Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory #3

by Johnstone, William W.

  “You ain’t goin’ to do it now neither,” Odom said.

  “What do you mean, I ain’t?” Bates replied. “I got my share of the money comin’ to me, don’t I?”

  “Yes, and we’ll make the split here,” Odom said. “But then we are goin’ to go on our separate ways before we start spendin’ any of it. We won’t be spendin’ any of it here in this town.”

  “That don’t make sense,” Bates said.” Why not spend money here? It’s our money now, ain’t it? So what’s the problem?”

  “Think about it, Bates,” Odom said. “If the four of us come into a little place like this, then suddenly start spending money like it was water, don’t you think some people might get a little suspicious?”

  “Hell, I don’t care whether they get suspicious or not,” Bates said. “What difference does it make?”

  “It makes a difference to me,” Odom said. “Like I say, we’ll split the money here, but you ain’t goin’ to start spendin’ it till we all go our separate ways. Once we do that, you’re on your own, and you can do any damn thing you want.”

  “Sí, señor, I believe that is the smart thing to do,” Paco said.

  “See, even Paco agrees with me,” Odom said.

  “Paco’s a damn Mexican,” Bates replied. “What the hell do I care what a damn Mexican has to say about anything? What about you, Schuler?”

  “I need a drink,” Schuler replied.

  “Ha, I ain’t never seen you when you didn’t need a drink,” Bates teased.

  The four men stepped into the saloon and looked around. It was nearly empty.

  “What the hell?” Bates said. “Is this here saloon open?”

  “Sí, we are open,” the Mexican bartender replied.

  “How come there ain’t hardly nobody here?”

  “It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Señor,” the bartender said. “We don’t get busy until afternoon.”

  “Whiskey,” Schuler said.

  “We have tequila and beer.”

  “Tequila.”

  “And breakfast,” Odom added. “You serve breakfast in here?”

  “Sí, señor, bacon, eggs, beans, tortillas,” the bartender answered.

  “That’ll do,” Odom said. “We’ll be there in the back.” He pointed to the table that was the most distant from the bar.

  When the four men took their seat at the back of the room, Odom put the canvas bag on the table.

  “All right,” he said. “If this bag has twenty thousand dollars, that is eight thousand for me, and four thousand for each of you.”

  “Señor, how is it that you get twice as much as we get?” Paco asked.

  “Because I am twice as smart,” Odom answered, glaring at Paco. “You should be glad I agreed to let you come with us in the first place.”

  “Paco, we agreed going into this that Odom would get the most money,” Bates said.

  “I did not agree,” Paco said.

  “Then I agreed for you,” Bates replied.

  Paco glared at Bates for a moment, then looked over at Schuler. “How much money is he getting?”

  “He is getting four thousand, same as the rest of us,” Bates replied.

  Why should he get as much money as we are getting? He did nothing. Estaba borracho todo el tiempo.”

  “What did you say?” Bates asked.

  “I said he was drunk the whole time. We did not need him to plant explosives on the safe. He did not earn his way.”

  “He gets his cut,” Odom said, ending the discussion as he counted out the money, eight thousand dollars for himself, then four thousand each for Bates, Paco, and Schuler.

  “Here you go, boys,” he said. “Don’ t spend it all in the same place.” He laughed at his own joke.

  Chapter Twelve

  The stagecoach depot and corral of horses were on the west end of Purgatory. That was good for Matt, because it meant he could deliver the string of horses without having to ride all the way into town and take a chance on being recognized. However, being seen in town wasn’t as risky as it might appear to be, because his trial had been held within an hour of the shooting. The trial had not taken place in a courthouse, nor even a city building. Instead, the trial was held in a saloon—the Pair O Dice Saloon—and the jury was made up entirely of saloon patrons, most of whom were drunk. That meant that there were very few of the town’s citizens who had actually had the opportunity to see him. He could probably walk the streets without fear of being recognized.

  The depot was small and unpainted, except for a sign that read: MARICOPA COACH COMPANY. At the side of the building was a fenced-in corral, and at the rear of the corral, a large barn that was badly in need of painting.

  Matt pulled his horse to a halt, dismounted, then tied his mount off before he started tending to the string of eight horses he had brought with him. A man about Matt’s age came out of the barn and started walking across the corral, picking his way carefully between deposits of “horse apples.” He had on an apron and was using it to wipe his hands as he came up to the fence.

  “The name is Joe Claibie,” he said. “And you might be?”

  “Cavanaugh,” Matt said. “Martin Cavanaugh.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  “Actually, I suppose it’s what I can do for you,” Matt replied. “I’ve brought you this string of replacement horses for the stage line.”

  “I thought that might be it,” the affable young man said. “You working for Rittenhouse now, are you?”

  “Temporarily,” Matt answered.

  “Temporarily? What do you mean, temporarily?”

  “I mean I’m not working for Mr. Rittenhouse full time. He just hired me to deliver this string for him.”

  “Well, you must’ve done a pretty good job at it,” Claibie said. “I see you got them all here in one piece.” He laughed at his joke. “You’ve already been paid, right? I mean, we don’t owe you anything?”

  “Not a thing,” Matt said.

  “Good.” The hostler smiled. “You’re a good man, Mr. Cavanaugh. You’d be surprised at the number of people who would try and get paid twice.”

  “I imagine there are a few like that,” Matt said. He ran his hand across the bare back of the horse he had been riding. “This horse belongs to you as well.”

  “It does?” Claibie replied in surprise.

  “Yes, Mr. Rittenhouse loaned it to me so I could bring over the string.”

  “Just a minute,” Claibie said. “Let me get a closer look.” He made a thorough examination of the horse, then smiled. “I’ll be damn. You say Rittenhouse loaned you this horse himself?”

  “Yes. Why, is there something wrong?”

  “No, no, nothing wrong,” Claibie replied quickly. “I tell you, Mr. Cavanaugh. You must’ve done somethin’ to impress him, because this is Blue, and Ole’ Man Rittenhouse don’t let just anybody ride him.”

  “Blue is a good horse,” Matt said

  “You’re needin’ a horse, are you?” Claibie asked.

  Matt nodded. “Yes. Do you have one for sale?”

  “Not exactly,” Claibe said. “I thought I was going to get one, I showed up at the marshal’s auction last night, but the marshal outbid me.”

  “Marshal’s auction?”

  “Yes. You see, by law, whenever the city marshal confiscates a horse, like say from an outlaw that’s goin’ to prison, he is required to hold an auction to sell it off. But lots of times he’ll keep news of the auction so quiet that nobody shows up. Then the marshal can buy ’em real cheap.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yep. The marshal’s damn smart, he is,” the hostler said. “He has purt’ nigh become rich by buyin’ horses for a dollar, then sellin’ ’em for seventy-five to a hunnert dollars. He’s got one for sale now, a fine sorrel with a bright, reddish-brown coat. That’s the horse I was biddin’ on but, like I say, the marshal outbid me.” Claibie stroked his chin. “Truth to tell, with this marshal, I don’t k
now if he actually paid the money he bid anyway. There’s no way of checking since he was buyin’ the horse from his ownself, so to speak.” Claibie laughed. “He may have stepped in it, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hell, Mr. Cavanaugh, there can’t nobody ride that horse ’ceptin’ Matt Jensen. That’s the fella that owned him, and he ain’t likely to ever ride again, seein’ as how he come into town, kilt Deputy Gillis, was tried, then took to Yuma to be hung, all in the same day.”

  “Maybe the fact that nobody can ride him will make the marshal sell the horse cheap,” Matt said.

  “Maybe, but what good would it do you if you did get the horse? Like I said, there can’t nobody ride him.”

  “I’m pretty good with horses,” Matt said. “I’ve broken a few in my day. I’d like to give it a try. What about the saddle? Did the marshal confiscate the saddle as well?”

  “I’m sure he did. Lot’s of times he sells the saddle with the horse. Wait a minute, let me step into my office here. Would you like to see the paper the marshal put out?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

  “All right, wait here and I’ll go get it. But if you buy it, tell ’im Joe Claibie sent you. He might give me a little somethin’ for suggestin’ it to you.”

  Matt waited while Claibie stepped into the office. A moment later, he came back outside with a piece of paper and showed it to Matt.

  FOR SALE

  Sorrel with red coat and white face

  Fine Saddle

  $150.00

  See City Marshal Andrew Cummins

  Matt handed the paper back to Claibie. “Thanks for showing this to me, but I’m afraid a hundred and fifty dollars is a little too expensive for my blood.”

  “Yeah, well, that is a little steep, especially for a horse you would have to break in order to even ride him. Listen, are you be staying around town long? The reason I ask is, if you’re looking for a job, I could maybe put you on. Business is real brisk since the railroad got cut.”

  “That can’t last much longer, though,” Matt said. “I came by the wreck today. They’re working really hard, and will probably have it cleaned up within a few days. And, I don’t think you would want to be taking on extra help now, only to have to cut back when your business slows again.”

  “Come to think of it, I guess you have a point there. Well, I’d better see to the horses. Thanks again.”

  “Oh, wait,” Matt called.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Let’s say I wanted to have a look at this horse. Where could I see it?”

  “When I seen it, it was down at the city corral, but now that it belongs to Marshal Cummins, I reckon you’d probably find it in the marshal’s stable.”

  “The marshal’s stable?”

  “Yes, it’s just behind his office. Ask one of the deputies, they’ll take you back and let you see him.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said.

  Matt walked on down toward the town, oblivious of the red and gold sunset behind him. He stayed on the boardwalk, keeping close to the buildings so as not to stand out in plain sight for anyone who might have been in the saloon at the time of his trial.

  About half a block before he reached the marshal’s office, he ducked in between a boot maker’s shop and a meat market, then moved back to the alley. The smell of blood and freshly butchered meat was overpowering, and in the alley, he could hear the loud buzzing of flies as they feasted on the discarded beef entrails and bones.

  He saw the marshal’s stable about fifty yards up the alley and, glancing around to make certain he wasn’t seen, moved quickly to it. The top half of the door was open to allow some cooling air for the horses. Matt stepped up to the half-open door and looked into the shadowed interior.

  At first, he didn’t see Spirit.

  “Spirit,” he called. “Spirit, are you in here, boy?”

  He heard Spirit whinny, heard his foot paw at the ground.

  “Good boy,” Matt said. “You just be patient for a little while. Once it gets dark, I’ll come get you.”

  Matt went out behind the alley, which was actually behind the town, and finding a dry arroyo that ran parallel with the alley, he slipped down into it to wait for darkness.

  It was interesting to watch the transition of the town as darkness fell. The sounds of commerce—the ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer, the rattle of wagons and buckboards, the hoofbeats of horses and footfalls of pedestrians, gave way to the sounds of night. He could hear a baby crying, the yap of a dog, the laughter of children, the carping complaint of an angry wife. But soon, even those sounds gave way to the sounds of those who were seeking pleasure. A piano, high and tinny, spilled out the melody to “Buffalo Gals.” A bar girl cackled—a man guffawed loudly. From a whore’s crib, he heard the practiced moans of a prostitute with her customer.

  About one hour after full darkness, Matt climbed out of the arroyo and walked quietly, cautiously, up to the marshal’s stable. Opening the bottom half of the door, he moved into the stable, which was partially lit by a silver bar of moonlight that splashed in through the door.

  “Spirit?” he called out.

  Again, he heard Spirit respond and, heading toward the sound, reached the stall where Spirit was being kept. Stepping inside, he reached out to pat Spirit on the neck. Spirit lowered his head and nuzzled him.

  “Did you think I had abandoned you, boy?” Matt asked.

  Spirit pawed at the ground.

  “I need to find the saddle,” Matt said. Taking a match from his pocket, he lit it by popping it on his fingernail. A little bubble of golden light illuminated the stall sufficiently well for him to see the saddle, which was draped across a sawhorse in the back of the same stall that housed Spirit. Extinguishing the match, Matt got the saddle, and then put it on Spirit, all the time talking quietly and reassuringly to him.

  Once Spirit was saddled, Matt led him out of the stable, back across the arroyo. Not until he was on the other side of the arroyo did he climb into the saddle. He rode out into the desert country just to the north of the town of Purgatory. Once again, he was well mounted and free. It was a good feeling, and he knew that the only thing he had to do to put all this behind him was ride back to Colorado.

  The instinct to return to Colorado was strong, but he couldn’t get the scene of the little girl, impaled by the bloody stake from the smashed railroad car, out of his mind. As he had passed her broken body to her mother, he had made the decision to go after the men who had caused the wreck. And he wasn’t going to go back on that decision now.

  He would take care of that first. Then he planned to come back to Purgatory and clear his name. He wasn’t sure how he would be able to do that, but he did not plan on spending the rest of his life with wanted posters dogging him everywhere he went.

  Matt reached down and patted Spirit on the neck. “It’s good to have you back, boy,” he said. “I was getting lonely without my old friend to talk to.”

  Spirit whickered, and bobbed his head a couple of times. Matt laughed out loud. “Yes, I know, I know, you’ve heard all my stories. You’re just going to have to hear them again,” he said.

  It was mid-morning of the next day when Matt happened onto a remote building. At first he thought it might be a line shack for some ranch, no more substantial did it appear. But as he came closer, he saw that it was a combination store, saloon, and hotel. The sign out front read:

  LONESOME CHARLEY’S

  Food–Beer–Beds.

  Some might wonder how a business so remotely located could possibly survive, but Matt knew that it survived precisely because it was so remote. Any traveler who happened by and needed supplies would have to shop here, as there was no competition.

  The building either had never been painted, or was in such need of new paint that no semblance of the old paint remained. The wood was baked gray by the Arizona sun, and the roof over the porch was sagging on one end. There was a wasps’ nest in the joint between the roof and
the front of the building. A dog lay sleeping on the porch, so confident in his position that he didn’t even wake up as Matt stepped by him, then pushed open the door to go inside.

  The inside of the building was lit by washed-out sunlight that stabbed in through windows that were so covered with dirt that they were nearly opaque. In addition, bars of sunlight stabbed through the wide cracks between the boards illuminating thousands of glowing dust motes. The inside of the building smelled of bacon, flour, and various spices. An old woman was sitting on a chair, smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper. Matt could see the headline on one of the stories.

  TRAIN WRECK ON SOUTHERN PACIFIC! MANY DEAD! MANY INJURED!

  The woman looked up as Matt entered. “My man will be with you in a moment,” the said. “He’s back in the outhouse.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Matt replied.

  Almost before Matt got the words out of his mouth, a white-haired man, wearing an apron, came in through the back door. He was still poking his shirttail down into his pants.

  “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I’ll take some jerky and coffee,” Matt said.

  “Yes, sir, we’ve got some fine jerky. What about bacon? Freshly smoked, it’s mighty tasty with biscuits and a little redeye gravy.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Matt said. “But jerky and coffee are all I need right now.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get it together for you. We just got the paper in today. We’ve been readin’ all about the big train wreck on the Southern Pacific. Have you heard anything about it?”

  “Not too much,” Matt answered.

  “They’re sayin’ a fella by the name of Matt Jensen caused the wreck. Got away with a hunnert thousand dollars, too.”

  “Don’t be silly, George, it wan’t no hunnert thousand dollars,” the woman said. “It was only fifty thousand.”

  “How much ever it was, I hope they catch him,” George said. He wrapped Matt’s purchase up in a piece of oilcloth and slid it across the counter to him. “That’ll be five dollars,” he said.