A Town Called Fury

by William W. Johnstone

  “The Good Lord didn’t have his ear turned toward you on that one, Fury,” broke in Mel Sanderson, one of Colorado Gooding’s men. “Appears he didn’t hear any of us.” Sanderson picked up the dipper that Saul had just put down and helped himself to the water.

  “I couldn’t say, Sanderson,” Jason told him. “But so far, we’re alive, aren’t we?”

  “At least, most of us are,” cut in a sweaty Matt MacDonald, who had just stepped up for his turn at the fresh water.

  Jason didn’t answer him. “Back to work, men,” he said, and started back to the dig.

  Behind him, he heard Sanderson say, “Don’t believe that Jason feller likes you much, son.”

  And Matt MacDonald’s growled reply: “The feeling’s mutual.”

  Chapter 20

  By four o’clock, most of the wagons had successfully forded the creek, and were setting up a new camp about one hundred yards from the point of crossing. Jason was still busy at the ford, though, helping the remaining wagons across the stream, then climbing back up the muddy slope they had dug down to it.

  Last of all came the Wheelers’ iron-bottom wagon, which managed to sink into a creek bed that had held up under the previous wagons just fine. Jason had to run and borrow a couple of oxen from one of the other wagons to help pull it up.

  But he got the job done, then brought the herd and remuda across. They were the easiest, although the hogs and goats were a little cranky about being asked to ford something that was deeper than they were tall.

  Everybody made it fine, though.

  By five, the women were cooking dinner. Mel Sanderson had produced a harmonica and proved to be pretty darned good with it. When she felt the song was godly enough, Mrs. Milcher accompanied him from inside her wagon, on the piano.

  Jason leaned back against the side of his wagon, where Jenny and Megan sat on a blanket. “Three hundred yards in a day,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Pa would be plain embarrassed.”

  Jenny looked up. “Papa would be proud, and you know it, Jason.”

  “He thought seven miles a day on the flat was bad.”

  “That wasn’t counting digging fords,” she said. “How long til we get to Santa Fe?”

  “A week, maybe, if we’re lucky. We’ve got the Sangre de Cristo foothills to contend with.”

  Mrs. Milcher stopped playing, for Sanderson had turned to playing a lively jig and Colorado had pulled out a fiddle and was playing along, with a great deal of enthusiasm if not much talent. Several couples were dancing.

  Megan stood up and shyly held her hand toward Jason just as Abigail Krimp came up from the other side and grabbed his arm. “Let’s dance, Jason,” Abigail said, pulling him toward her.

  He didn’t have much choice. He followed her out to where the other pilgrims were dancing, and joined in. When he turned back toward the wagon, Megan had disappeared.

  * * *

  The trail, which had become frequently used enough to show ruts, split into a Y in the foothills. And about six feet from that very spot, Hamish MacDonald and Jason were having a difference of opinion.

  “I say we go up,” Hamish insisted, pointing toward the right hand arm of the Y. “Right is over the mountain. We’ll save time.”

  “It’ll take us over the foothills, all right, but it’s tricky. We’re bound to lose some wagons, maybe people. I won’t chance it, Hamish.”

  “You’re loony, lad. Look how deep those ruts are! It looks to me as if more than half the travelers that have passed this way have taken that route!”

  It was all Jason could do not to slap the old man right across his ruddy whiskers. He said, “We’re taking the low road, Hamish. Around the foothills, not through them. You can do as you damn well please. I’m sick and tired of fighting with you.”

  And then he just rode off, shouting to the wagons directly behind to follow him, and left Hamish sitting his horse in their path.

  He didn’t look back for quite some time, being content to ease along the trail followed by the clanks and rumbles of wagons and the rhythmic plods of hooves. But when he did glance up, he caught sight of something that made his stomach turn over—Hamish MacDonald’s wagon, driven by Hamish himself, with Matthew up front on horseback.

  It didn’t make him ill that Hamish wanted to chance killing himself, and it certainly didn’t bother him that Matthew was up there—but Megan . . . Had Megan followed her father and taken the mountain trail? Was she in that wagon?

  Leaving Ward to lead the caravan, he galloped back to his own rig, only to find Jenny deep in conversation with Megan.

  “Megan,” he cried in relief. “You didn’t go with your father and brother!”

  Megan said, “They’re crazy. I told them that if I couldn’t stop them from killing themselves, I could at least save myself.” Then she added, “They won’t get killed, will they? I mean, not really?”

  “They had a big fight over it, Jason,” Jenny interjected. He didn’t understand why, but Jenny acted as if she’d rather they hadn’t left the rest of the train. Jenny knew what a pain in the butt Hamish had always been, and the trouble Jason continually had with Matt.

  Megan said, “You’ve got to stop them, Jason! I know they’re both bullheaded, but . . . I mean, I was only trying to . . .” And then she doubled over and began to weep.

  Before Jason realized it, he had leapt from Cleo’s back to the wagon seat and taken Megan into his arms. Jenny, sitting just beyond Megan, arched her brows, glanced heavenward.

  “Megan, it’s too late,” he began.

  She sobbed harder.

  “Megan, I didn’t mean . . . what I meant to say was that it’s too late for them to turn their rig around. They’d have to back the Conestoga down that narrow trail, and that’s a lot more dangerous than just going on ahead. They’ll be fine up there if they’re careful.”

  Sniffling, she lifted her face and looked into his eyes. “Really?” she asked.

  Her eyes, cheeks, and nose were reddened with weeping and moist with tears, and for some reason he couldn’t help thinking that she’d never looked more beautiful. He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her.

  Her lips were soft and warm. He heard his sister hiss, “Jason!”

  Blinking rapidly, he pulled away. Megan’s face was filled with questions, Jenny’s with outright shock and surprise. He felt heat shoot up his neck and fill his cheeks.

  He scooted away to the very edge of the bench, then dropped down and off the wagon. It was a miracle he landed on his feet, he was shaking so hard. The big wheels rolled on by him. Megan’s head appeared briefly, peeking around the edge of the canvas roof. And then somebody jerked her back. Undoubtedly Jenny.

  He whistled for Cleo, and the palomino came trotting up. He remounted, wondering why just kissing a girl would have such an effect on him! But this was no Washington-soiled dove or Kansas City whore. This was the girl he was going to marry.

  Marry? Where had that come from?

  * * *

  “Megan MacDonald!” Jenny scolded as she jerked Megan back, momentarily incensed that her best friend had allowed Jason to kiss her in public. Especially when that same best friend had been so unpleasant about Jenny’s confessed feelings for Matt.

  She was still mad about it, even though she had pretended to forgive Megan. It just made things easier, that was all—it wasn’t as if Jenny could just find a new best friend in the little community of the train.

  But this new affront was too much!

  “What do you mean by kissing my brother?” she asked. “I mean, right out here in front of God and everybody?”

  Megan had a slightly dazed look on her face. She said, “I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me.” And then she smiled, just like a cat in the cream, and leaned back. “He kissed me!”

  “You sure stopped crying quick.”

  Megan didn’t answer.

  Jenny frowned. “Maybe you’d better fill me in with the rules for this sort of thing. I’m probably too young to underst
and,” she added sarcastically, “but I’ll try.”

  Megan turned toward her. “Understand what?”

  “Why it’s all right for you to make eyes at my brother all the time, and for you to kiss him right out where anybody can see you, but it’s not all right for me to do the same with your brother. Don’t you think I’m good enough for your precious Matthew?”

  Megan said, “Just the opposite, Jenny. I don’t think he’s good enough for you.”

  * * *

  “Jason, oh, Jason!” Abigail Krimp waved her hankie at him from the driver’s seat of Nordstrom’s spare wagon and, reluctantly, he made his way over. She was all dolled up today—looked like she’d just walked out of a saloon, actually—in spangles and sparkly things and cheap jewelry.

  “Hello, Miss Abigail,” he said, and tipped his hat as he rode alongside the wagon. “What can I do for you this afternoon?”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing at all, Jason,” she said. She dabbed the hankie at her own neck—and chest, most of which was exposed. “I just wanted to tell you what a fine dancer you are. In case I didn’t last night, I mean. Because you really are. A good dancer, I mean.”

  “I, uh . . . Thank you,” he said, flustered. “Well, I’d best get back up front.”

  “Oh, don’t go quite so soon,” Abigail said, before he had a chance to show Cleo his heels. “Did you know that we had such talented musicians in our very midst?”

  “My pa said something about Colorado playing the fiddle.” Badly.

  “I thought he was just grand, didn’t you?”

  “I really have to—”

  “Jason!” Ward Wanamaker galloped toward him from the front of the train. “Jason, come quick!”

  Grateful for the excuse to turn his back on Abigail Krimp, Jason pushed Cleo from a walk directly into a lope and rode up to see what was agitating Ward.

  When they met, Ward looked as shook up as a bottle of overwarm sarsaparilla, ready to explode. “You’ve got to come up front!” he shouted.

  Jason held his hands over his ears—Ward was only a couple feet from him, but he was yelling like he was still six wagons away.

  “Sorry,” Ward said, still excited, but less loud. “There’s been an accident.”

  Hamish had fallen off the damned mountain. That was the first thought that came into his head.

  But Ward followed up with, “It’s the Milchers. They busted a wheel all to smash!”

  Well, that was just wonderful, wasn’t it? “I don’t suppose they’ve got a spare?”

  Ward blinked. “You know, I didn’t think to ask ’em.”

  “Well, get up there and do it.” Ward galloped off, and Jason turned his attention to slowing up and halting the other wagons. When he came to Salmon Kendall’s rig, Salmon asked if he needed a hand, which Jason gratefully accepted.

  Salmon untied his saddle horse from the rear of his wagon, tightened its girth, and swung up into the saddle. “If they don’t got a spare, I do, and so do the MacDonalds and Saul,” he said as they jogged forward. “There’s probably more, but I don’t—”

  “The MacDonalds’ spare wheel is probably halfway up the mountainside,” Jason said, “but I’m glad to know that you and Saul both have one.” More like, he was pleased to hear that a couple of his employers weren’t complete idiots. But he didn’t say so.

  Instead, he said, “I thought an extra wagon wheel was on Pa’s ‘necessities list’ for each wagon, right along with a rifle and water.”

  “It was, Jason, it was.”

  Chapter 21

  As it turned out, an extra wagon wheel was one of the “frills” the Reverend Milcher had thrown out so he could fit his new piano in the wagon. And Saul Cohen had the misfortune of being in the wagon right in front of the Milchers, and thus was deprived of his spare.

  “Sorry, Saul,” Jason said as they watched Milcher, Salmon, Colorado, and Milt Billings lever Milcher’s wagon up onto a makeshift support consisting of Mrs. Milcher’s marble-topped dresser. Milcher had done a job on his wheel, all right. If he had tried to find the biggest, most jagged boulder to run over, he couldn’t have done a better job. Jason had Ward slapping whitewash on the offending rock, to mark it out for the following wagons.

  Saul was philosophical about the whole thing, though. He shrugged and said, “It’s good to help the man who hates you. He might come in handy later on. At least, that’s what my Uncle Nathan used to say, and didn’t he die the wealthiest Jew in New Jersey?”

  Jason thumbed back his hat and said, “Guess I never thought about it that way. But you’re right.”

  The humiliation of it was written all over Milcher’s face. It must be eating him up inside to think that he and his kin were going to make it only because a heathen Hebrew had done him a favor.

  With a loud thud, accompanied by numerous groans and the discordant hum of piano wires, the wagon was dropped on its support. Jason said, “I sure wish that Seth Wheeler was still with us. At least he knew something about being a wheelwright.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to see Mary since the attack,” Saul said. “How is she holding up?”

  “Fine, I suppose,” Jason replied. “Well, as good as anybody else under the circumstances. She was a big help to Dr. Morelli. She was a nurse during the War, you know.”

  Saul nodded. “And, I’m told, a dance hall girl before that.”

  This was news to Jason. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Rachael. These women, they gossip,” Saul said, staring straight ahead. “Well, they gossip and my Rachael, she keeps her ears open. Anything you want to know about the private affairs of anyone we have lived near or known or almost known in the past nine years, you bring yourself to Saul Cohen and ask. I’ll ask Rachael for you.”

  The men had Milcher’s old wheel pulled off. Well, it wasn’t really a wheel anymore. It was just splintered wood and a bent, broken, rusty rim, which they tossed to the side in pieces.

  The land they were currently stalled on had taken what Jason’s father would have called “a turn for the worse.” Trees, when there were any, had gone shrubby or stunted and twisted. The color of the earth varied, but was mostly the color of powdery, dried blood, and the farmers in the group had been remarking on it since they passed through Indian Territory.

  Snakes were more common, as were spiders. A week earlier, Jason had called everyone around him and explained the importance of watching where they walked, a lecture that was brought on by Europa Morton, sister to their schoolmarm, having been struck by a rattler.

  Usually, she was driving, for her husband, Milton, had been injured and later died during the Comanche raid, but for some reason she was on foot. She had explained that she’d heard somebody’s teakettle hissing and had gone to investigate. And of course, the “hissing” she’d heard was a warning rattle from a rather old and large diamondback.

  The snake was so old, in fact, that it hadn’t injected enough venom to hurt anything more than her pride, but after Ezekial killed it, Jason had stretched and tanned its skin. He thought Europa might like to have it to display. Or that her father might like it for a hatband.

  It turned out that neither one of them wanted the thing, but Salmon Kendall had expressed his admiration for it, so the hatband went to him. It looked a little funny on that floppy-brimmed hat he always wore, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  They got the new wheel in place and levered the wagon back down, although Jason thought that the “sawhorse”—Mrs. Milcher’s bureau—was forever going to be the worse for wear. And they started moving again. By this time, it was nearly five, and Jason figured they could travel for perhaps another hour before they stopped for the night.

  Which they did, at a wide spot on the trail that Jason had remembered. Other wagon trains had used it, too, for there were a couple of graves, marked by crude crosses, near the edge of the place, and someone had left behind an old rocking chair. Saul’s eye landed on it right away, and after giving it a kick to ward off snakes, he scooped
it up, vowing to repair it later.

  There was still no sign of the errant MacDonalds, but Jason didn’t expect it. Either they’d meet up later, in Santa Fe, or Hamish would get himself killed, regardless of anything Jason had said to Megan.

  He felt oddly embarrassed by that kiss. If he’d been thinking, if he’d been in his right mind or she hadn’t looked so vulnerable, he would have restrained himself—both from the action itself, and the self-recriminations that followed. But he hadn’t been and she had, and he didn’t.

  And it was done.

  * * *

  Dinner that night was a hodgepodge of game and tame animals, canned vegetables—and beans, beans, and more beans. Everybody would be glad when they got to Santa Fe and could restock their mobile pantries. Once again, the harmonica and fiddle came out for some music, or at least, something vaguely akin to music, but the piano was silent, Mrs. Milcher having said she wasn’t up to playing.

  Jason figured that was probably the truth. She was still embarrassed about her husband having abandoned their spare wheel in favor of the piano, and likely didn’t want to be reminded so soon.

  As for Jason himself, he was keeping to the shadows, huddled in conversation with Saul or Salmon on the opposite side of the circled wagons from his own wagon and Megan MacDonald. He hadn’t spoken to her since making that grave error earlier in the day. At least, that was how he thought of their kiss now: his grave error.

  They could have absolutely no future together. Hers lay with her father and brother, in California. His lay on the opposite side of the country. She should marry some other erstwhile pioneer. Not him.

  No, not him.

  Still, he couldn’t help feeling drawn to her like iron filings to a magnet. How could he feel she was so right—that she was the one—when she was so obviously wrong for him?

  His head was in danger of losing out to his heart, and he knew it. What he didn’t know was that, being young, he was unintentionally callous, and this was why he avoided her now.

  “What?” he muttered, vaguely aware that Saul had said something.