“Nothin’,” Schuler answered. “I don’t know where he is, that’s all.”
“You do know, don’t you, Schuler?”
Schuler held his empty glass out, and Matt refilled it.
“Don’t be afraid,” Matt said. “I’m here.”
“You’re here?” Schuler said. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a weak bark. “So, you’re goin’ to protect me if he comes for me? There’s not one man in ten who wouldn’t pee in his pants if he comes face-to-face with Cletus Odom.”
“You think that’s what I would do, Schuler? You think I would pee in my pants?”
“I don’t know,” Schuler said. “Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter who I am,” Matt replied. “You know where he is, don’t you?” he asked.
“What if I do?” Schuler asked. He tossed down the second drink.
“Tell me where to find him,” Matt said.
“I can’t,” Schuler said.
Matt slid the bottle of whiskey toward him. “Forget about the glass. I’ll give you the whole bottle.”
“Not for a bottle, not even for a case of whiskey will I tell. What good is whiskey to a dead man?”
“Schuler, I want you to think about something,” Matt said quietly.
“Think about what?”
“You are afraid of the wrong man. Odom isn’t here.”
“That doesn’t matter. If I tell you how to find him, then he’ll find me.”
“I’ve already found you,” Matt said.
“What?”
“Think about it,” Matt said. “I found Bates, and I killed him. I found Paco, I killed him. When I find Odom, I will kill him.” He paused for a long moment. “And like I said, I found you.”
“I—I’m afraid,” Schuler said, his voice so quiet that he could barely be heard.
“You should be afraid,” Matt said.
“Yeah,” a patron at a nearby table said, laughing. Ever since Schuler had come out of the back room, the patron had been watching and listening to the conversation. “Like the man said, he’s scared of—” the laughter died in his throat when he saw the expression on Matt’s face. It wasn’t one of passion, or even cold fury. He wasn’t sure what he saw—maybe something in Matt’s eyes. But he felt the hackles stand up on the back of his neck as he realized he was looking into the face of death. “My God, Schuler, he means it,” the patron said quietly.
The patron’s words stopped everyone in the room as if there had been a gunshot. A nearby card game came to a halt, the three men at the bar turned around, the bartender stopped polishing glasses, and there was a deadly silence in the room.
The clock ticked loudly.
Schuler’s bottom lip began trembling and a line of spittle ran down his chin.
“Now, I’m going to ask you again, Schuler. And I want you to think about it. And while you’re thinking, I want you to know that I’m here and Odom isn’t. Tell me what you know, or I will kill you where you sit.”
Schuler drew a deep breath and held his hands up. “All right, all right, I was with them, just like you said. But I didn’t know they was goin’ to be a lot of people killed. I wouldn’t of had nothin’ to do with it if I had known there was goin’ to be a lot of innocent people killed.”
“I know. I was there, in the express car, remember? I heard you tell Odom that you didn’t know that he planned to kill anyone. In fact, if I hadn’t heard you talking to Odom, I would’ve already killed you by now.”
“Just so’s you know,” Schuler said.
“Where can I find him?”
“Why you lookin’ for him? Why are you doin this? You ain’t the law, are you?”
“No. This is personal. One of the people killed was a little girl, about four years old. One minute she was riding on the train with her mother and brother, and the next minute the train wrecked and a large stake was driven through her heart.”
“No!” Schuler said. He closed his eyes and began shaking. “I didn’t know about the little girl,” he said. “I didn’t know about any of them.”
“Where is Odom?” Matt asked again.
“You got any money?”
“Why?”
“If I give you any information, I’m going to need enough money to get out of here. My life won’t be worth a plugged nickel if Odom finds out I told you where to find him.”
“How can I find him?”
Schuler poured himself a glass of whiskey before he spoke again. He drank it, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“It’s goin’ to cost you fifty dollars.”
Matt pulled fifty dollars from his pocket and handed it over. “All right. Here’s you money. Now, start talking.”
“Do you know Odom?” Schuler asked, taking the money and stuffing it down into his pocket. “I mean, do you really know him?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s real crazy,” Schuler said. “I’ve never known anyone before who likes killing, but Odom actually likes it. They say he killed his first man when he was fifteen. They’s been others that’s killed for the first time when they was only fifteen, but the man Odom killed was his own pa.”
“Where will I find him?”
Schuler took another drink of whiskey. The whiskey had a somewhat calming effect, and he put the bottle down, this time without the shakes.
“Did you hear what I said? The first man he killed was his own pa.”
“I heard.”
“You’ll find him in Purgatory,” Schuler said.
“What makes you think he’s gone to Purgatory?”
“The marshal there is a fella by the name of Cummins,” Schuler said. “Him ’n’ Odom is brothers.”
“Brothers?”
“They don’t have the same name ’cause they got different papas, but they got the same mama. And after Odom killed his own pa, he moved in with his mama, Cummins, and Cummins’s papa.”
“Thank you,” Matt said.
“Don’t be thanking me,” he said. “If you are going to Purgatory after Odom, you are going to have to deal with Cummins and all his deputies. And you might find out you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Matt said. “I’m going.”
“To face all of them?”
“Yes.”
“That’s bold talk, Matt Jensen,” another voice said.
Jensen? Who knew that he was Matt Jensen?
Turning slowly, Matt saw a big man with gray hair and a sweeping mustache leaning against the wall. The man’s arms were folded across his chest. He, like everyone else in the room, had been listening to the conversation. He let his arms drop by his side, with one hand hovering near his pistol. When he did so, it revealed that he was wearing the star of a U.S. marshal.
Matt moved his own hand into position to draw.
The tension in the room grew palpable, and everyone moved out of the way of what they were sure was an impending gunfight.
“You are Marshal Kyle, aren’t you?” Matt asked. “We met at the train wreck.”
“Yes, we met there,” Kyle said. “But I believe you were telling people your name was Cavanaugh then.”
“My name is Cavanaugh,” Matt said.
Kyle shook his head. “No sense in lying about it now. I know that you are Matt Jensen.”
Matt nodded. “Yes, I am Matt Jensen,” he said. “But Cavanaugh is the name I was born with.”
Kyle chuckled. “Well now, this can be a little confusing,” he said.
“Marshal, I didn’t cause that train wreck, I didn’t kill Deputy Hayes, and I didn’t steal any money,” Matt said.
“Odom killed the deputy,” Schuler said, speaking quickly.
“You say Odom killed the deputy?” Kyle asked.
“Yes.”
Kyle nodded. “I suspected that,” he said. “I appreciate the confirmation.” He looked back at Matt. “You don’t deny killing Deputy Gillis, do you?”
“I killed him,” Matt said, without further cl
arification.
“Gillis drew first?”
“He tried to,” Matt replied and, inexplicably, Kyle laughed.
“That’s a good way of putting it,” Kyle said. “Now, about your going to Purgatory…” He let the sentence hang.
“I’m going,” Matt said resolutely.
“Oh, I’m sure you are going,” Kyle said. “I’m going with you.”
“Well, Marshal, I appreciate your interest, but I prefer to do this alone.”
“Oh, don’t misunderstand me, Matt Jensen,” Kyle said. “I’m not asking for permission to come with you. On the contrary, I’m giving you permission to go with me.”
“You are giving me permission?”
“Let’s say, I’m asking you to come with me,” Kyle corrected. “As a deputy U.S. marshal.”
“Wait a minute. You are going to make me your deputy?”
“As a temporary thing,” Kyle replied. “Just until we get Purgatory cleaned up.”
“But I don’t understand. What about the other thing?” Matt asked.
“What other thing?” Kyle replied. Then, suddenly, he smiled broadly and reached into his shirt pocket. “Oh, you must be talking about this.” He walked over to hand the paper to Matt.
“What is this?”
“Read it,” Kyle said. “If you have any questions, I’ll explain it. Though, how difficult is it to understand a full governor’s pardon?”
Chapter Twenty-two
“Damn,” Kyle said.
“Yeah,” Matt replied. “I see them.”
The two were looking at vultures, wings outstretched as they rode the thermal waves.
“Coyote?” Kyle suggested.
“No. Too many for a coyote. It’s bigger than that.”
“Deer? Horse?”
“Look how they are staying away,” Matt said. “If it was a deer or a horse, they’d be on it. No, whatever it is, they are afraid of it.”
“There’s only one thing they are afraid of,” Kyle said.
“Yes,” Matt replied. He didn’t have to say it aloud. He knew, and he knew that Kyle knew, that what the buzzards were circling was a man.
It took at least half an hour before they reached the body. It was hanging from the branch of a cottonwood tree, twisting slowly at the end of the rope. Some of the vultures had gotten brave enough to descend to the upper branches of the tree, but none had actually reached the body yet, because it showed no signs of vulture feeding.
“It’s Dempster,” Kyle said.
“He was just a drunk. Who could a drunk make angry enough to do something like this?”
“He had stopped drinking,” Kyle said. “And he is the biggest reason the governor granted you a pardon.”
“I’ll be damn,” Matt said as he sat on his horse and looked at Dempster’s body. “He tried to defend me in the trial. I guess he never gave up.”
“And my guess is, that’s what got him killed,” Kyle said. “He made an enemy of Cummins and his deputies.”
“We can’t leave him just hanging like this,” Matt said.
“Want to bury him?” Kyle asked.
“No. I have a better idea.”
Matt and Kyle arrived in Purgatory at just about supper time, and along with the spicy aromas of Mexican cooking, they could smell coffee, pork chops, fried potatoes, and baking bread.
Matt was pulling a hastily constructed travois. Dempster’s body was in plain sight, tied onto the travois.
“Frederica?” a woman called.
“Sí, señora?” a young Mexican girl answered.
“Take the clothes down from the line, will you?” the woman ordered.
“Sí, señora,” the servant girl replied.
The servant girl, startled by sight of the dead man on the travois, gasped, and took a step backward. Matt touched the brim of his hat in greeting, then urged his horse on.
A game of checkers was being played by two gray-bearded men in front of the feed store, watched over by half-a-dozen spectators. A couple of them looked up at Matt and Kyle rode by, their horses’ hooves clumping hollowly on the hard-packed earth of the street.
“Son of a bitch!” one of them said. “That’s Dempster. That’s Bob Dempster’s body he’s a’pullin.”
Amon Goff came through the front door of his shop and began vigorously sweeping the wooden porch. His broom did little but raise the dust to swirl about, then fall back down again. He brushed a sleeping dog off the porch, but the dog quickly reclaimed his position, curled around comfortably, and within a minute was asleep again.
Goff watched the two men ride by, then, nervously, went back into his shop and started pulling down window shades.
“What are you doing that for, Amon?” he wife asked. “It ain’t time to be a’closin’ yet.”
“Hush, woman, and get into the back,” Goff said.
“What?”
“Do like I say, woman!” Goff said. “There’s about to be some killin’ and we’d best be out of the way.”
Matt and Kyle stopped in front of the city mortuary, and Matt dismounted, then cut the travois loose. A tall, cadaverous-looking man, dressed all in black, stepped out of the building.
“You the undertaker?” Matt asked.
“Yes, sir, Prufrock is the name.”
“Take care of him, Prufrock,” Matt said.
“Well, I—uh, would be glad to,” the undertaker replied. “Is the city going to pay for it?”
Matt handed the undertaker a fifty-dollar bill. “No,” he said. “I’m paying for it. The city will be paying for the others.”
“What others?” the undertaker asked, clearly not understanding what Matt was talking about.
“Marshal Cummins and his deputies,” Matt said flatly.
“Wait,” Kyle said. “Prufrock, my name is Ben Kyle. I’m a United States marshal. I’m going to ask you just one time and if you know what is good for you, you will tell the truth. Have you ever heard of a man named Jerome? Cornelius Jerome?”
Prufrock didn’t answer.
“You have five seconds to answer,” Kyle said. “Or when we have finished with Cummins and his crowd, we will be coming back for you.”
“He’s buried out here in Boot Hill,” Prufrock said quickly. “Under the name Bill Smith.”
“If you knew his name, why did you bury him as Bill Smith?”
“It was what Marshal Cummins ordered,” Prufrock said. “He killed him.”
“Cummins killed Jerome? Why?”
“He didn’t mean to kill him. He was tryin’ to shoot his hat off his head. It was an accident,” Prufrock said.
“An accident?”
“Yes.”
“This is what I want you to do, Prufrock. I want you to write that out for me and sign it,” Kyle said.
“I can’t do that,” Prufrock said. “Cummins would—”
“Don’t worry about Cummins. He’ll be dead,” Kyle said in a flat, matter-of-fact voice.
Leaving the startled undertaker with Dempster’s body, Matt and Kyle rode slowly down to the far end of the street, then tied their horses off at the hitching post in front of the Pair O Dice Saloon. When they dismounted, Kyle drew his pistol, pointed it into the air, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the quiet streets for a long time. Then it was silent.
The gunshot attracted several of the townspeople and they looked toward the saloon, at the two men who were standing in front, one with a smoking gun.
A curtain fluttered in one of the false fronts.
A cat yowled somewhere down the street.
A fly buzzed past Matt’s ear, did a few circles, then flew away.
A face appeared over the top of the batwing doors, then looked out at Matt and Kyle.
“Are you one of Cummins’s deputies?” Kyle asked.
The man shook his head no.
“Then get the hell out of the saloon.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Get out or get killed,” Kyle said.
Without another word, without even looking back into the saloon, the man left and walked hurriedly on down the street.
“Hear me!” Kyle shouted.
The two words echoed back down the street. “Hear me—hear me—hear me.”
“Anyone in the saloon who isn’t with Marshal Cummins, come out of there now!” Kyle called.
From inside the saloon, Matt could hear the sounds of chairs and tables being scooted across the floor as people hustled to leave. A few seconds later, almost a dozen men came through the front door, then hastened to get out of the way, though they didn’t go so far as to not be able to see the show they were certain was about to take place.
Kyle looked over at Matt.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Matt didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped up onto the porch, then pushed through the batwing doors and went inside, backing up against the wall as he did so. At the bar, a glass of beer in front of him, his lips dripping with moisture, stood Cletus Odom. Also at the bar, but separated by the length of the bar from Odom, stood Marshal Cummins.
Matt’s lips twisted into an evil smile. Part of him wanted to kill both men this very instant, while part of him wanted to delay the pleasure. He could imagine the fear Dempster had shown when about to be hanged, and he wanted these two men to know that same terror.
“Cummins,” Kyle said. His words were cold, flat, menacing. “As a United States marshal, and acting upon the authority of Governor Fremont, I am here to inform you that your office of city marshal, and the offices of all deputies under you, have been vacated. You no longer have any legal standing. In addition, I am placing all of you under arrest.”
Cummins didn’t turn around, didn’t even look up at the mirror. Instead, he just stared into his glass of beer.
“Now just what makes you think I’m going to let you do that?” Cummins asked.
“There’s no letting to it, Cummins,” Kyle said. “We’re doing it.”
“You and that murderer with you?”
“This man is a deputy U.S. marshal,” Kyle said.
“A deputy U.S. marshal, is he? And what does that mean?”
“That means I can kill every damn one of you and it’ll be legal,” Matt said in a cold, deadly voice.
“I’m going to ask all of you now to unbuckle your gun belts and let them drop to the floor,” Kyle said.
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