Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory

by William W. Johnstone

  “You called it, sir, I was curious,” Bixby said. “I grew weary of waiting for my train to depart, so I set upon an exploration of the depot. I wonder, though, if I could prevail upon you to accompany me back to my wife and employee. I do not want to take a chance on encountering anyone else such as these two hooligans. I would be more than happy to compensate you for your trouble.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t feel right in accepting money merely for doing what is the right thing to do,” Matt said. “I will be glad to walk back to the depot with you.”

  “I shall be eternally grateful, sir,” Bixby said.

  Returning to the waiting room, Bixby pointed out his wife.

  “This is my wife, Cynthia,” he said. “Have you ever seen anyone any more beautiful?”

  “Jay, please, you are embarrassing me,” the young woman said. “I do not consider myself beautiful, and I find it uncomfortable for you to carry on so.”

  “Nonsense, my dear,” Bixby replied. “Of course you are beautiful. Why else would I have married someone like you, if not for your beauty? It certainly isn’t for your intelligence,” he added with a raucous laugh.

  Matt saw a flicker of humiliation pass across Cynthia’s face as she glanced down in mortification.

  “And this is my employee, Ken Hendel,” Bixby added. “I keep him on because of his business acumen and—also—because he is, at heart, too frightened to ever challenge me.”

  As Cynthia had before him, Matt saw Hendel react to Bixby’s harsh words. The reaction, however, suggested that Hendel might not be quite as subservient as Bixby believed, and when Matt smiled knowingly at him, he was pleased to see Hendel return the smile. It was as if Hendel had just verified Matt’s observation.

  “Tell me, Mr. Jensen, where are you bound?” Bixby asked.

  “Phoenix.”

  “Phoenix? Well, what a wonderful piece of luck. We, too, are bound for Phoenix,” Bixby said. “That means we shall be able to keep each other company during the journey.”

  Phoenix, Arizona Territory

  “I’ll give you one hundred dollars for all of it,” the jeweler said.

  “One hundred dollars?” Meechum complained. “These here necklaces is worth a lot more than one hundred dollars. Why, there’s twenty of ’em here and I’ve seen just one of ’em bring twenty dollars in Denver.”

  “You aren’t in Denver,” the jeweler said. “Of course, if you don’t like my offer, you can always take ’em to Denver to sell.”

  “Take the money, Billy,” Philbin said. “It’s better’n nothin’, and right now nothin’ is what we have.”

  “All right, all right,” Meechum said disgustedly. “We’ll take the one hundred dollars, but that ain’t right and you know it. It ain’t no way right.”

  “If it isn’t right from you, consider the Indian you bought these from,” the jeweler said. “I don’t know what you paid for them, but I’d be willin’ to bet you didn’t pay no one hundred dollars.”

  “Hah! You got that right!” Cantrell said.

  Meechum glared at Cantrell for a moment, then said, “Give us our money so we can get on about our business.”

  The jeweler counted out five twenty-dollar gold pieces. Meechum kept two for himself, than gave one each to the other three men.

  “How come you get to keep two?” Oliver asked.

  Meechum held the piece up. “This here is for all of us,” he said. “We’ll go over to the saloon, get us somethin’ to eat and somethin’ to drink, have some left over for some whores—and we’ll still have twenty dollars apiece in our pockets.”

  “Yeah,” Philbin said with a big smile. “Yeah, that sounds good to me.”

  The three men tied off their horses, then went into the Last Chance Saloon. The barkeep was at the other end of the bar talking to a couple of his patrons. He laughed loudly at something one of them said, then with the smile still on his face, moved down the bar toward Meechum, Philbin, Oliver, and Cantrell.

  “What can I get you gents?”

  “Whiskey,” Meechum said. “Leave the bottle.”

  “What kind?”

  “I don’t care what kind. We want to get drunk, not give a party.”

  The bartender took a bottle from beneath the counter. There was no label on the bottle and the color was dingy and cloudy. He put four glasses alongside the bottle, then pulled the cork for them.

  “That’ll be a buck-fifty,” he said.

  Meechum slid the double-eagle gold piece toward him, then waited for the change.

  Philbin poured four glasses, then passed them around. He took a swallow, then almost gagged. He spat it out and frowned at his glass.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked. “This tastes like horse piss.”

  Cantrell took a smaller swallow. He grimaced, but he got it down. Meechum and Oliver had no problem at all with the whiskey.

  “It’s all in the way you drink it,” Meechum explained. “This here is sippin’ whiskey and it can’t be drunk down real fast. What you got to do is, you got to sort of sip it.” He demonstrated.

  Philbin took another swallow, following Meechum’s advice to sip it, and this time he, too, managed to keep it down.

  “Yeah,” he said, coughing to clear his throat. “Yeah, I guess it ain’t all that bad.”

  They were on their second glass each, and the bottle was more than half empty, when another patron stepped into the saloon. He stood just inside the swinging batwing doors for a moment, taking everything in with one comprehensive sweep of his eyes.

  “Whoa, get a load of that little dandy over there who just come in to the saloon,” Oliver said, chuckling. “Ain’t he somethin’ now? I bet that little feller wouldn’t dress out more’n seventy-five to eighty pounds. Ninety pounds at the most.”

  “I’d be careful makin’ them comments about that little feller iffen I was you,” Meechum said.

  “Why, what’s he going to do? Come over here and beat me up?” Oliver asked, laughing again.

  “No,” Meechum said. “But he might put a hole between your eyes.”

  “What do you mean, he might put a hole between my eyes? What are you talkin’ about?”

  “We’re over here,” Meechum called out, and the little man at the door started toward them.

  “What the hell you invitin’ him over here for?” Oliver asked, obviously irritated by the invitation.

  “Men, I want you to meet Pogue Willis,” Meechum said when Willis joined them.

  Oliver had just taken another swallow of his whiskey, and he spat it out in surprise.

  “Willis?” he said. “This is Pogue Willis?”

  The others laughed at Oliver.

  “Damn, Abe, iffen you ain’t man enough to drink that whiskey, maybe you ought not to even try,” Cantrell said, and they all laughed again.

  “What do you say we find us a table at the back so we can talk?” Willis said. “Get another glass and bring the bottle.”

  Meechum grabbed the bottle and another glass, and they all went to a table at the back of the room.

  “I told the boys you had a job for us,” Meechum said.

  “Only he didn’t tell us what it was,” Oliver added.

  “Does it matter?” Willis asked as he poured himself a glass of whiskey.

  “It don’t matter as long as it pays off,” Oliver said. “I just don’t want no more bank jobs like the last one.”

  “I told you I sent word callin’ that job off,” Meechum said. “It ain’t my fault if you got greedy and went before you was supposed to.”

  “Yeah, well, that one is behind us,” Cantell said, “and there’s no use in palaverin’ over it now. What is this new job, and what do you want us to do?”

  “The bank of—” Willis started, but Philbin interrupted him before he could continue.

  “Whatever bank this is, I hope you checked out the safe so’s there’s nothin’ like happened before,” Philbin said.

  Willis glared at Philbin with such intensity that
Philbin had to look away.

  “You boys goin’ to let me tell you what this job is about? Or are you goin’ to sit there and prattle on like a bunch of women?” Willis asked, his voice showing his irritation.

  “I’m sorry,” Philbin said. “I was just makin’ a comment, is all, given what happened to us the last time we tried to hold up a bank.”

  “I am not in the mood to listen to any comments any of you might be wanting to make,” Willis said.

  The others were quiet.

  “Like I was about to say, the Bank of Phoenix gets a transfer of funds from a bank in Colorado every Friday,” Willis said.

  “What is a transfer of funds?” Oliver asked.

  “It means the bank in Colorado is sendin’ a lot of money down to the bank here in Phoenix,” Meechum said. “By train,” he added.

  “Son of a bitch, you’re talkin’ about robbin’ the train, aren’t you?” Oliver asked.

  “No,” Willis said. “We’re goin’ to rob a stagecoach. That’s a lot easier than holdin’ up a train.”

  “But I thought you said the money was comin’ by train from Colorado.”

  “Yeah, I did. The only thing is, the train don’t run all the way to Phoenix. Closest it comes is Maricopa. Then they put it on a stagecoach.”

  “How much money are we talkin’ about?” Cantrell asked.

  “From what I hear, they don’t never transfer less that ten thousand dollars. Is that enough money to get you interested?” Willis asked.

  Cantrell smiled broadly, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think ten thousand dollars is enough money to get me interested.”

  “How are we goin’ to pull this off?” Oliver asked.

  “Don’t be worryin’ none about that,” Willis replied. “I’ve got it all figured out.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  San Carlos Indian Reservation

  “Delshay, I know the impulse will be very strong for you to get revenge,” Baker said after the funerals of those killed in Delshay’s and Chandeisi’s families. “But don’t. Leave it up to the law.”

  “White man’s law?”

  “The law is the law,” Baker said. “Just because it was Indians they killed, it doesn’t make them any less guilty of murder. The law will find them and the law will punish them.”

  “How will the law find them?” Delshay asked. “Nobody knows who did it.”

  “Just leave it in the hands of the law,” Baker repeated. “That is all I am asking of you.”

  Delshay nodded, but said nothing else. Then, at midnight on that very night, in the flickering light of a held torch, he spoke to the nine men he had managed to recruit. One of the recruits was Chandeisi; the others were young men, without families,who would be coming along for the excitement and adventure.

  “If you are brave of heart, and can leave home without so much as saying good-bye to your mother and father, then you have the fighting spirit that you will need in the days to come,” Delshay said as he looked into the fire-lit faces of the young men who were eager to become warriors.

  “Come, we will strike fear into the heart of every white man and all will hear the name Apache and cower.”

  “All will hear the name Delshay and cower!” Chandeisi shouted.

  “Delshay!” the others shouted.

  There was some stirring from those who were still sleeping in their hogans, and Delshay held up his hand to call for quiet.

  “Go to your horses,” he said. “We ride.”

  San Carlos was made up of several small encampments that were scattered about the reservation. The wickiups were of traditional construction, animal skins, bark, woven grass, and mud. But at the center of the reservation, where the headquarters was established, stood the Indian agent’s house. The equal to any fine home in any city, the agent’s residence was a large, two-story house with white-painted leaded windows, dormers, clapboard sides, and a green shake roof. There was a swing on the deep, front porch where Baker and his family often sat in the evenings, enjoying the cooling breeze.

  The sun had not yet risen when Sentorio rode up to the front of the house, dismounted, and hurried up the brick walk.

  “Agent Baker!” he called. He banged loudly on the door. “Agent Baker!” He banged on the door again.

  A moment later, Baker, carrying a candle and still in his nightshirt, opened the door.

  “What is it, Sentorio?” he asked irritably. “What do you mean by banging on my door at this time of morning?”

  “It’s Delshay, Agent Baker. Delshay, Chandeisi, and eight others.”

  “Delshay, Chandeisi and eight others? What about them, Sentorio? Make sense for God’s sake.”

  “They are gone, Agent Baker,” Sentorio said. “All of them.”

  “Gone? By gone, do you mean they have left the reservation?”

  “Yes, Delshay and Chandeisi gathered several warriors to follow them and they left the reservation.”

  “Damn,” Baker said, shaking his head in anger. “It wasn’t Chandeisi. He didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “You are wrong, Agent Baker. Chandeisi is with Delshay,” Sentorio said.

  “Oh, Chandeisi might be with him, all right,” Baker said. “But you can bet your bottom dollar that Delshay is in charge. Chandeisi is but a puppy that will go along with anything Delshay says. How long have they been gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I did not see them leave,” Sentorio said.

  “Never mind. Round up the rest of the Indian police and see if you can find them.”

  “If they are off the reservation, we will have no authority over them,” Sentorio said.

  “I know that. That means you had better catch them before they get off reservation property.”

  “I think it may be too late for that,” Sentorio said.

  “Yeah, well, whether it is too late or not, you are going after them,” Baker said. “And when you find them, bring them back bound and gagged. I want the others to see their—hero—humiliated.” He set the word “hero” apart from the rest of the sentence, twisting his mouth around the word.

  “I will do so,” Sentorio promised.

  At the very moment Sentorio and Agent Baker were discussing their absence, Delshay, Chandeisi, and the others were already off the reservation. Eerily illuminated by the flickering torches many of them were carrying, they sat on their horses on the crest of a hill that overlooked the Doogan Ranch near the little white settlement of Picket Post. Delshay looked down on the little collection of neat buildings that made up the ranch.

  “All are asleep,” Chandeisi said.

  “Yes,” Delshay replied.

  “Delshay, are we at war?” one of the younger riders said.

  “Yes.”

  “Will we join Goyathlay?”

  “No,” Delshay said. “We will make our own war.”

  He made a motion with his arm, then pointed toward the barn.

  Delshay’s riders rode quickly down the hill to the Doogan Ranch. Without any further directions, a couple of the riders broke away from the rest of the pack and headed toward the barn. One of them tossed a torch inside the barn, where it landed on dry hay. The other threw his torch up onto the dry-shake shingles of the roof. Within moments, the barn was on fire.

  Another of the riders started toward the main house, but Delshay called out to him.

  “Wait,” he said.

  The rider stopped, though it was clear by the expression on his face that he did not understand why Delshay had stopped him.

  They waited for nearly two minutes. Delshay and the nine other warriors sat silently as they stared at the house, which, though not on fire, cast back the reflected flames of the burning barn. The popping, snapping fire licked up the sides of the walls and spread over the entire roof, growing in heat and intensity. The horses and cows trapped inside the barn realized their danger and began screaming in terror. Delshay reached down to pat the n
eck of his own horse reassuringly. The animal was very nervous at being that close to the blaze and it began to prance about.

  The ten Indians waited, their faces glowing orange red from the fire. The illusion created an apparition of ten of Satan’s mounted demons.

  From inside the house, they heard a young boy’s voice call the alarm.

  “Pa! Ma! Wake up! Wake up! The barn’s on fire!”

  Alerted, his mother and she poked her husband awake. When Doogan opened his eyes, he didn’t have to ask what was wrong, for by now the light from the burning barn lit up the bedroom as bright as day.

  “What in the world! How did that happen? Sue, get the buckets! Donnie, Morgan, you boys turn out double quick! Turn out, boys, we’ve got to save the animals!”

  Doogan and his two sons dashed out through the front door in their nightshirts, not bothering to take time to get dressed. They tumbled off the front porch, then were brought to an immediate stop by the sight of the ten mounted Indians. Backlit by the burning barn, the Indians looked as if they were ghost riders from Hell. Doogan shielded his eyes against the glare of the fire, but even though he stared hard at the riders, he couldn’t make out any of their features. As a matter of fact, from his position he couldn’t even tell that they were Indians.

  It was Sue who made the connection.

  “Indians!” Sue shouted. “My God, Paul, they are Indians!”

  Doogan ran back into his house, then returned a moment later with a pistol. He started firing at the Indians, and Delshay returned fire. Those shots were a signal to the other Indians, and for the next several seconds the valley rang with the sound of dozens of gunshots. When the shooting stopped, Doogan, his wife, and both sons were sprawled out in the yard in front of the house. All four were dead.

  On board the Western Flyer, somewhere in Kansas

  Jay Peerless Bixby’s insufferable manners had continued throughout most of the trip. He grumbled constantly, complaining about everything from the frequency of the stops, to the weather, to the food that was being served in the dining car.

  “Is this the extent of your carte du jour?” Bixby asked, thumping his fingers against the menu card that was on the table before him. “Beef, ham, or chicken?” Bixby said. “No lamb? No fish? Just how primitive is this railroad anyway?”