A Town Called Fury

by William W. Johnstone

  Jason, his rifle over his shoulder, jumped down from his wagon and walked forward, holding up a hand. The incoming wagons stopped, and a middle-aged fellow, his graying head bandaged and one arm in a sling, rode out to meet him.

  “Had some trouble?” Jason asked.

  “Comanche,” the wounded man said. “They killed nigh on half of us—men, women, kids, it didn’t matter—before they ran off our herd. We’re half-starved, mister. Best we’ve done since the attack was a deer, three days back.”

  “Well, settle your wagons here, friend. We’ll feed you, and we’ve got a doctor, too.”

  “Bless you, son, may God bless you all,” came the broken-voiced reply. Jason could see tears brimming in the man’s eyes. “What are you called, son?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jason said. “I’m Jason Fury, sir.”

  “Well, by God.” The man took off his hat and slapped it across his heart. “You any relation to my good friend Jedediah Fury?”

  “His son, sir.”

  The man let out a happy hoot. “He here, or are you leadin’ this whole shebang by your lonesome? Oh, and I’m Colorado Gooding, leadin’ what’s left of this tattery crew to Santa Fe.”

  “I’ve heard my father speak of you, Mr. Gooding,” Jason said, and held up his hand, which Gooding shook. “But I have bad news. My father was killed on the trail a few weeks back. Comanche, possibly the same band that attacked you.”

  “Lordy,” breathed Gooding as he bowed his head. “Ain’t nothin’ good in the world anymore? The great Jedediah Fury, dead and gone.”

  Jason suddenly realized that he felt much the same. There had been so much to take care of, so many people to handle and manage, that he hadn’t had time to mourn. He hadn’t thought he needed to. But right now, in the presence of this stranger, he found himself crying just like a kid.

  He wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve, but that didn’t stop the tears from falling. Before he realized what was happening, Colorado Gooding had dismounted.

  “We’re all gonna miss him terrible, son,” Gooding said, and he was crying now, too. “Somethin’ terrible.”

  Jason didn’t know how long they stood there, in the middle of that meadow, weeping. All he knew was that when it was done, he felt better. And he was pretty damned glad that Hamish and Matt MacDonald hadn’t been there to see him.

  “Sorry,” he said as he finally backed up and stood erect. He gave a final wipe to his eyes. “Didn’t mean to go all blubbery on you, Mr. Gooding. My pa always taught me that men don’t cry.”

  Gooding actually chuckled and sniffled at the same time. “Well, Jason, even your pa couldn’t be right about everything. And call me Colorado. Now tell me. What are you folks doin’ stopped out here on a nice day like this?”

  * * *

  They moved Gooding’s wagons around half of Jason’s, in a semicircle, and then Jason showed Gooding the dig. Gooding immediately added what few able-bodied men he had left to the project, and then sent the others to Dr. Morelli, who was obviously thrilled to be able to put down his shovel and pick up instruments more suitable to his profession.

  The digging was finished by nightfall, and once again, the men butchered a steer and the womenfolk put together a meal. Gooding’s people ate ravenously.

  Jason, Saul, Morelli, Salmon, Hamish, Colorado Gooding, and a few of Colorado’s men all sat near the main campfire, eating good barbecued beef, hot corn bread with butter and jelly, and a variety of canned vegetables from practically every wagon in Jason’s train.

  “You sure it was Comanche?” Hamish was asking.

  “Sure as the day I was borned,” Colorado replied. “Filty bastards.”

  “I wonder why they let us off so easy,” Hamish mused as he helped himself to more coffee.

  “I’d hardly call it ‘easy,’ ” Jason said. “And we had quite a few more men with guns.”

  “That knew how to use them, anyway,” Colorado said with a shake of his head. “We was damned lucky to keep our scalps.”

  One of his men, a big Swede called Thorson, nodded in agreement. “We are lucky to be eating this good meal with you, to have lived this long. I lost my brother and his wife, and even I took a spear in my leg.”

  “Lucky I caught it when I did, Thorson,” said Dr. Morelli. “You were pretty close to gangrene.”

  “Didn’t your people have a doctor in their number?” Saul asked in amazement. “Or sugar cubes?”

  Colorado blinked, then shook his head. “Closest we had to a doc was a midwife. But she got killed right off. And what’s sugar cubes got to do with anything?”

  Jason said, “Long story, Colorado.”

  “You say you knew Jason’s papa?” Hamish asked.

  “Me an’ ol’ Jedediah Fury go way back to forty-nine,” Colorado replied. “You know, when everybody and his brother went gold-crazy? Why, practical every other feller in the country was off to see the elephant, and it was folks like me and Jedediah what took ’em there.”

  “Elephants? There are elephants where we are going?” Saul asked, his eyes wide.

  Salmon, sitting next to him, whispered, “Not really. I’ll tell you later.”

  “More than once, me and Jedediah met up somewhere and hooked our caravans together,” Colorado went on. “Strength in numbers and all that. By God, this is fine beef, Jason. My regards to the cook.”

  “Cooks,” Jason corrected him, catching Megan’s eye.

  “In fact, I was thinking—if Jason ain’t got no objections—that mayhap we could tag along with you as far as Santa Fe.”

  “That where you’re headed, then, is it?” Hamish asked.

  “Yup. All right with you, Jason?”

  “Fine by me,” Jason said.

  Chapter 17

  The two trains, now one, crossed the creek the next morning, saving the Widow Griggs, whose late husband, Milton, had installed a cast-iron bottom in his wagon, and had carried an anvil in it, for last, right before the livestock were run across.

  By the time the last goat bleated its way across, water was already beginning to seep across the lowest part of the built-up, artificial path they’d made to bridge the creek. Jason knew, because he stayed behind, watching to make certain that every single wagon, ox, horse, cow, pig, goat, and dog made it across without problem.

  Colorado Gooding was somewhere up front, he supposed, taking much pleasure in heading up such a large train of wagons. And Hamish MacDonald was probably right beside him, talking up the beauties of the lands beyond Santa Fe, at least what he’d heard or read about them.

  Jason reined Cleo around and loped her up past the herd to catch up with the wagons. People actually looked happy this morning, where they had appeared sharp or cross or simply dejected before. Maybe it was because they were finally moving again. Maybe it was because the rain was over, and the sky was clear.

  Whatever the reason, he was just thankful. Even Eulaylee Jameson, her cat, Boots, dozing in her lap, waved and smiled when he passed her rig. He was so surprised, in fact, that it took him a second to return the gesture and add, “Fine morning, isn’t it, Mrs. Jameson?”

  “Lovely, Mr. Fury, just lovely,” she replied with a genuine grin before she turned her attention back to her team.

  Jason dug his heels into his mare before Eulaylee had a chance to think of any other questions, but slowed down when he reached the Cohens’ rigs. Saul was driving the one behind, the rig that carried the merchandise for his hardware store.

  “Mornin’,” Jason called.

  Saul waved. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  “That why everybody’s in such a good mood?”

  Saul said, “I believe so. This troubles you?”

  Jason thumbed his hat back. “Only insofar as Eulaylee Jameson smiled at me, Saul.”

  Saul laughed. “I supposed that might trouble me as well, but then, I have the safety of my Rachael’s skirts to hide behind, don’t I?” He wiggled his eyebrows comically. “And I am not such a fine figure of a man as you
, Jason. Rachael says you make all the girls’ hearts beat a little faster.”

  Jason made a face and waved his hand at Saul. “These women don’t have enough to do that they’ve got to gossip all day?”

  Saul said “We men brag about the animals we hunt or the men we best.” Saul shrugged. “Maybe it gives them something to do while they cook. While they do the things that women do.” The grin faded from his face, and he said, “Jason, you watch out for that Alabama man.”

  “Who?”

  “Montana. Utah. Whatever his name is.”

  “Colorado?”

  Saul nodded.

  “Why? He was a friend of my pa’s, Saul.”

  Saul shook his head, then said, “Something bothers me. Perhaps it is just that he is too friendly with Hamish and the reverend. Perhaps it is only that I do not believe he has bathed in too long a time. I don’t know. Don’t listen to me.”

  “No, Saul, no,” Jason said. “I’ve been concerned about Colorado, myself.” He didn’t say how much. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to go suspecting the man he’d blubbered all over last night of . . . what? Commandeering his wagon train? That was just crazy.

  Still, he waved Saul good-bye and goosed his mare ahead, toward the front of the train. It was getting on toward afternoon, and he’d best be up front when Hamish found out there was another branch of the creek to ford.

  It looked to him like Colorado Gooding had added nine wagons to their force. Most were driven by women, but he saw a few strange men on horseback. To these, he rode up and introduced himself.

  He met Paul Hartung, Garth Witherspoon, Mel Sanderson, farmers and ranchers all, and Raul Chavez, a native of Santa Fe, who had ridden all the way to Kansas City to pick out new pigments for his stained-glass business, and was now hauling them back with Gooding’s caravan.

  “The other hombres, they were killed by Comanche,” he said, in a thick Mexican accent. “My own brother, Luis, was among the dead.”

  Jason nodded. “I guess we’ve all lost somebody.”

  “Mr. Gooding, he tells us of your father. I am sorry, amigo.”

  “Thanks. Sorry for your brother, too. Were you two in the glass business together?”

  “Sí. He was learning the trade.” Chavez suddenly looked ahead, staring. “Dios mio. Is this yet another creek to be forded?”

  “Probably,” muttered Jason. He tipped his hat and loped on ahead, leaving Chavez behind.

  * * *

  “Damn it!” Hamish roared. He was off his horse and pounding his thigh with his fisted hat. “Damn it, I knew it.”

  Jason figured there had been quite a bit of swearing that came before, and was glad that he had only just ridden up. He, too, dismounted.

  He looked down, and said, “Well, it looks like we’ve got another hole to start filling, Hamish.”

  Colorado burst into laughter while Hamish grumbled. The Reverend Milcher, who had ridden a few feet off to the side, probably so as not to sully his ears with Hamish’s profanity, rode closer and stopped.

  “Dear Lord,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

  “There you be right on the money, Reverend,” cackled Colorado.

  Hamish turned an irate face toward Jason. “If you’d done the sensible thing and taken us farther south, we would’ve only had to ford this bloody thing one blasted time.”

  Actually, it would have been twice, but Jason wasn’t about to quibble. He was more inclined to punch Hamish right in the middle of his furry red face. But he didn’t. He stood his ground and clenched and unclenched his jaw, and then said, “Hamish, if you don’t want to dig, then why don’t you take a couple of men and go shoot us a couple of deer or antelope for supper?”

  Hamish gritted his teeth and swung back up on his horse and, without a word, rode back along the line of wagons toward the remuda. Jason noticed that he pulled his boy out of line to follow him.

  Good riddance, Jason thought, and turned his attention back to the gaping hole that ran the length of the creek bed.

  This branch carried quite a bit more water than the previous passage, and was wider and deeper. The banks were only six or seven feet above the water, although there was no telling how deep that water was. Not without going in.

  With a sigh, he tossed his reins to Colorado, who said, “Hope you can swim, boy.”

  Jason looked up. “You want to volunteer?”

  Colorado waved his arms. “Wouldn’t dream of robbin’ you of the pleasure.”

  Muttering, “I didn’t think so,” Jason walked to the edge of the bank and slid straight down it, on his butt. Upon landing, he found himself knee-deep in water, and called up, “You’d best toss me down a loop, Colorado, or I’ll never get back up.”

  In a matter of seconds, a rope sailed down and landed in front of him in the brown murk. He picked it up and waded out to the middle, then the opposite bank, then ten feet upstream and back across. The water, at its deepest, was only waist-high on him—a depth that, under normal circumstances, could be easily forded by both livestock and wagons. The bed was gravel and seemed solid enough. The problem would be getting the wagons and livestock down to it.

  Well, it wasn’t like he was new to digging.

  He snugged the rope around his middle, sloshed back down to where the horses were waiting above, took a steady grip on the rope, and cried, “Start hauling, Colorado!”

  * * *

  The second dig wasn’t as bad as the first.

  For one thing, they had a few more men on the crew, right from the start. For another, all the dirt could be thrown to the side instead of carried to, and thrown into, the creek itself. Still, it took them until well after dark, and they were not finished, even then.

  Jason called a halt for the day, and they all trooped back to the now-circled wagons and the cook fire.

  Dinner was a little sparse, Jenny thought. Hamish, Matt, and their men hadn’t been able to scare up more than one thin buck for their dinner, but the women had stretched it by making venison stew with plenty of home-canned okra, peas, potatoes, onions, and tomatoes. And one of the Cohen’s goats. The goat’s name was Nellie, and Jenny was sorry to see her butchered.

  Saul sat next to Jason and Jenny while they ate, his wife having taken charge of the children, and every once in a while, tired though he was, he said, “Well, now, I believe that was a piece of my Nellie. Not so gamy, you know?”

  And Jason would laugh through his fatigue, Jenny would smile, and Saul would shrug his shoulders.

  And they all would think very unkind thoughts about Hamish and Matt MacDonald. Except for Jenny. She was still thinking kind thoughts about Matt. More than kind, as a matter of fact.

  Just that morning, he had kissed her behind the shelter of his father’s wagon. There was no particular reason for it, which made it all the more exciting for Jenny. He had simply led his horse up to her, after Megan, to whom she’d been talking, went up front. He grabbed a pair of gloves out of the back of the wagon, smiled, leaned over, kissed her square on the mouth, mounted up, and rode off.

  All without a word.

  She’d been thinking about it all day long. And she hadn’t told anyone, not even Megan. Not even her diary. And especially not Jason.

  Jason would throw a fit, wouldn’t he?

  Especially now, as exhausted as he was. He was practically falling asleep while he ate, although she had been able to coax him into changing out of those muddy clothes. That was something, anyway. Usually, she couldn’t get him to do anything that was even halfway good for him.

  But even now, tired and dirty, he was still remarkably handsome, she thought. If she’d been an artist or a sculptor, she couldn’t think of any other subject she’d rather paint or model than her brother. Or Matthew MacDonald. Either one would do quite beautifully.

  She realized that the little group had gone silent, and looked over at Jason and Saul. Saul had fallen back against the wagon’s wheel, and was asleep with his mouth open. Jason dozed with his chin
on his chest.

  “Some wagon master,” she muttered, and stood up to step over her brother. She put her hand gently on Saul’s shoulder, and when he opened one eye, said, “It’s time to go to your wagon, Mr. Cohen.”

  As she helped him to his feet, she heard a distant rumble of thunder and muttered, “Wonderful. Just what we need.”

  When Saul had sleepily stumbled off a good twenty feet and his wife came out to make sure he got all the way home, Jenny bent to Jason.

  She had him, in fact, clear up into the wagon and had his boots pried off before the skies opened.

  Chapter 18

  Jenny didn’t know how she’d fallen asleep. But she must have, for the next thing she knew Jason was gone and there was a lot of yelling outside, mixed in with the battering of rain on the lightning-brightened canvas roof.

  Quickly, she poked her head outside. She might as well have poured a bucket of water over her head, the rain was that fast and thick. But through it, she was able to see men rushing from their wagons and toward the creek. Mr. Kendall was going from wagon to wagon, right around the circle, waking them up, and it wasn’t long before he came to hers.

  He was trotting through the mud, going to go right on past, but she flagged him down. “Mr. Kendall! What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He looked wild-eyed. “It’s Carrie English! Her wagon’s goin’ in the creek!” He was off and running again before the last words were out of his mouth.

  After glancing back to make certain that Jason had heard, too, Jenny jumped down from the wagon without thinking about a coat or hat, even in the cold rain, and began slogging her way toward the creek. She couldn’t imagine why the Widow English had moved her wagon so near the stream that it could slide in. It had been a good thirty feet from the bank this afternoon, while the men were digging.

  Jenny picked up her pace. There was little Chrissy to think of, and Rags.

  * * *

  Carrie English, soaked and sobbing, was now sheltered in Hamish MacDonald’s comforting grip, and the last thing Jason heard, when he ran for his horse, was Hamish saying, “Don’t you worry, lass, Jason’ll get her.” He prayed that Hamish was, for once, right. He leapt into Cleo’s saddle—which had been put in place by Ward—and loped along the water’s edge, signaling Ward and Saul and Morelli to get a move on, too. It was black as pitch, save for the lightning that flashed all too near, and he felt as though he were standing in a shower bath. A cold one.