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.