Mesquiteer Mavericks

THE THREE MESQUITEERS in MESQUITEER MAVERICKS Quirtman's face flamed with rage and his right hand moved towards his holster. Tucson had been waiting for the move and his left hand darted to a glass of whisky on the bar, lifted it and flung it in Quirtman's face. The same instant he drew and swung his gun barrel to bear on the cowpoke's middle. "Don't draw, Quirtman," he said sternly. Slowly the bulky shouldered man nodded. "I know when I'm licked, Smith. It'll be different next time." He swung on his bootheel and his spurs jingled a tune of hate as he strode out the door. The hard threat in his voice lingered in the smoky haze around the bar and every man there remembered how Jason Stuart had died . . .