Page 38 of Taming Lady Temperance

As they neared the saloon, angry shouts filled the air along with various crashes and thuds. James turned to the wide-eyed cowboy, who looked far too young to be in a bar at all, let alone one filled with brawlers.

“Go home, Emmett. I’ll take it from here.”

“Are you kidding? I got me a front-row seat.”

Just then, a man flew backward through the batwing doors to crash on the boardwalk, blood streaming down his face from a cut above his eye.

Emmett retreated a step. “Maybe I’ll, uh, watch from the fourth or fifth row.”

James clapped him on the arm. “Good choice.”

Catching up to the man on the boardwalk, James grabbed him before he could stumble back into the fray. “Fight’s over, Donaldson. Go home and see to that gash.”

The man tried to swing at James, but the punch was sloppy and off-center. James easily evaded.

“Unless you want to spend the next few weeks in the jailhouse for assaulting an officer, you best head home, Gregor.”

The sharpness of James’s tone finally penetrated the man’s haze-filled brain, and he blinked. “Dep’ty Pashton? Where’d you come from?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m here now. Which means the fight is over. Go home.”

Gregor straightened. Mostly. He listed a bit to one side but managed to keep his feet. Unfortunately, those feet were pointing in the wrong direction. “Need my hat.”

James turned him around and aimed him toward town. “Get it tomorrow.”

He didn’t wait to see if Gregor obeyed. He had bigger fish to fry. Pivoting sharply, he pushed through the swinging door and took in the chaos. Overturned chairs, broken glass, cards, and poker chips scattered over the floor, and about ten men engaging in various forms of fisticuffs. Between the yelling, crashing, and thumping, James could barely hear himself think. Taggert had taken up a defensive position behind the bar, guarding the expensive bottles of liquor that made up his inventory from anyone who happened to careen onto the counter. He had one such fellow by the seat of his pants at the moment, dragging him sideways until the patron toppled over the edge and onto the floor, taking out one of the few standing barstools at the same time.

James hurried over and looped his arms around the man from behind in a diagonal hold that kept him from throwing a punch. “Party’s over, Rico.” James raised his voice right next to the man’s ear. “Time to head home.”

Rico stilled and gave a nod, seeming almost relieved to have an excuse to vacate the premises that didn’t reflect poorly on his manhood. James released him and gave him a little shove toward the exit.

Taggert moved to the end of the bar, his gaze darting from James to the melee and back again. “’Bout time you got here,” he shouted. “They’re tearin’ up my place.”

“One of the hazards of liquoring up your clientele.”

Taggert scowled. “Sermonize later, Deputy. My taxes pay you to keep the peace, so get to pacifyin’.”

If only it were that easy. James climbed up onto the bar to get to higher ground, ignoring Taggert’s frown. Placing fingers in the corners of his mouth, he let out a piercing whistle. Only the man closest to the bar heard it, and when he turned his head, his opponent sucker punched him in the chin.

James started to reach for his gun, figuring it was the only thing loud enough to get people’s attention, but Taggert grabbed his boot and shook his head. “My place is busted up enough already. I don’t need you shooting holes in my ceiling.”

James caught a glimpse of a mop in the far corner of the bar area. He nodded his head toward it. “Bring me that bucket.”

Old Coop was fighting both Claude Templeton and Jude Barlow at the same time just a couple of feet from the far corner of the bar. The moment Taggert slapped the bucket onto the bar, James grabbed the handle with one hand and the base with the other and picked his way down to the far end. The water inside smelled foul, contaminated with spilled beer, tobacco spittle, and whatever else drunk men dropped on bar floors. It was perfect.

Claude managed to land a punch that pushed Old Coop back a step toward the bar. Before the big man could recover, James doused all three with the mop water.

Momentarily stunned, the three staggered apart and blinked, trying to make sense of what had happened. As three angry faces lifted to him, James gave them the Don’t test me lawman’s stare, and all six eyes widened. Taking advantage of the slight quieting of the overall din, he let out another whistle and was pleased to see punches slow and faces turn.

“Any man still in this room by the time I walk back across this bar will be spending the night in the jailhouse.”

Fists clenched in shirtfronts released and raised arms lowered to more neutral positions. A dripping Jude Barlow eased toward the poker pot that had been tossed onto the floor.

“No, you don’t, you cheatin’ snake.” Claude Templeton lunged for him.

James was about to leap from the bar to intervene when Old Coop beat him to it. Grabbing each man by the back of his collar, Coop dragged them away from the money.

“What’d’ya say, Deputy? Who gets the winnin’s?”