A Town Called Fury

by William W. Johnstone

  A couple of men sauntered through the batwings of the Crown and Garter. Jason stiffened as he recognized them as Bill Rye and Flint Gallister, the gunslingers who led the opposing factions of hired guns working for Matt MacDonald and Ezra Dixon.

  At least, they had been opposing factions when the posse left Fury. Now Rye and Gallister looked downright friendly with each other as they strolled toward Jason and Wash.

  “Marshal,” Rye said with a nod. “Might as well get down from your horse and make yourself comfortable. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “What’s going on here?” Jason demanded without dismounting. “Where is everybody?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. They’re around,” Rye said.

  “They’re just lying low for now,” Gallister added. “Until they see whether or not you and the rest of that posse are going to act sensibly.”

  With an effort, Jason restrained his anger and impatience and asked in a low voice, “What the hell are you talking about, Gallister?”

  “That’s Marshal Gallister,” the gunman said. “And this is Mayor Rye. We’re running this town now.”

  Wash let out a whistle. “Lord have mercy! You coyotes decided to get together and take over!”

  “Insulting a public official,” Gallister said. “Got to be a hefty fine for that, doesn’t there, Mayor?”

  “That’s right,” Rye agreed. “We’ll figure it out later, though. For right now, you old buzzard, just ride out there and tell the rest of your bunch what’s happening. If they want their former marshal to live—”

  “And if they want to keep their own families from coming to any harm,” Gallister added.

  “They’ll ride in and turn over their guns to us,” Rye went on.

  “Just like that?” Jason said. “You take over a whole town just like that?”

  Rye smiled and nodded. “Just like that, Fury. Flint and I decided there was more money to be made this way than by working for those two stupid, feuding ranchers. Don’t worry, you’ll get your town back—eventually.”

  After the wolf pack had looted it of everything that was valuable and gotten tired of tormenting the citizens, Jason thought.

  He looked past Rye and Gallister and saw that Ward Wanamaker had pulled himself to a sitting position and was now scooting toward the hardware store, dragging a bullet-ventilated leg behind him. At least Ward hadn’t been killed. That was something to be thankful for.

  Jason turned his angry gaze back to Rye and Gallister and said, “You’re insane, both of you. There are only about twenty of you. You can’t take over a whole town.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Fury,” Gallister said. “It don’t matter how many people are in this settlement. They’re no match for men like us. They’re sheep. They’re too afraid for their lives to fight back. Hell, they’re afraid of being made uncomfortable! They’d rather give in and let us have whatever we want.”

  Rye laughed. “That’s right. Before you start thinking about fighting for them, Fury, you’d better consider this. They ain’t worth it.”

  “Just throw your gun in the dirt, Fury,” Gallister ordered. “There’s no shame in being a sheep when all the other folks in your town are.”

  Jason lowered his head and stared at his saddle horn. Rye, Gallister, and the other gunslingers wouldn’t have been able to take over the settlement if there wasn’t some truth to what they were saying. The citizens had given up too easily when it looked like their lives and their property would be endangered.

  But they had just made a mistake, Jason thought. It was easy enough to do. And he couldn’t believe that they hadn’t realized that by now. He couldn’t believe that they wouldn’t fight if they got another chance.

  He was about to stake everything on that hope.

  “Wash,” he said quietly as he lifted his head again, “ride back out to the posse, tell them what’s going on, and tell them I said to come in with all guns blazing.”

  Rye and Gallister stared at him in amazement. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Fury?” Gallister demanded in an irritated voice.

  “What makes you think we’ll let this old buzzard go anywhere?” Rye added.

  “Because I’m about to kill the both of you,” Jason said.

  The gunslingers’ amazement lasted only a heartbeat after those words came out of Jason’s mouth, and then they both reached for their guns, their hands flashing toward the holsters.

  Jason was drawing at the same time, remembering everything he had learned and all the time he had spent practicing before Juan Alba’s raid on the settlement had disrupted everything. His mind was clear, and his eyes had never seemed sharper. All his senses had expanded in this frozen second of time. He smelled the dust of the street, felt the warmth of the sun on his face, heard Ward Wanamaker cry, “Nooooo!” He was aware of Wash Keough whirling his horse around and jabbing his heels in the animal’s flanks. The horse’s hooves thudded against the ground.

  Gallister’s gun was out of leather now and rising. Rye was even a little faster; the barrel of his Colt had almost come level.

  But Jason’s fingers were wrapped around the smooth walnut grips of his gun and it was free too, his thumb on the hammer as the revolver came up, drawing it back, the cool metal of the trigger against his finger as the muscles of his hand contracted and took up the slack....

  The shots rolled out, one-two-three-four-five, so close together they were like one continuous roar, exploding in the time it took for a man’s heart to beat three times. Jason fired twice, the first bullet going into Flint Gallister’s chest and knocking the black-clad gunman back off his feet. The one shot Gallister got off clipped the brim of Jason’s hat and sent it sailing off his head. Jason swung the barrel of his gun and fired at Rye.

  But between Jason’s first and second shots, Rye had fired, and he didn’t miss. Jason felt the bullet pound into his body. The impact made him slew sideways in the saddle. The fact that he almost fell was the only thing that saved his life, because Rye’s second shot would have hit him in the throat if he hadn’t. As it was, the slug burned a fiery path along the side of Jason’s neck.

  His muscles no longer responded to his mental commands. He felt himself sliding out of the saddle and couldn’t do anything about it. He crashed to the street beside his horse, which was spooked by the gunfire and danced around for a second before bolting, luckily missing Jason with its iron-shod hooves. Jason lay there with a terrible coldness filling him, unable to move.

  But his eyes still worked, and he saw Bill Rye lying a few feet away, eyes wide open. Rye’s gun had slipped from his fingers. A black-rimmed hole just above Rye’s left eye showed where Jason’s second bullet had gone. He was as dead as Gallister.

  But the other gunslingers who had thought they could waltz in here and take over the town were still alive, and they began firing from windows and rooftops as Ward Wanamaker pushed himself to his feet and staggered over to Jason. Jason was aware of Ward grabbing him under the arms and dragging him toward the mouth of a nearby alley. Ward grunted as he was hit again, but he stayed on his feet and kept moving.

  Jason heard something else—angry shouts. He found that he could move his head again, and when he looked around he saw fights spilling into the street as the citizens of Fury attacked the wolf pack with fists, clubs, pitchforks, shovels, anything they could lay their hands on. The people were fighting back, as Jason had known they would if they got another chance to do so. Some of them might die, but they would take back their town from the evil ones.

  Ward slumped to the ground next to Jason, breathing heavily. He pulled Jason’s shirt aside and gasped, “Lord! You’re hit bad, Jason!”

  Jason didn’t care. There was a smile on his face as he heard the sounds of the struggle around him, and it widened into a grin as pounding hoofbeats and a fresh volley of gunshots told him that the other members of the posse had arrived to finish cleaning up the town. The people of Fury would finish the job, no matter what happened to him.
r />   Confident in that belief, he let the onrushing tide of blackness that swept toward him claim him and carry him away.

  * * *

  Jason didn’t expect to wake up, but he did. He became aware of a tight pressure around his chest and a warmth clutching his hand. When he forced his eyes open and looked down at himself as he lay in a bed somewhere, he saw that the tightness came from the bandages wrapped around him.

  The warmth came from Megan MacDonald’s hand. Her fingers were intertwined with his, holding on as if she never intended to let go.

  She wasn’t looking at him, though. Her head was down, and her eyes were closed and her lips were moving as if she were praying. Jason hated to interrupt her, but he wanted to talk to her. He whispered, “M-Megan . . .”

  Her head jerked up, and her green eyes flashed open. “Jason!” she cried. “Jason, you’ve come back to me!”

  “Didn’t know . . . I’d gone anywhere.”

  But if that was true, he suddenly thought, then why did he remember talking to his father again? Why did he remember, plain as day, Jedediah Fury telling him that his work wasn’t done yet, that he needed to get back to the settlement?

  Jason couldn’t answer those questions, and he didn’t have the strength to worry about them. It was enough to know that he was here and that Megan was with him and that evidently life went on in a town called Fury.

  Chapter 34

  All the gunslingers were dead, and so were half a dozen of the townspeople. It was a high price to pay. A high price in blood and loss and sacrifice. But from time to time, that was what life demanded of those who dared to live it.

  Within a month, all the buildings destroyed by Juan Alba’s bandit horde had been rebuilt. Flowers had begun to bloom on the fresh graves in the newly established town cemetery. Marshal Jason Fury and Deputy Ward Wanamaker were both back on their feet, although they were still getting around a mite gingerly. Wash Keough had stayed sober and acted as the town marshal while both lawmen were laid up, assisted by several volunteer deputies including Alf Blodgett and Saul Cohen. Wash had proclaimed that month of sobriety to be the worst month of his life, and warned Jason that he’d better find somebody else to take over before he got himself shot up again.

  An uneasy state of truce existed between Matt MacDonald and Ezra Dixon. They still didn’t like each other, not even a little bit, but working together on the posse had forced them to develop a grudging respect for each other. Jason was convinced that sooner or later things would flare up between them again—they were both too stubborn and prideful for it not to—but he hoped any trouble would take its time about getting here.

  Anyway, Matt had enough to worry about at the moment, what with the wedding date he had set with Jenny rapidly approaching. Jason sighed when he thought about that—even though it hurt the healing bullet hole in his chest—but he wished his sister well in her marriage.

  A laboriously scrawled letter arrived from Sergeant Halligan. After helping the posse clean up the last of the gunslingers who had terrorized the settlement, Lieutenant Carter and the patrol had returned to Camp Grant. According to Halligan’s letter, the lieutenant’s official report of his last patrol contained no mention of any civilian force making an incursion into Mexican territory. “There’s hope for the boy yet,” the sergeant’s letter concluded.

  Jason was sitting in a straight-backed chair in front of the marshal’s office, leaning back against the wall, when Dr. Morelli strolled up, accompanied by Wash, Saul, and Salmon. Jason lowered the front legs of his chair to the ground and asked, “Is this a committee of some sort?”

  “No, we just all happened to be coming the same way,” Morelli replied. “I’m here to check on that wound.”

  “It’s fine,” Jason said. “Time for you to quit fussing over me, Doc.”

  “Yeah,” Salmon said with a grin. “He’s got Megan MacDonald to do that. Say, Jason, I’ll bet if you got busy, you could talk that girl into marryin’ you in time for you to have a double weddin’ with her brother and your sister.”

  Jason winced. “Don’t remind me. And don’t go messing in things that are none of your business, Mayor.”

  Wash said, “I’m on my way down to Abigail’s for a drink. Don’t let on that I told you, but I think that gal’s gettin’ a mite sweet on me, even if I am old enough to be her pappy. Course, she’d throw me over in a minute if she could have you, Marshal.”

  Jason didn’t say anything to that. Some things were better left alone.

  Saul put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. “More people moving in,” he commented. “Looks like new settlers aren’t going to be scared off by what happened here. The raid by Alba and the trouble with those gunslingers, I mean.”

  “No need for folks to be scared,” Salmon said. “Alba’s dead, his gang is wiped out, and we all saw what happened when those gunnies tried to take over. Our marshal put a stop to that. Slapped leather against both Bill Rye and Flint Gallister, Jason did, and killed ’em both. Hell, our marshal’s the most famous gunfighter in the territory now! Nobody’s ever gonna try to cause trouble in these parts again!”

  Jason looked out into the street and smiled. He wished he could believe that. He really did.

  Johnstone Justice. What America Needs Now.

  KEEP READING FOR A SPECIAL EXCERPT . . .

  From William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone comes a special holiday gift for devoted fans of the Jensen saga—a warmhearted story of burning justice, blazing bullets, and other Jensen family traditions . . .

  AN ARIZONA CHRISTMAS

  It’s that time of year when families gather together to celebrate the holidays, and the Jensens are no exception. This year, since half the clan is scattered across the American West, they’ve decided to split the difference and meet up in Tucson. Matt and Luke will be there for sure and maybe Ace and Chance, too. That leaves Sally, Preacher, and Smoke Jensen, who’ve reserved three seats on a westbound stage to make sure they don’t miss out on the festivities.

  They won’t be traveling alone, however. A reporter with a nose for trouble, a mail-order bride with a wandering eye, and an old woman with a surly young grandson are on board—along with a freshly minted cargo of cold hard cash. What could possibly go wrong?

  Mother Nature is the first to strike, dusting up the trail with a sandstorm as blinding and deadly as any northern blizzard. Then come the Apaches who ambush the stagecoach, forcing the passengers and drivers to seek shelter in a cave. Even if Smoke and Preacher manage to shoot their way out of this, they have another big surprise waiting—a ruthless gang of outlaws after the cargo of cash, happy to slaughter any man, woman, or child who tries to stop them. If the Jensens hope to save Christmas this year, they’ll need to save their own lives first . . .

  Coming in NOVEMBER 2017

  wherever PINNACLE BOOKS are sold.

  Live Free. Read Hard. www.williamjohnstone.net

  Chapter 1

  Smoke Jensen dropped to one knee and fired twice. Flame licked from the muzzle of the Colt in his hand.

  On the other side of the main street in Big Rock, Colorado, the man Smoke had just shot staggered back toward the plate glass window of a store. He pressed his hand to his chest. The palm was big enough to cover both bullet holes. Blood welled from the wounds and dripped between his splayed fingers.

  He went over backwards in a crash of shattering glass.

  That didn’t mean the danger was over. A slug whipped through the air only inches from Smoke’s left ear. He dived forward, off the boardwalk, and landed behind a water trough. Bullets thudded against the other side of the trough. A few plunked into the water.

  Smoke had seen four other outlaws besides the man he had shot. From the sound of the guns going off, all of them were trying to fill him full of lead.

  Hoofbeats pounded in the street. A man yelled, “I got the horses! Come on!”

  They believed they had him pinned down, Smoke thought. They figured if they kept
throwing lead at him, he couldn’t do a thing to stop them from getting away.

  They were about to find out how wrong they were.

  No doubt spooked by all the gunfire, the horses stomped around in the street, making it more difficult for the outlaws to mount up.

  Smoke thumbed more cartridges from his shell belt into the .45’s empty chambers. Then he rolled out into the open again, tipped the Colt’s barrel up, and fired.

  The outlaws had managed to swing up into their saddles. Smoke’s slug ripped into the chest of the man leading the gang’s attempt at a getaway. He jerked back in the saddle and hauled so hard on the reins that his horse reared up wildly.

  The man right behind him tried to avoid the rearing horse but was too close. The two mounts collided and went down, spilling their riders.

  Smoke pushed himself up and triggered again. His bullet shattered the shoulder of the third man in line and caused him to pitch out of the saddle with his left foot caught in the stirrup. As the horse continued galloping down the street, the wounded outlaw was dragged through the dirt past Smoke.

  The fourth man fired wildly, several shots exploding from the gun in his hand. Smoke didn’t know where the bullets landed, but he hoped no innocent bystanders were hurt. To lessen the chances of that happening, he took a second to line up his shot and coolly put a bullet in the outlaw’s head.

  That left one man in the gang who wasn’t wounded or dead, the one who had been thrown when the two horses rammed into each other. He scrambled to his feet as soon as he got his wits back about him, but as Smoke’s gun swung toward him, his hands shot in the air, as high above his head as he could reach.

  “Don’t shoot!” he begged. “For God’s sake, mister, don’t kill me!”

  Smoke came smoothly to his feet. He was only medium height, but his powerfully muscled body, including exceptionally broad shoulders, made him seem bigger. His ruggedly handsome face was topped by ash blond hair, uncovered because his brown Stetson had flown off when he threw himself behind the water trough.