Jason, hurriedly dressed, left the house and took the back way—which was rapidly becoming an alley—over to the marshal’s office, and burst through the back door. “Salmon!” he called, “Salmon, we’ve gotta keep Sampson Davis from findin’—”
He burst through the second door. And found Mayor Kendall sitting at his desk with his legs up, and across from him, calmly smoking a cigarette, sat Rafe Lynch, slouched in a chair.
“Rafe Lynch,” Jason finished lamely.
“Sampson Davis on the hunt for him?” asked Salmon Kendall, much too calmly.
Jason nodded. “Actively.”
Salmon stretched his arms. “Yeah, we saw him walk past the window ’bout a half hour ago. Went into the saloon.”
“Probably still in there, givin’ those fellas a hard time,” Rafe added.
Salmon nodded. “Probably. If he gives ’em as hard a time as Matthew did, he’s liable to find himself tarred and feathered.”
Rafe broke out in a laugh.
Jason scratched at his chin, thinking. Finally, he said, “I got an idea—for tonight, anyway—but I doubt you’re gonna like it too much, Rafe.”
Both Rafe and Salmon, who seemed to have taken quite a liking to Rafe, waited with heads tilted and curious expressions.
Jason forged ahead. “Rafe, tonight I talked to Solomon Cohen. He tells me that Davis may be closer than we thought to bushwhacking you. I think you ought’a spend the night right here, in the jail.” Leaning back against the wall, he folded his arms, prepared for the verbal onslaught he was about to take.
But much to his surprise, Rafe said, “You got yourself a smart marshal there, Mayor.”
Salmon nodded. “Good idea, Jason.”
Well, either he’d gone crazy or everybody else had. He’d expected a pitched fit from Rafe and some solid objections from Salmon, but not this. Well, praise the Lord for like minds finally thinking alike! He said, “Salmon, you can go on home, now. I’ll hold the fort tonight.”
“Where’s Ward, anyway? You didn’t say.”
“Oh, he got this harebrained idea that the only thing that was gonna save the town was ol’ Wash Keogh. Rode out to his claim to find him.”
Salmon nodded while he pulled his long legs down off Jason’s desk. “Well, I wish he’d hurry and dig him up. Or else come on back alone. Feel better when you got someone to back you up.”
Jason almost said he did, almost indicated Rafe, but stopped himself just in time. Despite all the evidence so far to the contrary, he still couldn’t bring himself to trust Rafe all the way, still couldn’t admit to liking the man. It was odd, because Rafe had done nothing in town that he could even vaguely suspect as being illegal. He was funny and bright, and agreed with Jason about Matt MacDonald, which, especially, went a long way in his favor. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to pardon Rafe for all those killings. The taking of any human life was too great a thing, too important, to take lightly, or worse, ignore. Especially for a lawman, which was what Jason, despite all his protests and attempts to the contrary, was becoming.
“Don’t worry, Salmon,” he said, standing. As he walked Salmon to the door, he said, “I’ll be fine. Don’t give it a second thought.”
“How about a third thought? I’m thinking this will make a great story for the weekly!” Salmon said, referring to the
“Maybe,” said Jason, shaking his head. “We’ll have to wait till the end of the week to see what happens.”
Behind them, from his chair, Rafe said, “Hope the story don’t end in my obituary.”
“Yeah, sure,” Jason scoffed as he closed the door behind Salmon. “As if anything is gonna happen in Fury, of all places!” Actually, it was the perfect place for trouble, but he wasn’t going to let Rafe know that. And he especially wasn’t going to let it slip to Sampson Davis!
“Sure, you say that now,” mused Rafe. “Way I see it, a town called Fury is just askin’ for whatever trouble it can suck in. Benevolent: now that’s a name for a town. Or Peaceful. Like that.” And then, after a pause, he said, “Don’t be lookin’ at me like I’m full’a sheep dip, Jason. I’m older’n you. I’ve been places and seen things.”
Unaware that he was making any expression at all, Jason said, “Like what, for example?”
“I been to war, for one thing. You were probably too young. I fought for the North. A Johnny Blue-Coat, that was me. I seen men dyin’ right and left, seen ’em cut up by butcherin’ sawbones, seen ’em left to die when even the sawbones wouldn’t carve ’em up. Seen the look on the faces of the defeated, seen ’em rounded up like cattle, seen ’em all dressed in rags with those hollow eyes and missin’ arms and legs or an eye, sometimes all three. Weren’t pretty.”
Jason wanted to say that his older brother had been in the fight, too, but that wasn’t like saying you’d been there yourself. He took the wiser path and kept his mouth shut.
Rafe asked, “You want I should keep goin’, or you got my point?”
Jason shook his head. “I got the point. But don’t see what that has to do with the names of towns.”
Rafe just shook his head, then stood up. “Let’s see. Cell number one or cell number two?” He looked back at Jason, who shrugged.
“Cell number one, then,” Rafe said, and swung open the door. “And without further goin’ on, I bid you good night, Jason.” He walked as far in as the bunk, then turned round. “Say, you got any whiskey in the place?”
Jason, who was sitting behind his desk by this time, pulled open a bottom drawer and lifted out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
