He ended with, 'This attorney, whoever he is -- and Viv told me they have a couple of dozen lawyers, maybe more than that, working for the company -- has some big ideas, I think. Ideas about controlling the various companies that make up Henson Enterprises. But first he has to get rid of Vivian.'
Jerry slowly nodded his head. 'OK. But that still leaves the son.'
'Who is not twenty-one years old, and legally can't do a damn thing until he is.'
'Ah! Yeah. I'm getting the picture now. But you have no proof of any of this.'
'Not a bit. It's all speculation on my part.'
'Now what?'
'Now I go visit the saloons.'
'You saw the men who attacked you?'
'No. But if I show up where they are, one of them just might get nervous and tip his hand.'
'Could be. Want me to tag along?'
'No. You do the early business check on Main Street. I'll handle this on my own.'
The men sat for few minutes and drank a cup of coffee. The cell block area of the jail, for the first time in a long time, was empty. Frank finished his coffee and stood up to leave. He really wanted another cup, for Jerry made good coffee, but he had a lot to do, and wanted to get started. He could get a cup in one of the saloons, although theirs usually tasted the way horse liniment smelled.
Frank tucked the short-barreled Peacemaker behind his gunbelt, butt forward on the left side, and headed out. He had filed the sight off so it would not hang up.
His first stop was the Silver Slipper Saloon, and it was doing a booming business. He walked through the saloon, speaking to a few of the patrons. Just as he was about to exit out the back way, he cut his eyes over to a far corner table and stopped. Big Bob Mallory was sitting alone. Frank had thought Big Bob was long gone, for he hadn't seen him in a couple of weeks. He walked over and sat down.
'Make yourself right at home, Frank,' Bob said. 'Uninvited, of course.'
'I was hoping I'd seen the last of you, Bob. I thought you'd long rattled your hocks.'
'I been here and there, Frank. But I'll leave when I get damn good and ready.'
'Where were you this afternoon?'
'Not that it's any of your damn business, but I was playin' poker over at the Red Horse. All afternoon. Check it out if you don't believe me.'
'I will, and I don't believe you. I wouldn't believe anything you had to say even if you were standing in the presence of God.'
Bob smiled at him. 'You're not goin' to rile me into pullin' on you, Morgan. Not now. I'm tellin' you the truth 'bout this afternoon. You'll see.'
'Don't screw up in this town, Bob. I told you before, and I'm telling you now.'
Bob smiled at him and said nothing.
Frank pushed back his chair and walked away, exiting out the back door, stepping into the night. The darkness was broken only by the faint glint off the many empty whiskey bottles that littered the ground. Someone was grunting in the outhouse. Frank ignored that and walked on, up the alley and back onto the street. He stood in the mouth of the alley for a moment.
The foot traffic was heavy early in the evening -- mostly miners wandering from saloon to saloon to whorehouses located at each end of the town, just past the town limits.
Frank stepped out of the alley and starting walking toward the Red Horse Saloon. He hadn't gone a dozen steps before three shots blasted the air. The sound was muffled, and Frank knew they came from inside a building. Probably the Red Horse.
'Here we go again,' Frank said, and began running toward trouble.
--------
*Sixteen*
Just before Frank reached the entrance to the Red Horse, a man staggered out, both hands holding his bloody stomach and chest. The gut-shot man fell off the boardwalk and collapsed on the edge of the street. He groaned in pain and tried to rise. He didn't make it. He died in the dirt before Frank could reach him.
Frank pushed open the batwings and stepped inside the smoky saloon. The large crowd had shifted away from the bar, leaving the long bar empty except for two young men dressed in black, each of them wearing two guns, tied down low. Frank guessed them to be in their early twenties. The music and singing had ceased; the crowd was still, and gunsmoke hung in the air.
_Trouble-hunting punks_, Frank thought. _Well, they've damn sure found it._ 'What happened here?' Frank said.
'Who the hell are you?' one of the young men at the bar asked belligerently.
'The marshal. I asked what happened here.'
'He got lippy and wanted trouble -- that's what. We gave it to him.'
'Both of you shot him?'
'Yeah,' the other young trouble-hunter mouthed off. 'What's it to you, Mr. Marshal?'
'Sonny boy,' Frank said, taking a step closer to the young men. 'I've had all the mouth I'm going to take
