''Night, Jer.'
At the funeral parlor, Frank walked into the back, where the nude body of the stranger was on a narrow table. Malone was preparing the body for burial. He looked up as Frank strolled in.
'No identification on the body, Marshal. He had fifty dollars on him. Ten dollars in silver, the rest in paper. His gun and clothes and boots are over there on that table next to the wall.'
Frank carefully inspected the dead man's boots and gunbelt for a hidden compartment. There was nothing. 'I'll pick up the gun and rig in the morning,' he told Malone.
Malone nodded his head and kept working on the body. Frank got out of there. He walked over to the livery and asked if anyone fitting the dead man's description had stabled his horse there. The night holster nodded and pointed to a roan in a stall.
'Where's his saddle?' Frank asked.
'In the storeroom. Saddle, saddlebags, and rifle in a boot. Far right-hand corner.'
Frank carried the gear over to the office and stored it as quietly as possible. Jerry was already in his room, in his bunk, snoring softly. Frank would go through the saddlebags in the morning, but he didn't expect to find anything in the way of identification. The grave would be just another unmarked one in a lonely cemetery. The West had hundreds of such graves. On the Oregon Trail, it was said, there were two or three graves for every mile of the pioneer trek westward. And still the people came, hundreds every week.
During his wanderings, Frank had seen countless abandoned cabins. He wondered how many of the pioneers gave up after a few years and went back east.
Frank locked up the office and walked over to the Silver Spoon for a cup of coffee. The place was dark, closed for the night.
He began making his rounds of the town, checking the doors of the businesses. He cut up the alley and came out near the Henson Enterprises building. He watched the building for a moment, then decided to check the windows and back door. The back door was unlocked.
Frank pushed open the door and saw the faint glint of lamplight under the door, coming from Viv's office. Frank put his hand on the butt of his .45.
Then the door opened and Conrad stepped out. He spotted the dark shape of Frank and gasped, 'Oh, my God! Don't shoot?'
'Damn, boy!' Frank said. 'What the hell are you doing down here this time of night?'
'Marshal! Well ... doing some necessary paperwork. Mother neglected her duties this afternoon. Mr. Dutton arrived on the stage, and was displeased to find mother gone gallivanting about the countryside while so much work was left unattended here.'
'Who the hell is Dutton?'
'Our company's chief attorney.'
'What business is it of his what the president of Henson Enterprises does in her spare time?'
'I resent your tone, Marshal!'
'I don't give a damn what you resent. Your mother and I are old friends -- a friendship that goes back twenty years. If she wants to go riding and relax, that's her business -- none of yours, and sure as hell none of this Dutton fellow's. Is that clear, Conrad?'
'If you're such 'old friends'' -- the young man put a lot of grease on the last two words -- 'why weren't you mentioned before now? Personally, I think you're both lying. What is it between you and my mother?'
'We're friends, Conrad. That's all. As to why I wasn't mentioned years back ... well, after all, I do have something of an unsavory reputation. In very polite Boston society it just wouldn't do for your mother to let people know she was friends with a gunfighter.'
'Ummm. Well, you're certainly correct in that assumption. But I still believe there is more ... a lot more than either of you are willing to tell. And I shall make it my business to find out what.'
Frank sighed. The young man was a bulldog, no doubt about that. 'Whatever, Conrad. Where is this Dutton fellow?'
'At the hotel.'
'Come on, then. Close up the place, and I'll escort you back to the house.'
'I am perfectly capable of seeing myself home, Marshal. I bought a pistol today.'
'God help us all,' Frank muttered.
'Beg pardon?'
'Nothing, Conrad. What kind of pistol?'
'This one,' Conrad said, reaching inside his coat and hauling out a Colt Frontier double action revolver. He pointed it at Frank, and Frank quickly pushed the muzzle to one side and took the weapon.
Frank stepped closer to the light streaming through the open door and inspected the pistol. A .45 caliber. 'It's a good pistol, Conrad. Have you fired it yet?'
'Certainly not! And I won't until it becomes necessary.'
'I ... see. I think.'
'It shouldn't take too much expertise to discharge a firearm. One simply points the weapon and pulls the trigger. Right, Marshal?'
'Well -- '
