street through the window.
He was waiting for the marshal or sheriff to make his appearance. It didn’t take long.
The town marshal entered the cafe, a deputy behind him. The deputy held a sawed-off double-barrel twelve-gauge express gun in his hands. And it appeared he had used it before.
The marshal was not a man to back up or mince words. He sat down at Buck’s table, facing him, and ordered a cup of coffee. He stared at Buck.
Buck returned the stare.
“Passin’ through?” the marshal asked.
“Might stay two or three days. I’m in no big hurry to get anywhere.”
“You got a name?”
Buck smiled. “I’m not wanted.”
“That don’t answer my question.”
“Buck West.” Buck then placed the man. Dooley. He’d been a lawman over in Colorado for years. A straight, no-nonsense lawman. But a fair one.
Dooley pointed up the street. “Them houses with paint on them beginning at the end of the street is off-boundaries for drifters. Decent folks live there. The dosshouses is on the other end of the street.” He pointed. “Thataway.” He jerked his thumb. “The road out of town is thataway. Feel free to take it as soon as possible.”
“I don’t intend to cause you or your men any trouble, Marshal,” Buck said softly.
“But you will,” the marshal replied just as softly. “You just got that air about you.”
“You’re a very suspicious man, Marshal.”
“Goes with the job, son.” The marshal drained his coffee cup, stood up, and started to leave. He looked once more at Buck. “You sure look familiar, mister.”
“I just have a friendly face,” Buck said solemnly.
“Yeah,” the marshal said drily. “I’m sure that’s it.”
4
As he stood facing the two men in the saloon, it occurred to Buck that perhaps the marshal just might have been right. Buck had entered the saloon, ordered a beer, and had nursed it for about fifteen minutes before the cowboy with a loud and arrogant mouth had begun needling him.
“You gonna drink that beer or stand there and look at it with your face hangin’ out?”
Buck ignored him.
“Boy, you better talk to me!” the cowhand said.
“I intend to drink this beer,” Buck said, “in my own good time. Not that it’s any of your business.”
The cowboy took a step backward, a puzzled look on his face. Buck knew the type. He was big and broad and solid with muscle. And he was used to getting his way.
He had been a bully all his life. He belittled anything he was too stupid to comprehend—which was nearly everything.
“That’s Harry Carson, stranger,” the barkeep whispered.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Buck said, not bothering to keep his voice to a whisper.
“And his buddy is Wade Phillips,” the barkeep plunged ahead.
“I wonder if either one of them can spell ‘unimpressed,’” Buck said. He felt the old familiar rage fill him. He had never been able to tolerate bullies; not even as a boy back in Missouri.
The deputy who had been with Marshal Dooley earlier that day leaned against the bar, silently watching the show unfold before him. Carson and Phillips were both loud-mouthed troublemakers. But he felt he had pegged this tall young man right. If he was correct in his assumption, Carson and Phillips would never pick another fight after this night.
The deputy slipped out of the line of possible gunfire and sipped his beer.
“What’d you say, buddy?” Carson stuck his chin out belligerently.
Buck fought back his anger. “Go on, Carson. Back off, drink your drink, and leave me be.”
“You got a smart mouth, buddy.” Phillips stuck his ugly, broad-nosed and boozy face into it.
Upon entering the place, Buck had slipped the hammer thongs off his .44s. He slowly turned to face the twin loudmouths.
“I’m saying now I’m not looking for trouble. But if I’m pushed into it, so be it.”
“Talks fancy, don’t he?” Phillips’s laugh was ugly. But so was he, so it rounded out.
“Yeah,” Carson said. “And got them fancy guns on, too. But I betcha he ain’t got the sand in him to duke it out.”
Buck’s smile was faint. He had pegged the men accurately. Both men probably realized that neither one of them could beat Buck in a gunfight, so they would push him into a fight with fists and boots. And if he didn’t fight them at their own game, he would be branded a coward.
The bully’s way.
Buck took off his gunbelt and laid it on the bar. Spotting the deputy, he slid the hardware down the bar to him. “Look after those, will you, please?”
“Be glad to, West. Watch ’em. They’re both dirty at the game.”
Buck drained his beer mug and said, “Not nearly as dirty as I am.”
Then Buck smashed the mug into Carson’s face. The heavy mug broke the man’s nose on impact. Buck then jabbed the jagged broken edges into the man’s cheek and lips, sending the bully screaming and bleeding to the sawdust-covered floor.
Buck hit Phillips a combination left and right, glazing the man’s eyes with the short, brutal punches. Buck did not like to fight with his bare fists, knowing it was a fool’s game. But sometimes that was the only immediate option. Until other objects could be brought into play.
Phillips jumped to his boots, in a crouch. Buck stepped close and brought one knee up, at the same time bringing both hands down. As his hands grabbed the man’s neck, his knee came in contact with the man’s face. The crunch of breaking bones was loud in the saloon.
The fight was over. Carson lay squalling and bleeding on the floor beside the unconscious Phillips. Buck turned around. Marshal Dooley was standing by his deputy.
“Any law against a fair fight, Marshal?” Buck asked. “It was two against one.”
“And they were outnumbered at those odds,” Dooley said. “No, West, there is no law against it. Yet,” he added. “But someday there will be.”
Buck retrieved his guns and buckled them around his waist. “Not as long as there are people so stupid as to place and praise physical brawn over the capacity of reason.”
Dooley blinked. “Who are you, West? You’re no drifting gunhand.
