'Your gun's in leather. I'm holdin' mine in my hand, Morgan.'
'You'll still die. Don't be a fool, man. If I don't get you, my deputy will.'
Jerry had moved about fifteen feet to Frank's right.
'What caused all this?' Frank asked the shooter.
'He called me a liar, and then threatened to kill me. I don't see I had no choice.'
'He's right, Marshal,' a customer said. 'I heard and seen it all.'
'All right,' Frank replied. 'If it was self-defense, you've got no problem. Why are you looking for trouble with me?'
''Cause you ain't takin' me to jail -- that's why.'
'I didn't say anything about jail, partner. I just asked you to put your gun away.'
'You ain't gonna try to haul me off to jail?'
'No. Not if you shot in self-defense. Now put that pistol back in your holster.'
'All right, Marshal,' the shooter said. 'I'm doin' it real easy like.'
The man slipped his pistol back into leather and leaned against the bar. Frank walked over to the dead man on the floor and knelt down. The dead man's gun was about a foot from the body, and it was cocked. Obviously he had cleared leather when he was hit. Frank stood up. 'I need some names.'
'My name's Ed Clancy,' the shooter said. 'I don't know the name of the guy who was trouble-huntin'.'
'Anybody know who he is?' Frank asked. 'Or where he's from?'
No one did.
'Get the undertaker. Jerry,' Frank said.
Jerry left the saloon, and Frank walked over to the shooter by the bar. 'Where are you from, Ed?'
'Colorado. I come down here to look for gold.'
'Gold?'
'Yeah. But there ain't none. Not enough of it to mess with, anyways.'
The bartender was standing close by, and Frank ordered coffee. 'You have a permanent address, Ed?'
'Not no more. You want me to stick around town for a day or so?'
'If you don't mind.'
'I'll stay. I don't mind. Reason I got my back up was I figured you was gonna kill me, Morgan. I'm sorry I crowded you.'
'That's all right, Ed. I understand. Where are you staying in town?'
'Over at Mrs. Miller's boardin' house.'
'Thanks, Ed. I'll probably have all the paperwork done by tomorrow, and you can pull out after that if you've a mind to.'
'Thanks, Marshal. You're all right in my book.'
Undertaker Malone came in, and Frank and Jerry watched as he went through the dead man's pockets looking for some identification. There was nothing.
Malone stood up. 'He's got enough money to bury him proper, Marshal. But no name.'
Jerry had circulated through the crowd in the Red Horse, asking about the dead man. No one knew who he was.
'Put his gun and everything you found in his pockets on the bar, Malone,' Frank said. 'I'll hold it at the office.'
'How 'bout his boots?' Malone asked. 'They're near brand-new.'
'Bury him with them on.'
'That seems a shame and a waste to me. Marshal.'
'Did I ask you?'
'No, sir.'
'Then get him out of here. Jerry, start poking around and see if you can locate the man's horse. I'll be here for a few more minutes.'
Frank drank his coffee and watched while the body was carried out. The saloon swamper came over and mopped up the blood, then sprinkled sawdust over the wet spot. Frank waited by the bar until Jerry returned.
'Man's horse was over at the livery, Frank. But no saddlebags, and no rifle in the boot.'
'All right. We'll check the hotel and the rooming houses tonight. If we don't have any luck there, we'll start checking the empty houses and tents in the morning.'
'Might not ever know who he is,' Jerry opined.
'That might very well be true. Jerry. The West is full of unmarked graves.' _I've put a few men in those
