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at least. Probably more than that."
    â€œDo any of them ever come into town?"
    â€œQuite often. But never Pine or Vanbergen. The men who come in for supplies are not on any wanted list ... that anyone knows about.” Angie looked out the café window. “Frank, there are two members of the gang riding into town now."
    Frank followed her eyes, watching as two rough-dressed men rode slowly up the main street. “I know them,” he said. “They're related somehow. Cousins, I think. Both of them are wanted in Arkansas on murder charges. If this town had a marshal he'd be a thousand dollars richer by arresting those two."
    Frank smiled and pushed back his chair. “As a matter of fact, I could use a thousand dollars right now."
    â€œFrank...” Angie's voice held a warning note. “This isn't your fight. Don't get mixed up in this mess."
    â€œWatch me,” Frank replied, slipping the leather thong off the hammer of his pistol.
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    Five
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    Frank stepped out of the café and stood for a moment on the elevated boardwalk. It was built several feet off the ground due to a slope. The two riders stopped in front of the Silver Slipper Saloon and dismounted. They stood for a moment, giving the wide street the once-over. Their eyes lingered for a moment on Frank, and one said something to the other. The second man shook his head, and the pair of outlaws turned and walked into the saloon, apparently dismissing him as being someone who presented no danger to them.
    Frank slipped the hammer thong free and walked across the street, his boots kicking up dust as he walked, his spurs rattling softly. He stepped up onto the old boardwalk and stood for a moment, thinking about his next move. He had some money on him, but he could also use a thousand dollars.
    Frank was not a poor man by any means, but neither did he have money to throw around. He had some savings in a couple of Wells Fargo offices which were available to him by wire. He also had money sewn into a place behind the cantle of his saddle.
    Frank was no stranger to bounty hunting. He'd done his share of tracking down wanted men for the prices on their heads. He did it only when he needed the money. The men he tracked down were always wanted for murder, and it nearly always ended in a shoot-out, for most of them would rather die from a bullet than dangle from the end of a rope with a crowd of gawkers looking on. Then Frank had to tote their stinking bodies back as proof, so he could collect the reward. It could be very unpleasant ... and smelly.
    Frank had been a lawman more than once. It was a job he liked. He'd carried a badge in towns in Kansas, Texas, and several other places. But once he'd cleaned up the towns, seems like the “good” people no longer wanted him around. Frank never argued about it—just collected what money was due him, packed up, saddled up, and rode away without looking back. He understood how they felt, and harbored no malice toward any of them. It was human nature, and Frank understood that well. Frank had done a lot of riding away without looking back in his life—most of his life, as a matter of fact.
    Frank stepped up to the batwings and pushed them open, stepping inside the saloon.
    The two outlaws were at the far end of the long bar, having whiskies. They did not turn around to look at Frank as he walked in. For that time of day the saloon was doing a good business. About half the tables were filled with drinkers and card players. The young man from the livery was seated at a table with several older men. Several heavily painted, rouged, and powdered-up soiled doves were working the crowd—without a lot of luck, Frank observed.
    Frank walked to the bar and ordered a beer. He would have preferred coffee, but wanted to blend in for a few minutes without drawing undue attention to himself.
    The talk was mostly about the mines playing out, the town slowly dying, and all the silver