Frank jerked his head to the side, knowing the bottle might crush his skull if it connected. It slammed into his left shoulder instead and sent pain shooting through Frank’s body. Not the left arm, though. It went numb.
Hunching over a little against the pain, Frank hooked a hard right into the miner’s belly. It was almost like punching a slab of wood. The blow had enough power behind it to knock the man back a step, though. Still using his right fist because his left arm was useless for the moment, Frank clubbed the miner on the left side of the head, just above the ear.
That staggered the man but didn’t put him down. He dropped the bottle, caught himself, and roared in furious defiance as he lunged forward, tackling Frank around the waist.
The miner was heavier than Frank and bore him backward. Frank tripped on some of the debris from the broken table and fell backward. He crashed to the floor, and the miner’s weight came down on him with stunning force. The breath was knocked out of his lungs, and the room flashed red and black around him as his head bounced off the rough floor.
Hamlike hands fastened around his neck, the fingers digging in with cruel force as they cut off his air. Since the hard landing had already knocked the breath out of him, Frank didn’t have any air in reserve. He knew he would pass out in a matter of seconds, so he had to do something fast. He clawed at his holster, intending to draw the Colt and slam it against his attacker’s head.
But the holster was empty. The gun had fallen out sometime during the struggle, probably when Frank was knocked off his feet.
He tried to heave himself up off the floor, but the miner weighed too much. Consciousness began to slip away from him. He heard his own blood pounding in his head like the frantic beat of a drum.
Even over that racket, he heard the loud thud that sounded somewhere close by, followed by a second one. The terrible pressure on Frank’s throat eased and then went away entirely as the miner’s fingers loosened. He slumped to the side, falling off Frank. With the weight gone, Frank’s chest heaved as he dragged life-giving breaths of air into his lungs again.
He looked over and saw the miner sprawled on the floor beside him, out cold. Blood trickled from a cut in the man’s thick brown hair and ran down the side of his face. Somebody had clouted him a couple of good ones—it had taken two blows to knock him out—and when Frank glanced up he wasn’t surprised to see the gambler standing there with a broken table leg clutched in his hand.
The man reached down with his other hand and said, “Let me help you up, Marshal.”
Frank and the gambler clasped wrists, and the man lifted Frank with seemingly little effort. When he was back on his feet, Frank gave a shake of his head to clear the lingering cobwebs out of his brain. He nodded toward the unconscious miner and said, “You could have killed him, you know, hitting him with a table leg like that.”
The gambler laughed. “Not very damned likely. Bastard’s got a skull made out of iron, and it’s thick too. Anyway, if somebody had to die, I figured he was a better choice than Buckskin’s marshal.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Frank said. He flexed the fingers of his left hand. Feeling had begun to return to that hand and arm. “I’m obliged to you.”
The gambler shrugged. “Hell, the only reason you got mixed up in this fracas was because you tried to keep him from busting up me and my place any worse than he already had.” He held out his hand again. “I’m Ed Kelley, with two e’s. I own this saloon.”
Frank shook hands with him. He had seen Kelley around town but hadn’t met the man yet. Kelley was about thirty-five, with broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and a narrow mustache. He was disheveled from fighting at the moment, but he had the look of a man who would usually be pretty dapper.
Frank’s hat had come off during the fight. He picked it up, slapped it against his leg to get the sawdust from the floor off it, then settled it on his head.
“What started this ruckus?”
Kelley shrugged. “The usual misunderstanding. Rogan thought I was cheating because I won a big pot from him.”
“Were you?”
Kelley’s eyes narrowed for a second, as if he were thinking about taking offense at that question, but then he chuckled and shook his head.
“I guess being a lawman you have to ask that question, eh?”
“I like to know what’s going on in my town,” Frank admitted.
It was amazing how quickly he had come to think of Buckskin as his town.
“Well, in the interests of full disclosure…no, I wasn’t cheating, Marshal. I don’t have to cheat to win. Rogan is a reckless, impulsive player. I could clean him out any day of the week without half trying.”
Frank nodded. “All right. That’s pretty much the answer I was expecting, so I’ll take your word for it, Kelley. Just make sure you continue to run clean games here.”
“That’s what I’ve done every other place I’ve been.”
Frank turned to the other three miners and said, “This fella Rogan a friend of yours?”
“We work together at the Lucky Lizard,” one of them replied. “I wouldn’t say we were his friends.”
“Well, pick him up anyway and haul him down to the jail for me.”
Another of the men scowled. “We ain’t deputies that you can boss around, Marshal.”
“No, but you work for me,” Tip Woodford said from the doorway, “and if you want to keep on workin’ for me, you’ll do what the marshal asked.”
Some grumbling went on, but the three men did as they were told and lifted the still-unconscious Rogan. As they carried him out of the saloon, Frank called after them, “Tell my deputy to lock him up and keep him there until tomorrow morning.” Then he turned to Woodford and said, “I’m obliged for the helping hand, Tip.”
The owner of the Lucky Lizard frowned. “I heard that Rogan was in here raisin’ hell and got over here as soon as I could. Feel like it’s sort of my fault, since he works for me.”
“Just because you pay a man wages doesn’t make you his keeper,” Frank pointed out.
“Maybe not, but Rogan ain’t gonna be gamblin’ away any more money I pay him, because as soon as he comes to, I’m firin’ him. He’s been a troublemaker from the start, always complainin’ and tryin’ to stir up the men against me. I pay ’em decent wages and treat ’em decent too. I don’t need somebody like Dave Rogan around causin’ an uproar for no good reason.”
“I hope you don’t attach any blame to me for what happened, Mr. Woodford,” the saloon keeper said. “We haven’t met. I’m Ed Kelley.”
Tip shook hands with him and said, “No, I don’t blame you, Kelley. Ain’t your fault that Rogan’s an ornery bastard.”
“You own the Silver Baron Saloon as well as that mine, don’t you?”
“That’s right.”
Kelley slid a cigar from his vest pocket and put it in his mouth, leaving it unlit as he clamped his teeth on it. “Biggest saloon in Buckskin, or so I’ve heard. I haven’t checked it out for myself yet.”
“Stop by any time and have a drink on me,” Tip offered.
Kelley nodded. “I’ll do that.” He took a neatly folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and touched it to a cut on his forehead. “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’d like to go clean up.” He gave Frank and Tip a pleasant nod and turned toward a door in the rear of the room. As an afterthought, he said to the bartender, “Get this mess straightened up in here.”
“Right away, Boss,” the man responded.
Frank and Tip left the saloon. “You’ve had a mighty busy day,” the mayor commented. “Trouble every which way you look, seems like.”