Judgment Day. William W. Johnstone
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said loud and clear. He looked relieved. Some of the color was even seeping back into his face. He climbed up the ladder, calling out, “Hang on, just got to throw this bolt….”
One-handed, he slid free the four-by-four beam that secured the trapdoor, then gingerly opened it upward. Curly beamed down at them, relief coloring his freckled cheeks.
“Sure glad to find you folks all right,” he said, and after making way to let Matt climb up, stuck his arm down toward Jenny.
It figured that Matthew wouldn’t give her a second glance of concern, let alone a first one, Jenny thought. Had her mother ever felt this way about her father? She hoped not. And if she was wrong about her folks, she sure hoped that they’d had a nice hired man or two around. Like Curly.
He helped her up the steps, then shyly let go and took a step backward. “Thank you, Curly,” she said, more for Matt’s benefit than Curly’s. Matt didn’t even turn around, and Curly grunted nervously. At least Curly acknowledged that she was there, she thought.
Matt was at the front window. He said, “They went right past us,” and then, “They’re burning the town.”
Jenny looked past his shoulder and saw the smoke rising up north. Not the whole town, she thought. It’s just the church again, like two years ago. Jenny had been in town the last time the Apache had come. Then, they’d set the church ablaze and shot her brother. But the town hadn’t had the stockade up back then. She told herself that everyone was fine and that the Apache were fighting a losing battle.
And that her brother had everything under control.
For once, she was glad that her husband didn’t go into town on Saturdays.
Jason probably already had enough on his plate without Matthew elbowing his way in.
Jason was at the top of the eastern portion of the stockade, emptying his rifle at a swarm of Apache—a knot of them really—who had attempted to break through the stockade wall. Now, three of them lay dead outside it. A fourth clung to his pony’s mane, his blood flowing down over the horse’s withers and front legs like red war paint.
Jason raised the muzzle of his rifle and relaxed a hair as the fifth and six warriors rode away, their bloody comrade and his pony between them.
He twisted his head at the sound and creak of approaching footsteps. Dr. Morelli climbed up the ladder and stepped up to the plank that supported Jason.
“How’s it going?” he asked as he hunkered down.
Jason shrugged. “I doubt anybody’ll try to come in this way again for at least ten, fifteen minutes.”
Morelli grinned despite himself. “It seems to me to be getting a little quieter down at the south wall.”
“Don’t doubt it.” Quickly, Jason glanced at the western horizon. The sun was low in the sky. “Be all the way dark in about a half hour or so. How many wounded do we have?”
“Only half a dozen, unless somebody else took an arrow while I was making my way over here. Nothing serious. I think your deputy got the worst of it, but that was only because he was plenty sore already and he tensed up. Around the arrow, I mean. Took it in the back.”
Jason’s brow furrowed. “How’s he doing?”
“Fine now. Had to dope him up to keep him down, though. You know how he is.”
Jason allowed himself a little smile. It sounded like Ward. He said, “He’s a tough old pelican.”
“Not so old, Jason,” the doctor replied as he backed off the plank and began to make his way down to the ground. “I take it you don’t need me distracting you.”
Jason glanced out over the stockade. The wounded brave and his escort had ridden out of sight, and the bodies on the ground lay still. He said, “Hold up, I’ll go with you,” and followed Morelli down to the ground.
The sounds of battle had faded away to potshots. Jason imagined the rest of the attacking force was pulling out until first light.
As he and Morelli started back toward the center of the square, he said, “Help me pick some boys to stand night watch, will you?”
Morelli nodded.
“And I don’t think everybody older than I am is ready for a rocking chair.”
Morelli, himself Jason’s senior by several years, nodded again. “Good thing.”
Against his own better judgment, Jason added, “Well, I don’t.” And even as the words left his lips, he knew it was a lie.
So did Morelli, who nodded again. And smiled.
“Aw, crud,” Jason muttered, his head shaking.
Morelli and Jason assigned the least fatigued men to lookout posts around the stockade. The arrows had long since ceased to fly by the time they finished assigning duty for the first and second shifts, and Olympia Morelli and several other women were busy preparing a communal supper over a fire someone had built in the town square. Megan MacDonald was among them, and in spite of the scene she’d put on this morning, Jason was mightily relieved to see her there.
And to see that she was unharmed.
He had no chance to speak to her, however, because Morelli dragged him over to the sheriff’s office. Ward Wanamaker was inside, in a cell, his back and shoulder swathed in bandages. He was snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
“Hope you don’t mind, Jason,” Morelli said, “but I put him here. The cot in the other cell’s for you.”
“What’s wrong with my house?”
“It’s full of Milchers.”
Jason hiked a quizzical brow.
Morelli didn’t hesitate. “I know you put the fire out, but the second floor didn’t look safe to me. Actually, the steeple bell had already fallen through the ceiling, along with half the steeple. Or what was left of it. And directly onto somebody’s bed. Lucky that he or she wasn’t in it. And really, the first floor didn’t seem any too stable either.”
“And here I thought we did such a good job…”
“Oh, you did, you did!” Morelli declared. “But I just didn’t want to take any chances. And I didn’t think you’d mind….”
Jason snorted softly, and shot another glance toward his snoring deputy. “No, Doc, that’s fine. What about him? You give him enough dope to carry him through the night?”
Morelli nodded thoughtfully. “I think so. If he wakes, you can always whack him over the skull with the butt of your gun.”
Jason laughed softly, if briefly.
The wagon train, east of Fury
“I wish to heck you’d stop yellin’ ‘Circle the wagons’ when you wanna stop,” groused Olin Whaler, who drove the second wagon, which was pulled by four massive mules, each one just as stubborn as Olin. Olin had dreams of California gold. Or silver. It didn’t much matter to him.
“Why?” asked Blake.
“A body can’t circle four wagons, that’s why,” Olin replied testily. “Maybe five, for sure six, but not four.”
Blake took a deep breath. Olin had been a thorn in his side since he joined the group back in Santa Fe. “We can sort of circle them, Olin. Basically, I want everybody in a tight group. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“Stop it, Rev.”
Olin thought that because he was Catholic, he didn’t owe Richard Blake a doggone thing, let alone the respect that Blake was fairly sure he deserved as a man of God. And which he got from everybody else.
Frankly, Blake thought he’d like to give Olin a good swat with that Bible Olin was always accusing him of