At the bar, leaning back against it but turned so that they were facing out toward Wingate, were two lean, young cowpokes. Each had a glass of beer in his hand; each wore a cocky, lopsided grin. Firestick recognized them as Rand Wilson and Whitey Chapman, riders for the Bar 6 brand. He didn’t know much about Chapman, but in recent months, Wilson had drawn some passing interest from the marshal and his deputies due to the way he’d taken to wearing his sidearm in a tied-down holster and the increasingly bold strut he exhibited whenever he came to town. There was talk of how fast and good he was with a gun and how he’d backed down more than a few of his fellow wranglers at the Bar 6.
In other words, Wilson was cut from the same cloth as too many other young men who developed a level of skill with a six-gun and then unfortunately started to let that define them and their actions. Tonight, it appeared that Wilson was looking to make that definition even more sharp and clear.
“Well now, gents,” Firestick drawled easily, “what have we got goin’ on here this evenin’? Is it just me, or is there a dose of tension cracklin’ in the air?”
His grin continuing to hang lopsided, Wilson said, “Can’t say I follow what you’re talkin’ about, Marshal. The only thing I know of cracklin’ around here are the joints in that sawed-off, crippled-up excuse for a bartender. It’s pure disgustin’ to try and enjoy a drink when you got to listen to the clickin’ and creakin’ of his every move.”
“That’s an interesting observation,” said Firestick. “Makes me wonder why, if it bothers you so, you don’t go elsewhere to do your drinkin’?”
“Because I drink where I damn well please,” Wilson responded. “You want to wonder about something, why don’t you wonder why that rickety old pile of bones don’t crawl off and die somewhere instead of shufflin’ around, creakin’ and clankin’ and disgustin’ folks?”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Firestick said through clenched teeth. “You’re insultin’ a decent man who works hard to make an honest living. And I already know that, before I came in here, you were harrassin’ Wingate over there. On top of that, you’ve been drinkin’. If I wanted, I could make all that add up to drunk and disorderly conduct and use it as grounds for tossin’ your sorry asses in the clink.”
“I’d like to see you try it,” said Wilson, his body going rigid.
“Don’t tempt me, you mouthy pup. I said that’s what I could do. I’ll settle, instead, for you and that grinnin’ skunk beside you to hightail it out of town and not come back until your brains and attitudes are workin’ a little more sensible.”
Wilson’s nostrils flared, and his eyes blazed with fire. “To hell with that, Marshal Mountain Man. You ain’t up in the high country with a bunch of unwashed beaver chasers no more. We got laws and rules down here that have to be followed, no matter if a bunch of town idiots did slap a tin star on your chest. That means you can’t go shovin’ folks around and threatenin’ to lock ’em up just because it suits you.”
“I ain’t started shovin’. Not yet,” said Firestick. “Up to now I’ve just been suggestin’. If you’re smart, you won’t stick around to find out the difference.”
“Maybe we oughta listen to him, Rand. Maybe it ain’t worth it to push things no further,” said Whitey Chapman.
“You’d be wise to pay attention to your pard,” Firestick pressed. “Whether you like it or not, I am the law in Buffalo Peak. Gettin’ tangleways of me means more of the same when it comes to my deputies, Beartooth and Moosejaw. I can guarantee that ain’t something you’d find to your likin’.”
“What ridiculous names.” Wilson sneered. “Beartooth. . . Moosejaw . . . and Firestick. How can anybody take the law serious when it’s being dished out by men who not only lug around handles like those, but who are actually proud of them?”
Firestick’s eyes narrowed. “A fraction of what we endured to earn those names would have sent you runnin’ home to your mama’s tit, boy. Don’t ever forget it. And no matter how we’re called, the badges we wear stand for themselves.”
“Yeah? Where were those badges and what were they supposed to stand for on the night this craven coward”—Wilson gestured toward Gus Wingate with his free hand—“goaded Owen Rockwell into a shoot-out and then drilled him dead? How about that?”
“You’re right about one thing,” Firestick allowed. “Neither me nor my deputies were on hand to try and stop the flare-up between Wingate and Rockwell. Apart from that, though, you got your facts twisted around just exactly backwards. According to more than a dozen witnesses, it was young Rockwell who did the goading and then paid for it with his life. All Wingate did was act in self-defense.”
“That makes for a mighty tidy story. But if it’s true, if Wingate is so lily-pure innocent and all he did was defend himself, then why is he so racked by guilt? Look at him. He’s sittin’ there tryin’ to crawl into that bottle in order to try and hide from his guilt and shame. He’s feelin’ so low-down because he knows damn well what he did. Killin’ the sole support of a kid brother and a mother—a poor woman who already suffered bein’ made a widow—and leavin’ ’em alone to try and scratch out a living on that hardscrabble chunk of land.”
“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Wingate, speaking for the first time. His voice was flat, wooden, and his eyes never lifted from the bottle in front of him, as if he were talking to it rather than responding to Wilson. “I tried to make amends . . . offered to help them work their land. Made every overture I knew how . . .”
“My, how noble and generous that was. After you ripped away her son’s life, you offered to patch it over by plowin’ and seedin’ a couple acres of land for Mrs. Rockwell.” Wilson snorted derisively. “If I ain’t mistaken, that’s the very thing that led to the differences between you and Owen in the first place. You was lookin’ to do some plowin’ and seedin’ when it came to his mother, but not the kind that had anything to do with land.”
Wingate shot to his feet, sloshing whiskey from his glass and causing the bottle to wobble precariously atop the table. “That’s a filthy lie! I’m sick of it and I’ll listen to no more!” As he said this, he thrust his right hand down over his hip, fingers splayed wide, reaching, digging. But there was nothing there to grab. He wasn’t wearing a gun tonight.
Wilson howled with mocking laughter. “Look at that drunk bastard! He’s reachin’ for a gun when he ain’t even wearin’ one.”
Whitey Chapman, now encouraged back into the taunting, said, “Hell, we can fix that. I’d be willin’ to lend him mine since he’s so set on slappin’ leather with you, Rand.”
“Leave that iron pouched!” Firestick commanded harshly as he stepped forward to insert himself between Wingate and the two cowboys.
Turning toward Wingate, who was weaving unsteadily on his feet, the marshal placed a palm against his chest and pushed, not very hard, saying, “Sit down before you fall down.” The slight pressure was enough to drop the rancher back onto his chair. He landed hard and somewhat unevenly so that the chair threatened to topple over before he managed to keep it upright.
Turning back to Wilson and Chapman, Firestick said, “This ends right here and now, you understand? Nobody’s slappin’ no damn leather—not here, not out in the street, not nowhere. You two are shuttin’ your yaps and makin’ tracks home to the Bar 6, or you’re goin’ in the clink. Make up your minds and do it quick.”
Wilson shook his head determinedly. “No good, Marshal. I won’t hold for either one of those choices. That son of a bitch tried to pull a gun on me! The only thing that stopped him was the fact that he was too drunk to realize he wasn’t heeled. But that