Frank picked up his hat from me carpeted floor by his chair and stood up. He looked at Vivian for a moment, then said, 'What about Conrad, Viv?'
'Let's just let that alone for the time being. It's much too soon to even be thinking about that.'
'As you wish, Viv. Tomorrow, then.'
'Yes.'
Frank left the office, closing the door behind him, and walked the length of the building to the front, ignoring the curious looks from the office workers. He stood on the boardwalk for a moment, listening to the excited whooping and hollering from the milling crowds on the main street. By this time tomorrow, the town would be filling up again. Closed and boarded-up stores would be reopening, and new merchants coming in. Surely there would be a couple more saloons. And there would be a lot of riffraff making their way to the town.
It was going to be a money-making place for some people for a while and, above all, a place where trouble could erupt in a heartbeat.
Frank had seen it all before, in other boom towns where precious metals were found.
Big strikes were both a blessing and a curse.
Frank's thoughts drifted back to Vivian, and he struggled to get the woman out of his mind. He could dream about her in quiet moments, but now was not the time. He had his rounds to make. And any marshal in any Western town who walked the streets at night and didn't stay alert ran the possibility of abruptly being a dead marshal.
Frank walked up to the corner of the main street and stood for a moment. He rolled a cigarette and smoked it, while leaning up against a hitch rail. It was full dark now, and both saloons were doing a land-office business. Pianos and banjos and guitars were banging and strumming and picking out melodies. Occasionally Frank could hear the sounds of a fiddle sawing away.
Frank walked up to the Silver Spoon Cafe and ordered supper for the prisoners, then carried the tray over to the jail. While they were eating, he made a pot of coffee and sat at his desk, smoking and drinking coffee. Then he took down the rifles and shotguns from the wall rack and cleaned and oiled them. He took out the pistol he'd found in the desk drawer and cleaned it, then loaded it up full with five rounds. It was a short-barreled .45, called by some a gambler's gun. It was actually a Colt .45 Peacemaker, known as a marshal or sheriff's pistol. Frank tucked it behind his gunbelt, on the left side. It was comfortable there.
A little insurance was sometimes a comfort.
Frank took the tray back to the cafe, then went over to the general store and bought some blankets for the cell bunks, charging them to the town's account. Back at the jail, he blew out the lamps and locked the front door. He did not build a fire in the jail stove, for the night was not that cool. Besides, if they both caught pneumonia and died that would save the state of Arkansas the expense of sending someone out here to take them back, plus the cost of hanging them.
He walked away, putting the very faint yelling and cussing of the two locked up and very unhappy outlaws behind him. They would settle down as soon as they realized there was no one to hear them.
Frank first stepped into the Silver Slipper Saloon and stood for a moment, giving the crowd a slow once- over. He spotted a couple of gunslicks he'd known from way back, but they were not trouble-hunters, just very bad men to crowd, for there was no back-up in either of them.
Frank walked over and pushed his way to a place at the bar, between the two men. 'Jimmy,' he greeted the one his left.
'Morgan.' Jimmy looked at the star on Frank's chest and smiled. 'I won't cause trouble in your town, Frank.'
'I know it. I just wanted to say howdy. Hal,' he greeted the other one.
'Frank. Back to marshalin' again, huh?'
'Pay's good.'
'I don't blame you, then.'
'You boys bring your drinks over to that table in the far corner -- if you've a mind to, that is. I may have some work for you both.'
'If it's marshalin', count me out, Frank,' Hal said.
'It isn't.'
'OK, then. I'll listen.'
At the table, Frank laid out the problem of getting the shipments of silver to the spur rail line just across the border in Colorado.
'I heard Vanbergen and Pine was workin' this area,' Jimmy said.
'Big gangs,' Hal added.
'That worry you boys?' Frank asked.
'Hell, no,' Jimmy said. 'You let me get some boys of my choosin' in here, and let us design the wagons, we'll get the silver through. Bet on that.'
'All right. Get them in here.'
'It'll take a while. They're all scattered to hell and gone,' Hal said.
'We've got the time. And Mrs. Browning's got the money.'
'Who is this Mrs. Browning, anyways?' Jimmy asked.
'Old Man Henson's daughter. He died some years back, and she's running the business.'
