22
They rode out from the Double M with not five or six but seven hands, all of whom seemed eager to go—once they were out of sight of the ranch house, anyway. Marshal Todd led the way in stony, assured silence, and Rafe gabbed and joked with the hands, but Jason was lost in thought.
What would they do if they found what he suspected? Rafe had the ranch hands equip themselves with shovels as well as a couple of axes, but still, what would keep Matt from pulling the same jackass stunt again, with nobody to keep an eye on him twenty-four hours a day?
Marshal Todd, Jason suspected, but he was only one man, and this part of the territory went west to the Colorado River and south to Yuma, if not the Mexican border. Lord only knew where the other boundaries lay, and frankly, Jason didn’t want to think about it. He figured that the less he knew about the business of the U.S. Marshal’s office, the better.
He was more than likely right.
The farther they followed the stream, the deeper, wider, and muddier it grew. The water, formerly so sparkling and clear, was filled with storm debris: Chunks of cactus floated in the water, along with partially submerged tree limbs and smaller branches. Jason spotted a few items that proved civilization was moving in—a piece of paper, floating limply near the bank, its ink washed away and illegible; an empty tin that had once contained peaches; and a ripped and battered lady’s bonnet.
Near the location of the bonnet, they also found some frayed ropes and a silver concho, the kind Jason had seen Apache either wear themselves, or use to decorate their bridles. Or, at least, what he supposed they would call a bridle. Most of them used contraptions made out of rope or leather thongs, and some used no bridles at all, relying on breast bands or simply their hands and legs to signal and control the horse.
Soon they entered a canyon—narrow at first, then widening out into a broad space which was mostly filled with water. Abe gestured to Jason to follow, then cantered around the water to what had been the creek bed.
“Damn that Matthew!” Jason breathed when he saw the contraption that Megan’s brother had built—or caused to have built. He sure couldn’t see Matt out here, shoving some of these logs around with his own dainty hands.
Abe set the men to work, marshaling teams according to who had which tool, shovel, or axe, and within two hours, they had taken apart the most of it and the sky was growing dark.
Jason said, “Abe? I think the water’s already got down to the Apache camp.”
“Why?”
Jason gestured up toward the western rim of the canyon. There, silhouetted by the setting sun, stood a lone brave, just watching them. His bow was in his hand, but it wasn’t strung.
Abe raised his hand in a greeting and shouted something in guttural Apache that Jason didn’t understand. Hello, he supposed.
Showing no expression, the brave responded by raising his unstrung bow, and then walking back out of sight.
“We’d best be goin’,” Abe said, once the brave had disappeared.
It was past dark when they got back up to the Double M, and the hands cut out right away, heading for the barn or the bunkhouse. Jason wasn’t looking forward to meeting up with Matt again, but found he was disappointed when Abe decided not to stop at the house.
“I thought you were gonna talk to him!” he complained.
Abe turned in his saddle and said, simply, “Better to let him sit and stew for a spell.”
Rafe, riding behind him, said, “Makes him more tender to the tooth that’a’way,” and laughed.
Abe snorted out a laugh, and that was the end of the subject. At least, as far as everybody else was concerned. Jason wasn’t of the same mind, but decided to let it rest for the time being, reminding himself that Abe was in charge out here, not him.
The bright moon showed them the way back to town, and they were home before Jason knew it. He left the other men to put their horses up at the livery, and rode on home, to bed down Cleo in her own stall. Once there, he fed her a fair ration of grain and hay, and refreshed the water in her bucket.
When he gained the house and went in the back door, he found Jenny waiting with a stern expression blocking her otherwise sunny countenance. Jason said, “Sorry I’m late?”
She crossed her arms over her bosom. “And just where have you been?”
“The Double M. Matt had built a dam across the creek, so the Apache were running dry. Which was why they were sending raiding parties up to his place, the dirtbag.” Jason practically fell into a kitchen chair and propped his elbows on the table.
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t come around the front,” she replied.
“Huh?”
The door to the parlor burst open, and in poured people. And not just people, but friends! Solomon and Rachael, the Kendalls, Megan MacDonald, and on and on, and bringing up the rear, Abe Todd and Rafe Lynch!
“What are you all—?” Jason began.
But he was cut off by the group’s shouted, “Happy birthday!”
He had forgotten completely, but they were right. If he looked half as stunned as he felt, then Jenny and her cohorts had got their money’s worth.
Sometime, while everybody was busy pounding his back and congratulating him, Jenny produced a gigantic layer cake with the words Happy Birthday piped on top of the frosting, along with cartoonish frosting pictures of Cleo and his lawman’s badge.
He would have rather they’d cooked him a steak, but he was more than grateful for the cake. That must have been a real job, and he pulled his sister close and whispered, “Thanks, Jen,” in her ear, then kissed her cheek.
In response, she clapped her hands together and giggled, then said, “Blow out the candles, Jason! Be sure to get them all!”
He puckered up and blew as hard as he could, and managed to get them all out, at which point everybody cheered.
As he cut the cake, he was thinking that life wasn’t so bad, after all.
But he sure wished that Ward could be here.
The wagon train pulled out in the morning, leaving behind Father Micah and Mrs. Judith Strong, along with Bill Crachit, who had found work in Solomon’s stockroom, and a dog in the form of Hannibal, the Grimms’ dog (who was fast becoming a fixture around town), and Frank Saulk’s widow, Eliza, and their kids. Judith Strong had taken pity on Eliza Saulk and offered her not only lodging, but work in her dress shop as well, which would be opening in a few days.
The town, Jason thought, was taking on a little more shape with every wagon train that passed through. Of course, they were getting yet another preacher, Fletcher Bean, in the bargain, but Jason supposed it was none of his business. He just hoped that it wouldn’t pull trade from the Reverend Milcher. Not that he was a big fan, but they were the “grandparents” of his kitten—rather, Jenny’s kitten—and he figured it was only the nice thing.
Then again, Milcher had done fine at Ward’s funeral. No talk of fire and brimstone, just praise for a good man.
And sorrow at the loss of him.
Milcher’s tone was a satisfying change of pace, and more than that: The eulogy had actually done Ward justice. He had to give Milcher credit for that.
But he had other fish to fry today. First off, he had to find another desk somewhere, for he doubted that a Deputy U.S. Marshal would be happy doing business out of his lap. They’d need another file cabinet, too, to keep the town papers separated from the federal.
And besides that, he had to figure out what to do for a deputy. He’d considered not replacing Ward at all—after all, he was, in a lot of ways, irreplaceable. But he didn’t like leaving the office locked for the night—especially not with a prisoner (even a drugged one, like Davis) in the cell. He’d considered asking Wash Keogh for assistance, but then he remembered the gold. Wash wouldn’t want to walk away from that!
No, it had to be somebody else. Somebody who could handle himself with confidence in most any circumstance, and who he could stand to be around. It came down to one man, and he was sure, right from the start, that he’d made the wrong choice: Rafe Lynch.
Rafe was affable, a crack shot, and hadn’t put a foot wrong in the whole territory. So far. That he knew of, at any rate.
He could see no way around it: Nobody else could fit the bill. But wasn’t it highly unusual for a man, worth so much in bounties in a bordering state, to be the law in another?
In the cell across the room, Sampson Davis muttered something through his dark haze of laudanum, and then took his final breath.
Jason didn’t notice. He just sighed deeply and stared out the window.
Solomon Cohen was a happy man. He had a beautiful wife, three robust sons, and a new daughter who was growing stronger with each passing hour. He had a fine business with a new employee, as well.
In fact, he only had one problem: the dog. How could he hire Bill Crachit with one breath, then with the next tell him he couldn’t keep the dog there? He couldn’t. He didn’t have it in him. But he had to dig deep and find it somehow, before the dog ate him out of stock and out of business!
The first day that Bill had worked there, the dog had eaten three pounds of raw, smoked bacon, two dozen fresh eggs, and a jar of pickled eggs, and at least a pound of hard candy. Solomon didn’t know exactly how much, but the voracious beast had drooled over another three or four pounds, which had to be thrown out. All this in the slim space of less than ten minutes, while he was upstairs and Bill was out, running an errand for him.
They had tried keeping the dog outside—where he normally was, anyway, roaming the town—but he kept finding always new and more inventive ways to let himself in when nobody was looking. This day alone, he had already cleaned out the canned meats shelf (Solomon was at a loss to figure out just how he knew which cans had meat, and how he knew to open them without slicing his mouth up), hit the candy jars again, and chewed up a pair of men’s dress shoes in the Osterman’s display. Solomon was beginning to think he was lucky not to have left the baby alone downstairs!
But how to do it, and what to do? He didn’t like the idea of separating the boy from his dog, but it was either that or fire Bill, who was proving to be of great help to him. He leaned his elbows on the counter and his head in his hands, and stared at the patent medicine poster on the wall across from him.
He was still staring when the bell above the door jangled, and he turned to find Jason entering the store.
Jason raised his hand in a greeting. “Howdy, Sol.”
“How goes it, Jason?” Solomon came out from behind the counter. “Rachael and I, we had a fine time at your party. Mazel tov once again!”
Jason laughed, then said, “Thanks, thanks. Those socks you folks gave me will be greatly appreciated come colder weather, I can tell you that! Say, have you got a minute?”
“For you, my friend? Hours and hours.”
“Good. Let’s talk.”
Solomon led him to the front of the store, where they sat down in the two chairs usually reserved for ladies trying on shoes—and where Solomon could keep an eye on the canned meats section and the penny candy aisle.
“Sol, I’ve got a problem.”
Solomon hiked a brow. “Which is?”
And Jason spilled his guts about Ward’s death and his hunt for a deputy and his finally deciding—but not deciding—on Rafe Lynch, and begging for Solomon’s opinion.
Sol carefully considered Jason’s dilemma (which, on the face of it, was much simpler than his own), and said, “Why shouldn’t you hire him? He has no strikes against him in this territory, and from what Marshal Todd and you, yourself, have told me, his ‘murders’ were not ‘murders’ at all. I like him.”
“Then, you’d hire him?”
“How do they say it? In a New York minute!”
Before Solomon could stop him, Jason was on his feet and heading toward the door, saying, “Thanks, Solomon, you’ve been a real help.”
Solomon shot to his feet. “Wait!”
Jason stopped stock-still. “What is it?”
“Jason, I have a small problem, as well.”
Jason came back to the shoe section and sat back down beside him. “Tell me.”
Solomon did, right down to the last horehound drop, then asked, “What should I do? I can’t be asking young Bill to give away his dog, but I can’t have him here. The only time I’m safe from his pillaging is at night, when he’s locked up in the back room with Bill.”
Jason pursed and relaxed his lips several times, a sure sign he was considering the matter. Suddenly, he looked up from the floor and said, “If you want to talk this over with Bill, I’d admire to take that dog, and Bill can see him any time he wants. I’ve got a strong liking for Hannibal. And I know that Hannibal would admire Jenny’s cooking.”
Jason grinned at him, and Solomon felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He still had to talk to Bill, but he felt he had his bases covered. He said, “Wonderful, wonderful!” and both men rose.
He walked Jason to the door, but halfway through it, Jason stopped and turned to face him. “I almost forgot to mention it, Solomon. Sampson Davis died this afternoon. We’re gonna bury him tomorrow, I guess, barring any religious ceremony . . .”
Automatically, Solomon muttered beneath his breath, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, the true Judge,” then he held up a hand. “Wait. Someone should be sitting shiva for him, someone needs to—”
This time, Jason was the one with his hands in the air. “Hold on. None of this makes any sense to me, you know. Is this something only Jews can help with?”
Sadly, Solomon nodded his head. “Some is best with a rabbi, but only Jews, yes.” And then he realized that there would be no need for them to sit shiva. That was to be left to his people in California.
When Jason didn’t speak, Solomon asked, “Could we have the use of the jail? The body needs to be prepared for burial.”
“Well, I already sent him over to the undertakers, but I reckon we can get him brought back. That be okay?”
Solomon nodded. “It’s a start. And we’ll need a coffin. Plain pine, with no metal, no nails. Only wooden pegs.” He sighed, thinking, then looked up again. “I’ll go get Rachael.”