“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.