A Town Called Fury

by William W. Johnstone

  “All right, all right. I’ll go see Abigail. She don’t mind extendin’ a little credit to a poor ol’ man.”

  “Don’t drink too much,” Jason said, although he suspected that the words fell on deaf ears.

  Wash shambled off, and Jason turned back to the marshal’s office. He stopped just outside the door, though, because he spotted someone walking toward him through the early evening gloom. As the figure came closer, he recognized Megan MacDonald.

  “Jason,” she said, “I’d like to talk to you.”

  Chapter 11

  Jason wasn’t going to turn down a chance to spend some time with Megan, although from the sound of her voice he judged that something was troubling her.

  He could make a pretty good guess what it was too. It had to be something to do with her brother.

  Megan looked as pretty as ever as she stepped into the light that spilled through the open doorway of the marshal’s office. Her long auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail that hung down her back. Her green eyes were compelling. As Jason looked at her, he felt a twinge of guilt for being so impressed with Will Dixon’s looks during his visit to the Slash D earlier in the day. He was so fond of Megan that he shouldn’t even be looking at any other women, let alone thinking about how pretty they were.

  “What can I do for you, Megan?” he asked.

  “Can we go inside?”

  “Sure.” He held out a hand to usher her in ahead of him. As he followed her into the office, he asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s been sitting in the pot so long it’s probably strong enough by now to get up and walk off on its own two legs, but—”

  “No, that’s fine.” Megan turned to face him as he eased the door closed. “Jenny told me what happened between Matt and that man Dixon. She said Matt was all right, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to him myself while he was in town.”

  Jason nodded. “He wasn’t hurt, other than a twisted ankle. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “What about Dixon? Is he something to worry about?”

  Jason wanted to lie to her. He didn’t want her troubling herself over Matt. But he respected her too much to do that, and sooner or later—probably sooner—she would just find out the truth anyway.

  “Dixon’s stubborn as a mule. He thinks that the land Matt has claimed is part of his range. If Matt doesn’t get off of it . . .” Jason shrugged. “There’ll be trouble, all right.”

  “Shooting trouble?”

  “Maybe.”

  Megan drew in a deep breath. “I was afraid of that. Jenny said you were going to talk to Dixon.”

  “I did,” Jason said. “It didn’t do a bit of good. I had another talk with your brother too, but it didn’t change anything. They’re like a couple of bulls, Megan, one young and one old but equally determined to butt heads. Problem is, Matt’s alone, while Dixon’s got a tough, salty crew to help him out.”

  “But you can help Matt . . . can’t you?” She came a step closer to him, close enough to lay a hand on his arm. “I know you and Matt don’t get along. Lord knows, sometimes he’s such a fool that he drives me to distraction. But he’s my brother, Jason.”

  “I know,” he said, feeling the same sort of emotional tug-of-war that she did. He didn’t love Matt MacDonald like a brother, of course; in fact he could barely stand the man. But if anything happened to Matt, Jenny wasn’t the only one who would be heartbroken.

  Like it or not, Jason was trapped. Because of the women in his life, he couldn’t ignore the danger to Matt.

  “I’ll try to think of something,” he said. “There’s got to be some way to work this out.”

  “Thank you, Jason.” Megan moved closer still, and he just sort of naturally put his hands on her shoulders. As she closed her eyes, he bent to kiss her. Megan slipped her arms around him and held him tight.

  The kiss lasted only a moment before she slipped out of his embrace. With a shy smile, she looked down at the floor and said, “Good night, Jason.”

  “Wait a minute. I’ll walk you home.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine.”

  She left the office, and he sat down behind the desk to wrack his brain and search for solutions to the problems facing him.

  Unfortunately, memories kept crowding in on his brain. Memories of the way Megan had just felt in his arms and the sweetness of her lips . . .

  And of the bold, challenging look in the eyes of Will Dixon.

  * * *

  Much to Jason’s surprise, things were pretty quiet in Fury for the next couple of weeks. The three hardcases he had run out of town didn’t come back, and the simmering feud between Matt MacDonald and Ezra Dixon stayed in the background, not boiling over into violence. Matt hired some men to help him finish building his barn and corrals. They were newcomers to Fury and didn’t know the potential trouble they were getting into, but even when they heard about the threat from Dixon, they stayed on. Matt always had at least two men standing guard with rifles at the ready while he and the others worked.

  The settlement continued to grow. Fury’s population was nearly two hundred now, and several new businesses opened each week. A café, known as the Red Top because of the Spanish tiles that formed its roof, was a welcome addition to the town. A couple of saloons opened, giving Abigail Krimp some competition. Several wagon trains rolled along the nearby trail, stopping to stock up on provisions and other supplies before they continued on to California. Saul Cohen and Randall Nordstrom did a booming business from the immigrant trade.

  A town council was formed to go along with the mayor, giving Fury a governing body. They passed several ordinances, including one that said no firearms were to be discharged in town, and levied a small tax on the businesses to pay for Jason’s and Ward’s wages. The mayor and council members served as volunteers, working for free, so the wages for the lawmen were the town’s only real expense so far.

  Wash shook his head ruefully after attending the first council meeting. “This town’s done taken its first steps on the road to ruin, boy,” he said to Jason as they walked along the street toward the marshal’s office. “A bunch o’ laws and taxes are the plumb ruination of everything good about a place.”

  “That’s just part of civilization, Wash.”

  “You done made my point. Civilization ain’t natural. It always gets so big and fat that sooner or later it comes crashin’ down because of its own weight. Might not be in our lifetimes, mind you, but it’ll happen. Mark my words.”

  Jason hoped the old pelican was wrong. But only time would tell, he supposed.

  Wash was still ranting. “Hell, if Fury gets much bigger, I’m gonna have to leave. It’s already gettin’ too crowded around—Who the hell’s that?”

  Wash came to an abrupt halt, and Jason stopped walking beside him. Jason saw what Wash had just seen. Four men were riding along Fury’s main street toward them. Strangers who held themselves loose and easy in their saddles. Their heads didn’t move much, but their eyes did, always alert and watchful.

  That was a sure sign of men who were accustomed to trouble.

  The strangers bristled with guns too. A couple of them sported two Colts apiece, and rifle butts stuck up from saddle boots on all four horses. The men’s jaws were beard-stubbled, and their rough clothes were covered with dust. From the looks of them, they had been on the trail for quite a while.

  Jason veered toward the strangers. Wash’s shorter legs hurried to keep up with him. “Best be careful, son,” the old-timer said. “Those hombres look like they been to see the elephant . . . and shot it when they got there.”

  The strangers had a hard-bitten, dangerous look about them, no doubt about that. The man in the lead had a black hat thumbed back on a thatch of curly, sand-colored hair, and even though he smiled as Jason approached, his pale blue eyes remained cold and hard as flint. Jason knew the man had spotted the badge on his shirt.

  “Howdy, Sheriff,” the stranger said as he pulled back on the reins and brought h
is mount to a halt.

  “It’s Marshal,” Jason said. “Marshal Jason Fury.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the man said, even though Jason could tell that he wasn’t. “Name’s Bill Rye.” He nodded toward the other three, who had reined in beside him. “This is Jack Dupree—they call him Three-Finger Jack—Ned Potter, and Nib Sloan.”

  “What brings you to Fury?”

  Bill Rye didn’t answer right away. Instead, he grinned and said, “Town’s got the same name as you, eh, Marshal? They must think highly of you around here.”

  “It was named after my father,” Jason said, wondering if he was going to have to explain that to every newcomer who rode into town from now on. “And you didn’t answer my question, Mr. Rye.”

  “That’s right, I didn’t.” For a second Jason thought Rye was going to refuse to, but then the man went on. “We’re looking for somebody. Man name of Matt MacDonald.”

  A chill went through Jason at those words. He had seen men like Rye and the others before. Gun-hung, hard-faced men whose stock in trade was killing. They dealt in hot lead. Every so often, the wagon trains being led by Jason’s father had crossed trails with such men, and Jason recalled Jedediah talking about them.

  “They got eyes like snakes,” Jedediah had said. “They’re ain’t nothin’ human in ’em. And like a snake, their bite is fast and deadly. Best to steer clear of them if you can, but if you can’t . . . well, make sure you chop the head off with your first blow, because if you don’t, you won’t get a second chance.”

  Bill Rye continued to smile at Jason. “You know this fella MacDonald, Marshal?”

  “What’s your business with him?” Jason thought he knew the answer to that question already. Rye, Dupree, Potter, and Sloan had come to Fury to kill Matt. Instead of dealing himself with the man he considered an interloper, Ezra Dixon had hired these killers to get rid of Matt.

  “Some might say that what we want with MacDonald is our business, Marshal, not yours,” Rye said. “But I’m feeling friendly today, so I’ll tell you . . . MacDonald sent for us. We’re going to work for him.”

  That news threw Jason for a loop. It was just the opposite of what he had expected. Matt was the one who had sent for help, not Dixon.

  Assuming, of course, that Rye was telling the truth. Jason decided that he couldn’t take a chance that the man was lying to him.

  “MacDonald’s out at his ranch,” he said. “I’ll show you where it is.”

  “Much obliged, but you don’t have to trouble yourself. Just tell us where to find it.”

  “I’ll show you,” Jason repeated. “It’s no trouble.”

  Rye shrugged. “Suit yourself. It don’t make no nevermind to us.”

  “Wait here. I’ll get my horse.”

  As Jason turned and walked toward the livery stable, Wash hurried alongside him and said in a low voice, “Them fellas is gunf ighters, Jason. Matt’s gone and hired himself some shootists.”

  “I know,” Jason said with a grim nod. “Find Ward and tell him to keep an eye on things here in town while I’m gone.”

  “Sure. But you know what’s gonna happen once Dixon hears about this, don’t you?”

  “I know,” Jason said. “Matt just raised the stakes in this game.”

  And with that raise, the next hand was more likely than ever to turn deadly.

  Chapter 12

  Cleo had been favoring one leg the past few days, so Jason left the palomino mare in her stall at the stable and saddled up Gumption, his father’s old blue roan, instead. Gumption was something of a plodder but still strong, and Jason didn’t figure he would need Cleo’s speed on this trip out to Matt’s ranch and back.

  Wash insisted on coming with him. “It’s possible that fella was lyin’, and what they’re really after is killin’ Matt,” he said to Jason while they were in the stable, after Wash had passed along Jason’s message to Ward Wanamaker. “You might need a hand stoppin’ ’em.”

  Jason wasn’t sure that he and Wash and Matt could stop the strangers from doing whatever they wanted to. None of them were gunslingers, although Jason had practiced his draw a great deal over the past couple of weeks. He thought that he was quite a bit faster than he had been, without sacrificing any of his accuracy. But he was nowhere near in the same league as hired guns were.

  He tried to persuade Wash to stay in town, but the argument did no good. In the end, the old-timer was beside him as they rode back to join Rye, Dupree, Potter, and Sloan.

  “I still say you don’t have to go out there with us, Marshal,” Rye commented.

  “I’m going,” Jason said.

  Rye shrugged. “Lead the way then.”

  They rode out. On the way, Jason spotted Megan and Jenny, together as they usually were. The two young women looked puzzled and more than a little worried at the sight of Jason and Wash leaving town with four hard-looking strangers.

  The girls might have a right to be worried, Jason thought. He had no idea what was going to happen when they reached Matt’s ranch.

  Bill Rye was a friendly sort, at least on the surface, talking and asking questions about the country hereabouts and making jokes. His eyes never warmed up, though. The other men remained as sullen and taciturn as they had been when they rode into Fury.

  The riders were about halfway to Matt MacDonald’s place when Rye said, “There are some fellas doggin’ our trail, Marshal. You know anything about that? Ask somebody to follow along and keep an eye on us, did you?”

  The gunman’s jovial voice had turned almost as chilly as his gaze. Jason looked around and didn’t spot anybody. He said, “Are you sure?”

  “Sure enough. They’re stayin’ out of sight most of the time, bein’ careful not to get skylighted. The boys and I don’t take kindly to bein’ double-crossed.”

  “I don’t know anything about any double cross,” Jason snapped. “And whoever’s back there, I didn’t have anything to do with it.” An idea occurred to him. “They’re probably Ezra Dixon’s men. They spotted us and want to know who we are. Dixon doesn’t like people riding on what he considers his range.”

  Rye thought it over and then nodded. “Seems like I heard something about that,” he said. “I’ll take your word for it, Marshal . . . for now.”

  They rode on, and by the time they reached Matt’s ranch, Jason had spotted the men trailing them too. He was more convinced that ever that they were some of Dixon’s men, the way they hung back, spying, but never approaching too close.

  Someone at the ranch must have seen them coming, because Matt and his hired hands were ready for them. No one was in sight when Jason, Wash, and the four strangers rode in. As they reined to a halt, however, a voice called out, “Nobody move! You’re covered!”

  Jason recognized the voice as Matt’s. He looked around and spotted the barrel of a rifle protruding from the hayloft door in the barn. More rifle barrels poked from open windows in the house, and a man leaned into view from behind a corner of the building, also peering at them over the barrel of a rifle.

  “Are folks around here always this glad to see strangers?” Rye asked with a grin.

  Jason ignored him. “Matt!” he called. “Matt MacDonald! Show yourself!”

  The front door swung back. Jason saw movement inside, but Matt hung back in the shadows, inside the house. The barrel of the rifle he held was the only thing readily visible.

  “What do you want, Fury?” Matt asked. “Who are those men with you?”

  “You tell me,” Jason said. “According to them, you’re the one they’re looking for.”

  Jason watched Rye and the other gunmen from the corner of his eye. If they wanted to kill Matt, they sure weren’t acting like it. In fact, they seemed relaxed now.

  “MacDonald,” Rye said. “I’m Bill Rye. This is Three-Finger Jack Dupree, Nib Sloan, and Ned Potter with me. You wrote me a letter. It caught up to me in Denver.”

  Matt finally stepped out onto the porch of his house. “Rye?” he asked. “Yo
u got proof of that?”

  “I’ve got that letter you wrote.” The gunman took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and tossed it onto the porch at Matt’s feet. “Take a look at it if you don’t believe me.”

  Matt pointed the rifle at Rye with his right hand while he bent and picked up the paper with his left. He flapped it back and forth until it opened, and finally took his eyes off the gunman to look at the words written on it. Jason could see the tension ease in Matt’s body as he recognized the letter.

  “It’s the one I sent you, all right,” Matt said. He lowered the rifle and called to the other men hidden around the place, “They’re all right! I hired them!”

  “You haven’t hired us yet,” Rye pointed out. “We came to talk business, sure, but we don’t have a deal yet.”

  “Come on inside then. We’ll discuss it.” Matt looked at Jason and Wash. “What are you doing here, Fury?”

  “These fellas rode into town looking for you,” Jason said. “They didn’t say what for, so I thought I ought to come along.”

  Rye grinned and said, “I don’t think your friend the marshal trusted us, MacDonald. Reckon he thought we might mean you some harm.”

  “So you were looking out for my best interests, eh?” Matt said to Jason. “Well, that’s a welcome change, seein’ as how you turned your back on me when Dixon attacked me the first time.”

  Jason reined in the anger he felt. “I explained to you why I couldn’t do anything about that. And I went to talk to Dixon. That was more meddling than I should have done.”

  “Take your so-called meddling and go to hell. I don’t need your help anymore, Fury.”

  “Because you’re planning to hire these gunslingers?”

  Matt smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Next time Dixon tries to give me trouble, he’ll get a mighty warm welcome.”

  “Maybe we better settle our business first,” Rye suggested. He and the other men dismounted, looped their reins around a hitching post Matt had put up in front of the porch, and climbed the steps.