“Who is it?” Hawkins asked. “I know just about all the cowboys.”
“His name is Devry Pruitt.”
“Richards is right, Pruitt is a good man. But he won’t be a very effective marshal.”
“Why do you say that, Gerald?” Tobin asked.
“Because he will be in way over his head,” Hawkins said. “He’s too young and too inexperienced to be able to handle the job.”
“Yeah, well, Jarvis had been a deputy sheriff before. What good did his experience do him?” Dupree asked.
“I’m just telling you what I think,” Hawkins said. “I don’t believe young Pruitt will be able to handle the job.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Trout asked. “You think we should just give up, do you?”
“No, I’m not suggesting that at all,” Hawkins said. “But with only Wash Prescott to help him, I’m afraid we’re just setting ourselves up to get another marshal killed.”
Chapter Five
Big Rock, Colorado
When Matt Jensen stepped down from the train it was nearly midnight. Dark and cold, the little town of Big Rock, always a hotbed of activity during the day, was quiet and empty at this time of night.
Matt was here at the invitation of Smoke Jensen, and though he was expected tomorrow, he had taken advantage of an earlier train and a faster connection. Now he was alone on the depot platform and there was no one here to meet him. He watched as Spirit was off-loaded from the stock car, and he walked down to pat his horse on the neck.
“I know, I know,” he said. “You’re mad at me because you couldn’t ride in the same car. But believe me, Spirit, you were a lot more comfortable than I was.”
Behind him, the engineer blew his whistle twice, then opened his throttle to a thunderous expulsion of steam. The huge driver wheels spun on the track, sending out a shower of sparks until they gained traction; then with a series of jerks as the slack was taken up between the cars, the engine got on its way, puffing loudly as it did so.
As the train pulled out of the station, Matt watched the cars pass him by. Most of the windows were dark because at this hour, the passengers were trying to sleep. But the windows of the day cars were well lit, and here he could see the tired faces of passengers who were either unable or unwilling to pay for more comfortable accommodations. He smiled at the thought, because that was exactly how he had traveled, seeing no need to take a berth for only half a night.
“Matt Jensen,” a friendly voice said. “It’s good to see you back in Big Rock.”
“Hello, Mr. Tinkham. I thought I’d visit with Smoke and Sally for a while.”
“Well, I know they are going to enjoy your visit. Will you be riding out there tonight?”
“No, I thought I’d get a room for the rest of the night and go out there tomorrow.”
“In that case, you’ll be wantin’ your horse looked after.”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Anderson said. “It’s always good to see you when you come to town. You just don’t come often enough.”
“I don’t ever want to make a pest of myself.”
“Believe me, you’re never a pest, at least not to anyone that knows you. I hope you have a pleasant visit,” he added as he led Spirit off.
Matt Jensen had been born Matthew Cavanaugh. He was ten years old when he killed his first man—one of the outlaws who had killed his parents and his sister. Orphaned, he soon wound up in the Soda Creek Home for Wayward Boys and Girls.
He escaped from the home a few years later, and was found in the mountains, half frozen to death. The man who found him was Smoke Jensen, and the legendary mountain man not only saved Matt’s life, he raised him, and taught him how to ride, shoot, and track. But mostly, he taught Matt how to be a man, and a grateful Matt took Smoke Jensen’s last name to honor his friend and mentor.
Then he used every skill Smoke taught him to track down, and bring to justice, the rest of the men who had killed his entire family. Since that time, Smoke and Sally Jensen had been Matt’s family and, from time to time, he dropped in on them when he found it necessary to renew his soul. Now, for no specific reason, felt like such a time.
“Ha!” Cal shouted. Another ringer!”
Matt was having a game of horseshoes with Cal and Pearlie.
“Let me see that horseshoe,” Matt said. “I don’t think that’s a real horseshoe. I think it’s a magnet.”
“I knew it!” Pearlie said. “I knew it had to be somethin’ like that for Cal to throw as many ringers as he does. He’s been using magnets all this time.”
“It’s not magnet; it’s magic,” Cal said. He held his hand up and wiggled his fingers. “I’ve got magic in this hand, didn’t you know that?”
Matt’s toss landed on top of Cal’s, and Pearlie laughed. “How about that, Cal? He just canceled you out.”
“Yeah, well, his ringer don’t count either,” Cal said.
Inside the house Smoke had built, Sally was just finishing up dinner. Smoke was in the parlor, looking at a new stack of stereopticon photographs of Yellowstone National Park that Matt had brought as a gift to them. Matt had also brought a couple of new musical discs, and they were now playing on the large mahogany, coiled spring-driven, disc-operated music box. The music it produced was full throated and vibrant, resonating throughout the room.
“Smoke,” Sally said. “Would you like to call the boys?”
Smoke chuckled. “I don’t think any of the three of them would appreciate being called boys,” he said. “But they would appreciate being called to dinner.”
Smoke put down the stereopticon, and stepped out onto the back porch to call in Matt, Pearlie, and Cal.
“Have you heard anything else about the man who killed your friends?” Smoke asked over dinner that evening. “What was his name? Mutt Crowley?”
“Yes, his name is Mutt Crowley, and no, it’s been a year since he escaped, and I haven’t heard another thing about him,” Matt said. “And it still blisters my . . .” He paused and looked over at Sally. “Uh . . . blisters my you-know-what that he didn’t hang for what he did.”
“The word you are looking for is ass,” Sally said easily. “Cal, would you pass the biscuits, please?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cal said with a smile.
“He’ll turn up somewhere, Matt,” Smoke promised. “People like him don’t have enough sense to stay out of trouble.”
Monotony, Kansas
The sign at the edge of town read:
MONOTONY, KANSAS
Population 235
Gateway to the World
The gateway to the world referred to the fact that Monotony was a water stop on the Union Pacific Railroad. It was also a transfer point for funds being moved about by Wells Fargo, so that the small bank often had a great deal more money than anyone would suspect.
Today the bank had on deposit twelve thousand five hundred dollars, a temporary holding credit until the Wells Fargo stagecoaches would take varying amounts of money from the account to deliver to those banks that weren’t on the railroad.
The greatest security in holding such funds lay in the secrecy of their operations. Any time there was to be a significant transfer of funds, only the shipper and receivers of the funds were aware of the transaction, though of course the railroad messenger also knew.
And it was the latter, the fact that the railroad messenger knew about the transfer of funds, that presented the fatal flaw in the operation. Because Dingus Perry, a railroad messenger, had recently sold the information for one hundred dollars. The purchasers of the information were the Crowley brothers, Prichard and Mutt, Mutt having joined his brother’s gang shortly after Prichard helped him escape from prison.
Prichard and Mutt, along with four other men, Bill Carter, Lenny Fletcher, Dax Williams, and Titus Carmichael, rode into the little town of Monotony at just after nine o’clock in the morning. All six men were wearing long, tan dusters, though the dusters wo
uld not raise suspicion because such dusters were routinely worn against trail dust.
What was unusual was to see six men, total strangers, arrive in town at the same time. Monotony never had visitors except during those brief moments when the trains would stop to take on water, and the weary travelers at the windows would stare blankly at the lethargic scene before them.
“Titus, you stay down here at this end of the street,” Prichard ordered. “When we leave, we’ll be coming this way. I don’t want to be surprised by having someone waiting down here to waylay us. Bill, you’ll be holding the horses. Lenny, you and Dax will come into the bank with Mutt and me.”
“You done told us all that a dozen times,” Bill Carter said.
“And I’ll tell you a dozen more times if that’s what it takes,” Prichard said. “When you undertake an operation like this, you must plan everything to perfection. You cannot afford to take any chances.”
Titus dropped off as directed, while the remaining five men rode on down to a small brick building with a weathered sign identifying it as the Wells Fargo Bank of Monotony. There Prichard, Mutt, Lenny, and Dax dismounted, and handed the reins of their horses over to Bill. After looking up and down the street for a moment, Prichard nodded at the others, and the four men went into the bank. There were two men inside, a bank teller and a customer.
“Gentlemen, this is a robbery!” Prichard said in a low, and well-modulated voice. “You, sir,” he said, pointing to the customer, “please step away from the counter.”
“You,” he said, as he handed a cloth bag to the teller. “I want you to put twelve thousand five hundred dollars in this sack.”
“Twelve thousand five hundred dollars? Mister, maybe you didn’t notice, but this is a very small bank in a very small town. What makes you think we have that much money?”
“I don’t think you have it, I know you have it,” Prichard said. “It’s the Wells Fargo transfer. Now fill up that bag as I instructed.”
“Hey, Prichard, Mutt, there’s someone ridin’ up this way. What if he comes in?”
“Dax, you idiot! Don’t use our names!” Mutt said, angrily. He turned back toward the teller. “Hurry it up.”
The teller dropped several bound stacks of bills into the cloth bag, then handed it over to Prichard.
“All right, we got the money, let’s go,” Mutt said.
As Prichard and the others started toward the door, the teller suddenly pulled a shotgun out from under the window.
“He’s got a gun!” Lenny shouted.
All four men turned their guns on the teller, and he went down under a barrage, unable to get off one shot.
“Son of a bitch! What did he do that for?” Mutt asked.
Prichard looked over at the lone customer. “I do hope you don’t attempt anything like that. I assure you, it would be most disastrous for you.”
“I don’t even have a gun!” the customer shouted, holding his hands in the air.
From outside, the men heard the sound of gunfire and, rushing out of the bank, they saw that Bill was engaged with someone who was standing in the middle of the street. The man was wearing a badge.
“Shoot ’im, shoot ’im!” Mutt shouted, and again their guns roared, and the lawman went down.
Leaping into their saddles, the horses thundered out of town, the six robbers firing their pistols into the buildings on both sides of the street to discourage anyone from coming after them.
In Cates General Store, six-year-old Katie Holmes was standing next to her mother when a bullet from the gun of one of the fleeing bank robbers came through the front window. Katie fell to the floor with a bleeding chest wound.
“Katie!” her mother screamed in agonized sorrow.
Within moments, the six riders were clear of the town and were riding hard, having made their escape. The stunned town prepared to bury their dead.
BANK ROBBERY
Felons Take Thousands of Dollars
CULPRITS SAID TO BE CROWLEY BROTHERS
MONOTONY, KANSAS—On the fifteenth, the streets of the small railroad town of Monotony, Kansas, rang with gunfire as six men made good their escape. Behind them Oleg Simmons, the teller, Stewart Mason, the marshal, and Katie Holmes, a six-year-old girl, lay dead of gunshot wounds.
Eyewitnesses in the bank and on the street have identified two of the bank robbers as the Crowley brothers, Prichard and Mutt. The four others with them have not been identified. Prichard is the older of the two Crowley brothers and, unlike so many others who share his chosen profession, is a very well-educated man. He is sometimes referred to as “The Bandit Professor,” and is known for his precise use of the English language.
Despite Prichard Crowley’s education, grammatical skills, and trappings of a gentleman, he has proven himself to be a man who is totally devoid of any redemptive qualities. He has used the gun with deadly efficiency and is known to have killed at least three men prior to the recent bank robbery.
Mutt Crowley, the younger of the two brothers, was previously convicted and sentenced to be hanged by a court in Colorado. Shortly before the hanging was to take place, however, he escaped. It is now believed, though not known for a fact, that his escape was facilitated by his brother, Prichard.
Within a week of the robbery, wanted posters were issued.
Rewards were also offered for “anyone who it could be proved was with the Crowley brothers during the perpetration of the bank robbery.” As none of the other perpetrators were known, they weren’t named, and the rew ard for each of them was limited to fifteen hundred dollars.Though only the state could issue the wanted posters, the reward money was being offered by Wells Fargo. And, though the total reward money offered exceeded the amount of money stolen, it was the policy of Wells Fargo to offer large rewards for the capture of anyone who stole from them. This was done to discourage would-be robbers from targeting Wells Fargo and, for the most part, it was an effective ploy as Wells Fargo shipments were much less frequently robbed than other banks and money transfer agencies.
Initially, however, circulation of the reward posters was limited to within the borders of the state of Kansas.
When Prichard made the division of the money he and Mutt took two thousand five hundred dollars apiece, and he gave each of the other four men one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five dollars each.
“I think me ’n you should get three thousand dollars each, and let the others divide up what is left,” Mutt suggested.
“No, as long as everything is kept on the up and up, we will forever have the loyalty of those who ride with us. And in this business, loyalty of the men who ride with you is the most valuable commodity.”
Prichard tended to think and talk in a way that Mutt often found difficult to comprehend. That was because Mutt had spent five years in the state penitentiary at Canon City, Colorado, while Prichard had spent four years at the University of Colorado. When he graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree, he took a job as an assistant professor of English in a small college in Wyoming.
It was there that Prichard had discovered the dark side of himself, a side that he could not control. He lured a pretty young freshman into his office one night, with the offer to provide private tutorship. There, he raped and murdered her; then he left her body on the side of a lake.
The murder of the young girl remained a mystery, and Prichard was never suspected. When the bodies of two more young women were found, the town became panicked at the thought of a crazed killer and despoiler of young women. And because the last two women were not college students, no connection was made that could lead anyone to suspect young, handsome Professor Prichard Crowley.
After only one year of teaching in the university, Prichard left the school and got a job in the Denver Loan and Trust bank. It was the “trust” part that did him in, because less than three months into the job, he decided to augment his salary by embezzling fifteen thousand dollars. From that moment on, Prichard was on the outlaw trail.
Chap
ter Six
After he left Sugarloaf, Matt Jensen wandered around a bit until he found himself in West Texas. For days he had been riding through unremarkable country, but now the Guadalupe Mountains rose ahead of him, the purple mass coming up from the earth like islands rising from the sea.
With a carpet of grass and the dappled shade of live oak, cedar, and ash trees to keep him out of the sun’s glare, Matt found the area to be more reminiscent of Colorado and Wyoming than Texas.
When he made camp that evening, a rabbit came out from under a mesquite bush, sniffed the air for a scent of danger, then began nibbling on some grass. Matt shot, skinned, cleaned, and then spitted the rabbit, cooking it over an open fire. He watched it brown as his stomach growled with hunger. The rabbit was barely cooked before he took it off the skewer and began eating it ravenously, not even waiting for it to cool.
At dawn the next day the notches of the hills before him were touched with the dove-gray of early morning. Shortly thereafter, a golden fire spread over the mountaintops, then filled the sky with light and color, waking all the creatures below. He heard the staccato hammering of a woodpecker, the yelping back and forth of coyotes, and the scream of a cougar. High overhead, a hawk was making lazy circles.
Matt rolled out of his blanket and began digging through his saddlebag of possibles for coffee, but found none. He would have enjoyed a biscuit, but he had no flour. He had no beans either, and was out of salt. The bacon had been used up a long time ago. It was now clear that he was going to have to go into town sometime in the next few days to replenish his supplies.
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man The Eyes of Texas Page 4