Hawk, an interested observer to that point, said nothing, hoping for Earl and his friend’s sake that it would amount to nothing more than talk. He looked back toward the general merchandise side of the store to see if Peavy was aware of the trouble. If he was, he showed no evidence of it. Although painfully outmatched, it was apparent that Earl Belcher was not one to slink cowardly out of a saloon. And judging by the determined look on his friend’s face, neither was he. This could be trouble, was Hawk’s immediate thought.

“Mister,” Earl began, “I understand that the likker is doin’ most of the talkin’ comin’ outta your mouth. But I’ll decide when I wanna leave this place, and it won’t be when some drunk tells me to.”

Taken aback by the feisty little man’s refusal to be intimidated, Lige paused a moment to make sure he had heard him correctly. “Well, old man, that’s even better.” He looked at his partners. “Ain’t it, boys? I reckon we’ll just have to throw you two out.” He and his two partners got up from the table, prompting Earl and his friend to get up as well, preparing to stand their ground. Their show of resistance caused Lige to laugh, then remark, “Too bad for you that’s it’s gonna be three of us against two of you old sodbusters, ain’t it?”

That was about as far as Hawk was willing to let the confrontation progress. “It’ll be three against three,” he said as he stood up. There was an immediate silence as both sides of the squabble were taken by surprise. Hawk took a couple of steps over to stand beside Earl and Jack, his imposing stature seeming to dwarf his two partners. “We might as well make it a fair fight,” he said to Lige.

The third member of the troublemakers, Pete Whalen, had been a silent participant to that point. Of the three, he seemed to be the only one who recognized the lethal aura of the man with the feather in his hat. “No need to get stirred up over a little japin’ here,” he said. “Lige and Clell were just funnin’ with you two old fellers. Ain’t no need for this to go any further, right, Lige?”

“That’s right,” Lige said as he took a closer look at the tall man in the buckskin shirt. “We was just funnin’ with these two fellers.”

“I think we was about ready to go, weren’t we, Lige?” Pete asked, just noticing Alvin Peavy, finally aware of the potential for trouble, and standing at the doorway, shotgun in hand. When Lige looked toward him, he nodded in Peavy’s direction.