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little some time, and I’d be grateful for some pointers.”
    “Yeah, Barret.” Tyson rushed to join in. “Tell us: when you hump ’em, you have the little one on top or on the bottom?”
    Somehow Hull kept control of himself, seated on the narrow seat, his back rigid and his hands trembling. McGill pushed back his hat and stood surveying the miner in disbelief.
    “You just beat all, Barret. What’s it take to get you down off that seat and fight like a man? We have to bust your goods again?” He gestured toward the back of the wagon and the stack of irreplaceable supplies.
    Hull’s lips parted. Words emerged, easy with enforced calm. “I didn’t come here to fight.”
    McGill nodded disgustedly, looking as though he’d been anticipating such a reply. “That’s what wrong with you. You and the rest o’ them tin-pan squatters. You ain’t got no balls, none of you.” Turning, he walked around to the rear of the wagon and flipped up the unsecured back edge of the tarpaulin.
    Hull whirled. “Leave ’em be!”
    A broad smile creased McGill’s face. “Well now, what about this? Seems as how you can talk when you’ve a mind to, though I don’t think much of a man who worries more about his supplies than his women.” He studied the pile. “Don’t see why you’re so damn concerned about this junk anyways. Not much here but tarpaper and wood. Good makin’s for a fire, though. Right, boys?”
    “Oh yeah, a fire,” said Tyson quickly.
    Jagou rubbed his hands together in expectation. “Sure is, boss. It is a mite cold out today.”
    McGill reached into a pocket and brought out a match, then struck it alight on the side of the buckboard. He spoke as it flared to life, watching as it burned down toward his fingers.
    “Better get down from that seat now, Barret. It might get hot all of a sudden, though if what I hear tell about them Wheeler women is half right, you’re probably used to that by now.”
    So saying, he flipped the match onto the oilcloth. Hull was out of his seat instantly, flailing at the incipient bonfire with the unfastened edge of the tarp. He just managed to extinguish the flames before McGill grabbed his ankles and yanked hard.
    Overbalanced on the back of the wagon and without anything to brace himself against, Hull struck the side of the buckboard and fell over into the street. The three men were on top of him before he could regain his footing. The flat sound of fists striking flesh seemed preternaturally loud in the clear mountain air.
    No one saw the hand that silently removed the big oak bucket from its hook next to the watering trough. It was dipped into the icy water and the contents then dumped onto the back of the wagon. There was more than enough in the single bucketful to douse the smouldering remnant of the fire.
    The bucket was a solid, no-nonsense piece of work. It made a loud crack when it slammed down against the back of Jagou’s neck. The roustabout went down as if he’d been poleaxed and his two companions looked up in shock. They barely had enough time to register their surprise before the bucket descended a second time. It smashed Tyson’s hat flat against his skull. He fell over on top of the unconscious Jagou.
    McGill raised a hand to ward off the coming blow, and the bucket splintered against his jaw, sending him sprawling in the mud.
    It was all over in less than a minute.
    Jagou lay on his belly while Tyson started rolling and moaning, clutching at his skull. McGill slowly worked his jaw, which miraculously had remained in place. None of the three had any thoughts of fighting back.
    Ignoring them and whatever they might choose to do, the stranger lifted the remains of the bucket and eyed it critically. There wasn’t much left except the wire handle.
    “Don’t make ’em like they used to,” he murmured to no one in particular.
    Hanging the wire strap back on its hook, he bent and got both arms under Hull Barret’s, lifting the stunned miner to his feet.