10
West of Fury, riding at a slow jog and taking his time, Teddy Gunderson rode through the desert brush, following the track the wagon train’s recent passage had provided. He had just ridden past the site of two fresh grave markers—travelers killed in that nasty dust storm, he figured—and by his reckoning, was about a day’s ride, more or less, from his destination.
Which was Fury, a little squirt of a town that had popped up in the Arizona Territory about four, maybe five years ago. That pretty much encapsulated his knowledge of the town, and the only reason he knew that much was that he’d spent a lot of time pumping a drunk, in a bar back in Los Angeles, for information about a fellow named Rafe Lynch.
Three hours, six beers, and as many whiskeys later, he’d found out that little snippet about Fury, but more about Rafe Lynch. He’d already known the man had twelve thousand—maybe more—on his head, and that was reason enough to pique his interest, and to make him “play nice” with the old sot who’d given him the information he needed. He’d even found out about the wagon train, which had left a day earlier.
Plying drunks might turn out to be just one more cost of doing business.
Gunderson was a bounty hunter, although fairly new to the trade, having captured and turned in only two men. But they had each paid him well enough that he wanted to keep on doing it. Hell, if he could get Rafe Lynch, he’d be set for life!
He couldn’t take him in town. He knew that much. As badly as California wanted Lynch, he was as clean as a whistle in Arizona. Killing him on this side of the river would make him a murderer, and put a price on his head!
He sure didn’t want that.
He figured to wait until Rafe was out of sight of the city, and then shoot him. Or at least, kidnap him and take him to the other side of the Colorado River, and then shoot him.
Teddy was a clever man. At the moment, he had no idea how he’d get Lynch alone outside the walls of Fury, but he was convinced that he’d think of something. He always did.
There was one thing he hadn’t taken into consideration, though, and that was Rafe Lynch.
Jason finished up over at the saloon and thanked the barkeep, who told him that Sampson Davis had finally given up on Lynch at about two a.m., and gone on home. He was staying at the boardinghouse, which Jason was relieved to hear, and the men at the saloon hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since last night.
After a quick stop over at the office, where he told Rafe that it was safe to go on across the street, Jason told him to stick to his room as much as he could. Sampson seemed to have figured out where he was staying, and he was bound to be back.
Next, he took it upon himself to see how Solomon was doing—and find out how he had got rid of Sampson Davis. He assumed it had been without bloodshed, but then, you could never be too careful.
When he arrived at the mercantile, the youngest Cohen boy was sitting out front, back in the shadow of the building, huddled on a bench with his knees drawn up and his head buried in his arms.
“Jacob?” he asked. He didn’t know if he’d gotten the name right—the boys ran together in his mind—but the kid looked up at him with tear-stained eyes. Concerned, Jason asked, “What’s the trouble, son?”
“The doctor was here this mornin’. They thought I was asleep, but I heard ’em talking, and he says my baby sister’s gonna probably die.” The boy broke into a new round of sobs, and Jason sat down next to him, pulling him close. The boy immediately threw his arms around Jason and hugged him for dear life, leaving Jason uncertain about what to do next.
But after a moment, he asked, “Jacob? The doctor didn’t say for sure, did he?” He knew Morelli didn’t pull his punches.
The boy pulled in tighter and said, “No, but he said she might.” This seemed reason enough to set him off, once again. Jason felt the boy’s hot tears soaking through his shirt.
He dipped his head to the boy’s ear and said, “You know, I think that Dr. Morelli said that just in case. He told me that in a lot of cases, just the passing of time can heal a body. You know, like, you remember the time I got shot?”
Against his side, the boy nodded.
“Well, I didn’t die, did I? After enough time passed, I was up and around, and feeling a lot better!” And stuck being the marshal of this place, he added silently. He gave the boy a little hug, then extricated himself and stood up. “I’m gonna go in to see your father now. He around?”
The boy mumbled, “He’s here. Marshal? Please don’t tell him I was listening?”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Jason said, smiling. He put a hand on the boy’s head—he still wasn’t sure which one he was—and ruffled his hair before he went inside.
The bell jingled when he closed the door, and he stood there a few minutes, waiting for someone to respond. Now wasn’t exactly the time to holler for help. But a few seconds before he turned to go back outside, he heard someone coming down the stairs. A few moments later, Solomon poked his head around the staircase corner.
“What can I do for—” And then he looked up and a weary smile broke out on his tear-stained face. “Ah, Jason,” he said. “How kind of you to stop by.”
His voice told Jason that Sol was about to burst into a fresh onslaught of weeping, so he quickly said, “Solomon, I just stopped by to ask you how the devil you managed to get rid of Sampson Davis.”
He’d thought it was a safe question to ask, but he was obviously wrong. Uncontrollably, Solomon began to openly weep. When Jason took a step toward him, he held out his hands, as it warding Jason off, and stepped behind a counter, putting it between them. Then he turned his back and wept a bit more, got himself under control, and sheepishly turned back to face Jason.
“Good Lord, Sol,” Jason said softly, and reached across the counter to touch Solomon’s arm. Remembering the child’s plea to keep Solomon from learning what he’d overheard, he said, “Is it that bad?”
Ambiguous, but comforting, he thought.
“It’s little Sarah,” Solomon said hoarsely. “She’s dying.”
“Surely not!” said Jason. If she’d been born with half her parents’ strength and tenacity, it was an impossibility. This, he truly believed.
But slowly, Solomon repeated what Morelli had told them this morning. Jason had to admit that it didn’t sound good at all. But he said, “Solomon, I believe that your baby’s going to be fine. I believe that she’s going to be better than fine. Any child who had the nerve to be born during—and live through—that storm is strong right down to her heart and soul. I believe that with all my heart.”
There was a pause before Solomon said, “Thank you, my friend.” He sniffed several times. “Thank you for listening, and for being a kind ear to talk to. Thank you for being my friend.” And then he broke down again.
Jason stayed in the mercantile for a long time, and—after he pushed Sol into the storeroom—even waited on a man who came in looking for nails and chicken wire.
Hours later, Jason stood outside on the boardwalk, staring down the street toward the boardinghouse. It was past noon. He knew that much, because the sun threw his shadow in front of him as he began to walk east, down Main Street. All this time to prepare, and he still didn’t know where to start with Sampson Davis.
But he knew he was going to have to start with him, at least. Solomon had told him enough about the man, in teary little dribs and drabs, that he felt he sort of had a handle on his character. Enough to open up a conversation, at any rate.
Cordelia Kendall was serving lunch when he entered, and a quick glance at the diners didn’t show him Sampson.
“Ma’am?” he said, instead of clearing his throat. He thought it was more polite, her being a lady and all.
She turned toward him. “Why, Jason!” she exclaimed, setting down the gravy and moving toward him. “How nice to see you! And to what do I owe this honor?”
Jason grinned. He liked Salmon’s wife. They’d been together on the wagon train coming out to Fury, and had since settled in admirably. He said (after he remembered to take off his hat), “No honor, ma’am, unless it’s mine. I was lookin’ for Sampson Davis.”
“Mr. Davis is still sleeping. I understand he got in quite late last night.” She lifted a brow, as if to ask a question.
“Don’t disturb him, then,” Jason said, partly relieved and partly annoyed. “I can talk to him later.”
“Well, then,” she said, as if he’d satisfied her curiosity. “You’re most welcome to stay to luncheon, you know.”
She was a famous cook, and he was tempted, but he said, “My sister packed me up a lunch, and if I don’t rave about it in detail, she’ll have my hide. Another time?”
She laughed and said, “Of course! Any time at all. Shall I send Sammy over to your office when Mr. Davis rises?” Salmon, Junior, was nearly old enough to take a wife, but she still insisted on calling him Sammy—as did his father.
He put his hat back on. “I’d be right pleased, ma’am.”
She shook her finger at him. “You know, you’re getting so you talk like a Texas field hand! We’re going to have to usher you back East to college, one of these days!”
He silently wished she’d hurry it up and end his misery, but he said, “Yes’m,” and “Thank you, ma’am,” and took his leave. He crossed the street and entered his office. It was quiet, and it was empty—at first glance, anyway.
Rafe Lynch rolled over at the sound of the closing door, and sat up on his cot, yawning and stretching.
“Thought you’d be long gone by now,” Jason said. He began rooting through his desk drawers for his lunch, which Jenny would have dropped off sometime during the early morning, on her way to school.
“Too tired,” Rafe answered. “Went back to bed. Is that lunch?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
Jason had finally found the sack in the bottom drawer on the left, and hoisted it up on the desk. It was heavy! “Yeah,” he said, his mouth watering. “Mine.”
He peeked inside and saw . . . two of everything: two thick chicken-and-tomato sandwiches, two servings of potato salad, and on and on. He looked back at Rafe, now standing in the doorway of his cell and putting his hat on. Jason sighed. “Take your hat back off. Jenny put in two, apparently, of everything in the whole blasted kitchen.”
Rafe hurried over, dragging a spare chair behind him and tossing his hat on the rack. “What a gal!” he said as he swung the chair around and sat on it backwards. And he said it again, when he took the first huge bite of his chicken sandwich.
Jason just shook his head and got up to start some fresh coffee brewing.
Sammy Kendall came running across the street a couple of hours later, bearing the news that Mr. Davis was up and demanding lunch. Which, of course, his mother had already served. He said that Davis was headed up the street to grab a bite at the café, and if the marshal wanted to see him, Sammy figured he’d best light a fire under it. All this, Sammy said in one long, quickly spoken, run-on sentence, with hardly a breath to break it up.
Actually, it rather took Jason by surprise. Rafe was long fed and gone to the saloon, and he’d been sitting there, writing up reports of the past week’s activities. He’d been smack in the middle of the latest MacDonald false-Apache attack (riveting reading, that, he wryly thought to himself), when Sammy burst in and started spewing words like a Daniel Webster Gatling gun—if there were such a thing.
However, he was glad for the break, if a little nervous about talking to Davis. But it was time to—what had his father always said? “Man up,” that was it.
Time to man up, Jason, he told himself. And he said, “Thanks, Sam. Thanks to your ma, too,” as he pulled his hat down off the rack and settled it on his head. “You’ve done your civic duty for the month,” he added with a wink.
“Marshal?”
“Yeah?” Jason was surprised the boy was still there.
“Could I follow along and just, you know, listen to what you say to him?”
Jason felt his brow knit. “Why?”
Sammy shrugged. “Just curious. About your profession, I mean.”
Jason thought quick, but he thought hard, and he finally said, “Sam, I’m honored that you want to learn more about the law business, but this fellow is a pretty dangerous sort. Part of being a marshal is knowing when you have to say ‘no,’ and this is one of those times. I’m sorry.”
Sammy looked a little downhearted, but he mumbled, “Okay. I guess.”
Jason elbowed him in the ribs. “Tell you all about it later.”
Sammy’s face lit up again, and he beamed. “That’s great! Thanks!”
“All right,” Jason said. “Get along back home with you.”
Very quickly, he found himself alone again, and walked through the front door, which Sammy had left open. “It’s now or never,” he muttered to himself, and began to stride up the street to the café.
Sampson Davis had just ordered something he thought he could eat—the beef stew—although he was pretty sure the beef wasn’t kosher. Times like these, though, you had to figure out what was more important: filling your gut or getting your man. Right now, his stomach was voting for filling his gut.
He’d been after Rafe Lynch for a long time—long enough that he could be patient now. At least he’d learned where Lynch was hanging out—the saloon at the end of the street. Hell, he hadn’t even known it was there until he overheard two cowpokes talking about it. He’d thought that Abigail Krimp had the only action in town.
Well, she sure had the location. When you came into Fury, it looked like it was all cafés and boarding houses and general stores and the mercantile, with Abigail’s being the only source of pleasure in the whole town. That was sure enough wrong! Down at the other end of town, that was where all the important stuff happened. And where he’d learned his man, Rafe Lynch, was staying. Usually. Nobody knew where he was last night. Or if they knew, they wouldn’t admit it. It made him think that maybe he shouldn’t have announced his reason for being in Fury in the first place.
A waiter brought him a plate of beef stew, complete with a side order of biscuits and honey, and he’d taken exactly three bites of it—and it was very good—when he looked up to see Marshal Jason Fury standing opposite him at the table.
If this upstart of a lawman expected him to jump or be startled, he was going to be disappointed. Sampson calmly set down his fork and said, “Howdy-do, Marshal. Somethin’ I can help you with?”
“Yes, there is,” Jason said flatly. “Leave town.” He looked like he meant it, too, but Davis wasn’t easily cowed. He huffed.
“Leave town? Hell, I just got here! Can’t a man enjoy your little oasis here, when he’s not causin’ any trouble?”
“That’s just it, Sampson. You intend to cause trouble, and in a big way. You’ve already announced your purpose, and I will stop you, no matter what it takes. If you so much as harm a hair on Rafe Lynch’s head, you’ll face trial, and very possibly a noose. Got me?”
Well, if this young pup of a lawman was nervous, he didn’t show it. Sampson would give him that much. But he’d come here with a purpose, and he had made up his mind that his purpose was going to be fulfilled. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but here, in Fury. He didn’t answer the kid’s last question. He’d heard threats before. They didn’t scare him.
He said, “Don’t intend to muss his hair none.” And then he took another bite of his stew.
“Don’t take this warning lightly,” said the marshal. “Lynch isn’t wanted in the Arizona Territory. Leave him alone, and leave town.”
With that, the boy marshal turned on his heel and exited the café. Sampson noted that all the other patrons had gone silent, and only when he stared at them did they pretend they hadn’t been listening, and tried to resume their former luncheon conversations.
Well, the kid has balls, Sampson thought. Too bad he has to die right along with Rafe Lynch.