A Town Called Fury

It wasn’t much of a guest room, he supposed, being only eight feet by ten and without a bureau, but there was a cot and a chamber pot, and nobody had complained yet about the marshal’s hospitality.

Which reminded him: Was he now supposed to take on the title of sheriff, and repaint the sign and remold the badge?

The next morning, as he sat behind his desk, Jason was still considering this. Ward, who had gone on home after a quiet night, took a complaining Wash Keogh along with him. He’d decided not to chance the ten minutes he’d miss watching the saloon by simply walking Wash back to his lodgings, and so Wash had spent the night snoozing, as an unofficial prisoner.

It looked to Jason as if they weren’t going to get much help out of Wash, if he was half as angry with Ward as he put on. Then again, you never could tell with him. Jason was a pretty fair hand at reading folks, and he could tell that Wash was withholding something or other from them, but he wasn’t going to press him. Not right now, anyway.

He had left the house before Abe was up, figuring that the man had spent a long day on a hot and dusty trail the day before, and could probably use the extra sleep. But later today, when Abe came into the office, they were going to have a serious discussion about their plans for Davis and Gunderson.

He slid a quick glance across the street, but saw nothing, as usual: a fact which should have comforted him, but which only filled him with additional dread. He knew they had to be dealt with—and the sooner the better—but he wasn’t looking forward to it in the slightest. He had a feeling that whatever action they decided on, the reaction to it was going to end up messy. And that was an understatement. He worried about Ward and he worried about Wash and now Abe, too. And mostly, he worried about himself—not whether he’d die, that being a distinct possibility, but whether he would acquit himself in a manner that would do honor to his father’s name.

Oh, all right, and whether he’d be forever done with the chance to go to school, back East. That chance was slipping further away every day.

Halfway through the morning, before Abe had checked in at the marshal’s office, Teddy Gunderson was waiting in the alley next to the Milchers’ church, practicing his fast draw.

That was pretty damned fast, he told himself when he outdrew the shaggy dog that crossed the alley’s mouth. And I ain’t bein’ cocky about that, neither.

A man in his profession had to be both fast and accurate, if he wanted to survive. And he had a lot to survive for. That great big bounty on Lynch was going to be the end of his career as a gun, and the beginning of his career as . . . Theodore Gunderson, San Francisco Brahmin. He had started to think about it yesterday, and at first, it had been just in fun. But then he got to kind of liking the idea.

He could picture himself groomed up slick in a silk suit, real fancy, smoking an expensive cigar in one of those big mansions, at one of those big, high-tone parties up on Nob Hill. He figured he had everything but the money. And it was just down the street, at the saloon.

He’d known that lousy bartender was lying to him. He’d figured all along that Lynch was upstairs. But he was too smart to go barging up there and banging on doors, especially with what looked like the town lawman sitting right there at one of the barroom tables.

No, he’d decided to wait for Lynch to cross his path, and then he’d just wing him, put him a little bit out of commission. And then they’d ride back over the Colorado River, to California.

Teddy Gunderson had it all figured out, all right. A desert sparrow suddenly fluttered down from the roof, and he drew on it, too.

Damn fast, he thought smugly. If he had pulled the trigger this morning, he’d have killed four sparrows, two doves, one pack rat, three quails, and the ugliest dog he’d ever seen. It would have been a high body count.

Inside the church, the Reverend Milcher saw the flutter of wings and glanced up at the movement. He glimpsed the man he would later learn was Teddy as he pulled his gun on the bird, and wondered who in creation was out there, pretending to shoot sparrows.

He walked closer to the window for a better look.

Outside, Teddy holstered his sidearm once again. He was keenly attuned to the rustles and stirs which might be made by a potential target. A daring strike made by a finch, perhaps. Or maybe that really ugly dog would come by again.

Deputy U. S. Marshal Abe Todd had left Jason’s house, and was walking up the street toward the Cohens’ Mercantile. He was in a good mood, having been left to sleep in, and having partaken of some of the best of Jenny’s kitchen—in unexpectedly large quantities.

He was just turning the corner to walk down the main street when it happened, he later said. He heard the hum of men conversing coming from across the street, and turned to see a Catholic priest talking with a man carrying a doctor’s bag as they walked up toward his direction.

It was then that he saw the movement in the alley: He saw a man fitting Teddy Gunderson’s description, saw him quick-draw his rig and aim it toward the men, and he shouted, “Down, Father!” in that gruff voice turned up to a full roar volume.

He got the Father’s attention immediately, and the man took in the situation. With remarkable speed, he threw out his arm and pushed his companion clear of the alley’s mouth and followed him down as Marshal Todd fired upon the gunman back in the alley.

The man fell as suddenly and surely as the two living targets had thrown themselves on the ground, and Todd made his way across the street. When he got to the two men, he said, “You fellas all right?”

The priest, who introduced himself as Father Micah Clayton, helped the other man—a Dr. Morelli—to his feet. Both agreed they were all right, but rattled.

“Who was it?” asked Dr. Morelli, picking up his bag. “Is he wounded?” He followed Marshall Todd into the alley and quickly hunched down to the body.

“Dunno. Hope he’s dead,” Marshal Todd said in a voice divorced from emotion.

While Morelli fussed over the body, the priest reminded Todd that he was there. He asked, “Was he . . . is he Catholic?”

Todd said, “Don’t think it matters much now, Father,” and finally holstered his gun. Even the doctor’s ministrations weren’t going to perform a miracle, and he doubted that the priest was going to cause Teddy to rise from the dead.

Morelli said, “I’m afraid he’s gone.” Slowly, he got to his feet, and then looked up at Todd. “Who in tarnation was he, anyhow? And come to think of it, who are you?”

Abe Todd was on the verge of saying, “The man who just saved your necks,” when Jason came running up the