“Haven’t seen you before,” the bartender said. “Just arrive in town?”
“I’ve been here a few days,” Matt replied.
“Poke, don’t you know who this feller is?” one of the drinkers at the bar said.
“Should I know?” the bartender replied.
“Why, I reckon you should. He’s the town hero right now. He’s the one that kilt Morgan, only it turns out Morgan wasn’t Morgan. This is Matt Jensen.”
The bartender put a beer in front of Matt, and Matt put a nickel on the bar.
“Don’t take the man’s money, Poke.” The person who spoke was a thin man, dressed in black, with a hawk face and a dark van dyke beard. He approached the bar and extended his hand. “Mr. Jensen, I’m Jacob Bramley. I own the Pig Palace.”
“Thank you for the beer,” Matt said as he picked up the mug.
“Well, it’s the least I can do for a genuine hero. The entire town is thankful to you for killing the man who killed our marshal. But of course, Mr. Durbin here”—Bramley pointed to the man with the shotgun, who was sitting on the high chair—“is a little jealous. You see, it was only last month that he killed Quince Calhoun, right after Calhoun had killed Marshal Jarvis. There was no such celebration for Mr. Durbin.”
“Believe me, Mr. Durbin could have had my celebration,” Matt said. “It wasn’t something I asked for, or wanted.”
Bramley chuckled. “I can understand that, Mr. Jensen. You are a modest man, and modest men don’t have any need for all that folderol. Mr. Durbin, come down here and meet a modest man,” Bramley called.
Durbin climbed down from the chair and walked over to the bar. He didn’t come up to shake Matt’s hand, but just stood at the end of the bar with his right hand near his pistol in a way that, to Matt, appeared to be little threatening.
“I’m told you’ve kilt three men since you come to town,” Durbin said.
“You were told wrong,” Matt said.
“Wait a minute. Didn’t you kill two of the men that was goin’ to rob the stagecoach? And didn’t you kill that terrible murderer, Mutt Crowley?”
“I did.”
“Well, in my mind, Jensen, that makes three men.”
“Your statement was that I had killed three men since I came to town. The two stagecoach robbers were killed before I came to town.”
“Yeah,” Durbin said. “Tell me, Jensen, just how many men have you kilt?”
Matt lifted the beer mug to his lips, pointedly doing so with his left hand. He took a sip while keeping a wary eye on Durbin. Finally after taking a drink of the beer, he put the mug down and ran the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away any of the foam. Again, pointedly, it was his left hand.
“Well, how many, Jensen? Or have you kilt so many that you can’t remember?”
“I have never killed a man who wasn’t trying to kill me,” Matt said. “Nor have I ever killed a man who wasn’t facing me.”
The last comment was an intentional dig at Durbin, because he knew that Durbin had shot Calhoun in the back. Though Matt was not prepared to argue that Calhoun didn’t deserve to be killed.
“Mr. Durbin, why don’t you return to the job I’m paying you for,” Bramley said.
Durbin fixed one more angry glare toward Matt; then he walked back across the saloon to climb up onto his chair.
“Piano player, I’m paying you to make music, not gawk,” Bramley said. “Girls, walk around. I see a lot of lonely men here.”
“I’m terrible lonely,” one man said, and the others laughed as one of the bar girls hurried over to him.
Music began to spill from the piano, and conversations and laughter resumed.
“Mr. Jensen, I wonder if you would join me at my table for a friendly conversation,” Bramley invited.
Matt nodded, then, carrying his beer with him, accompanied Bramley back to his table. He was careful to find a chair that not only placed his back toward the wall, but also enabled him to keep Durbin in sight.
“Mr. Jensen, I’m told that you are a man who moves around quite a bit,” Bramley said.
“I can’t deny that,” Matt replied.
“Have you ever thought of settling down in one place?”
“I’ve given it some thought from time to time.”
“What I’m getting at is this,” Bramley said. “Look all up and down First Street. More money is made here on this street than is made in the rest of the town—hell, the rest of the county—combined, and that includes the money the ranchers are making.
“And most of the money made on First Street, is mine.” Bramley smiled. “I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how I can say this, when the Pig Palace is just one of the businesses on the street.” Bramley held up his finger to make a point. “But, I own a hundred percent of the Pig Palace, fifty-one percent of the Crooked Branch, fifty-one percent of Ace High, and a hundred percent of Abby’s whorehouse. Yes, she is just the front.”
“It looks like you are doing well,” Matt said.
“Oh, I’m doing better than well. I’m doing very well. And here’s the thing, Jensen. You could do well too if you would like to throw in with me.”
“Throw in with you in what way?”
“I know that you have five thousand dollars coming to you as a reward for killing Crowley. I will sell you forty-five percent of all my holdings for five thousand dollars. The truth is, forty-five percent of my holdings are worth ten times that much, but I’m willing to do that, because with you as a partner, we would soon control the whole town, then the whole county. What do you say?”
Matt finished the beer, then put the empty mug on the table that separated the distance between them. Standing, he looked back down at Bramley.
“I say Hawkins is wrong.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t believe you water your drinks,” Matt said. He nodded. “Thanks for the beer.”
He left the saloon without any further response to Crowley’s offer.
Chapter Twenty-three
When Matt and Hawkins stepped into the dining room of the Merchants Association Club at seven that evening, they were met by the maitre d’.
“Your table is ready, gentlemen,” the maitre d’ said, leading them across the otherwise deserted dining room to a long table, around which sat seven men and one woman. The lone woman was Annabelle.
“What is this?” Matt asked.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Hawkins said. “The truth is, I was less than honest with you when I invited you to dinner tonight. I did so specifically so the city council could meet with you.”
There were two empty chairs around the long table, and they were right next to Annabelle O’Callahan. Hawkins maneuvered the seating so that Matt sat next to her.
“So, Matt, we dine here again,” Annabelle said.
“So it would seem, Miss O’Callahan,” Matt replied a bit cautiously. He had no idea what this was leading to.
“Please, Matt, haven’t we reached the point to where you can call me Annabelle?”
“Annabelle,” Matt corrected.
“Mr. Jensen, I’m Mayor Trout.” The mayor was a dark-haired, dark-eyed man with a full mustache that curved around his mouth like the horns on a Texas steer.
“The gentlemen you see around the table here—Gary Dupree, Melton Milner, Bob Dempster, Earl Cook, Martin Peabody, and George Tobin—are members of the city council. So is Gerald Hawkins, who you know. And of course, Miss O’Callahan, who you also know, is here. Miss O’Callahan is not a member of the city council, but she often sits in on our meetings as a liaison between the council and the Shady Rest Merchants Association.”
Each of the men made some sort of acknowledgment as their names were spoken, and Matt nodded back to them.
“I’m sure you are wondering why you are here,” Trout continued.
“I thought I was here to have dinner,” Matt replied with a smile.
“You are, you are indeed,” Mayor Trout said.
<
br /> “I apologize, Matt, for not being entirely up-front with you,” Hawkins said.
“Before we go further with the meeting, I would like to read this proclamation,” Mayor Trout said.
Clearing his throat, Trout picked up a sheet of paper upon which a calligrapher had carefully penned the words.
A PROCLAMATION
by the Mayor of the City of Shady Rest, Texas,
declaring appreciation for community service.
WHEREAS, it is important that all citizens know and understand the service, courage, and assistance provided by Matt Jensen in preventing a stagecoach robbery, and thereby protecting the passengers, driver and shotgun guard from any further violence; and,
WHEREAS, Matt Jensen did encounter the armed and dangerous murderer of Marshal Devry Pruitt, thereby preventing further harm to any other citizen of Shady Rest; and,
WHEREAS, Matt Jensen provided these vital public services without promise or thought of personal recompense; now,
THEREFORE, I, OLLIE TROUT,
Mayor of the City of Shady Rest, Texas,
with the authorization and support of the
City Council of the above-named community,
do award the Certificate of Appreciation,
and call upon all citizens of the City of Shady Rest,
and upon all patriotic, civic and educational
organizations to observe AUGUST 10,
in honor of MATT JENSEN
who, through his Courageous Deed,
rendered a great service to this community.
Given this day, by the hand and seal of Ollie Trout,
and with the authorization
of the City Council of Shady Rest, Texas.
To the applause of everyone around the table, Trout gave the certificate to Matt.
“Thank you,” Matt said. He was as uncomfortable with all this attention, as he had been with the fireworks celebration on the day after he had killed Mutt Crowley. And all things being equal, he would have preferred being over at Moe’s Café now, having a supper of fried ham and potatoes.
During the dinner, the conversation was kept casual until the meal was over; then Mayor Trout, who was sitting directly across the table from Matt, posed the question that was the real purpose of the meeting.
“Matt, we—that is, the members of the city council—and, as has also been expressed to me by several of our town’s citizens, would like to offer you the position of marshal of Shady Rest. And we are prepared to offer you a salary that is three times higher than anything we’ve ever paid before.”
“Mayor, members of the city council, I appreciate this award”—Matt held up the paper—“and I am honored by your confidence in me, but I know myself pretty well, and I know that I’m not cut out to be a city marshal.”
“Why not?” Annabelle asked. “I think you would make an excellent marshal.”
“There are ordinances, state and federal laws, to being a city marshal, and those ordinances and laws impose operational restrictions. To be honest with you, there is no way I could operate within those regulations, I am just not the type of person who would make a good marshal.”
“I wish you would reconsider the offer,” Mayor Trout said.
“It’s like I said, Mayor, I’m not really the kind of person who would make a good marshal, though, as long as I am here, I will take a direct interest in the well-being of your community. By the way, you might be interested in knowing that this is the second offer I’ve received today.”
“The second offer?” Hawkins asked.
“Yes. Jacob Bramley offered to make me practically a full partner with him, if I would join him.”
“Matt!” Annabelle said with a gasp. “You did turn him down, I hope?”
“I gave it some thought,” Matt said Then, when he saw the expressions on the other faces, he laughed. “But the only answer I could come up with was no.”
The others, realizing then that Matt was teasing, laughed in relief.
“Tell me, Mr. Jensen, perhaps you could suggest what type of person would be a good marshal,” Mayor Trout asked.
“Sure,” Matt replied. “Get someone who can’t be killed.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The next morning when Bramley came down from his own suite of rooms, which was upstairs and in the back, he stood there drinking a cup of coffee, looking around at the nearly empty saloon. The only customers in the place were the few who had spent the night with one of the whores, or the few who couldn’t start their day without a drink.
Durbin came in then, and he walked around behind the bar and poured himself a cup of coffee. He came over to stand by Bramley.
“You ain’t the only one Jensen said no to yesterday,” Durbin said with a little chuckle.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the city asking him to be the new marshal. He turned ’em down.”
“Really?”
“That’s what I heard this morning.”
“You know, Harry, that gives me an idea,” Bramley said as he stroked his van dyke. I think maybe . . . yes, I know it would be.... You would be perfect,” he said with a broad smile.
“I would be perfect for what?” Durbin asked.
“You would be perfect for the new marshal.”
“Wait a minute, what makes you think I would want that job? In case you ain’t noticed it, boss, all the marshals we’ve had so far have been gettin’ themselves kilt. Why the hell would I want that?”
Bramley shook his head. “No, no, you don’t understand,” he said. “If you become the city marshal, we will control the law, and the town. You won’t get yourself killed because you won’t be enforcing the law—you will be facilitating our breaking of the law.”
“I don’t understand what any of that means,” Durbin said. “Besides, I like the job I’m doin’ for you now. And I know for a fact that you are payin’ more than I would make as a city marshal.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Harry. You would still work for me. You would still draw your pay from me, plus what the city would pay you. The only thing is, you would be wearing a badge, and that means that anything you would do, say on your job here would be legal, because you are the law.”
It dawned then on Durbin what Bramley was suggesting, and a big smile spread across Durbin’s face.
“Yeah!” he said, hitting his fist into his open hand. “Yeah! You’re right! That would be a great idea!”
Half an hour later, down at the city hall, the city clerk stepped into the mayor’s office. “Mayor Trout, there is a Harry Durbin to see you.”
“Harry Durbin? Wait a minute, isn’t he the one who works for Bramley? Yes, he killed the man who killed Marshal Jarvis, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir, that’s the same man.”
“And he wants to see me? What does he want?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what he wants, Mayor. He didn’t tell me.”
“All right, send him in.”
The clerk stepped out of the mayor’s office, and a moment later, Durbin came in. For the occasion, Durbin was wearing a clean shirt.
“Yes, Mr. Durbin, what can I do for you?”
“I’m told you are looking for a new city marshal.”
“Yes, that’s right. We are looking for a city marshal.”
Durbin smiled, and hooked his thumbs under his arms. “Well, sir, you can quit lookin’. I’m volunteerin’ for the job.”
“Really? Do you have any experience as a law enforcement officer?”
“I ain’t got no experience wearin’ a badge, but you might remember I’m the one that kilt the son of a bitch that kilt Marshal Jarvis. Besides which, how much experience did Pruitt have?”
Trout nodded. “That’s a good question, and the answer is, he had no experience whatever. And, I fear, it was that lack of experience that cost him his life.”
“Yeah, well, the difference between me and Pruitt is I’m good with a gun. He wasn’t.
”
“How good? What I mean is, how does one determine how good one might be?”
“I have kilt seven men,” Durbin said.
Mayor Trout was startled by the casual way in which Durbin made the announcement.
“I . . . I’m not sure what you are saying to me,” Trout said. “Am I to understand that you are validating your application to be our marshal by telling me you have killed seven men?”
“Yeah,” Durbin said. “But they was all men like Quince Calhoun. All seven of ’em needed killin’.”
“Perhaps so, but I don’t know that the mere fact you have killed seven men would qualify you to be marshal.”
“Wait a minute, Mayor. You asked Matt Jensen to be the marshal, didn’t you? You asked him, but he turned you down.”
“That is true,” Trout said. “The offer was made, and he did turn us down.”
“Well, tell me, Mayor, why did you make the offer to Jensen in the first place? I’ll tell you why. You offered him the job ’cause he’s kilt lots of men. Fact is, he’s kilt more men than I have.”
“I . . . that is, that isn’t exactly the reason the offer was made.”
“But it was part of the reason, if you are honest enough to admit it,” Durbin said. “You do need a marshal, and you’re havin’ a hard time gettin’ one, ’cause all the marshals we get here don’t live very long. I’m willin’ to take that chance.”
“That is noble of you, Mr. Durbin,” Trout said. “I don’t have the authority to hire you out of hand. I’ll have to take it up with the city council,” Trout said. “But, I can tell you that I will do that. And, I’ll let you know what the decision is, as quickly as I can.”
“Yeah, you do that,” Durbin said as he turned to leave the mayor’s office.
“No, definitely not!” Hawkins said after Mayor Trout presented the idea to the city council. “Don’t you know who Durbin is?”
“I know that he works for Jacob Bramley,” Mayor Trout said.
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man The Eyes of Texas Page 17