It was going to be a money-making place for some people for a while and, above all, a place where trouble could erupt in a heartbeat.
Frank had seen it all before, in other boom towns where precious metals were found.
Big strikes were both a blessing and a curse.
Frank's thoughts drifted back to Vivian, and he struggled to get the woman out of his mind. He could dream about her in quiet moments, but now was not the time. He had his rounds to make. And any marshal in any Western town who walked the streets at night and didn't stay alert ran the possibility of abruptly being a dead marshal.
Frank walked up to the corner of the main street and stood for a moment. He rolled a cigarette and smoked it, while leaning up against a hitch rail. It was full dark now, and both saloons were doing a land-office business. Pianos and banjos and guitars were banging and strumming and picking out melodies. Occasionally Frank could hear the sounds of a fiddle sawing away.
Frank walked up to the Silver Spoon Cafe and ordered supper for the prisoners, then carried the tray over to the jail. While they were eating, he made a pot of coffee and sat at his desk, smoking and drinking coffee. Then he took down the rifles and shotguns from the wall rack and cleaned and oiled them. He took out the pistol he'd found in the desk drawer and cleaned it, then loaded it up full with five rounds. It was a short-barreled .45, called by some a gambler's gun. It was actually a Colt .45 Peacemaker, known as a marshal or sheriff's pistol. Frank tucked it behind his gunbelt, on the left side. It was comfortable there.
A little insurance was sometimes a comfort.
Frank took the tray back to the cafe, then went over to the general store and bought some blankets for the cell bunks, charging them to the town's account. Back at the jail, he blew out the lamps and locked the front door. He did not build a fire in the jail stove, for the night was not that cool. Besides, if they both caught pneumonia and died that would save the state of Arkansas the expense of sending someone out here to take them back, plus the cost of hanging them.
He walked away, putting the very faint yelling and cussing of the two locked up and very unhappy outlaws behind him. They would settle down as soon as they realized there was no one to hear them.
Frank first stepped into the Silver Slipper Saloon and stood for a moment, giving the crowd a slow once-over. He spotted a couple of gunslicks he'd known from way back, but they were not trouble-hunters, just very bad men to crowd, for there was no back-up in either of them.
Frank walked over and pushed his way to a place at the bar, between the two men. "Jimmy," he greeted the one his left.
"Morgan." Jimmy looked at the star on Frank's chest and smiled. "I won't cause trouble in your town, Frank."
"I know it. I just wanted to say howdy. Hal," he greeted the other one.
"Frank. Back to marshalin' again, huh?"
"Pay's good."
"I don't blame you, then."
"You boys bring your drinks over to that table in the far corner -- if you've a mind to, that is. I may have some work for you both."
"If it's marshalin', count me out, Frank," Hal said.
"It isn't."
"OK, then. I'll listen."
At the table, Frank laid out the problem of getting the shipments of silver to the spur rail line just across the border in Colorado.
"I heard Vanbergen and Pine was workin' this area," Jimmy said.
"Big gangs," Hal added.
"That worry you boys?" Frank asked.
"Hell, no," Jimmy said. "You let me get some boys of my choosin' in here, and let us design the wagons, we'll get the silver through. Bet on that."
"All right. Get them in here."
"It'll take a while. They're all scattered to hell and gone," Hal said.
"We've got the time. And Mrs. Browning's got the money."
"Who is this Mrs. Browning, anyways?" Jimmy asked.
"Old Man Henson's daughter. He died some years back, and she's running the business."
"Any truth in the rumor I heard years back, Frank?" Jimmy asked. "'bout you and Old Man Henson's daughter?" He held up one hand before Frank could say anything. "I ain't pushin' none, Frank, and I sure ain't lookin' for trouble. But the rumor is still floatin' around."
"Whatever happened was a long time ago, boys. Her father hated my guts. Now he's gone, and she's in a spot of trouble. That's why I'm here."
"That's good enough for me," Jimmy said. "I won't bring it up no more."
"I'll get some wires sent in the mornin'," Hal said. "Then we'll see what happens."
"Good deal," Frank said, pushing his chair back. "Where are you boys staying?"
"We got us a room at the hotel," Jimmy told him. "We picked us up a bit of money doin' some bounty huntin' work. Brought them two in alive, we did."
Hal grinned. "'Course they was sorta shot up some, but they was alive."
"What happened to them?" Frank asked.
"They got hanged," Jimmy said.
Frank smiled and stood up. "See you boys tomorrow."
"Take it easy, Frank," Hal told him.
Frank left the saloon, very conscious of a few hostile eyes on him as he walked. He had spotted the young trouble-hunters when he first pushed open the batwings: three of them, sitting together at a table, each of them nursing a beer.
Frank did not want trouble with the young hotheads who were -- more than likely -- looking for a reputation. All three were in their early twenties -- if that old -- and full of the piss and vinegar that accompanies youth. But the youthful piss was going to be mixed with real blood if they tangled with Frank Morgan.
Frank walked up and down both sides of the main street of town. All the businesses except the saloons, the two cafes, and the hotel were now closed for the night. Frank turned down the short street that angled off of Main and paused for a moment, standing in the shadows.
The street and the boardwalk were busy, but not overly crowded with foot traffic. Judging from the noise, the Red Horse Saloon was doing a booming business. A rinky-dink piano was playing -- only slightly out of tune -- and a female voice was singing -- also out of tune. Everything appeared normal.
But Frank was edgy. Something was wrong, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, or name. He had learned years back to trust his hunches. Over the long and violent years, that sixth sense had saved his life more times than he cared to remember.
Frank stepped deeper back into the shadows and waited, his pistol loose in leather, his eyes moving, watching the shadows across the street.
There! Right there! Frank spotted furtive movement in the alley between two boarded-up buildings across the street.
Frank squatted down in the darkened door stoop, presenting a smaller, more obscure target. His .45 was in his hand, and he did not remember drawing it. He eared the hammer back.
He watched as the shadows began to move apart and take better shape. Frank could first make out the shapes of three hats, then the upper torsos of the men as they stepped out of the alley and onto the boardwalk. He could not hear anything they were saying, if they were talking at all, because of the music and song from the Red Horse Saloon.