A Town Called Fury

by William W. Johnstone

  “I guess we’re not needed here anymore, Wash,” Jason said.

  “You never were,” Matt told him with a sneer.

  Tight-lipped, Jason turned Gumption around and heeled the blue roan into an easy lope. Wash followed, moving up alongside as they left the ranch.

  “Ain’t no good gonna come from this,” Wash predicted. “When Dixon finds out the boy’s hired him some gunslingers, it’ll just start the ball that much sooner.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Jason said with a nod. War was almost inevitable now.

  He just hoped it wouldn’t spill over into the streets of Fury.

  * * *

  Megan was waiting for him in the marshal’s office when he got back to town.

  “Thank God you’re all right, Jason,” she said as she hugged him. Jason felt a little embarrassed because Wash had followed him into the office and witnessed that display of affection, but the old man was whistling a tune between his teeth and pretending not to notice.

  Megan stepped back and went on. “Who were those men I saw you with earlier? They looked like outlaws.”

  “Next thing to it,” Jason said as he hung his hat on a nail beside the door. “They’re hired guns . . . hired by your brother to fight Ezra Dixon, unless I miss my guess.”

  Megan’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, no. That’s just going to make things worse, isn’t it?”

  “Hard to say, but chances are it’s not going to make things any better.”

  Considering that a couple of weeks had passed with Dixon leaving Matt MacDonald alone, Jason had begun to hope that the old cattleman had decided not to try to push Matt off that range. Maybe his daughter had talked some sense to him—although to tell the truth, Will Dixon had struck Jason as being almost as hotheaded as her father.

  Now, even if Dixon had decided that the range wasn’t worth any more bloodshed, once he heard about Rye and the other gunslingers Matt had hired, the old man would be insulted. He would take it as a direct challenge to his authority, which had ruled unquestioned around here for more than a decade, and his pride wouldn’t allow him to let things rest.

  The presence of those gunmen was like throwing coal oil on a fire. It was just going to blaze up higher and hotter than ever.

  Jason clung to one shred of hope. Maybe Matt wouldn’t be able to come to an agreement with those hired guns. The services of men like that didn’t come cheap. Matt might not have enough money left to hire them. He had already spent quite a bit of what he had left from his father’s stake on setting up the ranch.

  “What can we do?” Megan asked.

  “Nothing,” Jason told her. “Wait to see what happens.” He didn’t like the idea of sitting back and letting events dictate the course of his own actions, but he didn’t see what other option he had.

  “Maybe I should go out there and try to talk to Matt,” she suggested.

  Jason shook his head. “I’d feel better about things if you’d stay here in town, Megan. You don’t need to go to the ranch.”

  “He’s my brother! I can’t just abandon him to whatever fate is waiting for him, even if he is bringing it down on his own head!”

  “I understand that. Just give it a few days, that’s all I’m asking.”

  Megan frowned, but after a moment she nodded. “All right. But the next time Matt comes into town, I’m going to corner him and give him a piece of my mind.”

  “You do that,” Jason said. No matter what Megan might say to her brother, though, Jason didn’t think it was going to do any good. Events had already been set in motion. Like an avalanche rolling down a hill, they couldn’t be stopped.

  And like an avalanche, they would wipe out whoever was unlucky enough to be in their way.

  Chapter 13

  When the explosion came, it wasn’t out on the range, either at Matt’s place or at Ezra Dixon’s Slash D.

  It was in town, just as Jason had feared it might be.

  A man from Tucson named Alf Blodgett had driven into Fury a few days earlier in a big wagon loaded with barrels of beer and whiskey. A couple of smaller wagons followed him, one full of tables and chairs, the other one packed with women who leaned out, smiled, waved, and called to the men in the streets, promising them all manner of delights. The ample flesh that was displayed in their low-cut gowns made its own promises.

  Blodgett had operated a saloon in Tucson for several years before deciding to move to Fury. From England originally, he was a burly man almost as wide as he was tall, with a head as bald as an egg except for handlebar mustaches that curled up on the ends. He called his establishment the Crown and Garter and referred to it as a pub, but it was a frontier saloon, pure and simple, dedicated to the simple proposition that the quickest way to separate a customer from his money was to get him drunk, get him laid, and get him out.

  Reverend Milcher and his wife Lavinia and some of the other respectable folks in Fury weren’t happy about the arrival of Alf Blodgett. But they hadn’t been happy about Abigail Krimp either, and to tell the truth, Reverend Milcher could have done without the Cohen family too, despite the fact that Saul was a member of the town council and one of the most tireless workers on behalf of the settlement. To the reverend, a Hebrew was a Hebrew no matter what else he might do, and as such deserved to be driven out from civilized society like the Christ-killer he was.

  Luckily for all concerned, especially anybody who used the water from the well that Saul had helped to dig, the Reverend Mr. Milcher was mostly bluster. Only a few people took him seriously, even though he had been the one who put the original wagon train together.

  It took Blodgett about a day to get his saloon set up and open for business. After that, he had a steady stream of customers in and out of the place.

  Jason was sitting in a straight-backed chair just outside the door of the marshal’s office when he saw several cowboys ride into town. He recognized them as some of Dixon’s men, recalling them from his visit to the Slash D. One of them was Ord Kerby, Dixon’s segundo. They stopped in front of Blodgett’s place, dismounted and tied their horses to a hitch rack, and went into the Crown and Garter.

  It was possible that some of the Slash D hands had been in Fury before, since Jason didn’t know all of them. This was the first time he was sure that some of Dixon’s men were in town. He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet, intending to walk down to Blodgett’s and step inside just to keep an eye on Kerby and the other cowboys.

  Before he could get there, four more men trotted their horses into the settlement and reined to a halt in front of the new saloon. Jason’s heart pounded a little harder when he recognized Bill Rye, Jack Dupree, Ned Potter, and Nib Sloan. Since he hadn’t seen the gunmen around since leaving them at Matt’s house several days earlier, he hoped that they hadn’t been able to make a deal with Matt and had drifted on out of the area.

  Obviously, they were still here, and that wasn’t good. Even worse was the fact that they strode into the Crown and Garter, where Dixon’s men were.

  Matt wondered where Ward Wanamaker was. He might need Ward’s help if trouble broke out. Unfortunately, there was no time to go looking for the part-time deputy. Jason felt urgency dogging him as he hurried down to Blodgett’s. The Englishman had put up some batwings in the door of his place. Jason pushed them aside and stepped into the saloon.

  He hadn’t been in here before, and the first thing he noticed was the big flag hanging up behind the bar. It was the British flag—the Union Jack, he thought it was called. And while it was impressive, it held his attention for only a second, because something much more urgent was going on.

  Folks were scrambling up from the tables and getting out of the line of fire as Ord Kerby and Bill Rye stood in front of the bar facing each other about fifteen feet apart.

  The front of Kerby’s shirt was wet, as if something had been splattered on it, and Jason knew right away without asking what had happened. Rye had come up beside the Slash D segundo and jostled his arm �
��accidentally,” making Kerby spill his drink. Kerby had taken offense at that, just as Rye had known he would, and now the two men were facing each other on the verge of a gunfight.

  “I said it was an accident,” Rye was saying, his voice cold and flat. “I won’t say any more than that.”

  “You’ll apologize for bein’ such a clumsy damn bastard!” Kerby blazed back at him. “Nobody spills a drink on me and gets away with it!”

  Rye’s left shoulder rose and fell in a minuscule shrug. His right didn’t budge. The hand on that side hung beside the butt of his holstered gun, ready to hook and draw.

  “If you’re offended,” Rye drawled, “there’s one way to settle this. You’re packin’ iron, and so am I.”

  “Don’t think I won’t draw, because I will, by God! I know you’re one o’ those fancy gunslingers workin’ for MacDonald, but I don’t give a damn. I’m pretty slick with a gun myself!”

  “If you want to prove that, you’ve got it to do,” Rye goaded.

  Jason raised his voice and said, “Nobody’s doing anything! Both of you settle down. I mean it!”

  Rye had his back to Jason. He didn’t turn around to look at him as he said, “That must be the marshal. No law against a man defending himself if he’s drawed on, is there, Marshal?”

  “Nobody’s drawing a gun,” Jason said. “There’s an ordinance against shooting off firearms in town.”

  “With an exception for self-defense, I imagine,” Rye persisted. “I can’t imagine any jury finding a man guilty who was just trying to keep himself from gettin’ shot when the other fella drew first. Can you imagine that, Marshal?”

  Jason knew that wasn’t going to happen. No matter what laws or ordinances were passed, folks weren’t going to sit by and let a man be convicted for defending himself or his family or his property. Anything else was sheer insanity.

  But in this case, no matter what it looked like, if Rye pushed Kerby into drawing on him, it would be the next thing to murder. Jason didn’t know how fast Kerby really was, but he doubted if the segundo would stand a chance against a professional like Rye.

  “Back off, Fury,” Kerby snapped. “I can take care o’ myself. I don’t need your help.”

  “The only one you’ll need if you don’t forget about this is the undertaker,” Jason told him. “Rye said it was an accident. Let it go at that.”

  “No, sir! He’s got to apologize like the boot-lickin’ scum he is!”

  The saloon was utterly silent following Kerby’s insult, so Rye’s soft voice could be heard without any trouble as he asked, “How much more of this do I have to take, Marshal?”

  “You started it,” Jason grated.

  “No, but I’ll finish it if that gutless coward ever stops flapping his gums.”

  “By God, that’s enough!” Kerby howled. Being called a coward had pushed him over the edge. He clawed at the butt of his gun and yanked the weapon from its holster.

  The Colt in Kerby’s hand wasn’t even halfway level before Rye’s gun spoke. Smoke and flame gouted from the muzzle of the weapon. Kerby rocked back as the bullet smashed into his chest. His face twisted in a grimace of agony. But he managed to reach out with his left hand and grab hold of the bar, keeping himself on his feet as he struggled to lift his gun and get at least one shot off.

  Bill Rye didn’t give him that chance. The gunfighter’s revolver roared again, and this time Kerby’s head jerked as the bullet caught him in the forehead, leaving a black-rimmed hole like a third eye as it bored on through the segundo’s brain and burst out the back of his skull in a grisly shower of blood and bone fragments.

  Kerby still didn’t fall right away. The fingers of his left hand were still clamped on the edge of the bar. A sharp stink filled the air and mixed with the acrid tang of gun smoke as the dead man’s bowels emptied. His knees finally unhinged and dropped him to the floor. His gun slid out of his hand, unfired.

  If the rest of the Slash D hands had any thoughts about avenging their segundo, they had to abandon them as they looked across the saloon. Guns had appeared as if by magic in the hands of Rye’s companions. Dupree, Sloan, and Potter looked like they would enjoy nothing better than starting a massacre.

  In the hushed, horrified silence that followed the two booming gunshots, Jason said in a choked voice, “For God’s sake, everybody hold your fire!”

  He heard the batwings open behind him. Unwilling to take his eyes off the tense scene in front of him, Jason hoped that wasn’t more trouble coming up behind him.

  “It’s me, Jason,” Ward Wanamaker announced. “I got here as fast as I could after somebody told me there was about to be a shootout in here.” An ominous double click sounded. “I’ve got a Greener here if I need it.”

  Behind the bar, Alf Blodgett was pale with fear. So were the girls who worked for him and the customers who had come in here to get a drink. If more shots were fired, and especially if Ward touched off both barrels of that scattergun, innocent folks were bound to get hurt, maybe even killed.

  “Hold on, Ward,” Jason said. Slowly and deliberately, he drew his pistol. “Rye, give me your gun. You’re under arrest.”

  Rye shook his head. “I don’t think so. Everybody in here saw that hombre draw first.”

  “Ord never had a chance against you, mister!” one of the Slash D men said in an angry, anguished voice. “You pushed him into drawing! It was murder, plain and simple!”

  Mutters of agreement came from the other Dixon men.

  “Not in the eyes of the law,” Rye said. “And to show you how confident I am of that . . .” He lowered his gun, turned, and held the weapon out toward Jason, butt first. “I changed my mind, Marshal. I’ll take my chances on being arrested.”

  Jason knew he couldn’t make the charges stick against the gunman. The doctrine of self-defense was too deeply ingrained on the frontier, and rightly so. From time to time, somebody like Rye took advantage of it, but that couldn’t be helped. Right now, the main thing Jason wanted was to get Rye and the other gunslingers out of here, so the situation would be defused and nobody else would have to die.

  He took Rye’s gun and said, “Come on. We’ll go down to the marshal’s office.” Looking at Dupree, Sloan, and Potter, he added, “You men come along too.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Dupree said. “We ain’t lettin’ Bill out of our sight. We know how folks in these little towns like to likker themselves up and start a lynch mob.”

  “There’ll be no lynchings in Fury,” Jason declared. “Not while I’m alive.”

  Unfortunately, all it would take to change that situation was one bullet.

  Chapter 14

  Jason and Ward were able to get Rye and the other gunmen out of the Crown and Garter and march them down to the marshal’s office and jail without any more shots ringing out, although bitter curses from the Slash D hands followed them. Once they were inside the office with the door closed behind them, Rye held out his hand and said, “I’ll take my gun back now, Marshal.”

  “Not just yet,” Jason said.

  Rye’s face hardened. “Don’t even think about trying to lock us up, Marshal. The boys and me don’t cotton to being behind bars.”

  “Our cells don’t have any bars,” Jason said. “But I’m not going to lock you up. I just want you to sit down in here and wait a while, until things in town cool down a little.”

  “Until those cowboys leave, you mean.”

  Jason nodded. “That’s right. Once they’ve headed back to the Slash D, then you and your friends can get out of town and go back to MacDonald’s place. I assume you’re still working for him?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jason sighed. “I had hoped that you didn’t reach a deal with him and left this part of the country.”

  Rye smirked. “No such luck for me, Marshal. MacDonald’s gonna have a nice spread out there. I reckon we’ll stick with him for a while.”

  In hopes of making even more money later, Jason thought. Ma
tt had to be fully aware of the sort of men he had hired, but the thought might not have occurred to him that one of these days they could turn on him.

  “Ward, you mind staying here and keeping an eye on these men?” Jason asked the deputy. “I’m going back down to the Crown and Garter to see what’s going on there.”

  Ward nodded, but he looked a little nervous at the idea of being left in charge of four hired guns who hadn’t been disarmed. Jason couldn’t blame him for feeling that way. But Ward said, “Go ahead, Marshal, I’ll be fine.”

  Rye picked up one of the ladder-back chairs, turned it around, and straddled it. With his usual cocky grin, he asked, “You gonna head off any lynch talk, Marshal?”

  “I told you, there won’t be any lynchings in Fury.”

  “We’ll hold you to that.”

  While the other gunslingers were chuckling over Rye’s grim humor, Jason left the office. He paused just outside to take a deep breath. Quite a few people were still on the street. The shooting had drawn them out, and they hadn’t gone about their business yet. Knots of townspeople gathered together talking, and Jason didn’t have to guess what the subjects of the discussions were. The citizens were talking about the killing in Alf Blodgett’s new saloon.

  Jason saw Cyrus Valentine’s wagon parked in front of the Crown and Garter. Valentine had been there a week, having moved down from Phoenix to set up an undertaking parlor. Before that, bodies had been prepared for burial by Dr. Morelli, and Salmon Kendall, Saul Cohen, and Randall Nordstrom had knocked together the coffins. All of them were more than happy to turn those chores over to Cyrus Valentine.

  While Jason watched, Cyrus came out of the saloon along with his helper, each of them at one end of a blanket-wrapped bundle. Jason knew that inside that blanket was the body of Ord Kerby. Carefully, the men placed the body in the back of the wagon and drew a canvas cover over it. Then they climbed onto the driver’s seat, Cyrus took up the reins, and flapped them to get the two mules hitched to the wagon moving. He drove at a slow, dignified pace toward the undertaking parlor. Eventually Cyrus would have an actual hearse, Jason thought—but not until enough people had died in Fury for him to be able to afford it. That wasn’t a comforting thought.