Redemption

17

Back in Fury, Rafe Lynch was having himself a high old time. The bartender, being inexperienced in such things but knowing that the jail was the place for people who tried to kidnap other people, had relieved Davis of all his firearms, poked through his pockets until he found the key to the handcuffs (which Rafe promptly let himself out of), then handed him over to Rafe for incarceration.

Rafe had walked Davis—wearing his own manacles—across the street, then locked him in a cell. He was currently sitting behind Jason’s desk with his feet propped up and a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

“You know, Sampson, I oughta be real mad at you, trailin’ me here and tryin’ to grab me outta the saloon. But I guess I can forgive you. After all, you’re wrong about me killin’ your brother-in-law. You oughta be goin’ after the doc for that. But I reckon you got your mind all righteous and set, ’bout like a dog after a jackrabbit. You know, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do and all that crud.”

He noticed that his smoke had almost gone out, and took a long drag off it before he stamped it out in Jason’s ashtray.

Sampson wasn’t listening as far as he could tell. Wasn’t even looking at him, and he hadn’t since he set foot in the cell. He just sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the floor.

“In fact,” Rafe went on, “I figure you owe me. Your brother-in-law stole my daddy’s gold shares in one’a them shady poker games of his. Either that, or he held a gun on him ’til he signed. And then he killed him, shot him right through the head. Now, that weren’t very nice, was it?”

No reply from the cell.

Rafe hadn’t expected one.

“And on top’a that, now you’re keepin’ me from a good poker game. I figured to win big tonight.”

Surprisingly, a mutter came from the cell. “I ain’t keepin’ you, Lynch.”

“Yeah, you are. Somebody has to be here when the marshal comes back, and that somebody is me.” He paused to lick a fresh cigarette paper. “I don’t like you much, Davis. Come to think of it, I reckon I don’t like you at all. But if you keep on houndin’ me, looks like somebody’s gonna end up dead. Smart money’s on you.”

He lit the new cigarette and leaned back in the chair to smoke it. It tasted damn good.

Jason was suddenly in a big toot to get back to town, and Ward quizzed him on it. “Why we pushin’ these horses? What’s so important that we gotta get back to it?”

“Sampson Davis. Rafe Lynch.”

Ward couldn’t see why so little time made so much difference. “Aw, they can take care’a themselves, Jason,” he called over the galloping hoof beats. “And Wash is in town!”

“Don’t count on him.” And with that, Jason pulled ahead a full length.

Abe, now riding beside Ward, lifted his brows. “Ours ain’t to reason why,” he called.

“What?” Ward called, but Abe just shook his head, then lifted a hand and pointed forward. The town’s lights, from a bonfire here and a window or two there, were coming into sight.

Abe pulled ahead and hollered something at Jason that Ward couldn’t make out. And Jason slowed clear down to a soft jog trot. Ward could tell Jason’s mare was grateful by the way she dipped her head over and over. The horses were all plumb tuckered out, if you asked him. Which, of course, no one did.

They soon reached the town gates and the wagon train, and rode on through. Jason didn’t take Cleo home as usual, though. He rode on down to the office and dismounted. “Can you walk her out for me, Ward?”

“Guess so.”

Ward had dismounted as well as Abe, and he gathered the reins of all three horses and started up the street, leading them and muttering under his breath.

The office lights were on, and when they walked a little closer, Jason saw Rafe Lynch sitting behind his desk, big as life and smoking a cigarette.

He frowned a little and paused, wondering what the hell was going on, when Abe poked him in the back and said, “Ain’t nobody gonna go see if you don’t.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason muttered, and stepped up on the boardwalk, with Abe right behind him.

Rafe didn’t move an inch when Jason shoved in the door. Instead he said, “Howdy, boys! I brung you a prisoner.” He pointed to the cell, and it took Jason a moment to figure out who it was.

He said, “Well, I’ll be double damned! Rafe, you amaze me!”

Abe shifted his weight and shook his head. “Ditto. What the hell happened?”

“You’d best ask the bartender cross the street. He saw more’a the deal than I did, and he’s the one what turned Davis in to me.” Rafe shrugged and attempted to look pious. “I am only a vessel.”

Abe went across the street while Jason stayed at the office, booting Rafe out of his chair and lighting a smoke of his own. This kept up, he thought, and he was going to smoke himself like a ham, only inside out.

Ward walked in, much earlier than Jason had expected. “Horses all right?”

“Yup. They weren’t as used up as we thought. Left Cleo over in your barn. Stripped her tack.”

“Thanks, Ward.”

Ward suddenly realized that they were not alone. He nodded at Rafe, then looked toward the cell for a moment before he said, “Davis?”

Jason nodded.

“Well, big chief? What we gonna do now?”

“Wait for Abe.” He noticed that somebody, probably Ward, had tidied up the pieces of his old chair and put them into the wood bin next to the stove. They weren’t fit for anything but fuel anymore, anyway.

Twenty minutes later Abe came back, bringing the story of Rafe’s near-kidnapping and the barkeeper’s bravery in a time of crisis.

Ward said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Jason said, “Lew’s playin’ it up for all it’s worth, isn’t he?”

Abe nodded. “A regular John Wilkes Booth. Far as the actin’ goes, anyhow. I seen him once, in Baltimore, y’know.”

Rafe leaned forward at that. “For real? You get any indication of what was to come?”

Abe shook his head. “Damn good performance, though. Can’t recollect the name’a the play just now. . . .”

Jason waved a hand. “Can we get back to the business at hand, gentlemen?”

They all stared toward Davis’s cell. He was nothing but a dark shadow, sitting in profile to them on the edge of the bunk, hat pulled low, face down, seemingly fascinated with the floor between his boots.

Abe, who had been sitting on the edge of Jason’s desk, stood up. “Gotta think on it, but it may be a case for the U.S. Marshal’s Office. Attempted kidnapping, that is. You boys be up for an answer come the mornin’?”

Jason nodded, and Abe let himself out and soberly walked across the street to Kendalls’ Boarding House.

Jenny was asleep by the time Jason finally got home and settled Cleo in, and he quietly got ready for bed and slid his body between the covers. And the whole time, all he was thinking about was “what next?” He supposed most of it would hang on Abe’s decision, but that would entail Abe having to haul Davis up to Prescott. No matter how you looked at it, that wasn’t a happy plan. There were too many mountains to climb and too many streams to cross, and just plain too many opportunities for Davis to break free.

It wasn’t that Jason mistrusted Abe’s abilities. But he didn’t know what Davis was capable of, and he didn’t like the idea of Abe going out there alone with him.

Finally, after some fitful tossing and turning, he decided to send Ward along. Ward would enjoy the outing, he figured, and Abe would enjoy the company. All this hinged, of course, on Abe’s decision. Taking into account his friendship with Rafe and his swift reaction to Matt, earlier this evening, Jason wouldn’t be surprised if he just dragged Davis up into the mountains and shot him.

He shook his head. No, Abe wouldn’t do that. But then again, he might. It was impossible to tell.

At last, slumber’s beckoning became insistent, and Jason fell fitfully asleep. He didn’t rouse until Jenny woke him the next morning.

But when Jason finally sat down in his office, Abe was nowhere to be found. According to Ward, he hadn’t been by the office, and nobody’d seen him. Sampson Davis, at least, was still in his cell, and silently ate the breakfast that Jenny had made for him—careful to keep it kosher, of course.

Abe finally stuck his head in the door at about lunchtime and apprised Jason that he’d come to no decision as yet.

Jason was both relieved and disappointed, but if anybody had asked him, he couldn’t have said why.

He walked over to the saloon with Abe and rounded up Rafe (prying him loose from a game of blackjack, which he’d been winning all morning), and they all hiked up to the café to grab some lunch. Jenny had sent him off to work with a chicken sandwich, but he figured to eat that later on. Talking was more important now.

And Rafe and Abe were both full of talk. Unfortunately, mostly stories about Rafe’s daddy and Rafe’s childhood and Rafe’s growing up, and no speculation about just what the hell they were going to do with Sampson Davis.

Abe seemed in a particularly good mood. Had Jason been so inclined, he might have even referred to him as “high-spirited.” Quite a departure from his usual demeanor. Odd, Jason thought. Very odd.

He finally asked. “Where you been this morning, Abe? Couldn’t turn you up, and I about turned over every stone in town.”

“Reckon you didn’t think to look where I was,” Abe said cryptically.

“Where was that?”

“In the schoolhouse.” Abe grinned. It was a silly grin, almost like a smitten youngster.

“What the heck were you doin’ in school? Hey, you weren’t romancin’ my baby sister, were you?”

Abe held up both hands, palms forward. “Don’t go gettin’ yourself in an uproar, Jason. That Jenny’s a good kid. She took over classes for Electa while we went out back and talked.”

Now Jason was really confused. Even Rafe looked a little taken aback. Jason said, “You went outside with Miss Morton?”

“Ain’t gonna be ‘Miss Morton’ for long,” Abe remarked with a grin that tried to be cryptic, but failed.

Rafe slugged him in the arm. “You old dog!”

It took Jason a little longer, but he finally said, “But you haven’t even met her yet!”

“I was up there yesterday for a spell, and I seen her the day I rode in. Damned handsome woman.”

“But still, that’s hardly a basis for—”

“Jason,” Abe said, “my pa knew my ma for about twelve hours afore they got hitched, and they’re still hitched to this very day. Sometimes, lastin’ love happens fast.”

“Maybe, but—”

“No buts about it.” Abe signaled the waiter. “Three pieces of apple pie—with cheddar. We’re celebratin’!”

“But did she say yes?” Jenny asked again. “My gosh, I sure couldn’t tell anything from the way she acted. I mean, not that she’d just been proposed to!”

“Yes, she said ‘yes’,” Jason replied. He didn’t really understand it himself, yet. “Except she wants him to go ask her father, first.”

Jenny’s hand were suddenly planted firmly on her hips. “Why? I mean, she’s got to be like, forty years old or something!”

“Thirty,” Jason corrected. “And thirty’s not that old if you’re still somebody’s kid. You got any more’a that cake?”

She sliced off another piece and practically threw it at him. “How can you eat cake at a time like this?”

“It’s good cake. And what do you mean, ‘a time like this’?”

“When your only sister is about to have to take on teaching the whole school—by herself! They’ll move to Prescott, you know. They’ll be gone and I’ll be left with Cyrano Jones and Junior Krebbs and that whole crowd. ’Course, they’ll be graduating in June and out on the town and they’ll be yours to deal with, but there are others coming up that are going to be just as difficult if not worse, and—”

She put her hands up to her eyes, covering them, and he saw a single tear trickle through her fingers. “What am I gonna do, Jason?”

“You’ll go on like we all do, Jenny.” He knew it wasn’t comforting, but it was the best he could come up with, considering the circumstances.

“You’re no help at all!” she shouted and ran from the room.

As her bedroom door slammed behind her, he muttered, “Yeah, I know,” and then he pulled his cake toward him and dug in. It really was good cake.

Later, on the porch, he considered that Jenny was just being selfish, or perhaps jealous. Or maybe she was really, truly scared of teaching the class on her own. In the end, he supposed it didn’t matter. If Miss Morton left town, Jenny was stuck.

To tell the truth, Jason wasn’t crazy about the idea, either. Some of those boys that they taught were big galoots, sullen and brutish, and far beyond the normal age for school, having been held back a few times. And Jenny was small, almost tiny. If one of them got her cornered . . .

He stubbed out his cigarette to take his mind off of it, but it didn’t work. He was still brooding when he went into the house. He stopped in the kitchen to eat yet another piece of cake, and it was while he was thus occupied that his sister came down the hall.

“Jason?” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to act like a baby or a sore loser. I wish Miss Morton all the best, I really do. This is a silly time for me to be thinking about myself.” She turned to go back down the hall, then suddenly spun back. “Are you eating another piece of cake?”

Jason swallowed, then said, “But it’s good!”

She shook her finger at him. “Nobody likes a fat marshal.” And then she turned again and went back to her room.

Jason watched her retreat, then stared down at the cake, and gave a thoughtful gaze at his belly. Muttering, “I’ve got a long way to go before I’m fat!” he picked up his fork and happily went back to work.

That night, long after Ward had made his final rounds and Jason was fast asleep, Deputy U.S. Marshal Abraham Todd sat in the far corner of his room, smoking. He’d given up counting them a long time ago, but he knew he was almost out of papers.

He wished he could get Jason interested in taking the position of Deputy U.S. Marshal. It would surely solve a passel of problems for him. ’Course, that meant they’d get dumped on Jason, but Jason was better at this than he thought, and he had himself a mighty good deputy in Ward Wanamaker. Good enough that he’d considered asking Ward to join up if he couldn’t convince Jason.

When he got married—oh, Electa, his lovely Electa!—he was thinking about resigning. The job wasn’t fair to a wife. He’d have to spend so much time away from home, and there was always the chance that he could be killed. . . .

But then, the job had been his life up until now. Maybe he couldn’t just drop it that easily, for thinking about it and actually doing it were two different things.

He took a final drag off his smoke and stubbed it out in the ashtray, then methodically began to roll another. It was the next to the last paper, he noticed.

He began to daydream about Electa again, about having someone to come home to, someone to cook for him and darn his socks, and most of all, to bear his children. He was nearing forty-five, and felt like he was pushing his luck, for someone in his line of work. Electa was smart and Electa was pretty. A right handsome woman, his pa would have said.

And Electa had the bearing and the air of authority. He’d seen her with those kids. Hell, some of them were big enough and mean enough that they spooked him! But she had them in her hip pocket. A person didn’t learn that, they had to come by it naturally.

Just that air of hers, that command, had convinced him that she was the woman for him.

He decided that he’d ride out to her father’s ranch in the morning and ask his permission to marry his daughter, just like Electa had requested. It never crossed his mind that Mr. Morton would say no. Electa was so ripe she was going to burst if somebody didn’t marry her, and quick.

There were two Morton families, she’d told him, and her parents lived in the first house he’d come to, if he followed the trail. It seemed simple enough.

He stubbed out the smoke and, rising, hauled his carcass over to the bed and lay down, a silly smile plastered over his weary face. Oh, Electa, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. My Electa.