crowded around to congratulate him as he left the saloon, of course. They always did. Frank accepted their words with polite nods, but then the sight of a rider trotting along the street caught his attention. The man on horseback was the fella he had sent to Carson City with the wire for his lawyers in San Francisco.
“Howdy, Phil,” Frank hailed him. “You get a reply back from that telegram?”
“Sure did, Marshal,” the man said as he reined in. He reached into the pocket of his cowhide vest and took out a folded paper. “Here you go.”
“I’m much obliged.” Frank took the paper and handed Phil a gold eagle in turn. The man had worked as a miner until he developed a cough that kept him from spending long hours underground. He still had a family to feed, though, so Frank had him doing odd jobs and running errands such as this whenever the need arose.
Frank opened the message, read it, and nodded in satisfaction.
“What’s it say?” Catamount Jack asked.
“Leaving immediately for Buckskin, stop. Will arrive Friday latest, stop. Am confident of victory, stop. Look forward to meeting you Morgan, stop. Signed, Turnbuckle.”
“That’s one o’ those lawyer hombres, right?”
Frank nodded. “One of the best lawyers west of the Mississippi, or at least he’s supposed to be. I reckon we’ll find out whether he is or not.” He looked around. “Claude Langley?”
“Here he comes with that meat wagon o’ his right now.”
More work for the undertaker, Frank thought. All because two young fools had thought more of gun glory than they did of their own lives.
He bet his coffee was cold by now, too.
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