let us be held for no hangin'.'
'If Pine or Vanbergen and their gangs come riding into this town hell-for-leather, there's a good chance they'll be buried here.'
'You say!' Jonas's words were filled with contempt.
'That's right, Rat Face. I say.'
'Rat Face!'
'Yeah. You look like a rat to me.'
'You go to hell, Morgan!'
Frank laughed and opened the jail office door. He shoved the pair inside and over to the door that led to the cell block. He carefully removed the cuffs from each and shoved them into a cell.
'I'll find blankets for both of you before night. And I'll build a fire in the stove that'll get the place warm before I leave.'
'How about some food, you bastard?' Davy asked. 'Or are you gonna let us starve to death?'
'You'll be fed. Probably from the Silver Spoon Cafe. The cook over there fixes good meals.'
Frank took the time to inspect the jail. It was as solid as the rock it was made of -- shaped rock two or three feet thick. The bars were thick and solid, set deep in the rocks. Davy and Jonas would not be prying or digging out. That was a dead certainty.
Frank found a rag, sat down at the battered desk in the front office, and wiped the several months' accumulation of dust from the top of the desk. He looked around the big room. Several rifles and shotguns were in a wall rack. He would inspect and clean them later. Frank began opening the desk drawers. He found dozens of dodgers and laid them off to one side. Two pistols and several boxes of .45 ammunition. The jail log book. The last entry was a drunk and disorderly, dated several months back. He found an inkwell, empty, and several pens and pencils. That was it.
The front door opened and the mayor stepped in, followed by a group of men. Frank was introduced to the town council. He shook hands, sat back down, and waited for the mayor to say something.
'We talked it over, Frank,' the mayor said. 'And we think you're the right man for the job of marshal.'
'I'm honored,' Frank said.
The mayor smiled and named a monthly salary that was astronomically high for the time and place, and Frank accepted the offer. Frank stood up to be sworn in by the mayor, and a badge was pinned to his shirt.
'If you can find a man to take the job, you're entitled to one deputy,' the mayor told him. 'Congratulations, Marshal. Welcome to Barnwell's Crossing.'
The mayor and town council trooped out, closing the door behind them, and that was that.
'Marshal Frank Morgan,' Frank whispered. 'Too bad the town is dying. I might have found a home.'
'Hey, Morgan!' Davy shouted from the cell area. 'We're hungry. How about some food?'
'I'm cold!' Jonas yelled. 'Where's them blankets you promised us?'
Frank ignored them and got up to set and wind the office wall clock. It had stopped at high noon. Frank wondered if that was somehow significant.
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*Six*
Frank went to Willis's General Store and bought a few supplies for his rented house -- coffee, sugar, bacon, flour, and the like -- then began strolling the town, letting the townsfolk see him and get used to the badge on his chest. The Crossing was larger than Frank had first thought. There was another business street, angling off like the letter L, and many more houses than Frank realized, at the end of the second business street. The other business street had several smaller stores -- including a leather shop, a ladies' store right on the corner, a smaller and rougher-looking saloon, and the doctor's office.
Frank smiled and touched his hat when meeting ladies, and he gave the men a howdy-do. Most of the people returned the greeting; a few did not. At the end of the street, Frank saw a sign for Henson Enterprises dangling from a metal frame.
The building was one story, and nice. Even though it was getting late in the day, with shadows already creeping about, darkening this and that, the office was bustling with people bent over ledgers and scurrying about.
Frank forced himself to walk on. He would run into Vivian sooner or later, and he had very mixed feelings about the inevitable meeting.
Frank had just stepped off the boardwalk when a very demanding voice behind him said, 'You there, Constable. Come here.'
Frank stopped and turned around. A young man, eighteen at the most, was standing in the doorway of the Henson building, wagging his finger at Frank. 'Yes, you!' the young man said. 'I'm not in the habit of speaking to an empty street.'
Frank stared at me young man for a few seconds, stared in disbelief. He was dressed at the very height of fashion ... if he were in Boston or New York City, that is. In the rough mining town of northern New Mexico territory he looked like a damned idiot.
'Well, come here!' the young man said.
Frank stepped back onto the boardwalk, his hackles already rising at the kid's haughty tone. 'Can I help you?' Frank asked.
'I certainly hope so. You're the new constable, aren't you?'
