A Town Called Fury

by William W. Johnstone

  Although he hadn’t. One hand had started toward her shoulder, but he’d stopped its movement. There was no future in it, was there? And he was a man intent on realities, on things that were tangible. So he hadn’t touched Megan. Not a friendly hand on her shoulder, not a tender, brief brush of her cheek, nothing then, nothing since, because she didn’t fit into his plan for the future, the one in which he took these people where they wanted to go, made his way back East, went to college, and then on to big, important things.

  But lately, he was having a harder and harder time keeping his hands off her. Hell, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He even dreamt about her, about his lips on hers, about the softness of her throat and the thin, velvet skin of her eyelids. Tantalizing, disturbing dreams of his arms about her, in the night, and what they would do together.

  He gave his head a shake, trying to rid it of such thoughts. He had no business thinking them. What he ought to be thinking about was Jenny.

  His little sister hadn’t been the same since they’d lost their father. The sparkle was gone from her eyes. He hadn’t expected it to return this soon, but he’d thought that he would have seen some hint, some vestige of it at odd, unguarded moments. But no, nothing.

  Oh, she went through the motions. She drove their wagon every day, helped make camp at night, helped with the cooking—which, fortunately, had turned into a more communal affair—but she wasn’t anywhere near the same boisterous, opinionated, curious, girl-brat Jenny he’d known all of her life.

  He was beginning to think that perhaps she’d be better off if he just dropped her off somewhere. He knew a few people along the route, people that he’d trust to keep his only sister safe until he came for her.

  Of course, that had been before the War, years ago. There was no telling if any of them were still alive. It was a hard life, west of the Mississippi. And the farther west you went, the tougher it got.

  He comforted himself that they’d be out of Comanche territory soon, but then, that only meant they’d be going into Apache country. The Apache weren’t that much of a threat, unless, of course, you were a Mexican, a race of people against whom the Apache seemed to hold a special grudge. The wagons would travel south of Tucson through Apache Pass, which was the heart of Chiricahua Apache territory. His father had told him plenty of stories about them, none of them too appetizing.

  They were in the New Mexico Territory now. They had just forded Ute Creek with no problem, and were in sight of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range, which at this far distance looked misty and insignificant. He figured to make Santa Fe, just past the southern end of the Sangre de Cristos, within ten days. That is, if they kept moving as fast as they had.

  This was his one secret pride—that he was making better time than Jedediah ever had made when ferrying settlers over the Santa Fe Trail. Of course, outside of that incident in the panhandle of the Indian Territory. That had been a piece of really bad luck. Or good luck.

  Jason guessed it all depended on how you looked at it. He’d been tremendously aided by good weather and a distinct lack of Comanche, which he was beginning to think might have something to do with Quanah Parker. They had also been fortunate to find water when it was needed, when their reserve barrels were nearly dry, and had been able to find not only enough to drink and water the livestock, but to refill their barrels completely, every time.

  But he knew that his father would be proud of him. And for some reason he didn’t entirely understand, because he and his father had spent most of their time disagreeing over nearly every conceivable subject, this gave him a great deal of pleasure.

  He’d put Ward temporarily in charge of leading the train. Milt and Gil could handle the livestock for a while. The animals were fat, still, and not inclined to be spooky or stampede. He watched the wagons pass him, swinging south, followed by the herd and remuda.

  He sat a moment longer, his thoughts drifting back to Megan MacDonald, all red hair and freckles and Celtic charm, and then, finally, he nudged the mare with his knees, cantering to catch up with the wagons.

  * * *

  The rain started at about three in the afternoon, and Jason had to choose between trying to hurry the wagons along and thus beat the rising waters to the next ford, that of another branch of the Canadian River, or stopping exactly where they were in an attempt to let the waters go down again before they reached their banks.

  He chose the latter. Wisely, he hoped.

  There was no shelter of trees, the terrain being rocky and open, the substrate gravelly, with most vegetation no higher than a bush. Jason circled the wagons as best he could, in the face of what had rapidly become a hard pelt of rain, and brought the herd within the circle. Lightning had a tendency to spook cattle, but when they were firmly surrounded by a comforting fence, or in this case, a circle of wagons, they wouldn’t be tempted to bolt.

  Rounding up the entire herd tomorrow, if they were hidden in every nook and cranny for three miles around, was the last thing he needed.

  He helped a few folks unhitch their draft animals, gave Olympia Morelli a hand with her wagon’s canopy, untying it on one side and stretching it out overhead and mooring it by poles to make a covered porch of sorts. It had fallen upon Olympia, along with Rachael Cohen, to do most of the cooking since they were both extraordinary cooks. Oh, the other women helped with stirring or chopping or basting things, but it was those two who kept them fed, preparing the big evening communal meal.

  Beneath this canvas-canopied area, Rachael and Olympia set out a large table—packs of cleavers, big wooden spoons, skillets, and cook pots—while a few feet away, out in the rain, Jenny tried to get a fire lit.

  Jason meant tried, because the sage she was using was green, and the rain wasn’t helping matters. They’d used up the last of their buffalo chips a few days ago, but even that wouldn’t have helped. When damp, they were unlightable, and nobody would want to handle them, anyway.

  Jason was about to go to her aid when, from across the camp, Megan came out of the rain, bearing a burning torch of twigs beneath her duster, which she held over her back and head and outstretched at arm’s length to shelter the flames. He watched as she and Jenny then worked the twigs beneath the pile of brush and brought it to a hissing blaze.

  This happened at roughly the same time that various members of the party began to arrive with chickens—one here, two there—already dressed out, and vegetables.

  He smiled at the sight of those chickens. Saul Cohen had said that Rachael put her foot down. “If your cooking Olympia and I are going to do, the least you can do is make the food ready, and by that, I mean you should clean it on the inside and outside!” she’d announced to the other women.

  From that day forward, vegetables had arrived peeled or chopped or washed. Chickens had arrived plucked and gutted, and goats, deer, and antelope had arrived skinned, gutted, and either already on the spit or cleaved into quarters.

  Out of respect for Rachael, Olympia requested that no hogs be slaughtered. None were.

  For folks that the Reverend Milcher had wanted to leave behind at the side of the road, the Cohens were turning out to be real leading citizens.

  Jason was thinking this just as Lavinia Milcher showed up with a pot of sliced carrots and what looked like chopped onions. She stayed on while the other women just dropped off hens or vegetables or bags of flour or cornmeal, and proceeded to fix the dish herself. Jason figured it must be something her kids liked, though God knows why. When he was a kid, it would have taken the militia to get him to eat carrots.

  Rather than being pressed into kitchen duty—Rachael already had Saul cutting up chickens into pieces for frying—Jason walked over to his wagon, leading his palomino mare. Once there, he stripped her of saddle and bridle, and fed her a rasher of oats and barley, topping it off with a handful of corn. While she munched her supper, he walked out through the herd and found his father’s roan, Gumption, which he led back to the wagon. He filled Gumption’s nose bag with the same
mix he’d just fixed for Cleo.

  He patted her sleek, golden neck. “Gonna give you the day off tomorrow, Cleo,” he said to her before he turned toward Gumption. “’Cause you’re getting fat.” He patted the roan’s rump, then climbed up into the wagon.

  Jenny was inside, hunched over a book.

  “Hello, daredevil,” Jason said with a hopeful smile.

  She looked up. “Daredevil?”

  “Saw you and Megan lighting the fire earlier. Good job.”

  “Thanks,” she replied, without expression, and turned back to her book.

  Jason tried again. “What you reading, Jen?”

  She held it up, showing him the spine at the same time she said, “Moby Dick.”

  Jason grinned. If she was reading, she was feeling more like herself. Maybe he wouldn’t need to leave her off in Santa Fe after all.

  Rain pelted the canvas overhead now, and he heard thunder in the distance. He found himself a place to sit, then took off his hat. “Gonna be a goose-drownder.”

  Jenny said, “A toad-floater.”

  He grinned back. “We’ve got to get you started on Jane Austen, Jenny.”

  She looked up, head cocked. “Why?”

  Jason closed his eyes and shrugged. “Just think you ought to be reading some ‘girl’ books, that’s all.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t holler at me. I’m sleeping. And wake me for supper.”

  He heard her let out an exasperated groan, but then it was over, just like that. He fell asleep to the sound of raindrops pelting overhead.

  Chapter 14

  Three men stood on the banks of the raging creek, now grown to a full-blown river after last night’s rain. The rain had stopped hours ago, but it seemed there was no end to the runoff from the Sangre de Cristos.

  “They look so far away,” Saul Cohen said dreamily.

  “Not so far as they did yesterday,” added Salmon Kendall.

  “Near or far, doesn’t matter,” said Jason bitterly. So much for his record-making trip to Santa Fe. They could be stuck here for days, and he said so.

  “Days, Jason? That long?” Saul asked. “It’s moving pretty fast. Seems to me it ought to empty out those mountains in no time.”

  Salmon shrugged. “Mayhap it’s not that deep?”

  “Oh, it’s deep, all right,” Jason said, “and it’s running fast. You’re right about that, Saul. We’ll make camp here, well back from the creek.” He turned and pointed farther from the shore, to a line where the grass and brush weren’t bent over and slicked with mud. “I don’t want anybody closer than ten feet from the other side of that flood line, and have everybody set a rock behind their wheels.”

  Saul’s brows flew up. “The water, it was up here, wasn’t it? But that’s a good thing, no? See how far it has gone down?”

  Salmon shook his head. “Looks to me like it only had to go down two or three inches to back its way down there, Saul. This here’s pretty flat land, where we’re standin’.”

  “What’re you bunch of old hens doin’?” came Matt MacDonald’s voice from behind them. He was riding up. “Let’s get to fordin’ that thing.” He jabbed his finger toward the swollen banks of the creek.

  Jason, as usual, was highly tempted to yank him down off that horse and just plain haul off and slug him. But, also as usual, he held himself back. His back to Matt, he just said, “Can’t be done.”

  “Did you try? Did you even try to ride across?”

  “It’s very deep, Matthew,” said Saul. “He should know, shouldn’t he?”

  Matt snorted. “Yeah? Well, when was the last time you were through here, Fury? Eight, ten years ago?”

  “Six,” Jason said.

  “Well, a lot of things can change in six years,” Matt said. “Hell, that’s more than half a decade!” And with that, he goosed his horse into a quick trot, heading straight toward the edge of the water.

  Jason hollered, “Hey!”

  Saul and Salmon both shouted, “Stop!”

  But Matt entered the water, which quickly rose from his horse’s fetlocks to knees and hocks. Any time now, Jason thought. Then, quite suddenly, it was as if the world had dropped from beneath Matt’s horse.

  They were both in the rapidly moving creek, with the horse struggling to keep his head above water while Matt tried to stay in the saddle.

  “Oh, cripes!” Jason swore softly, then yelled, “Get off! You’re drowning him! Get behind him and grab his tail!”

  Matt acted as if he were deaf and continued to cling frantically to the horse’s back.

  “Matt! Matthew MacDonald!” Hamish came thundering up behind Jason and the others. “Jason, get him out of there!”

  “Been trying,” Jason said. Matt was in the current now, and he and his floundering horse were moving swiftly away. “He won’t listen.”

  “Matt, boy! Can you hear me?” Hamish called. If he could hear, Matt gave no sign. “Dammit, Fury! Do something!”

  Jason said, “Give me your horse, Hamish.”

  Hamish got down and handed over the reins without question.

  Jason swung up into the saddle, and took off at a lope, parallel to the swollen creek bed, silently cursing all the while. He knew why he was the one everyone counted on to save this idiot, but wished he’d been at the other end of the forming camp. And then felt guilty for thinking it.

  When he came up even with Matt, he pulled Hamish’s rope from the horn and shook out a loop. He’d try for the horse’s head, but he’d be happy to just get a rope on Matt. The horse could make it out by himself without Matt impeding him.

  But his loop snagged the horse’s head. He quickly tied the end of it around the horn, and then, praying that Hamish had paid somebody better than he or Matthew to train it, commanded, “Back! Back, old son!”

  Lo and behold, the rope grew taut. Matthew’s progress was halted, and his horse began to turn in the water, and then slowly began to swim diagonally against the current, toward Jason.

  “Good boy. Back, back . . .” Jason kept on talking calmly to Hamish’s horse, and the tall gelding kept doing his best to please.

  And then Matt’s horse began to struggle. Jason knew he was having a hard time kneeing his way over the crest of the bank and carrying Matt’s weight, too. So he tried again.

  “Matt! Get off him and grab his tail! He’ll pull you up right after him!”

  Matt shook his head vehemently. Mr. Big Man Matt MacDonald was scared to death, and Jason knew it—and if he didn’t get over it pretty damn quick, he was going to get both himself and his horse killed.

  “Can I help?” huffed an out-of-breath Hamish, who had apparently run after him.

  “Yes,” said Jason. He quickly slid down off the horse and told Hamish, “Don’t let this horse move until I tell you, got it?”

  Hamish gave a quick nod, and Jason took off, running downstream toward Matt and his horse. Once he hit the water, he grabbed the rope to help him keep his balance. He knew that the water would be about waist high on him, unless he went over the invisible bank that Matt’s horse was struggling against. He didn’t plan to get that far.

  Fighting the current, he waded out to about ten feet from the horse’s head and called to Matt again. “Get off the damned horse, you fool! He can’t make the bank with you on him!”

  Nothing. No response.

  He walked five feet closer, halving the distance between them. “Matt! Turn your head toward me and look.”

  Slowly, Matt’s head came around. He appeared to see his father, because Jason thought he saw just a touch of relief on his face.

  Jason said, “If you’re afraid you’re going to get kicked, dismount and work your way forward till you can get you hand on the rope, okay?”

  This time, Matt nodded. He let go of the reins, much to his horse’s relief, and grabbed a handful of wet mane instead. Jason could tell that he’d freed his feet from the stirrups when his backside bobbed to the surface and he began to pull himself forward.<
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  He nearly drowned his horse in the process, but at last he had the rope in his hands and hauled himself forward, hand over hand, to Jason, who said, “You can stand up, now.”

  Matt did, and seemed surprised when the water was that shallow.

  “Get back up to dry land,” Jason said. “Tell your father not to let that horse of his move a muscle.”

  Matt, who was feeling well enough to grumble, threw Jason a sneer and worked his way around him. Jason waited until Matt was halfway back to his father before he moved forward, toward the horse.

  He managed to grab one of the reins, snaking along the top of the water, and softly said, “It’s all right, old boy. You’re safe. Calm down, easy, easy.” Slowly, the terrified animal relaxed a bit. Although his hooves still churned the water.

  “All right, fella, now this is going to take a little work from both me and you, but we can do it, can’t we?” Jason kept on, holding his tone even and light and comforting. “Sure, we can. We won’t let that dumbhead be the end of us, will we, boy?”

  He snagged the other rein. “All right now, I’m going to let go of this rope. Things are easier when you can breathe, aren’t they? And I’m just praying that I won’t get swept down in there with you. Now, when I jerk your reins, you just come along with me, just like coming out of a stall that’s dug down a mite from constant cleaning, right?”

  Jason closed his eyes for a second in silent prayer, then braced himself against the current and let go of the rope. He jerked the reins. “Hup, boy, hup!” he cried.

  And the pinto clambered over the crest of the bank, just as easily as a cat running up a tree.

  With the horse’s bulk to keep him from floating off downstream, Jason threw his arms around the beast’s neck. “Good boy!” he cried, then added, more softly, “Atta boy. We weren’t going to let that idiot kill us, were we? We’re made of tougher stuff than that.”

  Behind him, on the bank, he heard Hamish applauding and his cries of, “That’a boy, Jason! Good job!”