10
West of Fury, riding at a slow jog and
taking his time, Teddy Gunderson rode through the desert brush,
following the track the wagon train’s recent passage had provided.
He had just ridden past the site of two fresh grave
markers—travelers killed in that nasty dust storm, he figured—and
by his reckoning, was about a day’s ride, more or less, from his
destination.
Which was Fury, a little squirt of a
town that had popped up in the Arizona Territory about four, maybe
five years ago. That pretty much encapsulated his knowledge of the
town, and the only reason he knew that much was that he’d spent a
lot of time pumping a drunk, in a bar back in Los Angeles, for
information about a fellow named Rafe Lynch.
Three hours, six beers, and as many
whiskeys later, he’d found out that little snippet about Fury, but
more about Rafe Lynch. He’d already known the man had twelve
thousand—maybe more—on his head, and that was reason enough to
pique his interest, and to make him “play nice” with the old sot
who’d given him the information he needed. He’d even found out
about the wagon train, which had left a day earlier.
Plying drunks might turn out to be just
one more cost of doing business.
Gunderson was a bounty hunter, although
fairly new to the trade, having captured and turned in only two
men. But they had each paid him well enough that he wanted to keep
on doing it. Hell, if he could get Rafe Lynch, he’d be set for
life!
He couldn’t take him in town. He knew
that much. As badly as California wanted Lynch, he was as clean as
a whistle in Arizona. Killing him on this side of the river would
make him a murderer, and put a price on his
head!
He sure didn’t want that.
He figured to wait until Rafe was out
of sight of the city, and then shoot him. Or at least, kidnap him
and take him to the other side of the Colorado River, and
then shoot him.
Teddy was a clever man. At the moment,
he had no idea how he’d get Lynch alone outside the walls of Fury,
but he was convinced that he’d think of something. He always
did.
There was one thing he hadn’t taken
into consideration, though, and that was Rafe Lynch.
Jason finished up over at the saloon
and thanked the barkeep, who told him that Sampson Davis had
finally given up on Lynch at about two a.m., and gone on home. He
was staying at the boardinghouse, which Jason was relieved to hear,
and the men at the saloon hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since
last night.
After a quick stop over at the office,
where he told Rafe that it was safe to go on across the street,
Jason told him to stick to his room as much as he could. Sampson
seemed to have figured out where he was staying, and he was bound
to be back.
Next, he took it upon himself to see
how Solomon was doing—and find out how he had got rid of Sampson
Davis. He assumed it had been without bloodshed, but then, you
could never be too careful.
When he arrived at the mercantile, the
youngest Cohen boy was sitting out front, back in the shadow of the
building, huddled on a bench with his knees drawn up and his head
buried in his arms.
“Jacob?” he asked. He didn’t know if
he’d gotten the name right—the boys ran together in his mind—but
the kid looked up at him with tear-stained eyes. Concerned, Jason
asked, “What’s the trouble, son?”
“The doctor was here this mornin’. They
thought I was asleep, but I heard ’em talking, and he says my baby
sister’s gonna probably die.” The boy broke into a new round of
sobs, and Jason sat down next to him, pulling him close. The boy
immediately threw his arms around Jason and hugged him for dear
life, leaving Jason uncertain about what to do next.
But after a moment, he asked, “Jacob?
The doctor didn’t say for sure, did he?” He knew Morelli didn’t
pull his punches.
The boy pulled in tighter and said,
“No, but he said she might.” This seemed reason enough to set him
off, once again. Jason felt the boy’s hot tears soaking through his
shirt.
He dipped his head to the boy’s ear and
said, “You know, I think that Dr. Morelli said that just in case.
He told me that in a lot of cases, just the passing of time can
heal a body. You know, like, you remember the time I got
shot?”
Against his side, the boy
nodded.
“Well, I didn’t die, did I? After
enough time passed, I was up and around, and feeling a lot better!”
And stuck being the marshal of this place,
he added silently. He gave the boy a little hug, then extricated
himself and stood up. “I’m gonna go in to see your father now. He
around?”
The boy mumbled, “He’s here. Marshal?
Please don’t tell him I was listening?”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Jason
said, smiling. He put a hand on the boy’s head—he still wasn’t sure
which one he was—and ruffled his hair before he went
inside.
The bell jingled when he closed the
door, and he stood there a few minutes, waiting for someone to
respond. Now wasn’t exactly the time to holler for help. But a few
seconds before he turned to go back outside, he heard someone
coming down the stairs. A few moments later, Solomon poked his head
around the staircase corner.
“What can I do for—” And then he looked
up and a weary smile broke out on his tear-stained face. “Ah,
Jason,” he said. “How kind of you to stop by.”
His voice told Jason that Sol was about
to burst into a fresh onslaught of weeping, so he quickly said,
“Solomon, I just stopped by to ask you how the devil you managed to
get rid of Sampson Davis.”
He’d thought it was a safe question to
ask, but he was obviously wrong. Uncontrollably, Solomon began to
openly weep. When Jason took a step toward him, he held out his
hands, as it warding Jason off, and stepped behind a counter,
putting it between them. Then he turned his back and wept a bit
more, got himself under control, and sheepishly turned back to face
Jason.
“Good Lord, Sol,” Jason said softly,
and reached across the counter to touch Solomon’s arm. Remembering
the child’s plea to keep Solomon from learning what he’d overheard,
he said, “Is it that bad?”
Ambiguous, but
comforting, he thought.
“It’s little Sarah,” Solomon said
hoarsely. “She’s dying.”
“Surely not!” said Jason. If she’d been
born with half her parents’ strength and tenacity, it was an
impossibility. This, he truly believed.
But slowly, Solomon repeated what
Morelli had told them this morning. Jason had to admit that it
didn’t sound good at all. But he said, “Solomon, I believe that
your baby’s going to be fine. I believe that she’s going to be
better than fine. Any child who had the nerve to be born during—and
live through—that storm is strong right down to her heart and soul.
I believe that with all my heart.”
There was a pause before Solomon said,
“Thank you, my friend.” He sniffed several times. “Thank you for
listening, and for being a kind ear to talk to. Thank you for being
my friend.” And then he broke down again.
Jason stayed in the mercantile for a
long time, and—after he pushed Sol into the storeroom—even waited
on a man who came in looking for nails and chicken
wire.
Hours later, Jason stood outside on the
boardwalk, staring down the street toward the boardinghouse. It was
past noon. He knew that much, because the sun threw his shadow in
front of him as he began to walk east, down Main Street. All this
time to prepare, and he still didn’t know where to start with
Sampson Davis.
But he knew he was going to have to
start with him, at least. Solomon had told him enough about the
man, in teary little dribs and drabs, that he felt he sort of had a
handle on his character. Enough to open up a conversation, at any
rate.
Cordelia Kendall was serving lunch when
he entered, and a quick glance at the diners didn’t show him
Sampson.
“Ma’am?” he said, instead of clearing
his throat. He thought it was more polite, her being a lady and
all.
She turned toward him. “Why, Jason!”
she exclaimed, setting down the gravy and moving toward him. “How
nice to see you! And to what do I owe this honor?”
Jason grinned. He liked Salmon’s wife.
They’d been together on the wagon train coming out to Fury, and had
since settled in admirably. He said (after he remembered to take
off his hat), “No honor, ma’am, unless it’s mine. I was lookin’ for
Sampson Davis.”
“Mr. Davis is still sleeping. I
understand he got in quite late last night.” She lifted a brow, as
if to ask a question.
“Don’t disturb him, then,” Jason said,
partly relieved and partly annoyed. “I can talk to him
later.”
“Well, then,” she said, as if he’d
satisfied her curiosity. “You’re most welcome to stay to luncheon,
you know.”
She was a famous cook, and he was
tempted, but he said, “My sister packed me up a lunch, and if I
don’t rave about it in detail, she’ll have my hide. Another
time?”
She laughed and said, “Of course! Any
time at all. Shall I send Sammy over to your office when Mr. Davis
rises?” Salmon, Junior, was nearly old enough to take a wife, but
she still insisted on calling him Sammy—as did his
father.
He put his hat back on. “I’d be right
pleased, ma’am.”
She shook her finger at him. “You know,
you’re getting so you talk like a Texas field hand! We’re going to
have to usher you back East to college, one of these
days!”
He silently wished she’d hurry it up
and end his misery, but he said, “Yes’m,” and “Thank you, ma’am,”
and took his leave. He crossed the street and entered his office.
It was quiet, and it was empty—at first glance,
anyway.
Rafe Lynch rolled over at the sound of
the closing door, and sat up on his cot, yawning and
stretching.
“Thought you’d be long gone by now,”
Jason said. He began rooting through his desk drawers for his
lunch, which Jenny would have dropped off sometime during the early
morning, on her way to school.
“Too tired,” Rafe answered. “Went back
to bed. Is that lunch?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
Jason had finally found the sack in the
bottom drawer on the left, and hoisted it up on the desk. It was
heavy! “Yeah,” he said, his mouth watering. “Mine.”
He peeked inside and saw . . . two of
everything: two thick chicken-and-tomato sandwiches, two servings
of potato salad, and on and on. He looked back at Rafe, now
standing in the doorway of his cell and putting his hat on. Jason
sighed. “Take your hat back off. Jenny put in two, apparently, of
everything in the whole blasted kitchen.”
Rafe hurried over, dragging a spare
chair behind him and tossing his hat on the rack. “What a gal!” he
said as he swung the chair around and sat on it backwards. And he
said it again, when he took the first huge bite of his chicken
sandwich.
Jason just shook his head and got up to
start some fresh coffee brewing.
Sammy Kendall came running across the
street a couple of hours later, bearing the news that Mr. Davis was
up and demanding lunch. Which, of course, his mother had already
served. He said that Davis was headed up the street to grab a bite
at the café, and if the marshal wanted to see him, Sammy figured
he’d best light a fire under it. All this, Sammy said in one long,
quickly spoken, run-on sentence, with hardly a breath to break it
up.
Actually, it rather took Jason by
surprise. Rafe was long fed and gone to the saloon, and he’d been
sitting there, writing up reports of the past week’s activities.
He’d been smack in the middle of the latest MacDonald false-Apache
attack (riveting reading, that, he wryly thought to himself), when
Sammy burst in and started spewing words like a Daniel Webster
Gatling gun—if there were such a thing.
However, he was glad for the break, if
a little nervous about talking to Davis. But it was time to—what
had his father always said? “Man up,” that was it.
Time to man up,
Jason, he told himself. And he said, “Thanks, Sam. Thanks to
your ma, too,” as he pulled his hat down off the rack and settled
it on his head. “You’ve done your civic duty for the month,” he
added with a wink.
“Marshal?”
“Yeah?” Jason was surprised the boy was
still there.
“Could I follow along and just, you
know, listen to what you say to him?”
Jason felt his brow knit.
“Why?”
Sammy shrugged. “Just curious. About
your profession, I mean.”
Jason thought quick, but he thought
hard, and he finally said, “Sam, I’m honored that you want to learn
more about the law business, but this fellow is a pretty dangerous
sort. Part of being a marshal is knowing when you have to say ‘no,’
and this is one of those times. I’m sorry.”
Sammy looked a little downhearted, but
he mumbled, “Okay. I guess.”
Jason elbowed him in the ribs. “Tell
you all about it later.”
Sammy’s face lit up again, and he
beamed. “That’s great! Thanks!”
“All right,” Jason said. “Get along
back home with you.”
Very quickly, he found himself alone
again, and walked through the front door, which Sammy had left
open. “It’s now or never,” he muttered to himself, and began to
stride up the street to the café.
Sampson Davis had just ordered
something he thought he could eat—the beef stew—although he was
pretty sure the beef wasn’t kosher. Times like these, though, you
had to figure out what was more important: filling your gut or
getting your man. Right now, his stomach was voting for filling his
gut.
He’d been after Rafe Lynch for a long
time—long enough that he could be patient now. At least he’d
learned where Lynch was hanging out—the saloon at the end of the
street. Hell, he hadn’t even known it was there until he overheard
two cowpokes talking about it. He’d thought that Abigail Krimp had
the only action in town.
Well, she sure had the location. When
you came into Fury, it looked like it was all cafés and boarding
houses and general stores and the mercantile, with Abigail’s being
the only source of pleasure in the whole town. That was sure enough
wrong! Down at the other end of town, that was where all the
important stuff happened. And where he’d learned his man, Rafe
Lynch, was staying. Usually. Nobody knew where he was last night.
Or if they knew, they wouldn’t admit it. It made him think that
maybe he shouldn’t have announced his reason for being in Fury in
the first place.
A waiter brought him a plate of beef
stew, complete with a side order of biscuits and honey, and he’d
taken exactly three bites of it—and it was very good—when he looked
up to see Marshal Jason Fury standing opposite him at the
table.
If this upstart of a lawman expected
him to jump or be startled, he was going to be disappointed.
Sampson calmly set down his fork and said, “Howdy-do, Marshal.
Somethin’ I can help you with?”
“Yes, there is,” Jason said flatly.
“Leave town.” He looked like he meant it, too, but Davis wasn’t
easily cowed. He huffed.
“Leave town? Hell, I just got here!
Can’t a man enjoy your little oasis here, when he’s not causin’ any
trouble?”
“That’s just it, Sampson. You intend to
cause trouble, and in a big way. You’ve already announced your
purpose, and I will stop you, no matter what it takes. If you so
much as harm a hair on Rafe Lynch’s head, you’ll face trial, and
very possibly a noose. Got me?”
Well, if this young pup of a lawman was
nervous, he didn’t show it. Sampson would give him that much. But
he’d come here with a purpose, and he had made up his mind that his
purpose was going to be fulfilled. Maybe not today, maybe not
tomorrow, but here, in Fury. He didn’t answer the kid’s last
question. He’d heard threats before. They didn’t scare
him.
He said, “Don’t intend to muss his hair
none.” And then he took another bite of his stew.
“Don’t take this warning lightly,” said
the marshal. “Lynch isn’t wanted in the Arizona Territory. Leave
him alone, and leave town.”
With that, the boy marshal turned on
his heel and exited the café. Sampson noted that all the other
patrons had gone silent, and only when he stared at them did they
pretend they hadn’t been listening, and tried to resume their
former luncheon conversations.
Well, the kid has
balls, Sampson thought. Too bad he has to
die right along with Rafe Lynch.