The Old Wolves by Peter Brandvold

hammer down to the firing pin with a click.
    Drago drew a ragged breath at the sound of the click. “Now, can we talk like two civilized human beings, Spurr? Huh? Would that be all right with you? Damn, you’re lookin’ . . .
old
!” Drago laughed.
    Spurr slid the Starr into its holster. “You ain’t no spring chicken, you blackhearted son of a bitch!”
    â€œ
Black
hearted! Come on, now—that’s harsh!”
    â€œGentlemen,
please
!” Burke stood facing the old lawman and the old outlaw, his back to the stove in which a fledgling fire danced. “I didn’t bring you over here, Marshal Morgan . . .”
    â€œCall me Spurr.”
    â€œ. . . Marshal Spurr . . . so that you could have a shouting match with my prisoner. Now that you are here, however, I was hoping you could tend to the man—feed him, empty his slop bucket, and keep the stove stoked—so that I can go back to the tonsorial parlor. Quite a few miners come into town at night and the first thing some want, before a poke, is a bath and a shave.”
    â€œAnd dental work,” Spurr said with a wry snort, still staring at Boomer Drago, having a hard time believing that’s who was really standing before him. It was like watching a ghost swimming up out of the ancient past.
    â€œJoke if you want, but I get fifty cents a tooth. Well, then—do we have a deal? I take it you’ll be riding out first thing in the morning. Perhaps you could stay right here and see to his . . . uh . . .
needs
?”
    The jailhouse door opened abruptly. As it flew back against the wall, Spurr wheeled and slid his hand across his belly to the Starr over which he had not secured the keeper thong. A man stood in the doorway, clad in bearskin coat and a bearskin hat. The coat was open, the flaps shoved back behind two pistols.
    He walked into the jailhouse followed by two more men dressed similarly, all with pistols prominently displayed.
    Spurr said, “Now, who in the hell are you?”
    The first man was short, with a full blond beard. The other two were taller. They were all in their late thirties, early forties, and they had a wild look. They smelled wild, too—like bears fresh from the den.
    Prospectors. Spurr recognized the haunted looks in their eyes. Living too long alone in the mountains without women, with the frustration of knowing their mother lodes were right beneath their feet—if they could just dig it up . . .
    â€œStep aside, old man,” the first man said. “We’re gonna take your prisoner off your hands.”
    â€œWhat in blazes?” said Boomer Drago, staring at the newcomers over Spurr’s left shoulder. Burke stood in front of the crackling wood stove, looking constipated.
    â€œThat won’t be necessary,” Spurr said, keeping his voice mild. “But I do appreciate the offer. Now, kindly drag your raggedy asses back wherever in hell you dragged ’em in from.”
    â€œLouis said to step aside, old man!” said the last man into the room, waving an arm. “We heard you got Boomer Drago locked up in here—hell, it’s all over these mountains now—and we come to kill him!”
    â€œYou’re right popular, Drago,” Spurr said, keeping his eyes on the three scraggly men facing him, standing about two feet apart in front of the door. “Now, why would you fellas want to come stormin’ in here with blood on your mind? Not that I didn’t have the same notion, but Drago here is property of the government of the United States of America, and since I am a deputy U.S. marshal, I reckon it’s my place to ask.”
    â€œWe rode with him, nigh on five years ago, now,” the smaller of the three said. “Remember us, Vernon?”
    â€œVernon?” Spurr said.
    â€œThat was the alias he was ridin’ under at the time.”
    â€œOne of