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Nellie, with him.
    â€œHorace!” Maxwell and Bernard both said at once.
    â€œWhat a dismal little village,” Nellie remarked, looking around her. “I am told there is no hotel.”
    â€œOnly a few rooms above the saloon,” Bernard said. “But I was just informed there is a boardinghouse on a side street.”
    â€œWe anticipated few accommodations,” Aaron Steele said, walking up to the group, his wife, Ethel, by his side. “Which is why we endeavored to have our wagons equipped as lavishly as was humanly possible.”
    â€œIs there a place to bathe in this depressing mud hole?” Ethel inquired.
    â€œA bathhouse behind the barbershop,” Bernard told her. “It’s primitive, but functional. You must bring your own soap, however.”
    â€œAre those two fellows going to shoot one another?” Aaron asked, staring at Frank and the challenger.
    â€œI rather believe the moment has passed,” Bernard said. “From here, it seems Frank Morgan is unwilling to draw his pistol.”
    â€œWell, poo!” Ethel said. “I wanted to see a Wild West shoot-out.”
    â€œOh, you will, my dear,” her husband assured her. “Before this is over, we’ll see several, I’m sure.”
    Frank’s challenger lost his grit. His shoulders sagged and he took several deep breaths. “All right, Drifter,” he said. “You win this round. But they’s gonna be another day.”
    â€œThere usually is,” Frank said. “But like the Indians say: Any day is a good day to die.”
    The stranger turned and walked away. Frank stepped off the boardwalk and into the light drizzle that continued to fall. The sky had cleared a bit that morning; now clouds were once more rolling in and the drizzle would be only a precursor to more heavy rain.
    Frank walked over to the growing crowd of Easterners and stopped in front of Maxwell Crawford. He stood for a moment, staring at the rich Yankee. “You one of the men who put up money to hunt me?”
    â€œThere are several rifles trained on you right now, Morgan,” Maxwell said. “Accost me and you’re dead in the street.”
    â€œToo damn yellow to do your own fighting, are you?”
    â€œI’ll have you know I’m quite a good boxer, Morgan. I daresay you’re never fought with your fists, so if I were you, I’d not push too hard.”
    Frank stared at the man for a moment, then began laughing. The more he laughed, the madder Maxwell Crawford became.
    â€œHere now, you dolt!” Maxwell demanded. “Stop that!”
    Frank took off his hat and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his laughter gradually fading to a chuckle. “I needed that, Tough Man,” Frank said. “Thanks for brightening my day.”
    â€œNeeded that?” Maxwell almost shouted the words. “What do you mean by that, you . . . you . . . misbegotten cretin?”
    â€œA good laugh, that’s what I mean. Thanks for that.”
    â€œYou were laughing at me?” Maxwell said, his face deepening with a flush. “That ’Tough Man’ remark was fraught with sarcasm. I demand an apology!”
    Frank looked at the man, then quietly told him where he could stick his demand . . . sideways and with great force.
    â€œOh, my stars and garters!” Wilma said, putting a hand to her forehead. “How crude!”
    Several locals who were standing on the boardwalk began laughing.
    â€œStop that!” Bernard shouted, whirling around. “Vulgarity is not in the least amusing.”
    â€œI should thrash you!” Maxwell shouted at Frank.
    â€œIn your dreams, Cream Puff,” Frank told him.
    â€œCream Puff?” Maxwell yelled. “Cream Puff! That does it. Prepare to defend yourself, you ignorant oaf!”
    â€œI’ll be your second,” Bernard offered.
    â€œThat’s fair,” Horace Vanderhoot said. “After all,