“Gunfighter!” Ward threw a glance at him that told him Ward thought that was the single most stupid question he’d heard in a long time. “Teddy Gunderson, from over California way. He’s a bounty hunter,” he added, only slightly more patiently.
“Says Wash.” Jason was still dubious.
They stepped up onto the boardwalk outside the saloon.
“Says Wash! Come on.” Ward pushed open the batwing doors and led the way in.
Jason spotted Wash first, and made his way over to his table. “Mind sharin’?” he asked. Wash nodded, and Jason sat down, followed directly by his deputy.
“So, what’s goin’ on, Wash?” Jason asked, pushing back his hat and crossing his arms on the table.
“Thought Ward was gonna tell you,” Wash slurred, then turned his head toward Ward. “Sammy get you the message?”
“Yeah. Guess the marshal wants to hear it all over again, firsthand,” Ward said disgustedly.
“That’s enough, Ward,” Jason said. “Tell me, Wash.”
“Well, you’re too late, anyways,” Wash said. “He up and left ’bout fifteen minutes ago. He kept pumpin’ Sam for information and Sam wouldn’t give him none, so—”
“What do you gents want to drink?” asked a pretty girl in a low-cut red dress.
“Nothin’,” said Ward, and Jason echoed him.
But Wash said, “’Nother boilermaker, Ruby.”
She winked at him, said, “Sure thing, Wash,” turned on her heel, and wended her way back to the bar.
Jason said, “You seen Rafe, Wash?”
“Nope, not since he come in. Went straight to his room and ain’t stuck his head out since.” He pointed to his eye and missed. “Been watchin’ his door.”
Jason glanced up at the row of doors strategically placed along an open, second-floor hallway that was barricaded only by a wooden rail along its outside, with a staircase at either end. It was usually used by the girls and their customers, but Sam occasionally let rooms out to special guests.
Rafe, it seemed, qualified.
Jason said, “And what about this Teddy . . .”
“Gunderson,” said Ward.
“Thanks. Any idea on his story, Wash?”
“Nope, but I can tell you what he looks like. Six feet, mayhap a tad over. Narrow build, kinda lanky. Got kinda sandy-colored hair, mustache but no beard. Youngish. But then, everybody seems young to me these days.” His boilermaker arrived, and he thanked the waitress before he turned back to Jason. “Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah. Youngish. Good lookin’, I s’pose. The gals in here were gaga over him, anyways. And that’s all I know.” With that, he picked up his shot glass, dropped the liquor ceremoniously into his beer mug, and chugged half of it down in one long gulp.
Jason leaned back in his chair, and a hint of a smile crept over his face. “Wonder if he’s stayin’ up at the boardinghouse?” Maybe he and Sampson Davis would kill each other! It sure beat the other alternatives, which were one of them killing him, or vice versa.
Neither one was very pleasant to think about.
Father Micah Clayton was inside the town that afternoon, visiting families of the faith, and taking confessions. He was amazed at the number of Catholics in Fury, as well as their long lists of sins to confess. It seemed that a priest had never visited there before, and so the lists of sins went back five or six years. Sometimes longer.
He was startled at their creativity, too. In fact, there were several occasions when he had felt the need to hide his face during confession, lest he break out in laughter. The things some children—and parents!—thought were sins!
Of course, there were serious incidents, too: enough Catholics and enough sins to make him believe that Fury wasn’t just in need of the occasional ministering touch that would be provided by a traveling Father or Brother. No, they needed a church, to whose bells they could harken, and where they could find a priest, day or night, to comfort and instruct them in time of need.
Also, he understood that there was competition in the form of the Reverend Milcher, from whose church he now stood across the street, and who he also understood was in trouble. It seemed that the reverend—who several people had confided in him was not ordained, but only a layman—was losing his flock. Or had already lost it, according to who was doing the talking at the moment.
Fury needed a church, and God was sending him signs that he was to build it. Father Micah didn’t know if the Lord would call on him to tend its flock forever, or just until a new priest came, but he was to do the building of it.
He didn’t imagine he could pull off something grand, like the Spanish had erected all over Mexico and the southwestern United States, but God didn’t mind. All he need was a building to shelter the faithful while they prayed and listened and took communion. And donated, he thought, somewhat selfishly. He was one to freely pass the plate when it came to donations. The church would cost money to build, and he had to live, didn’t he? Christ, Himself, would have understood his dedication to the wine decanter.
No, the good folks of Fury could support him while he lent them the spiritual grace and comfort they pined for. Now all he had to do was find a proper place to erect his church.
His church. He liked the sound of that.
And the second he realized what he was thinking, he rammed his fist against the adobe-coated post next to him.
Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me, Micah, the voice in his head boomed, putting him in his place. He scowled before he examined his bleeding knuckles.Especially not thyself.
He went back to his Conestoga and said five Hail Marys and three Our Fathers—much as many of those whose confessions he’d heard today were doing—and petitioned the Lord to grant him humility.
That afternoon, at about four o’clock, another rider was approaching Fury. He was a big man—tall and stocky, but not fat—with dark brown hair under his battered hat, a clean-shaven face, and a deputy U.S. marshal’s badge pinned on his worn leather vest. He rode a blue roan gelding, the same one that had hauled him over half the territory for the past few years, and which he wholeheartedly hoped would last another few. The horse’s name was Boy, and the man was U.S. Deputy Marshal Abraham Todd, down from Prescott.
He scouted the landscape ahead of him, which included not only the fortresslike town walls, but what looked to be a wagon train parked outside its southern perimeter. The wagons were calm, although there were people moving around, and the horses had been unhitched and placed in a corral closer to him, opposite the open doors of the wall.
He gave a close look to the lead wagon and wondered if anyone he knew was leading it. Probably not. These days, the West was somewhere a lot of people wanted to go. The Lord only knew why.
He reached the gate, tipped his hat to two ladies walking back in from the wagons—both carrying bundles—and asked where the sheriff’s office was. They looked at him oddly, but a voice from behind him said, “Just down the street, sir.”
He twisted to see a comely woman, standing outside in front of the schoolhouse. She pointed east, down the main street. She had dark hair, pulled back into a bun, and wore a deep blue dress, and he was taken with her right away.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said in a gruff voice (that most people found kindly, rather than abrasive), nodded, and moved Boy on down the street.
He’d gone about a block’s worth when he had to smile and chuckle. They musta knowed I was comin’, he thought when he saw the sign on the building up ahead. The sign read MARSHAL’S OFFICE.