_News travels fast in this town_, Frank thought. 'I'm the marshal, yes.'
'Marshal, constable ... whatever,' the almost a man said, waving his hand in a dainty gesture that would damn sure get him in trouble if he did it in the wrong place. 'There is a drunken oaf staggering about in our offices, cursing and bellowing, and I want him removed immediately.'
'All right,' Frank said. 'Although I was just passing by, and didn't hear a thing.'
'He's calmed down for the moment, but I suspect he'll be lumbering about and swearing again at any moment.'
'Oh? Why do you think that?'
'Because he's that sort -- that's why. Now will you please do your duty and remove that offensive thug?'
'Lower-class type, huh?'
'Certainly. He's a laborer. They really should learn their place.'
'Oh, yes, quite.' Frank hid his smile and stepped into the offices. The front office seemed as calm as when Frank had first looked in only a couple of moments ago.
'In the middle office,' the snooty kid said. He pointed. 'That way.'
'Thank you,' Frank said, just as acidly as he could. Just then the shouting started.
'By God, you owe me a week's wages, and I ain't leavin' 'til I get it, you pukey-lookin' little weasel!'
'Do you?' Frank asked the young man. There was something about the kid that was vaguely disturbing to Frank. Something ... well, familiar.
'Do I what?'
'Do you owe him money?'
'Heavens! I don't know. Take that up with the accounting department.'
Frank walked to the middle office and shoved open the door, stepping inside. A big man in dirty work clothes stood in the center of the room, shouting at several men seated behind desks. When the door was opened the man paused and looked at Frank, his eyes taking in the star on his shirt.
'I eat two-bit marshals for supper,' the miner told Frank.
'This one will give you a bad case of indigestion,' Frank responded.
'This company owes me several days' pay,' the miner said. 'And I'll either get my money or I'll take this office apart.'
Frank looked at one of the bookkeepers. 'Do you owe him money?'
'He was off work for two days,' the bookkeeper said. 'He was paid for four days, not a full six.'
'I got hurt in the mine!' the miner shouted. 'That ain't my fault.'
'Is that right?' Frank asked the bookkeeper.
'That doesn't make any difference, Marshal. He worked four days. He gets paid for the time he was on the job.'
Frank looked at the miner. 'Did you agree to those terms before you took the job?'
'I knew how it was,' the miner said sourly. 'But that don't make it right.'
'I agree with you. It doesn't make it right. But you agreed to the terms. You got no quarrel. Get on out of here and cool off.'
'And if I don't?' the miner challenged him.
'I'll put you out. Then I'll take you to jail. The doctor can see you in your cell.'
The miner laughed. 'You and how many others are gonna do that, Marshal?'
'Just me,' Frank said softly.
'You really think you can do that, huh?'
'Oh, I know I can.'
'With or without that pistol?'
'Either way. But if you want to mix it up with me, you'll be liable for any damage to this office.'
The miner laughed at that. 'How would you collect the money?'
'A day in jail for every dollar of damage. You really want to spend months behind bars? Then there will be your medical expenses. And they will be many -- I assure you of that.'
'You got a name, Marshal?'
'Frank Morgan.'
The miner paled under his dark stubble of whiskers. He slowly nodded his head. 'I reckon I'll leave quietly.'
'Good,' Frank told him. 'You know the way out.'
The miner didn't tarry. He nodded in silent agreement, left the office, and walked out of the building
