“Maybe.”
“Well, kidnappin’s against the law, even in Arizona Territory.”
“Just shut up and come with me!” came the growl of a reply. He heard the bartender’s shotgun cock behind him. The saloon had grown very quiet.
“No. You’re keepin’ me from my poker game, Davis.”
Davis heard boot steps approach from behind him, then felt the unmistakable imprint of a sawed-off shotgun press into his back. Then a voice said, “Leave go’a him, mister. I won’t say it again.”
The shotgun’s barrel nudging him in the back, Davis slowly let Lynch’s hand down, then let go of the other handcuff ring. “You’re makin’ a big mistake,” he said to his unseen gunman. He thought it was probably the bartender. “This man’s a murderer. He’s wanted in California.”
“Well, he ain’t so much as spoke harsh to a dog in Arizona, far’s I know.” The gun’s barrel jabbed Davis again. “Now back off.”
At the very back of the bar, unnoticed and unrecognized, Ezra Welk watched all this with great interest. It seemed there was a lot more to Fury than a body would think.
Welk watched as, the tables turned, the man called Lynch slapped the big man’s own cuffs on him, then marched him out of the saloon and across the street, to the marshal’s office.
“Crazy little wide spot in the road,” he muttered to himself before he snagged a barmaid again and ordered himself another beer.
Jason sat, sipping at the good whiskey which came from MacDonald’s stash and getting madder by the second. Matt had been complaining to Abe for the past ten minutes, maybe more, and non-stop. He’d been protesting his mistreatment by the Apache, and mostly by the local sheriff’s office—meaning Jason.
Abe had already very patiently explained several times just why Matt’s spread wasn’t in Jason’s jurisdiction, and every explanation was either ignored or talked around by Matt.
Finally, Abe took his feet, signaling the other men to rise, too.
“You know what, MacDonald?” he said, staring Matt straight in the eye. “You just don’t listen. And you really are a jackass.” And he punched him in the jaw, just like that.
Matt crumpled, a surprised look on his face, and he was out cold by the time he hit the floor.
Abe looked up from the body and shrugged. “You gotta let folks know where you stand. Some folks take more convincin’ than others.”
Abe led the way to the front door with Jason and a chuckling Ward bringing up the rear, and by the time they got outside and mounted their horses, Ward was laughing right out loud.
Jason, who couldn’t help but grin, said, “Ward, can you hold it down till we get out of earshot of the house, anyway?”
Ward clamped a hand over his own mouth, and reined sharply away and toward the north, toward Fury. He dug his heels into his horse, and this time he was leading the way, with Abe and Jason trying to keep pace with the cackling deputy.
When they finally slowed down to an easy jog trot, all three men were laughing. “Man, you sure told him, Abe!” said Jason. He was fast growing to like the marshal more and more. “I should’a done that a long time ago.”
“Yeah, you should’a!” said the laughing Ward. Then he turned serious. “How come you didn’t?”
Jason shrugged. Actually, it was because he thought it might be a misuse of his power as marshal. He certainly wasn’t afraid of Matt, or what he could do physically. Jason had it on him in spades, and they both knew it. They’d both known it for years, even before the original wagon train had departed from Kansas City.
Jason said, “I did, once. And once was enough. ’Fraid that if I hit him again, I might kill him.”
“He’s sure a tender one,” said Abe, “if that glass jaw’a his is any indication.” He started to roll a smoke, and Jason and Ward followed suit. It was a good time for a smoke.
After Jason took his first drag and blew out the smoke in a long plume, he said, “You got any idea why in the hell those Apache attacked at night?”
Ward shook his head, but Abe said, “He’s done somethin’, somethin’ to piss ’em off big time. Don’t know what yet, but I’ll find out. I’d like to ride back down there tomorrow and talk to his men.”
Jason nodded. “Fine by me.”
Ward asked, “You want company? Be glad to tag along.”
“Nope.” Abe shook his head. “Town needs you to get some sleep so’s you can keep an eye on Davis tomorrow night. But thankee kindly for the offer.”
Ward tilted his head, then nodded.
But Abe had done the damage already—he’d reminded Jason that he’d left the town with no one to watch it, and Sampson Davis on the loose.
17
Back in Fury, Rafe Lynch was having himself a high old time. The bartender, being inexperienced in such things but knowing that the jail was the place for people who tried to kidnap other people, had relieved Davis of all his firearms, poked through his pockets until he found the key to the handcuffs (which Rafe promptly let himself out of), then handed him over to Rafe for incarceration.
Rafe had walked Davis—wearing his own manacles—across the street, then locked him in a cell. He was currently sitting behind Jason’s desk with his feet propped up and a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
