21
“Look, Father Micah,” Jason said for
practically the hundredth time, “I’m sorry, but I can’t have you
erecting a church underneath a water tower, especially one that’s
probably going to fall down or blow down if we have another storm
like we did last night.”
“But you promised!”
“I know. But Salmon Kendall and the
town fathers had already picked that spot for their tower.” Jason
shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a blow.”
It had been a blow to him, as well.
That damned Salmon! He already had his men clearing the site and
laying out markers for the footings, which was why Father Micah had
shown up this morning, mad as the proverbial hell. That was, if a
Catholic priest could get that mad. Jason figured he probably
could, but wouldn’t admit it in a million years.
Father Micah was staring at
him.
“Would it be helpful if I were to find
you another spot?”
Father Micah didn’t say, “It’s the
least you can do, you bum,” but he looked like he was thinking it
when at last he said, “Yes, thank you.”
At the moment, Davis was safely locked
in his cell, sleeping, although Jason had to run and fetch the doc
for him first thing. Well, he didn’t actually have to, but Davis’s moaning was distracting him from
his work. So Morelli came and got him to take some kind of powder,
and that knocked him out again. On his way out the door, Morelli
said that Davis must have the constitution of an ox, for any other
man with his wounds would be long dead.
Jason said, “C’mon with me, Father,”
and locked the office door behind them. He was taking no chances
with Davis again.
They walked down to the lot, then
through it to the alley, then back up a few yards. Jason pointed to
the two empty lots to his right. “Did you take a look at
these?”
Father Micah nodded. “Yes, but I
thought you said this would be the place for my living quarters and
so on.”
“Well, it’s the place for both the
mission and you, now, Father.” Jason said it flatly, as if this
were the only possibility. “You can take both lots. Run ’em
together, if you want.”
Actually, there were three vacant lots
up by his house, but he didn’t let on. He knew that Jenny wouldn’t
be too happy living in the Church’s back yard, so to speak, and
neither would he.
Finally, after a long moment seemingly
lost in thought, the Father said, “All right. All I need is a cell
off to the side, anyway,” he admitted. “Will this site be saved for
the Church?”
“Yes, it will.”
“Although it’s not within my personal
better judgment, I must have faith in God, and that the He will
work through you, my son.”
Jason didn’t really like being an
“instrument of God,” but if it would shut the father up, he’d be
Satan’s fiddle.
He said, “All right, then,” shook hands
with Father Micah, and turned to go back to his office. He had work
to do.
Ward Wanamaker’s funeral was scheduled
for eleven in the morning, and practically the whole town showed up
for it. Folks were packed six and seven deep in the little
cemetery, and even those who had been at Frank Saulk’s funeral
stayed on for Ward’s. Jason stood at the graveside, his arm around
Jenny, who was already crying and sniffling into her
hankie.
The Reverend Milcher, who had been
called upon to perform the service, started in, and Jason was
amazed—and pleased—to notice a new, lighter tone to his
ministering. He spoke of the founding of Fury, and of Ward’s
services in getting them there. He spoke of Ward’s kindness, his
warmth with children, and his good heart with animals, including
his rescue of the kittens the night of the first storm, and how
well he always treated his horse.
He spoke of things even Jason hadn’t
been aware of, such as Ward’s boyhood in Arkansas and teen years in
Alabama, and his joining up with Jedediah Fury later in life,
illustrating how former enemies—the North and the South, in this
case—could make strong alliances.
In the end, Milcher spoke of Ward’s
dedication to duty, and how he had died in the service of it at the
hands of a prisoner, and talked about his leaving his friends and
comrades far too soon.
Even crusty old Wash Keogh was sobbing
at this point, along with the rest of the town.
“And so,” Reverend Milcher said in
conclusion, “we say our final good-byes to our friend and our
public servant, Ward Wanamaker. I know that many of you have
personal stories of your own about Ward, but these are things best
shared and enjoyed in private, and I leave you to it. Here lies
Ward Wanamaker, Lord. Let his face and his badge shimmer long in
our hearts and memories. Amen and amen.”
Milcher closed his Bible and stepped
back, as did the rest of the mourners, but Jenny stepped closer,
dropping a handful of desert roses down into the grave, and then a
handful of dirt. Jason, who had squired her forward, heard her
whisper, “Good-bye, Ward.”
His throat thick, Jason said, “I’ll be
seeing you, buddy.”
“Just not right away,” said Jenny, and
began to cry all over again.
She clung tightly to Jason’s side all
the way home.
Despite the sadness of the day’s
proceedings, the Reverend Milcher had done very well for
himself—financially, that was. He had netted better than sixty-five
dollars from Ward’s funeral, between the marshal’s office paying
the basic fee, and different parishioners stuffing a dollar or two
into his pocket as they came up to thank him for the sermon. He
thanked each one, kindly saying, “We’ll be seeing you on Sunday, I
hope?” and receiving nothing but yesses or teary nods in
reply.
Something good had come out of this
tragedy, then. Ward Wanamaker had been murdered, but the Milcher
family would survive.
Rafe Lynch dropped by the office at
around three that afternoon. Surprisingly, he’d been at Ward’s
funeral, but Jason hadn’t had a chance to speak to
him.
“How you doin’?” he asked as he came
through the door.
“About how you’d think,” Jason replied.
He shuffled his papers together and indicated the chair opposite
his.
Nodding, Rafe sat down and propped his
elbows on the desk, aping Jason’s posture. “Thought Abe might be
around.”
“Haven’t seen him since
breakfast.”
Rafe didn’t say anything for a moment,
but then he said, “Wonder if he ever got back out to the MacDonald
ranch. Said he was gonna.”
Jason shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
Abe’s time was pretty much taken up by Miss Morton, of late.
“Why?”
“Thinkin’ of goin’ out there
myself.”
This was a surprise to Jason. He hadn’t
thought that Rafe had any interest in Matt MacDonald, other than as
the butt of an occasional joke. He again said, “Why?”
“’Cause I think he’s got somethin’
fishy goin’ on out there. Somethin’ fishy enough to make those
Apache raid him at night. You notice the creek this
mornin’?”
Shocked at the sudden change of
subject, Jason said, “Nope. Haven’t looked at it in a couple
days.”
“It’s full up to its
banks.”
“’Course it is. It rained last night,
y’know.”
Rafe smiled. “Yeah, I know. But it’s
hardly movin’.”
Jason’s brows narrowed, and he cocked
his head, recalling his conversation with Rafe and Abe a few days
earlier. “You think—”
Rafe’s grin broadened. “Yeah, I
do.”
Jason shook his head. “Well, that
sonofabitch!”
“My feelings exactly. He did that to
me, I’d raid his place, too! So, you comin’?”
“Not without Abe. He’s in charge once
we leave town.”
“Well, let’s go find him!” Rafe stood
up.
“Not till I check my prisoner.” Jason
pushed back his chair, walked around his desk, and strode across
the room. “Wake up, Davis!” he hollered. The man on the cot didn’t
stir. Jason turned around to face Rafe. “All right. Let’s go find
Abe.”
Abe turned out to be at the café,
having a “late lunch”—which, in his case, meant a large serving of
apple pie with extra cheese, coffee, and fritters—and once he
polished off his meal, the three of them set off to get the horses.
Jason had seen Abe at the funeral as well, but, again, hadn’t had a
chance to speak with him. Once they were ready to ride south, he
asked the questions that had been nagging at him.
“Abe?” he began, as the three men rode
out the gates of Fury, heading south, “I don’t know if you’ve given
any thought to staying on in town once you’re married,
but—”
“Already wrote the marshal’s office
’bout that,” Abe said as he rolled himself a smoke. “Doubt he’ll
gimme much of a fight over it. They been looking to have a man down
here, full-time, for quite a spell.”
Jason grinned. “Well, you’d sure be
welcome. Hell, you can share my office if you want!”
Abe nodded. “Thanks. I’ll think it
over. Outside’a MacDonald, you ever have Apache troubles?” He
finished building the quirlie and stuck it between his lips while
he fished in his pocket for a match.
“Once, right after we got here and had
maybe a quarter of the town built up, we had it in a big way,”
Jason said, and went on to explain the Indian attack, and how they
had at last driven off the Apache by building a moat filled with
burning tar and grease around the town.
Abe nodded. “Yup. You told me about
that. Heard tell about a couple other little skirmishes, too. But
there ain’t been no big to-do’s since that one, have
there?”
Jason shook his head, but Rafe couldn’t
keep his mouth shut. “I heard about that, too! I mean, clean over
in California, I heard about it! Wish I’d been here to see
it!”
Jason wished he had, too. Maybe they
would have made Rafe the marshal, then. That would’ve kept them
both out of trouble.
“So, you’re thinkin’ that MacDonald’s
got the water dammed up so the Indians ain’t gettin’
any?”
That was about the size of it, and Abe
had succeeded once again not only in hitting the nail on the head,
but in abruptly changing the subject, as well. Jason nodded.
“That’s about it.”
“Well, hell,” said Abe. “Who in
tarnation figured that little puzzle out?”
Rafe said, “Wasn’t much of a puzzle.
And I think you did, didn’t you?”
Jason’s brow furrowed. There were only
three of them, and God knew how many Apache. He piped up, “You
think we need more men?”
Matt MacDonald wasn’t expecting
company. He was expecting simply that in about an hour or so,
Cookie would send him up a plated dinner of beef stew and hot
biscuits, and in anticipation, he’d already set the coffeepot on
the stove to start perking.
So when he heard the hubbub outside,
and one of the men yelling, “Riders! Riders coming in!” he was on
his feet like a shot and out the door, scanning the southern
horizon, looking for the cloud that would signal an Apache
presence.
But there was nothing, no sign at all.
And then he saw Curly, down by the barn, pointing to the north. The
north?
He spun around, and then he saw them,
too. Three riders, taking their time, were riding in from the
direction of Fury. Three riders who he quickly realized, by the
palomino ridden by one, were the so-called law.
Under his breath, he growled, “I didn’t
send for you, Fury!” and then lifted his arm in a wave. If they
were riding this way, they must have a damned good reason. He might
as well act friendly, anyway: He wasn’t as big a dolt as most
people thought.
And whose fault is
that? asked a tiny voice in his head, which he promptly
ignored.
The riders neared the ranch house, and
now he could see that they were Jason and that Rafe person who’d
been out here the other night, and that damned U.S. Marshal. The
one who’d slugged him so hard that he was still nursing a loose
tooth.
He made himself smile
anyway.
But when the riders stopped their
mounts before the house, they didn’t dismount. Instead, Jason said,
“Afternoon, MacDonald. Wonder if we could have the use of six or
eight of your hands.”
Matt’s smile disappeared. “What for?
It’s almost suppertime.”
“I want ’em to ride on down the creek
with us for a spell. I think you know why.”
Matt tried to look innocent. “Don’t
know what you’re talkin’ about, Fury.”
“Figured you’d say as much.” He
signaled to Rafe, who rode on down to the barn, toward
Curly.
Marshal Todd spoke up. “If you’ve done
what we think you did, I just might not come the next time you have
Apache trouble. I know the town marshal
ain’t comin’.”
Jason just sat that damned palomino of
his, staring down toward the barn and ignoring him
completely.
Dad-blast it, anyway! For the millionth
time, Matt asked himself why the hell he’d stayed on in Fury, why
he hadn’t just crossed over into California where there were some
civilized people, at least, and decent food and even an ocean! Why
in God’s name had he stayed here?
Megan. His sister was why he’d stayed.
And Jenny Fury. He’d been quite taken with her. He wasn’t anymore.
He hadn’t even spoken to her—outside of an emergency situation,
that was—in, what was it now? Two years? No, that little dalliance,
even though they’d never got around to any actual dallying, was
over.
It was hard to keep on liking the
sister of a man who hated your guts.
And whose guts you hated even
more.
Matt wouldn’t be outdone on anything,
even detestation.
“You listenin’, MacDonald?” asked the
marshal.
Matt came out of his stupor long enough
to say, “Help yourself, Marshal Todd. Looks like you’re already
doin’ it, anyway.”
“Good. Keep me from filin’ obstruction
charges, anyhow.” He turned to Jason. “Rafe look about
ready?”
Jason nodded. “Yeah.”
“I’ll be back, MacDonald,” said Marshal
Todd before he signaled to Jason and they both rode off toward the
barn.