They walked up the street, then down to the south gate, which Ward had already opened. Sure enough, wagons were pulling into place and lining up outside, all down the south wall. The people in the front, who had already set their brakes and climbed down from their seats, were coming forward to glad-hand him. The first among them was the wagon master, who introduced himself as Riley Havens.
Jason made a quick assessment as they shook hands. Havens was sandy haired and tanned, and about thirty or so, he guessed. He had brown eyes and a tan line across his forehead (which Jason glimpsed when Havens doffed his hat to a passing lady), the latter of which denoted a fellow who worked outside in the sun for a living. He took a quick liking to the man, who said, “Pleased to meet y’all. You fellas, you just call me Riley, okay?”
“All right, Riley,” Jason replied. “I’m Jason, and welcome to Fury. Lookin’ for anythin’ special, or are you folks just glad for a place to camp near what we laughingly call ‘civilization’?”
Riley laughed. He said, “Both, I reckon. We’re in need of canvas. That big storm the other day yanked the tops clean off’a couple a wagons. Reckon they’re in the Pacific by now. And we’re in need of a wheelwright and an axle man, if you got one.”
Jason rubbed at his chin before he said, “Reckon we used up most of the canvas already, but there might be a couple of wagon covers tucked away someplace. And as for your wheel and axle man, we’ve got one who’d be happy for the business.”
Ward, beside him, nodded happily. “Yessir, we sure do! Jason, you want I should ride out to the Morton place and get Milton Griggs?”
“Tomorrow morning’ll be soon enough, Ward,” Jason said. Behind him, in the stockade, he could hear the town waking from its siesta, rattling its shutters and dusting off the welcome mats. “In the meantime, Riley, y’all c’mon in and grab yourself a drink. Water, whiskey, beer, whatever you want!”
He was about to take his leave of Riley and go back to face the letter, when a big, burly man, stepped up. “You the sheriff?” he asked in a bark.
“Yeah,” said Jason. “What of it?” He noticed that Riley had taken a step back.
“I’m lookin’ for somebody. Rafe Lynch is his name. The sonofabitch in town?”
Jason didn’t like the looks of him, and stalled a little. “Might I ask who’s wantin’ to know?”
“I’m Sampson Davis, and I’m here to kill the rat bastard.”
Even down the street, walking back toward the safety of the office, Jason and Ward spoke in guarded tones. It was one thing to have a killer in town, but another entirely to have two of them!
“Look, that Sampson guy, he’s sayin’ right out that he’s gonna kill Lynch, but Lynch ain’t done a dang thing wrong here in Fury,” Ward was saying.
“And if he kills him in Fury, he’ll hang for murder, just like anybody else would.”
“Take a mighty stout rope to hang a big, muscled-up fella like that, Jason,” Ward mused.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Ward,” Jason said, and opened the door to his office. They both stepped inside, and ran smack into Rafe Lynch.
Jason had been wanting to talk to him, but he would rather have been the one to pick the time and place. He had only glimpsed Lynch in person, and seen his poster, and now he decided that the poster hadn’t done him justice. No wonder Jenny was so taken with him.
He said, “Lynch. What brings you to Fury in general, and my office in particular?”
Beside him, he heard Ward utter a low gasp and felt him take a discreet step to the side, then halt, rock solid as usual. It was good to know Ward had his back.
Lynch said, “Guess you already know my name. And I know yours, too. You’re Marshal Jason Fury, brother to the charming Miss Jenny Fury, and son of the late, lamented Jedediah Fury.” He stuck out his hand and Jason reluctantly took it.
“And you’re Ward Wanamaker,” Lynch went on, “unless I miss my guess. Have I?”
Next, Ward took his hand and gave it a half-hearted shake. “I’m Wanamaker, all right,” he said, a little stiffly.
“You’ll pardon my deputy,” Jason said when Lynch arched a brow. “Like me, he’s just wonderin’ what a fella wanted in California for killin’ eight men is doin’ here in Fury.”
One corner of Lynch’s mouth crooked up. “Well, you boys ain’t nothin’ if not direct.” He turned around and pulled out the chair opposite Jason’s desk. “You mind if I set myself down? I got a feelin’ this is gonna be a long palaver.”
Jason said, “Help yourself,” moved around to his chair on the other side of the desk, and wished he’d finished that damned letter and sent it out yesterday. At least the wastebasket didn’t look disturbed. Lynch hadn’t been snooping, which left Jason feeling oddly relieved.
Ward moved across the room and took a seat in front of the cells, where he could keep an eye on Lynch’s gun hand.
Jason crossed his arms on the desktop and leaned forward. “So, why Fury? How come we’re blessed—or damned—with your presence?”
Lynch gave him that crooked-up smile again. “Because you’re close enough to California that I can make it in a day’s ride, and because rumor has it that you run a friendly little town. Am I right?”
Jason tipped his head, then nodded. “So far,” he said.
And Lynch laughed! Still cackling, he said, “I like you, Fury! You got a by-God sense of humor!”
But Jason didn’t return Lynch’s smile. He said, “I mean, how long are you plannin’ to stick around? You waitin’ for somebody or what?”
“Tryin’ to tell you,” replied Lynch, still holding that amused expression. “I’m not meetin’ anybody, or makin’ plans for anything, and there ain’t nobody here I wanna hurt. All I want is safe harbor, like those sailor boys say. I promise to mind my P’s and Q’s while I’m in town. Hell, while I’m in the whole territory!”
Despite himself, Jason was warming to Lynch as he spoke. He could see why Lynch would want—and need—a safe place. And he didn’t seem like such a bad fellow. Of course, he’d killed all those men. That mattered. That counted against him in the most serious way!
Jason said, “And what about all those men you killed? They probably could’a used a ‘safe harbor’ somewhere, too.”
“I ain’t gonna go into it now, but there’s a good reason attached to each one’a those killin’s.”
Behind him, over by the cells, Ward let out a loud “Hmmph.” Both Jason and Lynch ignored it, each for his own reasons.
Lynch stood up, startling Jason, who rose, too. Lynch said, “Well, I just wanted to check in and let you know I ain’t lookin’ for any trouble. I’m stayin’ across the street at the saloon, in case you wanna get hold of me. I liked it at Miss Abigail’s, but there ain’t much of anybody in there to get up a decent poker game with.” He paused. “The gals who drop by are a bit on the tender side, too,” he added, with a wink to Jason.
“I imagine they are,” he replied, without expression. He was glad, though, that Lynch had taken up residence at the other end of town, in the saloon. And he also hoped that Lynch kept true to his word, and stayed out of trouble.
They’d taken a few steps toward the door before Jason remembered, and stopped. “Wait,” he said, grabbing Lynch’s arm. “There’s a fellow in town. Just rode in with the wagon train, and he’s lookin’ for you. Says his name is Sampson Davis, and that he’s gonna—”
Lynch’s grin widened. “Gonna kill me?”
When Jason nodded, Lynch added, “I knew he was gonna catch up with me sooner or later. Just sorry it had to be here. You tell him I was in town?”
Ward said, “Already seemed to know. Nasty sort of fella.”
“Yup,” said Lynch. “That’s Davis. Well, I’ll be on the watch for him. Thanks, fellers.”