6
That afternoon, after a scanty lunch consisting of bread and water, Reverend Milcher sat upstairs at his desk (which, by some miracle, had managed to escape the flames several years back), lost in thought.
He had to figure out what to do to bring the people in, to bring them to God! Didn’t they know that their mortal souls depended on it? Hadn’t he preached enough fire and brimstone on the journey from Kansas City out to their current residence in the wilderness of Fury?
He put his head in his hands and prayed, once again, for guidance. Nothing came of it, however, and he dropped his chin to his chest and sighed deeply. He became aware of a deep, soft, rumbling sound, and realized it was the cat—Louise was her name, he thought—nursing her kittens in a box beneath his desk. His initial anger quickly fled, though, once he saw her and the pile of gray, tabby, and white that was the kittens.
It struck him that she was caring for her brood in the same manner that he had promised the Lord he would look after His people. There was joy in her heart just to have them near her, and joy in their hearts that she was close, so warm and comforting. And it occurred to him that he needed to minister to his flock’s needs and wants like a mother cat.
“I need to be more mannalike and less lecturing,” he muttered. “More comfort and fewer claws. My message needs less barbs, and perhaps my demeanor could be softer, as well.”
Just then, there came an enormous clap of thunder that nearly startled him from his seat. As it was, he fell to his knees and clasped his hands before him. “Is that You, great and holy God? Have You given me a sign?” he asked with trembling lips.
The “answer” came in a second, distant clap of thunder. It was not as loud or as jarring as the first, but it was enough for him. He lay prostrate on the floor, arms outstretched, his face in the rag rug, muttering, “Thank You, Lord, thank You. Praise be to Your name . . .”
He would be softer, he vowed, more kindly and less prickly. He would be a friend to his parishioners, not a judge.
Up north, Ward Wanamaker and Milton Griggs, Fury’s blacksmith, were nearly back to town. Ward had ridden north at dawn and arrived at the Morton place at around noon, his horse having thrown a shoe on the way up there. Milton fixed it for him, and was thrilled to hear that he was needed in town.
He was still babbling excitedly when Ward first spied the town stockade in the distance.
Ward hadn’t much been listening, though. He’d been thinking about Jason, down there with those two gunfighters. Down there, all alone. And Ward had come to a conclusion. They needed at least one more man, one more man that was good with a gun and wasn’t afraid of nothin’.
They needed old Wash Keogh, that was who they needed.
Ward turned in his saddle, slightly. “Milt, you go on in, straight to the marshal’s office and check in with Jason. He’ll get you pointed in the right direction.”
“Sure,” said Milt, with a nod. “What about you?”
“Tell Jason I’m goin’ to fetch Wash Keogh.”
Milton, who’d actually been listening to Ward while he was telling the story about the gunfighters and the wagon train and the storm, nodded his understanding. “He down southeast?”
“Right, workin’ a claim. Tell Jason I’ll be back.”
Before Milton had a chance to answer him, Ward tore off at a fast lope toward the eastern corner of the walled town. Before Milt went much farther, Ward had disappeared around it, and all that was left to show his passage was a small cloud of dust rising up over the stockade wall.
After the corral was finished, Matt MacDonald sent all the hands out (save two, who were still painting the fence) to round up every last head of his cattle and get them started home. He actually felt a little better, knowing he’d soon be able to see, all at once, his entire herd. And Cookie’s good lunch hadn’t hurt his mood, either.
By five, they started to come in. He stood out on the porch and watched them wander down the hill. They were heavy with calf, most of them, and he’d told the men not to rush them too much. He didn’t want a pen full of aborting cows.
When at last the final cow had been ushered into the large corral and the gate closed behind her, he noted that only one cow was missing—not two, as he had previously thought. But one was enough to make him want to call in the cavalry. However, the cavalry had seemed loathe to respond to him in the past. He could see no reason to expect any more action now.
Curly rode up to the house from the corral, and said, “That’s all we could dig up, boss.”
Matt nodded. “Tell the boys they did a good job, Curly. And break out a round of whiskey for ’em. They deserve it.”
Curly nodded. “Yessir, boss. The men’ll sure ’preciate that.”
Matt’s eyes weren’t on him, though. He stared past Curly, toward the southern hills. His forehead furrowed.
Curly asked, “Boss? What is it, boss?”
Matt raised his arm, finger pointed to the horizon. “Do you see what I see?” His voice trembled slightly, which he hoped went unnoticed by Curly.
“Kinda hard to see much in this light, boss.”
“There! There, man, look!” What Matt saw on the distant horizon was smoke. Or dust. He couldn’t say which, but it couldn’t be good. “Apache, man, Apache!” he shouted, jumping down off the porch and running like sixty for the barn to get his horse.
Curly stood there, shaking his head. Sometimes he just plain thought the boss had lost his mind. First off, he figured that everybody—including old ladies and dogs—knew that Apache didn’t attack at night. By the looks of that dust in the distance, it’d take whatever was making it three, maybe four, hours to get this far. He’d never in his life heard of an Apache attack commencing at ten in the evening! It was most likely just a bunch of dust devils again.
But by then, the boss was already galloping past him on the way to town, whipping his horse like crazy. If he were that horse, Curly thought, he’d dump Mr. Matthew MacDonald in the nearest patch of cactus, and then trot on back home.
Back up in town, Jason was just sitting down to dinner, along with the girls and Rafe Lynch. He’d had Lynch come up around the back of the sheriff’s office and they’d taken the back way home—out of the sight of prying eyes, he hoped.
But the girls were thrilled!
Jenny had made a pot roast for the occasion, complete with what he remembered his mother using: cut-up potatoes, carrots, and onions. She’d gone all out and baked biscuits, too, and they were so light that he nearly had to stab his fork through them to keep them from floating to the ceiling! A plate of fresh-churned butter and jars of mesquite honey and her cactus jelly completed the feast, and they all made good and satisfying use of it.
At last, Rafe leaned back from the table. “Miss Jenny, that roast was so good and tender and flavorful, it nearly wore me out! And the potatoes and onions? Lord have mercy! I ain’t et this good in a coon’s age!”
And Jenny replied as she had to most of Rafe’s comments during the meal: She flushed right up to her hairline, stifled a giggle, and stared at her lap. Oh, she is sure as shootin’ gone on Rafe, Jason thought, and not for the first time.
Oddly, the idea didn’t bother him as much as he’d thought it would. He, himself, was growing to like the man more and more, and after hearing Rafe’s explanation of the Sampson Davis matter—and another, different slaying on the way home—he was beginning to see Rafe as a victim of circumstance. Rafe’s rescue of Jenny earlier that day hadn’t hurt, either. Jason was enough of a lawman, though, to avoid going with the idea completely.
But he didn’t have time to give it further thought, because just then somebody started in pounding on the front door, and it wasn’t Ward this time. Or at least, he was fairly certain it wasn’t.
He ripped the napkin from his collar and, cursing under his breath, marched toward the front door. He could hear the voices growing louder as he neared it, and when he threw it open, the clamor had him throwing his hands over his ears.
He looked at the dozen or so people gathered—and arguing—in his front yard, and shouted, “Shut up!”
The mob, with heads pulled back and eyes blinking, quieted immediately. That was, until Salmon Kendall spoke up. “We want you to do something about Matt MacDonald!” he snapped, then crossed his arms over his chest as if that was the answer to everything that was wrong with the world.
He wasn’t far from the truth, Jason thought, but he wearily said, “What’s he done this time?”
Hattie Furling, one of their latest additions, piped up, “He’s runnin’ up and down Main Street screamin’ ‘Indians! Apache!’ and ‘Come out, you cowards!’”
Salmon cut in, “Gus Furling went up on the stockade and said he couldn’t see a thing!”
Hattie nodded vehemently in agreement.
“That’s right,” said Dr. Morelli, with his dinner napkin still tucked into his collar. “Nothing. I went up myself and checked.”
“Where was Ward during all this?” Jason asked.
“Nobody knows,” replied Salmon. “We can’t find him.”
He was likely still out looking for Wash, or up at Abigail Krimp’s, Jason thought, taking care of her card-cheating problem. He said, “All right. Lemme tell Jenny where I’m headed.”
After hearing a very shortened version of Matthew MacDonald and what he currently believed to be his “problem,” Rafe insisted on accompanying Jason on his short jaunt to town. Jason had mixed feelings about this, but with Megan’s brother being the cause of the ruckus and a front yard full of townsfolk about to equip themselves with weaponry, he didn’t have the time or the energy to pull Rafe aside and explain things. He just went, and Rafe tagged along.
After they turned the corner and headed down toward Main—now followed by twenty or so irate citizens—Jason turned his head and said, “Salmon, run down to the office and see if Ward’s turned up yet. If he hasn’t, you’re in charge till I tell you different. I’m gonna check Abigail’s.”
He didn’t look back. He trusted Salmon. Instead, he forged ahead to Abigail’s place, turned the corner, and swung wide the doors. Rafe entered right behind him.
Abby turned round at the sound of their entry, and said, “Good evening, Jason, Rafe. You two decide to go slummin’?”
Jason stepped to the fore. “No, Abby, no. We were just searching for Matt MacDonald, that’s all.”
“Well, the sonofabitch ain’t in here, that’s for sure.” She flipped a glance toward the three men at the poker table.
Politely, Jason muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” grabbed Rafe by his other arm, and exited Abby’s. “C’mon,” he said to Rafe once they were outside. “We’ve gotta find Matt before somebody kills him just for bein’ a jackass.”
“Just on general principle, you mean?”
“You been hangin’ around me too much.”
Rafe grinned. “Mebbe so.”
And then, quite suddenly, the crowd behind them quieted. From clear down at the other end of the street, they saw Matthew MacDonald backing out of the saloon, and yelling, “Bunch’a lily-livered cowards, that’s what you are! I thought Fury had some real men livin’ in her!”
“I think that’ll about do it,” said Jason, and began marching down the center of the street with Rafe following along, aping his speed as well as the disgusted expression on his face. Halfway down the street and mid-stride, Jason called out, “MacDonald! Matt MacDonald! Hold it down!”
Matt stopped, turned, and looked, and hollered up the street, “Well, if it isn’t Marshal Chicken-shit and Deputy Dog Turd!” He hadn’t recognized Rafe, and Jason had the sense to leave well enough alone.
They had kept walking toward Matt during his tirade, and were quite a bit closer now. “You wanna go to jail for disturbin’ the peace, keep on hollerin’,” Jason said, just loud enough to be heard. He stopped walking and so did Rafe.
Matt’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click.
“Well, then,” Jason began, “now that we’ve got everybody calmed down, what seems to be your problem, Matthew?”
“What’s always my problem?” Matt snarled. “I’ve got trouble out at the ranch and nobody’ll help!”
Jason closed his eyes for a minute, then said, “What trouble? Apache?”
“Yes!” Matt shouted. “I can’t get it through anybody’s head! By now, they’re probably swarmin’ the ranch, killin’ off all my hands, makin’ off with all my livestock, and nobody gives a good goddamn!”
He put his head in his hands, and suddenly both Megan and Jenny, whom Jason hadn’t realized had joined the following crowd, ran past him and to Matt’s side. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but both girls were talking to Matt in whispers, soothing him. Then Jenny looked up and straight at Jason.
“Jason, you go out there,” she said. “Don’t go as the marshal. Go as my brother.”
“But, Jenny . . .” he began.
“Don’t you ‘but, Jenny’ me! Just go! Now!”
He’d been about to tell her that Apache didn’t raid at night, but he could see that right now she wasn’t going to hear anything he had to say. He was stuck. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “But I hope you’ll feel stupid when we don‘t turn up anything!”
“And you’d best save us some dessert!” Rafe added, grinning.
“You’re going?” Jason asked, amazed.
Rafe shrugged. “Gotta work off some’a that good dinner ‘fore I treat myself to any more of these ladies’ vittles.”
Jason shrugged. “Your funeral.”
When he glanced over and saw Salmon Kendall leaning out of the marshal’s office’s front door, he said, “Salmon, you stay here and watch over the town.” He turned back toward the stable. Then he stopped, looked back over his shoulder and said, “Move it, Matt!” when he saw that a stunned MacDonald was just standing there. However, the call woke Matt from his trance, and he dogtrotted to catch up with them.
They got Jason’s palomino and Rafe’s bay tacked up and ready, and set out, with Matt leading, toward the south and the Double M ranch.
Jason felt like a fool. He didn’t know what Rafe was thinking (and told himself he didn’t care), but he considered himself a Class-A Idiot for humoring Matt, especially during the evening, and especially during his dinner!
Women. If it hadn’t been for Jenny and Megan, he would’ve just shot Matt and gone home. No, he wouldn’t. He’d probably be riding out here anyway, if to do nothing but shut Matthew up.
And so here he was, loping south, thinking foul thoughts about MacDonald. He gave his head a shake, and rode on.