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softly.
    â€œI’m tired of this,” Ed said. “Drag iron, gunfighter.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Frank said calmly. “It’s too pretty a day for a gunfight.”
    â€œWhat?” Ed shouted. “What the hell has the weather got to do with anything?”
    â€œEverything,” Frank told him.
    â€œI think you’re crazy!” the young man said.
    â€œCould be,” Frank agreed. “I’ve sure been called worse. How about you?”
    â€œHow ’bout me what?”
    â€œAre you crazy?”
    â€œHell, no, I ain’t crazy!”
    â€œAre you sure? You seem sort of crazy to me.”
    â€œAre you callin’ me crazy?”
    â€œMaybe a little.”
    Many in the still-growing crowd began to smile; still others began to chuckle as they sensed what Frank was doing. Frank Morgan didn’t want to shoot the young man; he was turning the townspeople against Ed Simpson. And it was working.
    â€œAw, go on, Ed,” a man hollered. “Get on back home and act your age.”
    â€œYou shut up, George!” Ed yelled. “This is none of your business.”
    â€œAnd this isn’t Dodge City, Kansas,” a woman shouted. “We’re a law-abiding community here. So just go on home, Ed.”
    â€œNot until I do what I come here to do!” Ed yelled. “And I come here to face Frank Morgan and collect the bounty that’s on his head. And by God, that’s what I aim to do.”
    Ed had turned away from Frank as he talked to the crowd. He did not see Frank move swiftly off the boardwalk and come up behind him. He felt someone tap him on the shoulder, and turned around just in time to catch Frank’s hard right fist on the side of his jaw. Ed Simpson collapsed onto the dirt of the street, out cold.
    Frank reached down, jerked Ed’s pistol from leather, and handed it to the marshal. “Keep this, will you, Marshal? Until someone can talk some sense into this boy’s head.”
    â€œYou could have shot him, Morgan,” a man stated.
    â€œI didn’t want to shoot him,” Frank replied. “He’ll have a headache and a sore jaw when he wakes up, but he’ll be alive.”
    â€œAnd he’ll be comin’ for you,” another local said. “He’ll be mad as a hornet.”
    â€œHe won’t come after Morgan if he’s in jail,” the marshal said. “Some of you boys carry him over to the jail, will you? We’ll let him cool off in a cell for a few hours. Matthew, will you ride out to the Simpson spread and tell his daddy what happened here? Tell him to come in and fetch his boy.”
    â€œSure thing, Marshal.”
    Ed Simpson was toted off to the jail and the crowd began to drift away. Frank stepped back up on the boardwalk to stand by Lawyer Whitter.
    â€œYou saved Ed’s life, Mr. Morgan,” the attorney said. “Most men would have just shot him and been done with it.”
    â€œIt would suit me if I never had to shoot another man,” Frank replied. “Hell, I really didn’t want to shoot the first one ... and that was many years ago. After it was over, I got sick and puked all over the place.”
    â€œWow!” Johnny Whitter said. He had stopped to watch the action on his way to stable the horses. “Frank Morgan right here in town. I can’t hardly believe it. How come you didn’t hook and draw and shoot Ed Simpson, Mr. Morgan? I would have liked to seen that.”
    â€œNo, you wouldn’t, Johnny,” Frank told him. “There is nothing pleasant about seeing a gunfight.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” the boy replied. “I ain’t never seen one.”
    â€œAin’t?” his father said sharply.
    â€œI mean, I’ve never seen one,” Johnny quickly said.
    â€œThat’s better, son. Now go tend to Mr. Morgan’s horses.”
    â€œYes, sir. I’m going.”
    Frank