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.