Kid Moran and Big Bob Mallory were back in town. They were doing nothing to help out, just sitting and watching as the town struggled to pull itself out of the wreckage and cope with the heavy loss of life.
Frank didn't push the pair. There had been quite enough killing. But he knew they were there for a showdown. It was just a matter of time. With The Kid it was an ego thing. Kid Moran wanted a reputation. Frank still wasn't certain who was paying Big Bob, but Charles Dutton was at the top of his list.
Dutton was Conrad's shadow that day, all concern and sorrow and sympathy, and the young man was certainly receptive. Frank didn't, couldn't, blame the boy. Conrad didn't have any idea what was going on; apparently Vivian had never gotten around to talking with her son about her deep and dark feelings concerning Dutton.
_And now it's too late_, Frank thought with a silent sigh. _Too late for a lot of things._
He was tired and taking a break, sitting on the bench outside the marshal's office, having a cup of coffee. Late afternoon shadows were creeping about the streets of the mountain town, creating little pockets of darkness in hidden corners. This had always been one of Frank's favorite times of the day, when dusk was reaching out to slowly melt and mingle with sunlight. But on this day of tragedy he was filled with various emotions: a hard sense of loss, a feeling of impending doom, a sense that his time in the mining town was nearly over; other emotions that were strong but not yet identifiable. Well ... one of the emotions was certainly familiar -- the feeling that he had screwed up his life beyond salvaging.
Frank was a middle-aged man with a very dubious past, and not much of a future.
And damned if he knew how he could change it.
The voice of Dr. Bracken broke into his thoughts. 'You mind some company, Marshal?'
Frank looked up. 'Not at all, Doc. Glad to have some company.' He scooted over on the bench. 'Might improve my disposition.'
Bracken looked at the cup in Frank's hand. 'That coffee drinkable?'
'You bet. Hot and fresh.' Frank started to rise. 'I'll get you a cup.'
Doc Bracken put a hand on his shoulder. 'Sit still. I'll get it.' He walked into the office. A moment later, a mug of coffee in his hand, Bracken sat down on the bench. 'You were deep in thought, Marshal, your face a study in emotion. Anything you want to talk about?'
'Oh, not really, Doc. I guess I was just sitting here sort of feeling sorry for myself.'
'You do that often?'
Frank smiled. 'Not very often, Doc. Looking over the wreckage of this town brought it on, I suppose.'
'That and Mrs. Browning,' the doctor said softly.
'Yes. That, too.'
'Frank, the West is still a small place, speaking in terms of population. Hell, man, half the town knew that you and Vivian Browning ... ah, Henson ... were once married. Many of those knew that old man Henson trumped up some false charges against you, and you had to leave. The story was all over the West back then. Newcomers, Johnny-come-latelies, don't know it, but we old-timers do. I've had people today, in the midst of all this tragedy, tell me that it's admirable how well you're holding up. Most of the people here in town, the regulars, the permanent residents ... why, they like you, Frank. They've found that all your dark reputation is pure bunk. For whatever it's worth, the town is behind you.'
'Doc, I'm going to hunt down that gang -- every member -- and I'm going to kill them, all of them. My reputation is about to get a lot darker.'
'Only one man was cranking that Gatling gun, Frank.'
'But they were all involved. And no one tried to stop that one man.'
'I can't argue that point.
'Viv and me, Doc, we were picking up the pieces. We were going to start all over. Move to California, maybe, where very few people have even heard of me...'
That got Frank a quick, sharp look from Doc Bracken. Frank Morgan still didn't realize that most people over the age of eight had heard of him. He didn't know that there had been dozens and dozens of newspaper articles written about him. People knew about Frank Morgan's exploits from coast-to-coast and border-to-border. Now many in the press were beginning to call him the last gunfighter -- Frank Morgan, the Last Gunfighter.
'All that's gone up in a few minutes of gunsmoke. Vivian is lying in a coma, dying. My' -- Frank caught himself, but not before Dr. Bracken picked up on the hesitation -- 'her son won't speak to me. He blames me for all that's happened. Hell, maybe he's right. Not entirely, but partly. I accept it. What choice do I have?'
'That's nonsense, Frank. She got caught in the line of fire -- that's what happened.'
Frank sighed. 'You don't know the whole story, Doc. And it's best you never do.'
'If you say so, Frank.' He took another sip of coffee. 'Good. I needed that. It's been a long day, and it's going to be an even longer night.'
'I'm sure.'
Jerry walked up, a toothpick in his mouth. 'Doc,' he greeted Bracken. 'You better go put on the feedbag, Frank. Angie's laid out quite a spread at the cafe.'
'Yeah, that's a good idea. I am kinda hungry. Doc, how about you?'
'In a little while. I want to check on a couple of patients first.'
When the doctor had gone. Jerry said, 'Big Bob Mallory was seen leavin' the hotel about fifteen minutes ago, totin' his rifle.'
'It's about time for the showdown, men. I've been feeling it coming for several hours. Where is Kid
