Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory

by William W. Johnstone

  “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ next,” Marcus said. “I aim to let this drop. Right here and right now.”

  Willis shook his head. “Huh-uh,” he said. “It ain’t a-goin’ to drop. You started it, I am goin’ to finish it.”

  “I didn’t start nothin’! You’re crazy, mister, and you’re lettin’ this thing get out of hand,” Marcus said, the tone of his voice rising in fear. “I done told you, there ain’t no fight goin’ on here between you and me.”

  Pogue Willis was not a very big man. In fact, he was only about five feet six inches tall and he weighed no more than 145 pounds. His hair was a dirty blond, and the skin on his face had a blotch of red, whether from a birthmark or a burn scar, nobody knew. In a normal world, Pogue Willis would live his life as unobtrusively as possible.

  But this was not a normal world. This was a world where a man like Pogue Willis, who should be little more than dust under a better man’s boot, possessed two traits that lifted him from the obscure to the feared. He was fast and accurate with a pistol, but more significantly, he had no more compunction about killing a human being than the average person did about stepping on a cockroach.

  Willis smiled, but instead of the smile ameliorating the situation, it exacerbated it, for the smile was not one of mirth or good cheer. It was an evil, sardonic smile that twisted the features of his face until it took on a demonic visage.

  “You know what I think, Mr. Marcus,” Willis said, his sibilant voice so low that even those who were the nearest to him had to strain to hear. “I think maybe me and you ought to get this here little difference of opinion settled between us,” Willis said. “Otherwise, a thing like this, unresolved so to speak, is just goin’ to start a-festerin’ in my craw. And I don’t like it when things gets to festerin’ in my craw.”

  Lee Marcus owned a small producing silver mine. It had not made him rich, but it was providing him with a comfortable living, and just a few moments earlier, he had cashed out the results of his last six months of diggings for a little over two thousand dollars. He had come from the bank right to the saloon, and the cash was still in his pocket when he came into the Hungry Miner for a celebratory drink.

  Now, in less than a minute, his entire world had changed. Marcus had gone from being very happy with his lot, to being irritated and concerned over the fact that a man was hitting a woman, to the sudden frightening realization that he was rapidly being pushed into a life-and-death situation. He was being drawn into a fight he didn’t want.

  Getting hold of himself, Marcus forced a smile, making it as genuine as he could under these frightening circumstances. “Now, just hold on here, Mr. Willis, wait a minute, please,” Marcus said. He spoke is as calm and friendly a voice as he could. “I think you would agree with me that it is pretty obvious that me and you have got ourselves off on the wrong foot here. I tell you what I’m goin’ to do. I’m goin’ to buy you a drink. Yes, sir, that’s the best thing to do. I really didn’t mean to say nothin’ to put you to anger like I done, so why don’t me and you just have us that drink I’m offerin’ an’ then we can start all over? Bartender, how ’bout you pour Mr. Willis another drink on me?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Marcus, I’d be glad to. Seems to me like that’d be about the best thing we could do, afore this here goes any further.” the bartender replied, going along with Marcus’s proposal. He poured another drink and set it in front of Willis. “There you go, Mr. Willis, compliments of Mr. Marcus.”

  Willis, with the demonic smile still on his lips, picked up the drink, held it up as if in toast, then, suddenly and without warning, tossed the contents of the glass into Marcus’s face.

  That sudden and unexpected action brought the rest of the saloon to total silence as every man and woman present looked toward the two men to see what would happen next.

  Marcus had gasped in surprise, but checking his normal impulse to do or say anything that would make the situation any worse, he just reached down and pulled a towel from one of the towel rings on the bar, and wiped his face.

  “Well, I guess I deserved that for buttin’ in where it was none of my concern,” Marcus said. He forced a chuckle as he continued to wipe his face. “Yes, sir, I got to hand it to you, you got me good with that little trick. So with all things bein’ considered, I reckon that makes me and you be just about even now.”

  “We ain’t even,” Willis said.

  “Sure we are,” Marcus replied.

  “Are you callin’ me a liar, Mr. Marcus?” Willis challenged.

  “What? No, I—why would I call you a liar?”

  “Here’s the thing, Mr. Marcus. Me and you ain’t goin’ to be even till one of us is dead,” Willis said. His evil smile broadened. “And truth to tell, I got me this feelin’ that it ain’t goin’ to be me the one that winds up dead.”

  “Wait a minute! Now, hold on here!” Marcus called out, holding his hands out in front of him. “This has gone far enough! Let’s quit this foolishness now!”

  “Foolishness? Are you callin’ me a fool, Marcus?”

  From somewhere, deep inside, Marcus felt a slow calming begin to come over him. He knew there was no way he was going to avoid this fight. He could not explain why, but with that realization the fear fell away to be replaced by a feeling of resignation and acceptance. There was going to be a gunfight, he was resigned to that fact. He knew also that he was going to be killed, and he was resigned to that fact as well. Finding a quiet courage that he did not know he possessed, he quit cajoling.

  “You are right, mister,” Marcus said, his voice calm and well modulated now. “One of us is going to die.”

  “That’s right,” Willis said. “And it ain’t goin’ to be me.”

  “You dried-up little son of a bitch, I’ll be waitin’ for you at the gates of Hell,” Marcus said, his hand dipping toward his pistol even as he was talking.

  Marcus broke leather before Willis even started his draw, and for a brief moment, he felt a sense of elation, a sense that he might actually win this fight.

  But his hope was misplaced because in the wink of an eye, so fast that Marcus found himself wondering if somehow Willis hadn’t had the pistol in his hand all along, he saw the muzzle-flash of Willis’s .44. Before he could squeeze the trigger of his own gun, he felt a heavy blow in the middle of his chest. The impact of the bullet took his breath away and slammed him back against the bar. Even with the excruciating pain in his chest, he felt the blow of the bar against his back as he slid down to the floor, his gun hand by his side, his pistol lying, unfired, on the floor beside him.

  Matt Jensen, fully recovered now from the gunshot wound he had received at the Crocker ranch two months earlier, was riding into town when he heard the sound of the gunshot. The single shot came from the other end of the street, and it put him on instant alert. Because Matt had lived an active and adventurous life, there were those who would like nothing better than to put a bullet in his head. He had managed to avoid that so far, not only by his own skill with pistols, rifles, and even knives, but also because of an acute power of awareness, the sixth sense that served men like Matt.

  But he realized quickly that whatever the shot was, it wasn’t meant for him. Relaxing from the momentary tenseness, he continued riding down the street at a leisurely pace.

  Matt had come to Fort Collins in response to a letter he had received a few days ago from a friend:

  Dear Matt Jensen—

  I take pen in hand to write you to tell you of the success I have had in this here mine that you sold me. When you sold me this silver mine two years ago, you said it would pay out iffen someone was willin to work hard at it. They was them who told me I was a fool to trust anyone who was sellin a mine, but there was something about you that give me trust. I am happy to say that you was right. This here mine aint made me rich or nothin like that, but I have worked it regular since I bought it and it has paid out a lot more than I put into it so I thank you for it. On Wednesday the 15 th instant I intend to be in Fort Col
lins cashin out my diggins from the winter previous. If you would care to meet me at the Hungry Miner saloon, I’d be that proud to buy you a drink then afterwards maybe you would let me buy you dinner at the finest café in town.

  Your ob’t servant

  Lee Marcus

  Matt had been in Trinidad, Colorado, when the letter caught up with him toward the end of last week, and because he had nothing else planned, he decided he would drop in to see Marcus. A colorful profusion of late-spring wildflowers, along with agreeable weather, had made the ride up from Trinidad quite pleasant.

  When Matt dismounted in front of the Hungry Miner, he saw several people hurrying into the saloon. He surmised from the flurry of activity that the shot he had heard had come from the saloon. And for some reason that he could not explain, he suddenly had the feeling that somehow his friend might be involved.

  Matt tied off his horse, Spirit, then joined the throngs moving in through the batwing doors.

  You all seen it!” someone was shouting. Holding a pistol in his hand, he was waving it around as he shouted, causing the others to duck or move to get out of his way. “Is there anyone in here who didn’t see him draw agin’ me first?”

  Looking over toward the bar, Matt saw Lee Marcus sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bar. The front of his shirt was covered with blood and though Marcus was still alive, Matt had watched enough men die to know that Marcus had but a moment or two of life left.

  “Lee!” Matt called out. He hurried over to him, then knelt beside his friend.

  “Hello, Matt,” Marcus said. “Too bad you wasn’t here a few minutes earlier. You missed all the excitement.”

  “What happened?”

  “Me and this little feller here got into a bit of an argument,” Marcus said.

  Matt looked up at the small man.

  “You do this?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I did it. You plannin’ on doin’ somethin’ about it?” the little man asked pugnaciously.

  “Matt Jensen, this is Pogue Willis,” the bartender said.

  “You’re—you’re Matt Jensen?” Willis asked.

  When he heard Matt’s name, the little man’s demeanor changed quickly. Instead of being arrogantly challenging, Pogue Willis suddenly became defensive. Quickly, he put his pistol back in its holster.

  “It was a fair fight, Jensen, it was a fair fight,” Willis said. “He drew first. You can ask anyone in here, your friend drew first.”

  “Is that true, Lee?” Matt asked.

  “Yeah,” Lee replied. He coughed, and blood came from his mouth. “I just got tired of listenin’ to the feller go on so.”

  “See, I told you,” Willis said. “Look there, he said it his ownself, he drew first.”

  “Shut up, Willis,” Matt said.

  “What? Now, see here, you can’t talk to me like that,” Willis said. “I don’t care who you are, you—”

  That was as far as Willis got, because Matt stood up and backhanded him across the face, hitting so hard that both his nose and lip began bleeding. Willis staggered back against the bar and his hand moved toward his pistol.

  “Do it,” Matt said calmly. “Please, pull your gun.”

  Without a saying another word, Willis stopped his hand just above his pistol, then moved instead to grab one of the bar towels.

  “I wasn’t goin’ for my gun, I was reachin’ for a towel,” Willis said. He began dabbing at the blood. At that moment, without a gun in his hand, there was nothing at all frightening about the little man.

  “Matt,” Marcus called. “Lean down here and listen to me. Don’t pay no attention to that punk. I got somethin’ else I want you to do for me if you will.”

  With another menacing, and warning, glance toward Willis, Matt knelt beside his friend.

  “Matt, I got me a little over two thousand dollars in my pocket here,” he said. “It’s money from the diggin’s. Take some of it and buy yourself a train ticket to St. Louis. When you get there, look up my brother, Andrew. You’ll find him listed in the city directory. I want you to give him what money is left. Will you do that for me?”

  “Yes,” Matt answered, nodding. “I’ll be glad to do that for you, Lee.”

  “I got me a pocket on the inside of this vest. Reach in there and get the money.”

  As Matt was reaching for the money, the sheriff arrived and, seeing Matt, he pulled his gun.

  “Hold on there, mister,” the sheriff called. “I ain’t goin’ to stand here and watch you steal from a dyin’ man.”

  “No!” Marcus shouted, finding a last bit of strength. “He ain’t stealin’ it, Sheriff Allen. This here is my friend, Matt Jensen. I’m givin’ it to him!”

  “Matt Jensen?” Sheriff Allen said. He nodded. “Yes, sir, I know who you are. Go ahead.”

  Matt looked down at his friend again. “I’ll get it to him, Lee, I promise. I’ll get the money to your brother.”

  Marcus didn’t answer, because Marcus was dead.

  Matt continued to stare down at his friend for a long moment, then he turned his gaze toward Pogue Willis.

  “What?” Willis said. He held both hands out in front of him. “Look here, Jensen, I got no quarrel with you,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “No, I ain’t got no—”

  That was as far as Willis got, because Matt grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants, picked him up, then with a mighty heave, sent him, belly-down, sliding for the entire length of the bar.

  Those who were standing at the bar got out of the way as they watched in surprise while the gunman careened by in front of them, knocking over bottles and glasses. Willis fell off the far end of the bar, hitting the floor with a loud thump. When he got up, he had bits and pieces of expectorated tobacco quids sticking to him from those spittoon users who had been errant in their aim.

  Everyone in the bar laughed loudly at Willis as he began picking the pieces off him.

  “Sheriff, you seen it!” Willis said. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but mindin’ my own business when he grabbed me and tossed me like that.”

  “Sheriff Allen, the reason Jensen done that is because Willis here is the one who killed his friend,” the bartender said.

  “That right, Willis? Did you kill Lee Marcus?” Allen asked.

  “He drew on me first,” Willis said. “Ever’body in here will tell you that. That’s why Jensen had no call to throw me down the bar like he done.”

  Allen pursed his lips and shook his head. “I agree with you, Willis. That seems like an awfully unfriendly thing for Matt Jensen to do.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s right,” Willis said, nodding.

  “So if you want to throw down on him, why, I reckon I won’t try to stop you.”

  “What?”

  “Go ahead, draw if you want to,” the sheriff said. “I’ll stay out of it.”

  “No, wait, that ain’t what I had in mind,” Willis said. “That ain’t what I had in mind at all.”

  “No, I didn’t think it would be,” Allen said. “I tell you what, Willis, why don’t you just give your gun to me now and I’ll take you into custody until after the trial.”

  “Trial? What trial?”

  “Why, the murder trial, Mr. Willis. We’re goin’ to be tryin’ you for the killin’ of Mr. Marcus.”

  “But he drew first! Ever’one in here will tell you, he drew first!”

  “Then the trial shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Willis glared at the sheriff. It was obvious that he was considering this further, perhaps as far as drawing against the sheriff. But it was equally obvious that he was worried about the presence of Matt Jensen.

  The glare changed to a forced smile and, slowly, using only his thumb and forefinger, he pulled his pistol from the holster.

  “All right, Sheriff,” he said. “Let’s have the trial.”

  Chapter Six

  From the Fort Collins Ledger:

  A FATAL DISCOURSE

 
About one o’clock yesterday afternoon the pistol was used with fatal effect in the Hungry Miner Saloon, resulting in the death of Lee Marcus of a gunshot wound from a weapon in the hand of Pogue Willis. The causes which led to this unfortunate tragedy are brief. Marcus, a mining engineer, had been in Colorado but a period of eighteen months. He was thirty-two years of age, powerfully built, standing over six feet in height and weighing about 190 pounds.

  A man of genteel sensitivities, Marcus took issue when he saw Pogue Willis strike Juanita Simpson in the face. Miss Simpson is a bar girl and sometime soiled dove who plies her avocation in the Hungry Miner Saloon.

  Upon observing Willis striking Miss Simpson, Marcus reminded Pogue Willis of the responsibilities a gentleman has when dealing with women, suggesting that it was considered unseemly of Willis to strike Miss Simpson. There is no doubt that Marcus little dreamed that his innocent remark would hurl his soul into eternity before the sun had set.

  Pogue Willis is a little man, standing but five feet six inches tall, but he more than compensates for what nature has denied him by making himself a man with a well-earned reputation for deadly skill in the employment of a pistol. It is well known that many men, all of whom were bigger, stronger, and better men than he in every respect, have fallen before his gun.

  As it so happened yesterday, after a few remarks were passed back and forth between the two men, Willis, as is often the wont of small men with power beyond their physical attributes, began to show an ugly resentment toward Marcus and became very abusive.

  The innocent exchange turned deadly when Marcus, goaded into it by Willis, made an attempt to draw his pistol. Now, whereas Marcus was a mining engineer and not a pistoleer, he was ill prepared to continue the fight, for Willis, upon seeing the clumsy attempt Marcus made, drew his own pistol and fired, his shot taking effect in Marcus’s chest, the bullet piercing the lung.

  Marcus fell to the floor of the saloon and soon expired. Sheriff Seth Allen arrived on the scene shortly thereafter, and promptly arrested Willis. Trial will be held in the morning before Circuit Judge Tony Heckemeyer.