Redemption

5

The next morning found Jason and Jenny and Megan all up bright and early, and outside the stockade, taking in the sights of the wagon train. Most of its members were just plain folks, trying to get back to Kansas City, but a few had fancy goods and the like.

One of them, Mrs. Judith Strong, had a wagon packed nearly to the canopy with all kinds of yard goods and an assortment of notions, and she sold both the girls the material to make one new dress each.

While they were jabbering with her, Jason busied himself talking to Riley, the wagon master, and strolling down the line. “Where’s Sampson Davis this mornin’?” Jason asked. He hadn’t seen the man.

Riley shook his head. “I dunno. Lost him last night. Figured he was stayin’ at your hotel or somethin’.”

Jason shook his head. “Already been there. And it’s a boardinghouse, actually.”

“Whatever.”

They kept walking.

Riley began, “About that axle and wheel man . . . I wondered if—”

“Ward rode out first thing,” Jason said with a smile when he cut Riley off. “Ought to be back early this afternoon. Give him time. It’s a ways.”

Riley nodded. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Jason said, and grinned at him. Riley grinned back. “All your folks make it through the storm all right? Except the ones that lost their lids, I mean.”

“Two of us didn’t make it,” Riley said gravely. “Wind took their wagon and rolled it a couple times. They got crushed under the weight of their own belongings.”

Jason shook his head. “Shame. They linger?”

“Nope,” Riley replied. “Died instantaneous.”

Jason nodded. Some things were best when they were over quickly.

Riley didn’t speak. He just nodded alongside Jason.

A boy came walking toward them, a boy whose heels were tagged by the goofiest-looking hound dog that Jason had ever seen. Well, he thought it was a hound, anyway, or maybe part hound. He nudged Riley and tipped his head toward it. “What the hell is that?” he asked.

“Up there? That’s Bill Crachit.

“I mean, what’s that thing followin’ him?”

“Oh! That’s the Grimms’ dog, Hannibal.”

Jason sighed. “I mean, what’s his breeding?”

Riley laughed. “Oh. Accordin’ to Tom Grimm, Hannibal is half Louisiana Black-mouthed cur, and half Redbone hound. ’Course, you couldn’t prove any of it by me.”

It was Jason’s turn to laugh this time. “No wonder I was confused!”

Riley said, “Join the party, Marshal.”

When Bill Crachit and Hannibal neared them, they stopped and Jason said, “Can I see your dog?”

Shyly, Bill said, “Sure, mister.”

While Jason bent to the dog—a houndy-headed, droopy-eared beast, colored and ticked like a redbone, but coarser-haired and bushy-tailed—Riley said, “Jason, here, isn’t just a ‘Mister,’ Bill. He’s Marshal Fury.”

“Sorry, Marshal,” said Bill after a gulp. “I-I didn’t know.”

Jason looked up from the dog, which was happily wagging his tail. “That’s all right, Bill,” he said. “You just call me Jason. Say, this is a right friendly dog you’ve got here. Or I guess he’s the Grimms’ dog, right?”

Bill glanced quickly at Riley, then said, “Yessir, he is.”

“Don’t believe I’ve ever seen . . . anything quite like him.”

Bill smiled for the first time. “Neither had anybody else on the train. He’s a oner, all right.” His hand dropped down to scratch the dog’s head, and Hannibal complied by leaning his body against the boy’s leg and nearly knocking him over.

Jason shot out a hand to steady him: A lucky thing, or he would’ve been knocked into a wagon. Or maybe under it.

“Thanks,” Bill said, once he got his balance back again.

Jason noticed that the dog hadn’t moved a muscle, except for his eyelids, which were drifting closed. He decided he could really get to like this dog.

A new fellow, soberly dressed, came walking up from the rear, behind Bill Crachit. He stopped and tipped his head to Riley. “Good morning, Mr. Havens.” His hand went to the boy’s shoulder. “You, too, young Bill.”

Riley nodded, and Bill said, “Mornin’, Mr. Bean.” Turning to Jason, Riley announced, “This is one of our men of God, Jason. The Reverend Mr. Fletcher Bean. And Fletcher, this is Jason Fury, marshal of Fury.”

Jason stuck out his hand and Mr. Bean took it, adding, “God bless you, son.”

Not exactly sure what to reply to something like that, Jason simply said, “Uh, thanks.” And then he quickly added, “The same to you, Reverend!”

Their little group soon turned into a larger one, with folks walking up and down the line of wagons to introduce themselves. Jason shook hands with over a dozen people, although later, he’d be dogged if he could remember any of their names.

Well, he guessed he wouldn’t have to, unless some trouble came up. And right now, it was looking like any trouble would be inside Fury itself.

Giving a last pat to Hannibal, Jason excused himself and started back up to the town’s entrance and the sheriff’s office. He passed Jenny and Megan, who seemed to be dickering with somebody over something, and waved as he passed.

When he went through the gate, he wondered if he should stop by the mercantile and meet Solomon’s company, then decided against it. There would be time for that later, and right now he was thinking that he’d better talk to Rafe Lynch. He had seen neither hide nor hair of Sampsom Davis, and just hoped that he hadn’t found Lynch first.

The piano was tinkling out a slow song and there were several girls in evidence, although it wasn’t yet nine in the morning when he got to the saloon. To the bartender, Jason said, “Seen Rafe Lynch this mornin’?”

Sam, the barkeep, replied, “Oh, it’s way too early for him, Jason. He might wander down around ten or so. Probably later. Got a message you want passed along?”

Jason shook his head, then changed his mind. “Tell him I wanna talk to him. He doesn’t need to come to the office, though. I’ll come back down here. Oh, and Sam? Anybody else comes lookin’ for him, you tell ’em he ain’t here.”

“Anybody?”

“Anybody.”

“Will do,” said Sam, and went back to polishing bar glasses.

“I’m telling you, Solomon, I don’t like him!” Rachael hissed again, her head under the covers.

“But he’s a Jew!” Solomon whispered back. For him, that overrode anything else, despite the fact that Sampson made him a little nervous, too.

“I don’t care if he’s a rabbi! I want him out of here and away from the children!”

“Shhh!” Solomon hissed. “Do you want he should be hearing you?”

Rachael tempered her tone, then said, “I don’t like him. I think he is a bad man. Solomon, try to act like your namesake. Don’t be blindly accepting him just because of his race.”

Solomon pursed his lips. “Rachael, I don’t know how to answer. My head pulls one way, my heart pulls the other.”

“Think about it. And while you are doing this thinking, you had best get ready to go down and open the store. The tempus, she is fugiting.” She leaned over and brushed his lips with a kiss, then gave him a playful shove.

Solomon rose and stretched his arms, saying, “Women. They are never happy. You go right, she says left. You go up, she says down. You take brisket, she says the corned beef is better. You ask for—”

“Solomon?” she cut in sweetly. “The store?”

Muttering, “Oy,” he began to dress for the day.

When he left the bedroom and walked into the open space that comprised the rest of their quarters, all three of the boys and their new baby sister were still soundly sleeping in their beds, but Sampson Davis was nowhere to be seen.

Solomon scowled. Where on earth could he have gone to? And then he slapped himself alongside the head and muttered, “The wagons, of course.” Sampson had left something necessary in his wagon, and had gone back for it. Oh, well. Solomon had been looking forward to a morning prayer with him, but it would wait. God was patient.

He pulled off a hunk of brisket, put it between two slices of Rachael’s home-made bread, and headed quietly down the stairs, to the mercantile.

Back in his office, Jason went through the files, searching in vain for anything on Sampson Davis. But he’d known he’d find nothing, and he wasn’t disappointed. He only had a little information on California criminals—just what the Territorial Marshal’s office deemed fit to send him.

Once again, he wished they were on the stage route. Well, he didn’t see why they shouldn’t be, for they had lodgings and water and a stable for the stage horses. They could sure use the steady influx of folks coming and going, and the steady mail service, too. All of which reminded him that he’d forgotten to check and see if Grady had made it out of town yet.

He poured himself the last cup of coffee and slouched down at his desk. He’d walk up to the mercantile later, but first he needed a sit-down and a drink. Files were tiring things!

He had just taken his second sip of coffee when he happened to glance out the window and see Jenny across the street. She frequently ran errands for Electa Morton and was emerging from Salmon Kendall’s printing shop with a stack of papers in her arms, so he didn’t think much about it. Until moments later, that was.

She started toward the jail, walking across the street, when suddenly, Rafe Lynch came vaulting off the sidewalk where she had been and shoved her over, knocking her and her papers to the ground! Before Jason could stand up, a runaway driverless wagon flashed right over the place where his sister had been walking, and Rafe Lynch was helping her to her feet again.

“Jesus,” whispered Jason. “Sweet Jesus!” He got to his feet and rushed outside, running to Jenny’s side.

But when he got there, she was actually laughing!

He grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “You could have been killed if Rafe hadn’t pushed you out of the way! Don’t you know to look both ways before you cross a street? Have you lost your senses?” And then he suddenly hugged her to him so tightly that before he knew it, she was struggling and he realized she couldn’t breathe.

He loosened his grip and allowed her to push away. When she caught her breath again and finished coughing, she said, “Does this mean that if I don’t succeed in killing myself, you’ll do it for me?”

He laughed so loudly that one of the Milcher kids opened the church door and peeked out. “Precisely, precisely!” And then he remembered the kitten, probably because of just seeing the Milcher kid. “Jenny, I’ve got a present for you, but it won’t be ready for six or eight weeks,” he declared impulsively.

Jenny clapped her hands as best she could with an armload of papers. “What, Jason? What is it?”

He smiled slyly. “I call it Dusty.”

“Dusty? What’s a ‘dusty’?”

“Yeah,” said Rafe, who Jason had completely forgotten was there. “What is a ‘dusty’?”

Jason stared at him for a moment, and then relaxed back into a smile. The man had just saved his sister’s life, after all! He said, “A ‘dusty’ is the name of something small and white and fluffy and incredibly sweet—just like you, Jenny—that was born just a few nights ago.”

Jenny squealed, and Jason noticed that when she did, Rafe made a pained face. That was good. Jenny wasn’t paying any attention, though. She cried, “The Milchers! You got one of those new kitties for me, didn’t you, Jason?” He nodded, and she added, “Oh, I could just hug you!”

“Best wait until you deliver those papers to Miss Morton!” he joked.

Jenny laughed, as gaily as if she hadn’t just been nearly killed. There was a kitten in the picture now, and everything was right with the world. Jason had guessed as much.

“Well, congratulations, Miss Jenny!” exclaimed Rafe. He looked as happy for her as she did for herself.

“Hadn’t you best run those papers up to Miss Morton?” Jason asked.

“Oh! Oh, gosh, I almost forgot!” She blinked rapidly, turned to Rafe and said, “Thank you so much! Come to dinner tonight!” Then she fairly ran up the street. Well, as close as a lady could come to running. When she stopped outside the schoolroom door, she paused, turned, and tossed a kiss to Jason, who made a show of catching it and then pressing it to his heart.

He and Rafe stood there a minute, until Jason thought to get out of the street. Davis could be anywhere. He said, “Let’s get outta the line of fire.”

“Your office or mine?” Rafe asked, and that half-crooked smile was back on his face again.

“Yours, I think,” Jason said with no humor. This was no time for jokes.

He saw the runaway team being led back around the corner at the end of town, and shouted, “Everything all right, Jed?”

Jed Dawson hollered back, “Yeah. Your sister okay?”

“Yup. Doing fine!”

Jed crossed himself, then called, “Praise the Lord!”

“Whatever,” muttered Jason as they stepped up on the boardwalk and he followed Rafe inside the saloon.

It was a lot more lively than it had been the first time Jason had been in that day, and he tagged after Rafe, who led him to an empty table.

“This’n all right?”

Jason allowed that it was, and the men sat down.

After the libations arrived and both men were comfortable, Jason asked the question.

“Why is Sampson Davis after you?”

Rafe looked him square in the eye and said, “Because I shot his no-account brother-in-law. I only shot him in the shoulder. Wasn’t my fault it went septic and he died. And I shot him because he murdered my daddy over some gold shares Daddy had, just outright murdered him in cold blood. At least I had the gumption to call him out into the street to answer for it in a fair fight! So now I got Sampson Davis doggin’ me everywhere I go. The whole damn family should’a stayed back East.”

Rafe took a long drink of his beer, as if the telling out of his story had exhausted him. Jason, surprised but finally educated, followed suit.

Frankly, it wasn’t what Jason would call a murder. He wondered if it was one of the ones listed on Rafe’s poster, and he asked him.

“Yeah,” came the answer. “California’s real nit-picky about that stuff. You want another beer?”

Jason looked down at his glass, which he had emptied, much to his surprise. “Yeah,” he said.

Rafe looked over at the bar, somehow caught Sam’s attention, and held up two fingers. Sam nodded, and before they knew it, a blond girl in a fancy green silk dress was sliding the drinks onto the table.

Jason started to dig into his pocket, but Rafe stopped him. “It’s on me. My office, after all.” He smiled, full faced this time. “By the by, in case you’re wonderin’, my name’s spelt R-a-l-p-h. My mamma was from England and Daddy was from Ireland, and Rafe is how they pronounce it over there. Don’t ask me why,” he added with a wave of his hand. “I got no idea.”

Jason thought back to what he knew about England, and said, “Yeah, those English got their ways about ’em. They call B-e-l-v-o-i-r ‘Beaver’—that’s a castle I read about once—and Grosvenor ‘Gruvner. ’” Bemused, he shook his head and took another drink of beer.

“And Cholmondeley, they call ‘Chumly.’” Rafe laughed, and then Jason, after swallowing his gulp of beer, joined in.

He had a feeling that everything was going to be all right. For the moment, anyhow.