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.