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 his knee before he was properly balanced for a quick sidestep, the marshal instead leaned forward and swung his fist in a downward chop that struck hard just above Woolsey’s ankle. The impact resulted in a loud crack of gristle and bone as the redhead’s foot and leg were knocked violently away, suddenly making him the one off balance. He pitched to the floor, reaching frantically for his damaged foot with both hands while howling in pain.
Pausing only long enough to backhand some of the blood from his mouth, McQueen pounced on Woolsey. He resorted to a variation of what he’d originally meant to do when he’d first reached for the redhead. Leaning over, he seized the fallen man by the scruff of his neck and the waistband of his trousers. Straightening up, shoulders and thick arms bulging under his homespun shirt, the marshal lifted the still-howling Woolsey and whirled him around as if he were no more than a toddler. When he’d turned to where he was facing the three other combatants, McQueen hoisted his burden to chest height and then thrust his powerful arms outward, releasing Woolsey and sending him airborne until he crashed across the lower backs of the Dunlap brothers as they were bunching together in their renewed attempt to gang up on the stranger.
Woolsey yipped like a kicked dog, the sounds he emitted mixing with the grunts of surprise that escaped Greely and Grady as they were slammed forward and knocked off their feet. All three of the troublemakers tumbled down, tangled together in a kicking, arm-thrashing, cursing pile.
Shoving away the table and swatting aside tipped-over chairs, McQueen barged forward, following the missile he had launched. On the other side of the flailing pile, the yellow-haired stranger stood poised with raised fists, the expression on his face once again wary, but also touched with a hint of amusement.
“Hope you don’t mind me hornin’ in,” McQueen said to him as he leaned over to yank the limp form of Woolsey off the pile and toss it to one side, “but I figure you’ll be okay with sharin’ the finishin’-up of these last two with me.”
Grinning as he reached down to pull Grady back to his feet, the stranger said, “Always been a big believer in sharing, Marshal. One apiece works out about as even as a fella could ask for.”
And so it went that, for the next handful of minutes—after getting both Grady and Greely upright and finding they still had the hankering for a fight left in them—the stranger and the marshal stood back-to-back and obliged that hankering with a flurry of traded punches. The stranger continued to demonstrate a measure of finesse and boxing skill—ducking, sticking, jabbing, cutting Grady down steadily but unhurriedly. Greely and McQueen—and Grady, too, for what little offense he was able to muster—relied more on hooks and sweeping roundhouses mixed with a few elbow smashes, the occasional uppercut, and lashing kicks from time to time.
Greely was big and strong, but he also was flabby around the gut and soaked inside with too much alcohol. And although McQueen was a good twenty years older and not as spry as he’d been in his heyday, he was still powerfully built through the chest and shoulders and relatively trim at the waist. So his whittling down of Greely was not as clean or precise as the methods being employed by the stranger, but he was nevertheless getting the job done.
None of which was to say the Dunlaps were willing to go down easy. They were tough and durable and damned stubborn about hitting the floor. Even after they were clearly bested, they refused to quit.
This, then, was the scene presented to Jim Hendricks, a mountain of a man who happened to be one of McQueen’s two deputies, as he barged through the Silver Spur’s batwings. All four combatants, bloody and battered, were still on their feet throwing increasingly arm-weary punches.
Hendricks took one look and didn’t hesitate to react in a way he’d found to be always effective for such situations. Almost lazily, he drew the revolver from the holster on his hip, pointed it ceilingward, and fired off a shot. The whole room shook from the blast. Farrelly, the bartender, and the men lining the bar—even though they were watching Hendricks the whole time—jumped at the sound. More importantly, though, the brawlers froze in what they were doing and let their fists fall loosely to their sides, bruised faces turning to look at Hendricks.
“Whatever this was about, it is now over,” the deputy proclaimed. Then, aiming a scowl at McQueen, he added, “Thunderation, Firestick, how did you let yourself get involved in this? You oughta know better.”
“Aw, take it easy, Moosejaw,” McQueen replied wearily. “Like you never jumped in the middle of a fracas before.”
“That was the old days. We’re supposed to be older and wiser now. What’s more, we wear badges. That means we’re supposed to be breakin’ up fights, not joinin’ in.”
McQueen raised one hand and patted his chest. “Well, I forgot to put on my badge today. Reckon that must be why I slipped and allowed myself to be tempted into joinin’ this scuffle.” He looked around, glaring at the Dunlap brothers, both of whom remained standing, though weaving somewhat unsteadily. “But badge or no badge,” he added, “I still got the authority to charge these varmints with disturbin’ the peace and strikin’ an officer of the law. They know damn well who and what I am, and they decided to tangle with me anyway. So they’re gonna get what they got comin’.”
“You want to throw ’em in the hoosegow?” Hendricks said.
“That’s exactly what I want.” McQueen gestured offhandedly toward the sprawled form of Woolsey. “Have ’em drag their pet red-haired rat along for the trip and and throw him behind bars with ’em.”
“For how long?”
“I’ll let you know after I think on it some. I might decide to pile on a few more charges.”
Hendricks frowned. “You know Tolsvord ain’t gonna like that much.”
“That’s too bad,” McQueen said. “For his sake, we’ve gone easy on these no-accounts way too often. I figure it’s time we clamped down on ’em a little harder for a change—and past time for Tolsvord to recognize they’re a lost cause for him and everybody else.”
“If you say so, Firestick.” Hendricks waggled his gun at Greely and Grady. “You heard the man. Grab hold of your pet red-haired rat and bring him along. You’re all invited for a stay in the exclusive little hotel we run.”
Wordlessly, the brothers grabbed the sagging Woolsey—one by the feet, the other under his arms—and
