A Town Called Fury

“Eliza?” he said again. When she didn’t reply, he ploughed ahead. “Would you like him to be buried here in Fury, or out along the trail?”

“Here.” The word was no louder than a mouse’s squeak.

“Shall I take care of the details for you?”

She nodded.

He sighed. “All right. Shortly, there’ll be someone along to take his body to the undertakers, all right?”

She nodded again.

“You think you’ll be all right, or would you like me to send one of the town women out to sit with you and help with the children?”

“I’ll be fine.” She said it without inflection or emotion or any kind, as if the living soul of her had died along with her husband, and all that was left was a blankly animated husk. Morelli had seen grief before, and many kinds, but nothing like this.

He excused himself and crawled down out of the Conestoga, telling Riley Havens (who had just joined the crowd) of his plans.

“Thanks, Doctor Morelli,” Riley said. They had moved a little way off from the others. “I know you done the best you could for ol’ Frank.”

“Yes,” said Morelli, shaking his head. “I just wish it could have been more. Enough to save him, at least.”

Riley put a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was something that the doctor wasn’t accustomed to, especially from anyone except his wife, and it startled him. Reflexively, he moved away.

“Didn’t mean to . . . Well, I’m sorry, too,” Riley said.

“Thank you. Well, I’d best be getting on with my errands for the morning.” He tipped his hat. “Good morning, sir.”

He walked off, toward the city gate.

Riley watched him go around the corner of the gate and disappear, and then he walked back toward the Saulks’ wagon. He said his “sorries” to Eliza and told her that he’d talked to the doctor, and then he left her. He doubted that she’d heard a word he’d said, anyway. Grief had a way of making people deaf, dumb, and blind, he’d learned, and Eliza was surely stricken. He sure felt bad for those kids, too, having to grow up without a pa. Or maybe not. Eliza was not a great beauty, but she was comely enough. Maybe she could attract another man who wouldn’t mind raising a dead man’s children.

Oh, well. It wasn’t his place to worry about that. His job, he reminded himself, his only job, was to get these people back to Kansas City and civilization. If some of them decided to drop out (as had Judith Strong, the dressmaker, and Father Micah), that was none of his nevermind.

Actually, he was about to lose more folks than he had counted on. The Reverend Fletcher Bean had come to the decision that he was leaving the West in haste, and that the people of Fury needed him. The Grimms, owner of the dog Hannibal and parents of three children, had also decided to stay, provided they could find a place to set up their bakery. And if they couldn’t, they were surely going to leave Hannibal behind. He was proving too costly to feed with their limited means. And Bill Crachit had come to the decision that at sixteen, he wasn’t up to making the full journey by himself. He’d rather stay on in Fury for a year or two, maybe find work on a farm or a ranch, and then go on back East once he’d saved up some cash and could grow a full beard.

Riley wasn’t aware of any of this yet. In fact, only some of the people had made up their minds completely. But chances were that he would lose a good part of his wagon train before he left the little settlement of Fury behind.

Oblivious, Riley walked up ahead to his wagon, then past it and the gates to check his team. They were eating well and seemed content, as did his saddle horse. Fury had been good to the wagon train, and they were about to be good to Fury.

Once again, Ezra Welk started his day at the saloon. The town’s beer and whiskey drinkers had him pretty much up to date on the town’s recent goings-on (whether they knew it or not), leaving him continually surprised at the activity level in Fury.

Especially when he had nothing to do with it.

Usually, he was the one responsible for any ruckus, and this was a change of pace for him. He was actually finding it . . . pleasant. He kept one eye peeled in the direction of the marshal’s office. The boy marshal had ridden out before the dawn broke to the eastern horizon the day before, theoretically chasing after Sampson Davis. At least, in theory. Davis had supposedly shot up the deputy during the night, probably killing him. Anyway, that’s what the woman who ran the boardinghouse had blathered on and on about during an otherwise decent breakfast. Hell. They should have done what had first come to Welk’s mind—just taken Davis out and plugged him, the ugly bastard.

But then, nobody had asked him, had they?

He sniffed derisively. Well, at least it was entertaining. Davis had already killed that lanky deputy, taking him off Welk’s “possibilities” list. But to look on the bright side—as his mother always used to say before sending him out to the woodshed to wait for another one of his father’s beatings—they’d probably all end up killing each other, anyway.

He’d already decided to stick around for the finish.

The Reverend Milcher picked up his order from Salmon Kendall’s print shop, carried it home, unwrapped it, and spread the flyers out on one of the pew benches. The blue paper was just as fine as Salmon had promised it would be, and the printing, urging people to visit his church on Sunday, was perfect. Not one word misspelled! It had taken all the change he could scrape together, but he looked on it as an investment—an investment in himself, and an investment in the good people of Fury.

After scraping the papers back together, he first stood right outside the church’s front door, handing out flyers and shaking hands with everyone who passed. He kept his face and demeanor affable, and found it was true—you did get more flies with honey than with vinegar!

After a bit, he moved on down the street and stood in front of the cafe, where he glad-handed every passerby, handing out fliers and inviting them to Sunday’s service. Everyone was so nice! Why, it was positively refreshing! He reminded himself to pay more attention to the cat. After all, she had given him the idea, bless her!