A Town Called Fury

by William W. Johnstone

  The hoofbeats were louder now. Quite a few riders were approaching the place. They had caused Dixon to flee, Ward thought as he climbed to his feet. Who could they be? Apaches?

  That was the most likely answer. Dixon and his men would have run from a war party.

  “Matt!” Ward called. “Matt, get out here! Quick!”

  If they worked together, they might be able to put out that fire on the roof before it spread too far. But if they were going to do that, they had to get it done before the Indians attacked. Then they could take shelter in the house and try to drive off the Apaches. They’d probably die anyway, but at least they could put up a fight.

  Matt appeared in the doorway as Ward hurried over to lean a ladder against the wall. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Dixon’s gone,” Ward said as he propped his rifle against the wall and grabbed an empty tow sack that had held grain for Matt’s fine Morgan horses. “We’ve got to get that fire put out before it takes the house.”

  He scrambled up the ladder to the roof and started slapping at the flames with the tow sack. Matt followed his example, and since the fire was slow to spread, they were able to extinguish the blaze in a few minutes’ time.

  But even that was too long. The hoofbeats were loud now, and the cloud of dust raised by the horses blew over the house, blinding both Ward and Matt for a moment.

  As Ward coughed and blinked his eyes against the choking dust, he heard something he had never expected to hear. A deep voice bawled in English, “Company . . . halt!”

  As his vision cleared, Ward saw a couple of dozen cavalry troopers reining their mounts to a stop in the yard in front of the house. A stiff-necked young lieutenant and a grizzled old sergeant were at the head of the patrol. The officer looked up at Ward and Matt standing on the charred roof and said, “You men! What’s going on here?”

  Ward breathed a sigh of relief. Dixon had probably taken the approaching cavalry patrol for Indians too. Or maybe he had known they were soldiers; either way, the rancher and his men had fled, and that had saved the lives of the two men holed up in the house.

  “Mighty glad to see you, Lieutenant,” Ward said. “As you can see for yourself, some fellas were tryin’ to burn us out.”

  “Apaches?” the sergeant asked. He was a short, wiry man with a bristly gray mustache. His battered old campaign cap showed as much wear as the sergeant himself did.

  “I’ll ask the questions, Sergeant,” the lieutenant snapped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officer turned back to Ward and Matt. “Was it Apaches? And come down from there, you two. I don’t like having to tilt my head back to talk to you.”

  No, with such a stiff neck, he wouldn’t like that, Ward thought. But he kept the comment to himself as he climbed down the ladder to the ground, followed by Matt.

  Matt answered the lieutenant’s question. “It wasn’t Apaches,” he said. “It was a son of a bitch named Ezra Dixon and some men who work for him. I want them arrested and thrown in jail, Lieutenant. They tried to murder us, and when that didn’t work, they attempted to burn the house down around us. You can see the evidence of that for yourself.” Matt waved a hand toward the roof.

  The lieutenant frowned. “So this was . . . a civilian dispute?”

  “It was attempted murder! Surely the army doesn’t condone such violence!”

  “What the army condones or doesn’t condone is irrelevant here. Trouble between civilians is none of the military’s business. If you have a complaint against this man Dixon, you’ll have to lodge it with the civilian authorities.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Matt was so mad and frustrated all he could do was sputter.

  “You’ve heard of Dixon?” Ward asked.

  The sergeant spat and said, “We’ve heard of him. High-handed varmint. Thinks he runs things around here because he’s been in the territory longer’n pert’ near anybody else. Reckon in a way he’s right.”

  The lieutenant glared at his subordinate. The sergeant muttered an apology for butting in, but didn’t look like he really meant it.

  “I’m glad we heard the shooting and came to investigate,” the lieutenant said to Ward and Matt. “But since there’s nothing we can do, we’ll have to continue our patrol.”

  “What’s your name?” Matt demanded. His face was so flushed with anger it looked sunburned.

  “I’m Lieutenant Wilfred Carter, from Camp Grant. This is Sergeant Halligan.”

  The sergeant ticked a finger against the bill of his campaign cap. “Howdy.”

  “I’m going to lodge a complaint, all right, Lieutenant,” Matt went on, “but it’ll be with your superior officer. I intend to tell him how you refused to pursue those men who tried to kill us.”

  “Do whatever you want, mister,” Carter snapped. “The captain will tell you the same thing I just told you. This isn’t a military problem. It’s a matter for the local law.”

  “Damn it!” Matt exploded. “There isn’t any law in these parts except that blasted Jason Fury, and he’s not even a real marshal!”

  “Fury?” Sergeant Halligan said. “Any relation to Jedediah Fury?”

  “His boy,” Ward said. “You knew Jedediah?”

  Halligan nodded. “Run into him a few times when he was leadin’ wagon trains west. How is the old boy?”

  “Dead,” Ward said. “Killed in a run-in with Comanch’ on the way out here.”

  Halligan shook his head. “That’s a damned shame, and I’m sorry to hear it. Jedediah Fury would do to ride the river with.”

  “Jason’s the same way,” said Ward. “Or he’s getting there anyway.”

  Matt didn’t like hearing anything good said about Jason, but Ward didn’t care. After Jedediah’s death, Jason had handled himself, and the wagon train, about as well as anybody could have. He had gotten most of the pilgrims safely to Arizona Territory, and had taken on the job of bringing law and order to the settlement that was named after his father. Maybe Jason had been railroaded a little bit into becoming marshal, but in the end he had accepted the responsibility.

  “Take it up with this Marshal Fury, whoever he is,” Carter said. He turned his horse around. “Sergeant, resume patrol.”

  “Yes, sir.” Halligan lifted his hand and waved it forward. “Move out!”

  As the troopers urged their horses into a brisk walk after Lieutenant Carter, Halligan paused to add one more comment to Ward and Matt.

  “Like I said, we’ve heard of Ezra Dixon. He’s a dangerous hombre when he’s crossed. I reckon you fellas have figured that out already, but you’d better remember it.”

  Halligan gave them a curt nod, then heeled his horse into a trot and rode after the rest of the patrol, catching up quickly to take his place with the lieutenant at the head of the troopers.

  “Do you believe that?” Matt asked. “That damn lieutenant’s just going to ignore the fact that Dixon tried to kill us!”

  “He’s right. You need to talk to the local law about it. That means Jason, whether you like it or not, Matt.”

  Matt glared at him. “Whose side are you on anyway, Wanamaker?”

  Ward shook his head. “I hired on to help you finish your house and build a barn, Matt. That doesn’t mean I’m on your side, or anybody’s side, for that matter.”

  “Then get the hell out,” Matt grated. “I expect loyalty from my men, damn it!”

  Ward gave a grim nod and said, “Well, there’s your mistake. I ain’t your man, Matt. I ain’t anybody’s man but my own. And here’s a funny thing . . . I don’t feel much like riskin’ my life for you anymore.”

  Ward didn’t look back as he went to saddle up his horse and get out of there. He ignored Matt when the younger man yelled, “Go to hell!” at his back.

  As far as Ward was concerned, he had already been to hell—and it was called working for Matt MacDonald.

  Chapter 5

  With Flores, Trumbull, and Yates safely locked up in the new jail, Jason walked down t
o the house where Dr. Michael Morelli had his office, as well as the living quarters for the physician, his wife Olympia, and their three children. Olympia greeted Jason at the door with a smile and ushered him into the front room that served as an examination and treatment room.

  Wash Keough sat on the long, narrow table. His buckskin shirt was off, and Dr. Morelli was just finishing the job of bandaging the old-timer’s wounded arm.

  “How does it look, Doctor?” Jason asked. “Will this old pelican live?”

  “Mind your manners, boy!” Wash said. “Jedediah should’a beat you more when you was young, so’s you’d respect your elders.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Morelli said. “The bullet just dug a shallow groove in his arm. I’ve cleaned and bandaged the wound, and it should heal without much trouble. The arm’s going to be pretty stiff and sore for a few days, though.”

  “Good thing it ain’t my drinkin’ arm,” Wash said.

  “Speaking of that, maybe you shouldn’t be putting away quite so much of that who-hit-John,” Jason said. “It can’t be good for you. Tell him, Doctor.”

  Morelli shrugged. “Unfortunately, I’d say that Wash’s insides are already as pickled as they’re going to get.”

  “See?” Wash said with a look of triumph. “What do you expect me to drink? Water? Hell’s bells, next thing you know, you’ll be tellin’ me I ought to bathe in it!”

  “Now that you mention it . . .” Jason began.

  “Gentlemen, why don’t you take this discussion outside?” Morelli suggested. “I might have other patients to tend to.”

  Wash put on his bullet-torn, bloodstained shirt, grimacing as he lifted his injured arm to push it through the sleeve. “How much I owe you?” he asked the doctor.

  “Fifty cents.”

  Wash squinted at Jason. “You mind, boy? I’m a mite short on funds at the moment.”

  “Abigail Krimp got the last of your money, that’s what you mean,” Jason said as he reached in his pocket for a coin.

  Wash cackled as he dug the elbow of his good arm into Jason’s ribs. “And she was worth ever’ cent of it, boy, if ’n you know what I mean!”

  Jason knew, all right, although he would have just as soon not have. He paid Morelli and steered Wash out of the doctor’s office.

  When they reached the street, Jason said, “I’ve got a serious question to ask you, Wash, if you’re sober enough to answer it.”

  “If this is about how come me to knock over that spittoon, it was a accident, I tell you—”

  “I don’t care about that,” Jason broke in. “I know you were too drunk to know what you were doing. We all lived through it somehow, thanks to good luck and good friends. But I’d rather not have to depend on those things in the future.”

  Wash stopped in his tracks and gave Jason a squint-eyed look. “What are you gettin’ at, boy?”

  Jason patted the butt of his Colt and asked, “Have you ever known anybody who was really good with one of these?”

  “A gun, you mean?” Wash gripped the handle of the old cap-and-ball pistol holstered at his waist. “Why, I can handle a smokepole ’bout as good as anybody you’ll ever—”

  “No, I don’t want a bunch of bragging,” Jason said. “I want the truth. I’ve seen you use a gun, remember? You’re not bad. Neither am I. But neither of us are what you’d call greased lightning with a Colt either.”

  Wash shrugged. “Yeah, I reckon you’re right. You ever hear tell of a fella called Preacher?”

  Jason frowned as he tried to remember. “I think I heard my pa mention him a time or two.”

  “Preacher’s a mountain man. He’s gettin’ on in years a mite now, but when these here repeatin’ revolvers come along, he weren’t too old to learn how to use one of ’em. Turned out he was natural-born slick on the draw, son. Fastest I ever saw, leastways until the last time I run into Preacher. He was travelin’ then with a young buck he called Smoke, and accordin’ to Preacher, this here Smoke’s even faster’n him. If that’s true, then those two are a pair you’ll never see the likes of again.” Wash tugged at one of his drooping mustaches. “What’re you gettin’ at, Jason? You ain’t got me reminiscin’ for no good reason.”

  “I have to get better with a gun,” Jason said. “If I’m going to be the marshal of this settlement, there’ll be times like today when I need to be fast on the draw.”

  “The odds was three agin one,” Wash pointed out. “If you’d tried to shoot it out with them fellas, chances are you’d’a wound up dead no matter how good you were.”

  “What about Preacher and Smoke? Could they handle odds like that?”

  “Well, yeah, I reckon so. But they’s different.”

  “I have to learn to be that good. And I need somebody to teach me.”

  Wash shook his head. “Son, ain’t nobody can teach you what Preacher and Smoke got. They was borned with it.”

  “But I can get better,” Jason insisted. “I’m already a good shot, an accurate shot. I just have to get faster.”

  “Practice is the only way to do that. You draw that hogleg a hundred times a day. No, a thousand. Do that for long enough, and you’ll get faster.” Wash rubbed his jaw and frowned in thought. “I might be able to give you a few pointers, things that I seen Preacher do over the years. But I ain’t promisin’ nothin’, mind you.”

  “Thanks, Wash.” Jason gripped the old-timer’s right shoulder. “I’m obliged to you.”

  “Best save your thanks until you figure out whether I’m really helpin’ you . . . or just makin’ it easier for you to get yourself killed faster.”

  * * *

  Jason didn’t want the townspeople to see what he was doing, so he and Wash went behind the jail. Once they got there, the old-timer said, “Let me see your draw.”

  Jason stood with his hands hanging at his sides. His right arm moved, coming up fast in a smooth, efficient motion. His fingers wrapped around the butt of the Colt and pulled it from the holster. When the barrel was clear of leather, he brought the gun up with his arm extended straight out in front of him.

  Wash shook his head and sighed. “That weren’t too bad until you stuck your arm out like that. That takes so long you’d be ventilated ’fore you ever got a shot off.”

  “My pa taught me to aim a gun like I was pointing my finger,” Jason said.

  “Yeah, that’s true, but you got to learn to shoot from the hip. Point down there, not way up here.” Wash demonstrated by making a gun out of his hand, pointing the index finger, and sticking the thumb straight up. He pantomimed drawing several times, leaving his old pistol in the holster and using his hand instead. “Bam! Like that. Bam! Bam!”

  “Can I play too?”

  The new voice took both Jason and Wash by surprise. They whirled around, and Jason’s hand flew to the butt of his Colt.

  David Cohen, Saul’s oldest boy, jumped back, his eyes widening in fear. He held his hands out and said, “Don’t shoot me, Marshal! Please don’t shoot me!”

  Jason was mortified. He realized he was still grasping the gun, and let go of it like it was a rattlesnake or a hot coal.

  “Settle down, younker,” Wash said. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you. You just spooked us a mite, that’s all.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” David said, with a look on his face like he was fighting back tears. “I . . . I saw somebody back here, and when I realized you were playing guns, like my brothers and I sometimes do, I . . . I thought maybe I could play too. . . .”

  The incident had frightened him too much for him to hold it in any longer. He started to cry.

  “I didn’t m-mean to cause trouble,” he said between sobs.

  “It’s all right, David,” Jason said. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and nobody’s mad at you.” He went over to the boy and gave him a clumsy pat on the shoulder. “Just settle down now, all right? There’s no reason for you to cry.”

  David sniffled a few times and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Y-you’re sure?
”

  “Certain sure,” Wash told him.

  David blinked away the last of the tears and looked at the two adults. “If you weren’t playing,” he said, “what were you doing?”

  “Mr. Keough was just, uh, showing me some things,” Jason said. “About how to draw and fire a gun faster.”

  “Why would you need to know how to do that, Marshal? You’re already better with a gun than anybody I ever saw. My pa says the same thing.”

  Jason didn’t point out that neither Saul nor David had seen all that many gunmen. They hadn’t lived on the frontier long enough for that.

  To tell the truth, neither had Jason. He had made several trips west with his father, when Jedediah was guiding wagon trains on the Santa Fe Trail and the Oregon Trail. But most of his life had been spent back east in Maryland, where the family had lived for most of Jason’s childhood.

  And until he had wound up here in Fury, Jason’s plan had been to return to the East, attend the best university he could afford, and make something of himself. Something more than a lawman in a pioneer town. He had modified that plan and started to San Francisco, but that hadn’t worked out either.

  “Don’t say anything to your pa about what happened here,” he said now to David Cohen. He didn’t want Saul knowing about the fast-draw practice—or the fact that he’d come close to pulling iron on the boy.

  “I won’t tell him,” David said as a shrewd gleam appeared in his eyes, “if you’ll let me come and watch you practice.”

  Jason frowned. “Well, I don’t know. . . .”

  “Don’t see as how it’d hurt anything,” Wash put in. “I reckon we can trust this young fella to keep his word.”

  David bobbed his head. “Yes, sir, Mr. Keough, you sure can! I swear!”

  “All right,” Jason agreed, even though he didn’t much like it.

  “And when you get to be a fast draw, then you can teach me!”

  Jason was about to draw the line there when he heard the sound of rapid hoofbeats coming from Fury’s main street. When somebody was in a hurry, it usually meant there was trouble. He said to David, “We’ll talk about that later,” then started toward the street to see what was going on. Wash and the boy followed him.