Before Frank could reply, Bobby said, 'I'm a-comin' out, too. Let's see if he's got the courage to face the both of us!'
'Bring your bleeding butt on, Biggs!' Frank yelled. 'If all your courage hasn't leaked out of your ass, that is.' He checked to see his own pistol was loaded up full, then slipped it into leather, working it in and out several times to insure a smooth draw.
Bobby was hollering and cussing Frank, scarcely pausing for breath.
Frank walked up to the mouth of the alley and stepped out to the edge of the street.
Bobby stopped cussing.
Billy Jeff said, 'Step out into the center of the street, Morgan, and face the men who is about to kill you.'
'Not likely, Biggs. The only way scum like you could kill me is by ambush.'
That started Bobby cussing again. He paused every few seconds to moan and groan about his wounded ass.
The residents of the tiny town had gathered along the edge of the street to watch the fight. Some had fixed sandwiches; others had a handful of crackers or a pickle.
This was exciting. Not much ever happened in the tiny village, which as yet had no official name.
'Make your play, Biggs!' Frank called.
Billy Jeff fumbled at his gun and Frank let him clear leather before he pulled and fired, all in one very smooth, clean movement. The bullet struck Billy Jeff in the belly and knocked him down in the dirt. Frank holstered and waited. He smiled at Bobby Biggs.
Bobby was yelling and groping for his pistol, which was stuck behind his wide belt. Frank drew and shot him in the chest, and forever ended his moaning and griping about his butt. Bobby stretched out on the street and was still. The bullet had shattered his heart.
Frank never knew what made him do it, but on that day he twirled his pistol a couple of times before sliding it back into leather. He did it smoothly, effortlessly, and with a certain amount of flair.
A young boy in the crowd exclaimed, 'Mommy, did you see that? Golly!'
'I never seen no one jerk a pistol like that,' a man said to a friend.
'He sure got it out in a hurry,' his friend replied. 'And a damned fancy way of holstering that thing, too.'
Frank was certainly not the first to utilize a fast draw, but he was one of the first, along with Jamie MacCallister and an East Texas gunhand whose name has been lost to history.
Frank looked over at the crowd to his left. 'This town got an undertaker?'
'No,' a man said. 'We ain't even got a minister or a schoolmarm.'
'We just get the bodies in the ground as soon as we can,' another citizen said. 'Unless it's wintertime. Then we put 'em in a shed where they'll freeze and keep pretty well 'til the ground thaws and we can dig a hole.'
'They ain't real pretty to look at after a time, but they don't smell too bad,' his friend said.
'If you don't stay around 'em too long,' another man added.
'You can have their gear and guns for burying these men,' Frank told the crowd. 'And whatever money they have. Deal?'
'Deal,' a man said. 'Sounds pretty good to me. They had some fine horses. The horses is included, right?'
'Sure.'
'I hope they ain't stolen,' a townsman said. 'Say, I heard them call you Morgan -- you got a first name?'
'Frank.'
'You just passin' though, Frank?' There was a rather hopeful sound to the question.
'Just stopping in town long enough to pick up a few supplies,' Frank assured the crowd.
'All right. Well, I reckon we'd better get these bodies gathered up and planted.'
'I'll help,' a citizen volunteered.
'I'll get their horses,' another said. 'I got a bad back, you know -- can't handle no shovel.'
'Sure you do, Otis. Right.'
Frank turned and walked away, back to the store to get his supplies and to return the shotgun to the man.
'Hell of a show out there, Mr. Morgan,' the shopkeeper told him.
'Not one that I wanted the leading role in, though.'
'I suppose not. Where do you go from here?'
'Just drifting.'
'Back from the war?'
