"Here we go again," Frank said, and began running toward trouble.
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*Sixteen*
Just before Frank reached the entrance to the Red Horse, a man staggered out, both hands holding his bloody stomach and chest. The gut-shot man fell off the boardwalk and collapsed on the edge of the street. He groaned in pain and tried to rise. He didn't make it. He died in the dirt before Frank could reach him.
Frank pushed open the batwings and stepped inside the smoky saloon. The large crowd had shifted away from the bar, leaving the long bar empty except for two young men dressed in black, each of them wearing two guns, tied down low. Frank guessed them to be in their early twenties. The music and singing had ceased; the crowd was still, and gunsmoke hung in the air.
_Trouble-hunting punks_, Frank thought. _Well, they've damn sure found it._ "What happened here?" Frank said.
"Who the hell are you?" one of the young men at the bar asked belligerently.
"The marshal. I asked what happened here."
"He got lippy and wanted trouble -- that's what. We gave it to him."
"Both of you shot him?"
"Yeah," the other young trouble-hunter mouthed off. "What's it to you, Mr. Marshal?"
"Sonny boy," Frank said, taking a step closer to the young men. "I've had all the mouth I'm going to take from either of you. I'll ask the questions, you answer them. Without the smart-aleck comments. Is that understood?" Frank took a couple more steps toward the pair.
One of the punks feigned great consternation at Frank's words. "Oh, my! I'm so frightened I might pee my drawers! How about you, Tom?"
"Oh, me, too, Carl. The old-timer's words is really makin' me nervous."
Both of them burst out laughing.
Frank took several more steps while the pair were braying like jackasses and hit Tom in the mouth with a hard straight left. The punch knocked the punk clean off his boots and deposited him on the floor. Frank turned slightly and drove his right fist into the belly of Carl. Carl doubled over and went to his knees, gagging and gasping for air.
Frank reached down and snatched the guns from Tom, tossed them on a table, and then pulled Carl's Colts from leather. He backed up, holding the punk's twin pistols, and waited.
Tom got to his feet first, his mouth leaking blood. He stood glaring at Frank.
Someone out on the boardwalk yelled, "Here comes Doc Bracken. Get out of the way, boys!"
"Get your friend on his feet," Frank told Tom. "Right now!"
Jerry pushed open the batwings just as both young trouble-hunters were on their feet, wobbly, but standing.
"Jerry," Frank said, "I want you to get statements from as many people as you can about this shooting. Get their names and tell them to drop by the office in the morning to verify and sign all they told you."
"Will do, Frank."
Frank motioned with the muzzle of the right hand Colt. "Move, boys. To the jail."
"It was self-defense, Marshal!" Tom shouted. "He was pesterin' us."
"That's a damn lie," a miner said. "It was them pesterin' the other guy. They goaded him into a gunfight. They pushed him real hard. I wouldn't have tooken near'bouts as much as that other feller took. He had to fight. That's all there was to it. They didn't give him no choice in the matter. None a'tall."
"Yore a damn liar, mister!" Carl said.
"Give your story to my deputy," Frank told the man. "Move, boys."
"You're makin' a mistake, Marshal," Carl said.
"Shut up and move. If the other man started the trouble, you can ride on out of town."
"You son of a bitch!" Tom cussed him.
"Be careful, boy," Frank warned him. "Don't let your ass overload your mouth."
Frank locked the pair up and once more hit the streets. He began prowling the new makeshift saloons, and there were about a dozen wood-frame, canvas-covered drinking spots that had sprung up since the new silver strike and the rumors of a major gold strike.
The evening's rambling and searching produced nothing. Frank could flush no one. He finally gave it up and returned to the office.
"Any luck?" Jerry asked.
Frank shook his head as he poured a mug of coffee. "If I did see them, they're mighty cool ole boys. I didn't produce a single bobble."
"I might be on to something," Jerry said.
"Oh?"
"Four men are living in a tent 'bout a mile out of town." He pointed. "That way. Off the west trail. They staked a claim, but no one's ever seen them working it. Man I've known since I come to town told me about them. Only reason he brought it up was 'cause those ole boys is real unfriendly and surly like. I questioned him some and he said he seen them ride out 'bout noon today, and they didn't come back 'til late afternoon."
"You did good, Jerry. I appreciate it."
"There's more, Frank. My friend thinks one of them has a bolt-action rifle."
Frank sugared his coffee and stirred slowly. "I'll pay those ole boys a visit first thing in the morning. Going up there tonight would be asking for trouble."
"It sure would. And it isn't against the law to be unfriendly."
Frank smiled. "You're right about that. If it was, half the population would be in jail. How did the questioning over at the saloon go?"
"Those two trouble-hunters we have locked up started the whole thing. They needled the other fellow into pulling on them. But the other guy did go for his gun first."
"They'll probably get off, then. If the other man drew first, I don't know of any major charges that could be brought against them. But we'll keep them locked up until the judge opens court. It's his mess to deal with now. You go on to bed, Jerry. I'll make the late rounds."
"You sure, Frank?"
"Oh, yeah. I'm not a bit sleepy. Besides, I need to go over to the funeral parlor and find out what I can about the dead man."
"See you in the morning, Frank."
"'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.