. I'm sure of it. I just don't know the big picture yet."

"This is gettin' mighty complicated, Frank."

"A fellow named Sir Walter Scott wrote some verse once that went something like: 'O, what a tangled web we weave.' I don't remember the rest of it. But that much did stick in my mind."

"This mess is sure all tangled up, for a fact."

A citizen stuck his head in the office. "Marshal, sorry to disturb, but I thought you ought to know that Kid Moran is back in town. I was usin' the privy -- just steppin' out, that is, after I -- finished my business -- when I seen him coming down the back way of the hotel. Usin' them steps that lead up to the fancy rooms. He was sort of slippin' down them, real quiet like, if you know what I mean."

"Thank you," Frank said. "I appreciate it."

"It's my pleasure, Marshal, for shore. If I see anything else suspicious like I think you should know about, I'll get right over to you with it."

"Thanks."

After the citizen had closed the door and walked on, Jerry asked, "What was that all about?"

"Charles Dutton has the most expensive suite in the hotel rented for his stay here."

"You think he's tied in with Kid Moran? A fancy Dan rich man like that?"

"It wouldn't surprise me any. Way this situation is shaping up here in town nothing would surprise me anymore."

"What was the line you recited? 'What a tangled web we weave?' I knew several families name of Scott back home when I was a kid. One of them was always quotin' that fellow Shakespeare. Like to have drove the rest of us goofy. You reckon they might be related to that poet?"

* * * *

The next morning, Frank took a good bath and then carefully shaved. He blacked his boots and dressed in a new suit he'd bought just recently. No special occasion -- he just felt like putting on some fancy duds.

He stepped out into a beautiful day in the high country: a blue, cloudless sky and warm temperature. He walked up to the Silver Spoon and took a seat, ordering a pot of coffee and breakfast. Kid Moran was seated across the room, staring at him, smiling at him. The Kid had taken no part in the attempted kidnapping of Conrad and the killing of Hal ... at least, no part that could be proved. Kid Moran could come and go as he pleased.

Frank ate his breakfast and drank his coffee, ignoring The Kid. The Kid left the cafe before Frank, walking across the street and sitting down on a bench.

Angie came to Frank's table to clear off the breakfast dishes and said, "Be careful, Frank. There's something in the wind this morning."

Frank smiled up at her as he smoked his cigarette. "What do you think it is, Angie?"

"Killing you."

"You a fortune-teller? Maybe you can see the future?"

"Joke if you want to, Frank. But I've served half a dozen hard cases breakfast this morning."

"Sometimes it's difficult to tell a hired gun from a drifting cowboy, Angie."

"And sometimes it isn't." She refilled his coffee cup and said, "You watch yourself today. This town's become a powder keg, and the fuse is lit."

She turned to leave, and Frank put out a hand. "Angie, what is it you're not telling me?"

"Nothing that I can prove. It's just a feeling I get every now and then. But over the years I've seen the best and the worst out here. I saw Jamie MacCallister go into action once. I've seen his son, Falcon, hook and draw. I personally know Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont. I've been working in Western cafes since I was ten years old." She smiled. "And I'm no kid, Frank. I've got more than a few years behind me. You just be careful today, all right?"

"All right, Angie."

Frank looked out the window. The Kid was still sitting on the bench across the street, staring at the cafe.

Frank paid his tab and stepped out onto the boardwalk. None of his mental warning alarms had been silently clanging that morning, so what did Angie feel that he didn't? And why? The Kid was in town, probably to try to provoke a showdown with him. That was something that Frank had felt all along was bound to happen -- no surprise there. And it might well come to a head on this day. If so, so be it.

The hard cases she had mentioned? Did she personally know those bad ole boys, or had she just recognized the hard case look? _Probably the latter_, Frank concluded. And Frank knew that many toughs wore the same look, or demeanor.

Frank walked one side of the main street looking at the horses at the hitch rails. There were some fine-looking animals there, and none of them wore the same brand. But what did that prove conclusively? Nothing. Nothing at all.

Frank cut his eyes. Kid Moran was pacing him on the other side of the street. Maybe it was time for Frank to settle this thing. He hated to push it, but damned if he was going to put up with being shadowed indefinitely. It was already beginning to get on his nerves.

He looked up the street. Damned if more newcomers weren't pulling into town. Two wagons coming in, four outriders per wagon. And Frank felt that was odd. Most Indian trouble was over, so what could the newcomers be hauling to warrant eight guards? The wagons weren't riding that heavy.

Frank paused for a moment to watch the wagons as they rolled slowly into town. One wagon stopped at one end of the street; the other one rolled on and stopped at the far end of the main street.

"What the hell?" Frank muttered. He looked over at the bank building. The guard was just unlocking the front door, getting ready for another business day.

"'Mornin, Marshal," a citizen greeted Frank.

"'Morning," Frank responded.

The citizen strolled on, whistling a tune.

Frank looked at Kid Moran. The Kid was standing on the boardwalk, directly across the street, staring at Frank, smiling at him. Even at that distance, Frank could tell the smile was taunting, challenging.

"What the hell is with you, boy?" Frank whispered. "What's going on here?"

Jerry walked up, smelling of bath soap and Bay Rum after-shave.

"Jerry," Frank greeted him.

"Frank," Jerry replied. "You're lookin' spiffy this mornin'. You're duded up mighty fancy."

"And you smell like you're goin' on a date," Frank said with a smile. "You got you a lady friend?"

Jerry laughed. "Well ... me and Miss Angle might go for a walk this mornin'. We both been makin' goo-goo eyes at each other here of late. She's a nice lady."

"Yes, she is. And a damn good cook, too."

Jerry patted his belly. "I know!"

"Going to get serious, Jer?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Luckily we're both adults, and have been up and down the road a time or two. It isn't something new to either of us. So we're cautious." Jerry paused and looked at the wagons that had just rolled into town. "What the devil are those wagons doing, Frank? Looks to me like they're going to block both ends of Main Street. My God, they _are_ blocking both ends."

Frank looked first at one end of the street, then the other. The wagons were not long enough to completely block off the wide streets, even with the teams, but it looked as if they were sure going to cause some major problems for other wagons trying to get past.

"Frank, they're folding back the canvas on both wagons. Heck, maybe it's some sort of circus come to town, or some minstrel show. You reckon?"

"I don't know what's going on, Jer. But I damn sure intend to find out."

"I'll take this end," Jerry said, pointing. "You take the other."

"Marshal Morgan," Jiggs said, walking up. "What in the world is happening? Those wagons are blocking the street. That can't be allowed."

"We were just about to straighten out this mess, Jiggs."

"I swear, Marshal, some people have no consideration for others, do they?"

Before Frank could reply, Jerry said, "Frank, what is that machinery those guys are uncovering? I never seen no minin' equipment that looked like that."

Frank looked and felt cold sweat break out on his face. He blinked, thinking he was surely mistaken. He stared. No doubt about it: his first look was correct. "Those are Gatling guns, Jer!"

"Gatling guns?" Jiggs blurted. "Good God! Are you joking?" He stared at first one wagon, then another. "By the Lord, you're right, Marshal. What are those people going to do? Put on some sort of a demonstration?"

A couple of seconds after Jiggs asked his question, a tremendous explosion rocked the town. A huge cloud of dust enveloped the road leading out of the main street and up to the mines. The immense explosion was so powerful it cracked windows and sent some people stumbling off the boardwalk and into the street.

"The road's blocked!" an excited man yelled from the other end of the street a few seconds after the explosion. Then he started coughing when the enormous cloud of dust began settling over the main part of town, covering everything.

The men in the wagons began cranking the Gatling guns, and lead started flying all up and down Main Street. Several men and women were hit and knocked spinning by the gunfire.

Pistol fire joined the rapid fire from the Gatling guns.

On his belly on the boardwalk, Frank watched as half a dozen men, all carrying guns and cloth bags, entered the bank.

"Bank robbery!" Frank yelled, and rolled off the boardwalk and into the street just as the carriage from the Browning estate turned onto the main street from a side street. Frank could do nothing except stare in horror as a dozen rounds of lead raked the carriage. Vivian was knocked out of the carriage to lie still and bloody in the dirt.

--------

*Twenty-one*

Frank snapped off a lucky shot that hit the gunner in one of the wagons in the shoulder, knocking him back. But in a heartbeat another man had taken his place and was cranking out the lead, spraying death in all directions. Frank tried to get up and make his way to Vivian, but the intense fire from the Gatling guns forced him back. He crawled behind a water trough as the bullets howled and whistled all around him.

Frank glanced over to where he'd last seen Jerry. The deputy was apparently all right, and had taken shelter in a store, returning the gunfire as best he could whenever the hail of bullets ceased for a few seconds. All the stores up and down the street, on both sides, were missing windows. The wounded were moaning, and many were crying out for help. There were men and women and a few children among them.

One of the bank clerks staggered out of the bank, his chest bloody, and fell facedown on the boardwalk. A young child, a girl, sat in the dirt beside her fallen mother and cried. Many of the horses that had been tied at hitch rails in front of various stores had broken loose and bolted. Others were badly wounded, screaming and thrashing on the ground, unable to get up because of their grievous wounds.

While the gunners were changing magazines on the Gatlings, Frank dropped one of the outlaws, who was exiting the bank with a bagful of money. Frank shot him twice, once in the belly, once in the chest, ending the man's outlawing days forever.

Jerry shot another one leaving the bank, shot him in the throat with a hurry-up shot. The .45 round almost took the man's head off. He fell back against the front of the bank building and lay kicking and jerking and trying to push words out of his ruined throat, the bag of money beside him forgotten in his horrible agony.

Frank rolled away from the trough and under the raised boardwalk, squirming his way a few yards closer to one of the death wagons. He shot the gunner in the head just as another charge of dynamite was lit and tossed. The barber shop exploded in a mass of splintered wood and broken glass. The peppermint-painted barber pole was blown a hundred feet into the air. It came down in the alley behind the barber shop and landed on the slant roof of a privy, crashing through and almost conking a man on the head who had taken refuge in there. He jumped out of the privy and took off, running toward the edge of town.

The main street was once more covered in dust and smoke and confusion. The Gatling guns resumed their spitting out of misery and destruction. Frank nailed another outlaw coming out of the bank, his shots turning the robber around and around in a macabre dance on the boardwalk. He dropped his bulging sack of money just before he slumped to the street and died beside the bag of money that cost him his life.

Frank heard a shotgun boom inside the bank, and an outlaw was knocked through the big front window, dead from the shotgun blast before he hit the boardwalk.

Frank took that time to jump up and make a run closer to one of the wagons. He made it to a dead horse and jerked the .44-.40 rifle from the saddle boot. Before he went belly down on the ground, he chanced a look toward Vivian. She had not moved. Frank was suddenly filled with a terrible rage. He levered a round into the chamber of the rifle and sighted in the new gunner cranking the Gatling gun. Frank shot him in the chest and knocked the man out of the wagon. No new gunner came forward to take his place. The bank robbers were running out of men.

Frank ran toward the wagon and jumped in. He swiveled the Gatling and began cranking, the rounds literally tearing the wagon at the end of the block to splinters, all mixed in with the blood and shattered bone of the two outlaws who were inside the wagon.

The outlaws who were not dead or wounded, or being held prisoner by various townspeople, were in the saddle and riding hell-for-leather out of town, toward the pass.

Doc Bracken was busy working on the wounded citizens, pointedly ignoring the calls for help from the wounded outlaws.

"Help me, Doc!" one called.

"Go to hell, you bastard," Doc Bracken told him without looking up from the bloody little girl he was working on in the middle of the street.

"I'm hard hit, Doc," the outlaw pleaded.

"Good," Bracken replied. "Go ahead and die. Rot in hell."

Frank hurried over to Vivian and knelt down. She had taken two rounds in the chest from the big-bore Gatlings, but she was still breathing.

"Hang on, Viv," Frank said. "Doc Bracken's coming over soon as he can."

"Tell him not to waste his time, love. I'm all torn up inside."

"Hush, now, Viv. Don't talk like that."

"Talk while I have time to talk. I'm in no pain, Frank. It's all numb inside of me, but it's difficult to breathe. I've been lung shot, haven't I?"

Frank had seen the pinkish-looking fluid she'd coughed up. "I don't know for sure, Viv."

"I think I am. Let me talk while I still can, Frank. Don't interrupt, please?"

"I won't, Viv."

"You own five percent of Henson Enterprises, Frank. I saw to that just last week. The papers are filed, and it's all legal. Dutton can't do a thing about it except gripe. Money will be deposited in your name in a bank in Denver every month. It's all spelled out in the papers. Mayor Jenkins has them. He's a good, trustworthy man."

Frank waited while Vivian coughed up more fluid. It was pinkish in color. Holding her, he felt his hand at her back grow wet. He lifted one side of her jacket and found another bullet hole. He knew that unless the slug had veered off, it had probably blown right through a kidney.

"Is the sun going behind a cloud, Frank?" she asked. "It's getting darker."

"Yes, love. Clouds are moving in. It's going to rain, I reckon."

There was not a cloud in the sky.

Doc Bracken came over and looked at Vivian for a few seconds. He lifted his gaze to Frank and shook his head. The doctor's eyes were filled with sorrow.

Frank felt as though an anvil had fallen on him.

"Look after Conrad, Frank," Vivian told him. "Promise me you'll do that."

"I will, Viv. I promise."

"He's home right now. I gave him a sedative. He probably slept right through the shooting."

"I'll do my best to take care of him, Viv."

"Let's get her to my office, Frank." Bracken had placed a cloth over Viv's major chest wound. "Stops the sucking, Frank. She might have a chance."

Bracken waved some men over and they gently picked Viv up and carried her away. Frank stood up and looked around him. The main street of town resembled a war zone. There were at least two dozen men, women, and children dead or wounded. There wasn't a window left intact. The barber shop was gone, and the buildings on either side of it were heavily damaged.

Jerry walked up, a bandage on his head. "You hurt bad?" Frank asked.

"Naw. I just got conked on the head by a flying board, that's all. Bled like crazy for a few seconds. Angie thought I was bad hurt. How's Mrs. Browning?"

Frank shook his head. "Real bad," he said softly. "She caught three bullets in the chest."

"I'm sorry, Frank. Jimmy?"

"Dead. That's him between the seats in the carriage."

"The driver is dead, too. He's on the other side of the carriage."

"Let's go see what we can do to help and get the prisoners over to the jail."

"We might have some trouble keeping a lynch mob from taking the prisoners."

"I couldn't blame them for trying," Frank replied. "But that's not going to happen in my town."

Frank and Jerry rounded up the surviving outlaws and marched them over to the jail and locked them down. "Stay here," he told Jerry. He left the office and walked up to a group of businessmen. "You're all deputized," he informed them. "Your job is to stay at the jail and guard the prisoners. You will prevent a lynching. Is that understood?"

It was, and the men agreed, although quite reluctantly.

"Fine. Get over to the jail and relieve Jerry. Tell him I need him out here, now. Move!"

Jerry joined him in the street and Frank said, "Let's get a tally of the dead and wounded. You start that while I find Jenkins and see how hard the bank was hit."

"Will do, Frank."

Men were shooting badly injured horses, putting them out of their misery.

"They didn't get away with a nickel," Jenkins told Frank. "We recovered every dollar. How many dead do we have?"

"I don't know yet. Jerry's checking on that now. But it's going to be high."

"Mrs. Browning?"

"Doc Bracken said she was still alive, but unconscious. She's hard hit."

"Was it the Pine and Vanbergen gangs that hit us, Frank?"

"Yes. Selected members. The rest of the gang was scheduled to pull something else."

"For God's sake, what? And where?"

"The one doing all the talking didn't know. Or said he didn't"

"You believe him?"

"He's pretty damned scared, Mayor. There's a chance he's telling the truth."

A citizen ran up to the men, nearly out of breath. "We've got over twenty dead so far. Mayor, Marshal," he gasped. "About that many wounded."

"Dear God!" Mayor Jenkins breathed. "How many of the wounded are critical?"

"Near'bouts all of them."

"All right, mister. Thanks," Frank told him. "Go sit down over yonder and catch your breath."

"No time," the citizen said. "One of the dynamite charges was tossed into Miss Rosie's place up on the hill. Some of her girls is still buried under the rubble. Maybe eight or ten of them. And Miss Rosie's missin', too."

"My wife's been griping and raising hell about that whorehouse for months," Jenkins said. "She wanted it gone, but not this way."

Frank swung into the saddle of the first horse he came to and rode up to Rosie's House of Delights, or what was left of the place, picking his way around the blocked road. There were dead and badly injured soiled doves on both sides and in front of the ruined old two-story home. There were plenty of men helping to search for and dig out those trapped, so Frank rode on.

No one had thought to look for dead or wounded at the small mining claims that dotted the area around the town, and Frank had a hunch that had also been part of the gang's plan. Many of the men working the smaller mines had found pockets of gold, and did not trust the bank to hold it for them. They kept it in hidden places around their shacks. Ned Pine and Vic Vanbergen would have had spies working the town, buying drinks for thirsty miners, and would know some of the claims that were producing.

Frank's worst hunch paid off. The roar of the Gatling guns, the booming of the dynamite, and the screaming of the wounded had managed to cover the sound of the attack on a number of the small mines ... and the attacks had been especially vicious. There were dead men and women nearly everywhere Frank looked.

Frank found one dazed but unhurt young man. "You have a horse, boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get on it and ride into town. Tell my deputy what's happened up here." Frank stared at the confused-looking teenager. "Do you understand what I just told you?"

The young man blinked a couple of times. "Ah ... yes, sir."

"Move, boy!"

Frank did what he could for the wounded and waited for help from the town to arrive.

Soon Jerry rode up with about a dozen men, and for a moment they sat their horses and stared in disbelief at the carnage.

"A couple of you check out those mines up ahead for dead and wounded," Frank said. "Rest of you get down and help me identify these bodies."

"The telegraph is out, too, Frank," Jerry told him. "I guess the gangs pulled down the wires just as they were hitting the town."

"It was sure a well-thought-out plan, Jer, no doubt about that."

"They didn't care who they killed. I've never seen anything so vicious."

"The death count still rising?"

"Yes. By the minute, it seems like. A lot of women and kids were killed." Jerry shook his head. "Most of the stores on Main Street were damaged. Several of them will be closed for a long time while repairs are made."

"Some of them probably won't ever reopen. God!" Frank exclaimed. "Look at the bodies."

"We're going to have to match up the names of some of these people with records from the assayer's office."

Frank nodded his head. "We'll be lucky to match up half of them. Jerry, did you see Kid Moran do anything to aid the outlaws?"

"No. Not a thing. And he's gone. So is Big Bob Mallory."

"Figures. How about Charles Dutton?"

"I guess he's still in town. I haven't seen him."

"Any chance of getting Doc Bracken up here?"

"Not a chance, Frank. He's operating fast as he can, and the wounded keep piling up. He's moved his operatin' to the church buildin' on Willow Street."

"All right. See if you can get a couple of wagons. We'll move the wounded into town."

"How about the bodies?"

Frank sighed. "I guess we'll leave them where they fell for the time being. Let's see to the living first."

"Frank, I haven't seen Conrad Browning."

"Vivian told me she gave him a sedative this morning. He slept through the attack. I'd better go check on him and get him up and moving. He might not get another chance to see his mother alive."

"Don't give up on her, Frank. She's a strong woman with a powerful will to live."

"She took three rounds in the chest, Jer. Looks like one went through a lung and another punched through a kidney."

"But she's still alive."

"Yeah. Take over here, Jer. I'll be in town."

Frank rode into town and checked on Vivian. She was still clinging to life. He went to the Browning estate and got Conrad up and moving. He made coffee while Conrad washed his face and dressed. Then he told him what had happened.

The young man went white in the face with shock. "Mother?"

"She's still alive."

"Take me to her, Marshal."

"Of course."

Frank took Conrad to the doctor's office, where a local woman who was Bracken's nurse was sitting with Vivian. A very subdued Conrad took a chair by his mother's bed and reached out, touching her and finally taking her hand into his.

Frank slipped outside, leaving the mother and son together. He stood alone for a few moments, then carefully rolled a cigarette and smoked it, but he got no pleasure from it. The tobacco was bitter tasting on his tongue, all mixed up with the lonely feelings of sorrow and regret, for himself, for Conrad, and especially for Vivian. _And_, he thought with a sigh, forcing himself to admit it, _for all the things that might have been and now can never be. Never, ever be._

Jerry rode up and dismounted, walking over to Frank. "How is she, Frank?"

"Doc Bracken says there is no hope, Jer. Conrad is in there with her now."

"How is he holdin' up?"

"Being a very strong and brave young man. But I don't think that's going to last for any length of time."

"They were real close, weren't they?"

"Yes."

"Frank, I hate to bring this up now, but I've got to. We've got forty-two people dead and seventy wounded, some of them real serious. We can't get word out, the telegraph is down, and the road is blocked by the outlaws about three miles out of town."

"What?"

"They want the money in the bank, Frank. All of it. We just got that word. And they know to a penny how much Jenkins had in his bank."

"How the hell could they know that?"

"One of the tellers was involved. Young man name of Dean Hill. His girlfriend came to the office and told me about him. She's over there now. Wants to talk to you."

"All right. Where is this Dean Hill now?"

"He rode out with the survivors of the holdup."

"I'll make you a wager. If he isn't dead by now, he will be very shortly."

"No bet. The young man has served his purpose. No point in keepin' him around. Those outlaws damn sure aren't goin' to share with him."

"Let's go see this girlfriend. Not that she'll be able to tell us much. How long do the outlaws think they'll be able to keep the pass closed?"

"Forever, Frank. She told me they plan on warning anyone wanting in that there is a smallpox epidemic in town. No one is allowed into town."

"Pretty good plan Vic and Ned worked out."

"Yeah. What are you goin' to do, Frank?"

"See this girl. Then I'm going to open the road ... or die trying."

--------

*Twenty-two*

Frank talked briefly with the frightened young lady in his office. She told him basically what she had told Jerry. She ended with, "What do you suppose will happen to Dean?"

Frank didn't want to tell her that her beau was probably already dead. "He'll have to stand trial, miss. I don't know what the judge will do." _If he is alive he'll spend the rest of his life in prison_, he thought.

After the young woman had left, Frank told Jerry, "Have a wagon hitched up. Transfer one of those Gatling guns over to it, and fill all the magazines."

Jerry looked at him.

"And some dynamite and caps, too," Frank added.

"Sounds like you're about to declare war, Frank."

"I am, Jer. For a fact."

Jerry left the office at a run, and Frank began putting together some gear. He was filling the empty loops in his ammo belt with .44-.40 cartridges when Mayor Jenkins came in.

"Coffee over there on the stove, Mayor," Frank told him. "It's fresh and hot. Help yourself."

"Good." Jenkins reached into his suit coat and pulled out some papers. "While I'm doing that, you sign these where I've put an X."

"What am I signing?"

"Some very important papers." He pushed a pen and inkwell across the desk. "Sign them and date them."

Frank scrawled his name, looked at the calendar and printed in the date, then pushed the papers away.

"I just spoke with Dr. Bracken, Frank. There is no change in Mrs. Browning's condition."

"I know."

"Doc Bracken is worried about Conrad. The boy is very shaky."

"He's learning that death is a part of living, Mayor. The kid is tougher than most people think. He'll be all right."

"I know you're about to do something. You want me to put a posse together, Frank?"

"No. This is something I have to handle myself. There has been enough loss of innocent life this day."

"One man against two large gangs?"

"If I decide I need help, Mayor, I'll send word back. What I would like for you to do is officially deputize some of those men I had guarding the prisoners earlier. They can take care of the town. I want Jerry with me at the blockade."

"I'll do that immediately."

"Thank you."

"Be careful, Frank."

"I won't promise that, Mayor."

Jenkins smiled his understanding, nodded his head, and picked up the papers. "I'll send over your copies in a few days. I want to have these recorded."

Frank finished filling the loops in both gunbelts, .44-.40 and .45, then filled up a large canteen with fresh water. Jerry walked in about the time he was finished.

"Got the Gatlin' gun loaded, Frank. Several cases of filled-up magazines."

"Dynamite?"

"Enough to blow up a mountain. You ever handled dynamite?"

"Plenty of times. One more thing: go over to Angie's and tell her to fix us some sandwiches to take with us."

"On my way."

Frank stowed his rifle and canteen in the wagon outside the office and looked over the team: good, powerfully built horses. Doc Bracken walked up. Frank guessed the doctor was taking a much needed break from his patients.

"Mrs. Browning is drifting in and out of consciousness, Marshal. She wants to see you. You'd better come now. I don't believe she can last much longer."

Frank walked over to the doctor's office and pushed open the door leading to the tiny clinic. Conrad was sitting by his mother's bed. He looked up at Frank.

"I'll leave you alone for a few minutes, Marshal," the young man said, standing up. "Then I'll be back. I have something to say to you."

"All right, son."

"I am not your son!"

"Yes, you are," Vivian whispered.

Conrad whirled around. "What did you say, Mother?"

"Frank Morgan is your father."

"Mother! You don't know what you're saying."

"Mr. Browning knew you weren't his own son, but he raised you as if you were. Frank and I were married in Colorado right after the war. I was pregnant with you when your grandfather drove him away."

Conrad stared at Frank for a moment, then charged out of the office.

Frank sat down in the chair beside Viv's bed and took her hand. "I guess he had to know, Viv."

"It was past time."

"You're going to pull through this, Viv."

"No, I'm not, Frank, and you know it. I can read that in Dr. Bracken's eyes, and yours."

Frank didn't know what to say. He held her hand.

"Listen to me, Frank. Please. I don't know how long I'm going to stay conscious. I don't want you to see me ... die. I don't want that to be the last memory you have of me. I don't want that image to be the one you carry in your mind for the rest of your life. Do you understand that?"

"Of course I do, Viv."

"Promise me you'll take care of Conrad. Promise me you'll try to see him into manhood."

"I'll try, Viv. I'll do my best, if he'll let me. But if he won't ... what can I do?"

"Nothing. If you'll try, that's all I ask."

Vivian closed her eyes, and Frank thought for a few seconds he had lost her. Then she took several ragged breaths and once again opened her eyes.

"Did you sign the papers Jenkins brought over to you?" she asked.

"What? Oh. Yes. I signed something this morning. He said it was important."

She tried a small smile. "They were very important, Frank. Thank you. How is Jimmy?"

"He's dead, Viv. And so is the servant."

"I'm so sorry. What a mess. It was a bank robbery, wasn't it?"

"Yes. They tried to rob the bank. They didn't get away with a nickel of the bank's money."

She stared at Frank for a moment. "You're going after them, aren't you?"

"It's my job, Viv."

"Frank?"

"I'm right here."

"I never stopped loving you. I want you to know that."

"Nor did I stop loving you, Viv."

"That makes dying so much easier, Frank."

"Now you stop that kind of talk. You hear me? You're going to pull through this, Viv. You are. You've got to try, honey. Try!"

"I'm awfully tired, Frank. And I'm suddenly at peace. I ... really can't describe it."

"Viv!"

"Try to look after Conrad, Frank. Will you? Remember, you promised."

"I'll do my best, Viv."

Vivian closed her eyes.

"Viv! Viv!"

Conrad burst into the room, the nurse right behind him.

"Both of you get out!" the nurse commanded. "Right now! Move."

Conrad confronted Frank in the outer office. "I don't care what mother says. You're not my father!"

"But I am, boy. She spoke the truth. Let me tell you what happened."

"I don't want to hear anything you have to say. It's all a pack of lies!"

Frank checked himself before he could strike the young man. "Your mother is not a liar, boy."

"Of course she is!" Conrad came right back at him. "If what you say is true, she's lied to me for years. Now let me hear you deny that."

Before Frank could reply, Conrad said, "You can't, can you? No, because it's the truth."

"If you will just let me try to explain, Conrad -- "

"I hope to God I never see you again," Conrad blurted. "All this tragedy is your fault. It never would have happened if you hadn't showed up here."

Frank struggled to grasp the logic behind the young man's words. What did his coming to town weeks back have to do with an attempted bank robbery? He shook his head. "Conrad, you're not thinking straight I -- "

"I don't want to hear anything you have to say. I just want you to leave. I don't wish to ever see you again."

"Boy, I made a promise to your mother that I would take care of you. I -- "

"You!" Conrad hissed at him. "_You_ take care of me? Oh, I think not. Get out and leave me alone."

Frank stared at his son for a few seconds. "All right, boy. But I'll be back. You can count on that. Then we'll talk more."

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

The nurse walked into the room, dabbing at her eyes. "One of you go get Dr. Bracken. Hurry."

"Mother?" Conrad blurted.

"Fading very fast. Hurry, boy."

Conrad ran out of the office. "Is she conscious?" Frank asked.

"No. My God, this has been a horrible day."

_Frank recalled Viv's words: I don't want you to see me die. I don't want that to be the last memory you have of me._

"Yes, it certainly has been that."

The nurse gripped Frank's arm. "Kill those outlaws, Marshal. Kill every one of them. Avenge this town."

"I plan on bringing them to justice, ma'am."

The nurse looked at him for a moment and then turned away, walking back into the tiny clinic of Dr. Bracken without another word.

Frank touched the butt of his pistol. "Yes, I certainly plan on delivering justice, ma'am."

Frank headed for his office. Jerry was waiting on the boardwalk. "Is Mrs. Browning -- " He could not bring himself to finish the question.

"It won't be long, Jer. You ready to go?"

"Ready. I put the sandwiches in the wagon."

"All right. You drive the team. I'll follow with our horses. What's the latest on the death count?"

"Still climbing."

"Let's go even the score."

--------

*Twenty-three*

About half a mile from the blockade, Frank left Jerry with the wagon and rode up to take a very cautious look-see, walking the last hundred yards and peeping around the sheer rock wall on the left side of the road. The Pine and Vanbergen gangs had blocked the road with a heavy chain stretched across it and then stationed two wagons, tongue to rear, in back of that. They had two red flags on poles in front of the chain, signifying danger, and four men with rifles were on guard.

"Slick," Frank muttered. "Very slick." He looked up and shook his head. No way to get above the blockade, for the sheer rock face was several hundred feet high. Any assault would have to be a frontal one. And Frank guessed that the main body of the gangs was camped not too far off, so they would come running at the first sounds of trouble.

It had been suggested to Frank that a rider from town try to make it through the outlaw pass. He had smiled at that and asked for volunteers. When no one stepped forward that suggestion was dropped.

Frank rode back to Jerry now, and swung down from the saddle. "One way through, Jer."

"Straight ahead, right?"

"That's it."

"They're going to hear the wagon when we move it into place, for a fact," Jerry said. "But what the hell? Surely they know we're here."

"Oh, they know, all right. This is how we'll play it: I'll handle the Gatling, and you get the wagon in place, as close as you can without exposing yourself. There's a place to turn the team just before the curve."

"And then what?"

"Then I start cranking and clear the roadblock."

"And the gangs come on the run."

"Probably. But they're going to run right into our fire. You have a better idea?"

Jerry smiled and shook his bandaged head. "Can't say as I do. I'll get the wagon in place."

"I'll be at the curve with a rifle. As soon as they hear you they'll get ready to open fire. Just as soon as I get a target, I'll drop him."

"Sounds good to me."

"Good luck, Jer."

Jerry nodded his head and climbed into the wagon. Frank walked back to the curve and got into position. The guards had probably been warned by a lookout high above the road, for there was no one in sight.

As he waited for Jerry to get into place, Frank wondered if the four men who had ambushed him and Viv that sunny afternoon had been part of the two gangs. He didn't think they were. Dutton's men, he was sure.

Another man he damn sure had to deal with as soon as he got the road opened. And he would get the road open. Frank didn't have any doubts about that. Doubts about his ability to deal with any given situation were not something that plagued him. He just bulled ahead and got it done.

Jerry got the wagon into position and unhitched the team, leading them to safety, then came back and removed the cases of dynamite and caps, stashing them behind some rocks, well out of the line of fire. He returned to crouch beside the wagon, rifle in his hand.

"Ready for the dance?" Frank called.

"Play the fiddle, Frank. It's your tune."

Frank started cranking, the lead flying from the hand cranked machine gun. The heavy slugs tore into the wagons, knocking great chunks from the sideboards.

"I thought you said both them Gatlin's had been ruint?" someone called from the outlaw side.

"Yeah," another man yelled. "Damn shore don't sound like it to me."

Frank gave the outlaws another half a magazine and got lucky this time: a man staggered out, both hands holding his torn up belly. He collapsed on the rocky road and died.

"Jess is dead!" a man called.

"I see him, you idgit! I ain't blind."

"No, yore just stupid! That there is Frank Morgan, and I told you he wasn't gonna take this lyin' down."

"If you want your share of that money in the bank you'll shet your mouth and hold this here road."

"I want me some of them women in the town," another man said, his voice carrying clearly in the thin mountain air. "I got me a real powerful yearnin.'"

Frank gave the outlaws another half a magazine, and that ended conversation on their side for a few minutes.

While Frank was changing out the magazine, Jerry's rifle cracked and an outlaw screamed and fell to the hard road, one leg broken. The .44-.40 slug had busted his knee. Moaning in pain, the man dragged himself out of sight, behind some rocks on the side of the road.

Hundreds of feet above the road, some of the outlaw gang began hurling large rocks down at the road. But the top of the ridge angled outward, and rocks hit nowhere near the wagon. The outlaws gave up their rock throwing very quickly.

For a few moments, the siege became quiet, both sides apparently at an impasse.

Jerry edged closer to Frank. "How are we goin' to get the dynamite down to the blockade? We sure can't toss it down there. It's too far."

"I've been studying on that, Jer. I think we'll use the spare wheel off the wagon."

"A wheel?"

"Yes. It's a gentle slope down to the blockade, and the road is fairly smooth. We'll tie the charge to the wheel, light it, and roll it down there."

"And if it falls over, or rolls off the edge before it gets there?"

"There are four more wheels on the wagon. And we've got lots of dynamite. The trick is going to be cutting the fuse the right length."

"I'll get the wheel. You handle the charges. Me and dynamite made a bargain a long time back: it leaves me alone, and I do the same for it."

Frank smiled. He was an experienced hand with dynamite, and knew that it wasn't just the charges one should be cautious with, but the caps. He'd seen men lose fingers, hands, and entire arms after getting careless while capping dynamite.

Frank tied together a dozen sticks of explosives and carefully capped the lethal bundle. Jerry rolled the big wheel up and squatted down, watching while Frank cut and inserted the fuse. Then Frank secured the charge to the wheel with a cord and looked at his deputy.

"You ready?"

"If that's a fast-burnin' fuse, we're in trouble," Jerry said.

Frank chuckled. "We'll soon know, won't we?"

"You don't know?"

"Nope. You got the dynamite and fuses. Didn't you ask?"

"'Fraid not."

Frank struck a match and lit the fuse. "Roll it, Jer!"

Jerry was only too happy to start the wheel rolling. He breathed a sigh of relief when the wheel was on the road. The heavy wheel bounced and wobbled down the gently sloping road, the fuse sputtering and sparking as it rolled.

"Get the hell out of here!" an outlaw yelled. "That's dynamite comin' our way."

"Shoot the wheel and stop it!" another gang member shouted.

"You shoot the goddamn thing, Luke. I'm outta here."

For a few seconds it looked as though the wheel was going to topple over before it reached the blockade. Then it straightened up and picked up speed, rolling true.

At the blockade, outlaws were scrambling to get clear. They were running and cussing and slipping and sliding.

The wheel ran into a wagon and lodged under the wagon bed for a few seconds before exploding. It went off with a fury, sending bits and pieces of the wagon flying in all directions. The explosion lifted the second wagon up and over the edge of the road. The chain that had been stretched across the road was blown loose, and fell to the road. A huge dust cloud covered and obscured the area where the blockade had been. When the dust settled, the road was clear.

Several of the outlaws had not gotten clear: there were three men sprawled unconscious on the road. One of them was clearly dead, his neck twisted at an impossible angle. He had been picked up by the concussion and thrown against the cliff.

"Jesus!" Jerry said, his voice hushed. "How many sticks did you lash together, Frank?"

"Twelve."

Jerry cut his eyes to Frank and shook his head in awe. "Warn me next time, will you?"

"I hope there won't be a next time," Frank replied.

"It ain't over, Frank!" the shout came from high above the road. "You son of a bitch!"

"Vic Vanbergen," Frank said. "I recognize the voice."

"We'll meet again, you sorry son!" Vic yelled. "You can count on that."

"And that goes double in spades for me, Morgan!"

"Ned Pine," Frank said. "It's over here, Jer. They're making their brags and threats now."

"Watch your ass in town, Morgan," Vic yelled. "It ain't over by a long shot."

"He's tellin' you they've got men in town waitin' for you, Frank," Jerry said.

"Sure," Frank said calmly. "Big Bob Mallory will be back, and Kid Moran. Several others, I'm sure."

The lawmen waited on the road for several minutes more, but there was no more yelling from the top of the ridge. The Vanbergen and Pine gangs had pulled out.

Frank and Jerry made their way cautiously down to the now wrecked blockade. Two of the outlaws who had not cleared the blast were dead, one with a clearly broken neck, the other with a massive head wound caused by the fallen debris. The others were gone.

"I'll hook up the team," Jerry said. "Bring the wagon down and we'll tote the dead back." He smiled. "Might be a reward on them."

"You're learning. I'll start clearing away some of this junk."

"Frank?"

"Yes?"

"Pine and Vanbergen knew they couldn't keep this road closed. Why did they even try?"

"I think they were counting on us being dead. Our coming out alive put a kink in their plans."

"You're really gonna have to watch your back careful in town, Frank."

"I've been doing that for many years. It's as automatic for me as breathing. Come on, let's get these bodies loaded up and get back to town."

* * * *

Vivian was in a coma. Dr. Bracken told Frank that she might linger that way for hours, or even days. There was just no way to tell.

The two dead outlaws were both wanted and had a price on their heads. And they both carried some identification on them, which was a lucky break for the lawmen. Frank would wire the states where they were wanted as soon as the telegraph wires were repaired.

Frank filled out his daily report in the jail journal and then went on a walking inspection of the town. The main street was still a mess. The bodies of the dead had long been carried off, and the wounded were in makeshift hospitals. The undertaker had bodies stacked all over the place, overflowing out into the alley behind his parlor. There was just no time to embalm them all, nor did Malone have enough supplies to do so. The funerals were starting as soon as carpenters could knock together caskets.

Some of the caskets were tiny, and that was heartbreaking for anyone with a modicum of feeling.

Frank tried to talk with Conrad, but he refused to see him. After Frank tried twice and was rebuffed both times, he decided to leave his son alone. Frank would be in town and available when or if the young man wanted to talk.

Kid Moran and Big Bob Mallory were back in town. They were doing nothing to help out, just sitting and watching as the town struggled to pull itself out of the wreckage and cope with the heavy loss of life.

Frank didn't push the pair. There had been quite enough killing. But he knew they were there for a showdown. It was just a matter of time. With The Kid it was an ego thing. Kid Moran wanted a reputation. Frank still wasn't certain who was paying Big Bob, but Charles Dutton was at the top of his list.

Dutton was Conrad's shadow that day, all concern and sorrow and sympathy, and the young man was certainly receptive. Frank didn't, couldn't, blame the boy. Conrad didn't have any idea what was going on; apparently Vivian had never gotten around to talking with her son about her deep and dark feelings concerning Dutton.

_And now it's too late_, Frank thought with a silent sigh. _Too late for a lot of things._

He was tired and taking a break, sitting on the bench outside the marshal's office, having a cup of coffee. Late afternoon shadows were creeping about the streets of the mountain town, creating little pockets of darkness in hidden corners. This had always been one of Frank's favorite times of the day, when dusk was reaching out to slowly melt and mingle with sunlight. But on this day of tragedy he was filled with various emotions: a hard sense of loss, a feeling of impending doom, a sense that his time in the mining town was nearly over; other emotions that were strong but not yet identifiable. Well ... one of the emotions was certainly familiar -- the feeling that he had screwed up his life beyond salvaging.

Frank was a middle-aged man with a very dubious past, and not much of a future.

And damned if he knew how he could change it.

The voice of Dr. Bracken broke into his thoughts. "You mind some company, Marshal?"

Frank looked up. "Not at all, Doc. Glad to have some company." He scooted over on the bench. "Might improve my disposition."

Bracken looked at the cup in Frank's hand. "That coffee drinkable?"

"You bet. Hot and fresh." Frank started to rise. "I'll get you a cup."

Doc Bracken put a hand on his shoulder. "Sit still. I'll get it." He walked into the office. A moment later, a mug of coffee in his hand, Bracken sat down on the bench. "You were deep in thought, Marshal, your face a study in emotion. Anything you want to talk about?"

"Oh, not really, Doc. I guess I was just sitting here sort of feeling sorry for myself."

"You do that often?"

Frank smiled. "Not very often, Doc. Looking over the wreckage of this town brought it on, I suppose."

"That and Mrs. Browning," the doctor said softly.

"Yes. That, too."

"Frank, the West is still a small place, speaking in terms of population. Hell, man, half the town knew that you and Vivian Browning ... ah, Henson ... were once married. Many of those knew that old man Henson trumped up some false charges against you, and you had to leave. The story was all over the West back then. Newcomers, Johnny-come-latelies, don't know it, but we old-timers do. I've had people today, in the midst of all this tragedy, tell me that it's admirable how well you're holding up. Most of the people here in town, the regulars, the permanent residents ... why, they like you, Frank. They've found that all your dark reputation is pure bunk. For whatever it's worth, the town is behind you."

"Doc, I'm going to hunt down that gang -- every member -- and I'm going to kill them, all of them. My reputation is about to get a lot darker."

"Only one man was cranking that Gatling gun, Frank."

"But they were all involved. And no one tried to stop that one man."

"I can't argue that point.

"Viv and me, Doc, we were picking up the pieces. We were going to start all over. Move to California, maybe, where very few people have even heard of me..."

That got Frank a quick, sharp look from Doc Bracken. Frank Morgan still didn't realize that most people over the age of eight had heard of him. He didn't know that there had been dozens and dozens of newspaper articles written about him. People knew about Frank Morgan's exploits from coast-to-coast and border-to-border. Now many in the press were beginning to call him the last gunfighter -- Frank Morgan, the Last Gunfighter.

"All that's gone up in a few minutes of gunsmoke. Vivian is lying in a coma, dying. My" -- Frank caught himself, but not before Dr. Bracken picked up on the hesitation -- "her son won't speak to me. He blames me for all that's happened. Hell, maybe he's right. Not entirely, but partly. I accept it. What choice do I have?"

"That's nonsense, Frank. She got caught in the line of fire -- that's what happened."

Frank sighed. "You don't know the whole story, Doc. And it's best you never do."

"If you say so, Frank." He took another sip of coffee. "Good. I needed that. It's been a long day, and it's going to be an even longer night."

"I'm sure."

Jerry walked up, a toothpick in his mouth. "Doc," he greeted Bracken. "You better go put on the feedbag, Frank. Angie's laid out quite a spread at the cafe."

"Yeah, that's a good idea. I am kinda hungry. Doc, how about you?"

"In a little while. I want to check on a couple of patients first."

When the doctor had gone. Jerry said, "Big Bob Mallory was seen leavin' the hotel about fifteen minutes ago, totin' his rifle."

"It's about time for the showdown, men. I've been feeling it coming for several hours. Where is Kid Moran?"

"Disappeared. I looked around and he was nowhere to be seen. Come on, I'll have coffee while you eat."

"Not looking a gunfight in the eyes, Jer. I changed my mind. A big meal slows you down. I'll eat later." Frank smiled. "Providing I still can eat, that is."

--------

*Twenty-four*

With Jerry walking a dozen yards behind him, carrying a rifle and covering his back, Frank strolled down to the cafe. The front windows had been knocked out, and were now boarded up, but the horrible events of that day had not affected the quality of food. The delicious odors drifting out into the street made Frank's mouth water, bringing home the fact that he had not eaten all day. But he did not want to eat a large meal and then have to face a very fast gunslick. And Kid Moran was very fast.

Frank settled for a piece of pie with his cup of coffee. Then he had a cigarette with his second cup in the Silver Spoon Cafe. He was stubbing out the cigarette butt when Jerry came in and took a seat.

"Kid Moran's waiting for you, Frank. He's standing on the corner. He's got a third pistol shoved in his gunbelt."

"He must be figuring I'm going to be hard to put down," Frank said as he rolled another smoke.

"Don't forget he usually misses his first shot," Jerry reminded him.

"Yeah. And sometimes he doesn't. Always expect the unexpected in these things, Jerry. I've learned that the hard way over the years."

"I'll never have a stand up and hook and draw fight, Frank. I know better. I'm as slow as cold molasses."

"I hope you never do, Jer."

"Frank, let's you and me take him alive," Jerry suggested. "We'll get a couple of Greeners from the office and take him that way. How about it?"

"It wouldn't work."

"Why?"

"He'd fight, and we'd both run the risk of getting plugged. What he's calling for right now is still legal out here, and probably will be for some years to come. Have you seen Big Bob anywhere?"

"No. This smells like a setup to me, Frank."

"The Kid drawing me out, and Big Bob shooting me in the back?" Frank shook his head. "No. No, I don't think so. Bob Mallory works alone. Always has."

"There's always the first time."

Again, Frank shook his head. "No. The Kid's looking for a reputation, and Bob is getting paid by somebody -- probably Dutton -- to kill me." Frank paused in his lifting of his coffee cup. "Or maybe it's Conrad he's after. Jer, go check on Conrad. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?"

"If you order me to do so, Frank, I will."

"Do I have to order it done?"

"No. Of course not. I'm gone."

Frank finished his coffee and stood up, slipping the hammer thong off his .45. Angie was watching, and frowned.

"Frank, isn't there another way?"

"No, Angie. There isn't. Not with The Kid. He wants a reputation."

"He's lightning fast."

Frank smiled. "I'm no tenderfoot, Angie."

She returned the smile. "Of course, you're not. I didn't mean to imply -- "

Frank held up a hand. "I know what you meant. Angie. Keep the coffee hot, will you?"

"Just for you and Jerry. And I'll have some supper for you, too."

Frank picked up his hat, settled it on his head, and stepped out of the cafe. He looked to his left. There was The Kid, waiting at the end of the block.

"Might as well get this over with," Frank said, thinking: _One way or the other._ He touched the brim of his hat in a salute to The Kid, a signal that he was ready, and stepped off the boardwalk and into the street.

Kid Moran did the same.

The word had spread about the pending gunfight. The main street was deserted of carpenters and other workmen. In only a few more years, stand up, hook and draw showdowns such as this would be mostly a thing of the past, but for now, it was still legal in most small towns in the West. If not legal, at least accepted by many.

Louis Pettigrew, the book writer from the East, was standing in the lobby of the hotel, watching it all and scribbling furiously in his notebook. He had written about dozens of shoot-outs, but this was the first actual gunfight he had ever witnessed. It was enthralling and exciting. What a book this would make: the aging king of gunfighters meeting a young, but fast, upstart prince in the dusty street for the title of the best of the fast guns. Wonderful!

Conrad was not watching the slow walk toward death in the street. He was sitting quietly beside his mother's bed.

Charles Dutton was watching from the hotel, a faint smile on his lips.

"Ride out of here, Kid," Frank called. "Don't throw your life away for nothing."

"It ain't nothin' to me, Morgan," The Kid called.

"Boy, the day of the gunfighter is nearly over. And as far as I'm concerned, it's past time."

"What's the matter, Morgan?" The Kid taunted. "You gettin' old and yeller?"

_Getting old, for sure_, Frank thought. _He's damn sure right on one count._ "Don't be a fool, boy. You know better than that."

"Frank Morgan done lost his nerve," The Kid yelled. "By God, it's true. You beg me to let you leave and you can ride out of here, Morgan. Beg for your life, old man."

_The Kid's been drinking_, Frank thought. _Where else would he get such a silly idea?_ "Forget it, boy," Frank called. "That won't happen."

The distance between them was slowly closing. Little pockets of dust were popping up under their boots as they walked toward sudden death and destiny.

"Why don't you draw, old man?" The Kid yelled. "Come on, damn you. Pull on me!"

"It's your play, Kid," Frank said calmly. "You're the one challenging the law here in town. I'm ordering you to give this up and ride on out."

The Kid suddenly stopped in the middle of the street. Frank stopped his walking. There were maybe fifty or so feet between them. Plenty close enough.

"Suspenseful," Louis Pettigrew muttered. "I never knew it could be like this."

"Insane," Mayor Jenkins muttered, watching from inside his bank. "When is this going to stop?"

Angie stood in the doorway of her cafe, a just poured cup of coffee forgotten in her hand.

Undertaker Malone was watching from an alley. He was taking a much needed break from his work. The bodies of that day's tragic events were still stacked up inside his parlor and outside behind his establishment. Many had already been buried without benefit of Malone's services.

Willis was watching from his general store. He had sent his wife and kids into the rear of the store, safe from any stray bullets.

"Draw on me, you old bastard," Kid Moran yelled, "so's I can kill you and have done with this."

"Drag iron, son," Frank replied. "I told you this is your play."

The Kid stared at Frank, then shook his head. "You yeller son of a bitch!" The Kid hollered. "You're afeared of me. I knowed you had a yeller streak up your back."

Frank waited, silent and steady -- a man alone in the middle of the street, the tin star on his coat twinkling faintly in the last rays of late-afternoon sun. Frank sensed The Kid was getting nervous, and that emotion would be a plus for him.

"What's the matter, boy?" Frank called. "You sound real edgy."

"Ain't nothin' the matter with me, you old fart! Are you gonna draw, or rattle that jaw of yourn?"

"I keep telling you, boy, it's your play. Are you deaf, or just plain stupid?"

"Goddamn you!"

Frank waited patiently.

Someone standing in the doorway of the saloon laughed.

The Kid cut his eyes away from Frank for just a split second. "Are you laughin' at me?"

Frank could have drawn and fired during the half second The Kid had averted his eyes. But he didn't. Frank really didn't want to kill The Kid. He knew, though, that The Kid wasn't about to give him any other option.

The Kid settled that quickly. "You damned yeller belly. I'm countin' to three. You better draw on me, Morgan. Sometime durin' the count. If you don't, that's your hard luck. It don't make no difference to me nohow. I'm gonna kill you anyways. I'm tared of all this jibber jabber."

"You're under arrest, Kid Moran," Frank called, making what he knew he had to do legal.

"Huh? I'm whut?"

"You're under arrest"

"Whut charge?"

"Threatening the life of a peace officer. Now come along peacefully or suffer the consequences."

"You go to hell, Morgan!"

"That's the last chance I'm giving you, boy."

Kid Moran cursed and grabbed iron. He just thought he was quick on the shoot. Frank beat him to the draw and shot him in the belly.

"Damn!" The Kid gasped, doubling over. But he held on to his gun.

"Drop your gun, boy!" Frank called.

"Hell with you, Morgan." The Kid lifted his .45 and jacked back the hammer.

Frank shot him again. The impact turned The Kid around in the street. He stumbled a couple of times, but he just wouldn't go down.

Kid Moran straightened up and grinned at Morgan.

"Now you're dead, Morgan," he gasped. "Now it's my turn."

The Kid lifted his pistol and Frank drilled him again. This time The Kid went to his knees, but didn't stay down long. He dropped his pistol and, bracing himself with that hand, struggled to his feet, drawing his second pistol.

"Damn you to hell, Morgan!" The Kid managed to spit out the words. Then he turned to one side and lifted and cocked his left-hand gun.

Frank dusted him with his fourth round, the bullet slamming into The Kid and blowing out the other side. This time Kid Moran went down and stayed down. He tried to rise, but just couldn't make it. His pistol slipped from his hand to lie in the dust.

Frank unconsciously twirled his pistol before holstering it. He walked over and looked down at the bullet-riddled young man. "Sorry about this, Kid. I really am."

"You really are ... fast, Morgan. I never ... seen nobody fast as you."

Frank knelt down beside The Kid.

Kid Moran struggled to speak, then gave it up, gasping for breath. "I'll get the doc, boy." Frank looked around. Dr. Bracken was walking toward the fallen Kid, his black bag in his hand.

Frank stood up and met the doc halfway. "I put four rounds in him, Doc. I don't see how he's still alive."

"I saw and heard it all, Frank. You gave him every opportunity to surrender. You only did what you had to do."

The men walked over to where The Kid lay. "Let me take a look at him," Bracken said.

"Forget it," The Kid gasped. "I'm done for and I know it. I'm fillin' up with blood. I feel it. Don't move me."

"All right, boy," Doc Bracken said.

"You got any kin, Kid?" Frank asked.

"Nobody that gives a damn."

"Your mother and father?"

"Wherever they are" -- The Kid coughed up blood -- "they can both go to hell!"

"You want some laudanum?" Doc Bracken asked.

The Kid didn't reply. His eyes were wide and staring in death.

Malone walked up. "I know The Kid had money," the undertaker said. "What do you want on his tombstone?"

Frank thought for a moment. Then he said, "Put on it: He died game."

--------

*Twenty-five*

The bloody, bullet-riddled body of Kid Moran was carried off and stored with other bodies behind Malone's funeral parlor. The undertaker would get to Moran when time permitted.

Big Bob Mallory had been spotted leaving town. Frank checked his room at the hotel and found it bare. Big Bob was indeed gone, but where and for how long remained unanswered.

"Maybe he decided not to take me job," Jerry opined. He and Frank were sitting in the jail office, the day after the attack on the town.

"Don't count on that," Frank replied. "Big Bob demands money up front. If he takes the money, he'll finish the job."

"Wishful thinking on my part."

"You ready to take over the marshal's job, Jer?" Frank abruptly tossed the question at his deputy.

Jerry almost spilled his coffee down the front of his shirt. He stared at Frank, his mouth open; then he shook his head and said, "You goin' somewhere for a while, Frank?"

"As soon as it's ... over for Mrs. Browning, I'm pulling out. I think you'll make a fine marshal, Jer." He smiled. "You and Angie will be assets to this community, for sure."

"You goin' after the Pine and Vanbergen gangs, Frank?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

Jerry was silent for a moment, staring at the floor. He lifted his head and looked at Frank. "That's crazy, Frank. That's suicide."

"My mind is made up. You want the job, or not?"

"Well ... sure, I do. If you leave, and the town council approves it."

"They'll approve it. You're a good, solid, steady man, Jerry. Both you and Angie are respected by the townspeople. You'll both do just fine."

"Maybe Mrs. Browning will pull through."

"I don't believe in miracles. Doc Bracken told me this morning her coma has deepened. She'll starve to death if she doesn't come out of it."

"What about the outlaws?"

"They're gone. Packed up, saddled up, and gone. Very doubtful they'll ever be back."

"Your mind's made up, isn't it?"

"All the way, Jer."

"Maybe something will happen that will change your mind. I'd like to see you stay."

Frank nodded his head in understanding and stood up. "I don't know what that would be, but thanks for saying it. The prisoners are all settled down. It's all quiet. Let's go walk the town."

"They put The Kid in the ground yet?"

"I don't think so. I don't think Malone's had time to fix him up yet."

"To be no bigger than he was, The Kid could sure soak up some lead."

"He did, for a fact. The Kid was as game as any man I ever faced."

The two lawmen walked the town, the sounds of sawing and hammering all around them, the smell of fresh-cut lumber strong in the air.

"This town might be here even when the mines play out," Jerry remarked.

"Could be. It sure wouldn't surprise me at all. Some cattlemen are gonna have to come in here. Maybe a few people raising horses. When the mines play out, the town will shrink down. But you've got a telegraph office and a bank, and some determined people. That's what it takes."

"Oh, hell!" Jerry said, "Here comes that writer fellow."

"Damn!" Frank muttered.

"Marshal Morgan," Louis Pettigrew called. "Might I have a word with you, sir?"

"Do I have a choice?" Frank whispered.

Jerry laughed. "I'll make the rounds. You two have a good time."

"Thanks, Jer. You're a real pal."

Jerry waved and walked on, leaving Frank with Pettigrew. Frank noticed Conrad and Charles Dutton walking up the boardwalk on the other side of the street. Even from that distance Frank could tell that Conrad appeared very pale. _Boy's under a hell of a strain_, Frank thought. _Dutton probably got him away from his mother's side to get him out for a walk and some fresh air. Or_, Frank amended, _maybe the bastard has something else up his sleeve, like setting the boy up for a kill_.

"Ah, Marshal..." Pettigrew said. "I would like to talk with you about doing your life's story. Would you be willing to discuss that?"

Frank looked at the Boston writer. "I beg your pardon? What did you say?"

Pettigrew looked pained. He sighed and said, "I wish to write your life story. There are a great many people back east who are clamoring for more information about Frank Morgan."

"Is that a fact?"

"Absolutely, Marshal. And it would be a very lucrative venture for you, I must say."

"I'll sure give it some thought, Mr. Pettigrew."

"Wonderful, Marshal. And let me say that the, ah, gunfight I witnessed yesterday out there in the street was a magnificent sight. Very dramatic."

Frank was watching Conrad and Dutton. They had stopped on the corner and were chatting. Conrad had his back to the street. "Dramatic, Mr. Pettigrew?"

"It certainly was. I can truthfully say I have never seen anything like it."

"You ever witnessed a hanging, Mr. Pettigrew?"

"Good heavens, no."

The morning stage was rumbling up the street, a day late due to the road being blocked the day before. The telegraph wires had been fixed, messages had been sent out that the reports of plague in the town were false, and the road had been reopened.

"A hanging can be very dramatic, Mr. Pettigrew. Especially when the neck isn't broken and the victim jerks around for several minutes, slowly choking to death. It's quite a sight." Frank said this with a very straight face.

Pettigrew was turning a bit green around the mouth. "I'll take your word for that, Marshal."

"I can probably arrange for you to witness an execution. If you would like that."

"Ah ... thank you, Marshal, but no. Your description of the event is graphic enough."

Frank watched Button put his hands on the young man's shoulders and reposition him, fully presenting Conrad's back to the street, while Dutton was partly shielded by a post holding an oil-fueled streetlamp.

_What the hell?_ Frank thought. _What's going on here? Very strange behavior on Dutton's part._

"When would be a good time for us to get together for a long talk?" Pettigrew asked.

"Oh, sometime within the next couple of days, for sure," Frank responded.

"Wonderful. That will give me ample time to jot down pertinent questions. At your office, perhaps?"

"That will be fine."

"I'm so looking forward to it."

"Yeah, me, too," Frank replied with as much enthusiasm as possible, which was precious little. He had no intention of meeting with the writer. "I'll see you, Mr. Pettigrew. You have a nice day."

"Oh, I shall, Marshal. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Frank mumbled, as he began walking toward the corner. He stepped off the boardwalk and started crossing the street, his eyes on Conrad and Dutton.

"Hi, Marshal," a citizen yelled, catching Frank in the middle of the street.

Conrad spun around at the shouted greeting just as a rifle cracked somewhere behind Frank. Frank dropped into a crouch and turned around, snaking his .45 into his hand with a blurringly fast motion.

The rifle slug burned past Conrad, missing him by just a few inches. Had he not turned, the rifle bullet would have split his spinal cord. The slug slammed into a passerby who had just exited the newly arrived stage and was carrying his heavy traveling bag. The bullet meant for Conrad knocked the man off his boots and dropped him to the boardwalk, dead on impact with the dusty boards.

Frank triggered off a shot at a man in an upstairs window over a boarded-up shop, a man standing with a rifle in his hand, a faint finger of smoke leaking from the muzzle. The .45 round hit the man in his chest, just below his throat, and slammed him backward in the room.

"Conrad!" Frank yelled as rifle barrels began poking out of several second story windows. "Get out of here, boy. Someone is trying to kill you!"

Frank ran for the protection of the stage, but the driver was no stranger to gunfire, having experienced it many times in the past, and he wanted no more of it. He yelled at his team, and the six big horses took off.

Frank sprinted for the dubious protection of an open carriage in front of a shop, running and twisting to afford the snipers less of a target. Bullets howled all around him. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Dutton hightailing it alone around a corner. The fancy lawyer and so-called friend of the family was leaving Conrad to deal with the problem on his own. The young man seemed frozen in place on the boardwalk until Jerry came charging around the corner and grabbed him up and off his feet. Jerry turned, and a slug tore into his left leg, knocking him down. Just before he fell heavily, Jerry shoved Conrad to safety inside a corner shop.

Frank slid on his belly in the dirt and reached the rear of the carriage in time to see Jerry crawl into the shop, dragging his bloody leg, leaving a trail on the boardwalk. At least he was still alive, and Conrad was safe.

Frank knelt behind the boot of the carriage and began throwing lead at the upstairs windows. It was returned as fast as it was received. One rifle slug knocked Frank's hat off and sent it flying somewhere behind him. Another rifle slug burned a hot crease on his shoulder. The crease turned wet and sticky as the blood began to flow. Frank ignored the burning pain and jerked his second gun from behind his gunbelt.

Jerry opened up from the doorway of the shop, and at that point the hidden gunmen above the street decided they'd had enough. The gunfire ceased, and the street fell silent.

Horses tied at hitch rails had bolted in panic when the rifle fire began, running in all directions. One horse ran into Nannette's Boutique for the Discriminating Woman, and one lady (who was nearly the same size as the horse) ran out into the street dressed only in her bloomers, shrieking to high heaven. The sight of her stopped one man cold in his tracks.

"My Lord!" he hollered.

The panicked woman ran right over the man, knocking him into a horse trough. She kept right on running, and disappeared into the Silver Slipper Saloon. Men began exiting the saloon through all available avenues, preferring to face gunfire rather than confront the ominous presence of Mrs. Bertha Longthrower, wife of Reverend Otis Longthrower, pastor of Heaven's Grace Baptist Church ... in her bloomers.

Bertha took one long look at her surroundings, her eyes lingering on the rather risque painting on the wall behind the bar (which featured three naked ladies and a midget ... in height only) and let out a whoop that would have shamed a Comanche Dog Soldier. She headed for the rear of the saloon, ran out the back door, and collided with a man just stepping out of the privy. Both of them were propelled back into the privy, which promptly turned over, trapping the scantily clad woman and the terrified man (who was certain he had been attacked by an enraged albino grizzly bear) in the narrow confines of the outhouse.

Back on the main street, Frank ran across the street and into an alley that led behind the line of shops, hurriedly reloading his guns. He caught a glimpse of a man with a rifle charging out of a back door, and yelled at him to halt. The man turned and fired at Frank, the bullet just missing his head. Frank drilled the man, the .45 slug striking the assassin in the chest, killing him instantly.

Frank cautiously made his way up to the downed and dead sniper. The rifle beside the body was a bolt-action Winchester-Hotchkiss. He had found one of the men who had ambushed him and Viv in the valley.

Two more of the men were still at large, but Frank suspected they were gone, having left ahead of the man on the ground. He picked up the rifle and walked back to the street. He wanted to have a long talk with Charles Dutton, but had no physical evidence at all with which to confront the man. Dutton was, so far, still in the clear.

Conrad was unhurt, and Jerry's wound, while painful, was not serious. The deputy would be off his feet for a few days, but was not in danger.

The passerby who had taken the bullet meant for Conrad was dead.

The horse who had invaded Nannette's had been led out and away, and the search was on for Mrs. Bertha Longthrower.

"Where is my wife?" Reverend Longthrower demanded.

"I think she's in the saloon," a citizen told him. "I seen her goin' in there ... in her bloomers."

"In her what?" Reverend Longthrower thundered.

"Her drawers."

"Never!" the reverend roared.

"Hey, ever'body!" a man yelled from the saloon. "Otis is in the privy yellin' that he's bein' attacked by an albino bear. Come on."

Frank had a pretty good idea that the "bear" would turn out to be Mrs. Longthrower ... in her drawers. That was not a sight he wished to see again. He told some men to get the body of the outlaw on the second floor and then went to check on Conrad and Jerry over at the doctor's makeshift hospital. Before he could cross the street Reverend Longthrower started hollering for his wife to get off of Otis.

"I imagine Otis would like that, too," Frank muttered.

Conrad had refused to lie down and rest for a while, choosing to go to the office. Frank sat down on the edge of the bunk and talked with Jerry for a few minutes.

"Doc says the bullet didn't bit nothin' vital," Jerry said. "He says I just have to stay off my feet for a couple of days and rest."

"You take as long as you need, Jer." He smiled. "I imagine Angie will see that you're well fed."

Jerry blushed under his tan. "Yeah. I 'spect she will." He looked closer at Frank. "You been hit, Frank! Your shoulder's bleedin.'"

"It's just a scratch. I'm heading over to the office now to clean it up."

"Take off your shirt, Frank," Dr. Bracken said from behind him. "Let me take a look at that wound."

"It's nothing, Doc."

"Take off your shirt. That's an order. You get blood poisoning, you won't think nothing."

Doc Bracken cleaned and bandaged the wound, told Frank to take it easy for the rest of the day, and sent him on his way. Frank didn't want to tell the doctor he'd hurt himself worse than that peeling potatoes.

On his way back to the office, Frank ran into Louis Pettigrew. "Marshal," the writer said, "I have made up my mind."

"Oh?" Frank was staring at the man's bowler hat.

"Yes. I am going to write a series of books about you. Not just one, but perhaps a dozen."

Frank did not reply, just stared at the man in stunned disbelief. He couldn't keep his eyes off the man's dude hat.

"I have wired my publisher, and am now awaiting his reply. I shall make it my life's work."

"Your life's work?" Frank managed to say.

"Yes, sir. I shall outfit myself and follow you no matter where in the wilds you might decide to go. I shall chronicle the day to day living of the West's most celebrated but least known gunfighter. Won't that be grand?"

"Words fail me, Mr. Pettigrew." _I gotta get out of here, and do it quickly_, Frank thought.

"As soon as I receive word from my publisher I shall make preparations," Pettigrew said.

"To do what?" Frank asked.

"To make the West my home! I must say, this is very exciting."

_I'll leave in the dead of night_, Frank thought. _Slip away like a thief._

"I just thought you would like to know about my decision, Marshal. And I hope you're as excited as I am."

"Oh, I am, Mr. Pettigrew. I can't begin to tell you how your decision has affected me."

Pettigrew patted Frank on the arm. "I'm so pleased, Marshal. I really didn't know how you would react to the news."

"I'm, ah, still trying to get used to the idea of you becoming a citizen of the West, Mr. Pettigrew."

"I'm really excited about it."

"I'm sure you are."

"Well, then, I'll see you later on. We'll make an appointment to meet and start work on the first installment. Ta ta. Marshal."

"Yeah," Frank mumbled. "Ta-ta to you, too."

"What is the writer so happy about?" Mayor Jenkins asked, walking up just as Pettigrew was leaving.

"He's going to become a permanent resident of the West."

"Really?"

"That's what he told me."

"Well, he's certainly welcome. I just hope he gets rid of that damn silly hat," the banker said, "before someone shoots it off his head."

--------

*Twenty-six*

Frank had just finished a fresh cup of coffee and a smoke and had his feet propped up on the edge of the desk when a man walked into his office. "Sorry to bother you, Marshal, but I found a body on the way into town."

Frank's boots hit the floor. "Where?"

"Just the other side of where them outlaws had the road blocked. I seen the buzzards circlin' and went to take a look. It's kind of bad, Marshal. The body's shore enough tore up somethin' awful. The ants has been workin' on it, as well as them damn buzzards."

"I'll head on out there. Thanks, mister."

"No problem."

Frank picked up a spare horse at the livery and headed out. He was not looking forward to bringing the body back. Several days in the hot sun would have the body bloated and stinking. The ants and buzzards, and probably coyotes and other animals, had been working on it and would have left it in a real mess.

Frank saw the buzzards long before he reached the body, about a hundred yards off the road, and up a natural game trail. Frank could tell by what was left of the clothing that it was more than likely the body of the young bank teller, Dean Hall, or Hill, or whatever his name was.

The body was a mess, not at all pleasant to look at, or smell. Buzzards and ants had been at the face and the eyes, and facial identification would be impossible. Buzzards, more than likely, had torn the stomach open, and intestines were stretched out for yards.

"Damn!" Frank said, trying to breathe through his mouth and not his nose. The stench was awful.

He found a big stick and beat off the buzzards, some of them so bloated from eating the putrid meat they could not fly. They waddled off and stared at Frank, giving him baleful looks, no fear in them.

He got the body on the tarp and rolled it up, securing it tightly with rope, closing both ends. That helped with the stench. It was going to be a real job getting the body tied down on the horse, for the animal was not liking the smell at all, and was trying to break loose and back off.

Frank didn't blame the horse at all.

Frank was securing a loose end of the tarp, one foot of the body sticking out, when he saw his own horse's head jerk up, the ears laid back, nostrils flared. Frank quickly jerked his rifle from the boot and grabbed the ammo belt he had looped over the horn. The tarp-wrapped body forgotten, Frank jumped for cover, thinking, _Setup!_

Someone, maybe Ned Pine and Vic Vanbergen, maybe Dutton, _somebody_, had set him up for sure. And the setup had worked to perfection. He was damn sure set up, and boxed in.

Frank had just bellied down behind the rocks when the bullets started flying all around him. All he could do for several minutes was keep his head down and hope that no bullet flattened out against the rocks and ricocheted into him.

He wriggled into better cover during a few seconds respite in the firing. He hadn't made any attempt to return the fire, for as yet he didn't have any idea where the gunmen were. He didn't know if there were two or ten of them. He knew only that if it lasted for very long he was in for one hell of a mighty dry fight. His canteen was on his horse, and the animal had wandered several dozen yards away -- no way he could get to it. And there was little chance he could expect any help.

The firing began again, and this time Frank could pretty well add up the number of shooters he was facing, for not all of them were using the same caliber rifles. Five shooters, Frank figured. And several of them were slightly above him.

Two of the four assassins from the ambush in the valley and town were still alive; could they be a part of this?

Frank didn't believe so. But they could also very well be a part of a much larger picture. Maybe Dutton had hired an entire gang to rid himself of Vivian and Conrad. But why so much emphasis on him? Had Dutton found out that he was now a minor stockholder in the Henson Company?

"Damn," Frank muttered. "This is getting too complicated for a country boy."

Frank got lucky. He caught a quick glimpse of what looked like part of a man's arm sticking out from behind cover and snapped off a fast shot.

"Goddamn it!" he heard the man holler. "I'm hit. Oh, damn. I'm hit hard."

"Where you hit. Pat?"

"My elbow. It's busted. Can't use my arm at all."

"Hang on. I'm comin'."

The man who was heading to help his friend jumped up, and Frank dusted him, the .44-.40 round entering the man's body high up on one side and blowing out through his shoulder. The second shooter never made a sound. He folded like a house of cards and went down, his rifle clattering on the rocks.

Another voice was added. "Nick?"

Nick would never make another sound on this side of the misty vail.

"That bastard's got more luck than any man I ever seen," a third voice called.

"Yeah," a fourth voice shouted from off to Frank's left. "Let's get out of here, Mack. Let that damn lawyer fight his own battles. I'm done."

Frank waited for a few minutes, trying to pick up the sound of horses' hooves, but could hear nothing. They must have left their horses some distance away. Frank edged out of the rocks and ran a short distance to more cover. No shots came his way. He worked his way toward the higher ground cautiously. He found a blood trail that led off toward a clearing, but did not pursue it.

Working his way through the rocks, he found the dead man. He rolled the body over and went through the clothing, looking for some identification. He did find a wad of paper money ... several hundred dollars. He shoved that in his back jeans pocket and dragged the man out of the rocks, then went back for the shooter's rifle. He began looking around for the man's horse, and after a few minutes found it. He led the animal back and hoisted the body belly down across the saddle, tying him securely with rope.

Frank managed to get the bank teller's tarp-wrapped body roped down in the pack frame, then headed back to town.

Townspeople paused on the boardwalk, watching Frank ride slowly up the main street. Doc Bracken came out of his office to meet Frank in front of the jail.

"The bank teller fellow's in the tarp," Frank told him. "I think it is, anyways. The other one is part of a gang that tried to ambush me. It was a setup to get me out of town. You seen that damn Charles Dutton fellow?"

"The Boston lawyer?"

"Yes."

"Not lately. Not since the shoot-out, I'm sure."

"I'll find him. How is Vivian?"

"Weaker, Frank. It's down to hours now, I'm sure."

"Conrad?"

"Finally accepting the fact that his mother is not going to make it."

"I'll get those bodies over to Malone." Frank reached in his back pocket and pulled out the wad of bills. "The shooter had this money on him."

"I'd give Malone twenty-five dollars and keep the rest, I was you."

"I'll give it to Jerry." Frank grinned. "For a wedding present."

"He and Angie have sure been making cow's eyes at one another of late."

"He'll make her a good husband, and she'll make him a good wife. Doc, you think this town is going to last after the mines play out?"

"Yes, I do, Frank. I just heard that a big cattle outfit is going to come in. The town will lose about half its population when the mines go, maybe more than that, but the solid citizens will stay. Why do you ask?"

"I told you. Doc. I'm pulling out. Jerry will make a fine town marshal."

"We'll hate to see you go, Frank."

"I forget the name of the writer who wrote that line about all things coming to an end ... something like that. It's almost time for me to move on."

Dr. Bracken's nurse came running out of his office and over to the men. "Doctor! Mrs. Browning just slipped away."

Doc Bracken looked at Frank.

"Correction, Doc," Frank said. "It's time to move on."

--------

*Twenty-seven*

"Mr. Dutton left several hours ago. Marshal," the clerk at the hotel told Frank. "He had to make a very hurried business trip to Denver."

"Oh? How did he leave? There was no stage scheduled."

"Well, he had some rather rough-looking men escorting him. I'd never seen any of them before today."

"Thanks."

_So much for Dutton_, Frank thought, standing outside the hotel. _I'll deal with him when I find him ... if I ever find him._ Frank had a hunch the Boston lawyer would never again set foot west of the Mississippi River.

The man who had told Frank about the body of the bank teller had hauled his butt out of town. No one had seen him before, and no one knew where he had gone. Another dead end. Undertaker Malone had stopped all other work to prepare Vivian's body. She was to be taken to the railroad spur line just across the border in Colorado and then to Denver. From there she would be transported back east for burial.

Conrad was to escort the body all the way back to Boston.

Frank walked over to Malone's funeral parlor. Conrad was sitting alone in the waiting room. He did not look up as Frank entered.

Frank took off his hat, hung it on a rack, and sat down beside his son. "Don't you think we'd better talk?"

"We have nothing to discuss. Marshal."

"I'm your father, Conrad."

"Biologically speaking, I suppose I have to accept that as fact. I don't have to like it. Mr. Browning was my father. He raised me."

"And he did a fine job. I didn't know I had a son until your mother told me just a short time ago." _Just a few weeks back_, Frank thought. _And now she's gone ... forever._ "I want you to believe that."

"I believe it, Marshal. But it doesn't change anything. I want you to believe that."

_It's too soon to be discussing this_, Frank thought. _I made a mistake coming over here. The boy is too filled with grief._

"I know that mother left you a small percentage of the company, Marshal. I will honor her wishes. I won't contest it."

"I didn't ask her for any part of the company, Conrad."

"I believe that, too."

"You want me to leave you alone?"

"I don't care, Marshal. You have a right to be here."

"I loved her very much. I never stopped loving her." Conrad had nothing to say about that.

"Did Malone say when the" -- Frank started to say "body" but he couldn't bring himself to form the word -- "when people can stop by here to pay their respects?"

"In a few hours."

Frank stood up and snagged his hat off the rack. "I'll leave you alone for a time."

Conrad met Frank's eyes for the first time since Frank entered the waiting room. "I appreciate that, Marshal."

"Well, maybe I'll see you in a few hours."

"All right."

Frank was glad to leave the stuffy and strange-smelling waiting room of the funeral parlor. He had never liked those places. He stood on the boardwalk and took several deep breaths of fresh air, then looked up and down the street.

_Another town I'll soon put behind me_, Frank thought. _In a few months they will have forgotten all about me, at least for the most part. The town's residents will settle back into a regular way of life ... and I'll do what I do best -- drift._

_No_, Frank amended. _Not just drift. I have a big job to do. I'll find the men responsible for your death, Viv. I promise you that. If it takes the rest of whatever life I have left, I'll do it._

The news of Vivian Browning's death spread quickly through the town. People spoke in hushed, sorrowful tones to Frank as he walked back to his office. At his desk he wrote out a letter of resignation, effective when Jerry was able to return to work ... which, according to Doc Bracken, would be in a couple of days. He dated and signed the notice, then sealed it in an envelope.

He checked on the prisoners, then walked over to his house and began packing up his possessions, leaving out a clean shirt, britches, socks, and longhandles. He went over to the livery and checked on his packhorse. The animal was glad to see him, perhaps sensing they would soon be again on the trail.

Frank stored his packed up possessions in the livery storeroom and then walked over to the cafe for a cup of coffee and perhaps a bite to eat. Angle took one look at Frank's expression and brought two cups and the coffeepot over to his table and joined him.

She touched his hand. "I'm sorry, Frank."

"I have to think it was for the best, Angie. Better than her starving to death. It was just her time to follow the light."

"That's beautiful, Frank. Follow the light. Frank? How is her son taking it?"

"He's all right. He's tougher than he looks."

"And you?"

"Getting ready to pull out. Just as soon as Jerry is on his feet."

"That quick?"

"Yes. I have things to do."

"I don't have to ask what those things are. Is that what Mrs. Browning would want?"

"It's what I want."

She lowered her eyes from his cold stare. She struggled to suppress a shiver. Looking into his eyes that day was like looking into a cold, musty grave. Years back, Angie had surprised a big puma feasting on a fresh kill. The puma did not attack, but the eyes were the same as Frank's -- cold and deadly. Angie backed away quickly and left the puma alone to eat.

Frank drank his coffee, declined the offer of food, and walked over to Willis's General Store. There he bought bacon, beans, flour, and coffee. He bought a new jacket for the trail, for his old one was patched and worn. He took everything back to the office. There, he sat and waited.

* * * *

Frank did not return to the funeral parlor to view Vivian's body. He respected her wish that he not have that image in his brain.

The next morning, Jerry came limping into the office about ten o'clock.

"You supposed to be up, Jer?"

"Doc said it was all right long as I don't try to run any foot races. Mrs. Browning's body is being loaded into the wagon now, Frank, for transport to the rails."

"I know."

"You're not going over there?"

"No." Frank stood up. "You ready to be sworn in, Jer?"

"I reckon so, Frank. If that's what you want."

"Wait here." Frank walked over to the bank and got Mayor Jenkins. Ten minutes later, Frank had handed in his badge, and Jerry had been sworn in.

Frank shook hands with Jerry and the mayor and walked out of the office. He did not look back.

A half an hour later, he was on the trail. He didn't know where the Pine and Vanbergen gangs had gone, but he would find them. All of them. One at a time.