Longthrower.
'Where is my wife?' Reverend Longthrower demanded.
'I think she's in the saloon,' a citizen told him. 'I seen her goin' in there ... in her bloomers.'
'In her what?' Reverend Longthrower thundered.
'Her drawers.'
'Never!' the reverend roared.
'Hey, ever'body!' a man yelled from the saloon. 'Otis is in the privy yellin' that he's bein' attacked by an albino bear. Come on.'
Frank had a pretty good idea that the 'bear' would turn out to be Mrs. Longthrower ... in her drawers. That was not a sight he wished to see again. He told some men to get the body of the outlaw on the second floor and then went to check on Conrad and Jerry over at the doctor's makeshift hospital. Before he could cross the street Reverend Longthrower started hollering for his wife to get off of Otis.
'I imagine Otis would like that, too,' Frank muttered.
Conrad had refused to lie down and rest for a while, choosing to go to the office. Frank sat down on the edge of the bunk and talked with Jerry for a few minutes.
'Doc says the bullet didn't bit nothin' vital,' Jerry said. 'He says I just have to stay off my feet for a couple of days and rest.'
'You take as long as you need, Jer.' He smiled. 'I imagine Angie will see that you're well fed.'
Jerry blushed under his tan. 'Yeah. I 'spect she will.' He looked closer at Frank. 'You been hit, Frank! Your shoulder's bleedin.''
'It's just a scratch. I'm heading over to the office now to clean it up.'
'Take off your shirt, Frank,' Dr. Bracken said from behind him. 'Let me take a look at that wound.'
'It's nothing, Doc.'
'Take off your shirt. That's an order. You get blood poisoning, you won't think nothing.'
Doc Bracken cleaned and bandaged the wound, told Frank to take it easy for the rest of the day, and sent him on his way. Frank didn't want to tell the doctor he'd hurt himself worse than that peeling potatoes.
On his way back to the office, Frank ran into Louis Pettigrew. 'Marshal,' the writer said, 'I have made up my mind.'
'Oh?' Frank was staring at the man's bowler hat.
'Yes. I am going to write a series of books about you. Not just one, but perhaps a dozen.'
Frank did not reply, just stared at the man in stunned disbelief. He couldn't keep his eyes off the man's dude hat.
'I have wired my publisher, and am now awaiting his reply. I shall make it my life's work.'
'Your life's work?' Frank managed to say.
'Yes, sir. I shall outfit myself and follow you no matter where in the wilds you might decide to go. I shall chronicle the day to day living of the West's most celebrated but least known gunfighter. Won't that be grand?'
'Words fail me, Mr. Pettigrew.' _I gotta get out of here, and do it quickly_, Frank thought.
'As soon as I receive word from my publisher I shall make preparations,' Pettigrew said.
'To do what?' Frank asked.
'To make the West my home! I must say, this is very exciting.'
_I'll leave in the dead of night_, Frank thought. _Slip away like a thief._
'I just thought you would like to know about my decision, Marshal. And I hope you're as excited as I am.'
'Oh, I am, Mr. Pettigrew. I can't begin to tell you how your decision has affected me.'
Pettigrew patted Frank on the arm. 'I'm so pleased, Marshal. I really didn't know how you would react to the news.'
'I'm, ah, still trying to get used to the idea of you becoming a citizen of the West, Mr. Pettigrew.'
'I'm really excited about it.'
'I'm sure you are.'
'Well, then, I'll see you later on. We'll make an appointment to meet and start work on the first installment. Ta ta. Marshal.'
'Yeah,' Frank mumbled. 'Ta-ta to you, too.'
'What is the writer so happy about?' Mayor Jenkins asked, walking up just as Pettigrew was leaving.
'He's going to become a permanent resident of the West.'
'Really?'
'That's what he told me.'
'Well, he's certainly welcome. I just hope he gets rid of that damn silly hat,' the banker said, 'before
