“Why don’t we play for some real money?” he asked.
“I’m afraid that’s a little too rich for my blood,” one of the other players said.
“Too rich for me, too, but if you don’t mind, I plan to sit here and watch until the bettin’ comes back down to where I can afford to get back into the game.”
Chapter Thirteen
As the game was going on in the Texas Star Saloon, Matt Jensen, riding ahead of the stagecoach, got his first glimpse of Shady Rest. Located in the shadow of El Capitan Mountain, the little town rose in front of him, at first barely distinguishable from among the hillocks and clumps of sage brush. As he got closer though, he could make out the town, a row of false-fronted buildings on either side of a north-and-south-running street. The tallest structure was the church steeple at the far end of the street. As soon as they passed by the sign welcoming them to Shady Rest, Dusty, the stagecoach driver, whipped the team into a trot so that the coach rolled rapidly down the street, a rooster tail of dust billowing up behind the two oversized rear wheels.
“We was held up! We was held up!” the driver started shouting as the coach rolled quickly down the main street of the town. “We was held up! Jim’s been shot! Get the doc! Jim’s been shot!”
The stagecoach office was right in the middle of town, on the west side of the street. There, the driver stopped the coach and the following cloud of dust that had been thrown up by hooves and wheels now rolled back over them. It enveloped the coach for a long moment, and caused the passengers inside to cough and wave their hands in an attempt to brush the dust away.
It was the normal routine of several of the citizens of the town to meet the coach, as the town was not served by the railroad and the stagecoach was their principal connection to the outside world. But the number of people standing in front of the stage depot now was considerably larger than normal, the gawkers drawn not only by the arrival of the coach, but also by the driver’s shouts of a holdup.
“Couple of you fellas, help me get Jim down,” the driver said, and two of the younger men climbed up onto the coach to begin taking the guard down. Jim gasped in pain as they grabbed him.
“Take it easy with him,” Dusty ordered.
“Sorry,” one of the two young men said, and they exercised a bit more care in their handling of him.
“How much money did they get, Dusty?” one of the men in the gathering crowd asked.
“Ha!” Dusty said. “That’s the beauty of it. They didn’t get nothin’ a’ tall. Fact is, they’s two of ’em needin’ Ponder’s services right now, seein’ as they are a’ lyin’ dead out in the road ’bout ten miles back.”
“I thought you said you was robbed.”
“There were three men who attempted to rob us,” Annabelle said. She looked over toward Matt, who was still sitting his saddle, and flashed him a big smile. “But this brave gentleman broke it up.”
By now two more men came up to join the others. Both men were wearing stars, and one was much older than the other.
“Who was it, Dusty? Do you know?” the younger of the two men asked.
“I don’t have ’ny idea at all, Marshal,” Dusty replied. “Even when we took the masks off the two that was kilt, there didn’t none of us recognize ’em. So we just skedaddled on out of there on account of Jim here bein’ shot like he was.”
“How bad is Jim hurt?” the marshal asked.
“I ain’t dead yet,” Jim called out to them. “Ya’ll quit talkin’ ’bout me like I’m done gone.”
“I don’t know what made ’em decide to rob us in the first place. Hell, we wasn’t carryin’ no money at all, ’ceptin’ maybe what the passengers might have had.”
“Did Jim shoot the robbers?” the marshal asked.
“No, it was that fella right there,” Dusty said, pointing to Matt.
By now Matt had dismounted and was tying Spirit off at the hitching rail. As he did so, the younger of the two star-packers, the one who had been talking to Dusty, came over to talk to Matt.
“My name is Pruitt. Devry Pruitt. I’m the marshal here.”
Matt was a little surprised that it was the younger of the two men who was the marshal. The older man stood back, showing a degree of nonchalance as he leaned against one of the supporting posts of the front overhang.
“The driver says you killed two of the robbers?”
“Yes.”
“You mind givin’ your name?”
“It’s Jensen. Matt Jensen.”
“Jensen?” Matt heard one of the men in the crowd say. “Did that fella say his name is Jensen? Damn, what’s he doin’ this far south?”
Marshal Pruitt heard the comment as well, and he turned toward the man who had spoken. “Grojean, do you know this man?” With a nod of his head, he indicated that he was talking about Matt.
“I don’t know him, but I sure know of him. I can’t believe you ain’t never heard of him, Marshal. Why, folks say he’s ’bout the best with a gun there is.”
“Is that so? Would you be what they call a gunfighter, Mr. Jensen?” Marshal Pruitt asked, his face showing a concerned suspicion.
“I guess that would all depend upon your definition of a gunfighter,” Matt replied. “I don’t sell my guns, and I’ve never shot a man who wasn’t trying to shoot me.”
“That’s right, Marshal,” Grojean said. “Leastwise, that’s the only way I’ve always heard it said. I mean, yeah, they say he’s a good gunfighter, but there ain’t never been no one who’s said that he’s gone bad with his guns.”
“The two men you encountered today,” Marshal Pruitt said. “Did they shoot first?”
“They did.”
“This gentleman is telling you the truth, Marshal,” Percy McCall, the drummer, said. “Mr. Jensen got the drop on the robbers and he even offered them the opportunity to give up, but they turned their weapons on him instead. And before Mr. Jensen came to our rescue, the three robbers were getting very threatening. I fear that if they had not been satisfied with what they got, they may well have taken it out on us. I don’t mind telling you, I, for one, was very glad to see Mr. Jensen come along, arriving like the U.S. Cavalry, you might say.”
“Well, Jensen, I suppose it is good that you came along when you did. Will you be in town for a while? I mean, in case I have any questions later.”
“I plan to be in town for a day or two, or at least until I am able to build up my supply of possibles,” Matt said. “But for now, as soon as I take care of my horse, I plan to get a drink, a bath, a hotel room, and something to eat, in that order.”
“Mr. Jensen, you don’t have to worry none about your horse,” Dusty said. “I mean, in as far as boardin’ him is concerned. Why, you can leave your horse with the coach horses. We’ll take good care of him . . . fresh hay, his own stall. And there won’t be no charge at all. I’m sure once Mr. Tobin hears what you done for his stagecoach company, why, he’ll be more’n glad to take care of your horse.”
“I know that Spirit is as tired as I am, so if you would, Dusty, give him some oats tonight. I’ll be glad to pay for it.”
“Oats he’ll have, and anything else he wants. And that won’t cost you nothin’ neither. Like I said, the stagecoach company will be more than happy to pick up the tab.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“‘Least we can do, seein’ as what you done for us.”
Matt saw Jim, the shotgun guard, sitting on the porch of the stage depot, leaning back against the front wall. Someone—Matt assumed it was the doctor—was tending him. Matt walked over to him.
“How are you feeling, Jim?” he asked.
“Oh, tolerable, I reckon,” Jim answered. His voice was rather thin, but stable. “And I thank you for patchin’ me up like you done.”
“Are you the one that put the bandage on Mr. Richards?” the doctor asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, young man, you did just the right thing, applying a compression bandage like that. Y
ou probably saved his life by keeping him from bleeding to death. Do you have medical training?”
“Not exactly,” Matt replied.
“What do you mean, not exactly?”
“I learned doctoring from a man named Smoke Jensen, and he learned it from an old mountain man called Preacher.”
“Well, I learned in medical school that someone who treats a wound or an illness with experience and common sense can be as effective as a college-trained doctor. And that is exactly what you did. You have my congratulations, sir, on a job well done.”
“And you have my thanks,” Jim added.
“My pleasure,” Matt replied.
“Mr. Jensen,” Hawkins said, coming over to the depot porch to join Matt, the doctor, and the wounded stagecoach driver. “Do you still want that beer?”
“Oh, yes, I absolutely want that beer. The thirst hasn’t gone away,” Matt replied.
“Then come with me, I’ll show you some of the town as we walk down to my place.”
“All right.”
“Mr. Jensen?” Annabelle said.
Matt looked over toward the pretty redhead who had been the only female passenger on the stage. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Mr. Jensen, my name is Annabelle O’Callahan, and if you will allow me, I would be delighted to buy dinner for you this evening. I feel that would be the least I can do for you, after what you did for us.”
“Why, Miss O’Callahan, I would love to have dinner with you, but I wouldn’t feel right having a woman pay for it.”
“Nonsense, I insist upon it. Shall I see you this evening?”
“Yes, ma’am, and you have my appreciation for your generous offer,” Matt said.
“You are very welcome. But don’t you dare say ma’am to me again. I’m not your schoolteacher,” Annabelle scolded. Her scolding, however, was ameliorated by a broad and very pretty smile.
Matt and Hawkins continued on down the street, with Hawkins pointing out the town. “That first building there, just on the edge of town, is Rafferty’s Grocery Store. Next comes Clinton’s Drugstore. Over there on the other side of the street is a leather goods shop, it’s run by Mark Worley, next is McGill’s feed and seed store, then Dupree’s Emporium,” Hawkins said as they passed each of the buildings. “You mentioned that you wanted a hotel room. This is the Milner Hotel. I would tell you that it is the best hotel in town, which it is, but it’s also the only hotel in town,” he added with a chuckle. “And don’t worry about the livery being right across the street. When the wind’s right, you don’t smell anything at all.”
“It might sound crazy, but I like the smell of horses,” Matt said. “There’s something very comforting about them.”
“I know what you mean,” Hawkins said. “I may not look like it now, being as I own a saloon, but I was once a member of the United States Cavalry. I rode with General George Crook when we were chasing Geronimo all over hell’s half acre. Oh, and you’ll most likely be takin’ your supper here, at Moe’s. It’s the . . .”
“Best in town?” Matt asked.
Hawkins chuckled. “Yes, and the only one in town.”
“Then it’ll be a pleasure to have a drink at the best saloon in town,” Matt said. “I’m assuming it is the only one in town.”
“You assume incorrectly, sir,” Hawkins said, holding up his finger. “On one thing you are right, though, the Texas Star is the best in town, but there are three other saloons, the Pig Palace, the Crooked Branch, and the Ace High, down on Plantation Row.”
“Plantation Row?”
Hawkins chuckled. “Yeah, they are actually down on First Street. Plantation Row is the locals’ attempt at a little humor.”
“I take it they aren’t stellar establishments.”
“You got that right. Seems someone is killed down on Plantation Row just about every other day. The biggest one, and probably the worst one, is the Pig Palace, owned by Jake Bramley. He waters his whiskey.”
“He does?”
Hawkins looked around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear him. “Well, truth is, I don’t know if he waters it or not. But that’s what I tell everyone.” He laughed out loud.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Hawkins, your secret is safe with me,” Matt replied with a chuckle.
“And this, sir, is my place, the Texas Star,” he said as they reached the front of the building.
Pushing through the front door of the Texas Star, Matt saw that it could have been any saloon, in any town he had ever visited. Saloons like this, with the wide plank boards of the floor, the long, polished bar with the brass foot rail at the bottom, the piano at the back, the scattering of tables, and the saloon girls, garish in their makeup, were part of Matt’s existence. This all defined his past, and he could no more deny it than he could deny his own history. As was his custom, he made a quick perusal of the saloon before he moved on in. There were three men standing at the bar, six tables with two to four men at each of the tables. At two of the tables there was a woman standing nearby, bantering with the men. There was a card game under way at the one of the tables and Matt could see the faces of three of the men. The fourth man had his back to Matt so that he couldn’t see his face—but there was something about him, about the way he was sitting, that caused Matt’s look to linger.
Chapter Fourteen
Braxton Barlow tied his horse off in front of the pawnshop that was on First Street next door to the Crooked Branch Saloon. When he walked into the shop carrying a gun in each hand, he was met by a man wielding a double-barreled shotgun.
“Hold it right there, mister!” the man with the shotgun said.
“What?” Brax said, startled to have the shotgun pointed at him. Then he realized why. “Wait, wait, these here guns ain’t loaded! I come to pawn ’em, is all.”
“Then take them by the barrels and lay them on the counter.”
Brax did as instructed and when he did so, the shopkeeper put the shotgun down, and dragged both the pistols across the counter toward him. Picking them up one at a time, he ascertained that both were empty, then put them back down.
“I’ll give you five dollars apiece for them,” the pawnbroker said.
“Five dollars? Look here, I happen to know that these pistols cost twenty-five dollars when they was new.”
“They ain’t new now.”
“But they still shoot as good as when they was new.”
“Where did you get ’em?”
“What difference does it make where I got ’em? The point is, I got ’em, and now I’m tryin’ to sell ’em to you.”
“How do I know you didn’t steal ’em?”
“I didn’t steal ’em.”
“Five dollars,” the pawnbroker said again. “Take it or leave it.”
“All right, all right, I’ll take five dollars apiece for ’em.”
The pawnbroker opened a little box, took out two five-dollar bills, and passed them across the counter to Brax. “It’s been good doin’ business with you,” he said.
With a growl of disgust over how little money he got for the two pistols, Brax stuck the bills down in his pocket. He was closest to the Crooked Branch, but the Pig Palace was a bigger saloon, and he heard a woman’s laughter coming from it, so he crossed the street, then pushed through the batwing doors to go inside.
A quarter of a mile away, in the Texas Star, Matt managed to dismiss the little, niggling feeling he had about the fourth card player, and he followed Hawkins up to the bar.
Hawkins walked around behind the bar, then spoke to the bartender. “I will personally serve this gentleman, Johnny.”
“Yes, sir,” the bartender replied.
Hawkins drew Matt a beer, then set the golden mug in front of him, high with a foaming head.
Matt lifted the mug, blew away some of the foaming head, then took a long, satisfying drink before he set it back down, now half empty.
“That was good,” he said.
“You drank that beer like you haven’t had one i
n a while.”
Matt thought back to Sherwood. Two weeks since he’d last had a beer, but it seemed more like a month of Sundays.
“It’s been a dry day or two,” he said.
“Let me freshen that for you,” Hawkins offered.
“Thanks.”
It took but a moment to put a new head on the beer in front of Matt.
To the casual observer it might appear that Matt was so relaxed as to be off guard. A closer examination, however, would show that his eyes were constantly flicking about, monitoring the room, tone and tint, for any danger . . . a kinesthesis developed from years of exposure to danger.
“This man, Pruitt,” Matt said. “He seems a mite green yet to be a marshal. He must be pretty good to hold the job as young as he is.”
“It isn’t a matter of being good, as much as it is a matter of him being willing to take on the job,” Hawkins said. “It hasn’t been all that easy for us to find marshals.”
“Why are you having trouble filling the position and keeping them on? Aren’t you paying enough?”
“Oh, we’re paying about as much as any town within a hundred miles of here. That’s not the problem,” Hawkins said, drawing a beer for himself.
“Well, if it’s not a matter of paying them enough, what is the problem you have with keeping them on the job?”
“It’s not a matter of keeping them on the job. It’s a matter of keeping them alive,” Hawkins said, speaking in a matter-of-fact voice as he took a swallow of his beer.
At that moment Marshal Pruitt came into the saloon and, seeing Matt standing at the bar, smiled and started toward him.
“Mr. Jensen, I’ve interviewed the driver, the shotgun guard, and the passengers of the coach, and they are all singing your praises.”
“Let me hasten to add my voice to the choir,” Hawkins said. “I know for a fact that he saved me two hundred dollars, for that’s the amount I had on my person at the time the coach was stopped. And I don’t doubt but that he may have saved my life as well.”
“I also learned a little about you,” Marshal Pruitt said. “But you are a little off your range down here, aren’t you? From what I’ve heard, you’re from Colorado.”
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man The Eyes of Texas Page 10