Firestick. William W. Johnstone

take a drink, “how is it you’re on hand to be slingin’ words so early in the day, anyway? After takin’ the late turn in town last night and runnin’ into all the excitement you did, I expected you’d stay in the sack a little extra this morning.”

      “Would have liked to,” Firestick replied. “But I figured I’d best get back into town before too long. Tolsvord will likely be showin’ up to snort and bellyache about me keepin’ his men locked up. And I imagine Mick Plummer, the boss of the Bar 6, will be comin’ around as well, to get the details on his man Wilson bein’ shot. Wouldn’t hardly look right if somebody wasn’t on hand to deal with ’em.”

      Looking thoughtful, Moosejaw said, “Occurs to me . . . didn’t young Wilson have an older cousin or uncle or some such who also rides for the Bar 6?”

      “You know, I think you’re right,” agreed Beartooth.

      Firestick shrugged. “Guess I never heard that. Not that it makes any difference now—or would have, even if I’d known it last night. Kid crowded me into not havin’ any choice but to do what I did.”

      “A kin of Wilson’s might not see it that way. You’d best keep that in mind,” pointed out Beartooth.

      “All the more reason for me to get on into town and face whatever comes of it, then. Wouldn’t be fair to stick you or Moosejaw with the chore when I was the one mostly in the thick of things in each case.”

      “I ain’t worried about you bein’ fair to me or Moosejaw,” Beartooth said as he lowered his cup after taking a drink. “If it comes to trouble, you know the three of us have always done a pretty good job of facin’ that kind of thing together.”

      “Of course I know that,” Firestick said. “But I don’t see this turnin’ into anything like that. I really don’t. Everybody knew the Wilson pup was on the prod and that it was sooner or later gonna lead to only one thing. If he had friends or kin who cared much about him at all, they should’ve spoke up long before this.”

      “Okay, you stubborn cuss. Have it your way,” Beartooth said with a sigh. “Plumb too bad you can’t stick around the ranch for a while, though. This is the morning Jesus is gonna finish breakin’ that black stallion.” He cut his gaze to the young vaquero. “Ain’t that right, bronc buster?”

      Jesus smiled shyly. “Sí, Señor Beartooth. Now that the black has been left with his pride and dignity, it is time for me to finish the job.”

      Moosejaw looked puzzled. “Whose pride and dignity? The horse’s?”

      “It’s a long story. Miguel will have to explain it to you sometime,” Beartooth told him.

      “If Miguel says it, then it must be so. Never seen anybody who knows more about horses than him,” Firestick remarked. “And as far as stickin’ around to watch Jesus finish gentlin’ that black, I sure would like to—but I’m afraid I can’t.”

      Victoria, who’d gotten up from the table to fetch a pot of fresh coffee from the stove in the adjoining kitchen, paused on her return to take a long look at something that had caught her eye out the dining room window. Then she said, “You may have not have to go all the way to town to take care of some of that business you mentioned, Marshal.”

      Firestick turned his head to look at her. “How’s that?”

      “Outside. There are two riders approaching . . . I recognize one of them as Gerald Tolsvord.”

      CHAPTER 11

      By the time Tolsvord and the second rider, who turned out to be Cleve Boynton, reined up before the Double M’s main house, Firestick, Beartooth, and Moosejaw had emerged to stand waiting for them on the front porch.

      “Mornin’, Tolsvord,” Firestick greeted. “You’re out and about mighty early.”

      “Always been my way. It’s served me well, and times like these give me no reason to change.” Tolsvord was a heavyset man somewhere in his fifties. He had shoulders wide enough to balance out some of his expanded gut; a fleshy, heavy-jowled face piled around a surprisingly dainty nose under bristly brows that always seemed on the verge of scowling—a trait not lacking this morning.

      Noting this, along with the man’s words, Firestick said, “By ‘times like these,’ I expect you’re tiltin’ toward the fact of me havin’ three of your men in my jail. Is that what brings you around?”

      “It’s certainly something I have on my mind,” Tolsvord replied. “But right at the moment, I consider it a secondary matter. You know Cleve here, my ramrod.” He jerked a thumb toward Boynton. “He came across something that might be a lot bigger and more urgent. We’d like to talk to you and your deputies about it.”

      The somberness of Tolsvord’s tone and the expressions on the faces of both men was enough for Firestick to say, “Light on down, then. Tie your horses and come inside, let’s hear what this is all about.”

      A handful of minutes later, they were in the house, seated once more around the dining room table. Victoria, with the aid of Jesus, had hurriedly cleared away the breakfast dishes and poured cups of fresh coffee for everyone. Miguel and Jesus then excused themselves to go begin the day’s chores. Victoria returned to the kitchen to make another pot of coffee and to start washing dishes and pans, telling the men to call if they needed anything.

      After stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, Tolsvord wasted little time getting to what he’d come to discuss. “As you quickly will see, this is a bit of a tricky thing. On the one hand, we don’t want to overreact and cause undue alarm. On the other, if we’re able to confirm what Cleve is convinced he saw, then we surely will want to spread the word and sound an alarm.”

      “I guess the first thing is for one of you to tell us what it was Cleve saw—or thinks he saw,” Firestick said.

      Tolsvord nodded. “Indeed. Best, of course, for Cleve to tell it himself.”

      All eyes shifted to Boynton. The ramrod squirmed a bit uneasily in his chair, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table as he began to talk. Quickly, concisely, he related his experience the previous evening of spotting the mysterious horsemen who quickly turned and disappeared as soon as they’d been sighted. “The whole thing was strange and unsettling. At first, I didn’t quite know what to make of it,” he summed up. “But then, after I pondered on it some and played it over in my mind a couple times, everything I’d been able to make out . . . well, I came to the conclusion that I skedaddled home to tell Boss Tolsvord.”

      “Indians,” Tolsvord blurted, as if he was no longer able to hold back. “What Cleve is convinced he saw was a pack of Indians.”

      “Whoa,” said Moosejaw as he and the other two former mountain men were rocked back in their seats.

      “Indians,” repeated Firestick, frowning. “That’s a troubling and unexpected thing to hear. You’re suggestin’ a pack of renegades is on the prowl—is that it?”

      “That’s sure the way it looked,” said Boynton. “And they were out and about in a place where they had no business being. You tell me what it means.”

      “Have there been any reports of Indian trouble anywhere around?” Tolsvord asked. “Any rumblings of trouble brewing on one of the reservations that might have resulted in a pack of young hotbloods busting loose?”

      Beartooth shook his head. “Nothing we’ve heard of. Nothing that’s come our way as of yet.”

      Boynton licked his lips. “I’m thinkin’ they were Apaches.”

      “Now you’re goin’ from bad to worse,” groaned Moosejaw. “But it wouldn’t be a first for Apaches to go out raidin’. Last anybody heard they’re still chasin’ Geronimo somewhere up in New Mexico.”

      “Why do you say Apaches?” Firestick wanted to know.

      “From