Megan MacDonald struggled awake, although she felt she was swimming, not waking.
She moved up, upward toward some dim, dim light she more felt than saw, upward until the light took on body, took on color, took on shape and then noise, and then, for no reason, clarity.
Her neck hurt.
She tried to raise her hand to it, but it wouldn’t budge. She tried to speak, but her lips wouldn’t move. She listened for the sounds of battle, but they, too, were absent.
And then she felt her lips flutter.
“Jenny?” she heard herself whisper. “J-Jenny?”
Dr. Morelli leaned into view. He smiled. “Back with us, I see!”
“W-what happened?” she managed. “Where am I?”
“It’s all right,” he said, and patted her hand, stroked her arm. “You’re going to be fine. You’re in our little makeshift hospital.”
She winced and twisted her head slightly, and he added, “You were shot in the neck, Megan. Don’t worry, I got the arrowhead out and stitched you up. You’re a very lucky girl. An eighth of an inch to the side and…Well, all you’ll have to show for your misadventure will be a tiny scar. I promise.”
She must have visibly relaxed, because he smiled again. “Now, don’t try to talk, don’t try to do anything but sleep. Your friend, Jenny, has been sitting up with you all night. I just forced her to go get herself some breakfast.”
She blinked, long and slow.
“That’s the girl.” He held a large spoon to her lips and said, “Now, take this. That’s right. Just a little at a time…Good girl, Megan. Jason will be down to check on you in a bit. And yes,” the doctor added, “he’s fine. The Apache have backed off for the time being. Ward Wanamaker thinks we’ve got them beat.”
Megan felt her lips curl up into a smile, which the doctor returned. “Close your eyes now, Megan. Rest.”
She allowed herself to flutter her eyes closed, and just like that, she was asleep.
When Jason reached the southern wall of the stockade, there was not an Apache in sight. The only thing remaining of them was a dejected dust cloud, trailing slowly off toward the southeast.
He stood there staring at the retreating dust for what seemed like a long time, but was probably only a few minutes.
They were saved. The Apache were going away at long last. Outside of a couple of razed ranches—and more than a few dead and wounded—the town had won.
And then slowly, as if someone were letting all the air out of him, he sank to his knees, then his seat, and passed out.
Saul Cohen was watching from across the way, and when he saw Jason begin the slow slide down to the planks upon which he’d been standing, he climbed down his ladder at the north wall and began to run across the square.
The only thing he could think was that Jason had been shot, although he couldn’t see any blood.
But when he reached the other side of the town and scrambled up the nearest ladder, Jason wasn’t shot with an arrow or stabbed by a spear. He was, very simply, unconscious.
Things were never that simple for Saul, though. He raised Jason’s head and slapped him across the face as hard as he could. Jason’s eyes immediately fluttered.
“Ouch!” he said, and rubbed at his cheek.
“Are you all right?” Saul demanded.
“Somebody just hit me,” was Jason’s groggy reply. “I think…”
Saul helped him to his feet. “Come down off this scaffolding, boy,” he said. “If you cave in again, you won’t have so far to fall.”
“Wait a minute,” Jason muttered, waving him off. He hauled himself up to peek between the spikes at the top of the stockade again, as if he needed to remind himself. He’d been right. The Indians were in retreat. Even the bodies of their dead had been picked up and carried off.
He gave out with a huge sigh and let Saul help him down to the ground. “They’re gone,” he said. “They’re really gone. For good this time, I think, Saul.”
“May it please the Lord that you’re right, Jason,” Saul said, and tucked him under one arm—a difficult task since Jason was over six feet and Saul was only five-ten. With his boots on.
Slowly, they made their way up the alley and around the corner, to the livery and Dr. Morelli’s makeshift hospital.
“Nothing but simple exhaustion,” Morelli said, once they’d found Jason a cot and Morelli had taken a good look at him. “Although in this case, I think simple is too elementary a word.”
Saul looked up from Jason’s face in horror. “What? There’s something else wrong?”
Morelli shook his head. “No, I just mean that this poor lad feels the weight of the world—at least our corner of it—on his shoulders. He’s far too young to be saddled with such a heavy load.”
Saul’s brows twisted quizzically, and he asked, “So we should fire him? After he has saved us all once again?”
Morelli gave a chuckle. “No, Saul, no. The load may be heavy on Jason, but face it—he’s the only man in town with the patience and upbringing to be our sheriff. His father was a great man, and the sapling doesn’t sprout far from the tree,” he added.
“Without Jason,” he went on, “we would have all died back in Indian Territory at the hands of Quanah Parker.”
“Without my dice, too,” Saul added softly. The story of Saul’s sugar cubes, made into dice so that they could gamble with the Indians for the captive girls, was fast turning into Cohen family legend.
“Yes, we can’t forget your sugar-cube dice,” Morelli said. Saul was surprised—and a little embarrassed—that Morelli had heard his mutter. Apparently, someone out side his family had remembered the incident, too. And also had excellent hearing….
“Will he be all right?” he asked, wanting as much to change the subject as to find out about Jason.
Morelli nodded. “Yes, I’m sure he will. He just needs a good rest, that’s all, with nothing preying on his mind.”
Saul sighed heavily. “Thank the Good Lord.”
“Yes, indeed. And our brave townspeople, too.”
Saul nodded. Well, some of them, he thought.
Lone Wolf dropped out of the sad caravan of beaten Apache, leaving Clever Eyes to lead them the rest of the way home.
Not him, though. He would not go back in shame. He would not dishonor his father and his wives and sons with his ineptitude. He would not hear his name mingled with laughter around the campfires, nor would he wish to hear it in sadness or anger each time a fallen brave was mentioned.
And there were many to mention. Far too many.
He was going back to the town that white men called Fury.
He would find the one in charge, and he would fight him, hand to hand.
He would be victorious and return to the home fires vindicated.
Or, at the least, with some of his shame lifted.
Moving on foot, Curly, Carlos, and Wilmer made their way from what was left of the MacDonald ranch and toward town.
Carlos had drawn them all plenty of water from the well, so they didn’t suffer from thirst, although they did suffer from the burden of carrying it. Wilmer had found several overlooked sheepskins hanging on the far fence, and he’d gone through them and found the three best, the three that he could make fairly watertight.
He’d done a good job. Water dripped from all three hide bags, but at least none had let loose a gushing flood as yet.
But they were heavy. Especially when you were trying to walk almost ten miles through the heat of an Arizona spring.
But then, ten miles might be just the start, Curly thought. When they got to Fury, there might not be any Fury left. All that smoke had to come from something. Like a town burning to the ground.
The Apache probably only stayed today to polish off the survivors.
He wanted to weep, to throw himself down on the sand like a girl and just cry and cry.
But he didn’t. He, along with the other two men, just kept on trudging and sweating and praying that he wouldn’t find what he expected.
At long last, the Reverend Milcher allowed his family to climb up out of the Indian shelter he had dug under the altar. His wife, Lavinia, took a deep breath as she climbed up the ladder. He didn’t blame her. Below, everything stank of raw earth and the grave. Up here, however, everything stank of burned wood and scorched fabric.
But the sounds of the church were what interested him most. Not the sounds of the church itself so much, but the lack of sound from outside.
It was still light, but there were no gunshots, no shouting, no sounds of arrows thudding into their hapless targets. There was only the sound of everyday activity. Of men calling everyday comments to one another, of women calling to their children.
Without realizing it, he relaxed. They had survived, with God’s help. He closed his eyes and gave thanks to his Father in Heaven.
There must be wounded that he could minister to, those injured who would take succor in the comforting word of the Lord.
Gesturing to Lavinia to keep the children inside, he walked outside and down the street, toward Dr. Morelli’s house. But he didn’t have to go that far. On his way, he came across all the wounded in the livery.
Someone had set up rows of makeshift cots, two or three to a stall and end to end down the aisle. Or at least, what was left of the aisle. Fire had taken a toll on the livery as it had on his house and church. Half the livery’s roof was caved in and the hay in the loft was gone, as was part of the interior of the stable itself.
Someone had taken the initiative to clear it up, though. Rubble was piled out in the street, and animals were stabled in the best of the burned but intact stalls with nothing but sky overhead for protection from the elements.
He finally found Dr. Morelli and pulled him aside. “Might I be of some help, Doctor?” He clutched his Bible near his heart and pushed back his shoulders. He must let these last few days pass from his mind. He was a man of God, and he would look the part.
Morelli stared at him. “I trust you mean more of a help than you’ve been these last few days?”
Milcher stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been conspicuously absent, Reverend.
There are some here who would have welcomed a visit from you or your wife.”
Despite himself, Milcher felt his cheeks color hotly.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have been caring for my own family, seeing that no harm came to them, and constantly engaged in prayer for our population’s deliverance.”
Morelli picked up a damp rag and began to scrub at his fingers. “And I’m sure that everybody’s grateful. Just as grateful as I am.”
Milcher wasn’t certain whether or not he was being made sport of. So he said, “May I start at the far end and work my way up?”
“Whatever you want,” Morelli said, his attention on his fingernails and the cloth. “Just don’t wake up anybody who’s asleep.”
Milcher nodded.
“Or dead,” Morelli added.
Milcher wanted to make a subtly cutting remark, but Morelli had turned away and moved to the next patient.
So instead, grumbling beneath his breath, he slowly walked to the far end of the livery and entered the last stall.
“Good afternoon,” he said to the men on the cots inside. “May I share the word of our Lord with you?”
The wagon train
They weren’t far out of Fury now.
In fact, Blake was certain they’d make it tomorrow. They hadn’t seen any more smoke rising, but he thought he’d heard the faint sound of distant gunfire. It could just be his ears tricking him, he thought. Sadly, his hearing hadn’t been the same since the war.
His captain should have had to spend a few weeks standing next to that cannon, he thought, then immediately reprimanded himself. War was a thankless job, and everyone had to serve where they were needed. Even if it meant they’d go partially deaf in one ear. It was a small price to pay considering what other men had given up: their arms, their legs, their lives.
To take his mind off his physical worries, he began to think about Fury, and the townspeople that would likely greet them there. From Arlo Baxter, the man he’d talked to about the little town, he’d learned that it had been named for the famous wagon master, Jedediah Fury, who had led them from Kansas City and later perished in the Indian Territory. Comanche, he thought the man had said. Such a shame. The man had been a true legend.
But the wagon master’s son had brought them the rest of the way, and was now the town sheriff. That was nice. It was rather circular actually.
There were many shops there at which a small wagon train could restock, if they planned to go on to California, and a doctor to see to your aches and pains if you had any. He’d like the doctor to have a look at little Seth, just because.
Seth had been born without a doctor present, and had yet to avail himself of a medical man. The baby showed no signs of anything wrong, let alone out of the ordinary, but still, the Reverend Blake liked to stay on the safe side.
He might ask the doctor to check out Laura, too.
Just to be on the safe side.
He wanted Olin to have his wagon checked over as well, and perhaps acquire a new spare axle. If it hadn’t been for the first spare axle, well, Blake didn’t like to think of the pickle they’d have found themselves in.
He was thinking that maybe he and Laura and Seth would just stay on in Fury, but had no idea what the others planned. Although he imagined they’d go on. He knew that Olin was set on California and the sea, and that Mankiller was set on mining for gold or silver.
Mining was good in Arizona, or so he’d been told, but for gold, Blake supposed the Mankillers would need to go to California, up toward Sutter’s Mill. If it hadn’t already been mined dry.
He shrugged. His business was God, not gold.
The day was clear and not overly hot, wildflowers spread before them like an endless pink and yellow and lavender quilt, and things were going well.
Why borrow trouble?