Firestick. William W. Johnstone

of trouble were brewing. From there, he would walk the length of Trail Street, checking the businesses and shops on either side to make sure they were securely locked and that nothing appeared to have been disturbed. At the far end of the street, he would also look in on the little cantina. His Spanish was pretty limited, but the proprietors, Julio and Lucita Ramirez, were a nice, hardworking couple who always gave him a friendly welcome.

      At that point, on most nights, when the jail was empty and there was no reason to stop by there, before finishing his rounds with a final check on the saloons, Firestick would double back to the hotel and pay Kate a call. Most times, when she knew he was scheduled for late duty, she would be waiting for him in her office, where they would visit and have a drink together—wine for Kate, bourbon for Firestick.

      Occasionally, Kate would already be retired to her private apartment on the second floor and Firestick would join her there. Although they were two adults unbound by any other commitments and had every right to consort with one another as they saw fit, they nevertheless kept these visits as discreet as possible. Despite the attraction between them being recognized by a number of folks around town, they chose to play the whole thing pretty close to the vest.

      This was done mainly as a consideration to Kate, given how hard she’d worked to earn her place as a respected businessperson. Despite that, everybody knew how a woman’s reputation was always at greater risk for even a perceived lapse in behavior. Otherwise, Firestick was so proud to be linked to such a fine beauty as Kate that he would have liked nothing better than to shout it to the moon!

      This night, as he rode back into town from the Double M, Firestick was thinking, as he often did, about these disparities and complications. If it wasn’t so annoying, it would almost be amusing—the uncivil behavior to be found in so-called civilization.

      In the wild, everything was a lot simpler, a lot more clear. It was strictly a matter of survival. There were plenty of things that would kill you, but none were the result of jealousy or of petty, poisonous gossip aimed at harming someone for no particular gain except trying to make the target conform to what the all-powerful “they” deemed to be right.

      Firestick cautioned himself inwardly not to allow this pondering to get him too worked up. It wouldn’t do to mingle among the citizenry with a chip on his shoulder that might make him overreact to a minor slight or remark. The badge he’d remembered to pin on this time before leaving the ranch meant he was supposed to keep a cool head—especially since he’d already slipped up once today by getting into a brawl with the Dunlaps and Woolsey. He didn’t want to start out this evening primed for a repeat.

      He reined up in front of the hotel and swung down to tie his horse at the hitchrail out front. He always started his late rounds here, since this was where he would be finishing up. Which reminded him of another reason not to sink into a foul mood: In only an hour or so, he’d be in the company of Kate. A smile lifted one corner of Firestick’s mouth. Come to think about it, it had been a while since he’d visited her up in her apartment. Maybe tonight would turn out to be one of those . . .

      “Elwood. I’m glad you got back to town.”

      Apart from someone meeting him for the first time, there was only one person who used his given name. On top of that, there was no mistaking her low, throaty voice when she spoke.

      Firestick turned from knotting his reins on the rail and looked to see Kate standing in the doorway of the hotel. Backlit by the golden glow of lantern light from within, her face was cast in shadow. But he could still see her expression well enough to be able to tell that something was troubling her.

      “What is it? What’s wrong, Kate?” he said.

      “Inside. In the barroom,” she said. “We’ve got a situation with some cowboys that’s starting to turn kinda ugly.”

      Firestick stepped up on the broad porch that ran across the front of the building. “Who is it? Do I know ’em?”

      Kate nodded. “One of them is Gus Wingate.”

      “Wingate?” Firestick echoed. “Haven’t seen him around much since . . . well, since that shooting.”

      “I’m pretty sure that’s the way he’s wanted it,” said Kate. “Still, he’s been showing up here fairly regular. Every two or three nights. He only comes by late in the evening. He’s drinking awful heavy. He comes here to pick up a couple bottles to take home with him, usually stays long enough to put away a good deal of bar stock before he leaves.”

      “As I recall, that trouble with Owen Rockwell left Wingate in a mighty low place,” Firestick noted. “Sounds like he’s tryin’ to drink his way back up out of it . . . or maybe deeper in.”

      “I agree,” said Kate. “But it’s the Rockwell thing that’s caught up with him tonight, and it’s what’s got me worried. Rand Wilson and Whitey Chapman, from the Bar 6, are inside, too. Why they chose to come by here instead of one of the cowboy saloons, I have no idea, but whatever the reason, they did. Now they’re claiming to have been good friends of Rockwell, and the two of them—Wilson especially—are riding Wingate pretty hard about what happened.”

      “Sounds like something that needs a lid clamped on it before it gets too far out out of hand.”

      “That’s why I’m glad you got back to town. Thomas has the night off, and I’m afraid Little Al doesn’t do well in situations like this.”

      “That’s okay. I do,” said Firestick tersely, confidently.

      Gus Wingate was a well-liked individual, at least he always had been. He was a widower with a small cattle ranch just south of town. One night, a little more than two months earlier, he’d shown up at the Lone Star Palace with his two hired hands. They were celebrating the fact that their herd had survived the winter in good shape and it looked like they’d have quite a few head ready for market as soon as they got them fattened up on spring grass.

      In the saloon, however, Wingate ran afoul of Owen Rockwell, a proddy young man who worked a neighboring farm with his kid brother and mother, a widow woman. Owen fancied himself a bit of a gunhand. He also fancied that Wingate was making unwelcome advances on his mother and he demanded for it to stop. Wingate denied any such thing, claiming his only interest in Margaret Rockwell was as a friendly neighbor. Owen called him a liar. Loud and clear, right in front of everybody.

      The whole thing escalated very quickly. And it climaxed before Firestick or any of his deputies could be summoned to intervene.

      Owen forced the confrontation into gunplay. And Wingate, who carried a sidearm for rattlesnakes and other varmints that might be encountered out on the range but had never come close to pulling on another man before, surprised himself and everybody else in the Palace that night by outdrawing the would-be gunny and killing him with one shot.

      It was all over by the time Firestick and Beartooth got there. And with everyone present testifying it had been a clear-cut case of self-defense, there were no charges to be brought nor anything else required in the way of legal follow-up. Owen’s mother was devastated, of course, and even more so when she was told there was no basis for acting on her demand that Wingate be arrested. Ironically, Wingate ended up punishing himself in ways the law never could. Not a day went by that he wasn’t tormented by his conscience and sense of guilt over killing a young man, no matter how justified.

      And now, tonight, a new pair of bigmouths were dredging up the pain and guilt in him all over again. Having seen Wingate’s suffering after the first incident, Firestick had no intention of allowing him to endure more if he could help it.

      CHAPTER 9

      As soon as the marshal stepped into the barroom, it was clear who the troublemakers were. There were only four men in the room.

      One of them was Little Al Seavers, Kate’s part-time bartender. He was a diminutive individual, barely topping five feet tall, scrawny and riddled with arthritis that gave him a severe limp and twisted, huge-knuckled hands with which he somehow still managed to serve drinks. He had a pale, pinched face with