“Look, what is it with all the questions here? Do you have an idea of how to make a lot of money or not? Because if you don’t, then there ain’t no need in us talkin’ anymore,” No Nose said.
“Yes, I have an idea. I was just making certain you understood that we would need more men in order to do the job effectively.”
“I’ve got them,” No Nose said. “Now, what is this job you have in mind?”
Chapter Seventeen
Hennessey and Taylor had ridden south from Denver for four days, and were having breakfast at a café in the small town of Clermon. Hennessey was reading a newspaper that had been left on the table. Taylor was buttering a biscuit.
“Well, well, well, what do you know?” Hennessey said aloud.
“What do I know about what?” Taylor asked as he added jam to the biscuit.
“Listen to this,” Hennessey said. He began reading. “Colorado Springs is pleased to have as a visitor Matt Jensen. Mr. Jensen, recently honored by Governor John Long Routt, is a true hero of Colorado, having risked his life to save a train from sure disaster. A modest man, Mr. Jensen declines to think of himself as a hero.”
“Yeah, yeah, we know all that. We was in Denver, remember?”
Putting the paper down, Hennessey looked across the table toward Taylor. “You are missing the point,” he said.
“What is the point?”
“The point is Jensen was in Denver. Now he is in Colorado Springs. That’s only fifteen miles from here. I think we should pay him a visit.”
“What are you talking about?” Taylor asked. “Why would we want to visit him?”
“Why? Because we’re going to kill the son of a bitch, that’s why,” Hennessey answered.
Colorado Springs
Matt was a guest in the Del Rey Hotel, staying there not to “take the waters,” as did so many who came there, but merely to enjoy a few days in a nice hotel that was known for good service and excellent food. He was not normally given to such affectations, but the recent windfall of five hundred dollars made this little interlude possible.
From the window of his third-floor hotel room, he had an excellent view of the Pikes Peak. He could also look out onto the street, scarred as it was with wagon ruts and dotted with horse droppings. The railroad station was halfway down the street, and he saw a train just pulling away. Just down the street from the hotel was the Second Chance Saloon.
Because the saloon was on the same side of the street as the hotel, Matt couldn’t actually see it from his window, but he could hear laughter and piano music. It all seemed very inviting to Matt, so after supper he planned to go into the saloon to see if he could find a poker game.
Half an hour later, bathed and shaved, Matt went into the dining room downstairs, only to learn that it was too late because they had quit serving lunch.
“You got any idea where I could go to get something to eat?” Matt asked.
“You might try down the street at the Second Chance,” the maitre d’ suggested. “They don’t have that big of a menu, but the food isn’t all that bad.”
“Thanks,” Matt replied.
Leaving the hotel, he walked down the street to the middle of the block. The street was filled with mid-afternoon commerce as wagons, surreys, carriages, and horses created a busy flow of traffic. Reaching the saloon, he pushed through the batwing doors and went inside. About half-a-dozen tables were filled. Stepping up to the bar, he ordered a beer, but just before he took out his money, a nickel was put on the bar.
“Uh-uh, your money’s no good here. I’m buyin’,” a man said, coming up beside him. When Matt turned, he saw a middle-aged man wearing a sheriff’s badge. The sheriff stuck out his hand. “You’d be Matt Jensen, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t reckon you remember me, Matt, but I met you several years ago when I was sheriffin’ down in Meeker. You was just a pup then.”
Matt smiled. “Sure I remember,” he said. “That was when Smoke shot Bodine and Colby. You’re Sheriff Adams.”
Sheriff Adams chuckled. “You’ve got a good memory, friend,” he said. “But then, for a boy your age to see something like that, I reckon it would stick in your memory. And, from what I hear, you are every bit as good as Smoke.”
Matt shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “But I am grateful to Smoke for teaching me what skills I do have.”
The bartender picked up the sheriff’s nickel, then sat a mug of beer in front of Matt. Matt hefted it, blew off the suds, then held it out toward Sheriff Adams. “I’m obliged,” he said.
Sheriff Adams nodded. “You say Smoke Jensen taught you everything, but I doubt that even Smoke taught you how to crawl across the top of ice-covered train cars doing sixty miles an hour in order to stop a runaway train.”
“You’ve heard of my little bout of foolishness, have you?”
“Who hasn’t heard?” Sheriff Adams replied. “You are a hero all over the state. What brings you to Colorado Springs? You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
“Nothing in particular brings me here, Sheriff,” Matt said. “And since I move around a lot, I’m never any further from home than the nearest hotel.”
“Ahh, the joys of youth,” the sheriff said. “There was a time when I thought it would be nice to be like tumbleweed, just wandering around from place to place.”
“What kept you from doing it?”
“Well, the war stopped me,” the sheriff said. He chuckled. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I traveled during the war—Shiloh, Antietam, Chancelorsville, Franklin—but it wasn’t quite the kind of traveling I had in mind. Then, after the war, I came out here from Ohio. But that’s about as far as my wanderin’ got me, because the next thing you know I had me a wife and a houseful of kids. That’s when I started into this line of work. I was a city sheriff, then a deputy, then a sheriff back in Meeker. Then, Millie, that’s my wife, took the lumbago and we figured to come here for the waters. It’s done wonders for her.”
“Oh, say, Mr. Jensen,” the bartender said. “I almost forgot, but the mail clerk dropped a letter off for you today. It came general delivery, but he figured the best way to get it to you would be to leave it here. Just a minute, I’ll get it for you.”
A moment later, the bartender handed the letter to Matt.
“Thanks,” Matt said. He pointed to an empty table. “Think you could bring me something to eat?”
“Ham, beans, cornbread?” the bartender suggested.
“Sounds good,” Matt agreed as he took the letter to the table.
Matt didn’t even look at the letter until he sat down, then he smiled when he saw the return address.
Layne McKenzie
C/O Governor John Long Routt
Governor’s Mansion
Denver, Colorado
Opening the letter, Matt saw a little tuft of raven-black hair, tied with a piece of green yarn. There was also a slight essence of lavender, reminding him of the perfume that Layne wore.
Dear Mr. Jensen:
If you are surprised to be receiving this letter, believe me, you are no more surprised than I am with myself for writing it. I know that it is very forward of me, and probably very foolish as well, but God help me, because I can’t help myself.
I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Jensen, but I have researched your background. I know that Smoke Jensen is not your actual brother, but rather someone who took you in when you were still quite young. I know too that you assumed his name out of a sense of gratitude. To do such a thing speaks very highly of you. It shows a strong sense of obligation and loyalty, excellent traits in anyone.
That does not surprise me, so readily did you risk you life to save others. You have attempted to pass your exploits off as non-heroic, by claiming that you were just saving your own life. But that is merely because of your self-deprecating nature.
I enjoyed our brief meetings, on the train, at the Firemen’s Charity Ball, and again at the reception where you were ho
nored by the state. I confess to hoping our meetings would have been more frequent, but you are a man who is careful of the feelings of others, and you understood what I did not. You knew that your nomadic life would not lend itself to encumbering relationships, and that to do any less would be to trifle with my feelings.
I understand that, Matthew Jensen. I know that there can never be anything in the nature of a romantic connection between us. Indeed, the conditions of my employment with the school board of Cairo, Illinois, would preclude that. However, I do believe that, even if we never see each other again, I can set apart this brief moment when our lives converged, and hold that dear to my memory in all the years to come. I do hope that sharing this bit of information with you does not burden you with the unwanted attention of an admiring female. May your life be filled with blessings is the prayer I shall say for you for the rest of my days.
Sincerely,
Layne McKenzie
“Are you Mr. Jensen?” someone asked.
Looking up, Matt saw an old man, unkempt and poorly dressed.
“Trumbo, what are you doin’ in here?” the bartender called out angrily. He pointed at the man who had addressed Matt. “I told you not to come in here anymore begging for drinks.”
Trumbo pulled himself up with as much dignity as he could muster.
“I ain’t in here cadging drinks,” he said. He held up a coin. “I got money for my own drink. All I’m a’doin’ is talkin’ to Mr. Jensen.”
“You got no business talking to him,” the bartender said.
“Yes, I do,” Trumbo insisted. “Where do you think I got this here money? I was paid to give him a message.”
“What message is that?” Matt asked.
“There’s a fella out in the street told me to tell you to come out to meet him,” Trumbo said.
“He’s out there now?” Matt asked.
“Yes, sir. He’s a’standin’ right out there in the middle of the street. Said he’ll be a’waitin’ for you.”
“What does he want with Mr. Jensen?” Sheriff Adams asked.
“Well, sir, he didn’t tell me that,” Trumbo said. “But if you was to ask me, I don’t think he’s plannin’ on greetin’ him like an old friend.”
Sheriff Adams walked over to look out through the window. Although moments before the street had been busy, now it was deserted, except for one man, who was standing in the middle of the street about one hundred feet away. It was easy to see why the street had become deserted, because the man was holding a gun in his hand, pointing it toward the saloon door. He was obviously prepared to fight.
“Trumbo is right,” Adams said. “Whoever that fella is, he’s standing out there holding a gun.”
“Jensen!” the man in the street called. “Matt Jensen, I’m callin’ you out!”
Matt walked over to look out as well. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “It’s Al Hennessey.”
“Al Hennessey? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Adams sighed, then loosened his pistol in his holster. “You stay here, Matt,” he said. “Hennessey is a wanted man. This’ll be my business, I reckon.”
Matt shook his head. “No, it’s my business,” he said. “It’s me he wants. I’m the one that brought him in to hang.”
As Matt continued to look outside, he saw that though the street had emptied, men and women could still be seen scurrying down the sidewalks, stepping into buildings, or behind them, to get out of the line of fire while taking up positions in the doors and windows so they wouldn’t miss anything. Even the horses had been moved off the street as nervous owners feared they might get hit by a stray bullet.
“You don’t have to do this yourself, you know,” Sheriff Adams said. “I could go out through the back door, then sneak around and come up on him from the other end of the street. I think if he saw the two of us, he might give up.”
“No, I thank you, Sheriff,” Matt said. “But this is my fight. I’m going to have to fight it my way.”
“The thing is, Matt, your way might get someone killed.”
“That’s true,” Matt said. Pulling his pistol, he checked the loads, then dropped the pistol back in the holster before stepping outside. “I just intend to make certain it isn’t you, me, or some innocent person from town.”
“Jensen, you comin’ out?”
Matt stepped through the batwing doors.
“I’m here, Hennessey,” he said.
“Well, we meet again,” Hennessey said. “Only this time, you don’t have the drop on me. We meet even.”
“Not entirely even,” Matt replied. “You already have your pistol drawn.”
Hennessey smiled, a slow, evil smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I do, don’t I?”
Even as he was finishing his comment, Hennessey pulled the trigger. His bullet slammed into the front wall of the saloon, right beside Matt. Matt dived off the porch and into the street, rolling to his left and drawing his gun as he did so. Hennessey managed to get off a second shot.
The second bullet crashed harmlessly into the wooden front stoop of the Second Chance Saloon. From his prone position on the ground, Matt fired at Hennessey and hit him in the knee. Hennessey let out a howl and went down, but he was still firing, and Matt felt a bullet tear through the crown of his hat. Now Matt took slow and deliberate aim and pulled the trigger. He hit Hennessey in the temple, and saw a little pink mist of blood spray up from the impact of the bullet.
Hennessey was stopped instantly and, for a moment, there was deadly quiet. Matt stood up and started walking toward Hennessey, when all of a sudden there was another gunshot. This time, the bullet hit the ground right beside Matt, then ricocheted down the street with a high, keening whine.
Looking up, Matt saw a puff of gun smoke drifting from behind the false front of the hardware store that was right across from the saloon. He ran toward the side of the street, then dived behind a watering trough just as a second shot was fired.
By the sound of the shot, Matt knew that his adversary was using a rifle. The fact that he had a rifle, as well as elevation, cover, and concealment, gave him an advantage over Matt’s position. Matt fired at the false front where he saw the last puff of smoke, but it was more to see what kind of reaction he would get than anything else. He had no real target.
“Is Hennessey dead?” a voice called down from the roof.
“Yes,” Matt answered.
“I figured he was.”
“Coleman was killed when you escaped,” Matt said. “Boone was hanged, and Hennessey is lying here in the street. That means you must be Taylor.”
“I’m Taylor.”
Taylor was quiet for a moment, then he called down again. “I’m the only one left.”
“You want to come down?” Matt called. “Give yourself up?”
“No, I don’t reckon I want to do that,” Taylor said. “I done been sentenced to hang. I got nothin’ to gain by givin’ myself up.”
Matt raised himself up just far enough to peer over the top of the water trough. As soon as he did so, Taylor fired, and the bullet hit in the water so close to him that it got his face wet.
“Nearly got you that time,” Taylor said.
“Yeah, you did,” Matt said, wiping the water from his face.
“Taylor, are you part Indian?”
“What? No, why do you ask?”
“Was Hennessey?”
“No,” Taylor said. He fired again, and his bullet hit the ground by the edge of the watering trough, then ricocheted into the front stoop behind.
Matt lay there for a moment longer. Then he took off a boot and slipped it over the point of his other foot, then put his hat on it. Lifting his leg so that the boot and hat were above the trough, he leaned out around the end and looked up toward the false front. He saw Taylor step to the side of the false front and raise his rifle to his shoulder, aiming at Matt’s hat.
Matt fired, and saw a puff of dust fly up from Taylor’s shirt. Taylor dropped the rifle and slappe
d his hands over his chest. Then he tumbled forward off the roof of the hardware store.
Matt slipped his boot back on, then ran across the street to check on him.
“Damn,” Taylor said, breathing hard. “Damn, that hurts.” He chuckled. “I guess it beats hangin’, though, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Matt replied. “I’m pretty sure it beats hanging.”
“If you look at it like that, I sort of came out ahead in this, didn’t I?”
Matt didn’t answer. Taylor drew a couple more gasping breaths, then he stopped.
“So there were two of them, were there?” Sheriff Adams said, coming up behind Matt then.
Matt nodded.
“I should’ve suspected that. Don’t know how many men would actually call you out to a fair fight. Damn, you don’t think there are any more, do you?” Adams began looking around.
“Not from this bunch,” Matt said, putting his pistol away. “Taylor was the last of them. But I do have someone else after me.”
“I’m not surprised, son,” Adams said. “Whenever a man gets himself a reputation like you have, men are going to be crawling out from under rocks just to get a crack at your. They all want to be known as the man who killed Matt Jensen. But hell, I don’t need to be telling you that.”
“I’ve run into such men,” Matt said. “But this isn’t what I’m talking about.” Matt took from his pocket one of the bullets and the piece of paper with which it had been wrapped. He showed them to Sheriff Adams.
“What is that?” Adams asked.
“According to Smoke, it is a Hopi death symbol.”
“You ever run across any Hopi?” Adams asked
“Yes, but they have all been peaceful,” Matt answered.
Adams shook his head. “Apparently not all,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Dorena
Strayhorn was sitting in the corner the saloon nursing a glass of green whiskey that had been colored with rusty nails and flavored with a few drops of kerosene. It had been three weeks since he, Teech, and Decker had conducted their raid on the Butrum Ranch and, once again, he found himself short of money.
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