A Town Called Fury

he swung the chair around and sat on it backwards. And he said it again, when he took the first huge bite of his chicken sandwich.

Jason just shook his head and got up to start some fresh coffee brewing.

Sammy Kendall came running across the street a couple of hours later, bearing the news that Mr. Davis was up and demanding lunch. Which, of course, his mother had already served. He said that Davis was headed up the street to grab a bite at the cafe, and if the marshal wanted to see him, Sammy figured he’d best light a fire under it. All this, Sammy said in one long, quickly spoken, run-on sentence, with hardly a breath to break it up.

Actually, it rather took Jason by surprise. Rafe was long fed and gone to the saloon, and he’d been sitting there, writing up reports of the past week’s activities. He’d been smack in the middle of the latest MacDonald false-Apache attack (riveting reading, that, he wryly thought to himself), when Sammy burst in and started spewing words like a Daniel Webster Gatling gun—if there were such a thing.

However, he was glad for the break, if a little nervous about talking to Davis. But it was time to—what had his father always said? “Man up,” that was it.

Time to man up, Jason, he told himself. And he said, “Thanks, Sam. Thanks to your ma, too,” as he pulled his hat down off the rack and settled it on his head. “You’ve done your civic duty for the month,” he added with a wink.

“Marshal?”

“Yeah?” Jason was surprised the boy was still there.

“Could I follow along and just, you know, listen to what you say to him?”

Jason felt his brow knit. “Why?”

Sammy shrugged. “Just curious. About your profession, I mean.”

Jason thought quick, but he thought hard, and he finally said, “Sam, I’m honored that you want to learn more about the law business, but this fellow is a pretty dangerous sort. Part of being a marshal is knowing when you have to say ‘no,’ and this is one of those times. I’m sorry.”

Sammy looked a little downhearted, but he mumbled, “Okay. I guess.”

Jason elbowed him in the ribs. “Tell you all about it later.”

Sammy’s face lit up again, and he beamed. “That’s great! Thanks!”

“All right,” Jason said. “Get along back home with you.”

Very quickly, he found himself alone again, and walked through the front door, which Sammy had left open. “It’s now or never,” he muttered to himself, and began to stride up the street to the cafe.

Sampson Davis had just ordered something he thought he could eat—the beef stew—although he was pretty sure the beef wasn’t kosher. Times like these, though, you had to figure out what was more important: filling your gut or getting your man. Right now, his stomach was voting for filling his gut.

He’d been after Rafe Lynch for a long time—long enough that he could be patient now. At least he’d learned where Lynch was hanging out—the saloon at the end of the street. Hell, he hadn’t even known it was there until he overheard two cowpokes talking about it. He’d thought that Abigail Krimp had the only action in town.

Well, she sure had the location. When you came into Fury, it looked like it was all cafes and boarding houses and general stores and the mercantile, with Abigail’s being the only source of pleasure in the whole town. That was sure enough wrong! Down at the other end of town, that was where all the important stuff happened. And where he’d learned his man, Rafe Lynch, was staying. Usually. Nobody knew where he was last night. Or if they knew, they wouldn’t admit it. It made him think that maybe he shouldn’t have announced his reason for being in Fury in the first place.

A waiter brought him a plate of beef stew, complete with a side order of biscuits and honey, and he’d taken exactly three bites of it—and it was very good—when he looked up to see Marshal Jason Fury standing opposite him at the table.

If this upstart of a lawman expected him to jump or be startled, he was going to be disappointed. Sampson calmly set down his fork and said, “Howdy-do, Marshal. Somethin’ I can help you with?”

“Yes, there is,” Jason said flatly. “Leave town.” He looked like he meant it, too, but Davis wasn’t easily cowed. He huffed.

“Leave town? Hell, I just got here! Can’t a man enjoy your little oasis here, when he’s not causin’ any trouble?”

“That’s just it, Sampson. You intend to cause trouble, and in a big way. You’ve already announced your purpose, and I will stop you, no matter what it takes. If you so much as harm a hair on Rafe Lynch’s head, you’ll face trial, and very possibly a noose. Got me?”

Well, if this young pup of a lawman was nervous, he didn’t show it. Sampson would give him that much. But he’d come here with a purpose, and he had made up his mind that his purpose was going to be fulfilled. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but here, in Fury. He didn’t answer the kid’s last question. He’d heard threats before. They didn’t scare him.

He said, “Don’t intend to muss his hair none.” And then he took another bite of his stew.

“Don’t take this warning lightly,” said the marshal. “Lynch isn’t wanted in the Arizona Territory. Leave him alone, and leave town.”

With that, the boy marshal turned on his heel and exited the cafe. Sampson noted that all the other patrons had gone silent, and only when he stared at them did they pretend they hadn’t been listening, and tried to resume their former luncheon conversations.

Well, the kid has balls, Sampson thought. Too bad he has to die right along with Rafe Lynch.

11

After what seemed an endless afternoon of switching his attention back and forth between the reports he was