9
Outside the walls of Fury, Mrs. Judith Strong, the woman who had sold Megan and Jenny their yard goods, was getting ready for the day. And she made sure to choose an outfit that was soft, yet businesslike: There was work to be done this day.
When at last she felt she was ready, she grabbed her pocketbook from a dresser drawer and climbed down to the ground. She had forgotten how she had hated the journey west with Linus. Well, that had nothing to do with Linus. He made everything acceptable, everything fun. In the two years since his passing, she had at last grown weary of mourning, weary of crying herself to sleep at night and, well, weary of herself. Linus had brought out her sense of humor, and she’d lost that, too.
It seemed that Linus had been her everything. It was time, she’d decided, to learn to be everything to and for herself.
And so she had decided to leave California behind, leave the dirt and grit of the mining camps, and the hopelessness that had finally finished off Linus—even though he hadn’t done badly for himself, it wasn’t what he had pictured, what he had hoped for or dreamt of.
She walked up the lined wagons, thinking about her husband’s fantasies of wealth and palaces. Such a dreamer he had been! How many times had she been swept up in his enthusiasm for this thing or that, only to end up disappointed—not in Linus, never in him, but in the dream of the moment. Why, she wondered, wasn’t he like other men, who always thought the worst?
Oh, well. It was a puzzlement, and one she might never figure out, let alone have a grand revelation standing in the stockade gates of a dusty little town called Fury. She had considered whom to talk to about the property, and had finally settled on the sheriff. He seemed a nice enough fellow, anyway, even if he was despicably young. But if anybody would know what was what in town, it was him.
She adjusted her light jacket and checked the angle of her hat, pulled up her chin, and proceeded down the street, toward the marshal’s office.
When the knock came at the door (Jason having locked it, just in case, before he went to sleep), it startled him awake, and clear out of his chair and onto the floor. Whoever was out there, he was glad they hadn’t seen that. Rafe was laughing loud enough for two men, as he watched Jason try to get his spur free from one of his desk drawers.
He finally did—after the person at the door knocked two more times—and hissed, “Shut up, Rafe!”
He opened the door to find a well-dressed, middle-aged woman, who was preparing to knock again. When the door swung inward, she smiled and said, “Marshal Fury?”
“Yes, ma’am! Sorry about the delay. I, uh, fell asleep at my desk.” And then he added, by way of explanation, “My deputy is out of town at the moment. What can I do for you?”
“You can do quite a bit, actually,” she said, and started to come into the office. Now, Jason had hoped to keep her where she was. He didn’t much like the idea of advertising Rafe’s presence. But he had no choice but to move out of her way. Fortunately, she went straight to his desk and sat down in the chair opposite his, entirely ignoring the cell area.
He followed suit by going to his desk, upending his chair and sitting down. Which wasn’t such a good idea. One of the legs had broken in his fall, and he took a second tumble, this time catching himself on the edge of his desk—with his chin.
The woman sprang to her feet. “Are you all right, son?”
Jason nonchalantly waved his hand, once he was halfway standing. “Stupid chair. Keep forgettin’ to have it fixed. Now. Let’s start over. I’m Marshal Jason Fury—the town’s named after my father, not me—and you’re with the wagon train, right?”
The woman cocked her head. “Your father isn’t Jedediah Fury, is he?”
Jason nodded. “Yes’m. Or at least he was. He died while we were ferrying the main part of the town, here, out from Kansas City. The folks, I mean.”
Genuine sympathy filled her face. “I’m so sorry to learn of this. I knew your father. He ran the wagon train that Linus and I—he was my husband—took passage with back in ’49. He got us to the California goldfields in fine shape. We spoke of him often.”
“And now you’ve lost your husband.” He didn’t phrase it as a question. The pain that had overtaken her face told him what he needed to know.
After a moment of staring out the front window, and not at him, she turned back to him. “Yes, I have. And I’m sorry, I’m Judith Strong, and I’m looking to settle in Fury.”
Jason’s face lit up. “Well, we’d be glad to have you, Mrs. Strong, and welcome to the Fury family. We’re a little rough around the edges, but we try.”
“Sounds like I’ll fit right in. I’ve got a few rough edges, myself. A woman doesn’t spend over a decade moving from mining camp to mining camp without developing somethin’ of an attitude.”
Jason chuckled. “I imagine so.”
“To get right down to brass tacks, Marshal Fury, I’m a dressmaker and a milliner, and I intend to find a place here in your town to set up shop. I’ve been looking over properties for the last couple of days, and I believe I’ve found one that will suit me. If the price is right, that is. And what I need to know from you is who owns it.”
“Which building are we talking about, Mrs. Strong?”
She pointed out the window. “Right there. The one next to the newspaper office or print shop or whatever it is. And please, call me Judith.”
“And I’m Jason. I’m fairly certain that Salmon Kendall owns that property—Salmon’s our mayor and he has the newspaper office and the boardinghouse, too. He’s the man you should talk to.”
“Well, thank you, Jason,” Judith said, rising. “You’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”
He stood as well. He’d been sitting on the edge of the desk. “No trouble at all, Judith. That’s why we’re here.” He grinned at her despite his aching jaw, and walked her to the door. “Any more questions, you just come see me.” He meant it, too. She put him in mind of his mother.
“Thank you, Jason,” she said. “I’ll do that!” Then she stepped through the door.
He stood there, watching, as she crossed the street and entered the newspaper office. He hoped Salmon would sell her the place. He could use the money, Jason knew. Hell, they all could.
He turned back toward his desk, moving what had been her seat behind it. It would do until he could get another one.
“Seemed like a nice lady,” said Rafe, startling Jason. He’d almost forgotten Rafe was still there, in the cell.
“You know, you got a real knack for spookin’ the bejesus outta people,” Jason said.
Rafe sat up. “Why, thank you very kindly, Mr. Chair Crusher. How’s your chin? And your leg?”
“My leg?”
“Don’t try to hide it. I seen you limpin’.”
“It’ll be fine. Just bruised it, I think.” Jason took a seat in his new chair, still warm from Judith’s backside. He slung his leg up on the desk and pulled up his pantleg. Oh, he was going to have a bruise all right. An area the size of a silver dollar, centered on his shin, was already turning from an insulted red to an accusing purple.
“Got coffee?” Rafe was standing on the other side of the desk.
Jason nodded toward the potbellied stove. “Might still be some left from last night.”
Rafe managed to find half a cup still left and sipped at it. “Just the way I don’t like it. Too strong and too cold.”
Jason started to open his mouth, but Rafe beat him to it. “I know. Beggars can’t be choosers. Crap. What time is it, anyway?”
Jason pointed toward the clock, which read seven-thirty. And was then treated to a line of expletives by Rafe, who was only stopped by the opening door.
It was Ward, and he wasn’t alone. Wash Keogh was with him, and they both looked worn to the bone. “Don’t worry, Wash,” Ward was saying. “They’ll be fed and put up just fine.”
“Talkin’ about the livery?” Jason asked.
Ward nodded, and Jason added, “Yeah, don’t give your mare a second thought, Wash. They know what they’re doin’. I let ’em see to my Cleo all the time. And this,” he said, waving toward Rafe, “is undoubtedly the reason Ward rode out there to fetch you. Wash Keogh, meet Rafe Lynch.”
Rafe took a step forward and held out his hand. Wash looked leery, but he moved forward, too, took it, and gave it a shake. “Can’t say as how I’m pleased to meetcha, Rafe. I don’t know yet.”
“That’s understandable, Wash. I’m real pleased to meet you, though.”
Wash’s face scrunched up. “You are? Why come?”
“Are you kidding?” asked Rafe, incredulously. “Why, you’re famous! I been hearin’ about Wash Keogh this and Wash Keogh that since I was a kid over in California!”
Wash stood up a little straighter, and the dust on his shoulders shifted, cascading to the floor. “Californy, you say?”
Rafe nodded. “Yes, sir! Don’t know how much of it was the truth once it got to us, but if even half of it was right, you’re a whatchacall, a living legend!”
“Imagine that!” Jason said softly—just loud enough to keep the story going and Rafe talking. He figured that Rafe was just shining-on Wash, but it was sure winning Wash over. Even Ward, leaning against the wall, looked a tad awestruck. It was as if he were seeing Wash in a whole new light!
“Imagine that!” Wash echoed, in a rare grammatical moment that lasted that—only a moment. “All the way to Californy! Jason, I’m famouser than I thunk! And wait till you see . . .” He dug down into his pocket. “I found it afore the dust storm kicked up. Ain’t she a beaut?”
He held up the rock, and just the sight of it staggered the other three men. They all stood there for a few moments, not knowing what to say.
And then Rafe said, “Is that for real, or did you have it painted up to fool us?”
Jason punched him in the arm.
But Wash said, “Nope. Found ’er ’bout thirty feet from where I was diggin’, almost took me a piss on it, as a matter’a fact, and I spent the next couple’a days tryin’ to figure out where the hell she come from. Ain’t she a beaut?”
“That she most certainly is, Wash,” Jason said, then tentatively held out his hand. “Can I hold it?”
Carefully, Wash put the turkey egg of a nugget into Jason’s hands. The gold was surprisingly heavy, but felt cool, very cool, to the touch. A few thin veins of milky quartz ran through it, but it was primarily solid gold. Anyway, so far as he could tell. He didn’t know how long he stood there, transfixed by it, but then he heard Wash say, “Jason?”
Reluctantly, he handed it back. “Man!” he said at last. “That’s really somethin’!”
Ward held out his hand next, and like Jason, seemed mesmerized by the huge nugget. And then Rafe broke in, “May I?” and took it from Ward.
“Good Lord,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “This is one more thing to add to your legend, Wash. And something for Jason and Ward to tell their grandkids about, just that they touched it.” He handed it back to Wash. “Seems to me a thing like that ought not be melted down. Ought’a be on display in a museum or somethin’. What do you think, Jason?”
Numbly, Jason felt his head shake no. “Don’t ask me. It ain’t mine.” And then he gave himself a little, shivery shake to bring himself out of it. He stood up straighter and said, “Wash, you’d best get that thing up to the bank and get it put in the safe. And I mean now! There’s people in town who wouldn’t mind guttin’ you for it.”
Everybody looked at Rafe, of course, but Jason said, “Get real, boys. He ain’t wanted for robbery.”
“No, just murder,” Ward added flatly.
“Aren’t you off the clock?” Jason asked.
“I reckon,” Ward answered after a moment, and he looked at Jason as if Jason had lost all sense of reality.
“Don’t worry, Ward,” Jason said with a reassuring smile. “I ain’t lost my marbles. Why don’t you walk Wash on up to the bank, then head on home and get some sleep. You look like you could use it! And tell Megan hello for me?”
Most of the worry drained out of Ward’s face, Jason noticed, and he said, “All right. See you tonight, buddy.”
Ward made his exit with Wash Keogh in tow, and Rafe turned toward Jason. “Don’t suppose we know where Sampson is, do we?”
“Not a clue.” Jason walked back around his desk and slouched down into the chair. He hadn’t noticed before, but his leg was killing him. “Figured I’d take a walk on over to the saloon first, and check it out. I know he was in there last night—well, I suspect that I know—but he hadn’t left before we finished playin’ cards and went to bed.”
Rafe was staring out the window. “Who’s that? Don’t believe I’ve seen him before.” He pointed toward the hitching rail across the street, where a well-dressed, dark-haired man was just dismounting.
Jason shook his head. “Never seen him before. Might be a cardsharp, lookin’ for a game.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” After a short pause, Rafe, ever impatient, asked, “Were you goin’ across the street?”
Jason hauled himself out of his chair. Some people were worth a lot less than others, and right now, he felt at the bottom of the heap. He limped to the door, grabbed his hat off the rack, and settled it on his head. “I’m goin’,” he announced, and stepped out onto the boardwalk. And immediately realized that he had to piss like a racehorse.
A little side trip to the alley set that right, and then he was off to the saloon.
Riding slow and taking his time, Ezra Welk, long dry from his ride across the river, continued to follow the wagon train’s trail. Except now his keen tracker’s eye had picked up a new rider, one who had more recently followed in the wagons’ path.
Wherever these wagons were goin’ is sure a popular place, he thought. And then he thought long and hard about avoiding it. After all, he was still wanted in the territory for killing that blacksmith . . . Jacobs had been his name, he thought. Well, it’d served the bum right for shoeing his horse off-kilter like that. Cost him the horse, in fact! Old Berry fell and busted his leg—dang near busted Ezra’s, too—not a day out of that piddling little town, and Ezra had to shoot him.
Maybe he should’ve held off on killing Jacobs, he thought angrily. Maybe he should’ve let him carry all of Berry’s tack and gear four days through the desert to the next town. And then shot him. Ezra’s mouth quirked up into an unconscious smile.
But then, he thought, he’d never heard of a town being out this way. How old could it be, anyway? Hell, it might be nothing more than a stage stop. And stage stops didn’t have sheriffs, but they almost always had whiskey. And sometimes, they had women. Still smiling, Ezra kept on following the wagons’ path, and the path that another rider had followed before him.