“I already got ’im,” Bates said. “He’s out front.”
“Bring ’im in.”
With a sigh, Bates walked to the front door, pushed the beaded strings to one side, and called out.
“Schuler, get in here.”
The man who answered Bates’s call was of medium height and very thin. His face was red, though whether from a natural complexion, or from skin long unwashed and subjected to alcohol, no one knew. His eyes were so pale a gray that, at first glance they looked to be without color of any kind. He shuffled up to the table.
“You know why I asked for you?” Odom asked.
“Bates said you had a job for me.”
“I might. If you can do it.”
“I can do it.”
“How do you know you can do it?”
“You have something you want blown,” Schuler said.
“What makes you think I want something blown?”
“I’m a drunk,” Schuler replied. “You wouldn’t want me for anything unless it was for something that I was the only one who could do it. I’m a powder man. That means you want something blown.”
“Let me see your hands.”
“Why do you need to see my hands?”
“Hold them out here, let me see them,” Odom ordered.
Schuler held his hands out for Odom’s inspection. They were shaking badly.
“Damn,” Odom said. “Look at that. Hell, shaking like that, you couldn’t even light the fuse, let alone plant the charge.”
“Give me a drink,” Schuler said.
“You’ve had too much to drink already.”
“Give me a drink,” Schuler said again.
Odom poured a drink from his bottle and handed it to Schuler. Schuler tossed it down, then held his hands out again. They were as steady as a rock.
“I’ll be damn,” Odom said. “All right, you’re in.”
“I’m in what?”
“Does it really matter as long as there’s money in it?”
“How much money, Señor?” Paco asked.
Odom studied them through his half-drooped left eye. “A lot of money,” he finally answered. “If you was to take all the money the four of us have ever had in our whole lives and put it in one pile, it wouldn’t make as much as one share of the money I’m talking about now. Are you boys interested?”
Bates smiled. “Hell, yes, I’m interested. I told you that from the beginnin’, you know that.”
“What about you, Paco?”
“Sí, señor. I am interested.”
“What do you want me to blow?”
“A safe.”
“Where is the safe?”
“In a train.”
“A train. You are planning to hold up a train?” Schuler asked.
“Yeah. You have a problem with that?”
Without asking, Schuler poured himself another drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“No,” he said. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
“When do we do it?” Bates asked.
“Couple more days,” Odom replied. “I’ll let you know when it’s time.”
Chapter Four
When Matt Jensen first encountered the town of Purgatory, Arizona, it rose from the prairie in front of him so indistinct in form and substance that it resembled nothing more than a rise of hillocks and rocks. But as he drew closer, the hillocks and rocks began to take on shape and character until it was obviously a town.
It had been a long ride since the last water hole, and Matt’s canteen was down to less than a third full. But the sight of a town gave promise of more water, so he stopped, and allowed himself a long drink.
“I wish I had some for you, Spirit,” he said, patting the animal on the neck. “But there’s water just ahead, and I promise you your fill, as well as a good rubdown and a supper of oats.”
Matt hooked the empty canteen onto his saddle, then slapped his legs against Spirit’s side to urge him on down into the town. A rabbit jumped up alongside the road and ran in front of him for a little while before darting off to one side. A hand-painted sign greeted him at the edge of town. PURGATORY
Pop. 263
OBEY OUR LAWS
Just beyond the sign was a house, and in the yard of the house was a water pump. An old woman was pumping water into a bucket, though it was obvious that the pumping action was difficult for her. Smelling the water, Spirit whickered again, and tossed his head. Matt headed toward the pump.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Matt said. He swung down from the horse. “May I pump for you?”
The woman, who could have been anywhere between fifty and eighty, looked at him with eyes that were too tired to be frightened. Without saying a word, she relinquished the pump handle.
Matt filled the bucket, then handed it to the woman. “I wonder if I might have a little of your water for my canteen and my horse,” Matt asked.
“You are welcome to the water,” the old woman answered.
“Thank you,” Matt said. He took his hat off, put it under the pump, and filled it with water. Holding the hat in front of his horse, he watched as the animal drank thirstily. It took three more hats to slake the horse’s thirst. Not until then did Matt fill his own canteen.
“You are a kind man, sir, to see to the thirst of your horse before yourself,” the old woman said.
“I’ve managed to drink a little from time to time,” Matt said. “He hasn’t. His thirst was much greater than mine.”
Matt put the canteen back onto his saddle, then handed the woman two dollars.
The woman took the money without comment. Never once, during Matt’s entire time here, had the expression on her face changed. The old woman looked as if just staying alive had become a tiring effort.
Matt rode on into town, looking it over as he entered. The town consisted of the usual stores and businesses: a general store, an apothecary, a leather-goods store, a gun shop, a dress shop. All the buildings were of ripsawed, sun-dried lumber, most with false fronts, thus aspiring to more substance than they actually possessed.
Matt rode slowly on up the street, the fall of Spirit’s well-shod hooves making enough noise to generate an echo that rolled back from the false fronts of the various stores and establishments. Except for Matt, the street was empty. Several of the townspeople inside the buildings heard the sound of a solitary rider, but few ventured to look outside and see who it might be.
Matt stopped in front of the Pair O Dice saloon, the name illustrated by a pair of dice showing the number seven.
Millie’s Dress Emporium was directly across the street from the Pair O Dice, and Mrs. Emma Dawkins was there being fitted for a new dress. Her son, Timmy, was sitting on the floor by the front window.
“Mama, there’s a man riding into town,” Timmy said. “A stranger.”
“Don’t stare at him, dear,” Mrs. Dawkins said. “Strangers are none of our concern.” Then, to Millie, Emma continued with her ongoing conversation. “My sister is getting married back in St. Louis and I simply must look my best.”
“My dear, you will be the envy of everyone at the wedding,” Millie promised as she pinned up the hem of the skirt.
Young Timmy Dawkins continued to stare at the rider who had just come into town, and saw him dismount in front of the saloon. He had never seen the man before, and wondered where he came from and why he was in Purgatory.
“He’s going into the saloon,” Timmy said.
“Who is going into the saloon, dear?” Emma asked.
“The stranger.”
“I told you not to stare at strangers.”
Matt hung his wet hat on the saddle horn so that the sun would dry it. He then patted himself down, raising a cloud of dust as he did so. Just as he started toward the front porch and the promise of a late morning breakfast, a man stepped out of the saloon. He was a tall man, dressed in black. He had a star on his chest, and he wore his pistol hanging low to his right side.
“
That’ll be five dollars,” the lawman said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Five dollars,” the lawman repeated.
“I don’t understand. Five dollars for what?”
“For a visitors tax,” the lawman explained. “We charge everyone who visits our town five dollars.”
“Oh, well, I can take care of that,” Matt said. He turned to go back to his horse. “I just won’t visit your town.”
“You already have.”
“Mister, I just rode into town,” Matt said. “I didn’t know anything about your five-dollar tax.”
“You don’t have five dollars? Maybe I should lock you up for vagrancy.”
“It’s not the money, it’s the principle of the thing,” Matt said. “Whoever heard of a town charging five dollars just to visit? Why, if you were going to do such a thing, the least you could do is post a sign just outside of town so people could be warned.”
“Tell that to the city council. But first, give me the five dollars.”
“I told you, I’m not going to visit your town. I’ll just ride on.”
“And I told you, you’ve already visited the town. Now you’ll either give me the five dollars, or I’ll shoot you down in the street and take it off your dead body.”
“What?” Matt said, his voice rising in surprise over the lawman’s statement.
“You heard me.”
“Mister, you need to let this drop. I told you, I’m going to—”
Suddenly, Matt saw the lawman’s hand going for his pistol.
“No!” Matt shouted, going for his own pistol at the same time.
Matt was fast, very fast. He not only had his gun out, but he fired it, just as the lawman was clearing leather.
The bullet hit the lawman in the chest and, with a surprised expression on his face, the lawman dropped his gun, then slapped his hand over the wound. Ironically, when he dropped his gun, it slipped back into his holster. He turned around and walked back into the saloon through the batwing doors.
“What was it, Moe?” Marshal Cummins asked. “What was that shot about?”
Moe looked at Cummins with a peculiar expression on his face, then fell to the floor. At that moment, Matt stepped inside as well, still holding the smoking gun.
“Moe!” someone shouted.
“My God! He’s dead!”
“Drop that gun, mister!”
Looking up, Matt saw a man, wearing a star, pointing a pistol at him. One man pointing a pistol might not have been so bad, but there were four other pistols being pointed toward him, as well as a double-barrel shotgun, all being wielded by men who were wearing stars.
“How many marshals does this town have?” Matt asked.
“I’m Marshal Cummins,” the first man said. “These men, and the man you just murdered, are my deputies.”
“I didn’t murder him. He drew on me first,” Matt said.
“He drew on you, huh?” Marshal Cummins said. “Mister, you are a liar, and a poor one at that. Moe’s gun is still in his holster.”
“Yes, it fell back in the holster when I shot him,” Matt said. His explanation sounded weak, even to his own ears.
“Mister, I didn’t fall off the turnip wagon yesterday,” Cummins said. “Now drop that gun.”
Matt took in the situation around him, then, realizing that resistance would be futile, he dropped his gun and raised his hands.
“Put some cuffs on him, Jackson,” Marshal Cummins said.
“My goodness, what was that?” Emma Dawkins asked at the sound of the gunshot.
“It’s probably some fool drunk over in the saloon,” Millie answered. She was on her knees with a mouth full of pins. “My apartment is just upstairs, you know, and sometimes at night, there is so much yelling and shooting going on over there that you would think they are having a battle. All they are really doing is just getting drunk and raising Cain. Turn to the left just a bit, would you, dear?”
“I seen it, Mama,” Timmy said.
“It’s ‘saw,’ not ‘seen,’” Timmy’s mother corrected. “And what did you see?”
“I saw the stranger shoot Deputy Gillis.”
“What? What on earth are you talking about?”
“The man that shot Deputy Gillis,” Timmy said.
“You mean he just rode up and shot him?”
“No, ma’am. Deputy Gillis went for his gun first, then the stranger went for his, and he shot first.”
“Are you saying the stranger killed Deputy Gillis?”
“I don’t know,” Timmy said. “He hit the deputy because I saw the blood, but then the deputy turned around and went back into the saloon, and the stranger followed him in.”
“Hush,” Emma said. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Uh-huh, yes, I do,” Timmy said.
“No, you don’t,” Emma insisted. “You don’t have the slightest idea of what you are talking about. Never mention it again.”
“But Mama—”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Then there is no ‘but Mama’ about it.”
“I think you are doing the right thing, Emma,” Millie said. “Heaven knows what-all trouble you could get in in this town.”
“I know,” Emma replied. “I hate doing it, I’ve always stressed that Timmy tell the truth. But sometimes it’s better to be safe than to be right.”
“I understand,” Millie said. “This will be our secret.”
“Get a rope!” someone yelled. “Let’s hang the son of a bitch now!”
“I got a new rope! I’ll go get it!”
“No!” Cummins said, his voice so loud that it reverberated back from the windows of the establishment.
“Come on, Marshal Cummins, you know damn well he’s guilty. Hell, you got a whole saloon full of eyewitnesses.” The protester was wearing a deputy’s star.
“That’s right, Hayes, we do,” Marshal Cummins said. “That’s why we’re goin’ to do this legal. We’re goin’ to try him now, find him guilty, then send him to Yuma and let them hang him.”
“When we goin’ to try him? The circuit judge ain’t due back for near ’bout a month,” Hayes said.
“We don’t need to wait for a circuit judge,” the marshal said. “We’ll try him right here, right now. You forget I’m an associate judge.”
“What about the jury?” the bartender asked.
“Hell, there’s at least thirty men in here,” the marshal said. “Pick twelve of them. Oh, and to make it legal, don’t pick none of my deputies.”
“All right,” the bartender said. “I’ll be one of the jurors. You, you, you,” he said, pointing to others in the saloon until he had assembled a jury of twelve men.
“Put the jury here,” Cummins said, pointing to an area of the saloon that was near the cold, iron stove. “Set up twelve chairs. Deputy Pike, you’ll be the bailiff. Morgan, you and Gates move a table over there to give me a place to sit. Oh, and set a table there for the defense and there for the prosecution,” he added.
There was a scurry of activity as the saloon was turned into a courtroom.
“As of now, the bar is closed,” Cummins shouted.
“Come on, Marshal, what’s the harm of a drink if all we’re goin’ to do is watch?” Jackson asked. “You done said there can’t none of us deputies be on the jury.”
“I intend this to be a proper court,” Cummins said. “The bar is closed. Hayes, you’re going to be the prosecutor.”
“I ain’t no lawyer, Marshal,” Hayes said.
“I know you’re not,” Cummins answered. “But we only got us one real lawyer in town, and that’s Bob Dempster. I think it’s only fair that the defendant get the real lawyer.”
“Dempster?” Hayes said. He laughed. “Yeah, all right, I don’t mind goin’ up against Dempster.”
“He’s back there in the corner,” Cummins said. “Deputy Posey, go get him.”
When Matt looked back into
the corner Cummins had indicated, he saw a man sitting at a table. A whiskey bottle was on the table beside him, and his head was down on the table. He was either asleep, or passed out.
“Hey, Dempster,” Posey called.
Dempster made no response.
“Dempster!” Posey said again, louder this time. “Are you dead? Or are you just drunk?”
Everyone in the saloon laughed.
“Somebody get a pitcher of water,” Cummins ordered, and a moment later, someone showed up with it, handing it to Posey.
“Dempster!” Posey shouted, while at the same time throwing the pitcher of water into his face. “Wake up!”
“What? What’s happening?” Dempster sputtered, raising up as water dripped from his hair and face.
Again, everyone in the saloon laughed.
“Whiskey,” Dempster said, wiping his hand across his face.
There was more laughter.
“No whiskey, Dempster,” Cummins said. “The bar is closed.”
“Closed?” Dempster looked around in confusion. “What do you mean, closed? It’s still light. Oh, is it Sunday?”
“It’s closed because the saloon has been turned into a courtroom,” Cummins said. “We are about to have a trial, and I have appointed you to defend the bastard who murdered Moe Gillis.”
“You have appointed me?”
“Yes.”
Dempster shook his head. “Marshal Cummins—” Dempster began, but he was interrupted by Cummins.
“For the purposes of this trial, I am acting, not as marshal, but as an associate judge,” Cummins said. “And you will refer to me as such.”
“Your Honor,” Dempster corrected. “I can’t act as attorney,” he said. “I’m—uh—in no condition to act as attorney.”
“Yeah? Well, you don’t have any choice,” Cummins said. “I’ve appointed you and you will defend this man, or I will throw you in jail for contempt of court. And I don’t have to remind you, do I, Counselor, that you won’t be getting anything to drink while you are in jail?”
Dempster sat at the table for a long moment, looking around at everyone who was staring at him. It was obvious that he was very uncomfortable with the scrutiny of all the patrons. He ran his hand across his wet face one more time.
Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory #3 Page 3
