5
The next morning found Jason and Jenny
and Megan all up bright and early, and outside the stockade, taking
in the sights of the wagon train. Most of its members were just
plain folks, trying to get back to Kansas City, but a few had fancy
goods and the like.
One of them, Mrs. Judith Strong, had a
wagon packed nearly to the canopy with all kinds of yard goods and
an assortment of notions, and she sold both the girls the material
to make one new dress each.
While they were jabbering with her,
Jason busied himself talking to Riley, the wagon master, and
strolling down the line. “Where’s Sampson Davis this mornin’?”
Jason asked. He hadn’t seen the man.
Riley shook his head. “I dunno. Lost
him last night. Figured he was stayin’ at your hotel or
somethin’.”
Jason shook his head. “Already been
there. And it’s a boardinghouse, actually.”
“Whatever.”
They kept walking.
Riley began, “About that axle and wheel
man . . . I wondered if—”
“Ward rode out first thing,” Jason said
with a smile when he cut Riley off. “Ought to be back early this
afternoon. Give him time. It’s a ways.”
Riley nodded. “No
offense.”
“None taken,” Jason said, and grinned
at him. Riley grinned back. “All your folks make it through the
storm all right? Except the ones that lost their lids, I
mean.”
“Two of us didn’t make it,” Riley said
gravely. “Wind took their wagon and rolled it a couple times. They
got crushed under the weight of their own belongings.”
Jason shook his head. “Shame. They
linger?”
“Nope,” Riley replied. “Died
instantaneous.”
Jason nodded. Some things were best
when they were over quickly.
Riley didn’t speak. He just nodded
alongside Jason.
A boy came walking toward them, a boy
whose heels were tagged by the goofiest-looking hound dog that
Jason had ever seen. Well, he thought it was a hound, anyway, or
maybe part hound. He nudged Riley and tipped his head toward it.
“What the hell is that?” he asked.
“Up there? That’s Bill
Crachit.
“I mean, what’s that thing followin’
him?”
“Oh! That’s the Grimms’ dog,
Hannibal.”
Jason sighed. “I mean, what’s his
breeding?”
Riley laughed. “Oh. Accordin’ to Tom
Grimm, Hannibal is half Louisiana Black-mouthed cur, and half
Redbone hound. ’Course, you couldn’t prove any of it by
me.”
It was Jason’s turn to laugh this time.
“No wonder I was confused!”
Riley said, “Join the party,
Marshal.”
When Bill Crachit and Hannibal neared
them, they stopped and Jason said, “Can I see your
dog?”
Shyly, Bill said, “Sure,
mister.”
While Jason bent to the dog—a
houndy-headed, droopy-eared beast, colored and ticked like a
redbone, but coarser-haired and bushy-tailed—Riley said, “Jason,
here, isn’t just a ‘Mister,’ Bill. He’s Marshal Fury.”
“Sorry, Marshal,” said Bill after a
gulp. “I-I didn’t know.”
Jason looked up from the dog, which was
happily wagging his tail. “That’s all right, Bill,” he said. “You
just call me Jason. Say, this is a right friendly dog you’ve got
here. Or I guess he’s the Grimms’ dog, right?”
Bill glanced quickly at Riley, then
said, “Yessir, he is.”
“Don’t believe I’ve ever seen . . .
anything quite like him.”
Bill smiled for the first time.
“Neither had anybody else on the train. He’s a oner, all right.”
His hand dropped down to scratch the dog’s head, and Hannibal
complied by leaning his body against the boy’s leg and nearly
knocking him over.
Jason shot out a hand to steady him: A
lucky thing, or he would’ve been knocked into a wagon. Or maybe
under it.
“Thanks,” Bill said, once he got his
balance back again.
Jason noticed that the dog hadn’t moved
a muscle, except for his eyelids, which were drifting closed. He
decided he could really get to like this dog.
A new fellow, soberly dressed, came
walking up from the rear, behind Bill Crachit. He stopped and
tipped his head to Riley. “Good morning, Mr. Havens.” His hand went
to the boy’s shoulder. “You, too, young Bill.”
Riley nodded, and Bill said, “Mornin’,
Mr. Bean.” Turning to Jason, Riley announced, “This is one of our
men of God, Jason. The Reverend Mr. Fletcher Bean. And Fletcher,
this is Jason Fury, marshal of Fury.”
Jason stuck out his hand and Mr. Bean
took it, adding, “God bless you, son.”
Not exactly sure what to reply to
something like that, Jason simply said, “Uh, thanks.” And then he
quickly added, “The same to you, Reverend!”
Their little group soon turned into a
larger one, with folks walking up and down the line of wagons to
introduce themselves. Jason shook hands with over a dozen people,
although later, he’d be dogged if he could remember any of their
names.
Well, he guessed he wouldn’t have to,
unless some trouble came up. And right now, it was looking like any
trouble would be inside Fury itself.
Giving a last pat to Hannibal, Jason
excused himself and started back up to the town’s entrance and the
sheriff’s office. He passed Jenny and Megan, who seemed to be
dickering with somebody over something, and waved as he
passed.
When he went through the gate, he
wondered if he should stop by the mercantile and meet Solomon’s
company, then decided against it. There would be time for that
later, and right now he was thinking that he’d better talk to Rafe
Lynch. He had seen neither hide nor hair of Sampsom Davis, and just
hoped that he hadn’t found Lynch first.
The piano was tinkling out a slow song
and there were several girls in evidence, although it wasn’t yet
nine in the morning when he got to the saloon. To the bartender,
Jason said, “Seen Rafe Lynch this mornin’?”
Sam, the barkeep, replied, “Oh, it’s
way too early for him, Jason. He might wander down around ten or
so. Probably later. Got a message you want passed
along?”
Jason shook his head, then changed his
mind. “Tell him I wanna talk to him. He doesn’t need to come to the
office, though. I’ll come back down here. Oh, and Sam? Anybody else
comes lookin’ for him, you tell ’em he ain’t here.”
“Anybody?”
“Anybody.”
“Will do,” said Sam, and went back to
polishing bar glasses.
“I’m telling you, Solomon, I don’t like
him!” Rachael hissed again, her head under the covers.
“But he’s a Jew!” Solomon whispered
back. For him, that overrode anything else, despite the fact that
Sampson made him a little nervous, too.
“I don’t care if he’s a rabbi! I want
him out of here and away from the children!”
“Shhh!” Solomon hissed. “Do you want he
should be hearing you?”
Rachael tempered her tone, then said,
“I don’t like him. I think he is a bad man. Solomon, try to act
like your namesake. Don’t be blindly accepting him just because of
his race.”
Solomon pursed his lips. “Rachael, I
don’t know how to answer. My head pulls one way, my heart pulls the
other.”
“Think about it. And while you are
doing this thinking, you had best get ready to go down and open the
store. The tempus, she is fugiting.” She leaned over and brushed
his lips with a kiss, then gave him a playful shove.
Solomon rose and stretched his arms,
saying, “Women. They are never happy. You go right, she says left.
You go up, she says down. You take brisket, she says the corned
beef is better. You ask for—”
“Solomon?” she cut in sweetly. “The
store?”
Muttering, “Oy,” he began to dress for
the day.
When he left the bedroom and walked
into the open space that comprised the rest of their quarters, all
three of the boys and their new baby sister were still soundly
sleeping in their beds, but Sampson Davis was nowhere to be
seen.
Solomon scowled. Where on earth could
he have gone to? And then he slapped himself alongside the head and
muttered, “The wagons, of course.” Sampson had left something
necessary in his wagon, and had gone back for it. Oh, well. Solomon
had been looking forward to a morning prayer with him, but it would
wait. God was patient.
He pulled off a hunk of brisket, put it
between two slices of Rachael’s home-made bread, and headed quietly
down the stairs, to the mercantile.
Back in his office, Jason went through
the files, searching in vain for anything on Sampson Davis. But
he’d known he’d find nothing, and he wasn’t disappointed. He only
had a little information on California criminals—just what the
Territorial Marshal’s office deemed fit to send him.
Once again, he wished they were on the
stage route. Well, he didn’t see why they shouldn’t be, for they
had lodgings and water and a stable for the stage horses. They
could sure use the steady influx of folks coming and going, and the
steady mail service, too. All of which reminded him that he’d
forgotten to check and see if Grady had made it out of town
yet.
He poured himself the last cup of
coffee and slouched down at his desk. He’d walk up to the
mercantile later, but first he needed a sit-down and a drink. Files
were tiring things!
He had just taken his second sip of
coffee when he happened to glance out the window and see Jenny
across the street. She frequently ran errands for Electa Morton and
was emerging from Salmon Kendall’s printing shop with a stack of
papers in her arms, so he didn’t think much about it. Until moments
later, that was.
She started toward the jail, walking
across the street, when suddenly, Rafe Lynch came vaulting off the
sidewalk where she had been and shoved her over, knocking her and
her papers to the ground! Before Jason could stand up, a runaway
driverless wagon flashed right over the place where his sister had
been walking, and Rafe Lynch was helping her to her feet
again.
“Jesus,” whispered Jason. “Sweet
Jesus!” He got to his feet and rushed outside, running to Jenny’s
side.
But when he got there, she was actually
laughing!
He grabbed her by the shoulders and
said, “You could have been killed if Rafe hadn’t pushed you out of
the way! Don’t you know to look both ways before you cross a
street? Have you lost your senses?” And then he suddenly hugged her
to him so tightly that before he knew it, she was struggling and he
realized she couldn’t breathe.
He loosened his grip and allowed her to
push away. When she caught her breath again and finished coughing,
she said, “Does this mean that if I don’t succeed in killing
myself, you’ll do it for me?”
He laughed so loudly that one of the
Milcher kids opened the church door and peeked out. “Precisely,
precisely!” And then he remembered the kitten, probably because of
just seeing the Milcher kid. “Jenny, I’ve got a present for you,
but it won’t be ready for six or eight weeks,” he declared
impulsively.
Jenny clapped her hands as best she
could with an armload of papers. “What, Jason? What is
it?”
He smiled slyly. “I call it
Dusty.”
“Dusty? What’s a ‘dusty’?”
“Yeah,” said Rafe, who Jason had
completely forgotten was there. “What is a ‘dusty’?”
Jason stared at him for a moment, and
then relaxed back into a smile. The man had just saved his sister’s
life, after all! He said, “A ‘dusty’ is the name of something small
and white and fluffy and incredibly sweet—just like you, Jenny—that
was born just a few nights ago.”
Jenny squealed, and Jason noticed that
when she did, Rafe made a pained face. That was good. Jenny wasn’t
paying any attention, though. She cried, “The Milchers! You got one
of those new kitties for me, didn’t you, Jason?” He nodded, and she
added, “Oh, I could just hug you!”
“Best wait until you deliver those
papers to Miss Morton!” he joked.
Jenny laughed, as gaily as if she
hadn’t just been nearly killed. There was a kitten in the picture
now, and everything was right with the world. Jason had guessed as
much.
“Well, congratulations, Miss Jenny!”
exclaimed Rafe. He looked as happy for her as she did for
herself.
“Hadn’t you best run those papers up to
Miss Morton?” Jason asked.
“Oh! Oh, gosh, I almost forgot!” She
blinked rapidly, turned to Rafe and said, “Thank you so much! Come
to dinner tonight!” Then she fairly ran up the street. Well, as
close as a lady could come to running. When she stopped outside the
schoolroom door, she paused, turned, and tossed a kiss to Jason,
who made a show of catching it and then pressing it to his
heart.
He and Rafe stood there a minute, until
Jason thought to get out of the street. Davis could be anywhere. He
said, “Let’s get outta the line of fire.”
“Your office or mine?” Rafe asked, and
that half-crooked smile was back on his face again.
“Yours, I think,” Jason said with no
humor. This was no time for jokes.
He saw the runaway team being led back
around the corner at the end of town, and shouted, “Everything all
right, Jed?”
Jed Dawson hollered back, “Yeah. Your
sister okay?”
“Yup. Doing fine!”
Jed crossed himself, then called,
“Praise the Lord!”
“Whatever,” muttered Jason as they
stepped up on the boardwalk and he followed Rafe inside the
saloon.
It was a lot more lively than it had
been the first time Jason had been in that day, and he tagged after
Rafe, who led him to an empty table.
“This’n all right?”
Jason allowed that it was, and the men
sat down.
After the libations arrived and both
men were comfortable, Jason asked the question.
“Why is Sampson Davis after
you?”
Rafe looked him square in the eye and
said, “Because I shot his no-account brother-in-law. I only shot
him in the shoulder. Wasn’t my fault it went septic and he died.
And I shot him because he murdered my daddy over some gold shares
Daddy had, just outright murdered him in cold blood. At least I had
the gumption to call him out into the street to answer for it in a
fair fight! So now I got Sampson Davis doggin’ me everywhere I go.
The whole damn family should’a stayed back East.”
Rafe took a long drink of his beer, as
if the telling out of his story had exhausted him. Jason, surprised
but finally educated, followed suit.
Frankly, it wasn’t what Jason would
call a murder. He wondered if it was one of the ones listed on
Rafe’s poster, and he asked him.
“Yeah,” came the answer. “California’s
real nit-picky about that stuff. You want another
beer?”
Jason looked down at his glass, which
he had emptied, much to his surprise. “Yeah,” he said.
Rafe looked over at the bar, somehow
caught Sam’s attention, and held up two fingers. Sam nodded, and
before they knew it, a blond girl in a fancy green silk dress was
sliding the drinks onto the table.
Jason started to dig into his pocket,
but Rafe stopped him. “It’s on me. My office, after all.” He
smiled, full faced this time. “By the by, in case you’re wonderin’,
my name’s spelt R-a-l-p-h. My mamma was from England and Daddy was
from Ireland, and Rafe is how they pronounce it over there. Don’t
ask me why,” he added with a wave of his hand. “I got no
idea.”
Jason thought back to what he knew
about England, and said, “Yeah, those English got their ways about
’em. They call B-e-l-v-o-i-r ‘Beaver’—that’s a castle I read about
once—and Grosvenor ‘Gruvner. ’” Bemused, he shook his head and took
another drink of beer.
“And Cholmondeley, they call ‘Chumly.’”
Rafe laughed, and then Jason, after swallowing his gulp of beer,
joined in.
He had a feeling that everything was
going to be all right. For the moment, anyhow.