Without thinking about what he was doing, Matt launched himself in a dive from the little porch at the top of the three steps leading down from the rear door of the schoolhouse. He tackled Riley and drove the bronc-buster off his feet. Both men crashed to the ground.
“Hold it, Danks!” Sam’s shout sounded loud and clear in the night. “Get your hand away from that gun!”
The hard-edged menace in Sam’s voice meant that he had his own Colt out and had the Double C hands covered.
Meanwhile, Matt had rolled away from Riley and come up on one knee. His fast action had shocked the cowboys on both sides into immobility for a second, and that had been long enough for Sam to draw his gun and take control of the situation. Nobody wanted to slap leather when faced with a Colt that was already rock-steady in Sam Two Wolves’ hand.
Riley pushed himself up and yelled, “What the hell!” His eyes fastened angrily on Matt. “Why’d you jump me like that, Bodine?”
“You and Danks were about to draw on each other, weren’t you?” Matt asked as he got to his feet.
Riley scrambled up, too. “What if we were?” he demanded, his voice hot with rage. “That’s our own business, ain’t it?”
“Not tonight,” Matt snapped. “Not right outside a schoolhouse where there’s a dance goin’ on. There are a lot of innocent folks in there, Riley. Some of ’em could’ve gotten hurt if lead started to fly out here.”
Riley, who was a wiry man with a lean, foxlike face, sneered at him. “For a gunslinger, you’re mighty concerned about innocent folks gettin’ hurt. You always think about that every time you slap leather, Bodine?”
“Not always,” Matt answered honestly. “Sometimes, there just isn’t enough time for that. But I don’t go out of my way to endanger anybody either.”
“The two o’ you struttin’ around town all high-and-mighty,” Riley sputtered. “You make me sick. You ain’t even real deputies. You got no right to tell me what to do.”
There was a jug being passed around somewhere outside the school, Matt thought. That was for damned sure, because Riley was already half-drunk.
Tom Danks spoke up. “Bodine, why don’t you go get the marshal? I want Riley arrested.”
“Arrested?” Matt repeated. “For what?”
“Slander. He called Shad Colton a rustler.”
An ugly laugh came from Riley. “That’s what he is.”
Sam said, “Nobody’s going to get arrested for slander. Why don’t all of you either go back inside and enjoy the dance, or else get your horses and go home. Either way, there’s not going to be any gunfight out here tonight.”
Riley laughed again. “I’m sure as hell not takin’ any orders from a filthy redskin. I don’t care if you are wearin’ white man’s clothes, Injun.”
Sam’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He had long since heard every slur that could possibly be directed toward his mixed white and red heritage. He didn’t let them bother him.
Matt knew that, but he knew as well that Riley had no call to be saying such things. “Shut up,” he said. “You’ve done all the dancin’ you’re gonna do tonight. Get the hell out of my sight, Riley.”
“What are you gonna do if I don’t?” Riley swayed closer to Matt. “I’m not gonna draw on you, Bodine. I know you’d kill me.” His hot breath reeked of whiskey as it gusted in Matt’s face. “So how are you gonna make me leave?”
Matt stared at him for a moment, narrow-eyed, then muttered, “The hell with it.”
His fist came up and shot out with blinding speed.
The punch didn’t travel more than six inches or so. It landed squarely on Riley’s jaw with enough force to send the bronc-buster flying backward. Some of the other Paxton riders might have caught him, but they got out of the way instead and allowed him to crash to the ground on his back.
The other cowboys from Pax would have stood with Riley in a fight, but that didn’t mean they liked him. And none of them wanted to go up against Matt Bodine either.
Riley tried for a second to get up, then groaned and sagged back down. The limp sprawl of his arms and legs showed that he had passed out.
In disgusted tones, Matt ordered, “Somebody put him on his horse and take him back out to Pax. When he wakes up, tell him not to come back to town until he’s sober and willing not to cause trouble.”
A couple of cowboys moved to do as Matt said. While they were busy with that, Sam said to the rest of the men, “Like I told you, either go back into the dance or go home. But the trouble is over, understand?”
Mutters of grudging agreement came from them. Both groups broke up, some of the men returning to the schoolhouse, others drifting off into the night.
Matt joined Sam on the porch. Sam still held his revolver, but he had lowered it to his side. “Think the ones who left will start taking potshots at each other in the dark?” he asked.
Matt shook his head. “I don’t reckon that’s likely. Looked like Riley and Danks were the ones who were stirrin’ things up.”
Sam leathered his iron and said, “I wonder what that business about Shad Colton being a rustler was all about.”
“Just a drunk mouthin’ off, I’d say. Riley was tryin’ to get under Danks’s skin.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Sam still sounded interested, though.
They went inside, where Seymour hurried over to them right away. “What happened?” he asked. “People are saying that there was almost a gunfight, and there was something about punches being thrown.”
“Punch,” Matt said with a smile. “There was only one punch…and I threw it.”
“You were right to worry, Seymour,” Sam said. “A couple of men from the Double C and Pax were about to slap leather, and if they had, the rest of both bunches would have joined in, too. It could’ve been pretty bloody.”
“But you stopped them,” Seymour said.
Matt nodded. “Yeah.”
“This time,” Sam added. “Somebody ought to have a talk with Colton and Paxton and see if they can’t be convinced to patch up their differences and put an end to this feud.”
“I agree,” Seymour said, “but I couldn’t do that. I haven’t been here long enough. Neither of those men would listen to me.”
“That’s right,” Matt agreed. “Anyway, I’ve heard about these Texas feuds. Usually, the only thing that ever ends them is when one side is killed out.”
“My God. That would require wholesale slaughter.”
“Yeah,” Matt said, “that’s about the size of it.”
Matt Bodine’s comment was still on Seymour’s mind as he walked Maggie O’Ryan back to her house after the dance was over. “Is that really the way it is here in Texas?” he asked her as they strolled along. “One family commits mass murder on another family?”
“Well, they sort of commit mass murder on each other,” Maggie said. “That’s why they call it a feud.”
Seymour shook his head. “I’ve learned a lot about the West in the relatively short time I’ve been here, and there’s a great deal I like about it. But I’m not sure if I’ll ever become accustomed to the cheapness with which human life is regarded on the frontier.”
Maggie stopped, which made Seymour come to a halt as well. She turned toward him and said, “It’s only some of the people who feel that way, Seymour. We’re not all like that. I wish there never had to be any violence at all. I…I worry about you, being the marshal and all. Something could happen to you.”
“I’ll be fine,” he told her with a smile. “I’m learning all the time how to handle the job, and as long as I have Matt and Sam around to help me—”
“But that’s just it,” Maggie interrupted. “Mr. Bodine and Mr. Two Wolves won’t be around Sweet Apple forever. They’re drifters, Seymour. You’ll wake up one morning and they’ll be gone.”
“I know,” he said. “Matt warned me that they were…violin-footed, I believe was his word, although I’m not quite sure I understand the derivation of it.”