“No, no!” Cooter shouted, crossing his arms over his face. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! I’ll tell you.”
Cooter was quiet for a moment.”
“I’m listening.”
“It was Poke Terrell.”
“Now, that wasn’t all that hard, was it?” Matt asked. Once again he eased the hammer down on his pistol, and this time he put his pistol back in is holster. Then he walked over to Cooter’s horse and started to mount.
“Hey, wait a minute! What are you doin’? You’re takin’ my horse again, aren’t you?” Cooter asked. “This ain’t like the last time, when I had two good legs. I can’t do no walkin’ on this leg.”
“I’m going to use your horse to ride down and get mine,” Matt said. “You may recall that you and Mole tried to kill my horse. I’ll be back.”
When Matt rode down to retrieve his horse, he saw Spirit standing quietly behind the ridge he had run to when Cooter and Mole began shooting at him.
“Hey, Spirit,” Matt said, speaking soothingly to his horse. Matt looked around at the ridge, then nodded. “Yeah, you’re a smart horse,” he said quietly. “This was a good place to get out of the line of fire.”
Spirit whickered, and nodded his head.
“Yeah, I know, we do seem to be getting into a lot of trouble here, lately,” Matt said. “But I told you that when you signed on with me.”
Matt got off Cooter’s horse then mounted his own. He started back with Spirit, leading the animal he had borrowed.
Shortly after Matt had ridden away on Cooter’s horse, Cooter saw a pistol lying under a mesquite bush. At first he didn’t know how it got there, but when he picked it up, he recognized it. It was the one Logan had given Mole on the day they tried to ambush Matt Jensen the first time. Mole must have dropped it when he ran and, in his panic, didn’t even notice that it was gone. Of course, even if he had known it, he wouldn’t have come back for it.
“Well, Mole, you yellow livered coward,” Cooter said under his breath. “I thank you for leavin’ me a gun like this, even if you didn’t know you was doin’ it. Now, I’m going to take care Matt Jensen and go see Poke to collect my money, then I’m going to take care of you for runnin’ out on me like you done.”
Cooter picked up the pistol, checked the loads, then stuck it down his waistband behind his back.
“All I have to do now is wait on Mr. Jensen,” he said.
He waited.
“Damn! What if he don’t come back? There ain’t no way I can walk all the way back to town on this leg.”
He waited a few more minutes, then, when he was convinced that Matt Jensen wasn’t coming back, and just when he was about to panic, he heard the strike of hooves on rocks. Raising himself up, he saw Matt Jensen coming back, riding his own horse and leading Cooter’s horse.
“I was beginnin’ to think you had forgot me,” Cooter said.
“I thought about it,” Matt said. “Get mounted, we’re going into Medbury.”
Cooter mounted with some effort, his face grimaced with pain.
“I know damn well it’s not hurting you that much,” Matt said. “So you can quit the show, I’m not believing any of it.”
“That’s ’cause you ain’t got a bullet in your leg,” Cooter said.
Matt could have told Cooter that he had a knife slice on his side that was rib deep, but he said nothing.
Matt was correct in his belief that Cooter was faking more pain that he was actually feeling. Cooter was playing for time, waiting for the right opportunity, and when he saw Matt turn away from him, he was positive that the opportunity had presented itself. Reaching around behind, he pulled Mole’s pistol from his waistband, then he brought it around and aimed it at Matt’s back.
“I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch!” Cooter yelled, pulling the trigger at the same time he yelled.
Cooter should not have yelled. He did not count on Matt’s phenomenal reaction time because, even as Cooter was yelling and pulling the trigger, Matt was falling off his horse. The bullet whistled just over Spirit’s empty saddle, passing through the exact spot Matt’s spine had been but a split second before.
The contact with the ground was hard and painful, doubly so because it slightly reopened the wound on Matt’s side. Halfway down to the ground, Matt pulled his pistol. But by the time Matt actually hit the ground, he had brought his gun to bear, and pulled the trigger.
Matt’s bullet caught Cooter in the chest, causing him to let out one, large, expulsion of air.
“How the hell did I miss?” Cooter asked, his voice racked with pain. He raised his pistol and tried to shoot it again, but the gun began wobbling in his hand, then he dropped it and grabbed his chest, then fell.
Chapter Seventeen
When Matt came riding into Medbury, he was leading Cooter’s horse behind him. Cooter was draped, belly down, across his saddle, and Matt’s entry into town aroused immediate attention. Those who were riding or driving in the street, as well as those who were merely pedestrians, saw the body draped over a horse. Many of them interrupted their transit to their original destination in order to follow Matt. There were other townspeople engaged in commerce inside the stores and buildings, both as customers and merchants, who saw the macabre parade through the windows, and they came pouring out of the stores and buildings, including one man who ran out from the barber shop still draped in the barber’s cape, with the barber, brandishing his razor, chasing after him. They joined the growing throngs of people who were now walking alongside Matt, keeping pace with the two horses as they moved down the street, the hoofbeats making loud, clopping sounds.
“Ain’t that Cooter’s horse?”
“Yeah, it’s Cooter’s horse. That’s Cooter lyin’ across the saddle.”
“He looks dead.”
“Hell yes, he’s dead. You think he’d be lyin’ belly down on his horse that way iffen he war’nt dead?”
“That’s Matt Jensen leadin’ him. I reckon you’ve heard of Matt Jensen.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t figure he’d ever come back into town after he kilt the Mexican the other night.”
The curiosity of the crowd grew even greater when Matt stopped in front of the Sand Spur. The crowd followed, but kept a reasonable distance, because no one wanted to incur Matt Jensen’s anger.
“What you reckon he stopped here for? How come he didn’t go on down to the undertaker? I mean, what else for would he be bringin’ in Cooter’s body, iffen he wasn’t bringin’ him in to the undertaker?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“No sir, not me. I ain’t goin’ to ask him nothin’.”
Tying, first his own horse off, then Cooter’s horse, Matt slid Cooter’s body off the saddle, draped it across his shoulders, stepped up onto the porch, then pushed his way through the bat wing doors.
“Here! What are you doin’ there?” one of the saloon patrons shouted. “You can’t be bringin’ no dead body into a saloon like that! They’s folks drinkin’ in here.”
Matt looked at the man who had complained, fixing him with such a steely glare that the man blanched, then took a couple of steps backward.
“Of course, I reckon if you wanted to bring him in here, that would be your business,” the man said, clearing his throat.
Upon seeing Matt come into the saloon with a body draped over his shoulder, most of the patrons jumped up from the tables and moved back out of the way. One man, however, was conspicuous in that, unlike the other patrons of the saloon, he remained seated. He was playing a game of solitaire, and he gave the impression that he was so engrossed in his game that he didn’t even notice Matt.
Matt had never seen Poke Terrell, but the man sitting at the table was short and stocky, baldheaded, and with no neck, which was exactly the way Poke had been describe to him. Matt also saw Mole, and it was obvious that Mole had been talking to Poke because, though he had moved away from the table, he was still in close proximity to it.
Matt walked back t
o the table. Not until then, did Poke look up.
“I’ve got a play for you, Poke,” Matt said.
“What would that be?”
Without ceremony, Matt dumped Cooter’s body onto the cards that were spread out for the game.
“Dead man on the black queen,” he said.
Poke sighed, but made no abrupt movement.
“I was winning this game,” he said. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to win at Ole’ Sol?”
“This is number five for you,” Matt said.
“Number five? I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Al Madison, Ken Jernigan, Sam Logan, Carlos Garcia, and now Cooter. I don’t know Cooter’s real name,” Matt said.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because you are the son of a bitch who keeps sending them after me.”
“Here, you got no call to be talkin’ to Mr. Terrell that way,” Mole said.
Matt jerked his pistol from his holster, pointed it at Mole, and cocked it. “You were there with Cooter, both times,” Matt said. “You were on the canyon wall, and you were with Cooter this morning.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Mole said.
“You don’t?”
“I swear, I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“Then you are going to die dumb,” Matt said. “I don’t plan to give you any more chances to ambush me, so I’m going to kill you right now.”
Several in the saloon gasped.
“No, no!” Mole said, throwing his arms up. “I ain’t even carryin’ a gun. You can see my holster is empty! I think Cooter stole it.”
“Did he, now? Well, you can take that up with him when you see him in hell.”
“No, no!” Mole said. “Please, Mister, don’t kill me. Don’t kill me!” Mole dropped down onto his knees, weeping.
“Get out,” Matt said, making a motion toward the batwing doors. “Get all the way out of town. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Mole shouted. Getting back on his feet, he ran toward the door, pushing through those who had gathered just outside. A moment later, everyone could hear the clatter of hooves as Mole galloped out of town.
“Mister, I don’t know who you are,” Poke said. “But you don’t come in here and threaten me or my friends. I won’t put up with—unh!”
The grunt came from a blow, struck by Matt. Matt was still holding the pistol in his hand, and he brought it around in a vicious backhand, hitting Poke in the side of the head and knocking his chair over. Poke wound up on his back, on the floor.
“You son of a bitch!” Poke shouted in rage, pulling his pistol from his holster.
Matt closed in on him in one step, and as Poke got the pistol out, Matt sent a swift kick against it, knocking the pistol out of Poke’s hand.
Poke rolled over onto his hands and knees and stayed that way for a moment.
“Arrghhh!!” Poke yelled at the top of his voice. Coming up off his hands and knees, Poke launched himself in a bull-like charge toward Matt. The sudden charge caught Matt off guard and he dropped his pistol as Poke drove him across the room before slamming him into the bar.
The ferocity of the attack momentarily stunned Matt and he was unable to respond. Poke took advantage of Matt’s immobility, then pulled back away from him just far enough to send a hammerlike blow into Matt’s side.
Poke was an incredibly strong man, and Matt felt as if he had been kicked in the side by a mule. The pain was excruciating, and he knew that the wound had been opened up. In fact, he could feel a dampness under his shirt, and he knew it was blood.
Thinking he had the advantage now, Poke threw a powerful right cross, hoping to connect and take Matt out. But Matt managed to jerk his head back just far enough to avoid the blow. Matt countered with a hard, straight left, landing it on Poke’s nose. He felt the nose go under the blow, and had the satisfaction of hearing Poke grunt in pain.
By now the citizens of the town who had gathered just outside the saloon began to come inside, joining the saloon patrons who were already inside, in order to witness this fight. For a few of the townspeople, this was the first time they had ever been inside the saloon, and though under normal circumstances, they would avoid such a place with all that was in them, this was different.
This was a fight between two powerful men. And since neither of the men were from Medbury, it didn’t really matter to the crowd who won, as long as the fight was entertaining.
Poke made another wild swing, and Matt managed to dance back away from it, shooting a right jab to Poke’s chin as he did so. Poke shook off the blow, then saw that Matt was bleeding through his shirt on his left side. Poke smiled at him.
“Oh, now, did I do that?” Poke asked. “That must really hurt.”
Poke picked up a chair, then swung it like a baseball bat at Matt. Matt ducked under it, and the swing caused Poke to be off balance. Taking advantage of that, Matt gave Poke a shove, causing him to stumble into the potbellied stove, knocking it over. When he did so, all the sections of the stove pipe came loose, and black soot poured out onto Poke, blackening his face.
Just as Poke regained his feet, Matt charged, putting his shoulder into Poke’s stomach and driving him back against the stair railing. Poke went through the railing.
Matt stepped away again. Poke lay halfway through the railing onto the stairs. He shook his head, then got up but, as he did so, he grabbed one of the rungs from the railing. Lifting it over his head, he charged Matt, once again, bellowing in anger.
Matt picked up a section of the stove pipe and held it crosswise in front of him to take the blow from the club. The stove pipe was bent double by the force of the blow, but it prevented the club from actually hitting Matt. Poke threw away the club and made another roundhouse swing at Matt. This time, because Matt had been put slightly off balance by the club attack against him, Poke connected.
The blow knocked Matt back, and he fell onto one of the tables, smashing it into two pieces. Poke ran over to him and raised his foot with the intention of bringing it down hard on Matt’s head. Matt grabbed Poke’s leg and twisted it, causing Poke to go down. Matt rolled over to him then knocked him out with a blow to the chin.
Now, breathing hard, and bleeding from the reopened wound in his side, Matt got up from the floor and stumbled over to the bar.
“Whiskey,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the bartender replied. “And this one will be on the house, Mr. Jensen. I reckon you’ve earned it.”
“You dropped this,” Millie said, handing Matt his pistol.
“Thanks,” Matt said. “And thanks for the other night, not only the warning, but for taking care of me. Katherine told me what you did.”
“It wasn’t anything that anybody else wouldn’t have done,” Millie said.
“But that’s the point, Millie. Nobody else did it.”
By now everyone had crowded back onto the floor of the saloon. Many were repositioning tables and chairs, and a couple of men set the stove back up. They were unable to reconnect it to the flue though, because one of the stove pipes had been too badly damaged.
Poke was sitting up on the floor now, with his head hanging down. Nobody would dare approach him.
“Oh, honey, you are bleeding just real bad,” Millie said, putting her fingers on Matt’s shirt. “Come on up to my room, let me take care of that for you.”
“Mister, look out!” someone shouted and Matt turned to look toward Poke, just as Poke shot at him.
“Uhn!” Millie grunted, going down beside Matt. Matt drew and fired back at Poke, hitting Poke in the middle of his chest.
“Millie!” Matt said, dropping down beside her.
Millie smiled at him. “Kitty told me what a good man you are. I said she didn’t have to tell me that…I already knew.”
Millie took two more gasping breaths, then she stopped breathing.
Matt stood up, then looked over a
t Poke. He walked over and stood over him, then pointed his gun at Poke’s head and cocked it.
“Mister, you’ll just be wasting a good bullet on that worthless son of a bitch,” someone said. “He’s already dead.”
By coincidence, the circuit judge was in town, so they were able to hold an inquiry as to the cause and circumstances of the deaths of Poke Terrell, Cooter, and Millie that very afternoon. After all the testimony was taken, Judge Marshall Craig issued his ruling.
“As to the death of Harold Cotter, there being no eyewitnesses to dispute Matt Jensen’s claim that it was in self-defense, this court rules that there be no indictment.
“As to the death of Poke Terrell, all testimony being heard, this court rules that it was death by gunshot, said gunshot discharged in the defense of his own life. This court rules that the homicide be justifiable, and there will be no indictment.
“As to the death of the young woman known as Millie, all testimony being heard, this court rules that her death was the result of an act of murder committed by Poke Terrell, and only his own death prevents an indictment from being issued.
“This hearing is concluded.”
Several came to congratulate Matt, and he accepted their congratulations and best wishes graciously.
When he rode back out to Conventry on the Snake that evening, he realized that not only had he not had lunch with Marcus Kincaid, he didn’t even see him while he was in town.
He had also made no arrangements for the livestock cars, and that had actually been the sole purpose of his visit.
His day had become unexpectedly busy. He was sure that Kitty would understand that.
What he didn’t realize was that it was about to get busier.
He felt the bullet, before he heard the sound. Actually, he didn’t feel the bullet as much as he felt the effects of the bullet, because his hat flew off his head and he felt his hair fluff. Had the bullet been but one inch lower, it would have slammed into the back of his head.
Snake River Slaughter Page 16