and he smiled.
A man who had just come east from California had told him of a town not too far distant: a town called Fury. He’d said it was much smaller than Tucson, if a fellow was looking for that, and that they had most of the modern conveniences: a doctor, teachers for the children, a good well in the center of town, and so on. There was already a preacher, he’d said, but not even half the town went to hear him preach.
And after the man confided in Blake at length, Blake understood why.
So Blake was thinking that perhaps Fury was the place for him and Laura to set down some roots. He’d said nothing to either Laura or their companions, though. If Carlisle was his middle name, then Caution was his nickname.
Beside him, Laura cooed to the baby again. Blake smiled, as if she were making those burbling sounds for him. He normally rode his saddle horse, Buck, but he’d opted to drive the wagon today so as to allow Laura to devote all her time to the baby. Buck was happily tied to the rear of the wagon, following along.
The morning was clear, the horizons were empty, and the world was before him. He led the other wagons onward, westward, toward Fury.
The town had been in existence only a scant two years, built by the bare hands of pioneers where before there had only been a broad desert prairie sliced vertically by a lonely—and sporadically flowing—creek. Distant, veiled mountains rose to the south, beyond which lay Mexico. To the north, even more distant mountains lined the horizon.
Fury was the name the townsfolk had given the small settlement, in honor of the famous wagon master who had started them westward, and died before they were halfway there. If any man had deserved the honor, it had been Jedediah Fury.
Now, nearly two years since the first walls of the new buildings had risen, since Saul Cohen had begun work on what now served as the town well centering the square, and since the partially built town itself had been attacked and burned by Apaches who rode in from the south, Fury had risen from the ashes bigger and bolder than ever before.
But men had been lost to the Apaches on that day. Others had been wounded, including Jason himself, who had been appointed town sheriff while he lay injured and unable to defend himself from his “friends” in town.
Jason’s life had taken a new path that day, although he could barely know the beginnings of it. He still couldn’t possibly guess at the whole of it.
Since the day of the attack, the people of Fury had been busy building it back, and building it bigger and better. In the process, some people had died and others had moved on—and some had traveled south, in pursuit of a thieving gang of Mexican bandits—but enough had stayed—and been joined by new influxes of pilgrims and wanderers—that the population had nearly doubled in size, the building boom had continued, and an outer stockade-type wall now completely surrounded the town.
Those who wanted to live outside the confines of the town did so more easily than ever, since there had been no more trouble from the Apache.
Close to town anyway.
Jason had even taken care of Juan Alba and his bandidos last year. At least, he thought he had. Today the mail had come in, and Prescott had sent out word that a new Juan Alba, taking the place of the old one, was on the prowl. Juan Junior or something like that, Jason reasoned.
Like father, like son.
Jason gave up on trying to go west to San Francisco, on trying to go anywhere that held anything like a college. He figured to be stuck with sheriffing Fury, trapped forever as surely as an unlucky butterfly pinned to a display board.
And he was at least partially right.
He shoved himself away from his desk in disgust. Why wasn’t he braver? Why couldn’t he just tell the mayor and the citizens to go to hell? Why couldn’t he just pack a satchel and leave like other people did? Well, some other people. On the whole, the town was actually growing. Some folks headed back East, some headed farther west, but miraculously, more rode into their little town than rode out.
And they stayed.
He shook his head and muttering, “Idiots,” walked toward the first wagon.
He didn’t make it, though. The mayor nearly broke Jason’s nose when he unexpectedly walked straight into him while carrying a couple of two-by-fours. The mayor’s lumber hit Jason in the forehead and shoulder and knocked him back a few feet, cursing.
“Oh!” cried Mayor Kendall, and reached out toward the staggering Jason, whose hand was clapped to his suddenly smarting head. “Jason, I’m so very sorry! You all right?”
Jason partially raised his head and glared at Kendall with one eye. “Been better,” he growled. “What’s your rush this morning?”
“I…I just talked to Doc Morelli. Heard about your run-in with Saul Cohen.”
Jason brushed the air with his hand. “It was nothing. Doc’s got him doped up and at home.”
“But your cheek’s cut!”
Jason had forgotten. “Probably looks worse than it is.” He moved past Kendall and started down the line of wagons.
“But still…” the mayor said with a painful grimace.
Well, at least someone was feeling his pain, Jason thought, and forced a grin. “I’m fine, Salmon. Just gonna go down and check on our guests.”
Kendall followed him out the gate. “You mean you haven’t been down there yet? Take my advice, boy, and don’t take your wallet along. I left with fifteen dollars worth of stuff I’ll never use.”
“Bet you left with a happy wife, though,” Jason added.
“Well…true,” Salmon replied, then chuckled reluctantly. “True enough, Jason.” He scratched at the back of his head. “Come to think of it, most of the haul was women’s stuff. You know, pickle dishes and butter plates and such. And shrimp forks! I ask you, where in tarnation does Carrie think we’re gonna run across any shrimp out here?”
It was Jason’s turn to chuckle. “Don’t know. There aren’t even any crawdads in the creek. When there’s water in it, that is. Maybe you can fork yourself up some teensy-tiny little lizard eggs?”
Salmon Kendall stopped dead in his tracks. “See you later, funny man. I’m not going to offer myself up to be robbed blind again.”
Jason waved a hand. “All right. See you later, Mayor Shrimpfork.”
He didn’t look back, but he heard Salmon mutter, “Very funny, very funny…” as the mayor turned and walked away, back into town. A smirking Jason made his way down the long line of Conestogas edging the outer wall of the town.
It wasn’t easy. It seemed that the entire population of Fury was out here with him, some clustered in knots around the dropped and propped tailboards of wagons, the children darting in and out between the heavily loaded Conestogas. Some were deeply engaged in conversation with their mates—wives trying to talk their husbands into more shrimp forks, Jason figured—while others busily bickered with one dusty and harried salesman or another.
Jason had spoken briefly with the wagon master, an affable chap named Fred Barlow, the night before when the wagons
