A Town Called Fury Read online

  Women. Were they all crazy, or was it only the ones he ran into?

  * * *

  Roman LeFebvre sat back and watched the rube in the blue shirt scrape up the pot. Rome was having a bad night, and he should have bowed out of the game a good hour ago. Really, he should have gotten out years ago, but if a man was born stubborn, he couldn’t help but hold onto it.

  He was going to have to let go, though. All he had left was the hundred-dollar bill pinned inside his vest, and he’d need that to pay the hotel bill and get the rig out of hock, down at the livery.

  He was saved from having to ante up again by Abigail’s entrance into the saloon. He stood immediately when she stepped in, bowed out of the game, and made his way over to her through the crowd.

  But when he got to her, she didn’t have good news for him. He knew it by the look on her face, which he promptly backhanded.

  Holding a hand to her cheek, she flushed red and looked around, embarrassed, then said, “It wasn’t my fault, Rome. He said they didn’t take gamblers.”

  He slapped her again, although no one in the bar paid any mind to it. This time, she fell back against the bar and began to cry. “I’m sorry, Rome,” she sniveled. “It wasn’t my fault, I tell you.”

  He raised his hand again, but this time withheld it when she cowered. “Get packed,” he said. “Everything. Swipe the hotel linens, too.” He started toward the door.

  “Wh-where you goin’?” she whined.

  He should have traded her off to that whoremonger down in Louisiana when he had the chance, he thought. But he hadn’t, and now he was stuck with her.

  “To do some business,” he said. It was none of her nevermind, anyway. She ought to be happy he was going to take her along with him.

  * * *

  Midnight at the sleepy line of wagons, and Salmon Kendall was still too excited to sleep. Carefully, he slipped from under the drowsing Cordelia’s arms and crept from the wagon, careful not to wake the children.

  The night air was cool and crisp, so cool that he almost needed a jacket. He would have gone back up for it, too, except he saw a fire still burning down the line. Someone else couldn’t sleep, either. He headed for it. Perhaps they’d have a spare cup of coffee.

  To his surprise, he found Saul Cohen crouched near the fire, intently gazing into a small book. Cohen looked up. “Evening, Mr. Kendall,” he said.

  “Evening, Mr. Cohen,” Salmon replied, then gestured with his hand. “May I?”

  “Sit, sit!” said Cohen, and closed his book. He tucked it in his pocket. “And what keeps you from sleep this night?”

  Salmon smiled a little. “My new wagon. Still can’t believe it.”

  Cohen shrugged. “Why not? All the way since Maryland, we’ve seen them rotting in the fields. Once a man has got to where he is going, he does not have much use for a Conestoga. Unless, of course, he’s in the freight business . . .” He stared into the fire, as if he were considering just that.

  For a moment, Salmon felt a little cheated. And stupid, because now he did remember seeing all those wagons left out in the fields, in various stages of disrepair and decay. But then Cohen said, “So, you’d like coffee?”

  “Yes, please, Mr. Cohen. If you wouldn’t mind.” Salmon like the way Cohen talked. It was kind of singsongy, sort of like German but with more of a thickness to it. Or something. He couldn’t quite peg it.

  “My name is Saul,” Cohen said.

  “And I’m Salmon.”

  The two men shook hands before Cohen handed over the mug, which Salmon took happily. He said, “Well, I s’pose I ain’t the best businessman. I’m just happy I got the problem solved. Mr. Griggs said my old wagon would have just . . . disintegrated before we got to Colorado!”

  Cohen nodded. “Dry rot?”

  “How did you know?”

  Cohen shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

  Salmon laughed nervously, then sipped at his coffee, more to keep his mouth busy than because of overwhelming thirst. He didn’t know quite how to respond.

  Saul Cohen, who didn’t seem aware of his discomfort, said, “You are a brave one, coming to drink coffee with me, even in the middle of the night. Don’t you think that Milcher will be cursing your milk cow tomorrow?”

  Salmon blinked in surprise. “We only have the one, and he’s a bull.”

  “Still, he would try to curse him. Or maybe your chickens. . .”

  “Why?”

  It was Cohen’s turn to blink. “Salmon, my friend, don’t you know that I am a Jew?”

  “You are?”

  Cohen said nothing.

  “But we used to live down the road from some Cohans, and their people came from Ireland!”

  “Cohen, Cohan, so much difference one little vowel makes. . . .”

  Salmon shook his head. “Well, I’ll be dogged. I’ll be double dogged!” He had never before known a Jew, but Saul Cohen didn’t look like he ate babies or anything. If a body listened to Milcher, well . . . Then he mumbled, “Aw, that Milcher’s an idiot. ’Tween you and me, I don’t even think he’s a real man of God.”

  “I am inclined to agree,” Saul said, adding, “Sometimes, on these old Conestogas, the linchpins give out. You have a problem like that, you come see Saul Cohen. I’m no good for axles, but linchpins, I can replace. And for you, wholesale.” He waved an arm toward his spare wagon, the one Salmon knew was loaded down with hardware.

  “Thank you, Saul. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The two men smiled, having come to an unspoken agreement of friendship. It was the first, on the trip, for Salmon. He’d bet it was for Saul, too.

  Salmon leaned back and took another swig of coffee, but this time it had nothing to do with nervousness. “That chicken your wife fried up for my family tonight? It was right good. Like for you to thank her for me. Those potato things were real tasty, too.”

  Saul nodded. “It was for her own happiness. She knew all your family’s cooking things were spread out in other wagons. Besides,” he added with a tip of his head, “you go to all the trouble to kill one chicken kosher, you might as well kill two.”

  Salmon chuckled, although that kosher part had him stumped.

  “And of course,” Saul continued, “they were your hens. We should be thanking you.”

  Salmon’s chuckle turned into a roar that was broken only by his wife’s hissed, “Salmon Kendall! What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

  He looked up and there she stood, cloaked in her old wrapper, her night-braid looped over her shoulder, glowering at him.

  He scrambled to his feet. “Sorry, Cordelia,” he whispered. And then he remembered himself. “Saul, this is my wife, Cordelia. Cordie, Saul Cohen.”

  Cordelia nodded. “A pleasure, Mr. Cohen. I’ve met your wife, Rachael. She’s a wonderful cook.”

  “Saul,” Cohen said. “And yes, my Rachael knows her way around a hen.” He, too, got to his feet.

  Cordelia smiled and said, “As you were, Mr. Cohen. I just came to rope my husband and bring him back to pasture.”

  Cohen slid back to the ground gratefully. He lifted a hand and said, “Good grazing, friend Salmon.” Then the hand went to his pocket, and he pulled out that slim volume again.

  “You, too, Saul,” Salmon replied as he walked away, backward, with Cordelia resolutely pulling him along. “See you tomorrow!”

  They were nearly to the wagon before Cordelia hissed, “You’re making friends with him?”

  Salmon put on his brakes, which nearly hauled Cordelia off her feet. He was a good foot taller than she.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Well, they’re Jews, Salmon!”

  “So?”

  “Reverend Milcher says they killed our Lord!”

  “I don’t know about that, honey. And I’m pretty dang sure Saul Cohen didn’t do it personally. Why, his wife made us dinner!”

  “But the Reverend Milcher says—”

  “You know, I’m pretty sick of
the Reverend Milcher and his sayings. He’s not even a good Baptist! He’s not anything that I can figure. And he’s tryin’ to run everybody in this group.”

  “He’s a good Christian man, Salmon.”

  Salmon sighed. “Not if he’s holdin’ it against the Cohens that a bunch of Romans crucified Jesus nigh on two thousand years ago. That’s just plain stupid. Besides, I like Saul.”

  “But—”

  “Stop bein’ silly, gal.” He patted her fanny. “Now, get yourself up in the wagon before you wake the whole camp.”

  Chapter 6

  Two days out of Bliss, Kansas, Jedediah waved Jason to his side. He’d had a gnawing feeling that somebody was following them, but he’d only just seen the trace of a dust cloud on their back trail. Whoever it was, there weren’t very many of them. However, he didn’t like anybody riding his coattails, be it for good or for ill, and he intended to find out what was going on.

  Jason rode his palomino up alongside Jedediah’s roan. “What is it?”

  No Papa, no nothing. No respect!

  But he didn’t take the time to jaw out the boy. He pointed to the low ridge they’d just traversed. “See that dust cloud?”

  Jason squinted and shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand, scouting along the horizon. Finally, he stuck out a hand, pointing. “There?”

  “Right. Somebody’s dogging us. Take a man off the herd and ride back. See what it is they want.”

  “And if they want to rob us and take our livestock?”

  “Guess you’ll have to stop them, won’t you?” Jedediah wheeled his horse and took off at a slow lope, toward the head of the train.

  * * *

  Jason sat there a moment, shaking his head. Everything was so cut and dried, so black and white, with his father. What was he supposed to do, just ride back and shoot whoever it was? That would make Papa proud, now wouldn’t it?

  Sniffing disdainfully, he at last turned his horse toward the herd, which was traveling off the wagon train’s right flank. He loped on out to its edge, to Ward Wanamaker, who was riding a sorrel today. Ward reined the gelding in as Jason joined him.

  “My father thinks we’ve got company coming up behind,” Jason said without preamble. “Ride back with me and take a look, okay?”

  “Sure,” Ward said amiably. “But I can tell you right now what it is.”

  Jason cocked a brow.

  “Buggy,” Ward replied to the unspoken query. “Fella and a gal, and the back’s packed full of their stuff, includin’ three crates of chickens and a goose, and about six pink trunks.”

  “Pink?”

  “Pink.”

  “Redheaded woman?”

  “Yup.” Now it was Ward’s turn to arch his sandy brows. “You know who it is, Jason?”

  “Think so,” Jason said, disgust dripping from his voice. His pa wasn’t going to be happy about this. He reined his palomino around and said, “C’mon.”

  The two men rode down the line of wagons at a soft lope, until they left the caravan behind and headed out over the open, empty prairie, toward the distant ridge and its thin skyward trail of dust.

  * * *

  Jedediah rode up next to the Kendall wagon, spotted Salmon on the driver’s bench, and called, “How’s the new rig working out for you?”

  Salmon’s face lit up just like a kid with a new toy. “Just fine, Mr. Fury, just dandy! She’s sure a lot smoother, though I suppose these help some.” He pointed down to the folded blankets, quilts, and coats upon which he sat.

  Jedediah said, “You’re catching on, Kendall.”

  He let Kendall pass him while he looked back down the line. He saw Jason and Ward in the distance, heading back toward whoever was trailing them.

  He figured it was somebody looking for a little free protection.

  Probably not Indians, who wouldn’t trail them for so long or so openly. The same went for raiders. Anyone counting on doing harm to the group would have done it long before now, and they sure wouldn’t have been so dumb as to give themselves away by sending up a careless cloud of dust.

  No, Jason and Ward would be all right.

  He dug his heels into his roan and urged it up the line again, past Salmon Kendall, past Saul Cohen’s two wagons, past the MacDonald rig, and up to the Milchers. Mrs. Milcher and all the kids were on foot, and the reverend was driving one-handed, smoking his pipe.

  “Afternoon, Milcher,” he called, tipping his hat.

  “Good day to you, Brother Fury,” came the answer.

  Briefly, Jedediah ground his teeth. He’d just about reached the end of his rope with Milcher’s affectations. He said, as evenly as possible, “Why don’t you let your two littlest gals ride? They can’t weigh much.” Their mother was practically dragging them through the prairie grass.

  “No, it’s good for them, brother,” Milcher replied. “Children need their exercise, just as young animals do. Makes them strong in their bodies, and strong with the Lord! Have you thought any more about Sunday?”

  “I told you before, Milcher, this train doesn’t stop for a whole day for anything, not even God.”

  “But the spiritual needs of—”

  “You can meet those in your own time. Mine is going to be spent moving this train west.”

  He didn’t bother to say good-bye. He simply let his roan drop back to poor, beleaguered Lavinia Milcher and reached down. “Hand ’em up, ma’am,” he said, nodding to the girls, and one at a time, she lifted them up to him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fury,” she said. “They’re exhausted.”

  “It’s a long walk for a little mite,” he said as he got the girls adjusted behind the saddle. “Hang on tight, now!”

  He dropped back farther, to the MacDonalds’ wagon. He wasn’t fond of Hamish or his son, Matthew, both of whom were on horseback, at the head of the train. They were already hard at work establishing themselves as “community leaders,” Jedediah thought with a snort.

  But Megan was driving their rig right now, and she was as unlike her father and brother as a strawberry was from two sour pippins. Jedediah didn’t think she’d mind the two little ones.

  He was right. She accepted them with open arms, and let them crawl back inside the wagon, where they could lay down. They were asleep almost before their heads were down on the pillows.

  “That reverend!” she whispered, so the girls couldn’t hear. “He’s just too pious to breathe!”

  “I wouldn’t argue that, Miss Megan,” Jedediah said, gave one last glance toward Jason and Ward’s diminishing figures, then rode off to fill in for Ward with the herd.

  * * *

  “I told you, lady, you’re not welcome. Not you or your gambler friend.”

  The girl—Abigail Something-or-Other, he remembered—stared up at Jason dumbly. The slicker at her side was looking pretty annoyed, though. They didn’t even come close to having a proper rig.

  “But here we are,” said the man, finally. He gripped his buggy whip like a cudgel. He was fairly tall, dark, and good-looking in a way that would have done him quite a bit of good on a riverboat. But not out here.

  “That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Jason insisted. “Turn around and go back while you still can.”

  “No,” the man said, and he said it like he meant it.

  Ward wasn’t being any help either. He just sat there on his sorrel without saying a peep, and his attitude seemed fairly sympathetic toward the pair in the buggy.

  Jason leaned forward in his saddle, elbows out, palms crossed on the saddle horn. He could sit here arguing with them all day, but he could see this fellow was so set on westering that they’d still follow along. He supposed he could just shoot the man, but then that would leave him with the gal on his hands and probably no way to get her back to a town. So he did the next best thing.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll let you talk to the wagon master.” He wheeled his horse and set off at a gallop toward the train, which was out of sight. Ward came right along
with him, and he heard the rattle and bang of an overstressed buggy trying to keep up behind them.

  He allowed himself a little smile. The jolting ride up to the train ought to knock some of the pioneer spirit out of them. He glanced back just long enough to glimpse the woman holding onto the armrest and seat back for dear life, and the man braced stiffly—only his feet, pushing against the footrest, and his mid-back, pressed as if his life depended on it against the backrest, were still—both of their faces filled with sheer terror at being jolted skyward at any moment.

  Smugly, Jason urged his mount into a faster gallop.

  Within a few minutes, they were even with the train and had come up even with Jedediah, who had dismounted and was staring very unkindly at the newcomers.

  “Get them the hell out of here,” he said.

  It seemed to Jason as if his father had taken all of fifteen seconds to evaluate the pair of interlopers. It was longer than he’d expected, actually.

  “Told ’em, Pa,” Jason said with a shrug, “but they wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Fury,” Ward added. As if Jason needed backing up.

  Still, he was glad for the words. His father looked uncommonly angry, which was very angry indeed.

  “We don’t want your . . .” His father trailed off, interrupting his famous “We-Don’t-Need-Your-Kind-Around-Here” speech, and Jason noticed that his gaze had been momentarily distracted by a passing wagon. Milcher’s wagon. And Milcher was staring down at the girl and her spangled dress like the very wrath of Judgment itself.

  Jedediah seemed to gather himself. He looked the man in the face and asked, “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Roman LeFebvre,” came the reply, “and my lovely companion is Miss Abigail Krimp. And I am hardly a boy, sir, although I thank you for the compliment.”

  “None intended. Everybody under forty is a kid to me.” Jedediah idly scratched at the back of his neck, which Jason knew meant his pa was brewing up something.

  “Tell you what, Roman LeFebvre,” Jedediah finally said. “You fall in behind the last wagon. Once we camp for the night, we’ll let the group decide whether you stay or go. Their decision’s final, no ifs, ands, or buts. Fair by you?”