Firestick. William W. Johnstone

folks expected from him as part of his duties—to tame things down.

      But no sooner had he stepped through the batwings of the Silver Spur than the strict performance of his duties was put to the test. For starters, the first thing he laid eyes on was the homely, angrily snarling face of Greely Dunlap. That alone was enough to sour the good intentions of practically anybody. And then the whiskey bottle came sailing through the air and nearly ended its flight against McQueen’s forehead. He managed to duck at the last second, the bottle only skimming off his hat instead of splitting his skull.

      “Now you made me waste a whole bottle of good whiskey, you duded-up son of a sidewinder,” bellowed a tall, lanky cowpoke, addressing the man he had viciously swung the whiskey bottle at, missing his mark, and then losing his grip on the bottle when the man ducked. “That earns you more of an ass-whuppin’ than you already had comin’ to begin with!”

      “You tell him, Grady,” Greely Dunlap said, shouting encouragement to his younger and even homelier little brother. “A double ass-whuppin’ is what’s called for, says I, and there’s no sense wastin’ any more time about it.”

      “Make it a triple,” added a third man, one Newt Woolsey by name, a short, stocky redhead who regularly hung around with—and got in trouble with—the Dunlap brothers. “I want me a piece of that slippery-fingered skunk, too, and I ain’t about to be left out!”

      The object of all this anger was a middle-aged man of average height and build who stood on the back side of a round-topped gaming table, where he and the trio now converging on him had apparently been playing cards. The individual being threatened was a stranger to McQueen. He had wavy yellow hair, with a smooth-shaven face made up of rather delicate features, and he was clad in a gray frock coat and black string tie, attire qualifying him for the “duded-up” assessment from Grady Dunlap.

      But anyone bothering to look a little closer would have noted something more: There was a hard-edged wariness in the stranger’s eyes that conveyed no hint of fear or delicate intentions when it came to what he was faced with.

      “Be careful, Firestick,” advised Art Farrelly, the balding fireplug of a bartender on duty at the Silver Spur that afternoon, as McQueen came out of his crouch and took a long stride forward. “Those Dunlaps are spoiling for a fight, and you know what mean drunks they can be.”

      “Yeah, well, gettin’ damn near scalped by a flyin’ whiskey bottle don’t exactly put me in a friendly mood neither,” McQueen muttered out the side of his mouth as he proceeded straight for the knot of men clustered around the card table.

      There was only a handful of other customers in the place at that hour, a mixture of cowpokes and shiftless townies bellied up to the bar and shifted down a ways from where the trouble was getting ready to boil over. The sight of McQueen continuing to advance with fire in his eyes caused the bunch to collectively shift down a bit farther.

      The way the four men at the table were positioned, only one of them—the yellow-haired stranger—was facing toward McQueen. This made him the only one with any awareness of the marshal’s approach. Woolsey had his back turned completely, and the Dunlap brothers, closing in on the stranger from either side, were focused solely on him, their intended target.

      The stranger’s eyes widened hopefully for a moment, but then, having no way to be certain on whose side the big, wide-shouldered new arrival would turn out to be, they once again took on their wary appraisal.

      “All right,” McQueen said in a loud, clear voice as he stepped up close behind Woolsey. “Everybody smooth down your hackles and just stand easy. Whatever this is about, there ain’t gonna be no lettin’ it get out of hand.”

      “The hell there ain’t,” Greely barked a quick reply. The sudden intervention of McQueen’s voice had caused him only the slightest start and wasn’t enough to make him take his eyes off the stranger as he continued talking. “We caught this slick varmint cheatin’ at cards and we’re about to teach him how that don’t go around here. But we ain’t fixin’ to gut him or shoot him—we ain’t even heeled, just like you warned us when we come to town. So it ain’t no never-mind of yours, Marshal. We’re just gonna give him a good thumpin’ to drive home the point of be in’ more careful who he tries to cheat in the future.”

      “Yeah. Comes down to it, we’ll practically be doin’ a public service,” added his brother, Grady.

      “Nobody was being cheated, Marshal—if, in fact, that is your calling,” said the stranger, addressing McQueen’s lack of a badge, which he often neglected to pin on. “The truth of the matter is that the poor attitude these gentlemen display toward losing is matched only by the poor skill they display when it comes to playing poker.”

      “Now he’s callin’ us liars,” said Woolsey, his words intentionally adding more fuel to the fire.

      “That’s a name I’ll stand from no man!” roared Grady in response. And before McQueen could say or do anything more to try and stop him, the older Dunlap brother accompanied this exclamation by unleashing a clubbing backhand aimed straight at the face of the yellow-haired man.

      The stranger, somewhat distracted by the arrival of McQueen, was caught partially off guard. But his reflexes were sharp enough that he still managed to jerk his face back in time to avoid the full impact of the blow. Nevertheless, it landed hard enough to knock him staggering away from the table.

      McQueen lunged forward, reaching to grab Woolsey by the shoulders, with the intent of flinging the smaller man out of his way so he could get at the brothers before they closed in on the stranger and inflicted more damage. In his haste, however, the marshal forgot what a wily scrapper the redhead was in his own right. Although he’d never turned to look directly back at McQueen, Woolsey had been very aware of how close he’d moved up behind him. So when the lawman’s hands started to clamp onto his shoulders, Woolsey bent his knees just enough to drop below the closing fingers and at the same time twisted sharply at the waist, whipping around with the point of his elbow and driving it full-force into McQueen’s stomach.

      A great gust of air exploded from the marshal as he doubled forward. Anticipating this, Woolsey suddenly straightened his legs and simultaneously jerked his head straight back, hard, slamming it into McQueen’s lowering face.

      Now it was McQueen’s knees that buckled, though not purposefully. He lurched to one side, stunned by the head butt. He could taste blood filling his mouth and feel the sticky warmth of it dribbling down over his chin.

      On the other side of the table, the yellow-haired stranger struggled to regain his balance as the Dunlap brothers rushed him, angling in from either side. Wanting badly to land a blow of his own, Grady allowed his eagerness to outweigh his caution and ended up paying for it when he stepped into a lightning-fast right jab the stranger threw even as he was still leaning back. The fist-to-chin collision popped solidly, stalling Grady’s forward momentum.

      Landing the punch seemed to somehow reset the stranger’s balance, enabling him to get his feet planted as he turned to face the oncoming Greely. Once again, his fists lashed out in a blur of speed, leading with another jab, a left this time, followed instantly by a right hook that snapped Greely’s head to one side and caused him to do a stutter-step off in that direction rather than continue his straight-ahead charge.

      Meanwhile, McQueen was still dealing with the unexpected burst of aggression from the scrappy Newt Woolsey. Momentarily staggered by the smaller man’s initial attack, the marshal fought to right himself and get braced for whatever the redhead tried in the way of a follow-up. When it came, it was another example of Woolsey’s shrewdness and the fighting skills he’d honed to compensate for his lack of size. He went for McQueen’s legs, aiming a piston-like kick meant to crush the bigger man’s kneecap and either dislocate it or possibly break the leg.

      But McQueen’s history of being in ruckuses had taught him a thing or three about fighting, as well—including a host of defensive moves, both orthodox and the kind a body sometimes made up on the spot. His reaction to Woolsey’s attempted kick fell in the latter category. Seeing the foot cock back and then start to hurtle toward