A Town Called Fury

by William W. Johnstone

  Jenny’s quiet sobbing didn’t help matters. The younger girl hadn’t stopped crying ever since the outlaws had ceased their breakneck flight and pulled their horses back to a steady, inevitable, ground-eating lope that carried them farther south, inexorably toward Mexico. The man who had Jenny in front of him on his horse’s back didn’t seem to mind her sobs. In fact, he acted like he found her terror amusing.

  Megan was trying very hard not to let herself cry. She didn’t want to show any weakness, not with the ordeal she and the other prisoners had facing them. Her captors might assault her, might even kill her, but they wouldn’t break her, she vowed.

  Brave intentions, but they might prove difficult to live up to.

  The man who had grabbed her up off the street as she tried to reach safety during the attack on the settlement still carried her in front of him on his horse. His left arm was looped around her, not particularly tightly now, but she knew that if she tried to escape, his grip would clamp down on her like an iron band.

  Earlier, he had fondled her breasts, squeezing them until she wanted to gasp in pain. Thankfully, he had seemed to grow bored with that, and now just held her on the horse. Her fear had eased a bit, and as it did, she realized that there had been something familiar about him when she caught a glimpse of his face as he jerked her up off her feet and dragged her onto the horse. She hadn’t realized who he was, though, until he said, “Don’t you fight, little one, and Flores will treat you nice.”

  The outlaw was the man Jason had arrested a couple of weeks earlier for wounding Wash Keough in Abigail’s place. Megan wondered if the other two men who had been with Flores were also part of this bandit gang. It made sense that they would be. In fact, as she thought about it to distract her mind from her own desperate plight, she realized that the three hardcases must have ventured into Fury to scout out the settlement. To decide if it would be worth Juan Alba’s while to raid it.

  Obviously, the answer had been yes.

  She knew the leader of the gang was Juan Alba, the so-called Scourge of the Borderlands, because Flores liked to talk and his chatter had included several references to the notorious bandit chieftain. Megan had heard stories about Juan Alba, and knew that he was reputed to be without mercy. As long as they were in his hands, she and Jenny, along with Mrs. Morelli and Abigail Krimp, were facing a terrible fate.

  Even though Olympia and Abigail weren’t riding right alongside her as Jenny and her captor were, Megan had caught glimpses of the two older women. She didn’t know if any other prisoners had been taken from Fury. She hoped not. It was bad enough that the four of them were captives. The fewer prisoners there were, she thought, the easier it would be for Jason to rescue them. Megan had no doubt that Jason Fury would come after her and take her back to safety.

  If he was still alive . . .

  She refused to consider the possibility that he might not be, that he could have been killed in the fighting. As far as she knew, he hadn’t even been in town when the raid started. He had ridden out to either Ezra Dixon’s Slash D or Matt MacDonald’s ranch, to try one more time to bring about peace between the feuding factions. She hoped he hadn’t returned in time to be gunned down like so many others.

  The thought of the dying she had witnessed made a little shudder go through Megan’s body. Flores felt it and said, “Getting tired of riding? We’ll be there soon.”

  Megan didn’t know where there was. They had traveled so far already that she felt certain they had crossed the border and were in Mexico. On the other hand, she wasn’t really sure how far it was to the border. It was possible they were still in Arizona Territory, she supposed.

  In that case, there was a chance a cavalry patrol might come along. She prayed it would happen that way. She knew from the things she had heard that she and the other prisoners couldn’t expect any help from the Mexican rurales. The so-called police force was corrupt, and the local commander was probably being paid off by Juan Alba to leave the bandits alone.

  Megan’s head was spinning with possibilities, a few good, most overwhelmingly bad. She told herself to hang on to the hopes she had, slender though they might be.

  The sun had dropped below the horizon a short time earlier, and the light left over from its setting was fading in a hurry. Megan didn’t know if the outlaws would continue pressing on to the south after darkness fell, or if they would stop and make camp for the night. Nor did she know which of those things to hope for. She was exhausted and sore from being forced to ride astride, and stopping meant that the gang would no longer be putting more distance between themselves and any rescue attempt.

  But stopping also meant that the outlaws would have a chance to turn their full attention on their captives. Megan knew that most Western men, even the disreputable ones, respected women. But she wasn’t naïve enough to think that these . . . animals . . . would respect anything. As soon as the gang got a chance, she and Jenny and the two older women would be raped, probably repeatedly.

  She could survive even that, she told herself. The important thing was to stay alive, no matter what else happened.

  But as she thought about how Jason would look at her in the future, knowing how soiled she was, she wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just die in captivity. . . .

  A short time later, the outlaws called a halt. Dread grew inside Megan as Flores chuckled and said, “Now you get a chance to get down and stretch your legs, eh, little one?”

  He dismounted first, and then reached back up to take hold of her and lift her down from the horse. When he let go of her waist, he grasped her wrist instead and said, “Don’t try to run.”

  “I . . . I’m not going anywhere,” Megan managed to say. She wanted to appear cooperative, so as not to anger him.

  But in the fading light, she found herself looking at the butt of his gun where it stuck up from the holster. If she could get her hands on it, she thought, she could put a bullet through his head and then press the barrel to her own temple and pull the trigger—

  No. Jason would come after her. She couldn’t allow herself to lose hope.

  Megan, Jenny, Olympia Morelli, and Abigail Krimp were herded together. As far as Megan could tell, they were the only four prisoners. She was glad no other women had been dragged away from the settlement. Olympia put her arms around the sobbing Jenny and tried to comfort her. Megan found herself standing next to Abigail. Both of them had red hair, but the resemblance ended there. Abigail was at least ten years older and was both taller and heavier, with a voluptuous figure that drew many admiring—well, lustful, to be honest about it—glances from the men she encountered. The outlaws were no exception.

  “Stay close to me,” Abigail said in a low voice to Megan. “If any of them start trying to bother you, I’ll do my best to distract them.”

  “But then they’ll just—”

  Abigail’s low, humorless laugh interrupted her. “They can’t do anything to me that hasn’t been done plenty of times before, except kill me. If that’s what happens, then so be it.”

  “You can’t mean that.”

  “No? The life I’ve led, I always expected to die young. Women like me don’t get old unless they’re lucky enough to find some man who wants to marry them, no matter what they’ve done in the past. It happens more than you might think, but I was never that fortunate.” A wistful tone came into Abigail’s voice. “If some young fella like Jason Fury felt about me the way he does about you, then I’d have something to live for. As it is . . .” She shrugged. “Just stay close to me, like I said. I’ll do what I can for you.”

  “Thank you,” Megan whispered. She didn’t know what was going to happen, but it helped somehow to have Abigail close by.

  She didn’t have to wait long to find out what their captors had in mind. One of the men jerked Jenny away from Olympia and started running his hands over her body. She cried out and struck wildly at him with her fists, but he just laughed and pushed her down onto the ground.

  “Go ahead an
d fight me, you little honey,” he said with a lecherous sneer. “I don’t mind. Fact is, I like it better that way.”

  Olympia moved between Jenny and the man. “Leave her alone,” she said. “You can have me instead. I won’t struggle.”

  “Forget it,” the outlaw said. “Didn’t you just hear me say I like it when a gal tries to fight? Besides, I want me some o’ that young stuff.”

  The man grabbed Olympia’s shoulders to shove her out of the way, but before he could do so, a gunshot roared out. The outlaws who were standing around tensed and reached for their guns, but they didn’t draw. Instead they stepped back as a huge man strode up, looming like a mountain against the last of the red light in the sky.

  “I told you, no one bothers the women yet!” the man bellowed. He was at least six and a half feet tall, with legs like tree trunks and massive arms and shoulders. A bristly black beard jutted out from his heavy chin. He wore a sombrero with silver balls dangling from the edge of the brim, and a blood-red serape was thrown back over his right shoulder so that he could easily reach the holstered revolver on his hip.

  The aura of unquestioned command about the man, and the way the other outlaws drew back from him a little, as if he were a volcano about to erupt, told Megan that this was Juan Alba, the Scourge of the Borderlands.

  “You all know that we have plans for the prisoners, especially these two,” Alba continued, gesturing with a hamlike hand toward Megan and Jenny. “Any man who harms them in any way will answer to me!”

  It was obvious none of the outlaws wanted that. They drew back to a respectful distance around the prisoners, while still remaining close enough to keep them from having any hope of escaping.

  “We will let the horses rest for half an hour, then push on.” With that order issued, Alba jerked his head in a curt nod and turned away. He didn’t look back to see if his commands were being followed. He didn’t have to. None of the men, not even the rugged and vicious Flores, would cross him.

  “Thank God,” Megan murmured. She sank down on the ground to rest. Abigail sat beside her, as did Jenny and Olympia. Tears still ran down Jenny’s face, but at least she was crying quietly now.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” Abigail said, keeping her voice low enough so that only Megan could hear her.

  “What?”

  “The leader stepping in like that was the first bit of luck we’ve had, but it’s just a reprieve. It won’t last. So don’t start thinking this is over, Megan. I’d be willing to bet that it ain’t. Not by a long shot.”

  “But he said for the others to leave us alone.”

  “Only because he’s got other plans for us . . . especially you and Jenny,” Abigail added. “Just what do you think those plans are going to be?”

  Megan swallowed hard. She had no idea.

  But whatever it was that Juan Alba had in mind for the captives, it wouldn’t be anything good....

  Chapter 21

  Jason was glad to have Wash Keough along as a member of the posse, since the old mountain man had a reputation as a good tracker. That skill might come in handy before this job was done.

  But starting out, anyway, a blind man could have followed the trail left by the outlaws. Fifty galloping horses left plenty of sign, even on hard ground. And Alba’s men weren’t even trying to cover their tracks.

  Why should they? Jason asked himself. It was doubtful that any force in the territory, short of the army itself, could stand up against them in battle. Even some cavalry patrols would be outnumbered and outgunned against the bandit horde.

  As the sun set and the light began to fade, Matt MacDonald brought his horse alongside Jason and Wash and said, “We’re going to push on even after dark, aren’t we?”

  Jason looked over at the old-timer and asked, “What about it, Wash?”

  “I ain’t sure.” Wash chewed on his mustache as he thought about the question. “It’s mighty hard to follow a trail at night. I ain’t sayin’ it can’t be done, especially if there’s a moon, but you run the risk o’ losin’ the trail good an’ proper.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Matt snapped. “We know which way they’re going. They’re headed almost due south. They’re making a run for the border. All we have to do is steer by the stars and keep going the same direction.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Jason said, “if they keep going the same way. What if they veer off some other direction?”

  “They can’t go east,” Matt pointed out. “They’ll find themselves running into Tucson or Camp Grant if they do. And there’s nothing the other way but a hell of a lot of nothing.”

  Wash muttered, “That’s pretty much what they’ll find south o’ the border too. Plenty o’ desert and a few mountain ranges, less’n they plan on goin’ all the way to the Gulf o’ California.”

  Jason frowned in thought. “How far is that, Wash?”

  “To the Gulf? Shoot, I don’t know. Ain’t never been across that way. I’d say eighty, ninety miles.”

  “Close enough they could reach it in a few days of hard travel, in other words.”

  “Yeah, but it’d be hard travel, all right. Sonora’s a mighty inhospitable place. Ain’t much water to be had.”

  Matt put in, “They’d have plenty of water once they got to that gulf you were talking about.”

  “Yeah . . . salt water.” Wash turned back to Jason, ignoring the resentful flush that spread over Matt’s face. “Now, like I was sayin’ . . . there’s water in the mountains and probably a few tanks in the desert where you could dig down and find more. If they was careful, and if they knew what they was doin’, I reckon they could make the Gulf without too much trouble. Why would they go there, though? Chances are they’ll hole up somewheres in the mountains instead. That makes a heap more sense.”

  Jason nodded. “Yes, I know. The other was just a thought.”

  But the idea stayed with him, even when he called a halt to let the horses rest. He gathered the most trusted members of the group around him to discuss their options.

  “We can stop for the night and wait until morning to push on. That way we’ll be sure of not losing the trail.”

  Salmon said, “That gives those damn outlaws more time to, ah . . .” His voice faded as he looked at Jason.

  “You don’t have to watch what you say, Salmon,” Jason told him. “We all know what they’re liable to do to the prisoners. That can’t be a consideration now. We’re just trying to get those women back alive, that’s all.”

  Matt MacDonald came up in time to hear Jason’s comments. He snapped, “Speak for yourself, Fury. My sister is one of those captives, damn it.”

  “And so is mine,” Jason said, making the necessary effort to keep his irritation under control. Matt always rubbed him the wrong way, but he had to ignore that for the time being. “We have to be realistic about this. Saving their lives is the first priority. Anybody disagree?”

  He looked around. The others met his gaze with solemn stares, but no one argued with him, even Matt.

  “All right,” Jason went on. “Why don’t we wait here until the moon comes up, then we’ll try to push on and see how much trouble it is to follow the trail that way. If it looks like we’re in danger of losing it, we’ll call a halt until morning. But if we don’t have to do that, at least they won’t have gained a whole night on us.”

  One by one, the men nodded their agreement. Jason added, “We’ll be relying a great deal on you, Wash. You’ll have to tell us if we’re going astray.”

  “I’ll try not to let you down, son.”

  Matt continued to grumble, saying that they ought to just head for the border as fast as they could without worrying about following the trail, but Jason tried to ignore him. He knew Matt was wrong, and so did most of the others.

  But not all of them. As they waited for the moon to rise, a group of men approached Jason, and one of them said, “Marshal, how come we’re dillydallyin’ around here when we could be chasin’ them outlaws?”
r />   Jason explained that they were waiting for the moon to come up, so they could follow the tracks left by the bandits.

  “Hell, there’s no need to do that!” the spokesman responded. “We should just light a shuck for Mexico. That’s where they’re headed.”

  “You know that for sure, do you?” Jason responded in a cool voice.

  “Hell, yes. Why, MacDonald said—” The man stopped short, as if he had blurted out more than he intended to.

  “Don’t worry,” Jason told him. “You didn’t give anything away. I figured Matt was behind this.” He turned, his eyes searching through the shadows for Matt MacDonald.

  When he spotted the young rancher, he walked over to him and said, “You know, on the high seas, inciting a mutiny is a serious crime.”

  Matt’s jaw jutted out. “What in blazes are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the way you’re questioning my judgment and trying to turn this posse against me,” Jason shot back. “I don’t like it, and I won’t stand for it.”

  “This is still a free country, damn it. I’ve got a right to say whatever I want.”

  “You don’t have a right to put those prisoners in even more danger than they already are.” Jason looked around and raised his voice so that everyone could hear. “Listen to me! We’re waiting for the moon to rise so that we can follow the trail those outlaws left, and as soon as it does, we’ll be pushing on. Anybody who doesn’t agree with that can turn around and ride on back to Fury, and good riddance!”

  Maybe he was reacting too strongly to Matt’s challenge, he told himself, but he didn’t care anymore. He was tired of Matt MacDonald always second-guessing him and disagreeing with his decisions. That conflict went all the way back to the wagon train journey out here, and Jason was sick of it.

  “Yeah, that’s just like you,” Matt said with a sneer. “So high-and-mighty, lordin’ it over everybody else just because you’ve got that damn tin star on.”