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Authors: William W. Johnstone

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It didn't seem right that those varmints would be laid to rest properly while Lieutenant Holbrook and the other soldiers killed in the avalanche would probably sleep for eternity under those tons of rock . . . but that was the way of the world, Bo knew. Justice was a relative thing, and often incomplete.
The Texans and Chloride were striding along the boardwalk when the door of the Argosy Mining Company opened and Lawrence Nicholson stepped out in front of them. The mine owner smiled and said, “Good evening, gentlemen. I've been hoping you'd come along so I could have a word with you.”
“What do you want?” Chloride asked, not bothering to be overly polite about it.
“Why, I'd like to offer you your job back, Mr. Coleman,” Nicholson said. He looked at Bo and Scratch. “And I'd like for the two of you to work for me as well.”
Scratch shook his head. “We're a mite too old to swing a pickax.”
“Don't worry, I'll find something better than that for you. I'm sure I'll need some good men to guard our gold shipments.”
Bo said, “You shouldn't have any more trouble. All the Deadwood Devils are either dead or behind bars in Sheriff Manning's jail.”
“The Deadwood Devils aren't the only bandits in the world, you know,” Nicholson said. “I'm sure there'll be more trouble in the future.”
“Yeah, well, you'll have to find somebody else to handle it,” Scratch said. “We're makin' a run for Mexico, soon as the snow melts.”
Nicholson sighed. “I can't persuade you to change your minds?”
Bo shook his head. “I'm afraid not.”
“That is too bad. I can't get you to work for me, and I'm going to be losing my chief engineer and superintendent, too. Possibly even my bookkeeper.”
“How do you figure that?” Bo asked with a frown.
“Now that Marty Sutton knows how Reese and Phillip feel about her, I fully expect both of them to resign from the Argosy and go to work for the Golden Queen, so they can continue their rivalry for her affections.”
“Now
that
could cause some problems,” Bo said.
“But somebody else'll have to handle that fracas, too,” Scratch added.
Nicholson chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I'm not really that upset about it. I figure that sooner or later, Marty will decide between the two of them and then settle down to get married and have children, and she'll let me buy her mine at a reasonable price. If you put the Argosy and the Golden Queen together, you know, it would be the biggest mining operation in this part of the country.”
“That thought crossed my mind,” Bo said, not mentioning that at the time he had been trying to decide whether or not Lawrence Nicholson was really the ringleader of the Deadwood Devils.
Nicholson nodded and bid them a good night. As the three men strolled on down the street, Scratch asked, “How would you feel about comin' to Mexico with us, Chloride?”
“What, you mean you want to associate with an
old-timer
like me?” Chloride asked with a disgusted snort.
Scratch grinned. “I reckon we've sorta got used to havin' you around.”
“Well, thanks but no thanks. I got a job drivin' for Miss Sutton, and I intend to keep it.” Chloride grinned under his bushy mustache. “Besides, I got a feelin' that bein' around the Golden Queen's gonna be pretty entertainin' once those two young fellas are all healed up.”
“You're probably right about that,” Bo said. He paused and looked across the street. The Red Top Café sat there, closed and dark. Bo couldn't help but think about how nice it would have been to walk into the warmth of that place, to have a bowl of stew and a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, to look across the counter and see Sue Beth Pendleton with a friendly smile on her face . . .
“‘Smile and smile, and be a villain,'” he murmured.
“What's that?” Scratch asked.
Bo shook his head. “Nothing.” He paused. “Wind's turned around to the south. It feels a little warmer already. Won't be long before the snow's all gone, and we can light a shuck for Mexico.”
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.
 
In William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone's
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
Coming in July 2011
 
Wherever Pinnacle Books are sold
PROLOGUE
29 October, 1928
Mr. J. Carlton Blander, Editor
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 just 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 begins long before the events you provided me to spin into literary fodder. They begin in 1866, when 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 twenty-year-old son, Jason, and his fifteen-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 five through fifteen; 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, twenty-seven (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 also contained livestock in the forms of 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) left for the West in the spring of 1866. It was led by Fury, with the help of his three trusty hirelings. I could only dig up one of the names here: 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, 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), visiting wild settlements where now stand real towns, and withstanding highly inclement weather. About three-fifths of the way across Arizona, they decided to stop and put down stakes.
The place they chose was fortunate, because it was right next to the only water for forty or fifty miles, both west and east, and it was close enough to the southernmost tip of the Bradshaws to make the getting of 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 both before and after she married, she 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 both Indians and white scofflaws, and the town itself became a regular stopover for wagon trains heading both 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 all 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, however, 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!
CHAPTER 1
The black, biting wind was so strong and so fierce that Jason feared there was no more skin left on his upper face—the only part not covered by his hat or bandana.
His nostrils were clogged with dust and snot, despite the precautionary bandana, 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 to 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 him, and just 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—and put his shoulder into the door. He hadn't needed to. The wind took it, slamming both the door and Jason against the wall with a resounding thud that must have startled folks as far away as two doors up and down, even over the storm's howling, unending roar.
It took him over five minutes to will both his body and the door into cooperating, but he finally got it closed. Slouching against it, he went into a coughing jag that he thought would never quit. He would rather have been cursing up a storm than coughing one up, but when it finally stopped, a good, long drink from the water bucket put the world right-side up. Well, mostly. He still couldn't breathe through his nose, but a good, long honk—well, six or seven—on his bandana put that right again.
With the wind still 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, at least, keeping everyone inside, which included Rafe Lynch—wanted for eight killings in California, across the river—and currently ensconced at Abigail Krimp's bar and whorehouse, up the street.
He didn't know much about Lynch, other than that he was clean in Fury, and for that matter in the whole of Arizona, and 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 what if he 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.
He 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 the windows, even up through the plank floor. Jason knew damn well that the floor only had a two-inch—or less—clearance above the dirt underneath, and this occurrence left him puzzled.
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 had 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 over 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 again 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 place's 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 that Ward was going to make it down here on time, if he came at all. It wouldn't hurt him to get a little shuteye, he figured, and 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 Havens, 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 that swirled their way across the expanses on either side of them.
But now 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 on him and shouted, “What the devil is that thing, Riley? Looks like we're ridin' direct into the mouth a' 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.
 
 
Down 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.
But despite the storm, Wash was a wildly happy man, because 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 sure enough weighed a ton and he was pretty sure that pay dirt was just upstream—up the dry creek bed, that was—a little ways. If this damned wind would just stop blowing, well, hell! He might just turn out to be the richest man in the whole Territory!
That thought sure 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 bandanas he tied over his raggedy old face.
Well, he could smile later. The main thing now was just to last out the storm.
Like him, 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 out on 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 10 percent of it go to the Reverend Milcher or some other Bible thumper.
Fat chance of that!
He hunkered down against the howl of the storm to wait it out.
But he was happy.
 
 
Back inside the stockaded walls of Fury—walls that had used up every tree lining the creek for five miles in either direction and used up most of the wagons, too—the wind was still 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 mercantile with Rachael, his wife, and the boys: David, Jacob, and Abraham. The back room of the mercantile was fairly tight, and so they had planted themselves there for the duration.
Solomon's crisis had come after a long time, a long time with no other Jews in town, no one else who spoke Yiddish or understood Hebrew, no one with an ancestry in common with himself or Rachael. Oh, there was she, 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 now Rachael was with child once again. He feared that 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 would give 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 (plus his marriage to Rachael and three babies, all sons) to talk her into it, but at last she relented. Although he always remembered that she had cautioned that they didn't know if the West held any other Jews that 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 they kept down here, her belly so swollen with child that 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'd had him.
The wind hadn't yet shown any signs of lessening, and so he slouched down farther 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.
He was asleep in less than five minutes.
 
 
The Reverend Milcher angrily paced the center aisle between the rows of pews. Not that they 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 more 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 everything and everyone around it?
Again, he stopped stock still, but this time 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 still found himself alone, surrounded by unfettered wind whipping at the walls. And 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 shirtsleeve. Well, he should have expected it. He gave himself credit in foretelling that Ward wouldn't brave the storm in order to come down to the office, though. Jason just hoped he'd found himself a nice, secure place to hole up in.
Jason reminded himself to hike up to the mercantile and see if they had any calking. That was, when the storm let up. If it ever did. He was going to make this place airtight if it killed him.

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