“No. Cummins will not change his mind,” Dempster said.
“Come on, Timmy,” Emma said. “Mr. Dempster, I’m sorry we bothered you.”
“It’s not a bother, Mrs. Dawkins,” Dempster replied. “The boy was just doin’ what he thought was right, that’s all. And nobody can fault him for that.”
Dempster waited until Emma and Timmy left. Then he closed his office and hurried back down to the saloon. Since the trial, the saloon had returned to normal, and there were scores of people there, drinking and reliving the great drama of the trial so recently played out before them. Cummins was sitting at his usual table in the back of the room, and Dempster went straight to him.
“Well, the counselor is back,” Cummins said. He had a bottle of whiskey on the table and he poured some into a glass.
“Go ahead, drink up,” he said. “It’s your pay for defending an indigent client.”
“No, thanks,” Dempster said.
Cummins chuckled. “What? Bob Dempster is refusing a drink? Quick, someone, get hold of the publisher of the Purge. This should be front-page headlines.” Cummins held his hand out—then moved it sideways, as if displaying headlines.
“Robert Dempster, run-down has-been lawyer, refuses the offer of a drink!”
“Marshal, I think you ought not to be so quick about sending Jensen to Yuma,” Dempster said.
“Oh? And why is this?”
“Something has come up,” Dempster said. “New evidence. Evidence I did not have when I made the case for my client.”
“And just what is this evidence?”
“You know Emma Dawkins, don’t you? The dentist’s wife?”
“Yes, I know her,” Cummins said. “Quite a handsome woman, as I recall.”
“Well, she and her son just paid me a visit,” Dempster said. “Her son—Timmy is his name—was an actual witness to the shooting. He is a remarkably astute young man, and he tells the same story that Jensen told. He says that Gillis started his draw, but Jensen was faster, shot him, and Gillis’s pistol slipped back into the holster. I think you should send someone down to the depot before the train arrives, and bring Jensen back.”
“That’s what you think, is it?” Cummins asked.
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“How old is that boy?”
“I don’t know. Ten, eleven, twelve maybe?”
“And you think his word carries some weight?”
“Sure, why not? He has no vested interest in this case. And as I said, he is quite articulate. I see no reason why his word would be challenged.”
“Challenged,” Cummins said. “Yes, that’s a good word for it. Because I have an eyewitness that would challenge him.”
“Marshal, when you say eyewitness, you can’t use the people who were here in the saloon as eyewitnesses, because none of them actually saw the event. All they saw was the result of the event.”
“One of them actually saw the event, and he will challenge the boy,” Cummins said.
“You have a real eyewitness?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. If you have a real eyewitness, why wasn’t his testimony used in the trial?”
“We didn’t need his testimony during the trial,” Cummins replied. “We found Jensen guilty without his testimony.”
“Who was the eyewitness?” Dempster asked.
“Jackson?” Cummins called.
“Yes, Marshal.”
“You was standin’ at the window, watchin’ when Jensen drew on Moe, wasn’t you?”
“No, sir, Marshal, don’t you ’member? I was over at the table with the rest of you.”
“No you wasn’t, you was standin’ by the window, lookin’ outside,” Cummins said pointedly.
“No, sir, I—”
“Listen to me, you dumb shit!” Cummins said sharply. He spoke very slowly. “You was standin’ by the window. You saw it all. You saw Moe talking to Jensen, and you saw Jensen suddenly draw his pistol and shoot Deputy Gillis. Do you remember now?”
It wasn’t until that moment that Jackson understood what the marshal was suggesting.
“Uh, yes, sir, I remember. And that’s just how I seen it happen, too. Moe asked the stranger—”
“Not stranger—Jensen. You have to be very specific about that. It was Matt Jensen.”
“Yes, sir,” Jackson continued. “Moe asked Matt Jensen to pay the visitors tax, and Jensen got so mad that he pulled iron and kilt Deputy Gillis in cold blood.”
“I want you to write that out and sign it,” Cummins said.
“What for? We’ve done had a trial.”
Cummins sighed. “Goddamnit, Jackson, will you just do the hell what I tell you to do without givin’ me any argument?”
“Yes, sir,” Jackson said. “I’ll be glad to write it out on a piece of paper for you.”
“And sign it.”
“Yes, sir, and sign it.”
Cummins watched as Jackson wrote out his statement, then signed it.
“Now, Mr. Lawyer,” Cummins said, holding the piece of paper out in front of him. “You put the word of a young boy against the sworn word of Deputy Jackson and we’ll see which one of us gets the furthest.”
Dempster reached down to grab the glass of whiskey. He tossed it down in one swallow, without so much as a grimace, then pointed a finger at Cummins.
“You railroaded that man, Marshal,” he said. “That man is going to be hung for somethin’ he didn’t do, and you are responsible for it.”
Cummins chuckled. “Well, if I am, I reckon I’m just going to have to live with it, aren’t I?” he said.
Down at the depot, Matt Jensen was unaware that a young boy had seen everything and had tried unsuccessfully to tell the truth about the shooting. From his perspective right now, the future looked pretty bleak.
“Train’s a’comin’,” someone shouted, though as the engineer had blown the whistle at almost the same moment, no announcement was necessary. Those who were waiting for the train got up and started toward the door.
“Don’t be gettin’ anxious now, Killer,” Hayes said even though Matt had made no effort to move. “We’ll let the decent folks on first.”
The floor began to shake under Matt’s feet as the heavy train rolled into the station with its bell ringing and steam spewing from the cylinders.
“All right, Killer, on your feet now. Let’s go,” Hayes said after the train came to a complete stop and everyone else had left the building.
Stepping outside onto the wide wooden boarding platform, Matt saw that the sliding door on the side of the express car was open, and that the express man inside the car was squatting down to talk to the station agent. Both the express man and the station agent glanced over toward Matt and Deputy Hayes, so Matt knew they were talking about him. After a moment, the agent made a waving motion to them.
“All right, looks like Randall has it worked out for us,” Hayes said. “Come on, let’s go.”
With Hayes’s hand on Matt’s elbow, the two men walked over to the express car. As it was the first car after the coal tender, it was close enough to the engine to hear the rhythmic venting of the steam relief valve, sounding as if the engine were some steel beast of burden, breathing hard from its labors.
The engineer was leaning on the windowsill of the engine cab, enjoying a moment of rest. There was no such rest for the fireman, who, even though the train was motionless, was shoveling coal into the furnace to keep the steam pressure up. Glistening coals fell from the firebox to the rock ballast between the tracks. There, they glowed for a moment, then went dark.
The engineer looked at Matt, and Matt met his glance with a steady gaze of his own. The engineer nodded a greeting at him, which, under the circumstances, Matt greatly appreciated.
“All right, Killer, you get on first,” Hayes said.
“It’s not going to be easy with these chains,” Matt said.
“Yeah? Well, I’m not about to pick you up and throw you on, so I s
uggest you get on the best way you can. Try.”
Matt put his hands on the edge of the car, then vaulted up easily.
“Well, now,” Hayes said with a little chuckle. “I’m real impressed. You done that just real good. You, express man,” Hayes called.
“The name is Kingsley,” the express agent replied. “Lon Kingsley.”
“All right, Kingsley.” Hayes gave the express man his gun. “Keep him covered till I get up there. He’s a killer.”
“A killer?” Kingsley replied, obviously disturbed by the fact.
“Yeah, so be careful with him.”
Nervously holding the gun, Kingsley stepped back away from Matt. “D-don’t you try nothin’ now,” he ordered.
“Easy, mister,” Matt said. “I don’t intend to try anything.”
With some effort, Hayes managed to climb up into the express car. He reached out for his pistol. “I’ll take that back now,” he said.
Kingsley handed the pistol back to Hayes, who put it in his holster.
“Aren’t you going to keep him covered?” Kingsley asked.
“Why?” Hayes replied. “He’s in chains. It’s for sure he’s not goin’ anywhere.”
“I guess not.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t be that much of an inconvenience to you,” Hayes promised.
“I reckon you two can ride with me as long as you stay out of my way. I’ll be processin’ mail along the way.”
“We won’t be no bother,” Hayes promised. He pointed to the end of the car where there was one chair. “Sit there,” he said.
When Matt started to sit on the chair, Hayes called out to him.
“Huh-uh, not on the chair, the chair is mine. You’ll be sitting on the floor, so you may as well sit there now and make yourself comfortable.”
As instructed, Matt sat down on the floor, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He and Hayes no sooner got settled than the engineer blew his whistle, then opened the throttle. The train started forward with a series of jerks, then smoothed out as it gradually began gaining speed.
Chapter Six
Shortly after the train left the depot, Cummins held a meeting of all his deputies.
“All right, boys, it’s time to go to work. You fellas know what stores, businesses, and homes you are responsible for. Get started, then bring it all to the saloon.”
“Marshal, maybe we had better ease up a bit,” one of the deputies suggested.
“Ease up a bit?” Cummins said. “What do you mean by that, Crack?”
“Well, I mean, some of the folks, at least the folks I’m dealin’ with, are beginnin’ to get contrary about payin’ taxes ever’ week.”
“They are, are they?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s just too bad,” Cummins said.
“So, what do I tell ’em when they start complainin’ like that?”
“Tell them it’s the law,” Cummins said. “If they want to live in my town, they have to pay the piper.” Cummins giggled. “And we’re the piper,” he said. “Are you going to have a problem with that?”
“No, I ain’t goin’ to have no problem with that,” Crack said. “I was just commentin’, that’s all.”
“If I want any comments, I’ll ask for them. What about the rest of you? Any of you have any trouble with this?”
None of the deputies responded.
“Boys, when you think about it, we’ve got us a real sweet deal here,” Cummins said. He laughed out loud. “You might say that what we have is a license to steal. Ever since the city council voted to put in the law tax, all we have to do is just control a few drunks, make sure nobody gets beat up, and arrest anyone who spits on the sidewalk. Now, what do you say you get to work?”
At the very moment Cummins was charging his deputies with the task of spreading out to collect the “law tax,” a secret meeting was being held in the back room of the Bank of Purgatory.
Joel Montgomery, the president of the bank, was conducting the meeting, and he poured himself a drink before calling the meeting to order. “Goodman?” he called. “Are you keeping a lookout?”
“Yes,” Goodman said. “There’s nobody out on the street.”
“Well, there will be soon. This is the day they spread out to collect their tax. So if you see anyone coming this way, let me know.”
“I will,” Goodman promised.
“Men,” Montgomery said. “There’s a bottle here. If any of you want a drink before we get started, get it now. Because once we get started, we’ve got some serious business to discuss.”
“It ain’t goin’ to work,” one of the men said. He was short, with a reddish tint to his skin, and a large, blotchy nose.
“What isn’t going to work, Amon?”
Amon Goff owned the leather goods store.
“All of us gettin’ together and tellin’ Cummins we ain’t goin’ to pay his taxes no more,” Amon said. “It ain’t goin’ to work.”
“And why won’t it work?” Montgomery asked.
“Because the tax is a law that’s done been passed by the city council. If we don’t pay it, why, they’ve got the right to put us in jail. What we need to do is get the city council to pass a law changin’ that.”
“And how do you propose that we do that, Amon?” Josh Taylor asked. Taylor ran the feed store. “There’s only seven men on the city council, and four of ’em are Cummins’ deputies.”
“I don’t know how we’re goin’ to get it done,” Amon said. “I just know that if one of us refuse to pay the taxes, we’re goin’ to wind up one of two ways. Either dead, or in jail.”
“Yeah,” a man named Bascomb said. Drew Bascomb owned the freight line. “Even if we fight back, we could wind up getting hung. You seen what happened to that stranger that rode in here today. Gillis tried to collect the five-dollar visitors tax and the stranger shot him. Now, I say, good for the stranger, ’ceptin’ he’s on the way to Yuma to get hung.”
“I heard about that,” Montgomery said. “Did any of you see it? I mean, how is it that it just happened today, and already the stranger has been tried and convicted? The judge isn’t even in town.”
“Cummins held the trial himself,” Goff said. “Within five minutes after it happened, Cummins had a jury picked and he held the trial right there in the Pair O Dice saloon.”
“That’s not legal, is it?” Bascomb asked. “I mean, can Cummins hold a trial without the judge?”
“You may remember that Cummins got himself appointed associate judge,” Montgomery reminded the others. “His authority might be questionable, but he probably was within his right to conduct the trial. Now, as to the trial itself, I’m sure there were all sorts of technical errors that would qualify for an appeal. For example, does anyone know if he had a lawyer?”
“Bob Dempster was his lawyer,” Goff said.
“Bob Dempster? Good Lord, was Dempster sober?”
“Ha!” Bascomb said. “When was the last time anyone saw Bob Dempster sober?”
“Damn, the stranger could appeal this case a dozen ways from Sunday,” Montgomery said.
“Maybe so,” Bascomb said. “But he just left on the train to Yuma. Chances are, he’ll be hung by this time tomorrow night.”
“Fellas, here comes Crack,” Goodman said from the window.
“Well, what are we going to do?” Goff asked. “Are we going to pay the taxes this week, or refuse?”
Montgomery ran his hand through his hair, then let out a long, frustrated sigh. “We’ll pay them,” he said. “Right now, we have no other choice. But I don’t intend to go on paying them. We’re going to put a stop to this. There is no way I’m going to let this go on forever.”
“How are we going to stop them?” Bascomb asked.
Montgomery shook his head. “I don’t know yet,” he answered. “That’s what we are going to figure out, as soon as we get organized.”
At the same time Joel Montgomery and a few other citizens of the
town were holding their meeting, Robert Dempster was sitting in a darkened room in the back of his office. A half-full whiskey bottle was on his desk in front of him, and he reached for it—drew his hand back, reached for it again, and again drew his hand back.
His head hurt, his tongue was thick, his body ached in every joint, and he had the shakes.
He reached for the bottle again, picked it up, and filled his glass, though he was shaking so badly that he got nearly as much whiskey on the desk as he did in the glass. Putting the bottle down, he picked up the glass and tried to take a drink, but the shaking continued, and he couldn’t get it to his mouth. He put the glass down, leaned over it, took it in his lips, then tried to lift the glass that way, but it fell from his mouth and all the whiskey spilled out.
In a fit of anger, Dempster grabbed the bottle and threw it. The bottle was smashed against the wall and the room was instantly perfumed with the aroma of alcohol.
“No!” he shouted in anger and regret.
He leaned his head back, then pinched the bridge of his nose.
Robert Dempster had not always been an alcoholic. In fact, he had once been a productive member of society, a husband, father, and vestryman in his church. As he sat in the dark room, his body rebelling against the denial of alcohol, he began to remember, though they were not memories he wanted to revisit. In fact, he drank precisely so he wouldn’t have to remember, but despite his best efforts, those memories, unbidden though they might be, came back to fill his brain with pain—a pain that was even worse than the pain of alcoholism.
“No,” he said aloud, pressing his hands against his temples, trying to force out the memories. “No! Go away!”
Benton, Missouri, five years earlier
Judge Dempster was studying the transcripts of the third day of a trial that, on the next day, would hear the summations before being remanded to the jury. The sound of a slamming door in a distant part of the Scott County Courthouse echoed loudly through the wide, high-ceilinged halls like the boom of a drum. Dempster paid no attention to it as it was a familiar sound. He should have paid attention to it, because while it was a familiar sound during the day, it was not a normal sound for ten o’clock at night.
Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory Page 5
