No, he’d decided to wait for Lynch to cross his path, and then he’d just wing him, put him a little bit out of commission. And then they’d ride back over the Colorado River, to California.
Teddy Gunderson had it all figured out, all right. A desert sparrow suddenly fluttered down from the roof, and he drew on it, too.
Damn fast, he thought smugly. If he had pulled the trigger this morning, he’d have killed four sparrows, two doves, one pack rat, three quails, and the ugliest dog he’d ever seen. It would have been a high body count.
Inside the church, the Reverend Milcher saw the flutter of wings and glanced up at the movement. He glimpsed the man he would later learn was Teddy as he pulled his gun on the bird, and wondered who in creation was out there, pretending to shoot sparrows.
He walked closer to the window for a better look.
Outside, Teddy holstered his sidearm once again. He was keenly attuned to the rustles and stirs which might be made by a potential target. A daring strike made by a finch, perhaps. Or maybe that really ugly dog would come by again.
Deputy U. S. Marshal Abe Todd had left Jason’s house, and was walking up the street toward the Cohens’ Mercantile. He was in a good mood, having been left to sleep in, and having partaken of some of the best of Jenny’s kitchen—in unexpectedly large quantities.
He was just turning the corner to walk down the main street when it happened, he later said. He heard the hum of men conversing coming from across the street, and turned to see a Catholic priest talking with a man carrying a doctor’s bag as they walked up toward his direction.
It was then that he saw the movement in the alley: He saw a man fitting Teddy Gunderson’s description, saw him quick-draw his rig and aim it toward the men, and he shouted, “Down, Father!” in that gruff voice turned up to a full roar volume.
He got the Father’s attention immediately, and the man took in the situation. With remarkable speed, he threw out his arm and pushed his companion clear of the alley’s mouth and followed him down as Marshal Todd fired upon the gunman back in the alley.
The man fell as suddenly and surely as the two living targets had thrown themselves on the ground, and Todd made his way across the street. When he got to the two men, he said, “You fellas all right?”
The priest, who introduced himself as Father Micah Clayton, helped the other man—a Dr. Morelli—to his feet. Both agreed they were all right, but rattled.
“Who was it?” asked Dr. Morelli, picking up his bag. “Is he wounded?” He followed Marshall Todd into the alley and quickly hunched down to the body.
“Dunno. Hope he’s dead,” Marshal Todd said in a voice divorced from emotion.
While Morelli fussed over the body, the priest reminded Todd that he was there. He asked, “Was he . . . is he Catholic?”
Todd said, “Don’t think it matters much now, Father,” and finally holstered his gun. Even the doctor’s ministrations weren’t going to perform a miracle, and he doubted that the priest was going to cause Teddy to rise from the dead.
Morelli said, “I’m afraid he’s gone.” Slowly, he got to his feet, and then looked up at Todd. “Who in tarnation was he, anyhow? And come to think of it, who are you?”
Abe Todd was on the verge of saying, “The man who just saved your necks,” when Jason came running up the street toward them. He parted a gathering crowd of spectators.
“What is it? What happened?” he shouted, his gun in his hand. And then he saw the body, sheltered by the bodies of the doc and Father Clayton. He turned his attention toward Abe. “Is it Gunderson?”
“Yup. Don’t know what the hell he was doin’, drawin’ down on these fellers, but there wasn’t a lotta time to ask him.”
A new voice spoke up. “Why, I don’t believe that was his intention at all! I’ve been watching him for several minutes, and it looked to me as if he was only practicing with his firearm.”
Jason looked at him. “And you saw this from where, Reverend Milcher?”
The reverend walked forward, then pointed down the alley to a window roughly ten feet beyond where Gunderson’s body lay.
Jason said, “So you couldn’t see the street?”
“I’m afraid not.”
If you were to ask Abe, he thought the sheriff looked pretty damned relieved to have Gunderson off his plate. And he wondered why they were taking so long just standing around when they could be carting the body off and getting on down to the jail.
And then Jason said, “Doc, you wanta help us haul him to the undertakers? C’mon, Abe.” He stepped through the alley, where he picked up an arm. Abe took the other one, and the two of them dragged Gunderson out into the street.
Abigail Krimp had come out to see what had caused the commotion, and stood in the street, arms folded, head shaking. “That’s a true and certain shame,” she said, “killin’ a pretty boy like that. Don’t he look just like one’a them angels in an Eye-talian paintin’?”
“He was drawing on Doctor Morelli and a member of the priesthood, Abigail,” Jason said through clenched teeth. Dragging bodies through the streets didn’t appear to be one of his favorite chores.
“He’s purty, though,” Abigail said with a sigh before she turned and walked back up toward her bar.
Abe, Jason, and now Dr. Morelli walked in the opposite direction, bearing Teddy Gunderson’s corpse between them.
And Abe was thinking, Hell, and it ain’t even close to noon, yet!
It was the beginning of a very active day in Fury.
13
Once they had Teddy at the undertakers, Doctor Morelli set to work on him, and discovered that Abe Todd’s slug had taken him right through the heart. This explained the lack of blood flow to Jason, anyway. Abe didn’t seem as if he much cared, one way or another, because all he said after Morelli made his announcement was, “So now we only got Davis to fret about.”
He didn’t even bother to turn around. He just stood by the window, amid stacks of chairs and tables and other things (the undertaker also being the town’s furniture maker), and stared out into the street.
“We need to get back over to the office,” Jason said, lifting his eyes from the corpse. It really was a shame, he was thinking. Teddy Gunderson had his whole life ahead of him, but he’d chosen to throw it away. He shook his head. He turned to Doc Morelli, who was washing his hands in the basin. “You’ll wait for the undertaker, Doc?”
Morelli shook water droplets from his hands, then picked up a towel. “That I will, but he’d best hurry. I need to get up to see Solomon and Rachael’s baby.”
“How is she, anyway?”
“Not good, the last time I saw her.”
“Whole town’s prayin’ for her, Doc.” Well, most of it was, anyway.
Morelli nodded. “Let’s hope it helps.”
Jason and Abe crossed the street, went into the office, and took seats on either side of the desk before they realized they had company. Rafe Lynch sat on a bunk in the first cell. His head was hanging down, and Jason said, “Rafe?”
Rafe looked up. “’Fraid so. Heard the shot and figured it might be a good idea to get my butt over here. Was I right?”
“You were.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Rafe Lynch, meet—”
Rafe stood up and Abe turned toward him. “Abe Todd!” He broke out into a big grin. “Spiders and snakes, it’s been a coon’s age!” He walked toward them. Abe stood up and met him in the middle of the floor, and they pounded each other’s backs like long-lost friends instead of a marshal and an outlaw, Jason thought. He found himself on his feet, too.