Firestick. William W. Johnstone
the redhead’s foot and leg were knocked violently away, suddenly making him the one off balance. He pitched to the floor, reaching frantically for his damaged foot with both hands while howling in pain.
Pausing only long enough to backhand some of the blood from his mouth, McQueen pounced on Woolsey. He resorted to a variation of what he’d originally meant to do when he’d first reached for the redhead. Leaning over, he seized the fallen man by the scruff of his neck and the waistband of his trousers. Straightening up, shoulders and thick arms bulging under his homespun shirt, the marshal lifted the still-howling Woolsey and whirled him around as if he were no more than a toddler. When he’d turned to where he was facing the three other combatants, McQueen hoisted his burden to chest height and then thrust his powerful arms outward, releasing Woolsey and sending him airborne until he crashed across the lower backs of the Dunlap brothers as they were bunching together in their renewed attempt to gang up on the stranger.
Woolsey yipped like a kicked dog, the sounds he emitted mixing with the grunts of surprise that escaped Greely and Grady as they were slammed forward and knocked off their feet. All three of the troublemakers tumbled down, tangled together in a kicking, arm-thrashing, cursing pile.
Shoving away the table and swatting aside tipped-over chairs, McQueen barged forward, following the missile he had launched. On the other side of the flailing pile, the yellow-haired stranger stood poised with raised fists, the expression on his face once again wary, but also touched with a hint of amusement.
“Hope you don’t mind me hornin’ in,” McQueen said to him as he leaned over to yank the limp form of Woolsey off the pile and toss it to one side, “but I figure you’ll be okay with sharin’ the finishin’-up of these last two with me.”
Grinning as he reached down to pull Grady back to his feet, the stranger said, “Always been a big believer in sharing, Marshal. One apiece works out about as even as a fella could ask for.”
And so it went that, for the next handful of minutes—after getting both Grady and Greely upright and finding they still had the hankering for a fight left in them—the stranger and the marshal stood back-to-back and obliged that hankering with a flurry of traded punches. The stranger continued to demonstrate a measure of finesse and boxing skill—ducking, sticking, jabbing, cutting Grady down steadily but unhurriedly. Greely and McQueen—and Grady, too, for what little offense he was able to muster—relied more on hooks and sweeping roundhouses mixed with a few elbow smashes, the occasional uppercut, and lashing kicks from time to time.
Greely was big and strong, but he also was flabby around the gut and soaked inside with too much alcohol. And although McQueen was a good twenty years older and not as spry as he’d been in his heyday, he was still powerfully built through the chest and shoulders and relatively trim at the waist. So his whittling down of Greely was not as clean or precise as the methods being employed by the stranger, but he was nevertheless getting the job done.
None of which was to say the Dunlaps were willing to go down easy. They were tough and durable and damned stubborn about hitting the floor. Even after they were clearly bested, they refused to quit.
This, then, was the scene presented to Jim Hendricks, a mountain of a man who happened to be one of McQueen’s two deputies, as he barged through the Silver Spur’s batwings. All four combatants, bloody and battered, were still on their feet throwing increasingly arm-weary punches.
Hendricks took one look and didn’t hesitate to react in a way he’d found to be always effective for such situations. Almost lazily, he drew the revolver from the holster on his hip, pointed it ceilingward, and fired off a shot. The whole room shook from the blast. Farrelly, the bartender, and the men lining the bar—even though they were watching Hendricks the whole time—jumped at the sound. More importantly, though, the brawlers froze in what they were doing and let their fists fall loosely to their sides, bruised faces turning to look at Hendricks.
“Whatever this was about, it is now over,” the deputy proclaimed. Then, aiming a scowl at McQueen, he added, “Thunderation, Firestick, how did you let yourself get involved in this? You oughta know better.”
“Aw, take it easy, Moosejaw,” McQueen replied wearily. “Like you never jumped in the middle of a fracas before.”
“That was the old days. We’re supposed to be older and wiser now. What’s more, we wear badges. That means we’re supposed to be breakin’ up fights, not joinin’ in.”
McQueen raised one hand and patted his chest. “Well, I forgot to put on my badge today. Reckon that must be why I slipped and allowed myself to be tempted into joinin’ this scuffle.” He looked around, glaring at the Dunlap brothers, both of whom remained standing, though weaving somewhat unsteadily. “But badge or no badge,” he added, “I still got the authority to charge these varmints with disturbin’ the peace and strikin’ an officer of the law. They know damn well who and what I am, and they decided to tangle with me anyway. So they’re gonna get what they got comin’.”
“You want to throw ’em in the hoosegow?” Hendricks said.
“That’s exactly what I want.” McQueen gestured offhandedly toward the sprawled form of Woolsey. “Have ’em drag their pet red-haired rat along for the trip and and throw him behind bars with ’em.”
“For how long?”
“I’ll let you know after I think on it some. I might decide to pile on a few more charges.”
Hendricks frowned. “You know Tolsvord ain’t gonna like that much.”
“That’s too bad,” McQueen said. “For his sake, we’ve gone easy on these no-accounts way too often. I figure it’s time we clamped down on ’em a little harder for a change—and past time for Tolsvord to recognize they’re a lost cause for him and everybody else.”
“If you say so, Firestick.” Hendricks waggled his gun at Greely and Grady. “You heard the man. Grab hold of your pet red-haired rat and bring him along. You’re all invited for a stay in the exclusive little hotel we run.”
Wordlessly, the brothers grabbed the sagging Woolsey—one by the feet, the other under his arms—and headed for the front door ahead of Hendricks. Before following them out, the big deputy looked over his shoulder and said, “I’ll send Moorehouse over to see about patchin’ you two up. Then I’ll have him take a look at these three.”
McQueen shrugged. “I suppose. No particular hurry, though . . . especially not for them.”
CHAPTER 2
Once Hendricks was out the door with his charges, McQueen turned to the yellow-haired stranger who’d been standing quietly by with a bemused expression on his face. “Now then,” said the marshal. “I gave you the benefit of the doubt, because I know those three jackasses to be liars and troublemakers. Thing is, that don’t necessarily prove you ain’t a card cheat. I hope you’re not gonna disappoint me by turnin’ out to actually be one.”
“Trust me, Marshal, I very sincerely do not want to disappoint you,” said the stranger. “Like I told you before, those men were such terrible players there would be no need for me or anybody else to cheat in order to beat them.”
McQueen regarded him for a moment before making a gesture to indicate the paper bills that, along with the cards, ashtrays, and drinks, had been spilled from the table. “Reckon these winnin’s are yours, then.”
The stranger returned his gaze, the bemused expression remaining in place. He said, “If that’s intended to be some kind of trick to test my honesty, Marshal, then that would make me the one disappointed in you . . . I hadn’t yet had time to clean those gentlemen out entirely, you see. So not all of the money scattered there is mine. However, since I do know the amount I had in front of me before the trouble broke out, I’d like to claim what is. The rest can be returned to the men your deputy hauled away.”
“Minus the amount owed for damages, that is—from their part, not yours,” McQueen said.
“Sounds