Firestick. William W. Johnstone
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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 pursuit of trying to stay on a sleek, black, wildly bucking bronco. The rider, Jesus Marquez by name, was a lean, wiry, brown-skinned vaquero—one of two employed by the Double M (for Mountain Men) Ranch, the outfit Beartooth owned with his pals Moosejaw and Firestick. Jesus was young, barely out of his teens, yet already highly skilled in the ways of breaking and training horses. This was thanks to the tutelage of his uncle, Miguel Santros, also employed by the Double M and presently leaning on the corral rail next to Beartooth.
As the two men looked on, the bronc continued to leap and whirl and buck, furiously attempting to dislodge its passenger. But despite being jerked from side to side and snapped back and forth, Jesus remained in the saddle as if nailed there. Through the thickening cloud of dust being kicked up, Beartooth thought he actually saw the young man smile from time to time, after the black would make a particularly frantic maneuver that failed to unseat him.
Beartooth glanced over at Miguel, who was focused intently on his nephew. The older man’s leathery, deeply seamed face showed no emotion, but Beartooth could tell he was both pleased and proud.
“Kid’s a natural,” Beartooth suggested.
Miguel’s shoulders moved in a faint shrug. “I’d like to think I had a little something to do with his skill,” he said. “But it is true that Jesus is a fast learner and arrived possessing a fine set of tools for me to work with.”
A moment after those words came out, the black leaped high and twisted its body sharply while still in the air. The combination move caught Jesus by surprise and threw him badly off balance. The horse came down jarringly hard on all fours, first landing stiff-legged, but then instantly twisting the opposite way. Its young rider couldn’t react fast enough and was sent flying.
“Oh-oh,” muttered Beartooth. “I think the toolbox might’ve just got a dent in it.”
The two men clambered quickly over the fence and hurried into the corral with the aim of making sure the fallen Jesus didn’t get trampled before he could regain his footing. The black showed no intention of trying anything like that, however, instead circling away to the far side of the corral and halting there, feet planted wide, blowing hard, watching the humans with suspicion and perhaps a trace of defiance in its gleaming dark eyes.
Beartooth and Miguel knelt beside Jesus and gently helped him rise to a sitting position. The young man looked dazed, momentarily disoriented, and was sucking hard to regain some of the breath that had gotten knocked out of him. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and began trickling down the sides of his face, making muddy tracks through the thin layer of dust that had settled there.
“Just take it easy for a minute,” said Beartooth. “Nothing’s broke, is it?”
Jesus blinked. “I . . . I don’t think so.”
“Move your legs and then your arms. Slowly,” instructed Miguel. When his nephew had done this, he said, “Good. You are going to be fine.”
Jesus looked around, his eyes taking on some clarity now. “Fine enough,” he allowed. “But not until I have the chance to prove so by climbing back on that black diablo and then staying there until he knows that I am his master.”
Miguel nodded. “I am proud to hear your resolve. And I believe you when you say what you will do. However, that should wait until tomorrow to take place.”
“Tomorrow?” echoed Jesus, his expression showing disapproval of the idea.
“Sí,” said Miguel firmly. “If you get back on the black now, you will be able to break him, it is true. But if you do that, he will always hold a grudge and never be the completely fine mount he has the makings to be. On the other hand, if you allow him this small victory today, then wait until tomorrow to break him, he will remember and appreciate that, and he will go on to be an even finer mount, one with his pride and spirit still intact.”
Jesus looked thoughtful, but at the same time a bit skeptical. “I know well that horses have spirit. But are they also capable of things such as pride and holding a grudge?”
“Indeed