A Town Called Fury

meat, and how he knew to open them without slicing his mouth up), hit the candy jars again, and chewed up a pair of men’s dress shoes in the Osterman’s display. Solomon was beginning to think he was lucky not to have left the baby alone downstairs!

But how to do it, and what to do? He didn’t like the idea of separating the boy from his dog, but it was either that or fire Bill, who was proving to be of great help to him. He leaned his elbows on the counter and his head in his hands, and stared at the patent medicine poster on the wall across from him.

He was still staring when the bell above the door jangled, and he turned to find Jason entering the store.

Jason raised his hand in a greeting. “Howdy, Sol.”

“How goes it, Jason?” Solomon came out from behind the counter. “Rachael and I, we had a fine time at your party. Mazel tov once again!”

Jason laughed, then said, “Thanks, thanks. Those socks you folks gave me will be greatly appreciated come colder weather, I can tell you that! Say, have you got a minute?”

“For you, my friend? Hours and hours.”

“Good. Let’s talk.”

Solomon led him to the front of the store, where they sat down in the two chairs usually reserved for ladies trying on shoes—and where Solomon could keep an eye on the canned meats section and the penny candy aisle.

“Sol, I’ve got a problem.”

Solomon hiked a brow. “Which is?”

And Jason spilled his guts about Ward’s death and his hunt for a deputy and his finally deciding—but not deciding—on Rafe Lynch, and begging for Solomon’s opinion.

Sol carefully considered Jason’s dilemma (which, on the face of it, was much simpler than his own), and said, “Why shouldn’t you hire him? He has no strikes against him in this territory, and from what Marshal Todd and you, yourself, have told me, his ‘murders’ were not ‘murders’ at all. I like him.”

“Then, you’d hire him?”

“How do they say it? In a New York minute!”

Before Solomon could stop him, Jason was on his feet and heading toward the door, saying, “Thanks, Solomon, you’ve been a real help.”

Solomon shot to his feet. “Wait!”

Jason stopped stock-still. “What is it?”

“Jason, I have a small problem, as well.”

Jason came back to the shoe section and sat back down beside him. “Tell me.”

Solomon did, right down to the last horehound drop, then asked, “What should I do? I can’t be asking young Bill to give away his dog, but I can’t have him here. The only time I’m safe from his pillaging is at night, when he’s locked up in the back room with Bill.”

Jason pursed and relaxed his lips several times, a sure sign he was considering the matter. Suddenly, he looked up from the floor and said, “If you want to talk this over with Bill, I’d admire to take that dog, and Bill can see him any time he wants. I’ve got a strong liking for Hannibal. And I know that Hannibal would admire Jenny’s cooking.”

Jason grinned at him, and Solomon felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He still had to talk to Bill, but he felt he had his bases covered. He said, “Wonderful, wonderful!” and both men rose.

He walked Jason to the door, but halfway through it, Jason stopped and turned to face him. “I almost forgot to mention it, Solomon. Sampson Davis died this afternoon. We’re gonna bury him tomorrow, I guess, barring any religious ceremony . . .”

Automatically, Solomon muttered beneath his breath, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, the true Judge,” then he held up a hand. “Wait. Someone should be sitting shiva for him, someone needs to—”

This time, Jason was the one with his hands in the air. “Hold on. None of this makes any sense to me, you know. Is this something only Jews can help with?”

Sadly, Solomon nodded his head. “Some is best with a rabbi, but only Jews, yes.” And then he realized that there would be no need for them to sit shiva. That was to be left to his people in California.

When Jason didn’t speak, Solomon asked, “Could we have the use of the jail? The body needs to be prepared for burial.”

“Well, I already sent him over to the undertakers, but I reckon we can get him brought back. That be okay?”

Solomon nodded. “It’s a start. And we’ll need a coffin. Plain pine, with no metal, no nails. Only wooden pegs.” He sighed, thinking, then looked up again. “I’ll go get Rachael.”

23

Over at the saloon, Ezra Welk was innocently gathering information as quickly as it came in. He had got to be on a first-name basis with Nicky, one of the few barmaids who worked the day shift, and Nicky was his new font of information.

Sampson Davis had perished sometime during the day, and had been moved from the jail to the undertaker’s, then from the undertaker’s back to the jail. Nicky wasn’t certain why, but after she reported, a short time later, that Rachael Cohen (wife of Solomon Cohen, the mercantile owner) had entered the jail carrying packages and clothes,