that defied any attempt to lay out an orderly grid of side streets.
The feature that gave the town its name was a blunt-topped butte jutting up out of the flats to the northeast, like a cast-off chunk that got tossed down from the Vieja Mountains rising high and ragged farther to the north. The story went that someone early on had remarked how the butte resembled a buffalo’s hump, and for a long time travelers passing through the territory referred to it as such. When it came time to name the town, however, the consensus of those involved decided that “Hump” sounded unappealing whereas “Peak” somehow did not—and so Buffalo Peak it became.
Firestick had often contemplated this bit of history without ever understanding why one term was favored over the other. After all, the way the butte was rounded off at the top, it more accurately was a hump rather than a peak. In the end, though, he was all right with whatever the place was called. That was the way he, Moosejaw, and Beartooth had found it when they’d arrived on the scene, and therefore it was the only way they’d ever known it. And especially now that they’d settled in and signed on as lawmen, they were right-down-to-the-ground loyal to all aspects of their new home. That’s just the way things went with them.
Firestick was thinking about those things as he left the Silver Spur and headed toward the jail. Talking with Lofton about the old days had put him in a reflective mood. That wasn’t surprising. What was different, though, was how he’d reached a point where he could talk about those past times without feeling a bit melancholy over their passing, the way he used to.
Oh, he still treasured those wild, free days and always would. But he’d also come to realize and accept that he was enjoying this newer phase his life had moved into, as well. And why not? He still had his two good pals by his side, they were getting by as well or better than ever, and they were still managing to find enough challenges and excitement to keep any sign of boredom from creeping in. What more could a body want?
Well, Firestick was reminded as he drew abreast of the Mallory Hotel, there was one thing that had been mighty scarce up in the high, lonely reaches . . . romance. While he was no stranger to lust and had answered its call on a number of occasions over the years with the sporting women who could be found at rendezvous and elsewhere, that wasn’t the same thing. Not by a long shot. Nor had he ever taken up with an Indian maid, like a lot of mountain men did. He had nothing against this practice—he’d just never found himself in a position where it had become an option for him.
But now, here in Buffalo Peak, he’d finally run across someone who planted thoughts in his head of the kind of things he figured had long since passed him by. Her name was Kate Mallory. She owned and operated the hotel, having taken it over when both of her parents died in an influenza epidemic. She was smart, tough, stubborn, and sassy. She was also lovely to look upon in a sultry, dark-haired kind of way, with a throaty voice and a sense of humor displayed frequently by uninhibited, bawdy-sounding laughter. All in all, she made Firestick’s heart race faster than any woman he’d ever met. And, to his surprise and delight, she’d let him know in no uncertain terms that she felt the same way about him.
As he passed the hotel, Firestick suppressed the urge to stop in. Just to see Kate, to gaze upon her for a minute. But he resisted. For one thing, he needed to get to the jail and make sure Moosejaw had gotten the prisoners locked up without any more trouble.
For another, freshly bruised and battered the way he was, he knew he’d probably get a chewing out from Kate when she saw him. Not that she wouldn’t hear about the fight at the Silver Spur soon enough anyway, and not that Firestick would hold off seeing her for very long regardless, but he just didn’t need to be in too big a hurry about it.
The jail, one of the newest buildings in town, had been built near the far west end once it was decided that Buffalo Peak needed a marshal and a place to detain lawbreakers. It was a sturdy, thick-walled adobe structure, very basic yet quite functional.
As he was drawing near, Firestick saw Frank Moorehouse coming out the front door. Moorehouse was the town barber—mainly. That was what was painted on the window of his shop back up the street. But it was generally known that, due to some battlefield training he’d received during the war, he was also the closest thing the town had to a doctor. And, for those desperate enough, he served as a dentist, too, though extraction was about the only remedy he offered.
Spotting the marshal’s approach, Moorehouse paused just outside the doorway. Dangling from one hand was the battered leather “doctor’s bag” he kept stocked for the good of his fellow citizens. He was a portly, bespectacled man with a walrus mustache and bristly eyebrows that danced animatedly when he spoke, always reminding Firestick of a pair of woolly caterpillars trying to find purchase on the wire rims of the spectacles.
“Having completed my treatment of combatants from both sides of the recent engagement,” the multi-talented barber announced loftily, referencing his recent visit to the Silver Spur, where he’d patched up Firestick and Lofton, and now had apparently finished doing the same for the Dunlap brothers and Newt Woolsey, “I will state for the record—basing my conclusion solely on objective evidence in the form of damage inflicted—that you and your blond-haired accomplice appear deserving of being proclaimed the winners of said engagement.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know. I was there—remember?” Firestick drawled.
“Okay. You want something you don’t already know?” Moorehouse said. “Each of the Dunlap brothers suffered a badly cracked and loosened tooth, among other things, as a result of their encounter with you and your new friend. In each case, I had to dig out the damaged tooth. So, my bill to the town for treating the victims will be a bit larger than usual, due to the use of my skills in two separate fields—medical and dental—being required.”
“Why tell me? You’re on the town council that authorizes payment of submitted bills. Pitch your own case.”
“Indeed, I will.”
Firestick arched a brow. “While you were at it, I’m surprised you didn’t decide they all needed haircuts, too.”
“In my professional opinion, as a matter of fact, they do.” Moorehouse shrugged. “But that’s a personal choice, and one the Dunlaps, as witnessed by their overall shaggy appearance, not to mention the fact they’ve never seen fit to visit my shop, obviously don’t make with any regularity. So I therefore avoided bringing it up.”
Behind him, Moosejaw poked his head out the jail door. “If you’d’ve took a pair of scissors and a razor to those gamy polecats,” he said, “they likely would’ve howled as loud or louder than when you yanked their teeth.”
That made Firestick grin. “They yelp it up pretty good, did they?”
Moosejaw rolled his eyes. “Did they ever. You’d’ve thought somebody was diggin’ arrows out of ’em.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear it all the way back up the street,” Moorehouse confirmed.
“I’m sorry I missed that,” Firestick said, his grin widening. “You sure there ain’t another tooth or two you oughta dig out, now that I’m here to be in on it?”
CHAPTER 5
“Stick with him, Jesus! Ride him down—show him who’s boss!”
These words of encouragement came from Malachi “Beartooth” Skinner as he leaned leisurely on the outside of a small corral, arms folded across the top rail. Inside the corral, the individual to whom he was shouting encouragement was involved in the very un-leisurely
