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he knelt beside the seated man who stared dazedly at the stub of his missing finger which was spurting blood. “I’ll tourniquet your arm.”
    As Ian tightened the handkerchief and the blood flow lessened and stopped, Peyton recovered his senses.
    “It’d been better for me if you’d killed me, mister, because I’d like to return your favor, but I won’t be able to. I can’t pay back a dead man. Gentiles don’t gun down saints in this country without retribution, but I will say a little prayer for you while I watch you hang.”
    “If I ever see you again, you’d better bring this bandanna with you, washed and ironed. You’d better start thinking about taking in washing for a living and forget gunfighting.”
    “Hey,” Near-Sighted Charlie yelled from down the street, “that one for me or for the doc?”
    “Get back to Will Trotter, undertaker,” Mr. Bain shouted to the sawed-off man who was feeling his way down the boardwalk. “This one’s for the doctor.”
    Gabriella was first to stand above them, her hand clutching her throat, looking down at her suitor’s blood in horror as other spectators converged from the general store, smithy shop, post office, hardware store and hotel.
    “I saw it all happen, sheriff,” Mr. Bain explained as Sheriff Faust walked up. “Peyton drew first, trying to gun down McCloud. His pistol cleared the holster before Mr. McCloud even went for his. Mr. McCloud waited, drew second, and, for Christ’s sake, begging Miss Stewart’s pardon, took aim and fired before Billy could even pull his trigger. Fastest draw I ever did see, bar none… Stand back, folks. Here comes the doctor.”
    From his squatting position, holding the tourniquet, Ian saw the crowd form an aisle for the doctor who walked through and looked down.
    “He’ll be all right, Mr. McCloud,” the doctor said. “If you’ll let me keep the tourniquet on him, I’ll take him down to my place and bandage him up proper.”
    “Let him keep my bandanna,” Ian said, rising. “He got it bloody, so he can wash it.”
    “That’s against my better judgment,” the doctor said. “We’ll be needing all the bandages we can get when Billy gets word of the shooting back to his pa… You folks had better boil out all the old scraps of linen or cotton you got and have them ready. The Avenging Angels will ride over this… Come on, Billy. I’ll treat you like I would a Christian, and you tell your pa I was good to you. You hear?”
    As the doctor helped Billy to his feet, a small man with a large head, a black beard, and melancholy brown eyes intoned to the crowd, “Now, death and destruction from the Avenging Angels. Now, the dark saints will ride. Now is the time of woe. Woe to all Gentiles and this Hebrew.”
    “Oh, hush up, Mr. Bernbaum,” Gabriella said to him in vexation. “You always look on the gloomy side of things. All Ian did was to shoot Mr. Peyton’s finger off.”
    She had used, Ian noticed, the familiar address for him and the formal for Billy Peyton. Come Sunday, he might get more from the church meeting than a fast horse.
    With Peyton blood still on his hands, Ian turned to the voice of Sheriff Faust. “Mr. McCloud, twice today you’ve done your Christian duty, bringing Will Trotter in and sending Billy Peyton out, but your last good deed might have been one too many. I’m taking the word of Gentile witnesses that the Mormon drew first, so I’m not bringing any charges against you. But I want you to understand that the law’s approval don’t mean the law’s protection. Before the Avenging Angels ride in, my advice to you is to ride out. Mormons don’t take kindly to being shot by Gentiles.”
    “Who are the Avenging Angels, sheriff?” Ian asked.
    “It’s a Mormon vigilante committee that protects them against us Gentiles, but sometimes the the committee gets a little overzealous about protecting.”
    “How many vigilantes on that committee?”
    “Six. Bryce Peyton and five of his