The Loner: The Blood of Renegades (22 page)
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Built on dreams. Forged in blood.
Defended with bullets. The town called Fury
is home to the bravest pioneers to ever
stake a claim in the harsh, unforgiving
land of Arizona Territory.
Defended with bullets. The town called Fury
is home to the bravest pioneers to ever
stake a claim in the harsh, unforgiving
land of Arizona Territory.
In William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone’s
blockbuster series, the settlers take in
a mysterious stranger with deadly secrets—
and deadlier enemies . . .
blockbuster series, the settlers take in
a mysterious stranger with deadly secrets—
and deadlier enemies . . .
Turn the page for an exciting preview of
A TOWN CALLED FURY: REDEMPTION
by William W. Johnstone
with J. A. Johnstone
with J. A. Johnstone
On Sale Now
Wherever Pinnacle Books are sold
Prologue
29 October 1928
Mr. J. Carlton Blander, Editor
Livermore and Beedle Publishing
New York, New York
Livermore and Beedle Publishing
New York, New York
Dear Carlton,
Thank you so much for pointing me toward this Fury story! I know you didn’t mean for me to get a “wild hare” (or is that “wild hair”?) and go charging out to Arizona at the drop of your not-inconsequential hat, but that’s exactly what I did. The story runs deeper than you could have known—or the sketchy reference books say, for that matter—and I found a number of the participants still alive and kicking, and best of all, talking!
As you know, the story actually began long before the events you provided me to spin into literary fodder. In 1866 famed wagon master Jedediah Fury was hired by a small troupe of travelers to lead them west, from Kansas City to California. Jedediah was accompanied on this mission by his 20-year-old son, Jason, and his 15-year-old daughter, Jenny, they being the last of his living family after the Civil War. Jedediah was no newcomer to leading pilgrims West. He’d been traveling those paths since after the War of 1812.
I have not been able to ascertain the names of all the folks who were in the train, but what records I could scrounge up (along with the memories of those still living) have provided me with the following partial roster: the “Reverend” Louis Milcher, his wife Lavinia and seven children, ages 5 through 15; Hamish MacDonald, widower, with two half-grown children—a boy and a girl, Matthew and Megan, roughly the ages of Jedediah’s children; Salmon and Cordelia Kendall, with two children, Sammy, Jr. and Peony, called Piney; Randall and Miranda Nordstrom, no children (went back east or on to California—there is some contention about this—in 1867); Ezekiel and Eliza Morton, single daughter Electa, 27 (to be the schoolmarm) and elder daughter Europa Morton Greggs, married to Milton Griggs, blacksmith and wheelwright (no children); Zachary and Suzannah Morton (no children), Zachary being Ezekiel’s elder brother; a do-it-yourself doctor, Michael Morelli, wife Olympia, and their two young children, Constantine and Helen; Saul and Rachael Cohen and their three young sons. There were a few other families, but they were not listed and no one could recall their names, most likely because they later went back east or traveled farther west.
The train, which left for the West in the spring of 1866, also contained a number of saddle horses and breeding stock, a greater deal of cattle, goats, and hogs—mostly that of Hamish MacDonald and the Morton families—and, of all things, a piano owned by the Milchers. It was led by Fury, with the help of his three trusty hirelings. I could only dig up one of the names: a Ward Wanamaker, who later became the town’s deputy until his murder several years later (which follows herein).
Most of the wagon train members survived Indian attacks (Jedediah Fury was himself killed by Comanche, I believe, about halfway West), visited wild settlements where now stand real towns, and withstood highly inclement weather. Several children died, and Hamish MacDonald died when his wagon tumbled down a mountainside, after he took a trail he was advised not to attempt. About three-fifths of the way across Arizona, they decided to stop and put down stakes.
Fortunately, the place they chose was right next to the only water for forty or fifty miles, both west and east, and close enough to the southernmost tip of the Bradshaws to make getting timber relatively easy. There was good grazing to be had, and the Morton clan made good use of it. Their homestead still survives to this day as a working ranch, as do the large homes they built for themselves. Young Seth Todd, the last of the Mortons (and Electa’s grandson) owns and runs it.
South of the town was where Hamish MacDonald’s son, Matthew, set up his cattle operation, which had been his late father’s dream. He also bred fine Morgan horses, the only such breeder in the then-territory of Arizona. His sister, Megan, ran the bank before and after she married, having the head for figures that Matthew never possessed.
For the first few years, everyone else lived inside the town walls, whose fortress-like perimeter proved daunting to Indians and white scofflaws. The town itself became a regular stopover for wagon trains heading east and west.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. What concerns us here is the spring of 1871, the year that gunfighter Ezra Welk went to meet his maker. Former Marshal Jason Fury (now a tall but spare man in his eighties, with all his own teeth and most of his hair, and, certainly, all of his mental capacities) was very much surprised that I was there, asking questions about something “so inconsequential” as the demise of Ezra Welk.
“Inconsequential?!” I said, as surprised by his use of the word as its use in this context.
“You heard me, boy,” he snapped. “Salmon Kendall was a better newsman than you, clear back fifty or sixty years!”
I again explained that I was a writer of books and films, not a newspaperman.
This seemed to “settle his hash” somewhat. It was then that I changed my mind about the writing of this book. I had planned to pen it pretending to be Marshal Fury himself, using the first person narrative you had asked for. However, in light of Marshal Fury’s attitude (and also, there being other witnesses still living), I decided to write it in third person.
And so, as they say, on with the show!
Sincerely,
Bill
Chapter 1
The black, biting wind was so strong and so fierce Jason feared there was no skin left on his upper face—the only part not covered by his hat or bandanna.
His nostrils were clogged with dust and snot, despite the precautionary bandanna, and his throat was growing thick with dust and grit. Whoever had decided to call these things dust storms had never been in one, he knew that for certain. Oh, they might start out with dust, but as they grew, they picked up everything, from pebbles and grit to bits of plants and sticks. He’d been told they could rip whole branches from trees and arms off cacti, and add them into the whirling, filthy mess, blasting small buildings and leaving nothing behind but splinters.
He hadn’t believed it then.
He did now.
He could barely see a foot in front of himself. Moving was dangerous—his britches had turned into sandpaper, and his shirt was no better.
At last he reached his office—or at least, he thought it was his office—and put his shoulder to the door. The wind took it, slamming the door and Jason against the wall with a resounding thud, startling folks as far away as two doors up and down, even over the storm’s howling, unending roar.
It took him five minutes to will his body and the door into cooperating, but finally got it closed. Slouching against it, he went into a coughing jag he thought would never quit. He would rather have been cursing up a storm than coughing up one, but when it finally stopped, a good, long drink from the water bucket put the world right side up—mostly. He still couldn’t breathe through his nose, but a good, long honk—well, six or seven—on his bandanna put that right again.
With the wind howling like a banshee outside and flinging everything not tied down against his shutters and door, he thanked God for one thing: the storm was keeping everyone inside, including Rafe Lynch, who was wanted for eight killings in California, across the river, and currently ensconced at Abigail Krimp’s bar and whorehouse up the street.
Jason didn’t know much about Lynch, other than he was clean in Fury, and in the whole of Arizona. Jason was therefore constrained by law to keep his paws off Lynch, and his lead to himself. Actually, he felt relieved. He didn’t feel up to tangling with someone of Lynch’s reported ilk. Still, he was worried. What if Lynch tried to stir up some trouble and Jason or Ward couldn’t handle it? Ward was a good deputy, but he wouldn’t want to put him up against Lynch in a card game, let alone a shoot-out.
Jason sighed raggedly, although he couldn’t hear himself. Outside the jailhouse walls, the storm pounded harder and harsher. Dust seeped in everywhere: around the door and windows, even up through the plank floor. He knew damn well the floor only had a two inch—or less—clearance above the dirt underneath.
He’d managed to make his rounds, although a bit early. It was only three in the afternoon, despite the dust and crud-blackened sky. Everyone was inside, boarded up against the wind and wrapped in blankets against the storm’s detritus and the sudden chill that accompanied it.
Couldn’t they have just gotten a nice rain? Jason shook his head, and two twigs and a long cactus thorn fell to the desk. He snorted. He must look a sight. At least, that’s what his sister Jenny would have said, had she been there to see him. But she was nestled up at King’s Boarding House with her best friend Megan MacDonald, or she was at home, madly trying to sweep up the dust and grit that wouldn’t stop coming.
His thoughts returned to Rafe Lynch. It gnawed on him that Lynch was even in town. In his town, damn it! Well, not actually his. The settlers had christened it Fury after his father, Jedediah Fury, a legendary wagon master who had been killed on the trail coming out from Kansas City. He supposed the name was attractive to scofflaws, but they seemed drawn to the tiny, peaceful town in the Arizona Territory out of all proportion. Why couldn’t they ride on over to Mendacity or Rage or Suicide or Hanged Dog or Ravaged Nuns?
He shivered. Now, there was a town he didn’t want anything to do with!
His sand-gritted eyes were weary and so was he. He glanced up at the wall clock again. 3:30. No way Ward was going to make it on time, if at all. It wouldn’t hurt to get a little shut-eye, Jason figured, so he put his head down on his dusty arms, which were folded on the desk.
Despite the battering storm outside, he was asleep in five minutes.
Roughly twenty-five miles to the west of Fury, a small train of Conestoga wagons fought their way through the dust storm. Riley Hansen, the wagon master, had seen it coming: the sky growing darker to the east, the wind coming up, the way the livestock skittered on the ends of their tie ropes, and the occasional dust devils swirling their way across the expanses on either side of the wagons.
The edge of the darkness was upon them, and if Riley was correct, they were in for one whip-tail-monster of a dust storm. He reined in his horse and held up his hand, signaling for the wagons to halt.
Almost immediately, Ferris Bond, his ramrod for the journey, rode up and shouted, “What the devil is that thing, Riley? Looks like we’re ridin’ direct into the mouth o’ hell!”
“We are,” Riley replied grimly. “Get the wagons circled. In tight.”
“What about Sampson Davis? He rode off south ’bout an hour ago.”
Riley didn’t think twice. “Screw him,” he said, and turned to help get the settlers, with their wagons and livestock, in a circle.
Southeast of town, the storm wasn’t as much sand and grit as twigs and branches, and Wash Keogh, who’d been working the same chunk of land for the past few years, was huddled in a shallow cave, along with his horse and all his worldly possessions. Well, the ones that the wind hadn’t already taken, that was.
Despite the storm, Wash was a wildly happy man. He held in his hand a hunk of gold the size of a turkey egg. It wasn’t pure—there was quartz veining—but it weighed a ton and he was pretty sure the mother lode was just upstream—up the dry creek bed, that was. If the damned wind would just stop blowing, well, hell! He might just turn out to be the richest man in the whole territory!
That thought put a smile on his weathered old face, but he ended up spitting out a mouthful of mud. The grit leaked in no matter how many bandannas he tied over his raggedy old face.
Well, he could smile later. The main thing was to last out the storm.
Like Wash, his horse waited out the wind with his back to it and his head down. Smart critters, horses. He should have paid more attention when the gelding started acting prancy and agitated. But how could a man have paid attention to anything else when that big ol’ doorstop of gold was sitting right there in his hand. He’d bet he would have missed the second coming if it had happened right there in front of him! And, blast it, he didn’t figure Jesus would be mad at him, either! Course, he’d probably “suggest” that ten percent of it go to the Reverend Milcher or some other Bible thumper.
Fat chance of that!
Wash hunkered down against the howl of the storm to wait it out.
But he was happy.
Very happy.
Inside the stockaded walls of Fury—walls that had used up most of the wagons and every tree lining the creek for five miles in either direction—the wind was whistling and whining through the cracks between the timbers. Solomon Cohen, who had been known as Saul until he changed it back to Solomon during a crisis of faith several months back, was huddled in the back room of the mercantile with Rachael and his boys, David, Jacob, and Abraham.
Solomon’s crisis had come after a long time with no other Jews in town. No one else spoke Yiddish or understood Hebrew, no one had an ancestry in common with himself or Rachael. Oh, she was there, of course, but it wasn’t like having another Jewish man around to share things with, to complain with, to laugh with, and to spend the Sabbath with. How he wished for a rabbi!
And Rachael was with child once again. He feared they would lose this one, as they had the last two, and each night his prayers were filled with the unborn child, wishing it to be well and prosper. He didn’t care whether God gave him a boy or a girl, he just heartily prayed that Jehovah would give him a child who breathed, who would grow up straight and tall, and who would be a good Jew.
Still, he wished for another Jewish presence in Fury. A man, a woman . . . a family at best! His children had no prospects of marriage in this town filled with goyim.
If they were to marry, they would likely have to go away to California, to one of the big cities, like San Francisco. It was a prospect he dreaded, and he knew Rachael did, too. They had talked of it many times. They had even spoken of it long before the children’s births, when they first met in New York City, and Solomon spoke of his dreams of the West and the fortunes that could be made if a man was smart and handy and careful with his money.
It had taken him over ten years, during which he married Rachel and had three sons, to talk her into it, but at last she relented. He always remembered she had cautioned that they didn’t know if the West held any other Jews their children could marry—or even, for that matter, would want to!
As always, she had been right, his Rachael.
He looked at her, resting fitfully on the old daybed, her belly so swollen with child she looked as if she might pop at any second, and he felt again a pang of love for her, for the baby. She was so beautiful, his wife. He was lucky to have her, blessed that she loved him.
The wind hadn’t shown any signs of lessening, so he slouched down further in his rocker and carefully stuck his legs out between David and Abraham, who were sound asleep on the floor. Glancing over at Jacob to make sure he was all right, too, Solomon said yet another silent prayer, then closed his eyes, and quickly fell asleep.
The Reverend Milcher angrily paced the center aisle between the rows of pews. Not that he had ever needed them. Not that they’d ever been filled. Not that anybody in town appeared to give a good damn.
Even though he hadn’t spoken aloud, he stopped immediately and clapped his hand over his mouth. From a front pew, Lavinia, his long-suffering wife, looked up from her dusty knitting and stared at him. “Did you have an impure thought, Louis?” she asked him.
“Yes, dear,” he replied, after wiping sand from his mouth. “I thought a sinful word.”
“I hope you apologized to the Lord.”
“Yes, dear. I did.”
He began to pace again. They were running out of food, and he needed to fill the church with folks who would donate to hear the word of the Lord. That, or bring a chicken. He had tried and tried, but nothing he did seemed to bring in the people he needed to keep his church running. And now, this infernal dust storm! Was the Lord trying to punish him? What could he have possibly done to bring down the Lord’s wrath upon not only himself, but the town and everyone around it?
Again, he stopped stock still, but his hand went to the side of his head instead of his mouth. That was it! The dust storm! Oh, the Lord had sent him a sign as sure as anything!
“Louis?”
“What?” he replied, distracted.
“You stopped walking again.”
He pulled himself up straight. “I have had a revelation, Lavinia.” Before she could ask about it, he added, “I need some time to think it through. Good night, dear.” Soberly, he went to the side of the altar, opened the door, and started up the stairs.
Lavinia stood up and began to smack the dust out of the garment she’d been knitting, banging it over and over against the back of a church pew. She kept on whacking at it as if she were beating back Fury, beating back her marriage and this awful storm, beating back all the bad things in her life.
At last, she wearily stilled her hand and started upstairs.
When Jason woke, he found himself still alone, surrounded by unfettered wind whipping at the walls. It was, according to the clock, 10:45. And there was no Ward in evidence.
He let out a long sigh, unfortunately accompanied by a long sandy drizzle of snot, which he quickly wiped on his shirt sleeve. Well, he should have expected it, and gave himself credit in foretelling that Ward wouldn’t brave the storm in order to come to the office. He hoped Ward had found himself a nice, secure place to hole up in.
Jason reminded himself to hike up to the mercantile when the storm let up and see if they had any caulking. If it ever did. He was going to make the place airtight if it killed him.
Dust was still coming in around the windows and the front door, and right up through the floor. He didn’t want to see what was happening around the back door, but he knew it’d be bad. It wasn’t nearly as tight as the front one.
A loud bang issued from the back room, and he shot to his feet, accompanied by the soft clatter of thousands of grains of sand falling from his body and hitting the floor.
Whispering, “Dammit!” he threw the door to the back room open wide, expecting to be met by the full force of the storm and see the outer door hanging off its hinges. Instead he found Ward struggling to close the back door.
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