A Town Called Fury

But then, he figured Jason’d be so tickled that he’d got rid of MacDonald’s rider that he wouldn’t mind, and so he signaled the serving gal and indicated a beer.

“That was right masterful,” he said to Abe.

“Nothin’ but the truth.” Abe leaned farther back in his chair, and for a second, Ward thought he was going to go to sleep. But when the barmaid brought Ward’s beer, Abe sat up and said, “One more round, honey.”

“That kid’s gonna be in a peck’a trouble when he gets back to the ranch alone,” Ward said, sipping his beer gratefully. It tasted good. “Matt MacDonald ain’t somebody you want to cross.”

Abe picked up his shot glass. “Not my problem,” he said, and drank half of it down. “The U.S. Marshal’s office ain’t for babysittin’.”

Ward nodded. The marshal’s office must be for getting drunk instead, he thought, then wiped the idea from his mind. He wasn’t there to judge Abe Todd. He was there to have a beer. He took another sip.

He wondered what Jason would have done, though.

Jason, relieved to be off-duty, finished a good dinner, then went out to the porch to smoke. He was halfway through his cigarette when Jenny came out.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting down in the chair beside him like a bag of bricks.

“Nothing.” He turned toward her. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t say two words during dinner, or when you came into the house. Something’s eating at you, Jason. Anybody could see that.”

“It’s just . . . sometimes I wish I wasn’t marshal. Sometimes I wish we hadn’t come west at all.”

“Why? I like it here!”

“I know you do, Jenny. And to tell you the truth, that’s the only reason I’m still here.” And it was the truth, he just realized. Epiphanies could be curious things, and this one fell on him like a keg filled with nails. He wanted to weep.

“For me? Jason, you don’t need to stay for me. I’m fine!”

He took a drag on his smoke, then stubbed it out. “You wouldn’t be so fine if the Apache attacked again. Or if you married that jerk, MacDonald. Or if you—”

“Stop it!” She slouched back in her chair, hard. “You can stop listing things.”

Jason pulled out his fixings bag again and muttered, “That’s what you think.”

She stared at him through the darkness. He wasn’t going to find any comfort here tonight. He stood up.

“Where you going?”

Fixings bag dangling from his fingers, he said, “To the saloon. I feel like a drink.”

Jason didn’t know how he felt, truth be told.

He guessed it all had to do with the people and the situation concerned. But he was shaken up, no doubt about it. He wished he could just wave his hand and permanently get rid of Davis and Lynch and Todd and the town fathers and the whole world, and go happily back East. He’d force Jenny to go with him, that’s what he’d do. He’d bind and gag her until they got east of the Missouri or maybe even the Mississippi! Maybe by then she wouldn’t want to yell at him so much. Maybe she’d feel home calling to her, too.

He realized he’d stopped walking, and was leaning against the rail out front of Solomon’s Mercantile, and suddenly, he wondered about the baby. The lights were on in an upstairs window, and he heard, just faintly, the sound of Solomon laughing. Jason allowed himself a small smile. The baby must be some better, then.

But even that implied good news couldn’t cheer him up. He just felt . . . itchy. Like something bad was going to happen, something he didn’t have any control over, and he didn’t like it. He was used to having control over most things that mattered, but not the thing that was coming. Whatever it was.

He rolled himself a smoke and started on down the street, lighting his cigarette as he walked. The smoke tasted more brittle than usual, oddly dirty, and he almost put it out, but by then he was on the walk outside the saloon. “Aw, screw it,” he muttered, and pushed his way inside.

The first thing he did was check the place that Davis had staked out earlier, and sure enough, he was still there, still tossing back his rotgut like there wasn’t enough in the world to get him drunk, wasn’t enough to even make him stagger a little. And then from his right, he heard, “Jason!” and looked over to see Ward and Abe slouched at a table quite near him. He walked on over.

Abe was there, looking a little drunk, and Ward was with him, nursing a beer and not impaired in the slightest, his hand still raised in a wave. He guessed he couldn’t ride Ward about the beer. He’d had one himself today, and intended to have a few more tonight. “Wash go on home?”

Ward said, “To my house, yeah. And I guess you heard, though I can’t figure how. Did you come on down to celebrate with us?”

Jason wended his way over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Heard what?”

“About MacDonald, of course!” said Ward.

“What about him?”

Ward went on to explain the evening’s excitement in great detail, and finished up by including Abe’s response to the situation. Abe, on the other hand, spent the entire time staring over toward Davis’s table.

For a moment, Jason aped him. Davis was still sitting there, drinking, and not much else. Jason glanced up toward the second floor, saw that Rafe’s door was still closed, and quickly looked away in case Davis had seen him.

His attention returned to the table before him, where Ward was nearly collapsed in laughter. Jason said, “Well, I guess whatever works, works.”