empty lots to his right. “Did you take a look at these?”
Father Micah nodded. “Yes, but I thought you said this would be the place for my living quarters and so on.”
“Well, it’s the place for both the mission and you, now, Father.” Jason said it flatly, as if this were the only possibility. “You can take both lots. Run ’em together, if you want.”
Actually, there were three vacant lots up by his house, but he didn’t let on. He knew that Jenny wouldn’t be too happy living in the Church’s back yard, so to speak, and neither would he.
Finally, after a long moment seemingly lost in thought, the Father said, “All right. All I need is a cell off to the side, anyway,” he admitted. “Will this site be saved for the Church?”
“Yes, it will.”
“Although it’s not within my personal better judgment, I must have faith in God, and that the He will work through you, my son.”
Jason didn’t really like being an “instrument of God,” but if it would shut the father up, he’d be Satan’s fiddle.
He said, “All right, then,” shook hands with Father Micah, and turned to go back to his office. He had work to do.
Ward Wanamaker’s funeral was scheduled for eleven in the morning, and practically the whole town showed up for it. Folks were packed six and seven deep in the little cemetery, and even those who had been at Frank Saulk’s funeral stayed on for Ward’s. Jason stood at the graveside, his arm around Jenny, who was already crying and sniffling into her hankie.
The Reverend Milcher, who had been called upon to perform the service, started in, and Jason was amazed— and pleased—to notice a new, lighter tone to his ministering. He spoke of the founding of Fury, and of Ward’s services in getting them there. He spoke of Ward’s kindness, his warmth with children, and his good heart with animals, including his rescue of the kittens the night of the first storm, and how well he always treated his horse.
He spoke of things even Jason hadn’t been aware of, such as Ward’s boyhood in Arkansas and teen years in Alabama, and his joining up with Jedediah Fury later in life, illustrating how former enemies—the North and the South, in this case—could make strong alliances.
In the end, Milcher spoke of Ward’s dedication to duty, and how he had died in the service of it at the hands of a prisoner, and talked about his leaving his friends and comrades far too soon.
Even crusty old Wash Keogh was sobbing at this point, along with the rest of the town.
“And so,” Reverend Milcher said in conclusion, “we say our final good-byes to our friend and our public servant, Ward Wanamaker. I know that many of you have personal stories of your own about Ward, but these are things best shared and enjoyed in private, and I leave you to it. Here lies Ward Wanamaker, Lord. Let his face and his badge shimmer long in our hearts and memories. Amen and amen.”
Milcher closed his Bible and stepped back, as did the rest of the mourners, but Jenny stepped closer, dropping a handful of desert roses down into the grave, and then a handful of dirt. Jason, who had squired her forward, heard her whisper, “Good-bye, Ward.”
His throat thick, Jason said, “I’ll be seeing you, buddy.”
“Just not right away,” said Jenny, and began to cry all over again.
She clung tightly to Jason’s side all the way home.
Despite the sadness of the day’s proceedings, the Reverend Milcher had done very well for himself—financially, that was. He had netted better than sixty-five dollars from Ward’s funeral, between the marshal’s office paying the basic fee, and different parishioners stuffing a dollar or two into his pocket as they came up to thank him for the sermon. He thanked each one, kindly saying, “We’ll be seeing you on Sunday, I hope?” and receiving nothing but yesses or teary nods in reply.
Something good had come out of this tragedy, then. Ward Wanamaker had been murdered, but the Milcher family would survive.
Rafe Lynch dropped by the office at around three that afternoon. Surprisingly, he’d been at Ward’s funeral, but Jason hadn’t had a chance to speak to him.
“How you doin’?” he asked as he came through the door.
“About how you’d think,” Jason replied. He shuffled his papers together and indicated the chair opposite his.
Nodding, Rafe sat down and propped his elbows on the desk, aping Jason’s posture. “Thought Abe might be around.”
“Haven’t seen him since breakfast.”
Rafe didn’t say anything for a moment, but then he said, “Wonder if he ever got back out to the MacDonald ranch. Said he was gonna.”
Jason shook his head. “Don’t think so.” Abe’s time was pretty much taken up by Miss Morton, of late. “Why?”
“Thinkin’ of goin’ out there myself.”
This was a surprise to Jason. He hadn’t thought that Rafe had any interest in Matt MacDonald, other than as the butt of an occasional joke. He again said, “Why?”
“’Cause I think he’s got somethin’ fishy goin’ on out there. Somethin’ fishy enough to make those Apache raid him at night. You notice the creek this mornin’?”
Shocked at the sudden change of subject, Jason said, “Nope. Haven’t looked at it in a couple days.”
“It’s full up to its banks.”
“’Course it is. It rained last night, y’know.”
