A Town Called Fury

Jason nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “She’s turnin’ into a fine cook, all right. Our mother was class A in the kitchen, too. Guess it runs in the family.”

Abe, who was rolling his second smoke, said, “Yup. You come from a strong line, Jason. How old are you, anyway?”

Jason blinked. Nobody had asked his age in years and years. He hesitated a moment, then said, “Twenty-five. Give or take.” He felt downright stupid. He could never remember if you counted from the year you were born, or the next year, when you were one. Look at you, he thought. Some college material!

“That’s awful young to have to run a whole town,” Abe said. He struck a match and lit his smoke.

“Tell me about it,” Jason replied. “I been doin’ it since we got here. All I wanted to do was go back East, to college, but they wouldn’t have it.”

“Who? The citizens?”

“Yeah.”

Abe chuckled softly. “Was that after the first Apache attack?”

Jason felt his brow wrinkle. “How’d you know about that?”

“Word gets ‘round, usually without much care for the details. But I heard stories about some little town where they held off Apache by makin’ a moat outta fire.”

Without enthusiasm—having told the story or listened to somebody else retell it on countless occasions—Jason said, “That was us, all right. We still keep a supply of tar handy, just in case. Get it regular, shipped out from those tar pits in California. The ones outside Los Angeles.”

“Your idea?”

“Yeah.” Jason dug into his pocket for his fixings bag. As he took it out and fiddled with the drawstring, he said, “You can still see some’a the scorch marks out south of town, right along where the wagon train’s parked. We filled the moat back in after a while, but the ground . . .”

“That was a damn fine idea, Jason.”

“Thanks.” He lit his smoke, took a puff, and said, “Desperate times call for desperate measures. Or words to that effect.”

He heard the door opening, and swiveled toward it. It was Jenny, carrying a tray. He stood up to help her, because the tray looked heavy.

“Thank you, Jason,” she said, smiling. “Thought you gents might be thirsty, so I brought you some limeade.”

Jason set the tray down on the small table they kept on the porch. “Limes? Where’d you get limes?” He’d got his hands on a sapling last year and planted it out back, in the corral, but it wasn’t yet big enough to bear fruit.

“The wagon train, silly.” She lifted the pitcher and poured out the first glass, which she handed to Abe. As she poured the second, then the third, she added, “I don’t know where we’d be without the wagon trains that come through. They bring us all sorts of wonderful things!” She handed a glass to Jason, then picked one up herself. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all!” said Abe, and motioned her toward the spare chair. Jason sat down after she did. Abe took a long drink. “Right good, Miss Jenny, right good!”

“Thank you, Marshal Todd,” she said offhandedly. And then, “Jason, will Rafe be all right? Don’t you need to go get him or something?”

Jason slowly shook his head. “He knows about Davis, and I sent a note up about Gunderson. If he’s smart, he’ll just stick to that room of his. And Sam said he’d take meals up. Don’t worry, he’s well looked after.”

“That’s right, Miss Jenny. He stays in that room, he’s dead safe.”

Jenny turned toward Abe. “That’s what I’m worried about. The dead part, that is.”

“Sorry. Guess I put it the wrong way.”

“No, you didn’t, Abe,” Jason said from his chair. “Rafe is gonna be fine. We just have to figure out how to get rid of Davis and Gunderson.”

Jenny pursed her lips and made a face. “Well, Jason, can’t you just throw them out of town? I mean, you’re the marshal!”

“That’s another thing I been meanin’ to talk to you about,” Abe began. “You ain’t a marshal, you know. Technical-like, you’re the sheriff of Fury. Technical speakin’, that is.”

“Only the U.S. Marshals can be marshals?” asked Jason. He’d been suspecting it for years. He took a drag on his smoke and said, hopefully, “This mean I don’t have a job anymore?” before he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Oh, don’t be a fool!” snapped Jenny. She stood up abruptly and announced, “I’m going to bed. Miss Electa Morton wants me in early.” And with that, she simply took her glass of limeade and went into the house.

“Is it just me, or is she getting’ snippy?” Jason muttered, mostly to himself.

But Abraham Todd had sharp ears, it seemed. He said, “She ain’t that bad. Who’s Miss Electa Morton, anyhow?”

Jason turned toward him again. “She’s our schoolmarm. Jenny’s her assistant.”

“Interestin’.”

It is? thought Jason, but made no comment. They sat there for a little while longer, Jason finishing his smoke and limeade while Abe finished off the rest of the pitcher, and then Jason led him into the house and down the back hall to the guest room.