rainwater. He could have done it. There was some canvas to trap it in.
But the canvas had gone unused, and now he was running low. He figured that maybe he could stay put for the rest of the day and part of tomorrow. There were plenty of barrel cactus between him and town, and he could always raid a couple of those if he got desperate. Of course, he’d have to be pretty damned desperate to do that. Water from a barrel cactus tasted like, well, like water from a barrel cactus. Unconsciously, he made a face.
He stared at his canteen for a long minute before he lifted it to his lips once more and took another drink. And then he stoppered it and slung it back over his shoulder, standing up slowly.
“All right, gold. You’d best quit hidin’ from me. This here’s Wash Keogh, and I means it!” he half-shouted at the desert, before he took a deep breath and started off again, his diligent eyes to the ground.
In his office, Jason was struggling with a letter to the U.S. Marshal’s office up in Prescott.
He still didn’t know what to do with Rafe Lynch, who was still in town, and whose presence he thought the Territorial Marshal should be aware of. At least, he’d want to know if he were the Territorial Marshal.
He wrote that down, then reread it, balled the paper in his hands, and pitched it into the wastebasket. It joined roughly twenty other crumpled pieces of paper, his whole afternoon’s work. Every letter he had started to write had turned into what sounded to him like begging. Or worse, whining. He didn’t think that was a very professional way to contact the marshal’s office, but he couldn’t keep the fear out of his writing.
He had just taken a new piece of paper and written the salutation, when the office door banged open and Ward burst in. Startled, Jason looked up.
“They’re comin’ in!” Ward said, and his excitement was plain.
“Who’s comin’ in?”
“It’s a whole new wagon train, with goods to sell and folks wantin’ to buy stuff!”
Ward was right to be excited. A wagon train always brought good news to Fury, in the form of new settlers and fresh trade. Jason smiled for the first time that afternoon. The day wasn’t a total loss, after all.
Ward leaned across the desk and jerked Jason’s sleeve. “C’mon! They’re pullin’ up now, and you gotta make a whatchacallit. An official presence or somethin’.”
Jason put his pen down and stood up. Whatever would take him away from this blasted letter was something to celebrate, he supposed.
They walked up the street, then down to the south gate, which Ward had already opened. Sure enough, wagons were pulling into place and lining up outside, all down the south wall. The people in the front, who had already set their brakes and climbed down from their seats, were coming forward to glad-hand him. The first among them was the wagon master, who introduced himself as Riley Havens.
Jason made a quick assessment as they shook hands. Havens was sandy haired and tanned, and about thirty or so, he guessed. He had brown eyes and a tan line across his forehead (which Jason glimpsed when Havens doffed his hat to a passing lady), the latter of which denoted a fellow who worked outside in the sun for a living. He took a quick liking to the man, who said, “Pleased to meet y’all. You fellas, you just call me Riley, okay?”
“All right, Riley,” Jason replied. “I’m Jason, and welcome to Fury. Lookin’ for anythin’ special, or are you folks just glad for a place to camp near what we laughingly call ‘civilization’?”
Riley laughed. He said, “Both, I reckon. We’re in need of canvas. That big storm the other day yanked the tops clean off’a couple a wagons. Reckon they’re in the Pacific by now. And we’re in need of a wheelwright and an axle man, if you got one.”
Jason rubbed at his chin before he said, “Reckon we used up most of the canvas already, but there might be a couple of wagon covers tucked away someplace. And as for your wheel and axle man, we’ve got one who’d be happy for the business.”
Ward, beside him, nodded happily. “Yessir, we sure do! Jason, you want I should ride out to the Morton place and get Milton Griggs?”
“Tomorrow morning’ll be soon enough, Ward,” Jason said. Behind him, in the stockade, he could hear the town waking from its siesta, rattling its shutters and dusting off the welcome mats. “In the meantime, Riley, y’all c’mon in and grab yourself a drink. Water, whiskey, beer, whatever you want!”
He was about to take his leave of Riley and go back to face the letter, when a big, burly man, stepped up. “You the sheriff?” he asked in a bark.
“Yeah,” said Jason. “What of it?” He noticed that Riley had taken a step back.
“I’m lookin’ for somebody. Rafe Lynch is his name. The sonofabitch in town?”
Jason didn’t like the looks of him, and stalled a little. “Might I ask who’s wantin’ to know?”
“I’m Sampson Davis, and I’m here to kill the rat bastard.”
Even down the street, walking back toward the safety of the office, Jason and Ward spoke in guarded tones. It was one thing to have a killer in town, but another entirely to have two of them!
“Look, that Sampson guy, he’s sayin’ right out that he’s gonna kill Lynch, but Lynch ain’t done a dang thing wrong here in Fury,” Ward was saying.
“And if he kills him in Fury, he’ll hang for murder, just like anybody else would.”
“Take a mighty stout rope to hang a big, muscled-up fella like that, Jason,” Ward mused.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Ward,” Jason said, and opened the door to his office. They both stepped inside, and ran smack into Rafe Lynch.
Jason had been wanting to talk to him, but he would rather have been the one to pick the time and place. He had only glimpsed Lynch in person, and seen his poster, and now he decided that the poster hadn’t done him justice. No wonder Jenny was so taken with him.
