they’re also gonna serve some time behind bars. If Tolsvord ain’t willin’ to tie some knots in their tails, by God, I am. Since they go around actin’ like what little brains they got is in their asses, maybe a knot down there close will help straighten out their thinkin’ a little.”
Cleve Boynton was a tall, rawboned individual with bushy, prematurely white sideburns bracketing a weathered face that, more often than not, was gripped by a stern expression. The cause for the latter, at least part of the time, had to do with the fact he was the foreman for Gerald Tolsvord’s Box T Ranch and had wranglers like the Dunlaps and Newt Woolsey to deal with.
“Doggone it, Firestick,” he lamented now, as he stood before the marshal’s desk in the front office area of the jail building, “you know the pickle I’m in with those three. You think I ain’t full aware they’re a bunch of . . .” He hesitated, eyeing the heavy wooden door that led back to the cell block. The fact that the door was closed gave him reassurance the men back there couldn’t hear him, so he continued, “Well, they’re jackasses, just like you said. But you also know the rest of the story—how the Dunlaps are kin to Boss Tolsvord’s wife. Her brother’s boys, I think. Anyway, she rides Tolsvord to keep cuttin’ ’em slack, and he rides me to keep tryin’ to get something re-semblin’ work out of ’em.”
Firestick sighed. “I can appreciate the fix you’re in, Cleve. And, for that part, I’m sorry. But that don’t change a dang thing. I aim to send a message to them three, and Tolsvord, as well. You go ahead and tell him that. Put it all on me. That should leave you clear from takin’ any blame.”
“I don’t know about that. I go back to the ranch without ’em, no matter what my story, the boss is bound to be plenty sore,” said Boynton. “Plus, I had work lined up for those yahoos tomorrow morning. Not having ’em there to take care of it—even given the half-assed job they usually do—will either leave it undone or force me to pull somebody from some other job.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry for how it lands on you, Cleve,” Firestick told him. “But my mind’s made up. I ain’t gonna go easy on ’em, not this time.”
“Okay. If your mind’s made up, I guess that’s all there is to it,” said Boynton, his shoulders sagging somewhat in defeat. He started to turn away, then once again hesitated. “The boss is bound to ask, so what do I tell him as far as how long you figure to keep ’em locked up? And you said there’ll still be a fine, too?”
Now it was Firestick who seemed to hesitate. His brows puckered for a moment as if in deep thought. Then he said, “Okay. Tell him this. Three days and thirty dollars for each of the Dunlaps; four days and forty dollars for that weasel, Woolsey.”
“That seems a mite steep, if you don’t mind my sayin’,” responded Boynton, frowning. “And why more for Newt than the other two?”
“Because the little bastard sucker-butted me and loosened four of my front teeth, that’s why,” Firestick snapped back. “Likely be near a week before I can chomp into a good steak again. As far as the fines . . . well, that’s what they are, and that’s all I got to say on it.”
Boynton’s frown stayed in place. “You basin’ any of that on some kind of legal rules or regulations that are in place? Or are you makin’ it up just to suit yourself?”
“Hell, Cleve, you know Buffalo Peak ain’t got no legal mumbo jumbo in place on the books. The town council handed me and my pards some badges and hired us to keep a lid on things. So that’s what we’re doin’ to the best of our abilities and, in some cases, yeah, we’re makin’ it up as we go along.” Firestick paused, took a deep breath, and then exhaled through his nose. “Now, I’ve said what I got to say, and I ain’t in the mood for no more explainin’. So, go tell it to Tolsvord. If that don’t satisfy him, tell him to haul his ass in here to town and I’ll tell him to his face. Otherwise, all he’s got to do is send the money and I’ll turn his men loose as soon as they’ve served their time.”
Boynton turned and stomped out, clearly not happy with the answer and not looking forward to passing it on to Tolsvord.
After he was gone, Moosejaw, who’d been looking on silently from where he was seated in a chair tilted back against a side wall of the office area, said, “I kinda feel sorry for ol’ Cleve, the fix he’s in. He ain’t really a bad sort.”
“Nobody said he was,” Firestick replied. “And I don’t like seein’ him squeezed in the middle, neither. But I can’t help it. The whole thing really falls back on Tolsvord not havin’ the backbone to stand up to his wife. If he did that, and then backed Cleve to make those three blockheads toe the mark like he does the rest of his crew, everybody’d be better off.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. In more ways than one,” Moosejaw allowed. “Nothing any good ever comes from a man lettin’ a woman run roughshod over him. It plumb ain’t natural.”
Firestick eyed him under a sharply cocked brow. “You tellin’ me you’ve made those kinds of feelin’s clear between you and Daisy?”
Moosejaw’s chair dropped down flat with a hollow thump. His round, smooth-shaven face went from an expression of bold certainty when he was making his declaration, to abruptly looking not so sure. “Here now. Ain’t nobody talkin’ about me and Daisy. In the first place, it ain’t like we’re hitched or anything. In the second place, when it comes to a gal like Daisy, well, there’s things you got to keep in mind. I mean, you gotta admit, my Daisy ain’t like most regular gals.”
“That’s true enough,” Firestick said, grinning at the way he had his big friend squirming a little. “Most gals can’t bend a horseshoe straight or drink their weight in firewater or out–arm wrestle ninety percent of the men in town. Little things like that, you’re talkin’ about, right?”
“Along those lines, I reckon. Yeah.”
“And also maybe along the lines of—if she ever heard you talkin’ about how no gal has the right to run roughshod over a fella—she might haul off and throw a punch at you?”
The Daisy in question was Daisy Rawling, who owned and operated the town blacksmith shop, which she had taken over from her late husband. She was a sawed-off slice of femaleness, standing only five-foot-two by standard measurement, but about a foot and a half taller when you factored in attitude and sass. A cap of butter-yellow curls, worn functionally short, framed a face that was actually quite pretty. Pug nose, ready smile, and big, luminous brown eyes. Her build was what could be called chunky but not fat, certainly not in the sense of being soft; it was more like she had a layer of rubbery muscle over womanly curves. Anyone who’d ever seen her handle the tools and tasks of her trade could attest to those muscles being more than just for show.
Nor was Firestick’s remark about her throwing a punch merely part of needling Moosejaw—a handful of loudmouths who’d made the mistake of commenting disparagingly about a woman blacksmith within earshot of Daisy had found themselves flattened for their trouble.
The romance that blossomed between Daisy and Moosejaw had stemmed directly from her taking one good look at him not long after his arrival in town and deciding that the six-foot-six walking redwood tree was man enough to handle her. From there, Moosejaw, who’d seldom shown much interest in women before, never had a chance. And as unlikely a pair as Daisy and Moosejaw made visually, Firestick and Beartooth had never known their big comrade to be happier, while those acquainted with Daisy said the same about her.
At the moment, however, this fact wasn’t quite enough to assuage Moosejaw’s concern about drawing Daisy’s ire if she
