A Town Called Fury

racehorse.

A little side trip to the alley set that right, and then he was off to the saloon.

Riding slow and taking his time, Ezra Welk, long dry from his ride across the river, continued to follow the wagon train’s trail. Except now his keen tracker’s eye had picked up a new rider, one who had more recently followed in the wagons’ path.

Wherever these wagons were goin’ is sure a popular place, he thought. And then he thought long and hard about avoiding it. After all, he was still wanted in the territory for killing that blacksmith . . . Jacobs had been his name, he thought. Well, it’d served the bum right for shoeing his horse off-kilter like that. Cost him the horse, in fact! Old Berry fell and busted his leg—dang near busted Ezra’s, too—not a day out of that piddling little town, and Ezra had to shoot him.

Maybe he should’ve held off on killing Jacobs, he thought angrily. Maybe he should’ve let him carry all of Berry’s tack and gear four days through the desert to the next town. And then shot him. Ezra’s mouth quirked up into an unconscious smile.

But then, he thought, he’d never heard of a town being out this way. How old could it be, anyway? Hell, it might be nothing more than a stage stop. And stage stops didn’t have sheriffs, but they almost always had whiskey. And sometimes, they had women. Still smiling, Ezra kept on following the wagons’ path, and the path that another rider had followed before him.

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?”