"All right. Well, I reckon we'd better get these bodies gathered up and planted."
"I'll help," a citizen volunteered.
"I'll get their horses," another said. "I got a bad back, you know -- can't handle no shovel."
"Sure you do, Otis. Right."
Frank turned and walked away, back to the store to get his supplies and to return the shotgun to the man.
"Hell of a show out there, Mr. Morgan," the shopkeeper told him.
"Not one that I wanted the leading role in, though."
"I suppose not. Where do you go from here?"
"Just drifting."
"Back from the war?"
"Yes." Frank smiled. "My side lost."
"We all lost in that mess."
"I reckon so. Thanks, mister."
"Take care, Mr. Morgan."
Frank rode out, heading toward the northwest, his growing reputation right behind him....
--------
*Three*
Frank rode on toward the north and tried to put old memories behind him. But there were too many memories, too many bloody shoot-outs, too many killings, too many easy women with powder and paint on their faces and shrill laughter that Frank could still hear in his dreams.
And of course, there was that one special woman.
Her name was Vivian. Frank had met her in the town of Denver early in '66, and had been taken by her charm and beauty. Frank was a very handsome young man, and Viv had been equally smitten by him. She was the daughter of a businessman and lay preacher.
Frank was working at the time on a ranch in the area, and doing his best to stay out of any gun trouble.
Theirs was a whirlwind courtship, and they were married just a few months after meeting. Viv's father did not like Frank, and he made no attempt to hide that dislike. But after the wedding, Frank felt there was little Viv's father could do except try to make the best of it.
Frank was wrong.
Six months after their marriage, Frank found himself facing a drifter hunting trouble.
"I heard about you, Morgan," the drifter said. "And I think it's all poppycock and balderdash."
"Think what you want to think," Frank told him. "I have no quarrel with you."
"You do now."
There were no witnesses to the affair. The drifter had braced Frank on a lonesome stretch of range miles from town. Frank had been resting after a morning of brush-popping cattle out of a huge thicket. He was tired, and so was his horse.
"How'd you know I was working out here?" Frank asked.
"I heard in town. I asked about you."
"No one in town knew."
"You callin' me a liar?"
"This isn't adding up, friend."
"I ain't your friend, Morgan. I come to kill you, and that's what I aim to do."
"Who paid you to brace me?"
The drifter smiled. "You better make your mind up to stand and deliver, Morgan. 'cause if you don't, I'm gonna gut-shoot you and leave you out here so's the crows and buzzards can eat your eyes."
"That isn't going to happen, friend. Now back off and ride out of here."
"I keep tellin' you, Morgan, I ain't your friend."
"Tell me who paid you to do this madness."
The drifter smiled. "On the count of three, you better hook and draw, Morgan. One -- "
"Don't do this, friend."
"Two -- "
"I don't want to kill you!"
"Three!"
The drifter never even cleared leather. As his hand dropped and curled around the butt of his pistol, Frank's Colt roared under the hot summer sun. The drifter's mouth dropped open in a grotesque grimace of pain and surprise as Frank's bullet ripped into his chest. He dropped his pistol and stared at Frank for a couple of seconds, then slumped to his knees.
Frank walked the few paces to stand over the dying man. "Who paid you to do this?"
"Damn, but you're quick," the drifter gasped. "I heard you was mighty fast, but I just didn't believe it."
"Who paid you?" Frank persisted, hoping the name would not be the one he suspected.
But it was.
"Henson," the drifter said. "Preacher Henson." Then he fell over on his face in the dust.
Vivian's father.
Frank turned the man over. He was still breathing. "How much did he pay you to brace me?"
"Five hundred dollars," the drifter gasped. Then his eyes began losing their brightness.
"You have the money on you?"
"Half of it. Get ... the other half ... when you're dead." The drifter's head lolled to one side.
"Talk to me, damn you!"
But the drifter was past speaking. He was dead.
"Dear father-in-law," Frank whispered, rage and disgust filling him. "I knew you disliked me, but I didn't know your hatred was so intense."
Frank went through the drifter's pockets and then loaded the man's body across his saddle and lashed him down. Leading the skittish horse -- who didn't like the smell of blood -- Frank rode into the nearest town and up to the marshal's office. The much smaller town was miles closer than the fast-growing town of Denver.
Frank explained what had happened, sort of -- leaving out who hired the drifter, and why.
"Any reason why this man would want to kill you, Morgan?"
"No. I don't have any idea. I've never seen him before. As you can tell by looking at me, and smelling me, I suppose, I've been working cattle most of the day."
The marshal smiled. "Now that you mention it..." He laughed. "All right, Morgan. Did you go through the man's pockets?"
"Yes, I did. Trying to find some identification. I didn't find any papers, but he had fifty dollars on him. The money is in his front pants pocket."
Frank had taken two hundred and left fifty to bury the drifter and to throw off suspicion.
The marshal did not question Frank further on the shooting. "We'll get him planted, Frank. Thanks for bringing in the body. Most people would have just left him."
Frank rode back home, arriving late that night. He did not tell Viv about the shooting -- how could he? She wouldn't have believed him. He spent a restless night, wondering how to best handle the wild hate her father felt for him.
The next day he went to see his father-in-law. Frank tossed the two hundred dollars on the man's desk.
"There's your blood money, Henson. I left fifty dollars in the man's pockets to bury him."
The successful businessman/lay preacher looked up from his desk. Frank had never seen such hatred in a man's eyes. "You filth!" Henson said. "Worthless gunman. Oh, I know all about you, Morgan. You're a killer for hire."
"That's a lie, Mr. Henson. I've killed men, yes. I won't deny that. But it was in self-defense. Not for hire."
"You're a liar!" Henson hissed. "And you're not worthy to even walk on the same side of the street as my daughter. You're a hired killer, a gunman. You're filth, and always will be."
Frank stared at the man in silence for a moment. "I'm going to prove you wrong, Mr. Henson."
"No, you won't. You can't. I've had detectives tracing you all the way back to your miserable, hardscrabble beginnings, you white trash. And I know all about the rape charges that were brought against you in Texas."
"Rape!" Frank blurted. "What charges? There are no rape charges -- there have never been any."