LITMIR.BIZ

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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 were to hear about his “women running roughshod” statement. “That kind of thing’d never apply to me and Daisy,” he protested in a tone that sounded like it was meant to try and convince himself as much as anyone. “It ain’t a matter of havin’ the right or not. It’s just that she’d never ride me to do something that went against my grain, and I’d never put her in a position where she had to.”

      “If you say so,” Firestick allowed, deciding he’d done enough poking with the needle. “But that obviously ain’t the case with Tolsvord and his wife. The way she’s puttin’ the spurs to him where her loser nephews are concerned has got to go against his grain. Yet he keeps lettin’ her get away with it.”

      “You think holdin’ this bunch behind bars for a spell is gonna change anything?”

      “I have my doubts. But that don’t change my mind none.”

      Moosejaw’s mouth spread in a sly grin. “Maybe Mrs. Tolsvord will show up and try puttin’ the spurs to you about her nephews and their buddy, Newt.”

      “She could try.” Firestick scoffed. “All she’ll accomplish would be goin’ away with some dulled-up spurs if she does.”

      Further discussion of the matter was interrupted by the entrance of a man who strode in confidently and then pressed the door closed behind him. He was an elderly gent, average-sized, still carrying himself straight and strong. He had a neatly trimmed mustache, bone-white in color, that contrasted with a set of unruly eyebrows, also white. Beneath the brows, a pair of alert, quick-moving dark eyes swept back and forth between the two lawmen.

      “Heard talk you’d taken in some some new boarders,” he announced. “Expected you’d be wantin’ me to babysit, so I figured I’d go ahead and save you the trouble of havin’ to come fetch me.”

      “Well, now. That’s right prompt and thoughtful of you, Sam,” said Firestick. “Indeed, we’ll be needin’ your services for tonight and about three more. You available for the duration?”

      The elderly gent nodded. “Got nothing better to do. You know my requirements. ’S’long as you hold up your end, I’ll hold up mine.”

      Sam Duvall was a former New York City constable, a widower with a touch of tuberculosis who’d come West for his health after the passing of his wife. He lived alone in a small cabin on the south side of town. When Buffalo Peak first decided it needed a town marshal, Sam had been approached, due to his background in law enforcement. Though grateful for the offer, he’d turned it down, citing his age and health. Once Firestick and his pals signed on, however, they approached him with a different proposition. For occasions when there were prisoners in the lockup overnight, they asked him to serve as jailer. Sam, who admitted to being bored much of the time by the quiet and solitude of his lifestyle, had jumped at the chance.

      The “requirements” Sam spoke of for taking the job were pretty simple and had nothing to do with monetary payment. He asked only for supper and breakfast to be served from the kitchen of the Mallory Hotel, the makings for plenty of coffee to drink in between, and the allowance for his dog, Shield, to accompany him during his stay.

      “Sounds like a done deal to me,” said Firestick. “Got Shield with you?”

      “As always. He’s waiting outside.”

      “Well, bring him on in whenever you’re ready. There’s plenty of coffee fixin’s, you know where everything is. We’ll see to gettin’ some supper sent over from the Mallory.”

      “What about supper for the prisoners?” Sam asked.

      “They likely ain’t in no mood to eat right away,” said Moosejaw. “They’re sufferin’ the effects of hangovers and from receivin’ a well-deserved thumpin’.”

      “I’m comin’ back for the late-duty turn. I’ll see to gettin’ ’em some vittles if they’re up for anything then,” Firestick said.

      Since the three former mountain men also had a ranch to run in addition to their lawmen obligations, the way they worked it out in the normal course of things was to have at least one of them present in town and at least one at the ranch during the daytime hours. Each evening, they took supper together at the Double M, using that opportunity to bring one another up to date on anything pertinent and discuss it accordingly. Then, after supper, one of them would return to town for a “late duty” tour to make sure everything was in order, that all the shop doors that were supposed to be locked were secure, and that things were suitably quieting down.

      “Do you know who it is we’ve got behind bars?” Moosejaw asked Sam.

      “A whole lot of nothing, the way I heard—the Dunlap brothers and that little runt who follows ’em around. Willoughby or some such?”

      “Woolsey,” Firestick said. “You may have got the name wrong, but the rest of what you said was dead-on—the three of ’em don’t amount to a hill of beans. They can be ornery and troublesome, though, so don’t take no guff off of ’em.”

      “That’ll be the day,” Sam muttered.

      Rubbing his ample stomach, Moosejaw said, “I’ll tell you something else he got dead-on. All this talk about supper is makin’ me hungry. I didn’t realize how late it was gettin’. We’d best get headed out to the ranch before long, Firestick, or Miss Victoria will be servin’ us a cold supper by the time we get there.”

      “Like that’d slow you down any from puttin’ away a pile of it,” said Firestick. “But you ain’t wrong, it’s time to get headed that way. We’ll stop by the hotel and arrange for your supper to be sent over, Sam. Then I’ll see you again a little later on.”

      “Me and Shield will be lookin’ for you. I’ll have a pot of coffee

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