Tender Valley is a clean, friendly and law-abiding frontier town.

In fact, it is such a fine town that an enterprising businessman might just designate it as the official Finest Frontier Town in the West, an award with a ten thousand-dollar prize.

New Utopia isn't as fine as Tender Valley, but the townsfolk there are desperate to win the award, and they're prepared to go to any lengths to succeed. So they hire gunslingers to shoot up Tender Valley and destroy that town's reputation forever.

In peaceful Tender Valley, the townsfolk are ill equipped to withstand the gunslingers' onslaught. They need a hero to ride into town, strap on a gun and stand tall before their tormentors.

But the next man to ride into town is Fergal O'Brien, purveyor of a singularly unsuccessful "universal remedy."

He's no hero. But for the right price — he does have a plan.

'This is a bad idea,' Randolph said, as he slid to a halt in the saloon doorway.

'Quit worrying,' Fergal snapped. He brushed by Randolph and into the saloon. 'We'll be fine.'

Randolph grabbed Fergal's shoulder and spun him round.

'But it's only been a week since we last came here.'

'From what I hear,' Fergal whispered with a hand cupped beside his mouth, 'Tender Valley folk are slow on the uptake. They won't remember us.'

Randolph shook his head and followed Fergal across the saloon.

This early in the day only a smattering of drinkers lounged against the bar. The rest of the room was sparsely furnished and well scrubbed.

The bartender looked up from polishing a glass. He smiled. Then he narrowed his eyes. A scowl replaced the smile.

'You're that tonic seller,' he muttered. 'You came through Tender Valley last week.'

'Told you so, Fergal,' Randolph whispered with a sigh.

With a sideways glance at Randolph, Fergal dropped his black medical bag and spread his thin arms wide displaying his bright green waistcoat.

'I'm always eager to meet an informed new customer.'

The bartender slammed his clean glass on the bar and folded his arms.

'I ain't a new customer. You've already sold me a bottle of your tonic to cure my aching back. You claimed it was a universal remedy to cure all ills.' He widened his eyes. 'But the evil brew ripped up my guts something rotten.'

Fergal raised his hands and backed a pace from the bar.

'Nothing that's good for you can taste nice. But I hope it still worked.' Fergal smiled, the smile dying as the bartender cracked his knuckles and leaned over the bar. 'But if it ain't worked yet, give it more time. Nothing that's good for you can work immediately.'

The bartender chuckled, the sound hollow. 'It'll never work now. The tonic dissolved the cork and leaked everywhere. Don't reckon as I'll ever get that stain out of my floor.'

'A pity.' Fergal leaned down and grabbed his bag. He shook it. Inside, bottles clinked. 'But I have more bottles of my universal remedy—for my special customers.'

'I ain't paying for more of your foul concoctions.' The bartender gritted his teeth. 'There's only one thing I want to do to you.'

'What's that?' Fergal murmured with a practiced glance at the door.

The bartender grabbed another glass and slammed it down beside the first. He grinned.

'I want to give you and your friend a free drink.'

As Fergal opened and closed his mouth silently, the bartender poured a whiskey into the nearest glass and poured a second for Randolph. Then with a cheery wave, he sauntered back to stand by the wall.

Fergal shuffled to the bar. He lifted the glass and stared at the muddy contents.

'What do you reckon it is?' he whispered.

'It looks like whiskey and it smells like whiskey.' Randolph took a long sip of his drink. 'And it tastes like whiskey.'

Fergal narrowed his eyes. 'But he might be trying to poison us.'

'You're too suspicious, not everyone...'

A portly customer with a huge grin sauntered along the bar and stood behind Fergal.

Randolph nodded. 'Morning, stranger.'

'Name's Oliver Bailey,' the newcomer said with a deep voice.

Fergal turned and smiled. 'Glad to meet you. I am—'

'I know you. You're that tonic seller Fergal O'Brien.'

'Sure am,' Fergal said, spreading his arms wide. 'I'm the finest tonic seller on this side of the Mississippi.'

Oliver chuckled. 'Hate to meet the second best. Last week you came through Tender Valley and sold me your universal remedy for a dollar. You said it'd cure a rash I had.'

Fergal sighed. 'Just give it time. I'm sure the rash will go. As I told our bartender, nothing that's good for you can work immediately.'

'Using your tonic to scrub the rash off is about the only way it would work. That universal remedy sure cleans up pots and pans but it didn't work on me. It made me go blind for two days. Then I got the shakes. Then when I got out of bed it—'

Fergal lifted a hand, then opened his bag. He shuffled aside the log, placed inside to give his bag an authentic bulky appearance, and withdrew a bottle of amber tonic—his famous universal remedy to cure all ills. He shook the bottle, the liquid sparkling.

'I reckon you deserve a replacement.'

'Don't want a replacement.'

Fergal slipped the bottle back into his bag. He took a deep breath.

'In that case,' he said with a shiver, 'you should get back your dollar.'

Oliver grabbed Fergal's arm. 'I don't want your dollar.'

Fergal gulped. 'If you don't want a replacement and you don't want a refund, what do you want?'

Oliver leaned forward. 'I want to buy you and your friend a drink.'

'That's mighty friendly,' Fergal said with a relieved sigh.

'We're always friendly to outsiders.' Oliver whirled his arms, signifying the bartender and the only other customer. 'But then again, Tender Valley is the finest frontier town in the West.'

'You don't say.'

Oliver grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the bar and slopped another two full glasses of whiskey before Fergal. Then he grinned, tipped his hat, and sauntered back down the bar.

With a bemused glance at Oliver's receding back, Fergal led Randolph to a table by the swing-doors. He checked that no one was watching, then sniffed both glasses.

'Relax,' Randolph said as he sat. 'These people ain't slow on the uptake. They're just friendly folk with forgiving natures.'

Fergal dabbed a finger in his drink and licked it.

'I just reckon that they've done something to this whiskey.'

'You mean like putting your own tonic in it to teach you a lesson?'

Fergal shivered. 'That's the sort of thing I'm worrying about.'

Randolph sniffed and supped his whiskey.

'Nope. Your tonic ain't in here. The whiskey don't smell of feet and it don't taste of rotted polecat.'

'Then why are they being so friendly?'

Randolph shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

'Why are you worrying? In a friendly town like this the other townsfolk might have forgiven you enough to buy your tonic again.'

'We ain't staying. Something's wrong when people buy us drinks.'

'If you're always this skeptical, you should consider a new career.'

'Such as?'

'Anything, as long as it doesn't involve boiling beans to make your tonic.' Randolph rubbed his chin. 'Or being chased out of town.'

'Tell you what.' From six inches Fergal eyed his whiskey, then sipped it. 'If you think of something better to do before we reach the next town, we'll do it.'

'Deal,' Randolph said and downed his first whiskey in a gulp.

As Randolph rubbed his forehead, trying to induce a good idea before Fergal changed his mind, the swing-doors crashed back against the wall and three men swaggered inside. Each man was hard-boned and dirty. With their shoulders hunched high, they glared around the saloon.

The tallest of the men rubbed his bristled chin and sauntered to the bar. With a sly grin, he leaned on the bar and spat to the side.

'Three whiskeys,' he said, his voice gruff.

'Morning, strangers,' the bartender said, glancing at his new customers' prominent guns. 'I'm most pleased to meet you three passers-by.'

The tall man swiped the back of his hand across his brow, cleaning away a layer of trail dust.

'Yeah, I'm Snide Patterson.' He held his head to the side as if he expected the bartender to recognize the name. When the bartender just smiled, he gestured to his side. 'This is Trap, and Mortimer.'

Trap, a squat swarthy man with a lively grin, tipped his hat and Mortimer, a ripe-smelling bearded man, sneered.

With a sideways glance at Oliver, the bartender sloshed three glasses on the bar, took Snide's money, and backed to the wall.

Snide swung round. From the corner of his mouth, he muttered to Trap and Mortimer. In low tones, they chuckled.

With his arms thrown back to grip the bar, Snide's gaze drifted over Fergal and Randolph and settled on Oliver. He appraised Oliver, his gaze sticking on Oliver's paunch. With a slow smile spreading, he turned. Using his fingertips, he picked up his glass and swung it in a long arc. The glass crashed into Oliver's shoulder and sprayed the whiskey everywhere.

'I'm sorry,' Oliver murmured, backing a pace.

'You clumsy varmint.' Snide glared at his empty glass. 'You spilt my drink.'

Oliver batted dregs of whiskey from his shoulder and smiled.

'Let me apologize for my mistake by buying you a replacement.'

Snide rolled up a sleeve. 'That's fighting talk.'

Oliver shook his head. 'It ain't.'

Trap patted Snide's shoulder.

'The man's right,' Trap said. 'That ain't fighting talk.'

Snide shrugged. He pinched and lifted up his sleeve.

'Suppose it ain't, but you got my jacket dirty.'

Oliver eyed Snide's dirty jacket and the cleaner patch the splash of whiskey had created.

'Then let me buy your friends a drink too.'

Snide rolled up his sleeve to the elbow.

'That's fighting—'

Trap grabbed Snide's arm.

'Snide,' Trap whispered, 'that ain't fighting talk either.'

Snide pushed back his hat and scratched his forehead. He glanced around the saloon, his brow furrowed. Then he grinned.

'I'm happy about the dirty jacket, but I'm still insulted.'

Oliver smiled. 'Then let me leave you the bottle. That should resolve any insult my clumsiness might have caused you.'

Snide blew out his cheeks as Oliver glugged three glasses of whiskey.

'That ain't fighting talk,' Snide murmured.

Oliver nodded. 'It sure ain't.'

Snide grinned. 'This has to be the friendliest town I've ever seen.'

'Yup.' Oliver puffed his chest and patted Snide's shoulder. 'But then again, Tender Valley is the finest frontier town in the West.'

Snide gulped half his whiskey and placed it on the bar. He considered his drink. He nodded. A sly grin spread.

'It's the finest frontier town, you say?'

Oliver tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat.

'Yup. They don't come finer than Tender Valley. We're friendly folk and everyone that rides through leaves knowing that we're the finest, unless they stay and join our fine town.'

Snide hitched his pants higher and rolled up his second sleeve.

'I come from Stone Ridge and I love my hometown.' Snide spat on his hands and bunched them into fists. 'Are you telling me that Tender Valley is finer than Stone Ridge?'

Oliver frowned and rubbed his chin. 'Suppose I am.'

'Now that's fighting talk!' Snide lifted his fist, then dropped it and glanced back at Trap.

Trap grinned. 'Yup. That's fighting talk.'

Snide swung his fist. From scant feet away, his ill-directed blow glanced off Oliver's shoulder.

Oliver collapsed—his arms and legs splayed, his head lolled.

'Get up!' Snide shouted, standing over Oliver. 'I hardly touched you.'

Oliver's head rolled on its side. His eyes closed.

Snide looked up. The bartender was no longer visible and further down the bar the only other customer, aside from Fergal and Randolph, had lain on his belly.

'Who hit him?' Snide shouted.

Trap and Mortimer shrugged.

As the gunslingers glared at each other, Fergal rolled to a standing crouch. He grabbed his medical bag and sidled around the table. With a crab-like motion, he slipped under the swing-doors.

Randolph stood and sauntered to the doors. As he slammed a hand on a door, Snide's steady gaze around the saloon fell on him.

'Where are you going?' he roared.

Randolph stood a second and sighed. He turned.

'I'm a-leaving.'

'A town that nobody will fight for is worth squat.' Snide looked Randolph up and down and chuckled. 'Even a big man like you is as weak as everyone else in this pathetic place.'

Randolph rolled his shoulders and shook his head.

'I don't care what you say about Tender Valley. I'm not from around these parts.' He sighed. 'But you can't hit a man who bought me a drink.'

'Would that be this man?' Snide pointed at Oliver's prone form.

To Randolph's nod, Snide grinned. With three long paces, he stormed across the saloon and threw a round-armed punch at Randolph.

Randolph ducked the punch and returned a blow to Snide's jaw that sent him sprawling. With a shake of his head, Snide leapt to his feet. He spat to the side and hurled a punch at Randolph's stomach.

Randolph again swayed from the punch and, with Snide off-balance, he kicked his feet from under him. As Snide floundered, Randolph charged Trap and Mortimer. With his arms wide, he grabbed both men in a headlock, one under each arm, and bent them double. Then with three back and forth rocks to build momentum he ran at the bar and clunked their heads on the bar rim.

Without making a sound they collapsed.

As Randolph swung round, Snide rolled to his feet. He spat on his hands and raised his fists.

Randolph beckoned him on and, taking the bait, Snide charged in flailing his fists. Randolph shrugged off two blows, waiting for an opening. When it came, he floored Snide with a flat-handed blow to the chin. He stood with his hand raised, but Snide's head lolled.

'Reckon as he's out cold,' Oliver said from the floor.

Randolph snorted, unsure if he was annoyed at Oliver's cowardice or impressed with his playing unconscious act. To check that the gunslingers were out cold, he tapped his boot against each lolling body. Then he sauntered to his table.

'I reckon I'll finish my drink now,' he said.

'You won't,' the bartender said, standing from behind the bar. 'I don't want trouble in my saloon.'

'I've sorted the trouble.'

'We had no trouble until you got involved.'

Randolph waved at the unconscious gunslingers.

'These men were set on creating havoc.'

'That was obvious. And they'd have left when they realized Tender Valley ain't interested in trouble.'

As Randolph rubbed his forehead, Fergal edged through the swing-doors. He glanced at the bodies and sighed.

'Come on,' he said. 'We're going anyhow.'

The bartender nodded and pointed through the doors.

'That tonic seller is speaking sense. Just go.'

Randolph batted dust from his hat and sneered.

'Yeah. I know. Trouble doesn't happen in the finest frontier town.'

'And don't forget it.' The bartender replaced his frown with a smile and waved. 'Enjoy the rest of the day.'

Randolph sauntered outside.

'Something's wrong when a town won't defend itself,' he said.

Fergal shrugged. 'Perhaps, but we ain't staying to discover why.'

Fergal pointed down the road—a delegation was hurrying to the saloon and in the middle a man with a star strode, his arms swinging.

Randolph slammed his hat back on his head and strode to their wagon. When Fergal joined him, he swung the wagon round and headed out of town.

'Cheer up,' Fergal said. 'I always say that if we can leave town alive and at our own pace, we've had a good day.'

Randolph gripped the reins tighter. 'Just reckon that bartender ought to have been more grateful.'

On the edge of a town, three men hammered a sign into the ground. They waved and favored Fergal and Randolph with a line of cheery grins.

Fergal waved back but Randolph hunched further. As they passed, he glanced at the sign.

The sign read: 'Tender Valley — The Finest Frontier Town in the West.'

Randolph snorted and speeded the wagon into the prairies.

Avalon books contain solid, wholesome entertainment.

Readers know that within, the entertainment is suitable for all and will be free of all sex, violence, bad language and anything offensive.

I have no problem with this constraint, but as I was intrigued with the problems of being politically correct when you're writing about a time when people were often distinctly non-PC, I introduced being PC to a western setting. So, a mayor of a rough frontier town, Tender Valley, bans all unwholesome activity within his town. He bans drinking, fighting, saloon-girls and even cows aren't allowed to deposit stuff in his town. And as he bans swearing, stuff is the only word the townsfolk can use to describe the activity that isn't allowed.

The townsfolk are unhappy, but they go along with the mayor's plan to convert the town into the finest frontier town in the West. So, they grit their teeth, drink water in the saloon and are unnaturally nice to passers-by. And when hoodlums ride into town looking for a fight, they just smile sweetly and avoid trouble at all costs.

Then Fergal O'Brien rides into town and, on discovering a town where everyone is determined to be friendly, whatever the provocation, Fergal just has to turn the friendliness to his advantage. And he does.