'Understood, Morgan?' the sheriff pressed.
'Perfectly, Sheriff.'
'Some of you men get the kid over to the undertaker,' the sheriff ordered. 'Tell him he can have whatever's in the kid's pockets for his fee.'
'Them guns of hisn, too?' a man asked.
'Yes. The guns, too.'
Frank turned back to the bar and slowly sipped his drink. The sheriff walked over and leaned against the bar, staring at him.
'Something on your mind, Sheriff?' Frank asked.
'What's your tally now, Morgan? A hundred? A hundred and fifty dead by your gun?'
Frank smiled. 'No, Sheriff. Not nearly that many. The kid there was the first man to brace me in several years.'
'How'd you manage that, Morgan?'
'I stayed away from people. I mostly rode the lonesome.'
'What made you stop here?'
'My horse. And I needed supplies. I lost my packhorse and supplies to some damned renegade young Indians last week. Down south of here.'
'I heard about that. Got a wire from a sheriff friend of mine down that way. A posse went after those young bucks and cornered them. Killed them all.'
Frank nodded his head. 'They got what they deserved. That was a good horse they killed.'
'Wilson at the livery's got a good packhorse he'd like to sell, if you've got the money. I don't think he wants much for him.'
'I've got some money.'
'I'll amble over there and drop a word on him to let you have the horse for his lowest price. Then you get supplies and ride on.'
'Thanks, Sheriff.'
Without another word the sheriff turned and walked away, his deputies following.
The swamper mopped up the blood on the floor and sprinkled sawdust over the spot.
The saloon settled down to cards and low talk. The excitement was over. Killings were rare in the town, but nobody had really liked the kid who called himself Snake. He had been nothing but a smart-aleck troublemaker. He would not be missed.
* * * *
Frank Morgan pulled out early the next morning, after provisioning up at the general store. The man at the livery had tossed in a packsaddle for a couple of dollars, and Frank brought supplies, lashed them down, and pulled out before most of the town's citizens were up emptying the chamber pot.
Frank took it easy that morning, stopping often just to look around. It had been years since he'd been in this part of New Mexico territory, and things had changed somewhat. Hell of a lot more people, for one thing. Seemed like there were settlers nearly everywhere he looked.
For his nooning, Frank settled down in the shade by a fast-running little creek that came straight down from the mountains and had him a sandwich the lady at the general store had been kind enough to fix for him ... for a dime.
Frank still wondered about the change in attitude of the local sheriff the day before. Some lawdogs could be real bastards, while others were fairly decent sorts once you got past all the bluster. But it had been many a year since any badge-toter had gotten too lippy with Frank Morgan. One tried to shove Frank around down in Texas -- back around '75, he thought it was. Wasn't any gunplay involved that day, but Frank had sure cleaned the loudmouth's plow with his fists.
Frank ate his sandwich and then rested for a time while his horses grazed. Then he stood up and stretched. Felt good. Frank was just a shade over six feet, lean-hipped, broad-shouldered, with smooth, natural musculature. At forty-five years old, Frank was still a powerful man. Not the hoss he used to be, but close enough. His thick hair was dark brown, graying now at the temples. Pale gray eyes.
Frank wore a .45 Colt Peacemaker, right side, low and tied down. He carried another Colt Peacemaker in his saddlebags. A Winchester rifle was stuck down in a saddle boot. On the left side of his belt he carried a long- bladed knife in a sheath. He occasionally used that knife to shave with. He was as handy with it as he was with a pistol.
Frank reluctantly left the peaceful setting of the creek and the shade and rode on slowly toward the north. He did not have a specific destination in mind; he was just rambling.
Frank had worked the winter in a line shack, looking after a rancher's cattle in a section of the high country. He still had most of his winter's wages.
Frank did have a dream: a small spread of his own in a quiet little valley with good graze and water. He occasionally opened a picture book in his mind and gazed at the dream, but the mental pages were slightly torn and somewhat tattered now. The dream had never materialized. Twice Frank had come close to having that little spread. Both times his past had caught up with him, and the local citizens in the nearest town had frozen him out. Nobody wanted the West's most notorious gunfighter as a neighbor.
Frank let part of his mind wander some as he rode, the other part remained vigilant. For the most part, Indian trouble was just about all over, except for a few young bucks who occasionally broke from the reservations and caused trouble. Those incidents usually didn't last long, and almost always ended with a pile of dead
