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stepped out of the cantina and walked to the hotel, Doubtful Lodgings. It was a weird town.
    The Dirty Dog and the Wolf’s Den was quiet. I think my actions of the past two days had put a damper on things. Them that hunted trouble had seen that I wasn’t goin’ to kowtow to no one, and there just wasn’t no backup in me.
    Steppin’ into the hotel, I walked up to the night clerk, a young man with slicked-back hair, parted smack down the middle. I spun the register and noticed, among the people that had registered that day, two names that caught my attention—Black Jack Keller and Pen Castell.
    Both of them was hired guns, and among the best. They come real expensive, so I’d heard.
    I pointed at the names. “These two gents, they still in the hotel?”
    â€œNo, Sheriff. They partook of our special dinner menu and then stepped across the street to the saloon for a drink and cards. They seemed like very nice gentlemen. Their manners were impeccable.”
    I blinked at that. Impeccable sounded like something you wouldn’t want on you. “Yeah. They’re just dandy fellers.”
    On the boardwalk, I waved at Rusty and walked over to join him, telling him about Pen and Black Jack. He whistled softly.
    â€œTop guns, Sheriff.”
    â€œAnd fast. I seen ’em work up near the Oregon/Washington line. Little town in the Umatillas. Don’t never sell ’em short. They’re among the best. Things is heatin’ up, Rusty.”
    â€œI wonder who hired ’em?”
    â€œI don’t know. Was that feller who backed you up this afternoon Jeff Baker?”
    â€œYeah. Pepper’s brother. He’s a square shooter, all the way.”
    â€œI figured as much. Let’s take the Dirty Dog first, then we’ll ease on over to the Wolf’s Den.”
    The Dirty Dog was filled with the crews from the smaller ranches around the area, and they seemed to be a friendly, easygoin’ bunch. But I noticed that they was, to a man, all packin’ iron, some of them with an extra six-shooter tucked behind their gunbelt. That was not a good sign.
    â€œWouldn’t have taken a month’s pay to miss that show this afternoon, Sheriff.”
    â€œYeah,” another said. “That kid’s been achin’ for something like that to happen. He’s been ridin’ high, wide, and rough for a long time.”
    â€œYou be careful, Cotton,” an older cowboy told me. “That kid’s bricks ain’t stacked jist right.”
    â€œI know you?” I looked him up and down.
    â€œI know you. I was ridin’ for the Twisted River brand down on the Big Sandy when you braced them rustlers that night—’member?”
    â€œOh, yeah!” Rusty was all ears, leanin’ close. “They run off part of that herd we was pushin’ north and stole one of my horses. Sure.”
    â€œWhat happened?” the barkeep asked.
    â€œWe planted the two rustlers that braced Cotton,” the cowboy said quietly.
    I noticed a puncher leavin’ out just then, turnin’ in the direction of the Wolf’s Den. But then, maybe he was just headin’ for the privy.
    The older puncher said, “He’s a sneak and a snitch for Big Mike. Thinks we don’t know it.”
    I chuckled. “Good way to feed wrong information.”
    The puncher just grinned.
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    Me and Rusty could both feel the hostility when we pushed open the batwings and stepped into the Wolf’s Den.
    Place got real quiet. Big Mike Romain was standin’ belly up to the bar, nursin’ a beer. Johnny Bull was on his right and Little Jack Bagwell to his left. Man enjoyed some fine company, to be sure.
    Rusty stood at the end of the bar closest to the door while I ambled around the place. I met every eye that would meet mine. And I was thinkin’ that to my knowledge, this many top gunslicks had never been gathered in one place at the same