8
Jason, hurriedly dressed, left the house and took the back way—which was rapidly becoming an alley—over to the marshal’s office, and burst through the back door. “Salmon!” he called, “Salmon, we’ve gotta keep Sampson Davis from findin’—”
He burst through the second door. And found Mayor Kendall sitting at his desk with his legs up, and across from him, calmly smoking a cigarette, sat Rafe Lynch, slouched in a chair.
“Rafe Lynch,” Jason finished lamely.
“Sampson Davis on the hunt for him?” asked Salmon Kendall, much too calmly.
Jason nodded. “Actively.”
Salmon stretched his arms. “Yeah, we saw him walk past the window ’bout a half hour ago. Went into the saloon.”
“Probably still in there, givin’ those fellas a hard time,” Rafe added.
Salmon nodded. “Probably. If he gives ’em as hard a time as Matthew did, he’s liable to find himself tarred and feathered.”
Rafe broke out in a laugh.
Jason scratched at his chin, thinking. Finally, he said, “I got an idea—for tonight, anyway—but I doubt you’re gonna like it too much, Rafe.”
Both Rafe and Salmon, who seemed to have taken quite a liking to Rafe, waited with heads tilted and curious expressions.
Jason forged ahead. “Rafe, tonight I talked to Solomon Cohen. He tells me that Davis may be closer than we thought to bushwhacking you. I think you ought’a spend the night right here, in the jail.” Leaning back against the wall, he folded his arms, prepared for the verbal onslaught he was about to take.
But much to his surprise, Rafe said, “You got yourself a smart marshal there, Mayor.”
Salmon nodded. “Good idea, Jason.”
Well, either he’d gone crazy or everybody else had. He’d expected a pitched fit from Rafe and some solid objections from Salmon, but not this. Well, praise the Lord for like minds finally thinking alike! He said, “Salmon, you can go on home, now. I’ll hold the fort tonight.”
“Where’s Ward, anyway? You didn’t say.”
“Oh, he got this harebrained idea that the only thing that was gonna save the town was ol’ Wash Keogh. Rode out to his claim to find him.”
Salmon nodded while he pulled his long legs down off Jason’s desk. “Well, I wish he’d hurry and dig him up. Or else come on back alone. Feel better when you got someone to back you up.”
Jason almost said he did, almost indicated Rafe, but stopped himself just in time. Despite all the evidence so far to the contrary, he still couldn’t bring himself to trust Rafe all the way, still couldn’t admit to liking the man. It was odd, because Rafe had done nothing in town that he could even vaguely suspect as being illegal. He was funny and bright, and agreed with Jason about Matt MacDonald, which, especially, went a long way in his favor. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to pardon Rafe for all those killings. The taking of any human life was too great a thing, too important, to take lightly, or worse, ignore. Especially for a lawman, which was what Jason, despite all his protests and attempts to the contrary, was becoming.
“Don’t worry, Salmon,” he said, standing. As he walked Salmon to the door, he said, “I’ll be fine. Don’t give it a second thought.”
“How about a third thought? I’m thinking this will make a great story for the weekly!” Salmon said, referring to the Fury Titan, the scrawny excuse for a newspaper that he put out once a week.
“Maybe,” said Jason, shaking his head. “We’ll have to wait till the end of the week to see what happens.”
Behind them, from his chair, Rafe said, “Hope the story don’t end in my obituary.”
“Yeah, sure,” Jason scoffed as he closed the door behind Salmon. “As if anything is gonna happen in Fury, of all places!” Actually, it was the perfect place for trouble, but he wasn’t going to let Rafe know that. And he especially wasn’t going to let it slip to Sampson Davis!
“Sure, you say that now,” mused Rafe. “Way I see it, a town called Fury is just askin’ for whatever trouble it can suck in. Benevolent: now that’s a name for a town. Or Peaceful. Like that.” And then, after a pause, he said, “Don’t be lookin’ at me like I’m full’a sheep dip, Jason. I’m older’n you. I’ve been places and seen things.”
Unaware that he was making any expression at all, Jason said, “Like what, for example?”
“I been to war, for one thing. You were probably too young. I fought for the North. A Johnny Blue-Coat, that was me. I seen men dyin’ right and left, seen ’em cut up by butcherin’ sawbones, seen ’em left to die when even the sawbones wouldn’t carve ’em up. Seen the look on the faces of the defeated, seen ’em rounded up like cattle, seen ’em all dressed in rags with those hollow eyes and missin’ arms and legs or an eye, sometimes all three. Weren’t pretty.”
Jason wanted to say that his older brother had been in the fight, too, but that wasn’t like saying you’d been there yourself. He took the wiser path and kept his mouth shut.
Rafe asked, “You want I should keep goin’, or you got my point?”
Jason shook his head. “I got the point. But don’t see what that has to do with the names of towns.”
Rafe just shook his head, then stood up. “Let’s see. Cell number one or cell number two?” He looked back at Jason, who shrugged.
“Cell number one, then,” Rafe said, and swung open the door. “And without further goin’ on, I bid you good night, Jason.” He walked as far in as the bunk, then turned round. “Say, you got any whiskey in the place?”
Jason, who was sitting behind his desk by this time, pulled open a bottom drawer and lifted out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
“Jason Fury, you are my savior,” Rafe said, and took no extra time getting back across the room and sitting down opposite Jason. He took the glass Jason had poured out for him, and took a slug of it before he said, “Now, if you had a deck of cards hangin’ around, my life would be complete.”
Grinning, Jason reached into the same drawer and pulled out a deck of playing cards, bound up in one of Ward’s broken shoestrings. “Play for matches?” he asked as he untied the deck and began to shuffle.
“Hell, at this point I’d play for imaginary penguins!”
Jason laughed, then began to deal. “Five card draw okay by you?”
“Perfect,” said Rafe.
Southeast of town, in the starlit dark of the desert foothills, Ward Wanamaker was camped near a stand of prickly pear cactus.
After giving up for the day, he had made a small fire, cooked himself a rabbit, and now he drank the coffee he’d been brewing. He only had tomorrow left to look, because he was about to run out of water, even with rationing.
Where in the hell could Wash be? He’d looked everywhere he could think of, and a few other places, too, but no Wash. He’d found his campsite—recently used but completely vacant—and came to the conclusion that either he’d moved, or he’d gone back to town. He was beginning to think he’d gone back to town, because he sure as hell wasn’t here. He’d followed the various tracks and trails Wash had made through the brush, and some of them led pretty damned far, too. But in the end, they always ended up back at the nowdeserted campsite.
Over his coffee, he suddenly shouted, “Blast your hide, Wash Keogh! Where’d you get to, anyway?”
And then, in the distance, came a thin cry. “I’m right here, you blamed idiot!”
Ward stood up, spilling his coffee. He looked out onto the dark distance and called, “Wash! Wash Keogh! That you?”
“Well, it ain’t U. S. Grant, that’s for blamed sure.” The call came from closer by, this time. “You got coffee?”
“Yeah!” Ward answered excitedly. It was Wash. Wash was coming, and now they could go back to the relative safety of Fury. “Yeah, I do! Got a bite of rabbit left, too!”
“Well, you don’t need to shout, Ward,” came Wash’s voice, surprisingly close.
Ward whirled to his left, his hand automatically going to his gun. But it never even left the holster, for into the firelight stepped Wash Keogh, himself, leading his horse and looking beat to a dried-out husk. He said, “You promised coffee.”
“Sure, Wash, sure!” Ward scrambled to pour him out a cup, which Wash took with trembling hands.
He finished the first cup, then a second, then a third, before he thought of his horse. “Holy Christ!” he yelped as he stood up. “You got any horse water?”
Ward went to his gear and pulled free a canvas bag partially filled with water. He opened it as he walked over to Wash, who took off his hat and held it out, upside down.
Ward knew what he wanted, and poured water directly into the hat. Wash offered it to his grateful horse, who drank it down to the bottom. “You’ll hafta wait a bit for more, ol’ girl,” he said, patting her neck, then returning the hat to his head. A bead of leftover water ran down his face and neck.
Ward grinned. “You’re leakin’ a little bit, Wash.”
“Don’t I know it, and don’t I love it!” Wash replied. He went back and sat beside the campfire. “You say somethin’ about rabbit?”
Ward pointed to it, and Wash inhaled it almost before Ward noticed that he’d picked it up. “You got more?” Wash stared at him, grizzled brows raised.
Ward shook his head. “’Fraid not. Sorry.”
Wash waved a hand. “Don’t be sorry. Not your fault I come draggin’ in here in such a pitiful condition. What brings you out this way, anyhow?”
“You.”
Wash’s face screwed up. “Me? Why?”
“We got a gunfighter in town. Rafe Lynch is his name. Heard of him?”
Wash shook his head.
“Well, he’s wanted for killin’ eight folks over in California. And we got another one gunnin’ for him!”
“Whoever said Fury was a quiet little town sure didn’t live there long. . . .”
“Yeah. Now, Jason didn’t send me out here or anythin’, but I thought of you right off. If ever we needed a man who was good with a gun to back us up, it’s now. You game?”
Wash didn’t hesitate. “I’m game, all right! Just lead me to ’em and point ’em out.”
Ward heaved a sigh of relief, held in too long. Surely, with Wash Keogh on board, they could fight off anybody!
The next morning, Solomon didn’t have to make up a story of sickness to get rid of his houseguest. Baby Sarah truly was ill, and when Sampson woke up, Dr. Morelli was there.
“She’s just not thriving, Solomon,” Morelli was saying. “I’m so sorry, Rachael.” She stood at Solomon’s side, weeping, incapable of speech.
“But what is it?” Solomon demanded tearily. “What’s wrong with her? What does she have that could make her so sick, so fast?”
“She’s been sick since she was born, Solomon. I’m afraid it’s her heart.”
“But how? Why?” He struggled to cope with this news, and part of him blamed it on Sampson Davis, the unwanted houseguest. Could he have slipped something into her? Just a little of some poisonous desert herb, tucked into her mouth. She could have swallowed it. He could have poisoned her! “Was it something she ate? Could someone have done this to our baby?”
But Morelli shook his head. “I’m sorry, Solomon. It’s what we call a ‘birth defect.’ Now, she may surprise us and grow out of it. Sometimes they do. But I thought you ought to be prepared.”
Solomon dipped his head. “Thank you for your honesty, Dr. Morelli.”
“I’m so sorry, Solomon, for both you and Rachael. . . . And I’m sorry to say it, but I think it’s best if no one foreign is around the baby, at least for a few weeks.” He turned and eyed Sampson. “Sorry, sir, but it’s best for the baby.”
Sampson, burly and barrel-chested, stood up, and for a moment Solomon thought he was going to hurt Dr. Morelli. But all he said was, “I can take a hint, Doc,” and began to gather up his possessions and toss them into his saddlebags.
Morelli said, “Thank you, sir. You can find excellent lodgings at Kendall’s boarding house, just a half-block down the street.” He turned toward Solomon and Rachael again. “Don’t despair. There’s always hope.” Then he added, “I’ll be back to check on her later this afternoon, all right?”
Solomon felt himself nod in the affirmative and then heard himself say good-bye to Dr. Morelli. He was vaguely aware of Morelli going down the steps, and then of Sampson, telling them good-bye and grudgingly following along after Morelli.
And then Rachael was in his arms, sobbing, and he forced himself back to reality. “There, there,” he murmured into her hair. “We will ask for God’s help. He will help us. He must.”
And then he, too, broke down in tears, hugging his Rachael and silently praying, and trying to tell himself that if they had not come west, their baby would have been all right, or at least there would have been a heart specialist who could help her. Poor Sarah, his poor little Sarah!
Rachael broke away from him and went to the baby’s crib-side. He watched as she leaned over the tiny child and scooped her up into her arms.
“Don’t listen to what that man said, Sarah,” she said softly. “And don’t you worry, not a tiny bit. You’re going to grow up into a beautiful young lady, my precious angel, and love God . . . and drive all the boys wild.”
Solomon sat down in the closest chair and, silently, he began to pray.
Ezra Welk sat on the west bank of the Colorado River, trying to figure out whether he could safely ford it here or not. He had remembered there being a ferry here. Maybe not. Maybe it had been a few miles upstream or downstream. The only thing he knew for certain was that it sure as hell wasn’t here.
He snorted out air through his nose. Well, crap. He’d try upstream first, he decided, and reining his horse to the left, began to backtrack the current.
Almost a half hour later, just when he was about to give up, he came across it: signs of a wagon train’s crossing. It hadn’t been that long ago, either. A few days or better, according to his take on the bent grasses on the shallow bank. Could be army, could be civilian, but he figured civilian. The wagon tracks were too sloppy for a military caravan, and it looked like they had some livestock with them. A few cattle and pigs, plus the usual horses and oxen.
He couldn’t tell if the water had gone up or down since their fording, although it looked as if it had been windy as hell. A dust storm, most like. He shuddered involuntarily. He hated them almost as much as he hated Apache.
And that was saying quite a bit.
He took a deep breath, crossed himself, and started down the riverbank, headed directly for the Arizona Territory.