Frank paused in his sugaring and stirring. His eyes narrowed briefly; then he nodded his head. 'I recall Jim Peters. He tried to back-shoot me up in Kansas.'
'That's him,' the woman said with a sigh. 'Coward right to the end. I left him a couple of years before that shooting. Moved to Dodge. He followed me. I still wouldn't have anything to do with him. You did me a favor by killing him.'
Frank sipped his coffee and waited, sensing the woman was not finished.
'That was five years ago, Frank. But the man who offered up five thousand dollars to see you dead is still alive, and the money is still up for your death -- to anyone that's brave enough to go for it.'
Frank set his cup down on the table. 'I never knew anything about any five thousand dollars on my head.'
The woman studied Frank's face for a moment. 'You really don't know, do you?'
'No.'
'He's a lawyer. Works for the Henson Enterprises.'
'They own a mine here in Crossing.'
'The biggest mine, Frank. No telling how many millions of dollars of silver was taken out of that mine. One more shipment to go, and the mine closes.'
'But they can't ship it because of the Pine and Vanbergen gangs, right?'
'That's right, Frank. And then here you come riding in, getting set to get all tangled up in something that doesn't really concern you.'
'It's a long story, Miss ... ah -- '
'It's still Peters. We were never divorced. And please call me Angie.'
'All right, Angie it is. And I assure you, it does concern me, greatly.'
Angie shook her head. 'Because of Mrs. Vivian L. Browning, Frank?'
'You know a lot, Angie. The question is, why?'
'Why do I know? I've owned cafes all over the West. People talk in cafes as much or more as they do in saloons.' She smiled. 'And I am a real good listener.'
'I bet you are.' Frank returned the smile as he studied the woman. A good-looking woman. Not beautiful, but very, very attractive. Black hair, blue eyes, and a head-turning figure. Frank bet that when Angie took a stroll men looked ... and wives got mad.
'How many men do Pine and Vanbergen have?'
'No one knows for sure. Thirty or forty at least. Probably more than that.'
'Do any of them ever come into town?'
'Quite often. But never Pine or Vanbergen. The men who come in for supplies are not on any wanted list ... that anyone knows about.' Angie looked out the cafe window. 'Frank, there are two members of the gang riding into town now.'
Frank followed her eyes, watching as two rough-dressed men rode slowly up the main street. 'I know them,' he said. 'They're related somehow. Cousins, I think. Both of them are wanted in Arkansas on murder charges. If this town had a marshal he'd be a thousand dollars richer by arresting those two.'
Frank smiled and pushed back his chair. 'As a matter of fact, I could use a thousand dollars right now.'
'Frank...' Angie's voice held a warning note. 'This isn't your fight. Don't get mixed up in this mess.'
'Watch me,' Frank replied, slipping the leather thong off the hammer of his pistol.
--------
*Five*
Frank stepped out of the cafe and stood for a moment on the elevated boardwalk. It was built several feet off the ground due to a slope. The two riders stopped in front of the Silver Slipper Saloon and dismounted. They stood for a moment, giving the wide street the once-over. Their eyes lingered for a moment on Frank, and one said something to the other. The second man shook his head, and the pair of outlaws turned and walked into the saloon, apparently dismissing him as being someone who presented no danger to them.
Frank slipped the hammer thong free and walked across the street, his boots kicking up dust as he walked, his spurs rattling softly. He stepped up onto the old boardwalk and stood for a moment, thinking about his next move. He had some money on him, but he could also use a thousand dollars.
Frank was not a poor man by any means, but neither did he have money to throw around. He had some savings in a couple of Wells Fargo offices which were available to him by wire. He also had money sewn into a place behind the cantle of his saddle.
Frank was no stranger to bounty hunting. He'd done his share of tracking down wanted men for the prices on their heads. He did it only when he needed the money. The men he tracked down were always wanted for murder, and it nearly always ended in a shoot-out, for most of them would rather die from a bullet than dangle from the end of a rope with a crowd of gawkers looking on. Then Frank had to tote their stinking bodies back as proof, so he could collect the reward. It could be very unpleasant ... and smelly.
Frank had been a lawman more than once. It was a job he liked. He'd carried a badge in towns in Kansas, Texas, and several other places. But once he'd cleaned up the towns, seems like the 'good' people no longer wanted him around. Frank never argued about it -- just collected what money was due him, packed up, saddled up, and rode away without looking back. He understood how they felt, and harbored no malice toward any of them. It was human nature, and Frank understood that well. Frank had done a lot of riding away without looking back in his life -- most of his life, as a matter of fact.
