Fat chance of that!
He hunkered down against the howl of the storm to wait it out.
But he was happy.
Back inside the stockaded walls of Fury—walls that had used up every tree lining the creek for five miles in either direction and used up most of the wagons, too—the wind was still whistling and whining through the cracks between the timbers. Solomon Cohen, who had been known as Saul until he changed it back to Solomon during a crisis of faith several months back, was huddled in the mercantile with Rachael, his wife, and the boys: David, Jacob, and Abraham. The back room of the mercantile was fairly tight, and so they had planted themselves there for the duration.
Solomon’s crisis had come after a long time, a long time with no other Jews in town, no one else who spoke Yiddish or understood Hebrew, no one with an ancestry in common with himself or Rachael. Oh, there was she, of course, but it wasn’t like having another Jewish man around to share things with, to complain with, to laugh with, and to spend the Sabbath with. How he wished for a rabbi!
And now Rachael was with child once again. He feared that they would lose this one, as they had the last two, and each night his prayers were filled with the unborn child, wishing it to be well and prosper. He didn’t care whether God would give him a boy or a girl, he just heartily prayed that Jehovah would give him a child who breathed, who would grow up straight and tall, and who would be a good Jew.
Still, he wished for another Jewish presence in Fury. A man, a woman . . . a family at best! His children had no prospects of marriage in this town filled with goyim.
If they were to marry, they would likely have to go away to California, to one of the big cities, like San Francisco. It was a prospect he dreaded, and he knew Rachael did, too. They had talked of it many times. They had even spoken of it long before the children’s births, when they first met in New York City and Solomon spoke of his dreams of the West and the fortunes that could be made if a man was smart and handy and careful with his money.
It had taken him over ten years (plus his marriage to Rachael and three babies, all sons) to talk her into it, but at last she relented. Although he always remembered that she had cautioned that they didn’t know if the West held any other Jews that their children could marry—or even, for that matter, would want to!
As always, she had been right, his Rachael.
He looked at her, resting fitfully on the old daybed they kept down here, her belly so swollen with child that she looked as if she might pop at any second, and he felt again a pang of love for her, for the baby. She was so beautiful, his wife. He was lucky to have her, blessed that she’d had him.
The wind hadn’t yet shown any signs of lessening, and so he slouched down farther in his rocker and carefully stuck his legs out between David and Abraham, who were sound asleep on the floor. Glancing over at Jacob to make sure he was all right, too, Solomon said yet another silent prayer, then closed his eyes.
He was asleep in less than five minutes.
The Reverend Milcher angrily paced the center aisle between the rows of pews. Not that they had ever needed them. Not that they’d ever been filled. Not that anybody in town appeared to give a good damn.
Even though he hadn’t spoken aloud, he stopped immediately and clapped his hand over his mouth. From a front pew, Lavinia, his long-suffering wife, looked up from her dusty knitting and stared at him. “Did you have an impure thought, Louis?” she asked him.
“Yes, dear,” he replied after wiping more sand from his mouth. “I thought a sinful word.”
“I hope you apologized to the Lord.”
“Yes, dear. I did.”
He began to pace again. They were running out of food, and he needed to fill the church with folks who would donate to hear the word of the Lord. That, or bring a chicken. He had tried and tried, but nothing he did seemed to bring in the people he needed to keep his church running. And now, this infernal dust storm! Was the Lord trying to punish him? What could he have possibly done to bring down the Lord’s wrath upon not only himself, but the town and everything and everyone around it?
Again, he stopped stock still, but this time his hand went to the side of his head instead of his mouth. That was it! The dust storm! Oh, the Lord had sent him a sign as sure as anything!
“Louis?”
“What?” he replied, distracted.
“You stopped walking again.”
He pulled himself up straight. “I have had a revelation, Lavinia.” Before she could ask about it, he added, “I need some time to think it through. Good night, dear.” Soberly, he went to the side of the altar, opened the door, and started up the stairs.
Lavinia stood up and began to smack the dust out of the garment she’d been knitting, banging it over and over against the back of a church pew. She kept on whacking at it as if she were beating back Fury, beating back her marriage and this awful storm, beating back all the bad things in her life.
At last, she wearily stilled her hand and started upstairs.
When Jason woke, he still found himself alone, surrounded by unfettered wind whipping at the walls. And it was, according to the clock, 10:45. And there was no Ward in evidence.
He let out a long sigh, unfortunately accompanied by a long sandy drizzle of snot, which he quickly wiped on his shirtsleeve. Well, he should have expected it. He gave himself credit in foretelling that Ward wouldn’t brave the storm in order to come down to the office, though. Jason just hoped he’d found himself a nice, secure place to hole up in.
Jason reminded himself to hike up to the mercantile and see if they had any calking. That was, when the storm let up. If it ever did. He was going to make this place airtight if it killed him.
There was still dust coming in around the windows and the front door, and right up through the floor. He didn’t want to see what was happening around the back door, but he knew it’d be bad. It wasn’t nearly as tight as the front one.
Just then, a loud bang issued from the back room, and he shot to his feet, accompanied by the soft clatter of thousands of grains of sand falling from his body and hitting the floor.
Whispering, “Dammit!” he went to the door to the back room and threw it wide. He had expected to be met by the full force of the storm and the outer door hanging off its hinges, but instead he found Ward, struggling to close the back door.
He fought back the urge to laugh, and instead helped Ward. The two men succeeded in closing and latching the door, and Ward leaned his back against it, his head drooping.
Jason grinned. “You look like you been rode hard and put up wet, man.”
“Feel worse,” Ward replied after a moment. Then he looked Jason up and down. “You don’t much look like a go-to-town slicker, yourself, boss.”
Jason smiled, then led him into the main part of the office. “There’s clean water in the bucket. You want coffee, you’re gonna hafta make it yourself.”
Ward went to the bucket and had himself two dippers of water, then splashed another on the back of his neck. “You ever seen a storm like this?”
Jason said, “I never even heard a’ one.” He hadn’t, either, not one like this!
“Well, I heard about ’em, but this one’s sure a rip-snorter. Don’t believe I ever heard tell a’ one lastin’ so long or goin’ so hard. Oh—what I come to tell you. One a’ the Milcher kids is missin’. Found the Reverend out lookin’ for him, but you know him—he’s like buttered beef in a crisis. Made him go on home.”
Jason nodded. “When’d he go missing?”
“Sometime between seven and nine thirty. The Reverend thinks he’s out lookin’ for the cat. She’s missin’, too.” During the passing years, the Milcher’s original cat, Chuckles, had been replaced several times. The latest one was . . . well, he couldn’t remember at the moment. But it was either a grand kitten or a great-grand kitten of Chuckles.