Morelli finally left the mercantile, but he was walking a little taller. Thank You, Lord, he said in his mind. Thank You for watching, for paying attention, and for harkening to their words. Amen and amen.
He went not toward his home and his office, but out to the wagon train once more. And while he walked down the line of wagons, he said another little prayer, in his thoughts, for poor Frank Saulk, the man who had been hit by a saguaro arm before the wagons came to Fury. His wounds had been complicated by his wife’s failure to get out all the spines, although he couldn’t blame her. Most of what was left, peppering the back, was invisible to the eye and had to be felt for.
He didn’t suppose a screaming husband was the best patient, either.
He screeched when Morelli did it, too, but Morelli hoped to get the last of them out today.
If he didn’t, Frank Saulk would die.
When he got there, Frank was dozing fitfully in the back of the wagon, and his missus (who’d said, “Call me Eliza”) was off to the side, tending to a fire which looked like it had just been kindled. He greeted her, and proceeded to stick his head in the back of the wagon.
“Frank? Frank, are you awake?” he said, even though he knew Frank was conscious. He didn’t like surprising people, especially patients on their deathbeds.
Frank lifted his head and cranked it around. “Yeah,” he said, as if from another dimension. “Mornin’, Doc.”
Morelli climbed up into the wagon and squatted beside Frank. He hadn’t seen their children. Perhaps their mother had sent them off to play. He asked Frank how he was feeling, and Frank just made a face.
Morelli could see why. Frank’s back was an angry red and purple thing, almost a monster apart from the rest of him, and as septic as anything Morelli had ever seen, aside from some amputees during the War—some amputees who had later died. He smelled of death, too. Not a good sign.
“All right, Frank. I’m going to try to dig out the last few spines today, and then we’re going to see if we can’t clean up some of the pus. All right?”
“Whatever,” Frank muttered, and said no more.
Morelli began to go to work.
Meanwhile, Salmon Kendall was closing the meeting of the town elders, officially known as the Town Council. The men were on their feet and a few of them had already left when Salmon said, “Somebody should tell Solomon, up at the mercantile. You want me to do it?”
The other men (having heard and in some cases, whispered} about the Cohens’ sick newborn, were leery of setting foot in a house of sorrow, and all agreed. They would have Salmon do what they were afraid to.
When they had all filed out, he walked up the street and pushed open the jangling mercantile door. Surprisingly, he found Solomon in good spirits—very good, in fact.
“Solomon?” he said. “The baby’s better?”
“Oy, my friend Salmon!” Solomon effused, arms held wide as if to engulf the entire town—or possibly the entire world. Salmon couldn’t be sure, but he backed up a step. Solomon didn’t seem to notice.
“She is much improved!” he went on. “The doctor was here, and said she has a good chance now, but I know better. God will not allow her to die. She is beyond harm, a blessed child!”
Salmon hoisted his brows. “And you know this because . . . ?”
“Because I know, that is why,” Solomon said, and that was that. Or at least, Salmon took it that way. Sometimes, he had learned, Solomon was intractable once he got the bit in his teeth, which he seemed to have achieved now.
He moved on to more pressing things. He said, “The council just held a meeting. Sorry we didn’t call for you, but things have been pretty rough up here, and . . .”
“You didn’t wish to bother me?”
“Exactly. Anyway, we’re going ahead with the water tower. I’ve got volunteers to go up north into the Bradshaws to get the wood, and I’ll start making a list today of men to do the building and the tarring of it.”
Solomon considered this. “It will have to be very strong indeed if we have another storm like we had the other night. Can we make it that solid? And where did you decide to put it?”
“Yes, it’ll be strong, Solomon. We have plans to use reinforced crossbars on the legs and tie-downs. And I believe the weight of the water will hold it in place.”
“God willing.”
“Exactly. And you know that empty lot a couple door downs from the marshal’s office? The plan is to put in there. It’s centrally located so that everybody will have equal access to the water.”
Solomon’s brow wrinkled. “No one owns this lot?”
“Not a soul. Like most of Fury, it’s a land grab.” Salmon laughed at his own joke, but Solomon remained thoughtful.
“And the council members agree to all of this?”
Salmon nodded.
Hunching his shoulders, Solomon raised his palms into the air. “So be it, then.”
“Drink to it?”
Solomon smiled. He felt like having a drink just to celebrate the good news about Sarah, anyway. “So be it,” he announced, and marched over to the drawer where he kept a decanter of red wine, and also a whiskey bottle. He picked up the latter and held it out. Smiling, Salmon smacked his lips.
Solomon poured out two whiskeys. “To all good things which come from God,” he said.
“Imagine the fellers who go up to get the wood’ll have a little problem with that. You know, thinkin’ it’ll all come from courage and muscle and dumb luck. And later, they’ll attribute it to wisdom and foresight and a staggering knowledge of lumbering skills. Perspective’s funny that way. But I’ll drink to the Lord’s help, by God. May He bless this endeavor!”
Solomon raised his glass. “L’chaim!”
They clinked their glasses together, tossed back their drinks, and grinned.
About a quarter mile outside of town, Ezra Welk crouched on the brushy desert beside his grazing horse and slowly shook his head while absently scratching at his neck. What the hell had happened here, anyway? There hadn’t been a blessed living thing here, aside from the usual snakes and bug-critters, the last time he was through! But now, it seemed like somebody had not only built a good-sized stockade—and chopped down practically every single tree that had once lined the bank of the creek—but had sent to California for a wagon train.
At least, that was what was parked along the stockade’s southern wall. He assumed it was the same wagon train whose path he’d been following for the past few days.
At long last, he stood up and mounted his horse, having decided, after a long internal debate, to go ahead and ride in, to see what the hell was really going on. Just as well, because just as he settled down into the saddle and got his reins adjusted, a big, ugly dog near the wagons spotted him and began to bark. He would have just shot the damned thing, but it was on the end of a rope or something, and the other end looked to be held by a lanky kid.
“Get you later, dawg,” he muttered, and moved his hand away from his holster. For the time being, anyhow.
Ezra Welk didn’t make promises he didn’t keep.
He moved his horse ahead, down the gentle slope, and toward the stockade.
14
Father Clayton got to Jason’s office at roughly the same time Jason did. Fortunately, Jason thought, he’d held it to one beer across the street, and so he was a sober man when the father announced he wished to talk.
“’Bout what?” Jason asked as he ushered the father into the chair opposite his, then sat down himself.
The father smiled. “Your fine neighbors across the street, Dr. and Mrs. Morelli, have seen fit to let me stay under their roof while I peruse your town.”
“And how do we read out?” Jason asked, while he wondered if someone had changed the definition of “perused” while he’d been away.