"That two-bit star don't mean a damn thing to me," the man said.
"Yeah," his partner said. "Why don't you sit down and be quiet, Marshal?"
"I don't believe this," Jerry muttered, pushing back his chair and standing up.
"Back off, mister," a customer said softly. "That's Frank Morgan."
Both miners went suddenly slack-jawed and bug-eyed for a few seconds. They exchanged worried glances. The bigger of the pair finally found his voice. "Sorry, Marshal Morgan. I guess we stepped over the line there."
"It's all right, boys," Frank told them. "Sit down and have breakfast and cool down. The food is mighty good here."
"Good idea," the other miner said. "I am hungry as a hog. Ain't neither one of us et since noon yesterday. After we eat maybe we can talk about the big gold strike."
"Right," Frank agreed with a small smile. "The big gold strike."
Frank and Jerry sat back down and Jerry said, "We're really in for it if there is a rumor about gold here."
"More than you know, Jerry. I've been in towns after several hundred very angry miners learned strike rumors were false. It can get real ugly in a hurry."
"Look there," Jerry said, cutting his eyes to the street.
Frank turned his head and watched as a dozen or so riders, all leading packhorses, rode up the street. "Yeah. And it'll get worse."
"At least they're not gunslicks."
"Not yet," Frank said. "They'll come next, with the gamblers and con artists and whores."
"There's Mrs. Browning's son," Jerry said. "Sneakin' around like he's been doin' for the past couple of days. He seems to be watchin' you, Frank."
Frank looked and shook his head. "I thought I saw him yesterday snooping around. That boy is mighty curious about me."
"Any reason he should be?"
Before Frank could reply, the front door burst open. "It's the Pine gang!"
"Here?" Frank blurted, jumping to his feet.
"Well..." the man said. "One of them."
Frank relaxed just a bit. "One?"
"Who is it, Pete?" Angie called.
"That Moran kid. I seen him personal on the edge of town. He's just sittin' his horse and watchin'."
"Kid Moran?" Frank asked. "Here? Part of the Pine gang?"
"Yes," Jerry replied. "But that can't be proved. At least no one's ever come forward. I don't think there are any dodgers out on him, either."
"Why would he be comin' here?" a customer asked.
"Probably to try me," Frank said. "He's a gun-happy kid looking for a reputation.
"He's already killed five or six men," said the man who brought the news. "Maybe more than that."
"About that," Frank said. "Wounded two, three more. He's quick, so I hear."
Jerry had a worried look. "Moran is young and fast, Frank."
Frank smiled. "And I'm older and faster, Jerry. But maybe it won't come to that. We'll see." Frank picked up his coffee cup and drank the last couple of swallows. Then he walked toward the door.
"Frank," Angie called.
With his hand on the door handle, Frank cut his eyes.
"It might be a setup," she said.
"Might be, Angie. We'll see." Frank stepped out onto the boardwalk and looked up the street. The Kid was still there, sitting his horse. Frank leaned against a support post and waited for The Kid to make the first move.
Kid Moran spotted Frank and began slowly walking his horse toward the center of town. Frank got his first good look ever at the young man with the growing reputation as a gunslick. The Kid was of average height and weight, and slender built.
As he drew closer, Frank could see only two things that were menacing about the Kid: the matched pair of .45's belted around his waist. But Frank also knew that some people saw beauty in a scorpion, a tarantula, and a rattlesnake.
Kid Moran was as deadly as they came, Frank knew, and he also knew that The Kid was lightning fast.
The Kid rode slowly toward Frank. He touched the brim of his hat and smiled at Frank as he rode past. _More of a smirk than a smile_, Frank thought as he held up one hand in return greeting.
He watched The Kid rein in at a hitch rail in front of the general store and dismount. Frank decided against going over to the store ... at least not yet. He did not want to provoke an incident with The Kid. Frank felt The Kid would try him, sooner or later.
Conrad Browning walked up the boardwalk -- Frank had not seen him cross the street -- and stopped just to Frank's left. "Good morning, Marshal Morgan."
"'Mornin', Conrad. You always up this early?"
"Always. I like to open up the office for mother. It's just one less thing for her to do."
"Very conscientious of you."
"Marshal? May I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Sometimes you speak as if you had attended some sort of institution of higher education. Other times you don't. Why is that?"
Frank smiled at the question. "I read a lot, Conrad. I always have at least one book in my saddlebags. I enjoy reading."
"I see. Who is your favorite author?"
"I don't think I have one. A while back I did get interested in this fellow Plato. He has quite a way with words."
"Plato? Ummm. Yes, I would say he does."
Hal was across the street, watching Conrad as he chatted with Frank. Jimmy and Hal were taking no chances, figuring that if the outlaws couldn't grab Vivian they might try for her son. Kid Moran was still inside the general store.
"Who is that young man that just rode into town, Marshal?" Conrad asked. "He seems to be of great interest to you."
"A gunfighter. Calls himself Kid Moran."
"Kid Moran. How quaint. He appears to be still in his teen years."
"He's about twenty, I reckon. But he's shot more than his share of men."
"Why?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why did he shoot them?"
"I reckon 'cause he wanted to. Trying to build himself a reputation as a gunslick."
"And that's important out here?"
Again, Frank smiled. "Well ... it is to some folks, Conrad."
"Sort of like being the town bully, I suppose."
Frank nodded his head. "Yes, that's a very good way of putting it."
"But with a gun."
"Yes."
"Thank you, Marshal. I believe I have a better understanding of the West now. You have a nice day." Conrad strolled off toward the Henson office building.
"Strange boy," Frank muttered, "In many ways, more man than boy."
Kid Moran stepped out of the general store and leaned against an awning post. He stared across the street at the marshal.
_What's wrong with this?_ Frank thought. _Something isn't right, but I can't put my finger on it._
Frank looked up at the buildings across the street. Was there a second shooter on a rooftop somewhere? If so, was it in front or behind him? Had Pine or Vanbergen sent The Kid in to check out things, or had The Kid come in on his own?
The cafe door opened behind him and Jerry asked, "What's wrong, Frank?"
"I don't know, Jer. Maybe nothing. But I've got a funny feeling about this thing."
"Far as I know, this is the first time The Kid has ever ridden in alone."
"He's been here before, then?"