Sixkiller, U.S. Marshal

by William W. Johnstone

  “Now, if you are churchgoing folks, I know you understand what it means to pass the plate. Just pretend that this sack is the plate that gets passed around in church, only don’t hold back on your donations like you do with your preacher. Gents, I want you to drop your wallets into the sack. Ladies, if you got ’ny jewelry, why, that would be appreciated, too.”

  “Look here, what gives you the right to . . .” a man started, but before he could finish the question, the train robber turned his gun toward him.

  “This gives me the right,” he said.

  Another gunman came on to join the first. “How is everything going?” he asked.

  “Nothing I can’t handle. Is everything under control out there?”

  “Yeah,” the second gunman answered. “We’ve got the engineer covered, and we’re disconnecting the rest of the train from behind the express car.”

  “How will I know when you’re pullin’ the express car away? I mean, what if you fellas leave and I don’t know you’re gone? I’ll be stuck back here.”

  “We’ll blow the whistle before we go.”

  “There’s no need for you to be worrying about that. You two won’t be going anywhere,” Matt said.

  “What? Who said that?”

  “I did,” Matt replied. “Both of you, drop your guns.”

  “The hell we will!” the first gunman shouted as he fired at Matt. The bullet smashed through the window beside Matt’s seat. Matt returned fire, shooting two times. Both of the bandits went down.

  During the gunfire, women screamed and men shouted. As the car filled with the gun smoke of the three discharges, Matt scooted out through the back door, jumped from the steps down to the ground, then fell and rolled out into the darkness.

  “Walt, Ed! What’s goin’ on in there?” someone shouted from alongside the track. “What was the shootin’ about?”

  “I’m afraid Walt and Ed won’t be going with you,” Matt called. Matt was concealed by the darkness, but in the dim light that spilled through the car windows, he could see the gunman who was yelling at the others.

  “Drop your gun and put your hands up!” Matt called out to him. “I’ve got you covered.”

  “I’ll be damned if I will!” the train robber replied. He realized he was in a patch of light, so he moved into the shadow to fire at the voice from the darkness. He may have thought he would be shielded by moving out of the light, but the two-foot-wide muzzle flash of his pistol gave Matt an ideal target, and he fired back. A bullet whistled harmlessly by Matt, but Matt’s bullet found its mark, and the outlaw let out a little yell, grabbed his chest, then collapsed.

  Matt stood up then and moved toward the side of the train to try and get a bead on the one who had been separating the express car from the rest of the train. One of the passengers poked his head out to see what was going on.

  “Get back inside!” Matt shouted gruffly.

  The passenger jerked his head back in quickly.

  The train robber peered cautiously around the corner, trying to see his adversary.

  “Mister, you are the only one left alive,” Matt called out. “And if you don’t drop your gun and come out here with your hands up right now, you’ll be as dead as your partners.”

  “Who the hell are you?” the outlaw called back.

  “The name is Jensen. Matt Jensen.”

  “Matt Jensen?” The outlaw’s voice suddenly took on a new and more frightened edge.

  “That’s my name.”

  There was a beat of silence, then Matt saw a pistol tossed out onto the ground. A moment later the would-be train robber emerged from between the cars with his hands in the air.

  “We can go on ahead, Mr. Engineer,” Matt called up. “It’s all over now.”

  “Yeah, but the track ain’t clear,” the engineer called back down from the cab window. “Look ahead, ’n you’ll see what it is that made me stop so fast.”

  Matt saw that a tree had been felled across the track.

  “We’re goin’ to have to get that cleared away before we can go on.”

  By now the conductor, hearing the conversation and realizing that the danger had passed, came down to see what was going on.

  “I’ll get some volunteers to clear the track,” the conductor promised.

  “You think you can get enough people to volunteer?”

  “I’ll offer them a refund on their train tickets,” the conductor said.

  Matt looked at the man he had captured. “What’s your name?”

  “Dockins,” the man replied. “Art Dockins.”

  “Dockins, you and I will ride in the baggage car with your three friends.”

  “Are they dead?” Dockins asked.

  “Oh, I expect they are,” Matt replied easily.

  The conductor employed the two porters to load the bodies into the baggage car, while passengers from the train made quick work of the tree trunk that was lying across the track. Within an hour after the train’s unscheduled stop, they were underway again.

  The sun was fully up by the time they reached Colorado Springs, and the platform was crowded with family and friends who were there to meet the arriving passengers as well as departing passengers and those who were there to tell them good-bye.

  “We was held up!” someone shouted as soon as he stepped down from the train.

  “Held up?” one of those waiting said.

  “No, we wasn’t actually held up,” another said. “Though some folks did try to hold us up.”

  “What do you mean, tried?”

  “I mean tried. Some men tried to hold us up, only they didn’t get away with it. Three of ’em’s dead now, ’n the fourth one is bein’ held prisoner in the baggage car.”

  “You mean one of ’em’s still alive? Let’s string ’im up. There ain’t no better lesson given to would-be train robbers than to see one of their own with his neck stretched.”

  Inside the car, Matt sat with his prisoner, Dockins, and the bodies of the three outlaws he had killed.

  “Oh, Lord!” Dockins said. “They’re a-fixin’ to hang me.”

  “No, they aren’t.”

  “Yes, they are. I heard ’em talkin’ about it.”

  “They’ll have to get you away from me first,” Matt said. He opened the door to the baggage car, then stood there in the opening.

  “Mister, is it true you’re holdin’ one of the train robbers prisoner in there?” someone called up to Matt.

  “I am. I’m holding him for the law.”

  “Ain’t no need for you to be a-doin’ that. You can turn him over to us.”

  “I don’t think so,” Matt replied.

  “You’ll either turn him over to us, or we’ll take him from you.”

  Matt drew his pistol.

  “I don’t think so,” he said again.

  “There’s at least twenty of us. There’s only one of you. Do you think you can stop all twenty of us?”

  “No, that wouldn’t be possible. I’ve only got six bullets in my gun. But before you get him, I’ll kill six of you.” Matt pointed his pistol straight at the loudmouth. “And I may as well start with you, right now.”

  “No!” the man shouted, holding out his hands. “Now, just a minute, mister, you got no call a-doin’ that.”

  “Then I suggest you start trying to calm down all your friends. Because I will kill the first person who makes a step toward this car, then I will kill you.”

  “Hold it, fellas, hold it!” the loudmouth said, talking to the others in the crowd. “Let’s just let the law handle this.”

  “Thanks, Jensen,” the surviving train robber said.

  By that time the sheriff and his deputy were pushing their way through the crowd toward the mail car.

  “Get back,” the sheriff was saying. “Get back, ever’body. Make way! Let me an’ my deputy through here!”

  When the sheriff reached the train, the messenger climbed down from the express car.

  “You want to tell me what ha
ppened here?” the sheriff asked.

  “We were beset by train robbers,” the messenger said.

  “I had a bank shipment coming. Did they get any of the money?” The question was asked by a very thin, clean-shaven, bald-headed man who had a prominent Adam’s apple. This was the banker.

  “No sir, Mr. Underhill,” the messenger said. “I’m proud to say that the money is all here.”

  “We got three bodies on board, Sheriff,” the conductor said. “What do you want to do with ’em?”

  “They the ones that tried to rob the train?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve got a prisoner for you, too,” Matt said.

  “You’ve got a prisoner? Who are you?”

  “His name is Jensen, Sheriff,” the conductor said. “The railroad hired him to look after the money shipment. He’s the one that killed the three and captured this one.”

  “All by himself?” the sheriff asked in disbelief.

  “All by himself.”

  The sheriff turned to his deputy. “All right, get ’em out of the car and lay ’em on the platform,” he said. “Let’s take a look at ’em.”

  Soliciting help from a couple of men in the crowd, the deputy soon had the three bodies out and lying on the brick platform. Drawn by morbid curiosity, the crowd moved in for a closer look.

  “Hey, Sheriff, I know a couple of them boys,” the deputy said. “That’s Walt Porter and Ed Stiller. They used to cowboy some for the Bar T.”

  “Yeah, I know them, too,” the sheriff replied. He pointed to the third one. “I don’t know that one, though.”

  “That’s Bing Baker,” Dockins said. “Me ’n him used to ride together up in Wyomin’ some.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Dockins. Art Dockins.”

  “He’s the prisoner we’ve got for you,” the conductor said.

  “Prisoner? How come he’s not tied up or anything?”

  “There was no need to make him uncomfortable,” Matt said. “He wasn’t going anywhere.”

  Chapter Two

  “The Denver and Rio Grande thanks you,” General William Jackson Palmer said to Matt. General Palmer was president of the railroad.

  “And, in addition to the agreed-upon fee of two hundred and fifty dollars, I am proud to present you with an additional fifty-dollar bonus.”

  “General, I thank you,” Matt said.

  “Let me ask you this, Mr. Jensen. Do you have any interest in becoming a full-time private detective?” Jefferson Emerson asked. “The pay is good, and you would be a natural for it.”

  Emerson owned the Emerson Private Detective Agency, and provided contract security service not only for the D&RG, but the Denver and New Orleans, as well as the Union Pacific Railroad. Emerson’s headquarters was actually in San Francisco, but he had come to Colorado Springs to discuss the renewal of his contract with the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad.

  “Well, Mr. Emerson, I do thank you for the offer,” Matt said. “But I have the feeling that steady work like that would be a little too confining for me. Over the years I’ve developed the habit of moving around. I’m afraid if I stayed in one job too long, I’d wither up like a piece of rawhide.”

  Emerson and General Palmer both laughed.

  “Well, we can’t have you withering up, now can we?” Emerson asked. “But I wonder if I could call on you from time to time, to handle a specific job for me? At a mutually agreed-upon payment, of course.”

  “Yes,” Matt said. “I see no reason why I couldn’t take an occasional assignment.”

  “That’s good to know, but, if you’re going to be moving around, how will I get in touch with you, if I need you?”

  “Isn’t your home office in San Francisco?” Matt asked.

  “Indeed it is.”

  Matt smiled. “Well, that’s where I’m heading now. I’ll be there within two weeks, so, why don’t I just check in with you when I get there?”

  “Wonderful!” Emerson said.

  San Francisco

  Lucas Conroy had a fine office on the top floor of the Solari Building on Jackson Street. He had a rich red carpet on the floor and a George Catlin painting on the wall. A vase dating from the Ming dynasty sat on a table in front of the window. At the moment, he was meeting with a potential client.

  “You have to be specific in telling me what you want,” Conroy said. “I don’t deal in generalities.”

  “I, uh, have to know just what it is you are willing to do before I can be more specific,” Conroy’s visitor said.

  “I arrange things.”

  “What kind of things do you arrange?”

  “Look around my office,” Conroy said. “Everything you see here cost a great deal of money. I can afford expensive things, because my business is very lucrative. And my business is very successful, because I am willing to arrange things that most people won’t do, either because they can’t, or they are too frightened.”

  “Does that include things that may not be within the law?” his client asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Suppose someone came to you . . . uh, this is just a question, mind you, but, suppose someone came to you and said that he wanted someone killed?”

  “That would cost you a great deal of money.”

  “I didn’t say I was the one who wanted someone killed. I was posing a hypothetical question.”

  “I have no time for hypothetical questions. If a hypothetical question is the only reason you have come to see me, then I must tell you that this meeting is over. So please, get to the point.”

  “All right, I will get to the point. I represent a consortium of businessmen. And I believe, that is, the consortium believes, that our businesses, and indeed many businesses that we don’t represent, are being hurt by the ruthless practices of someone who is concerned only for his own self-interest. We believe that this person’s ruthless business practices put at risk the jobs of thousands of people. He is much too powerful to take on in the courts. We believe the only solution is to have him killed. So you see, Mr. Conroy, that wasn’t purely a hypothetical question. Can we arrange to have that done?”

  “Yes, you can arrange that. But it is going to cost you a great deal of money.”

  “You will guarantee success?”

  “Of course. I could not stay in business unless I guaranteed my clients success.”

  “Very good. I would say, then, that we wish to become your client.”

  “Who is the person you want killed?”

  “Actually, there are two of them that we want killed.”

  “Two? You mean you want to arrange two separate operations?”

  “No. The two I want killed are always together, so it will be only one operation. Do you think you can handle that?”

  “Yes, I can handle it. But whether or not it is one operation or two separate operations, the fact that you want two people killed will double the cost. A human life is a human life, after all, and one doesn’t kill without some compunction.”

  Conroy’s visitor smiled. “I’m glad to see that your misgivings can be set aside, for a price,” he said caustically.

  Colorado Springs

  Matt was awaiting his turn in the Model Barbershop on Lamar Street. The barber and the customer in his chair were having a discussion. As it turned out, they were discussing him, though neither of them knew that the subject of their discussion was present at the time.

  “Jensen faced down all four of ’em,” the man in the barber chair said. “ ‘Throw up your hands, or prepare to meet your Maker,’ he called out to ’em.

  “‘It’s you that’ll die,’ one of the three men said. Then the pistols commenced a-blazing, ’n the next thing you know, why, three of them bandits was lyin’ on the floor of the railroad car, ’n the fourth one got scairt and throwed up his hands.”

  “That’s pretty amazing,” the barber said.

  “Yeah, well, if you knew Matt Jensen as well as I do, you wouldn’t th
ink nothin’ of it. I told him, I said, ‘Matt, you keep gettin’ yourself into situations like this, one of these days you’re just liable to bite off more’n you can chew.’”

  “What did Jensen say when you told him that?” the barber asked.

  “Why, what did you expect him to say?” the talkative man replied. “He said, ‘The outlaw ain’t been born who can get the best of Matt Jensen.’ Yes, sir, that’s what he said. And me ’n him knowin’ each other as well as we do, why, I figure he’s prob’ly right.” Overhearing the conversation, Matt chuckled quietly, then picked up the newspaper and began to read.

  From the Colorado Springs Gazette:

  Gillespie Enterprises Acquires Northwest Financials

  John Bartmess Gillespie announced this week that his company, Gillespie Enterprises, has acquired Northwest Financials, the largest investment firm between San Francisco and Chicago. In making the acquisition, Gillespie beat out Whitehurst Commercial Development, the Kansas City–based company that was also bidding for the investment firm.

  Northwest has its main office in Denver, but there are subsidiary offices in a dozen cities. Northwest has been losing money over the last two years, and it is believed that Gillespie will completely reorganize the institution.

  “That’ll do it, Mr. Allman,” the barber said, taking the cape from his customer.

  Allman looked at himself in the mirror, ran his hand through his hair, and smiled. “You done a good job, Milt,” he said, handing the barber fifteen cents.

  “Hello, Mr. Allman,” Matt said as the customer walked by.

  “Do we know each other?” Allman asked, made curious by Matt’s greeting.

  “I heard the barber call you by name.”

  Allman nodded, then left the shop.

  “You’re next, sir,” the barber said.

  Matt lay the paper aside and walked over to get into the chair.

  The barber put the cape over Matt, unaware that Matt had drawn his pistol and was now holding it in his lap under the cape. It was a suggestion that his mentor and friend, Smoke Jensen, had made a long time ago.