“God willing.”
“Exactly. And you know that empty lot a couple door downs from the marshal’s office? The plan is to put in there. It’s centrally located so that everybody will have equal access to the water.”
Solomon’s brow wrinkled. “No one owns this lot?”
“Not a soul. Like most of Fury, it’s a land grab.” Salmon laughed at his own joke, but Solomon remained thoughtful.
“And the council members agree to all of this?”
Salmon nodded.
Hunching his shoulders, Solomon raised his palms into the air. “So be it, then.”
“Drink to it?”
Solomon smiled. He felt like having a drink just to celebrate the good news about Sarah, anyway. “So be it,” he announced, and marched over to the drawer where he kept a decanter of red wine, and also a whiskey bottle. He picked up the latter and held it out. Smiling, Salmon smacked his lips.
Solomon poured out two whiskeys. “To all good things which come from God,” he said.
“Imagine the fellers who go up to get the wood’ll have a little problem with that. You know, thinkin’ it’ll all come from courage and muscle and dumb luck. And later, they’ll attribute it to wisdom and foresight and a staggering knowledge of lumbering skills. Perspective’s funny that way. But I’ll drink to the Lord’s help, by God. May He bless this endeavor!”
Solomon raised his glass.
They clinked their glasses together, tossed back their drinks, and grinned.
About a quarter mile outside of town, Ezra Welk crouched on the brushy desert beside his grazing horse and slowly shook his head while absently scratching at his neck. What the hell had happened here, anyway? There hadn’t been a blessed living thing here, aside from the usual snakes and bug-critters, the last time he was through! But now, it seemed like somebody had not only built a good-sized stockade—and chopped down practically every single tree that had once lined the bank of the creek—but had sent to California for a wagon train.
At least, that was what was parked along the stockade’s southern wall. He assumed it was the same wagon train whose path he’d been following for the past few days.
At long last, he stood up and mounted his horse, having decided, after a long internal debate, to go ahead and ride in, to see what the hell was really going on. Just as well, because just as he settled down into the saddle and got his reins adjusted, a big, ugly dog near the wagons spotted him and began to bark. He would have just shot the damned thing, but it was on the end of a rope or something, and the other end looked to be held by a lanky kid.
“Get you later, dawg,” he muttered, and moved his hand away from his holster. For the time being, anyhow.
Ezra Welk didn’t make promises he didn’t keep.
He moved his horse ahead, down the gentle slope, and toward the stockade.
14
Father Clayton got to Jason’s office at roughly the same time Jason did. Fortunately, Jason thought, he’d held it to one beer across the street, and so he was a sober man when the father announced he wished to talk.
“’Bout what?” Jason asked as he ushered the father into the chair opposite his, then sat down himself.
The father smiled. “Your fine neighbors across the street, Dr. and Mrs. Morelli, have seen fit to let me stay under their roof while I peruse your town.”
“And how do we read out?” Jason asked, while he wondered if someone had changed the definition of “perused” while he’d been away.
“Oh,” said the father. He chuckled. “I see. Oh, dear, I just did it again, didn’t I?”
Jason smiled. “Sort of sideways. What’d you want to talk about, Father?”
“The church I intend to build in Fury.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair smugly.
Jason thought,
“Oh, my, yes, indeed it does!” said the father. “By my count it’s over seventy souls, with a number of others with no place to worship.”
If that was a sideways slam at Milcher, Jason supposed it was well-placed. But he figured the town needed something besides a Catholic mission to keep it morally “proper.” Whatever that was. Actually, in his opinion, the town was pretty moral just as it was.
“Gee,” he said flatly. “That many.”
There hadn’t been any question in the way he’d said it, but the father took it as one. He said, “Do you doubt my count, son?”
“Not at all,” Jason said. “And if you don’t mind, I’m not your ‘son.’ And please, just call me Jason.” It made him uncomfortable, plus which, he felt as if it was an insult to his late father. As mixed as his feelings were toward Jedediah’s memory, he wouldn’t stand for that from anyone.
“Very well, then,” said the priest, suddenly mild. It was as if he’d forgotten for a moment that anyone existed outside the Church’s realm, and now he was humbled. Idly, Jason wondered if he was going to perform an act of contrition on the spot. But if he was expecting one, he was disappointed.
