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nose, pain gurgling in his throat. Brodie quickly followed him, hit him with a left and a right in the stomach. Guilfoyle roared with rage, threw a wild left that clipped Brodie on the corner of his left eye. It was a glancing blow, but it snapped Brodie’s head and he saw sparks for a moment. But it didn’t slow him down. He stepped in and kneed Guilfoyle in the groin, and as the young thug dropped to his knees, Brodie put all he had into a roundhouse right. It smashed into Guilfoyle’s mouth and Brodie felt the big redhead’s teeth crumble, felt pain in his own knuckles.
    Guilfoyle fell sideways off the walk into the mud. He lay on his back, one hand clutching his broken nose and busted teeth, the other grabbing his groin. Tears were flowing down his cheeks.
    Riker stood up, his fists clenched in anger.
    â€œStand up,” he yelled. “Stand up, you damn crybaby.”
    Guilfoyle groaned, rolled on his side, and tried to get up, but he was whipped. His hand slid in the mud and he fell again. He spit out a broken tooth and smeared blood over his face with the back of his hand.
    Disgusted, Riker spat at Guilfoyle, and turned to the other three toughs who had joined him to watch the fight.
    â€œKnock that little shit into the middle of next week,” he snarled.
    One of them reached inside the door and grabbed a baseball bat. The three of them started down the steps.
    Ben had eased the horses up to the hitch rail. He got off his horse, tied them both up, and hurried to join Brodie.
    The three toughs walked toward Brodie, who didn’t move an inch. He was sizing them up as they sauntered toward him. He’d feint a left toward the one in the middle, smack the one holding the bat with a right to the mouth, and hopefully grab the bat and even things up.
    It never happened.
    A shadow as big as a cloud fell across them. Riker’s hooligans looked up and Brodie looked over his shoulder.
    Buck Tallman was sitting on a strawberry roan, his back as straight as a wall, his blond hair curling down around his shoulders from under a flat western hat. His face was leathery tan with a bushy handlebar mustache, its ends pointing toward flinty gray eyes. He was wearing a light-colored leather jacket with fringe down the sleeves. His sheriff’s badge was pinned to the holster where his .44 Peacemaker nestled on his hip. It looked as big as a cannon.
    He smiled down at Riker’s young roughnecks and at the stricken Guilfoyle.
    â€œOne on one’s a fair fight,” he said, looking straight into Riker’s eyes. “Three on one don’t work with me. Understood?”
    Riker didn’t say anything. The three ruffians nodded and went meekly back into the hotel. Riker stared down at the beaten Guilfoyle, who was still sprawled in the mud, and shook his head.
    â€œYou’re pitiful,” he growled. Then he turned and went into the brothel.

    Buck Tallman was a product of the previous century, of lawless western towns where violence was a way of life. Tallman had brought to Eureka the harsh morality of that frontier, had ridden with Pat Garrett and Bat Masterson, and had dime novels written about him.
    Nobody messed with Buck Tallman. Everybody knew he was hired by the men on the Hill, the Olympus of the gods who owned the railroad and the land, and had friends in high places in Sacramento. They called the shots. In Eureka, Buck Tallman’s job was to keep the peace within the limits they set.

    Tallman leaned forward in the saddle and held his hand out to Brodie, who grabbed it and was swung up behind the saddle of the colorful rider.
    â€œThanks,” Brodie said.
    â€œWhat are you two doin’ down here? Y’know how Mr. Eli feels about that.”
    â€œGoing to get a soda,” Ben answered. “We’ve been playing baseball up on the field.”
    Tallman looked back at Brodie. “You got a little shiner there. Needs some ice.”
    As they rode the block