Dakota Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  “I don’t blame you,” the stable hand replied. “I’m a peaceable man too, don’t like any kind of trouble. But I reckon Matt Jensen is just the kind of man that trouble follows around. Do you know anything about him?”

  “Only what I read about him in the paper. I take it he saved the bank’s money?”

  “Chased down the outlaws, killed them, took the money off them, and brought it back to the bank. But if you know anything about him, you’ll know that ain’t all that unusual for him. Jensen is the kind of man that’s always doin’ stuff like that. I’ll just bet them three men didn’t know who they was tanglin’ with when they come after him last night. Oats?”

  “What?” Meacham asked, surprised by the sudden change of subject.

  “Do you want oats for your horse?”

  “No, hay is good enough. I think I’ll go find me someplace to have breakfast.”

  “You might try Little Man’s,” the stable hand said. “It’s just down the street there on the right. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks,” Meacham said.

  “Ha, you was just foolin’ me, wasn’t you, mister?” the stable hand said and Meacham started to leave.

  “Fooling you? About what?”

  “You say you don’t like violence, but the way you’re wearin’ your gun, low and kicked out like that—seems to me like you might be a man who knows how to use it.”

  “I said I didn’t like violence,” Meacham said. “I didn’t say I couldn’t be a violent man if I needed to be.”

  The stable hand laughed out loud. “That’s a good one, mister,” he said. Yes, sir, that’s a good one.”

  ***

  Just after noon on that same day, just as the stable hand had predicted, there was a preliminary hearing. The hearing was conducted by Judge Warren Phelps, circuit judge of Pueblo County.

  His first witness was Anton Dupree, a notions salesman who called frequently on his customers in Pueblo and always stayed in the same room at the Railroad Hotel. He had been in that room last night, on the same floor as Matt. After the witness was sworn in, the judge questioned him.

  “Tell me everything you can remember about last night.”

  “I heard what I thought were firecrackers coming from the other end of the hall. There had been a celebration yesterday with fireworks, so I thought maybe someone was just shooting them off in the hotel. But when I stuck my head out the door, I saw a man running down the stairs.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No, sir,” Dupree answered. Then he shook his head. “Well, I can’t really say as I know him because, truth to tell, I didn’t get a close enough look at him to know whether I knew him or not.”

  “Why not? Did he not come close enough to you?”

  “He was close enough, I reckon, but all the hall lamps was out so, except for a bit of moonlight comin’ in through the window, the hall was totally dark. Also, by the time I seen him, he had already started down the steps, which meant that his back was to me.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Next thing I know, Bubba James …”

  “Bubba James would be the hotel clerk?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Bubba James come to the foot of the stairs and I heard him say, ‘What’s goin’ on?” Then I seen this fella that had just run down the stairs shoot Bubba down.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I jumped back into my room,” Dupree said. “I ain’t no fool.”

  The others present for the hearing laughed, and Judge Phelps glared at them.

  “How long did you stay in your room?”

  “Not long. I listened at the door for a minute or two, and when I didn’t hear nothin’, I went on down the stairs. That’s when I seen Bubba James, lying on his back on the carpet. I knew he was dead, but I bent down to check on him anyway.”

  “Did you go down to the end of the hallway where the earlier shooting had taken place?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I did. Then, after I seen for sure that Bubba James was dead, I went back up the stairs, and by that time someone had got a couple of the lanterns lit so I could see what was goin’ on. There was two men lyin’ dead on the floor, and lots others standin’ around lookin’ down at them.”

  “Were any of them armed?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, sir, one or two of them were.”

  “Was Mr. Jensen there?”

  “He was.”

  “Was Mr. Jensen armed?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, Mr. Jensen, was armed. Fact is, he was holdin’ a pistol in his hand.”

  “How do you know that the man you saw holding a pistol was Matt Jensen?”

  “Oh, Your Honor, after all the hoopla and such about Mr. Jensen yesterday, it was easy to pick him out.”

  “Can you point him out now?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dupree said. He pointed toward Matt Jensen. “That’s him, right over there,” he said.

  “Thank you. You are excused.”

  The hearings were open to the public because as one man had said, it was better than any stage play, for this was the drama of reality. As a result of public interest in the hearings, the courtroom was full.

  After hearing testimony from Matt and the other residents of the hotel, Judge Phelps issued his ruling.

  “This hearing finds that Pablo Sanchez, Enrico Gutierrez, and an unknown third party did, in the middle of the night, and with stealth and planning, enter the Railroad Hotel, ascertain Mr. Jensen’s room number, ascend the stairs to the second floor, extinguish the hall lamps, and attempt, by the discharge of their weapons, to murder Matt Jensen. As Mr. Jensen was responsible for the incarceration of the two previously mentioned men, it is supposed that the motive for their attack was revenge.

  “Subsequent to being fired upon, Matt Jensen returned fire, the balls of his pistol having devastating effect upon, and ending the lives of, Sanchez and Gutierrez. This act of homicide was in self-defense and, in all aspects, justifiable. No further investigation, trial, or hearing is deemed necessary.”

  Picking up his gavel, Judge Phelps slapped it loudly on his bench.

  “This hearing is adjourned.”

  Immediately after the hearing, the sheriff, mayor, banker, and even the judge, along with several of the citizens of the town, came over to shake Jensen’s hand.

  “So, where are you going to go now?” the sheriff asked.

  “Everywhere in general, nowhere in particular,” Matt replied.

  “Well, if you aren’t in any hurry, you might stick around here for a couple more days. I know that the bank has your hotel room booked for three nights, and anytime I can see the bank spending money, it pleases me.” The sheriff said, laughing at his own comment.

  “Maybe I’ll just do that,” Matt said.

  Because of his constant moving about, it wasn’t every night that Matt got to sleep in a bed. However, as the bank had paid for three nights at the hotel, Matt was determined to take advantage of it.

  The anchorless drifting had become a part of his heritage. He was a man defined by the saloons, cow towns, stables, dusty streets, and open prairies he had encountered. He could not deny them without denying his own existence and in fact, had no intention of ever doing so. At any given time, he was both a long way from home, and as close to home as the nearest hotel, or back room in a saloon. Most often, though, home was no more than a bedroll made from a saddle blanket and poncho.

  When he left the courtroom after the hearing, he had nothing on his mind except to get a few days of rest and relaxation. And he intended to start that relaxation by finding a friendly card game in the nearest saloon.

  Although the hearing had been open to the public, Lucas Meacham didn’t attend it. He felt reasonably secure since the stable hand had told him that the only witness had seen him from behind and was, thus, unable to identify him. Meacham was in the saloon when, shortly after the hearing was over, two men came in.

  “There ain’t goin’ to be no charges against Matt Jensen.
The judge just dismissed the case,” one of the men said.

  “What did you expect?” his friend replied. “Jensen was just sleepin’ in bed in the hotel room when the three come into his room to kill him. He didn’t have no choice but to kill them, or else he would’a been kilt his ownself.”

  “Well, he only kilt two of ’em. The third one got away.”

  “Who was the third man, Gilley, do you know?” the bartender asked as, responding to their silent signals, he began drawing two mugs of beer.

  “No, sir,” Gilley answered. “Don’t nobody know who the third man was.”

  “Didn’t Dupree see him?”

  “You talkin’ about the drummer? Yeah, he saw him all right, but he wasn’t able to describe him at all. It was too dark and the man was goin’ downstairs away from him. All he could say was that he did see the man kill Bubba James.”

  “So the third man got clean away, did he? I’ll bet he’s halfway to California by now.”

  “I don’t think so,” Gilley said.

  “Why not?”

  “Why would he have to run anywhere? Didn’t nobody see him, which means there can’t nobody identify him. Hell, he could be anywhere in town. For all we know, it could be that fella over there.” Gilley pointed to Meacham.

  Meacham cringed, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  “No, that ain’t him,” the other man said.

  “Really?” Gilley replied. “Now, tell me, Pollard, just how do you know he ain’t the one?”

  “Well, look at him,” Pollard said. “Does he look Mex to you?”

  “Mex? What does that have to do with anything?” Gilley replied in exasperation.

  “Think about it,” Pollard said. “The two that was kilt was Mex, so don’t it stand to reason that the third one would be Mex too?”

  “So? Dupree didn’t say the third man was Mexican.”

  “That don’t mean nothin’. Dupree just seen the back of his head, is all, which means he wouldn’t know if he was Mexican or not. No, sir, if them other two was Mex, then you know the third one was too. Look around. Do you see any Mexicans in this room?”

  “No, I reckon not.”

  “Then you can bet that the third one ain’t in this saloon.”

  Meacham relaxed a little. He had been cursing himself for selecting Pablo Sanchez and Enrico Gutierrez because they were so incompetent that they were unable to do the job, getting themselves killed instead. But because they were Mexican, it now appeared that everyone thought the third assailant was also Mexican, and that definitely kept him in the clear.

  Meacham’s confidence faded, though, when he saw Matt Jensen push his way through the batwing doors a few moments later. Last night, he had been standing in the doorway of Matt Jensen’s hotel room, exchanging gunfire with him. It was dark, but there had been some light from the muzzle flashes of the three pistols. Was there enough light for Jensen to see? Had he gotten a good enough look at him last night that he could recognize him now?

  “Beer,” he heard Matt Jensen say to the bartender.

  The bartender drew a beer and handed it to Matt.

  “Congratulations on the hearing, Mr. Jensen. Course, we know’d all along that there wouldn’t be no charge against you, seein’ as how you didn’t have no choice but to do what you done.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said.

  “And of course, getting the bank’s money back, well, that was good too. Only, when you think about it, it wa’nt really the bank’s money anyhow, was it?” the bartender asked. “That was money that belonged to all the people of town who had it on deposit there. I had a hunnert and seven dollars and sixty-three cents of my own money in the bank, so you might say you got my money back for me. Would ’a been hard for me to have to tell my wife that we’d lost a little better’n two months pay. Which is why this beer is on me.”

  “Thanks, and I’m glad I could be of help,” Matt replied.

  Matt raised the beer mug, blew off the head, then drank nearly three-quarters of it before he took it down. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned his back to the bar to look out over the patrons.

  Damn! He’s looking right at me! Meacham thought. Did he see me? Does he know I was the third man?

  Jensen looked directly at Meacham, then passed his eyes around the rest of the room, showing no recognition whatever.

  Meacham smiled broadly. The son of a bitch didn’t recognize me! There I was, in his room last night, and he doesn’t even know who I am!

  Deciding not to press his luck any further, Meacham got up and left, leaving nearly a full glass of whiskey on the table behind him.

  Chapter Nine

  As Matt took a long look around the room, he saw Meacham leave. Because he had never seen him before, he didn’t recognize him, but he did notice that the man left a full glass of whiskey on the table, and that was unusual enough to generate some curiosity about him.

  Feeling no sense of imminent danger from him, however, Matt continued to peruse the room over his mug of beer. That was when he saw a few people sitting at one of the other tables enjoying a lively game of cards. There were two brass spittoons within spitting distance of the players, but despite their presence, the floor was riddled with expectorated tobacco quids and chewed cigar butts.

  One of the players raked in his bank, then stood up. “I have to go, boys, or my wife will be comin’ in here after me.”

  “Lord, get out of here quick, Arnie, I have no wish to be on your wife’s bad side,” one of the other players said, and the others laughed. The player who had spoken noticed that Matt was looking on.

  “Mr. Jensen, the hero of the town,” the man said in a welcoming voice. “And congratulations.”

  “What are you congratulatin’ him for, Doc? For havin’ the parade, for being acquitted by the hearing, or for not gettin’ shot last night?” one of the other players asked.

  “How about all of the above,” the man called Doc replied, and the others, including Matt, laughed. Then, to Matt, Doc said, “We have an empty chair here and would be mighty proud and honored, ifyou would join us, sir.” The player issuing the invitation was a rather tall, cadaverous looking man. He was wearing a black suit and string tie, in contrast to the other two players, who were wearing denims and cotton shirts.

  Matt tossed the rest of his drink down, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Thanks for the invite,” he said. “I’ll be glad to join you.”

  “I’m Doc Mason,” the spokesman for the group continued. “The fellow with the bush on his face is Clyde Hawkens, the other one is Sam Goodbody.”

  “Glad to meet you folks,” Matt replied, shaking the hand of each of them in turn. “Any table rules I need to know?”

  “You can take up to twenty dollars out of your pocket, but what you take out of your pocket and put in front of you is all the money you can play with,” Doc Mason said. “You can’t go back for more. Even if you only take out ten dollars, you can’t go back for more.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Matt said. “Who’s been the winner so far?”

  “Well, now, that would have to be Doc Mason here,” Clyde said. “You’d better watch out for him. He’s pretty good at the game. He says he is a dentist, but I think he’s actually a professional gambler. He just claims to be a dentist so’s he can get other folks to play cards with him.”

  The accusation was made in jest and the others, including Doc Mason, laughed at the good natured ribbing.

  “Thanks for the warning,” Matt said.

  “He ain’t a bad dentist,” Sam, said. “But two weeks ago, he pulled the wrong tooth out of Harley Barnes’ mouth.”

  “Yeah? Well, here’s the thing, Sam,” Doc Mason replied. “Have you ever noticed that all those teeth look alike? Sometimes, I just get them confused, is all.”

  Again, there was laughter around the table.

  “How long you plannin’ on stayin’ in Pueblo, Mr. Jensen?” the dentist asked as he dealt the
cards. It was easy to see why he was ahead. He handled the cards easily, gracefully, whereas the others around the table looked awkward, even when picking up the pasteboards. “The reason I asked, things seem to happen when you are around and I was just wonderin’ when things are going to get back to normal.”

  “Depends,” Matt replied.

  “On what?” Clyde asked. “I mean, you ain’t expectin’ to have a parade in your honor every day, are you?”

  “No, I don’t need a parade every day. Why, do you think I’m that vain? One parade a week will do. Or I would even be satisfied with one a month,” Matt teased.

  “Lord knows, we need some substantial citizens around here to balance off these two degenerates,” Doc Mason said, bantering.

  The game continued for a couple of hours with Matt winning a little more than he was losing. He wasn’t a big winner, but then there were no big winners or big losers. As a result, the game was played with comity and enjoyment.

  After two hours, Matt laid down his cards and picked his money up from the table. “Well, gentlemen, I thank you for the invitation to play,” Matt said. “It has made for a pleasant evening. But I think I will take advantage of the hotel room the bank has provided, for at least one more night.”

  “And we thank you for joining our game,” Doc Mason said. “I hope you don’t have any unwelcome visitors tonight.”

  “Wait a minute, Doc, how do you know he doesn’t want a visitor tonight?” Clyde asked. “He’s a young, unmarried man. He might want to have some young lady visit him.”

  “That’s why I said ‘unwelcome’ visitors,” Mason said.

  Matt chuckled. “The only visitor I want tonight is Morpheus.”

  “Who?” Clyde asked.

  “Morpheus,” Matt repeated.

  “Who is Morpheus?”

  “Damn, Clyde, don’t you know anything?” Doc asked. “According to Ovid, Morpheus is the god of dreams,” Doc said.

  Clyde shook his head. “I guess I never met either one of them,” he said.

  “Never met who?”

  “Them two fellers you just mentioned, Ovid or Morpheus.”