trying to write and looking out the window, checking for any signs of Sampson Davis, Jason was about to rip out his hair. He’d done well with Sampson, he thought. At least, he hadn’t wet himself, which was what he’d felt like doing most of the time he was in the cafe. But he wasn’t at all certain that Davis had taken his warning seriously. In fact, he was pretty sure it had fallen on deaf ears, and that Sampson’s new unspoken intent was to kill not only Rafe, but him, too.
It wasn’t the most comforting thought.
He was about to try to refocus on his paperwork when the door burst in.
“What?” he half-shouted.
It was Ward, and despite his refreshing day’s sleep, he looked like they were going to be wiped out by Apache within the second. Nervously slamming the door behind him, he exclaimed, “Another one! We got us another one and he’s over to the saloon right now!”
“Another what?” Jason said, rising from his chair. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“We got another one, I tell you! Wash Keogh just sent word. He’s been down at the saloon all day, and he says that the man just come in, askin’ about Rafe Lynch! Well, come on, Jason! We gotta get over there. Now!”
“All right, all right,” Jason muttered, thinking that if Wash had been at the saloon all day, he was likely to be seeing elephants riding duck-billed platypuses. As they hurried across the street, he asked once more, “We’ve got another
“Gunfighter!” Ward threw a glance at him that told him Ward thought that was the single most stupid question he’d heard in a long time. “Teddy Gunderson, from over California way. He’s a bounty hunter,” he added, only slightly more patiently.
“Says Wash.” Jason was still dubious.
They stepped up onto the boardwalk outside the saloon.
“Says Wash! Come on.” Ward pushed open the batwing doors and led the way in.
Jason spotted Wash first, and made his way over to his table. “Mind sharin’?” he asked. Wash nodded, and Jason sat down, followed directly by his deputy.
“So, what’s goin’ on, Wash?” Jason asked, pushing back his hat and crossing his arms on the table.
“Thought Ward was gonna tell you,” Wash slurred, then turned his head toward Ward. “Sammy get you the message?”
“Yeah. Guess the marshal wants to hear it all over again, firsthand,” Ward said disgustedly.
“That’s enough, Ward,” Jason said. “Tell me, Wash.”
“Well, you’re too late, anyways,” Wash said. “He up and left ’bout fifteen minutes ago. He kept pumpin’ Sam for information and Sam wouldn’t give him none, so—”
“What do you gents want to drink?” asked a pretty girl in a low-cut red dress.
“Nothin’,” said Ward, and Jason echoed him.
But Wash said, “’Nother boilermaker, Ruby.”
She winked at him, said, “Sure thing, Wash,” turned on her heel, and wended her way back to the bar.
Jason said, “You seen Rafe, Wash?”
“Nope, not since he come in. Went straight to his room and ain’t stuck his head out since.” He pointed to his eye and missed. “Been watchin’ his door.”
Jason glanced up at the row of doors strategically placed along an open, second-floor hallway that was barricaded only by a wooden rail along its outside, with a staircase at either end. It was usually used by the girls and their customers, but Sam occasionally let rooms out to special guests.
Rafe, it seemed, qualified.
Jason said, “And what about this Teddy . . .”
“Gunderson,” said Ward.
“Thanks. Any idea on his story, Wash?”
“Nope, but I can tell you what he looks like. Six feet, mayhap a tad over. Narrow build, kinda lanky. Got kinda sandy-colored hair, mustache but no beard. Youngish. But then, everybody seems young to me these days.” His boilermaker arrived, and he thanked the waitress before he turned back to Jason. “Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah. Youngish. Good lookin’, I s’pose. The gals in here were gaga over him, anyways. And that’s all I know.” With that, he picked up his shot glass, dropped the liquor ceremoniously into his beer mug, and chugged half of it down in one long gulp.
Jason leaned back in his chair, and a hint of a smile crept over his face. “Wonder if he’s stayin’ up at the boardinghouse?” Maybe he and Sampson Davis would kill each other! It sure beat the other alternatives, which were one of them killing him, or vice versa.
Neither one was very pleasant to think about.
Father Micah Clayton was inside the town that afternoon, visiting families of the faith, and taking confessions. He was amazed at the number of Catholics in Fury, as well as their long lists of sins to confess. It seemed that a priest had never visited there before, and so the lists of sins went back five or six years. Sometimes longer.
He was startled at their creativity, too. In fact, there were several occasions when he had felt the need to hide his face during confession, lest he break out in laughter. The things some children—and parents!—thought were sins!
Of course, there were serious incidents, too: enough Catholics and enough sins to make him believe that Fury wasn’t just in need of the occasional ministering touch that would be provided by a traveling Father or Brother. No, they needed a church, to whose bells they could harken, and where they could find a priest, day or night, to comfort and instruct them in time of need.
