A Town Called Fury

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’ll arrest you if you set foot in town and figure out the charges later,” Jason vowed. “Now get out, all of you.”

  Rye stood up. Even though Rye masked it with a look of affability, Jason saw the cold hatred in the gunman’s eyes. “None of this is over,” Rye said as he started toward the door. “Not the business with Dixon . . . and not our business with you, Marshal.”

  The four men filed out of the office. Jason said to Ward, “Watch them and make sure they actually leave town.”

  Ward nodded. “Sure. What if Dixon and his men ambush them after they ride out?”

  “That’s their problem,” Jason said. He hung up his hat and went behind the desk. A feeling of utter weariness came over him, and he sank down into the chair. Waving a hand at the stack of double eagles, he added, “Saul, get that fine money and put it away in your safe.”

  “Sure, Jason.” Saul picked up the coins, then said, “You did the best you could. It’s a miracle there wasn’t more bloodshed.”

  “That’s right,” Salmon added. “You’ve proven that we did the right thing by makin’ you marshal.”

  Jason still wasn’t sure he had done the right thing by accepting. The bloody massacre that had nearly taken place today might have been postponed, but it hadn’t been prevented yet. Like a storm on the horizon, violence could still break out at any time....

  And if it was bad enough, it might wash away the town of Fury and everyone in it.

  Chapter 16

  For the next week, the town seemed to hold its breath, waiting for more trouble to break out. Nothing happened, though. The gunslingers Matt had hired must have stayed close to his ranch. They didn’t come back to town anyway, and that was all Jason really cared about. At times he found himself musing that it would be better all around if Matt and Dixon just wiped each other out and were done with it.

  But then he thought again and realized that if Matt died, both Jenny and Megan would be hurt by that, and somewhat surprisingly, he had the same sort of thought about Will Dixon. Will wouldn’t want to lose her father any more than Jenny and Megan would want to lose Matt.

  Of course, from what he had seen of Will Dixon, she probably would be right at the old buzzard’s side in any gun battle.

  Another wagon train came through, stopping in Fury to stock up on supplies. The wagon master was a burly, balding man with a short salt-and-pepper beard. His name was Jim Austin, and Jason remembered him as an old friend of his father.

  Austin pumped Jason’s hand in a bone-crushing grip and slapped him on the back as they stood in Nordstrom’s Mercantile, where Jason had come in search of the wagon master. “Jason Fury, by God! It’s good to see you, son.” Austin grew solemn as he went on. “I heard about what happened to Jedediah. Damn shame. He was a fine man. Why, I remember the high ol’ times we had back when we were younkers, me and Jedediah and your uncle John. Whatever happened to that fiddlefooted uncle o’ yours anyway?”

  Jason didn’t know and brushed the question aside. “Have you picked up any news along the trail, Mr. Austin?”

  With a frown, Austin nodded. “The Comanch’ are still raisin’ hell over in Texas and New Mexico Territory. What do you hear about the Apaches?”

  “Keep your eyes open and circle the wagons tight at night,” Jason advised. “It’s been less than two months since a band of them attacked the town here, right after it was established.”

  “Them bold devils! Attacked the town, you say?”

  Jason nodded. “We were able to drive them off, and they haven’t been back since. I’m hoping the settlement has grown enough by now that they’ll steer clear of it from now on, but I don’t reckon we can count on that.”

  “Can’t count on much o’ anything where Apaches are concerned, ’cept that they’ll give you trouble sooner or later.” Austin scratched at his beard. “Heard tell that Juan Alba’s been raidin’ north of the border again too. Just what we need to go along with Apaches . . . a gang o’ desperadoes made up o’ Mexican bandidos and every other kind o’ border trash.”

  “I’ve heard about Alba,” Jason said. “Thank goodness he’s left us alone so far. Some of the things I hear about him make him sound worse than an Apache.”

  “That’s ’cause he’s half Mex and half ’Pache, and the worst o’ both. Sort of like crossin’ a rattlesnake and a scorpion, I reckon. Ugly as hell, and you sure don’t want it bitin’ you.”

  “Any other news?” Jason asked.

  “Well . . . they’ve started buildin’ a railroad that’s gonna go clear across the country when they’re done with it, or so they say.” Austin sighed. “When they run rails from one side o’ the country to the other, I reckon my day, and the days o’ men like me, will be done. Won’t be no more wagon trains, so there won’t be no call for wagon masters anymore.”

  Jason shook his head. “It’ll take years and years for them to accomplish such a thing. Maybe even decades.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Austin said. “Once folks in this country get their minds set on doin’ somethin’, there ain’t hardly any stoppin’ ’em. Onliest thing that ever slows us Americans down is when we go to squabblin’ amongst ourselves, like that there war we just finished up not all that long ago. Lord, I hope we don’t never have to go through somethin’ like that again.”

  Jason nodded in agreement. He had been in the army during the war, but he had spent his time in Washington, pushing papers, while his older brother had fallen on the field of battle. Jason was proud of Jeremy, but at the same time, he wished the country had never seen the need to tear itself apart that way. Then Jeremy would still be around, and so would millions of other young men who had marched off to the sound of distant drums and never returned.

  “One other thing you might want to know about,” Austin said. “Funny thing happened a couple o’ nights ago. Some fellas rode up to our camp and helloed, asked if they could come in and share our supper. I told ’em to ride in nice and slowlike, so’s we could look ’em over. Can’t be too careful out on the trail, you know.”

  Jason nodded. He knew exactly what Austin meant. Every wagon master was leery of strangers, and considering how many drifters were up to no good, they had every right to be.

  Austin went on. “I didn’t much like the cut o’ their jib, as an ol’ sailor I knew used to say, but there was only six of ’em and we’re well armed. Got men who know how to use their guns too. So I told those fellas they could share our supper but they’d have to find some other place to camp. They seemed to take that all right, and they didn’t cause us a lick o’ trouble while they was there.”

  Jason felt his impatience growing. It was sometimes difficult for older men like Austin to get to the point. Out of respect for his father’s friendship with the man, Jason didn’t try to hurry him.

  “Now here’s what might interest you,” Austin went on. “The fella who seemed to be the ramrod o’ the bunch asked me if I’d ever heard of a settlement called Fury. I said sure, I’d heard talk about the place whilst we was in Tucson. The fella said that’s where they was headed and wanted to know if they were on the right trail.”

  Jason felt the stirrings of unease inside him. “Did these men tell you their names?” he asked Austin.

  The wagon master shook his head. “Nope, and I couldn’t very well ask.”

  Jason understood that. Westerners figured that if somebody wanted you to know something, they would volunteer the information.

  “I recognized the hombre, though,” Austin said. “Saw him a couple o’ years ago in Santa Fe. Name of Gallister. Heard of him?”

  “Flint Gallister?” Jason asked.

  Austin nodded. “One an’ the same. Once I realized who he was, some o’ the other fellas looked a mite familiar too. Pretty sure one of ’em was Little Ben Williams, and another was Trapdoor Hargity. I see them names mean somethin’ to you.”

  “They’re gunfighters,” Jason said. “Hired killers.”

  “Yep. They should’ve made bette
r time gettin’ here than we did. You seen hide nor hair of ’em?”

  Jason shook his head and said, “No, but there are enough people in town now that I suppose they could be here and I just haven’t noticed them.”

  “One more thing . . . Gallister asked me if I knew how to find a ranch belongin’ to a gent named Dixon. I told him I didn’t have no idea about that. You know this fella Dixon, Jason?”

  “I’m afraid I do,” Jason replied as he felt a hollow sensation in his stomach. There was only one explanation for what Austin had just told him.

  Ezra Dixon had threatened to send for some gunfighters of his own, to counter the threat posed by Bill Rye and the other hired killers working for Matt MacDonald. Obviously, Dixon had succeeded in doing so. Flint Gallister, Little Ben Williams, Trapdoor Hargity, and the other gun-wolves who had stopped for supper with Austin’s wagon train might already be out at the Slash D, plotting their strategy.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” Austin asked with a frown. “You got all hell about to break loose around here, son?”

  Jason knew the answer to that, and wished that he didn’t.

  * * *

  “I’m going to have to ride out to the Slash D and warn Dixon again not to start any trouble,” Jason said.

  Ward Wanamaker and Wash Keough both looked at him like he had lost his mind, and maybe he had.

  “I’ve crossed trails with Flint Gallister a few times,” Wash said. “He pure-dee hates star-packers, Jason. He’s liable to take one look at that badge on your chest and slap leather.”

  “I’ll have to take that chance.”

  The three men were in the marshal’s office, Jason behind the desk, Wash in a chair in front of it, and Ward on the old sofa that had been moved in, a donation from one of the families that had moved into town and found that they didn’t have room for the piece of furniture in their new house.

  “It won’t do any good,” Ward said. “I hate to say it, Jason, but maybe we ought to just let Matt and Dixon fight it out. They’re both so stubborn and so convinced they’re right, they’ll never listen to reason.”

  Jason didn’t admit that the same thought had occurred to him on more than one occasion.

  “Maybe you should take a ride over to Camp Grant and talk to the commandin’ officer there,” Wash suggested. “Just because that shavetail lieutenant who rode by Matt’s place said the army can’t get involved in this trouble don’t mean you couldn’t convince the commander otherwise.”

  “Maybe,” Jason said. “This was all government land to start with around here, so they’ve got a stake in what happens, I guess. I’ll give it a try if I can’t get anywhere with Matt and Dixon.”

  Ward grunted, as if that were a foregone conclusion.

  “I’ve asked Jenny to talk to Matt,” Jason went on, “but she thinks he hasn’t done anything wrong. And she’s right, I guess. Matt has just as much right to the land he’s claimed as Dixon does. It’s not like he’s trying to take over the whole Slash D. Really, I’m not sure Dixon would ever miss that range if he let it go.”

  “He’s just too mule-headed to do it,” Wash said.

  “Exactly. Too stubborn and too proud.” Jason stood up and reached for his hat. “I’ll go talk to Matt one last time.”

  “Good luck,” Ward said, and from his tone of voice it was obvious he thought Jason’s good intentions didn’t stand a chance.

  To tell the truth, Jason felt the same way. But he was too proud and too stubborn not to try.

  Keeping his eyes open for Apaches, gunslingers, or any other form of trouble, Jason rode Cleo out to Matt’s ranch. Now, in addition to the house and the barn, a bunkhouse and some corrals had gone up. Jason had to admit that the place looked good. Matt could probably make a go of it if he had the chance.

  Bill Rye and Nib Sloan lounged on stools in front of the bunkhouse. Jason didn’t see the other two gunmen. As he dismounted, Rye called over to him, “Howdy, Marshal. What are you doin’ out here?”

  “Looking for your boss,” Jason replied, and the sound of a door opening made him look toward the house.

  Matt strode out onto the porch, a hostile expression on his face. “What the hell do you want, Fury?” he demanded.

  “I came to try to talk some sense into your head,” Jason said. “There’s still a lot of open range north of town, where the Mortons have settled. Dixon hasn’t bothered them. Chances are he wouldn’t bother you up there either.”

  Matt laughed and waved a hand at the buildings. “Take a look around. You want me to just walk away from all this work because of some crazy old man who thinks he owns the whole territory?”

  “I just don’t want you getting killed, Matt,” Jason said. “I know we’ve had our problems, but my sister seems to think the world of you, and you’ve got a sister yourself. Think about them.”

  “I am thinking about Jenny. This is going to be her home someday, and that day’s not long off either. Did you know I asked her to marry me the other day?”

  Jason stiffened. Jenny hadn’t said a word about that to him. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t. She knew how he felt about Matt MacDonald.

  “She said yes too,” Matt went on. “I’m going to be your brother-in-law before much longer, Fury. What do you think about that?”

  Jason had to force the word out, but he managed to say, “Congratulations.”

  “If you want to browbeat somebody, go see Dixon,” Matt said. “He’s the one causing all the trouble.”

  That was true in a way, but Matt might not know everything that was going on. Jason said, “Have you heard of a man named Flint Gallister?”

  Matt frowned. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  Jason inclined his head toward the bunkhouse. “Ask Rye who Gallister is. He’ll know. Then tell him that Gallister is working for Dixon, along with Little Ben Williams, Trapdoor Hargity, and some others just like them.” Jason reached for Cleo’s reins. “See what he thinks about that.”

  Matt gave him a hostile but somewhat puzzled stare as Jason mounted up and rode away from the ranch house. Maybe he shouldn’t have told Matt about Gallister and the other gunmen Dixon had hired, Jason thought. But Matt had been bound to find out about them sooner or later. Dixon wouldn’t wait long to send his new weapons against the enemy. At least now Matt would have some warning.

  Jason was mulling that over as he rode back toward Fury, thinking so deeply that he wasn’t paying much attention to anything else. It took the distant popping of guns to pull him out of his reverie.

  But as he realized at last what he was hearing, his head jerked up and his eyes widened as he saw several plumes of black smoke rising in the sky in front of him. In shock and horror, he realized that the smoke and gunshots were coming from the direction of the settlement.

  “No!”

  The choked yell came from Jason’s throat. The next instant, he dug his heels into Cleo’s flanks and sent the palomino mare racing toward Fury as hard and fast as she could gallop.

  Chapter 17

  The shots grew louder, loud enough for Jason to hear them easily over the pounding hooves of his mount. A cloud of dust began to rise ahead of him, competing with the smoke to mar the clear blue sky. A group of riders came into view at the base of that dust cloud, small black dots that quickly resolved themselves into men on madly galloping horses.

  Jason hauled back on the reins as he realized that forty or fifty men were charging straight at him, and chances were they weren’t friendly. As they came closer, he saw that some of them were twisting around in their saddles to fire behind them with revolvers. Under those conditions, such shots couldn’t be very accurate, but the men didn’t care about that. They were just throwing lead to discourage pursuit.

  Jason pulled his rifle from the saddle boot and worked the lever to throw a cartridge into the chamber. That was a case of habit taking over as much as anything, though. He was one man. He couldn’t fight four dozen enemies. With luck he could bring down a handfu
l of them, but the rest would just stampede right over him.

  When an avalanche was coming at you, there was only one thing to do.

  Get the hell out of the way.

  With a shout of encouragement, Jason wheeled the palomino to the left and put the horse into a hard run. He was galloping at right angles to the path of the gunslinging horde, and his destination was a cactus-dotted ridge about five hundred yards away. If he could reach it before the onrushing riders overwhelmed him, he thought he would have a good chance of escaping.

  Some of the riders must have spotted him and considered him a threat, because he felt as much as heard the wind-rip of a bullet past his head, coming too close for comfort. Dirt and pebbles spurted from the ground ahead of him, miniature volcanoes kicked up by the slugs slamming into the earth. Jason twisted in the saddle and brought his rifle to his shoulder. Cleo continued running smoothly as Jason began to fire, cranking off round after round as fast as he could work the weapon’s lever and pull the trigger.

  With dust choking his throat and stinging his eyes and bullets whipping around his head, Jason had no chance of seeing whether or not any of his shots found their targets. More than anything else, he was hoping to buy a little time, the few precious moments he needed to get out of the way of that wild, gun-blazing charge.

  He had no idea who the attackers were; all he could tell about them was that they weren’t Apaches. Although Apaches used horses from time to time, they hardly ever attacked on them. They weren’t “horse Indians,” like the Comanche or the Sioux. In fact, an Apache was more likely to use a horse as a meal than he was to ride one.

  So the men trying to kill him had to be white, or at least Mexican. Knowing that didn’t make Jason feel one damned bit better. Dead was dead, no matter who pulled the trigger on you.

  Cleo had speed and stamina, and even more important, the mare had sand. She never quit. She just kept running, giving Jason her all, until horse and rider reached the base of the ridge and swept up the slope. Jason let Cleo have her head. She slowed to swerve around clumps of cactus. Jason hung on tight, not wanting to take a tumble and land in those spiny devil plants.