“Jason Fury, you are my savior,” Rafe said, and took no extra time getting back across the room and sitting down opposite Jason. He took the glass Jason had poured out for him, and took a slug of it before he said, “Now, if you had a deck of cards hangin’ around, my life would be complete.”
Grinning, Jason reached into the same drawer and pulled out a deck of playing cards, bound up in one of Ward’s broken shoestrings. “Play for matches?” he asked as he untied the deck and began to shuffle.
“Hell, at this point I’d play for imaginary penguins!”
Jason laughed, then began to deal. “Five card draw okay by you?”
“Perfect,” said Rafe.
Southeast of town, in the starlit dark of the desert foothills, Ward Wanamaker was camped near a stand of prickly pear cactus.
After giving up for the day, he had made a small fire, cooked himself a rabbit, and now he drank the coffee he’d been brewing. He only had tomorrow left to look, because he was about to run out of water, even with rationing.
Where in the hell could Wash be? He’d looked everywhere he could think of, and a few other places, too, but no Wash. He’d found his campsite—recently used but completely vacant—and came to the conclusion that either he’d moved, or he’d gone back to town. He was beginning to think he’d gone back to town, because he sure as hell wasn’t here. He’d followed the various tracks and trails Wash had made through the brush, and some of them led pretty damned far, too. But in the end, they always ended up back at the nowdeserted campsite.
Over his coffee, he suddenly shouted, “Blast your hide, Wash Keogh! Where’d you get to, anyway?”
And then, in the distance, came a thin cry. “I’m right here, you blamed idiot!”
Ward stood up, spilling his coffee. He looked out onto the dark distance and called, “Wash! Wash Keogh! That you?”
“Well, it ain’t U. S. Grant, that’s for blamed sure.” The call came from closer by, this time. “You got coffee?”
“Yeah!” Ward answered excitedly. It was Wash. Wash was coming, and now they could go back to the relative safety of Fury. “Yeah, I do! Got a bite of rabbit left, too!”
“Well, you don’t need to shout, Ward,” came Wash’s voice, surprisingly close.
Ward whirled to his left, his hand automatically going to his gun. But it never even left the holster, for into the firelight stepped Wash Keogh, himself, leading his horse and looking beat to a dried-out husk. He said, “You promised coffee.”
“Sure, Wash, sure!” Ward scrambled to pour him out a cup, which Wash took with trembling hands.
He finished the first cup, then a second, then a third, before he thought of his horse. “Holy Christ!” he yelped as he stood up. “You got any horse water?”
Ward went to his gear and pulled free a canvas bag partially filled with water. He opened it as he walked over to Wash, who took off his hat and held it out, upside down.
Ward knew what he wanted, and poured water directly into the hat. Wash offered it to his grateful horse, who drank it down to the bottom. “You’ll hafta wait a bit for more, ol’ girl,” he said, patting her neck, then returning the hat to his head. A bead of leftover water ran down his face and neck.
Ward grinned. “You’re leakin’ a little bit, Wash.”
“Don’t I know it, and don’t I love it!” Wash replied. He went back and sat beside the campfire. “You say somethin’ about rabbit?”
Ward pointed to it, and Wash inhaled it almost before Ward noticed that he’d picked it up. “You got more?” Wash stared at him, grizzled brows raised.
Ward shook his head. “’Fraid not. Sorry.”
Wash waved a hand. “Don’t be sorry. Not your fault I come draggin’ in here in such a pitiful condition. What brings you out this way, anyhow?”
“You.”
Wash’s face screwed up. “Me? Why?”
“We got a gunfighter in town. Rafe Lynch is his name. Heard of him?”
Wash shook his head.
“Well, he’s wanted for killin’ eight folks over in California. And we got another one gunnin’ for him!”
“Whoever said Fury was a quiet little town sure didn’t live there long. . . .”
“Yeah. Now, Jason didn’t send me out here or anythin’, but I thought of you right off. If ever we needed a man who was good with a gun to back us up, it’s now. You game?”
Wash didn’t hesitate. “I’m game, all right! Just lead me to ’em and point ’em out.”
Ward heaved a sigh of relief, held in too long. Surely, with Wash Keogh on board, they could fight off anybody!
The next morning, Solomon didn’t have to make up a story of sickness to get rid of his houseguest. Baby Sarah truly was ill, and when Sampson woke up, Dr. Morelli was there.
“She’s just not thriving, Solomon,” Morelli was saying. “I’m so sorry, Rachael.” She stood at Solomon’s side, weeping, incapable of speech.
“But what is it?” Solomon demanded tearily. “What’s wrong with her? What does she have that could make her so sick, so fast?”
“She’s been sick since she was born, Solomon. I’m afraid it’s her heart.”
“But how? Why?” He struggled to cope with this news, and part of him blamed it on Sampson Davis, the
