Morgan shot him before the kid could even clear leather -- shot him two times, the shots so close together they sounded as one. The kid's feet flew out from under him and he hit the floor, two holes in the center of his chest.
'Good God Almighty!' a man in the crowd said.
'He's as fast as he ever was,' another man stage-whispered.
'You know Morgan?'
'I seen him once back in seventy-four, I think it was. He shot them two Burris brothers.'
It was now April, 1888.
Frank slowly holstered his .45, then walked the few yards that had separated the two men. He stood for a moment looking down at the dying young man.
'I thought ... all that talk 'bout you was ... bull-crap,' the young man gasped. Blood was leaking from his mouth.
'I wish it was,' Frank said, then turned away from the bloody scene and stepped up to the bar. 'A whiskey, please,' he told the barkeep.
'I thought you only drank coffee, Mr. Morgan.'
'Occasionally I will take a drink of hard liquor.'
'Yes, sir. Mr. Morgan?'
Frank looked at the man.
'The sheriff and his deputies will be here shortly. Gunplay is not looked on with favor in this town.'
'In other words, get out of town?'
'It was just a friendly suggestion. No offense meant.'
'I know. None taken. Thank you.' _Same old story_, Frank thought. _Different piano player, same song_.
Frank took a sip of whiskey.
'The kid's dead,' someone said. 'Reckon I ought to get the undertaker?'
'Not yet,' a man said from the batwings.
Frank cut his eyes. Three men had stepped quietly into the saloon -- the sheriff and two of his deputies. The two deputies were carrying Greeners -- sawed-off, double-barreled shotguns.
No one with any sense wanted to take a chance when facing Frank Morgan.
Frank was standing alone at the bar, slowly taking tiny sips from his glass of whiskey.
'Frank Morgan,' the sheriff said.
'Do I know you, Sheriff?' Frank asked. 'I don't recall ever meeting you.'
'I know you from dime novels, Morgan.'
'I see.'
'Them writers want to make you a hero. But I know you for what you really are.'
'What am I, Sheriff?'
'A damn, kill-crazy outlaw.'
'I've never stolen a thing in my life, Sheriff.'
'You say.'
Frank set the glass down on the bar and turned to face the sheriff. 'That's right, Sheriff. I say.'
The deputies raised the shotguns.
Frank smiled. 'Relax, boys,' he told them. 'You'll get no trouble from me.'
'You just can't keep that pistol in leather, can you, Morgan?' the sheriff said.
'I was pushed into this fight, Sheriff. Ask anyone here.'
'I 'spect that's so, Morgan. The kid was a troublemaker, for a fact.'
'And now?'
'You finish your drink and get out of town.'
'I've got a very tired horse, Sheriff, with a loose shoe. He's at the livery now. You don't like me -- that's all right. But my horse has done nothing to you.'
The sheriff hesitated. 'All right, Morgan. You can stay in the stable with your horse. Get that shoe fixed first thing come the morning and then get the hell gone from here.'
'Thank you. How about something to eat?'
'Get you some crackers and a pickle from the store 'cross the street. That'll have to do you.'
'Crackers and a pickle,' Frank muttered. 'Well, I've eaten worse.'
