A Town Called Fury

“Of course. But still, you have our thanks, Rachael’s and mine. Along with the whole town, of course!”

Sol shifted the bundle in his arms, and it wasn’t until that moment that Jason realized he was carrying baby Sarah. He reached over and gently pulled back the fold of swaddling covering part of the sleeping infant’s face. “How’s she doin’?”

She looked healthy enough, but it was only polite to ask.

Solomon broke out in a wide smile. “Fine, just fine! She is much better, and thank you for asking. I was just goin’ to the jail to see if Rachael was all right. She’s there alone, you know.”

Jason nodded.

“Well, then . . .”

Jason held back a little chuckle. “Go on with you, Sol. I’m sure she’s fine. And you can fill her in on what just happened.”

“She’s probably scared silly. You know women.” Solomon shifted the baby again and walked away.

Yeah, I know, Jason thought as he turned to go back to his house and avoid the crowd already gathering outside his office. And then he reconsidered.

No, he thought, shaking his head. I don’t know ’em at all.

24

The town of Fury buried Sampson Davis the next day.

The only Jew serving as a pall bearer, Solomon, was aided by Jason, Salmon Kendall, Wash Keogh, Rafe Lynch, Marshal Todd and, of all people, the Reverend Milcher. Solomon had resisted Milcher’s inclusion long and hard, but when no one else came forward, he had to give in. Neither the Reverend Bean nor Father Micah was anywhere in sight.

They carried his body in a casket made with no metal fittings, just pegs and wedges to hold it together, and before the casket left the jail, both Rachael and Judith performed the ritual keriah, or symbolic rending of their clothes. This entailed each of them making a small tear—made where Judith said she could fix it, of course—in her clothing, in lieu of Sampsom having no family present.

When the procession made its way up the street—stopping seven times for reasons Jason didn’t completely understand—and into the cemetery, the “mourners” recited the 23rd Psalm, Solomon recited the memorial prayer El Maleh Rakhamin, the Mourner’s Kaddish, and since they had no rabbi present, the eulogy. It was short but memorable, and during the first part of it Solomon was so nervous that he shook and stuttered a bit. But all in all, it went pretty smoothly, Jason thought, right through the part where they all had to shovel three scoops of earth onto the echoing coffin, say, “May he come to his place in peace,” and then stick the shovel back in the pile of earth where he’d found it. This was to avoid the passing on of death, Solomon told them, as if it were catching.

They all had to wait until the grave was completely filled in, then the pall bearers were told to wash their hands before they left—Jason and Abe used the horse trough—and that was it. So far as Jason was concerned, anyhow.

While nearly the entire saloon had emptied to go and catch a peek at Davis’s funeral, Ezra Welk sat nearly alone in the saloon, deciding if right now would be the best time to go and shoot that goofy excuse for a dog that seemed to be hanging around town. He finally decided against it.

But he was bored silly. This town was getting entirely too calm for him. He was pissed that he’d missed the whole Indian thing, pissed that he didn’t get to see Davis hang, or at least watch them haul the marshal’s body into town over his horse. Either marshal would have done. What was the danged West coming to, anyhow?

He thought again about the dog, and thought something that ugly surely didn’t deserve to live. He’d decided not to shoot it, but now he reconsidered. After all, who the hell’d miss it?

He downed the rest of his beer, stood up, and started for the batwing doors.

Bill Crachit, having been left by Solomon to guard the mercantile against Hannibal, sat slouched in a chair beneath the overhang. There were no customers during the funeral, and he’d spent a peaceful half hour sitting out front, watching Hannibal drowse (and chase imaginary rabbits in his sleep) on the sidewalk outside the marshal’s office.

But as he watched, he noticed a man come out of the saloon. He’d figured about everybody else was at the funeral, but he’d been wrong. He hadn’t seen this fellow before, either.

The fellow started to walk across the street, toward the marshal’s office, and as he walked, he pulled his gun.

Bill stood up, all the hairs on his neck standing on end.

The man stopped in the middle of the road and raised his pistol, pointing it at Hannibal.

“Stop! Don’t!” Bill leapt off the porch and took two long strides before he heard the shot.

At first he thought Hannibal was dead, and then he realized that the gunshot had come from behind him. The man down the street had fallen, while the dog was just gaining his feet, yawning and stretching.

From behind him, a voice asked, “You okay, Bill?”

Tears pooling in his eyes, he whirled about and recognized the speaker, who was just shoving his Colt back in its holster.

Thickly, he replied, “Yessir, Marshal Fury. I mean, Jason.” Then he got some of the stiff back in his spine. He shot an accusing finger toward the body lying down the street. “Did you see? He was gonna shoot Hannibal!”

Jason nodded. There was another man with him. The deputy U.S. marshal, Bill thought, and he was wearing a brand new hat, a heavy-duty Stetson. Mr. Cohen had sold it to him the first thing this morning.

Jason said, “I don’t believe he’s gonna try that again, for a while, anyway.”

“Mebbe not never,” said the U.S. Marshal, and started ahead, on down the street.