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!
