“Yeah, you should’a!” said the laughing Ward. Then he turned serious. “How come you didn’t?”
Jason shrugged. Actually, it was because he thought it might be a misuse of his power as marshal. He certainly wasn’t afraid of Matt, or what he could do physically. Jason had it on him in spades, and they both knew it. They’d both known it for years, even before the original wagon train had departed from Kansas City.
Jason said, “I did, once. And once was enough. ’Fraid that if I hit him again, I might kill him.”
“He’s sure a tender one,” said Abe, “if that glass jaw’a his is any indication.” He started to roll a smoke, and Jason and Ward followed suit. It was a good time for a smoke.
After Jason took his first drag and blew out the smoke in a long plume, he said, “You got any idea why in the hell those Apache attacked at night?”
Ward shook his head, but Abe said, “He’s done somethin’, somethin’ to piss ’em off big time. Don’t know what yet, but I’ll find out. I’d like to ride back down there tomorrow and talk to his men.”
Jason nodded. “Fine by me.”
Ward asked, “You want company? Be glad to tag along.”
“Nope.” Abe shook his head. “Town needs you to get some sleep so’s you can keep an eye on Davis tomorrow night. But thankee kindly for the offer.”
Ward tilted his head, then nodded.
But Abe had done the damage already—he’d reminded Jason that he’d left the town with no one to watch it, and Sampson Davis on the loose.
17
Back in Fury, Rafe Lynch was having himself a high old time. The bartender, being inexperienced in such things but knowing that the jail was the place for people who tried to kidnap other people, had relieved Davis of all his firearms, poked through his pockets until he found the key to the handcuffs (which Rafe promptly let himself out of), then handed him over to Rafe for incarceration.
Rafe had walked Davis—wearing his own manacles—across the street, then locked him in a cell. He was currently sitting behind Jason’s desk with his feet propped up and a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.
“You know, Sampson, I oughta be real mad at you, trailin’ me here and tryin’ to grab me outta the saloon. But I guess I can forgive you. After all, you’re wrong about me killin’ your brother-in-law. You oughta be goin’ after the doc for that. But I reckon you got your mind all righteous and set, ’bout like a dog after a jackrabbit. You know, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do and all that crud.”
He noticed that his smoke had almost gone out, and took a long drag off it before he stamped it out in Jason’s ashtray.
Sampson wasn’t listening as far as he could tell. Wasn’t even looking at him, and he hadn’t since he set foot in the cell. He just sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the floor.
“In fact,” Rafe went on, “I figure you owe me. Your brother-in-law stole my daddy’s gold shares in one’a them shady poker games of his. Either that, or he held a gun on him ’til he signed. And then he killed him, shot him right through the head. Now, that weren’t very nice, was it?”
No reply from the cell.
Rafe hadn’t expected one.
“And on top’a that, now you’re keepin’ me from a good poker game. I figured to win big tonight.”
Surprisingly, a mutter came from the cell. “I ain’t keepin’ you, Lynch.”
“Yeah, you are. Somebody has to be here when the marshal comes back, and that somebody is me.” He paused to lick a fresh cigarette paper. “I don’t like you much, Davis. Come to think of it, I reckon I don’t like you at all. But if you keep on houndin’ me, looks like somebody’s gonna end up dead. Smart money’s on you.”
He lit the new cigarette and leaned back in the chair to smoke it. It tasted damn good.
Jason was suddenly in a big toot to get back to town, and Ward quizzed him on it. “Why we pushin’ these horses? What’s so important that we gotta get back to it?”
“Sampson Davis. Rafe Lynch.”
Ward couldn’t see why so little time made so much difference. “Aw, they can take care’a themselves, Jason,” he called over the galloping hoof beats. “And Wash is in town!”
“Don’t count on him.” And with that, Jason pulled ahead a full length.
Abe, now riding beside Ward, lifted his brows. “Ours ain’t to reason why,” he called.
“What?” Ward called, but Abe just shook his head, then lifted a hand and pointed forward. The town’s lights, from a bonfire here and a window or two there, were coming into sight.
Abe pulled ahead and hollered something at Jason that Ward couldn’t make out. And Jason slowed clear down to a soft jog trot. Ward could tell Jason’s mare was grateful by the way she dipped her head over and over. The horses were all plumb tuckered out, if you asked him. Which, of course, no one did.
They soon reached the town gates and the wagon train, and rode on through. Jason didn’t take Cleo home as usual, though. He rode on down to the office and dismounted. “Can you walk her out for me, Ward?”
“Guess so.”
Ward had dismounted as well as Abe, and he gathered the reins of all three horses and started up the street, leading them and muttering under his breath.
The office lights were on, and when they walked a little closer, Jason saw Rafe Lynch sitting behind his desk, big as life and smoking a cigarette.
He frowned a little and paused, wondering what the hell was going on, when Abe poked him in the back and said, “Ain’t nobody gonna go see if you don’t.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jason muttered, and stepped up on the boardwalk, with Abe right behind him.
Rafe didn’t move an inch when Jason shoved in the door. Instead he said, “Howdy, boys! I brung you a prisoner.” He pointed to the cell, and it took Jason a moment to figure out who it was.
He said, “Well, I’ll be double damned! Rafe, you amaze me!”
Abe shifted his weight and shook his head. “Ditto. What the hell happened?”
“You’d best ask the bartender cross the street. He saw more’a the deal than I did, and he’s the one what turned Davis in to me.” Rafe shrugged and attempted to look pious. “I am only a vessel.”
Abe went across the street while Jason stayed at the office, booting Rafe out of his chair and lighting a smoke of his own. This kept up, he thought, and he was going to smoke himself like a ham, only inside out.
Ward walked in, much earlier than Jason had expected. “Horses all right?”
“Yup. They weren’t as used up as we thought. Left Cleo over in your barn. Stripped her tack.”
“Thanks, Ward.”
Ward suddenly realized that they were not alone. He nodded at Rafe, then looked toward the cell for a moment before he said, “Davis?”
Jason nodded.
“Well, big chief? What we gonna do now?”
“Wait for Abe.” He noticed that somebody, probably Ward, had tidied up the pieces of his old chair and put them into the wood bin next to the stove. They weren’t fit for anything but fuel anymore, anyway.
Twenty minutes later Abe came back, bringing the story of Rafe’s near-kidnapping and the barkeeper’s bravery in a time of crisis.
Ward said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Jason said, “Lew’s playin’ it up for all it’s worth, isn’t he?”
Abe nodded. “A regular John Wilkes Booth. Far as the actin’ goes, anyhow. I seen him once, in Baltimore, y’know.”
Rafe leaned forward at that. “For real? You get any indication of what was to come?”
Abe shook his head. “Damn good performance, though. Can’t recollect the name’a the play just now. . . .”
Jason waved a hand. “Can we get back to the business at hand, gentlemen?”
They all stared toward Davis’s cell. He was nothing but a dark shadow, sitting in profile to them on the edge of the bunk, hat pulled low, face down, seemingly fascinated with the floor between his boots.