Disclaimer: as ever, the characters are not mine.

Part 2

About a week later, the whole shebang was setting up house in some town beginning with B, or possibly V. Frank knew he'd recognise the name if only someone would tell him what it was. He was with the gang who were pitching the tents, throwing his back into the work like he usually did, and the guys he was helping laughed with him when he told them one of his taller tales.

Then Buffalo Bill came around, saw what he was doing and told him to save his energies.

"I don't pay you good money to do some no account job, Frank. Go and feed your horse. He'll get so he doesn't know who you are."

The good humour evaporated as he did as he was told. Being with Hidalgo just wasn't what it used to be. He knew his horse didn't like travelling in the pen on the train, and hated being fenced in when there was free country to roam just beyond the fence posts. But Cody was right. He needed some time with Hidalgo.

His horse greeted him, running to the fence and putting his head over. Frank rubbed his horse's nose, and pulled gently at his forelock. Usually, they'd have a few words, so to speak, and then Hidalgo would get a treat, something Frank had saved for him. But this time he had nothing to say and nothing to give. His horse was in good shape, no thanks to his efforts.

He stepped back, trying to think through the haze that seemed to permanently slow him down. Was this the end of the road? After all the races, the wins, the fun and adventure they had both loved, was this all? A two-bit show, a dusty piece of fenced ground and a tent that kept out nothing but the fresh air.

It was too much to consider. He needed a drink and, since no one had thought to give him any, he wandered away to see what he could find.

The town was one street wide but busy pretending it was much grander than that. Every man jack of those buildings had a sham upper storey, some looking like a strong breeze would throw it into main street. The claims of the huge clumsy signs, to "the best drink this side of the Rockies" and "the quickest haircut in the state" made Frank grim. A saloon, a cheap one, that's what he needed, because the coins in his jeans pocket weren't exactly weighing him down. He chose one at the far end of town and went in.

Inside, it was dim, a little cooler than the street but not much, and there were three customers, all leaning against the bar, sharing the same bottle. Frank dug in his pocket and slapped a couple of coins on the wooden bar which was puddled with beer drips. He pointed out what he wanted.

"Not enough, mister," the barkeep said, eyeing him. "Prices went up yesterday."

"That so?" Frank said, knowing full well the reason for the raise. "What if I was to tell you I'm Frank T.Hopkins, winner of more'n a fifty long distance races, and I'm the star of that show."

"Wouldn't make no difference, anyways, you're not Frank T. I saw him once, he was a head taller and he didn't wear workman's clothes, neither. A bottle's another dollar on top of what you got there."

Maybe one time, Frank would have argued the point. Now, he needed the drink and he had the money, so he dug in his pocket again, made up the dollar out of some small change and grabbed the bottle. He stepped back into the sunshine, paused, and decided a trip round the back of the premises would be a good idea. Once done there, he sauntered back along the alley and found himself crowded by the three men who had been standing at the bar. They looked bigger now they were filling the alley. Frank began to look round for something he could use to defend himself, since his gun had no live rounds in it. Thanks, Phoebe Ann, for making sure he had no live ammunition, just to keep the audience safe. Wasn't going to keep him safe now, was it.

"Frank T. Hopkins, huh?" one of the men said. "You in that show then?"

Maybe they were wanting his autograph, he thought in a mad moment of hope. He nodded to the poster someone had stuck up on the wall of the saloon. There he was, at the bottom, on Hidalgo, and mighty pretty he looked, too. Only he really couldn't say it looked a whole lot like him.

"That's me," he said, knowing he sounded less than convincing. "And yeah, I'm in the show. Now, if you don't mind, gentlemen, I need to get back to do some rehearsin'."

"You don't ride that horse," another of the three said. Dark haired, thick set and mean eyed, he was someone Frank guessed could handle himself in a fight.

"No? Well, maybe not. Come to the show tonight, then you'll see. White hat, painted horse, that's me and Hidalgo. I can give you the best seats in the house."

"You can? Well, maybe we ain't all that interested," dark-hair said, taking a step closer. "But if you're the star of that show, I bet you're carrying some money around. You didn't make a fuss about another dollar for that drink. Hand it over."

Frank's heart began to pound. He might have taken on three, a few months ago, before his arm had been broken and he'd kinda lost direction after, well, before he joined Cody's show. Now, he'd be up against it. But he tried, nonetheless, and wasn't losing too much when Cody himself, in full wig and with his gun in his hand, came to his rescue.

"Boys," Cody said, firing once close enough to dark-hair to crease his leg. "Let the man alone. He has to do a show tonight. Come on, Frank, pick up your bottle and head on home. And fix your face – can't have a hero looking like you do."

The men backed down. There was no doubt who Cody was, and his skill with the revolver he held was enough to make the men leave Frank alone. He sat, hand to his bleeding nose, his long legs stretched in front of him. He looked up at Cody and smiled ruefully.

"They didn't believe I was Frank Hopkins," he said.

Cody said nothing, for which Frank was grateful. Frank got to his knees.

"I can make it now," he said, as Cody still watched him. With a nod, the other man stood back but did not leave him.

"I'm sure you can. I need to talk to you."

Frank felt his heart speed. He had known Cody a long time, and he knew the man had been patient with an old friend. What if he was being shown the road?

He stood and let Cody lead the way.

"I think you could give the drink a little less of your attention, Frank. You and Hidalgo are a good draw. I don't want to lose you."

He wasn't quite being fired, then. Just a kind of rehearsal for it. He nodded his acknowledgement of Cody's attempt to help him, though Cody had ignored the fact that the beating had left him at less than his best. Then he reflected that Cody would have had trouble finding a time when he was clear-headed.

Cody managed some more encouraging words before he left Frank to find his own way back to his tent.

It took a while to stop his nose bleeding, and he felt it carefully. It wasn't broken. But his eye was swelling, despite the wet cloth he held to it, and he couldn't stop his tongue exploring his teeth. One of them seemed looser than it should be. He looked at himself in the scratched little mirror he stared in when he put the white greasepaint on. Tonight, he was going to need a little more than usual. It didn't matter. The whole thing had been a mistake, and he'd learn from it. Stay with the show. No mixing with the locals. Let them pay to see him and applaud him when he was done. He was through with the real world.

TBC