11
After what seemed an endless afternoon
of switching his attention back and forth between the reports he
was trying to write and looking out the window, checking for any
signs of Sampson Davis, Jason was about to rip out his hair. He’d
done well with Sampson, he thought. At least, he hadn’t wet
himself, which was what he’d felt like doing most of the time he
was in the café. But he wasn’t at all certain that Davis had taken
his warning seriously. In fact, he was pretty sure it had fallen on
deaf ears, and that Sampson’s new unspoken intent was to kill not
only Rafe, but him, too.
It wasn’t the most comforting
thought.
He was about to try to refocus on his
paperwork when the door burst in.
“What?” he half-shouted.
It was Ward, and despite his refreshing
day’s sleep, he looked like they were going to be wiped out by
Apache within the second. Nervously slamming the door behind him,
he exclaimed, “Another one! We got us another one and he’s over to
the saloon right now!”
“Another what?” Jason said, rising from
his chair. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“We got another one, I tell you! Wash
Keogh just sent word. He’s been down at the saloon all day, and he
says that the man just come in, askin’ about Rafe Lynch! Well, come
on, Jason! We gotta get over there. Now!”
“All right, all right,” Jason muttered,
thinking that if Wash had been at the saloon all day, he was likely
to be seeing elephants riding duck-billed platypuses. As they
hurried across the street, he asked once more, “We’ve got another
what, Ward?”
“Gunfighter!” Ward threw a glance at
him that told him Ward thought that was the single most stupid
question he’d heard in a long time. “Teddy Gunderson, from over
California way. He’s a bounty hunter,” he added, only slightly more
patiently.
“Says Wash.” Jason was still
dubious.
They stepped up onto the boardwalk
outside the saloon.
“Says Wash! Come on.” Ward pushed open
the batwing doors and led the way in.
Jason spotted Wash first, and made his
way over to his table. “Mind sharin’?” he asked. Wash nodded, and
Jason sat down, followed directly by his deputy.
“So, what’s goin’ on, Wash?” Jason
asked, pushing back his hat and crossing his arms on the
table.
“Thought Ward was gonna tell you,” Wash
slurred, then turned his head toward Ward. “Sammy get you the
message?”
“Yeah. Guess the marshal wants to hear
it all over again, firsthand,” Ward said disgustedly.
“That’s enough, Ward,” Jason said.
“Tell me, Wash.”
“Well, you’re too late, anyways,” Wash
said. “He up and left ’bout fifteen minutes ago. He kept pumpin’
Sam for information and Sam wouldn’t give him none,
so—”
“What do you gents want to drink?”
asked a pretty girl in a low-cut red dress.
“Nothin’,” said Ward, and Jason echoed
him.
But Wash said, “’Nother boilermaker,
Ruby.”
She winked at him, said, “Sure thing,
Wash,” turned on her heel, and wended her way back to the
bar.
Jason said, “You seen Rafe,
Wash?”
“Nope, not since he come in. Went
straight to his room and ain’t stuck his head out since.” He
pointed to his eye and missed. “Been watchin’ his
door.”
Jason glanced up at the row of doors
strategically placed along an open, second-floor hallway that was
barricaded only by a wooden rail along its outside, with a
staircase at either end. It was usually used by the girls and their
customers, but Sam occasionally let rooms out to special
guests.
Rafe, it seemed,
qualified.
Jason said, “And what about this Teddy
. . .”
“Gunderson,” said Ward.
“Thanks. Any idea on his story,
Wash?”
“Nope, but I can tell you what he looks
like. Six feet, mayhap a tad over. Narrow build, kinda lanky. Got
kinda sandy-colored hair, mustache but no beard. Youngish. But
then, everybody seems young to me these days.” His boilermaker
arrived, and he thanked the waitress before he turned back to
Jason. “Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah. Youngish. Good lookin’, I
s’pose. The gals in here were gaga over him, anyways. And that’s
all I know.” With that, he picked up his shot glass, dropped the
liquor ceremoniously into his beer mug, and chugged half of it down
in one long gulp.
Jason leaned back in his chair, and a
hint of a smile crept over his face. “Wonder if he’s stayin’ up at
the boardinghouse?” Maybe he and Sampson Davis would kill each
other! It sure beat the other alternatives, which were one of them
killing him, or vice versa.
Neither one was very pleasant to think
about.
Father Micah Clayton was inside the
town that afternoon, visiting families of the faith, and taking
confessions. He was amazed at the number of Catholics in Fury, as
well as their long lists of sins to confess. It seemed that a
priest had never visited there before, and so the lists of sins
went back five or six years. Sometimes longer.
He was startled at their creativity,
too. In fact, there were several occasions when he had felt the
need to hide his face during confession, lest he break out in
laughter. The things some children—and parents!—thought were
sins!
Of course, there were serious
incidents, too: enough Catholics and enough sins to make him
believe that Fury wasn’t just in need of the occasional ministering
touch that would be provided by a traveling Father or Brother. No,
they needed a church, to whose bells they could harken, and where
they could find a priest, day or night, to comfort and instruct
them in time of need.
Also, he understood that there was
competition in the form of the Reverend Milcher, from whose church
he now stood across the street, and who he also understood was in
trouble. It seemed that the reverend—who several people had
confided in him was not ordained, but only a layman—was losing his
flock. Or had already lost it, according to who was doing the
talking at the moment.
Fury needed a church, and God was
sending him signs that he was to build it. Father Micah didn’t know
if the Lord would call on him to tend its flock forever, or just
until a new priest came, but he was to do the building of
it.
He didn’t imagine he could pull off
something grand, like the Spanish had erected all over Mexico and
the southwestern United States, but God didn’t mind. All he need
was a building to shelter the faithful while they prayed and
listened and took communion. And donated, he thought, somewhat
selfishly. He was one to freely pass the plate when it came to
donations. The church would cost money to build, and he had to
live, didn’t he? Christ, Himself, would have understood his
dedication to the wine decanter.
No, the good folks of Fury could
support him while he lent them the spiritual grace and comfort they
pined for. Now all he had to do was find a proper place to erect
his church.
His church. He
liked the sound of that.
And the second he realized what he was
thinking, he rammed his fist against the adobe-coated post next to
him.
Thou shalt have no
other Gods before Me, Micah, the voice in his head boomed,
putting him in his place. He scowled before he examined his
bleeding knuckles.Especially not
thyself.
He went back to his Conestoga and said
five Hail Marys and three Our Fathers—much as many of those whose
confessions he’d heard today were doing—and petitioned the Lord to
grant him humility.
That afternoon, at about four o’clock,
another rider was approaching Fury. He was a big man—tall and
stocky, but not fat—with dark brown hair under his battered hat, a
clean-shaven face, and a deputy U.S. marshal’s badge pinned on his
worn leather vest. He rode a blue roan gelding, the same one that
had hauled him over half the territory for the past few years, and
which he wholeheartedly hoped would last another few. The horse’s
name was Boy, and the man was U.S. Deputy Marshal Abraham Todd,
down from Prescott.
He scouted the landscape ahead of him,
which included not only the fortresslike town walls, but what
looked to be a wagon train parked outside its southern perimeter.
The wagons were calm, although there were people moving around, and
the horses had been unhitched and placed in a corral closer to him,
opposite the open doors of the wall.
He gave a close look to the lead wagon
and wondered if anyone he knew was leading it. Probably not. These
days, the West was somewhere a lot of people wanted to go. The Lord
only knew why.
He reached the gate, tipped his hat to
two ladies walking back in from the wagons—both carrying
bundles—and asked where the sheriff’s office was. They looked at
him oddly, but a voice from behind him said, “Just down the street,
sir.”
He twisted to see a comely woman,
standing outside in front of the schoolhouse. She pointed east,
down the main street. She had dark hair, pulled back into a bun,
and wore a deep blue dress, and he was taken with her right
away.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said in a gruff
voice (that most people found kindly, rather than abrasive),
nodded, and moved Boy on down the street.
He’d gone about a block’s worth when he
had to smile and chuckle. They musta knowed I was
comin’, he thought when he saw the sign on the building up
ahead. The sign read MARSHAL’S
OFFICE.
He reined the roan into the rail
outside, dismounted, banged his hat on his leg a couple of times,
and opened the door.
Nobody was there, so he figured the
“marshal” was off on rounds or something. He went back outside,
leaned against the rail, and rolled himself a smoke.
He could wait. He had
time.
A few moments later, Jason and Ward
exited the saloon with Wash Keogh propped between them. He had
finally drunk himself into a stupor, and Ward had volunteered to
put him up for the night if Jason would help carry.
Ward didn’t have to ask him
twice.
However, they were only two steps
outside the saloon when Ward stopped suddenly, yanking on Wash and
nearly pulling Jason, on the other side, to the
ground.
As Jason managed to get back his
balance, Ward said, “Who’s that?”
Jason looked up. “Where?” he asked
before his eye stopped on the tall man standing in front of his
office, having a smoke next to a blue roan horse. “In front of the
office?” he asked before Ward had the time to answer
him.
The late afternoon sun glinted off
something metal on the man’s chest.
“Is this our man from Prescott?”
Excitedly, Jason began to walk across the street, hauling Wash and
Ward along with him. He surely hoped so. This thing he was dealing
with could go off any second, he figured. At least he still knew
where Rafe was holed up, but he was clueless as far as Teddy
Gunderson’s whereabouts. He just kept telling himself that Sampson
Davis and Gunderson would cancel each other out.
He fervently hoped so,
anyhow.
When they had crossed the street,
dragging Wash between them, Jason went right up to the stranger and
stuck out his hand. “Jason Fury, Marshal. Pleased to meet
you.”
The marshal took his hand and gave it a
shake. “Howdy, Fury. I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Todd. Your letter
sounded urgent.”
“And I’m Deputy Ward Wanamaker,” Ward
interjected, sticking out his right hand, which was the only one
not holding up the drunken prospector.
Marshal Todd took it and
shook.
“Things are worse than when I wrote you
boys,” Jason said as he and Ward guided Wash into the
jail.
“Stick him a cell for now, Jason?” Ward
asked, once they were inside.
“Yeah. I don’t think he’s gonna mind,
let alone remember.” He turned back to the deputy marshal and began
listing the town’s current woes. As he talked, Todd grew more and
more serious.
And when he’d finished, Todd said, “I
think I’ve got it. You got a town overpopulated with gunmen and a
nutcase rancher who sees Apache behind every cactus.
Right?”
Jason’s jaw hung open. Todd had boiled
it down to one sentence, more or less. He finally got control of
his speaking parts and said, “Basically, yeah.”
Ward, standing by the file cabinets,
muttered, “Now, don’t he make it sound simple. . . .”
“Always best to tackle the problem one
step at a time, deputy,” Todd said without turning around, despite
the fact that Ward was standing across the room, behind
him.
Todd leaned forward, putting his elbows
on Jason’s desk. “Now, first off, I gotta tell you that I know Rafe
Lynch, and I like him. I’ll get back to why in a second, but when
you get right down to it, he ain’t no danger,” Todd said. “Second,
I just heard of this Teddy Gunderson last week. Seems he’s trackin’
bounties, now, and it looks to me like he’s got the idea he’s hit
the big time, and now he’s gonna pick up Lynch’s bounty.
California’s got ’bout $13,000 on Lynch last I heard, dead or
alive. Imagine Teddy’s thinkin’ to take him back west, over the
border, then shoot him. Teddy’s too careful to do it any other
way.”
Deputy Marshal Todd’s speech was having
a soothing effect on Jason, who, of the three men, was by far the
most in need of it. He was, after all, responsible for everything
that happened in his town. And everything out of it, according to
Matt MacDonald, he thought angrily. Well, Matt had got his wish,
after all. Jason had called in the U.S. Marshal’s Office. But Rafe
was no threat, which relieved him greatly, and Gunderson wasn’t
likely to shoot up the town or anything else in Arizona. But as for
Davis . . .
As if reading his mind, Todd said,
“Now, I don’t know much of anythin’ about this Sampson Davis
character, save that he served two years in California for the
‘accidental’ death of a man named Silvers, in a dispute over a
mining claim.”
Jason said, “All I know is what Rafe
told me—and I already told you—and that Davis scares the bejesus
outta me.”
Ward nodded, as if to say he was
scared, too, but Todd remarked, “Y’ know, I think you fellers are
holdin’ up damned well, considerin’. Glad you contacted us, though.
And please call me Abe, boys.”
Jason nodded and smiled. “All right,
Abe. We like to keep things casual out here, too.”
“Like our prisoner, here,” said Ward,
poking a thumb over his shoulder at Wash, who was flopped out on a
cot, arms and legs everywhere, snoring blissfully.
Marshal Todd—no, Abe—leaned out a
little, smiled and said, “I’ll be dogged. That Wash Keogh, for
real?”
Amazed at the marshal’s handle on the
situation, Jason nodded.
“He’s some older than the last time I
run into him, but I’d’a knowed him anywhere. You two ever need a
third man to back you up on short notice, call on Wash. Good at
fightin’ Indians, too.”
Jason nodded. “We know. Ward, here,
just brought him in this mornin’.”
Abe hoisted bushy brows. “For
drinkin’?”
Jason let out a laugh. “No, to help
with the gunfighters. But now we’ve got you. You got a place to
stay, yet?”
“Naw. Was gonna get a recommendation
from you.”
“Well, Wash is already set to camp on
Ward’s spare mattress, so I reckon you can come along home with me
for tonight, anyhow. Got a sister who’s a whiz-bang cook,” he
urged.
“I’ll take you up on that,” Abe said
with a smile. And then he said, “Sister? You folks ain’t ol’
Jedediah Fury’s kids by any chance, is you?”
Jason nodded. “That we are. The town’s
named for him.”
“Why’s that?”
Ward spoke up. He knew Jason didn’t
like talking about his father over and over. “Jason’s pa was the
wagon master on the train that left Kansas City five or six years
back. Jason came along as ramrod, and I was sorta a roustabout.
Comanche got him when we was most’a the way through Texas. Folks
here was real attached to him, real attached.” Ward stopped and
shook his head. “So Jason took his place and shepherded us this
far, and then we decided we didn’t want to go no farther. And
that’s how it was,” he finished.
Jason was relieved. Ward was getting
better and better at getting him out of tricky situations. Well,
that was Ward’s specialty, wasn’t it? His father had relied on Ward
for a thousand little details, and after Jason took over the wagon
train, he had, too.
Abe was shaking his head. “I’m awful
sorry to hear that,” he said, “awful sorry. I knew Jedediah for
years, when he was ferrying folks back and forth from west to east
and back again. He was quite a man, God rest him. I’m real sorry
for you and your sister, Jason.”
Jason mumbled his thanks, and they set
out for Jason’s home.