Jason leaned back against the storefront, and shaking his head, muttered, “Well, I’ll be dogged.” He hoped Morelli was right about time fixing things. The last thing he needed was Solomon shooting up the place again.
He was just opening the doors into Abigail’s place when someone fired a gun—and not too far from him! He whipped around and saw that it was Solomon Cohen himself, gun in hand, and screaming, “It’s a girl! It’s a girl!” He fired up into the air once again, then took off at a dead run, right down the center of town.
Jason took off right after him.
He caught up with Solomon only about six or seven steps later ( Jason having the longer legs of the two, and not being nearly so giddy with joy), and wrested the gun away from Solomon.
“Yes, we know it’s a girl! I reckon even the Apache, practically down on the Mexican border, know it, too!”
Solomon wasn’t easily calmed or stilled, though. “But it’s a girl, Jason, and she’s alive!” he shouted, so loudly that it hurt Jason’s ears. He blinked, and had to quickly shift his position when Solomon tried to take his gun back.
“There’ll be none’a that, now. Why don’t you come on over to the office, and we’ll toast her with a cup’a coffee. I made it, Ward didn’t,” he added as an incentive. Ward made terrible coffee.
Solomon stood up straight. “Why, Jason! You’re not goin’ to arrest me?!”
“Just until you settle yourself down. I can’t have you runnin’ all over town, shootin’ and maimin’ folks.”
“I’m not—”
“I know, Solomon,” Jason said as he began to get them aimed toward the jail. “I know you’re not tryin’ to harm a soul. But you gotta admit that you’re not the best shot. What if you was to shoot somebody by accident and they died? Think about how bad you’d feel then! And think how bad I’d feel, havin’ to hang you after all we been through together!”
By this time, Jason had Solomon nearly to the office, and Sol wasn’t fighting him. But in the half-second it took to let go of his arm and open the office door, Solomon snatched back the pistol, jumped away, and fired twice (down toward the open ground by the stockade wall), hollering, “Yahoo!”
Jason grabbed him from behind, shaking his wrist until the gun fell into the dirt. “Jesus Christ, Solomon, gimme a break, all right?”
“You shouldn’t be taking the name of a prophet in vain,” Solomon scolded.
“And you shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near firearms when your wife’s havin’ a baby!” Jason shoved him back toward the jailhouse. This time, he got him clear through the front door and locked in a cell, then had to run outside again to pick up his gun.
The first thing Solomon said to him, once he came back inside, was, “So, I was promised coffee, already?”
Across the street, the Reverend Milcher sat alone in his church. Even Lavinia and the children were nowhere to be seen, and even the shooting and the shouted news that Solomon Cohen’s child had lived—this time—wasn’t enough to make him take his eyes from the broken clay-tiled floor.
Again, no one had come for Sunday service. No one except his family, and you could hardly count them.
How would he feed his children without some funding? How could he pass a collection plate when there was no one there to hand it to?
They had their milk cow, still, and she was heavy with calf. She’d calve any day, and then they could be sure of having milk. But he couldn’t slaughter the calf until fall, until it had put on enough beef-weight to make it worthwhile. Lavinia had the few vegetables she could coax from the desert floor, but that was it. This was indeed the wilderness, but there was no manna from heaven.
3
By the time that Ward showed up to relieve him, Solomon had calmed down enough that Jason figured to let him go. Not his gun, though, just him. He could pick up the pistol tomorrow.
Jason walked with him as far as the mercantile, then said, “I’ve got some business to take care of next door.” He indicated Abigail’s place. “See you tomorrow, Solomon.” Giving a last slap on the back to Solomon, he turned and walked over to Abigail’s.
You were brave enough to do this before, you lug head, he said to himself when he paused just outside the front door. It’s only talk, right?
He pushed open the door and walked inside.
There was no Rafe Lynch present. Just a few fellows from town and three girls, Abigail among them. He made no move to sit, but raised his hand to Abigail in a subtle wave. She came right over.
“What can I do you for, Jason?” she asked, more than surprised to see him. “A drink? A girl?” When he shook his head, she rattled on, “Your sister and Megan were in this mornin’, come in to get outta the rain. We had us a grand ol’ time, had sarsaparilla and the last of the ice, to boot!”
Jason was shocked that the girls had set foot over Abigail’s threshold, but instead said, “Rafe Lynch here?” Maybe he was up the hall with a girl.
But Abigail shook her head and looked annoyed. “Nope. He moved camp, down the street. To the saloon. I don’t know what they got that I don’t.”
Jason thumbed back his hat, relieved. “Likely bigger card games, Abigail.” If Lynch had changed his base of operation for the time being, there was less chance that Megan or Jenny would run into him. He didn’t want his little sister or his gal, Megan, having anything to do with a murderer.
He rubbed at his arms. Just the thought of it had him broken out in gooseflesh.
Abigail wasn’t paying any attention. Her eyes were on the three-man poker game a few tables away. Jason glanced that way, too, then cleared his throat to regain Abigail’s attention.
When he finally had it, he tipped his hat and said, “Thanks, Abigail. I’ll be goin’ on home then.”
“All right,” she replied, looking back toward the poker game again. “Ward on duty?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I might need him later on, that’s all.”
Jason cocked his head. “Why?”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Think I got a card cheat down there. Not sure yet, though.” Then suddenly, she threw her arm around Jason’s waist and turned him around, toward the door. “You go on home and have some’a that good supper I know Jenny’s cookin’ up for you, okay?”
Somewhat reluctantly, he nodded. “You sure you don’t want me to stick around for a while?” he muttered.
But she practically shoved him back outside. “You take care, now, you hear?” she called sweetly, and then she was gone, and Jason had nothing to look at but her outside wall.
Well, whatever it was—if it was anything at all—Ward could take care of it. He’d been wanting to make an arrest, single-handed, for ages now. And there wasn’t anybody in there that Ward couldn’t handle with one hand tied behind his back.
Jason shrugged and headed back up the street, toward home.
At home, the kitchen was buzzing with girl talk, giggles, and the clatter of pots and pans when Jason walked in. In fact, they didn’t seem to notice his passage into the house and back to his room.
He was glad that Meg was staying for dinner. And he was even gladder to find that the filthy pile of clothes he’d left on the floor had been picked up and laundered, and presently lay neatly folded in his bureau.
But he hadn’t escaped unseen.
Jenny appeared in his doorway, arms folded, and asked, “Well? Did you drag half the territory home in your clothes again?”
Jason played along. He doffed his hat and solemnly said, “No, ma’am, I decided to let Ward take a turn tonight.”
“Good. It’s only fair.” She turned on her heel and disappeared down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Supper in ten minutes!”
Grinning, Jason hung his hat on the bedpost, and then slumped down into a sit. Jenny acted more like his mother than his little sister. But then, he supposed that came from a combination of her mother-hen instincts and his boyish looks and manner. He had never asked to be marshal. He’d never wanted to stay on, once everybody was settled in. His heart wasn’t in Fury: It was back east at Harvard or Yale, back where fellows carried books, not guns, and the closest thing to an Apache attack was a stray spitball in the hallway.