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talkative as he walked with them. “That Bollinger,” he said. “He’s a mean one. You don’t want to take any chances with him, Marshal.”
    Dusty did not reply. He could hear the noise from the saloon and saw a fair sized crowd gathering. He knew that this first task would either make his name or break it. How he handled the matter would be related through the town and he could get support from the citizens or lose it.
    Pushing open the batwings Dusty went into Bearcat Annie’s saloon, followed by Mark and Doc. The bar room was large, the bar long, polished and shiny mahogany. Behind the bar was a long mirror and shelves covered with bottles. Along one wall was a verandah and a line of stairs ran down in the centre of the room. Dusty saw all this in one quick glance, the tables and chairs of the room, the bandstand with its piano and seats for the rest of the orchestra did not interest him. Nor did the crowd who were on their feet and watching what was going on in the centre of the room. A huge man with great bulging arm muscles writhing, held another big man over his head. The big man was a black haired, wild eyed figure, on the rampage. Two other men were down, showing signs of meeting up with the fists of Cy Bollinger.
    “Stop him, marshal,” a man yelled.
    Dusty ignored the man. He could see Doc watching him and knew that the slim young cowhand was wondering how he meant to handle this. Bollinger was not armed but he looked strong as a buffalo bull. Wild Bill Hickok’s way of handling the matter would have been simple. A .44 bullet in the blacksmith’s head. Doc was wondering if Dusty would use the same system.
    “Bollinger!” Dusty roared. “Drop him.”
    The big blacksmith turned, still holding the man over his head. His rage-filled face changed, amazement taking its place. He released the man, allowing him to crash down unheeded. The shambling blacksmith snapped into an almost military brace with his hand lifting in a salute. “Howdy Cap’n Fog, sir.”
    Dusty did not reply to this friendly greeting, his face the hard mask of a martinet officer. He walked forward, eyes on Bollinger, lips in a tight line. “All right, Bollinger. You know where the jail is. Get down there.”
    The crowd drew in its collective breath. Every one present knew Bollinger to be for the most part a cheerful and amiable man. When he was roused he was terrible in his anger and no man to take orders. They waited to see him tear this small man to pieces.
    “Sure Cap’n, sure!” Bollinger stepped over the fallen man and walked past him headed for the door.
    A woman came down the stairs from the verandah. A tall, blonde woman who would catch the eye in any company. It did not take a man much time or intelligence to figure this was Bearcat Annie herself. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head, two large diamonds glittering in her earlobes. Her face was beautiful in a hard way. Her green satin dress was clinging to her body. The dress was slit to the waist at the left. Her legs, clad in black silk stockings showed, rippling with muscles and graced with red garters that looked large enough to rope a longhorn steer. Her arms were bare, round and firm yet the biceps looked hard and strong.
    Sweeping across the room she halted and looked at Dusty, then at Mark and Doc. “I heard you were young. You look even younger than I expected.”
    “Been troubled by it since I was born, ma’am,” Dusty replied. “Likely I’ll grow out of it in time.”
    She looked him over again, her full lips parting in a smile. “You handled Cy Bollinger real well.”
    “Sure, ma’am, didn’t you think I could?” Dusty watched her face but could read little from it. “What started it?”
    A man spoke up, pointing to a gambler .who stood nearby. “He started to rile old Cy. Then said the Texas Light Cavalry was a no-good bunch of goldbricks.”
    “Did, huh?” Dusty’s tones were mild.
    He came round in a fast turn, his right fist swinging up