A Town Called Fury

by William W. Johnstone

  Wash asked, “Them soldier boys come from Camp Grant?”

  “That’s what they said. And Matt was madder than a wet cat when the lieutenant in charge of the patrol said he wasn’t gonna go chasing after Dixon.”

  “A dispute between civilians is none of the army’s business,” Jason said.

  “Yep. That’s what the shavetail said. But Matt sure didn’t like it.”

  A faint smile touched Jason’s mouth. “He wasn’t happy when I told him that I didn’t have any jurisdiction over Dixon’s activities either as long as they didn’t happen in town.”

  “So you’re not planning to do anything about it either?”

  “I didn’t say that. Wash and I are going to ride out and have a talk with Dixon. I can’t arrest the man, but I can tell him that I’ll call in the county sheriff if he continues to make trouble.”

  “That won’t sit well with Dixon, I’m guessing,” Ward said.

  Jason shrugged. “I don’t care if it sits well with him or not. Matt was a member of that wagon train, and I reckon I still feel a little responsibility for him. And you’re my friend, Ward. I don’t like it when folks try to kill you.”

  “Me neither,” Ward said with a chuckle. “Well, good luck with Dixon. You want me to ride out there with you fellas?”

  Jason shook his head. “No, I was thinking maybe I’d ask you to keep an eye on things here in town for me while we’re gone.”

  “Like a deputy?”

  “I can’t make that official, and I sure as hell can’t pay you for it. But I’ve been thinking about talking to Mayor Kendall and the rest of the town leaders about hiring a deputy, at least part-time. If the settlement keeps growing like it has been, it’s going to need more than one lawman.”

  “That sounds like something I’d be interested in doing. For now, I’ll be glad to keep an eye out for trouble, just as a favor to you, Jason.”

  “I’m obliged,” Jason said as he slapped Ward on the shoulder. “Come on, Wash.”

  They went to the livery stable down the street, saddled their horses, and rode out, heading south toward the MacDonald ranch. Jason didn’t look for either Matt or Jenny before leaving to tell them what his plans were. If his visit to Dixon’s ranch worked out and accomplished something, that would be fine. If it didn’t . . . well, best not to get Jenny’s hopes up.

  “How do you plan on findin’ Dixon’s spread?” Wash asked. “I never even heard o’ the varmint until today.”

  “Neither did I,” Jason said, “but if he claims that Matt’s place is on his range, it’s got to be somewhere in the same direction, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but this is a mighty big country. Dixon’s headquarters might be ten or twenty miles from Matt’s place.”

  Jason frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. He had been west enough times to know just how vast the frontier really was, but sometimes he forgot. Back East, finding someone was never really that difficult. There weren’t miles and miles of empty range for them to disappear into.

  Jason was confident he could locate Dixon’s ranch. He rode toward Matt’s place, intending to swing wide around it when they got there. At the same time, he could make sure that Dixon and his men hadn’t returned to cause more trouble.

  That was the plan anyway. But they hadn’t reached Matt’s new spread when a rifle suddenly cracked and a bullet whined over their heads.

  Chapter 8

  Jason and Wash both reined in and reached for their guns, but before they could draw the weapons, half-a-dozen men on horseback boiled up out of a nearby draw. Two of them carried rifles, and the other four already had revolvers pulled and leveled.

  “Hold on, son,” Wash said in a low but urgent voice. “Best take your hand away from that hogleg ’fore you get holes blasted in you.”

  Jason had come to the same conclusion. He lifted both hands to shoulder level, still gripping Cleo’s reins in the left one. Wash did likewise. Neither of them moved as the men rode up to them.

  One of the riders holding a rifle scowled at them and demanded, “Who the hell are you two rannies?”

  Jason’s voice was angry as he replied, “I’m Jason Fury, the marshal of Fury.”

  One of the other men cackled and said, “What’s that? Sounds like you’re repeatin’ yourself!”

  Jason’s jaw tightened. “I said—”

  The man who had spoken first interrupted him. “We know what you said. We’ve heard about that so-called settlement of yours. You’re a mite young to have a town named after you, mister.”

  “It was named after my father, not me,” Jason explained, keeping a tight rein on his temper. “And there’s nothing so-called about it. Fury is a real town.”

  The spokesman for the group spat off to the side of his horse. “An outlaw town, if you ask me. Those pilgrims had no right to settle there. El Despoblado is Mr. Dixon’s range.”

  The men were all dressed like cowboys, and Jason had already figured out they had to be some of Ezra Dixon’s crew. He said, “The area called El Despoblado is mighty big. It can’t all belong to Dixon. In fact, I’m betting that only a little piece of it is legally his.”

  “Legal don’t matter. He’s been runnin’ his stock on it for more’n ten years. It’s his.”

  “Legal matters to me,” Jason shot back. He nodded toward the badge pinned to his shirt. “Like I told you, I’m a marshal.”

  “Fake town, fake lawman. And you still ain’t told me what you’re doin’ out here.”

  “Looking for Dixon’s ranch, as a matter of fact.”

  The man snorted. “You’re on it. Have been ever since you left town.”

  Jason realized he would be wasting his time arguing that point with the man. He said instead, “What about Dixon’s ranch house? Can you take us there? You work for him, don’t you?”

  “Damn right we do. I’m Ord Kerby, segundo o’ the Slash D.”

  “Marshal Jason Fury,” Jason said, introducing himself again. “This fella with me is Wash Keough. All right if we put our hands down now?”

  “Not until we’ve taken your guns,” Kerby snapped.

  Wash’s mustaches fairly quivered with indignation. In a low voice, he said, “I ain’t much of a mind to be givin’ up my guns, Jason. Always felt a mite naked when I weren’t packin’ iron.”

  Jason sensed the tension growing tighter among the ranch hands. They were spoiling for a fight, and Wash might give them one.

  One of the cowboys asked, “Did you say that old man’s name is Keough?”

  Jason nodded. “That’s right.”

  “I’ve heard of him, Ord,” the man said to the Slash D segundo. “He may not look like much, but he’s supposed to be a ring-tailed terror when you get him goin’.”

  One of the other men said, “And I reckon the boy must be ol’ Jedediah Fury’s son.”

  That brought a newfound respect—or at least wariness—to the eyes of several of the cowboys. Jason knew that his father’s long career as a wagon master had made him known across the West. It came as no surprise that some of these men had heard of Jedediah Fury.

  Ord Kerby chewed over what he had just heard, and said after a moment, “You say you’re just lookin’ for the boss?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to talk to him, that’s all,” Jason answered.

  “What’s this about?”

  Jason took a chance and said, “It’s about the man Dixon tried to kill earlier today.”

  “That son of a bitch had it comin’!” one of the cowboys called. “He claimed he had a right to be on Slash D range!”

  Jason didn’t argue about that either. He said, “That’s why I want to talk to Dixon. I hope we can clear all this up without any bloodshed.”

  Kerby grunted. “Tell that to Ben Ellsworth. He’s got a hole in his shoulder where one of those bastards plugged him.”

  “What was he doing at the time?” Jason took a guess. “Trying to throw a torch on th
e roof of Matt MacDonald’s house?”

  “A house that don’t belong there!” Kerby said. But he didn’t try to deny that the wounded man had been trying to set it on fire. The segundo gave a curt nod and went on. “I reckon the boss is gonna want to talk to you varmints anyway, so we’ll take you to the house.”

  “And leave us our guns,” Jason said.

  “And leave you your guns . . . for now,” Kerby agreed. “But we’ll be watchin’ you mighty close, and if you try anything, you’ll be full of lead before you can draw another breath.”

  “Fair enough.” Jason went ahead and lowered his arms without asking again for permission to do so. “Lead the way.”

  The riders formed a loose circle around Jason and Wash and set out toward the south at a brisk trot. Jason spotted a low range of brown, rocky hills in that direction, forming the southern edge of the vast plain known as El Despoblado. As they came closer, he saw that the hills were dotted here and there with the green of pine and juniper, but for the most part they were barren and arid.

  Ezra Dixon’s home was located on the northernmost of those hills. Jason spotted it as they approached. A sprawling log structure with two stories, it perched atop the rise, reminding Jason of medieval castles he had seen pictured in books. A much more rustic castle than those European ones, to be sure, but it was an impressive sight anyway.

  Kerby must have seen the expression on Jason’s face, because he said, “The place wasn’t always so big and fancy. When the boss built it, it wasn’t much bigger’n a line shack. He added on to it, though, bit by bit, until it was what it is now. Sort of like the whole Slash D. Best ranch in the territory.”

  Jason thought that judgment was probably sound. He had spotted quite a few cattle already, and they looked like fine animals. Back East, the beef market was booming following the end of the Civil War, Jason had heard, and demand was so high that ranchers in Texas had started gathering their stock into large herds and driving them north to the railroad in Kansas. Jason wondered if cattlemen here in Arizona Territory would do the same thing, or perhaps drive their herds farther west, to California. The way people were flooding into the territory, it might not be necessary to do either of those things. Miners were flocking to certain areas, so there might be enough of a demand to support the ranchers without them having to make a long trail drive.

  An image entered his mind unbidden. He saw the settlement of Fury as it might one day be—a cattle town, a supply center for the ranches and farms around it, maybe even a stop on the railroad. There was no limit to how much the place might grow and prosper. And if it did, that would be good for the original settlers, the people like Salmon Kendall and Saul Cohen and Michael Morelli, who had been courageous enough to look around and say, This is it. This is where we will make our homes.

  As those thoughts went through Jason’s mind, he realized he wanted to be part of that. He wanted to see his friends grow rich and successful, to raise their families and be happy. If that meant putting off his own plans and dreams for a while, then so be it. The gamble was worthwhile.

  Legally, his jurisdiction might not stretch out here, he told himself, but it didn’t matter. What Ezra Dixon did affected the town, and Jason wasn’t going to stand by and let the rancher run roughshod over any of its citizens, even Matt MacDonald. Matt might not live in the settlement anymore, but since he had been a part of the original wagon train, Jason regarded him as one of them.

  A creek emerged from the hills at the base of the hill where the ranch house was located. The outbuildings were all down there, including a bunkhouse, a large barn, and a blacksmith shop. Several sprawling corrals were near the barn. As the riders approached, Jason saw a man breaking horses in one of those corrals. The bronc being ridden at the moment was a big black, and it leaped and sunfished and twisted like mad in a frantic attempt to dislodge the unwelcome human on its back.

  As the group of riders drew even with the corral, the bronc finally won its battle. The horse-breaker went sailing off its back to land on the ground with a thud and a cloud of dust. One of the cowboys escorting Jason and Wash grimaced and said, “Ouch.” Several of the others laughed.

  Kerby turned his head and glared at them. “I don’t see any o’ you rannies doin’ any better. If you think you can ride that damn devil horse, why don’t you climb in there and give it a try?”

  “Take it easy, Ord,” one of the men said. “We didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Just that it must’ve hurt to land like that.”

  “Yeah, well, take these two on up to see the boss,” Kerby said, jerking a thumb toward the big log house on top of the hill. “I’m gonna go see if Will’s hurt.”

  The cowboy who had been bucked off hadn’t gotten up yet. He was moving around a little, so Jason thought he was probably just stunned by the fall, but it was possible he could have been injured more seriously than that. Kerby peeled off from the group and rode over to the corral, while the other five men kept Jason and Wash moving toward the house.

  A path led up the hundred yards or so to the top of the hill. By the time the group of riders reached the end of it, a couple of big dogs standing on the porch of the house were barking. Their fur bristled as they greeted the newcomers, and drool dripped from their mouths. They looked as if they’d like nothing better than to gnaw on Jason and Wash for a while.

  The dogs sat down and shut up right away, though, when a man stepped out of the house and spoke to them in a sharp tone of voice. His white hair and weathered face were indicators of his age, but the movements of his lithe, wiry body were those of a younger man. Jason guessed from the man’s arrogant bearing and defiant gaze that he was looking at Ezra Dixon.

  “What now?” the man asked when the group of riders had reined to a halt in front of the house. “Who are these two yahoos?”

  “They say they want to talk to you, Boss,” one of the cowboys replied. “The kid claims to be the marshal of that settlement that sprung up about ten miles north o’ here.”

  “It’s no claim,” Jason snapped. He didn’t like being referred to as a kid. “I’m the legally appointed marshal of Fury.”

  Dixon spat off the porch. “That’s what I think o’ your legal appointment, boy. Town’s got no right to be there, and neither have you. Now speak your piece and get the hell off my range, ’fore I send you back to that settlement covered with tar an’ feathers!”

  Chapter 9

  With an effort, Jason kept his temper under control. He didn’t like being spoken to that way, and he didn’t like Ezra Dixon. The reaction was instinctive and immediate.

  “Earlier today, you tried to kill a couple of men working on a ranch west of here,” Jason said in a flat, hard voice.

  “A couple o’ trespassers who had no right to be there, puttin’ up a house and barn on my range and callin’ it theirs!”

  One of the dogs growled. Dixon shushed it.

  “What’d they do?” the rancher went on. “Come cryin’ to the law?”

  “I was asked to look into the matter,” Jason said. “That’s why I’m here. If what you’re saying is true, then they didn’t have a right to be there. That still doesn’t give you the right to try to kill them and burn the place down.”

  Dixon snorted. “I ain’t in the habit o’ lyin’. Of course it’s true! That’s my range! Has been for more’n ten years. I come out here before the war, almost before there were any other white men in this part o’ the territory. Fought Apaches, bandits from below the border, and bad weather. Buried a wife and two sons here. Don’t you ever go to sayin’ this ain’t my range!”

  A part of Jason sympathized with the man. He was sure it hadn’t been easy establishing a foothold in this hard, savage country. Dixon had sacrificed to start his ranch, no doubt about that.

  But it didn’t have anything to do with the law. Jason said, “My understanding is that most of this area is open range, that it belongs to whoever claims it. If you filed a legal claim to the place where Matt MacDonald is building his ran
ch, then I’ll tell him he’s out of luck and that he has to get off of it. But if you didn’t, then he’s got as much right to it as anybody else, including you.”

  Dixon’s deep-set eyes narrowed. “You’re talkin’ about a damn piece of paper, ain’t you, boy?”

  “Pieces of paper are what civilization depends on, Mr. Dixon,” Jason said.

  “Yeah, well, maybe that’s what wrong with it! Nobody gives a damn anymore about anything except what some blasted paper-pushers say!” Dixon swept a gnarled hand around in a curt gesture, taking in their surroundings. “Nobody cares that I watered this ground with my blood! And I ain’t ashamed to say it, with my tears too! All they want is a damn piece of paper!”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” Wash muttered.

  Jason glanced over at him. “Whose side are you on?” he asked under his breath.

  Wash didn’t have to answer, because Dixon said, “If it’s any o’ your business, mister—which it ain’t, to my way o’ thinkin’—I don’t have that paper you’re talkin’ about. Never needed it before, and I don’t need it now.”

  “Then you don’t have legal title to the land that MacDonald claimed?”

  “Didn’t I just say that? You deaf as well as stupid?”

  Jason bit back an angry curse. Forcing himself to stay calm, he said, “In that case, I have to tell you that if you or your men bother Matt MacDonald again, I’ll report it to the county sheriff and get some deputies in here to force you to comply with the law.”

  A harsh laugh came from Dixon. “That’s supposed to scare me? Boy, you got a lot to learn about the sort o’ man you’re dealin’ with here. You tell that fella—MacDonald, you say his name is?—you tell him that unless he gets off my range, I’m gonna kill him, and it won’t matter none to him what the law does about it, ’cause he’ll already be buzzard bait!”