Tesno backed up two short steps. Madrid holstered his gun and moved forward to lock the cell, which was fitted with a hasp and staple. A huge padlock with the key in it hung from the staple.
Tesno raised his hands and plunged into the door. It smashed into the marshal, knocking the padlock from his hand as he staggered backward. Tesno dived into him, seizing his gun hand as it flashed to his hip, driving him hard into a corner of the desk, falling on top of him as he hit the floor.
Tesno was quickly on his feet, the marshal's gun in his hand. Madrid lay on his back, hurt by his collision with the desk, struggling noisily for wind. Tesno seized him by the heels, dragged him roughly into the cell, snapped the lock into place. The little Irishman burst into a high-pitched laugh.
"Now who ever heard of such a thing? He jailed the marshal."
"Get a doctor, Mike."
"Only one's at Vickers' camp."
"Get him. I'll be back at the Pink Lady."
He yanked open desk drawers till he found his own revolver and gunbelt. He buckled it on, feeling weariness rise in him like a quick-acting drug, wanting nothing so much as his hotel room and its bed. But it was necessary now to show himself back at the saloon, to buy these men a drink. That was the way the game was played. You came in tough. And you swaggered a little for the crowd.