The Marshal's Ready-Made Family by Sherri Shackelford

halting his wayward thoughts.
    Even a drunk could get off a lucky round, and he needed his mind clear.
    Seconds later he crept along the boardwalk, his hearing focused on the raucous sounds. As he reached the double bat-wing doors, a drunken cowboy with a bedraggled beard stumbled outside and collapsed into a heap on the street.
    Garrett knelt down and felt the man’s neck, relieved at the strong pulse. Judging from the noxious whiskey fumes, Garrett assumed he’d passed out. The drunken man would keep until order was restored.
    Drawing his gun, Garrett edged along the side of the building, when another shot rang out. He straightened his back and burst into the room. A deafening melee greeted his arrival.
    At least two dozen men had paired up in fisticuffs throughout the room. Fists flew and splattered drinks covered the floor in a slick mess. Two of the enormous round tables had been tipped on their sides, scattering playing cards and betting chips over the sawdust-strewn floor.
    An industrious cowboy scooted on his hands and knees between the overturned tables and scooped up discarded coins, shoving them into his bulging pockets. Garrett blew out a shrill whistle. Several startled heads turned in his direction.
    “That’s enough. Everybody outside.”
    A groan erupted from several of the fighting pairs as they realized the brawl was over. From the corner of his eye, Garrett caught a man cocking back his arm over another gambler.
    Garrett spun around and pointed his gun. “I said, that’s enough.”
    The aggressor dropped his arm with a grumble. Garrett plucked a cowboy from the floor and tossed him out the bat-wing doors. His arrival had dampened the crowd’s enthusiasm, and he felt the mood of the room calm. The weary railroad workers reluctantly dispersed. He stalked between the tables, yanking people upright and setting them on chairs. A group of painted ladies huddled near the piano, their wilted feathers a sad sight against their elaborately coiffed hair.
    Garrett didn’t feel any censure toward the women, only sorrow. The West was hard, especially on women and children. “Why don’t you ladies wait next door.”
    The neighboring space was taken with the rooms. This half, the part Tom liked to shoot at, featured a cavernous room with a crude two-story stage at the east end.
    One of the women, a buxom brunette with rouged lips, stuck out a hip and giggled. “You’re in the wrong place for ladies, Marshal.”
    “I’ll be the judge of that.” He felt his ears heat up beneath her amused regard. “I can’t get my job done if I’m worrying about you.”
    “Well, ain’t he just the cutest thing,” one of them trilled.
    With a bawdy look she sauntered away.
    As they retreated through the side door, Garrett pivoted on one heel, surprised to find David McCoy stalking toward him.
    Garrett crunched over broken glass toward the McCoy boy. “Did you see who started all this?”
    “Mr. Stuart and Mr. Hodges were fighting about the new store.”
    “That figures.”
    Garrett wasn’t surprised the two men had been arguing. Mr. Stuart had been running the only mercantile in town for over a decade until Mr. Hodges had arrived from St. Louis and bought up a storefront right across the street. Garrett figured the town had grown large enough for two thriving stores, but Mr. Stuart saw money slipping between his fingers.
    David glanced around the demolished room. “A couple of cowboys took advantage of the commotion and that’s when the bullets started flying.”
    “Where’d they go?”
    The third-oldest McCoy was tall and dark-haired like his brothers, probably going on eighteen or nineteen, twenty at most.
    David scanned the room. “Don’t know.”
    Garrett adjusted his hat. He sometimes deputized the mercantile owner, Mr. Stuart, when he needed extra help. But since his occasional deputy had been knee deep in the brawl, he’d lost his backup.
    Garrett studied David’s sheepish expression. “We’ll talk