closeness or affection for the young man. He felt nothing, and his sleep became restless because of that. As the boy's father, shouldn't he feel some sort of blood bond, some sort of paternal sense or awakening ... something, anything?
* * * *
Frank awakened with silent alarm bells ringing in his head. Men who constantly live on the razor edge between life and sudden, bloody death develop that silent warning system -- or die very young -- in their chosen, violent lifestyle.
Frank lay very still and listened. He could hear nothing. Perhaps, he thought, the sounds of silence were what woke him. No. He rejected that immediately. He didn't think that was it. Then ... what?
Frank slipped from bed and silently pulled on his britches and slipped his bare feet into an old pair of moccasins he'd had for a long time. He picked up his gunbelt and slipped it over one shoulder. Frank had learned years back that it was not wise to run out of ammunition in a gunfight. The loops on his gunbelt always stayed filled. He didn't bother pulling on a shirt.
He padded noiselessly to the rear of the darkened house and looked out through the window. He had not yet purchased material for some seamstress to make him curtains. He could see nothing in the rear of the house.
He walked to the front of the house and looked out. Nothing. He pulled his pocket watch from his jeans and clicked open the lid. A few minutes after four o'clock. This was the time when people were snuggling deeper into bed and blankets for that final hour or so of good, deep sleep. The best time of the night for murder.
He should get going. By the time he heated water and took a shave and a spot bath it would be five o'clock. Then he had to get over to the jail and make coffee and empty and rinse out all the piss pots from the cells. Then he had to see about breakfast for himself and the prisoners. After that, he had to see if there was any reply from Arkansas about the reward money. He would be busy for a couple of hours, at least. And he didn't want to forget to check on any bounty on the men he'd locked up last night and the one he'd killed. Yes, it was shaping up to be a busy morning.
Banker Jenkins, also the mayor, had told him as soon as he received conformation about the reward money he would advance Frank the money and have Arkansas authorities send it directly to his bank. That sounded good to Frank.
Walking about the still dark house, Frank bent down to pick up some kindling wood from the box by the stove. He heard a tin can rattle in the backyard, followed by a soft curse.
_OK_, Frank thought. _Whoever you are and whatever you want, boys, you just queered the deal._
Frank slipped to the back door and waited. There was no way he was going to open that door and step into a hail of bullets. He heard the soft creak of boards as someone stepped onto the small back porch. Frank carefully backed up until he could get the large stove between the door and himself. He eased the hammer back on his .45.
Frank heard the sound of someone carefully trying the doorknob. It was loose, and rattled when touched. 'Come on in,' he whispered.
But the man on the porch obviously had other ideas. He backed away, stepped off the porch, and silently faded into the coolness of night.
'Now just what in the hell was that all about?' Frank questioned.
The night was silent, offering no explanation.
Frank slipped through the house to the front room and peered out. The street was silent and empty.
He decided he'd shave at the jail. He did not want to risk lighting a lamp. He finished dressing. Then, taking a change of clothing with him, he slipped out the back of his house and cautiously made his way up the side of the house to the street. He neither saw nor heard anyone.
'Strange,' Frank muttered. 'Very odd, indeed.'
At the jail, he rolled out the prisoners and collected the bed pots. Then he made coffee and shaved and dressed: black trousers, new red-and-white-checkered shirt buttoned at the collar, string tie, and the suit coat he'd bought at the general store the day before.
'How about some coffee and some breakfast, Morgan?' a prisoner called.
'Coffee is almost ready. I'll get your breakfast in a few minutes.'
At the cafe, which was doing a brisk business, he asked Angie to fix some trays -- beef, fried potatoes, cornmeal mush -- and to cut up the meat and leave only a spoon for each prisoner to eat with.
'You going to feed them lunch, Frank?' she asked.
'Biscuits and coffee. I'll be back around noon.'
The prisoners fed, Frank turned up the lamps, sat down at his desk, and brought his jail journal up to date. Then he wrote several wires to send about his new inmates and the dead man.
Dawn was busting over the mountains when he finished. Frank checked on the prisoners, then walked over to the cafe for his own breakfast. He took the empty trays with him, after carefully checking to make sure all the spoons were there. With a little work a spoon could be turned into a deadly weapon.
It was past six now, and the cafe had cleared out some.
Frank ordered breakfast and sat at a corner table, drinking coffee until the food arrived. It was pointless to ask Angie if she'd seen any strangers in town, for the town was full of newcomers. And during the next few weeks, there would be hundreds more streaming in.
Frank made up his mind to hire a deputy, and he asked Angie if she knew anyone.
'Yeah ... I think I do, matter of fact. He ought to be coming in here anytime now. He's a man in his mid- fifties, I'd guess, and he's steady and dependable. I think he's done some deputy work in other places.'
'Sounds good to me. What's his name?'
