~meanwhile, back in Prescott~
Frank looked at the other and just grunted. "Then I guess you aren't playing, no matter what kind of money you gots."
"Really? Do the others coincide with your thoughts? Oh, I am so sorry, apparently your vocabulary only includes up to two syllables and that of what? 'Youngster' grade level?" The sailing cowboy retorted, lifting up his hat.
Funny thing was, that was an insult, which usually gets people upset but besides the barkeep who just smirked, no one else knew what the stranger was saying.
"Judging by your smirk, stranger, I gots'ta'ben thinking you're making fun of me." Frank answered, leaning forward.
"Well, depends on if you get insulted by someone telling you my horse has more brains than you." The white-hat sailor retorted.
Frank then stood up, and everyone behind both him and the stranger got out of the way.
"Look, I dun't gett yor problem, but it's getting on my nerves." Frank added, stuttering.
"Well, stop stuttering and get to work. You notice," just then the stranger lifted up his jacket slowly to reveal no guns, "I'm unarmed, so if you'll be murdering me, then get to it."
Frank just looked shocked, and didn't know what to do, he looked around the bar trying to see what the others opinions were.
"Look Frank, it's simple, I just wanted to play, but if you'll be sending me eight feet down, then get to it."
"Eight, don't you mean six, stranger." One of the other players asked.
"Nope, six isn't nearly deep enough for me to be peaceful." Then the stranger's whole look got fearsome, his mouth showed a smile, but in his eyes was anything but happiness. "Get to work, Frank."
"Well, you're unermed." Frank replied.
"Yes, I am, and if you want to live it better stay that way."
Frank then just got a complete look of fear in his eyes and started to think about drawing his pistol. It was too late. The stranger kicked the table into him, knocking him in the groin area. By the time Frank even knew what was going on, the stranger was up and behind him, bashing his head into the bar, and knocking him out cold.
"See, told you." Was all the stranger said, looking down at the slumped miner. "His pelvic bone is probably broken now, the cartiledge holding it all together probably snapped, that wasn't the table you heard. Get him to a doc and don't let him walk for a week." The stranger said as he was rifling through Franks pockets. "No I'm not stealing nothing, just checking for anything to prove his name was Frank."
"We all knew him as Frank." The barkeep replied.
"Yeah we did, thanks stranger, we all didn't like him either." The second guy at the table said again, getting up and walking over. "No wonder you want eight." He then shook the strangers hand.
"You don't like him huh?" The stranger said as he took the gunbelt off, noticing that there were a pair of badly used and rusted 1858 Remingtons in the holster. "Then let's get rid of him then." Then the stranger, who didn't look that big, picked up Frank over his shoulders, which brought Frank out of unconsciousness and had him wailing because of both his broken cheek and groin.
The stranger went outside the bar, and the others followed behind him. "Well, rumor has it these people don't like you, surprise, surprise." Then he tossed him out into the street. "See, and I thought it was just me." Then the stranger un-holstered one of Frank's pistols. "Damn good thing you didn't try using these, she would have blown up in your face. That's not a nice thing to do to a not-even ten year old pistol. Fine pistols too."
The stranger was walking over to his horse as he did this, drawing up his cutlass scabbard and grabbing his Spencer Carbine. "Now these are in fine order, time for you to leave now." The stranger added, walking up to Frank with his cutlass unsheathed, gleaming in the torch-lights of the street. "Understand?"