lanterns, and soon they were on the porch and Jason’s knuckles were raised to rap on the wood.
When it opened, he didn’t see Matt. Two ranch hands came out past them before Matt stepped to the fore. He looked as worn out as Jason felt. Jason nodded. “Matt, I’d like you to meet Deputy U.S. Marshal Abe Todd. Abe, this is Matt MacDonald.”
Abe stuck out his hand and Matt took it and shook it enthusiastically. “Finally. Some
“Tell me, Mr. MacDonald, what—”
“It’s Matt, just Matt,” the young rancher broke in.
“All right, then. Matt, just what did you do to those Apache to make ’em mad enough to try stormin’ the ranch at night?”
“What, me?” Red-faced, Matt nearly exploded with anger. “Nothing! They’ve been thieving my cattle! They’ve been threatening us with their presence! I haven’t done one single thing to aggravate them!”
Jason had already stretched out in an easy chair, and now Abe joined him, making himself comfortable on a settee across the room. “All right, you ain’t done a single thing. Somebody say somethin’ ’bout a drink?”
Matt left the room, headed for the kitchen, and Jason checked his pocket watch. It was still early. He heard Ward rap at the door and hollered, “I’ll get it!”
Ward entered, looking as thirsty as Jason thought he would. All three horses were hitched to the rail outside. Ward had once worked for Matt for a few months, and was no stranger to his wrath. “He pitchin’ a fit?” he asked quietly as Jason let him in.
“Near to it.”
“How near?”
“’Bout an inch and a half.”
“Great,” Ward muttered, and walked on into the parlor, shouting, “And one for me, Matthew!” Over his shoulder, he hissed, “That oughta push him the rest’a the way over.” Smiling, he sat on the other end of the settee and nodded his hello to Abe.
Back in town, the lawmen had not left unnoticed. In his front room on the second story of the boarding house, Sampson Davis had seen the three lawmen walk past when they went to get their horses, then ride out of Fury at a slow lope.
It didn’t take him long to figure out what he wanted to do. Well, not wanted, exactly. But if he was to get what he came for, he’d have to do it. He’d walked up to the livery and saddled his horse, then ridden out after them.
He was halfway there when he heard the sound of faint gunshots drifting toward him, and thought better of it. They were shooting it out with someone or other up ahead, and that should keep them busy long enough. Long enough for what he needed, anyway.
He turned around and rode back. But when he got there, he didn’t put his horse away. Instead, he tied him to the rail outside the boarding house, gave him a pat on the neck, and walked the rest of the way down the street to the saloon. He figured Lynch would be downstairs by this time, having figured he’d gone to bed.
He paused outside the window, back from the glass, and looked over the tables. There was a different bartender on duty now, replacing that nosy one who always swore up and down that Lynch wasn’t there when Davis knew damn well that he was hiding upstairs, in one of those rooms. And there was Lynch, sitting at a table with four other fellows toward the back of the main floor, playing poker and having himself a high old time.
Well, not for long, if Sampson Davis had his way. He ran his hand over his back trouser pocket, feeling the bulge of the manacles he’d secreted there. He planned to clap them on Lynch’s wrists first thing, then get him out of Fury. Kicking and screaming, if he had to. Just as long as he got him out of that town marshal’s reach.
Why did everyone have to like Lynch so much? He couldn’t see the good in liking anybody with Lynch’s reputation. It just didn’t make sense. But it wouldn’t be long before Lynch stopped charming anybody. He was going to get him out of town, then shoot him deader than the proverbial doornail.
He let out a sigh, then started for the batwing doors, shoving them open and walking through. He glanced at the barkeep, who apparently had been coached by the fellow that worked days, because he brought a shotgun up from behind the bar and stood stock-still, staring straight at Davis.
Flies, Davis was thinking. Nothing but flies to be brushed away.
Nodding at the barkeep, he began to slowly make his way toward Lynch’s table—Lynch, who hadn’t seen him yet, had just won the pot and was raking in the money. A big pot, too. Well, lucky at cards tonight or not, he was going to get a surprise, now wasn’t he?
He rubbed again at his back pocket just before he got to Lynch’s table. He stood quietly on Lynch’s left for a moment—this was as close to Lynch as he’d been in two years—and took it in.
Then he said, “Rafe Lynch?”
Two of the other players looked up, and Lynch twisted toward him, saying, “Yeah?”
When he saw it was Sampson Davis, he uncontrollably jumped a little. A slow grin started to creep across Davis’s mouth. He said, “Your buddy, the marshal, rode out of town to the south a little while back. Seems to me he’s got his hands full and won’t be back for a spell.”
Lynch stood up and faced him. Davis hadn’t expected that, but he didn’t give any ground, either.
Lynch’s eyes narrowed. “Get outta here. Get outta here and leave off pesterin’ me, Davis.”
Davis shook his head. “I got as much right to be in here as anybody. More’n you, I reckon. Now, don’t you make a fuss. C’mon with me.”
“No.”
Davis was ready. He dug out the handcuffs and snagged Lynch’s right wrist—his gun hand—with one ring, snapping it closed and held Lynch’s hand high, well away from his gun.
But Lynch made no attempt to retrieve it. In a loud voice, he said, “Are you tryin’ to kidnap me, Davis?”
