A Town Called Fury

Also, he understood that there was competition in the form of the Reverend Milcher, from whose church he now stood across the street, and who he also understood was in trouble. It seemed that the reverend—who several people had confided in him was not ordained, but only a layman—was losing his flock. Or had already lost it, according to who was doing the talking at the moment.

Fury needed a church, and God was sending him signs that he was to build it. Father Micah didn’t know if the Lord would call on him to tend its flock forever, or just until a new priest came, but he was to do the building of it.

He didn’t imagine he could pull off something grand, like the Spanish had erected all over Mexico and the southwestern United States, but God didn’t mind. All he need was a building to shelter the faithful while they prayed and listened and took communion. And donated, he thought, somewhat selfishly. He was one to freely pass the plate when it came to donations. The church would cost money to build, and he had to live, didn’t he? Christ, Himself, would have understood his dedication to the wine decanter.

No, the good folks of Fury could support him while he lent them the spiritual grace and comfort they pined for. Now all he had to do was find a proper place to erect his church.

His church. He liked the sound of that.

And the second he realized what he was thinking, he rammed his fist against the adobe-coated post next to him.

Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me, Micah, the voice in his head boomed, putting him in his place. He scowled before he examined his bleeding knuckles.Especially not thyself.

He went back to his Conestoga and said five Hail Marys and three Our Fathers—much as many of those whose confessions he’d heard today were doing—and petitioned the Lord to grant him humility.

That afternoon, at about four o’clock, another rider was approaching Fury. He was a big man—tall and stocky, but not fat—with dark brown hair under his battered hat, a clean-shaven face, and a deputy U.S. marshal’s badge pinned on his worn leather vest. He rode a blue roan gelding, the same one that had hauled him over half the territory for the past few years, and which he wholeheartedly hoped would last another few. The horse’s name was Boy, and the man was U.S. Deputy Marshal Abraham Todd, down from Prescott.

He scouted the landscape ahead of him, which included not only the fortresslike town walls, but what looked to be a wagon train parked outside its southern perimeter. The wagons were calm, although there were people moving around, and the horses had been unhitched and placed in a corral closer to him, opposite the open doors of the wall.

He gave a close look to the lead wagon and wondered if anyone he knew was leading it. Probably not. These days, the West was somewhere a lot of people wanted to go. The Lord only knew why.

He reached the gate, tipped his hat to two ladies walking back in from the wagons—both carrying bundles—and asked where the sheriff’s office was. They looked at him oddly, but a voice from behind him said, “Just down the street, sir.”

He twisted to see a comely woman, standing outside in front of the schoolhouse. She pointed east, down the main street. She had dark hair, pulled back into a bun, and wore a deep blue dress, and he was taken with her right away.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said in a gruff voice (that most people found kindly, rather than abrasive), nodded, and moved Boy on down the street.

He’d gone about a block’s worth when he had to smile and chuckle. They musta knowed I was comin’, he thought when he saw the sign on the building up ahead. The sign read MARSHAL’S OFFICE.

He reined the roan into the rail outside, dismounted, banged his hat on his leg a couple of times, and opened the door.

Nobody was there, so he figured the “marshal” was off on rounds or something. He went back outside, leaned against the rail, and rolled himself a smoke.

He could wait. He had time.

A few moments later, Jason and Ward exited the saloon with Wash Keogh propped between them. He had finally drunk himself into a stupor, and Ward had volunteered to put him up for the night if Jason would help carry.

Ward didn’t have to ask him twice.

However, they were only two steps outside the saloon when Ward stopped suddenly, yanking on Wash and nearly pulling Jason, on the other side, to the ground.

As Jason managed to get back his balance, Ward said, “Who’s that?”

Jason looked up. “Where?” he asked before his eye stopped on the tall man standing in front of his office, having a smoke next to a blue roan horse. “In front of the office?” he asked before Ward had the time to answer him.

The late afternoon sun glinted off something metal on the man’s chest.

“Is this our man from Prescott?” Excitedly, Jason began to walk across the street, hauling Wash and Ward along with him. He surely hoped so. This thing he was dealing with could go off any second, he figured. At least he still knew where Rafe was holed up, but he was clueless as far as Teddy Gunderson’s whereabouts. He just kept telling himself that Sampson Davis and Gunderson would cancel each other out.

He fervently hoped so, anyhow.

When they had crossed the street, dragging Wash between them, Jason went right up to the stranger and stuck out his hand. “Jason Fury, Marshal. Pleased to meet you.”

The marshal took his hand and gave it a shake. “Howdy, Fury. I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Todd. Your letter sounded urgent.”

“And I’m Deputy Ward Wanamaker,” Ward interjected, sticking out his right hand, which was the only one not holding up the drunken prospector.

Marshal Todd took it and shook.