Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man The Eyes of Texas

by William W. Johnstone

  “You killed him,” Worley said. “Why did you kill him?”

  “I didn’t have no choice,” Durbin replied. “You heard me shout at him, I told him he was under arrest. He turned toward me with the shotgun. If I hadn’t kilt him, he would have kilt me.”

  “The truth is, I don’t think we have any real basis to issue a warrant,” Bob Dempster said, talking to Matt, Annabelle, and the mayor.

  “What do you mean, we don’t have any authority?” Annabelle said. “Durbin killed Wash. He shot him right between the eyes, and we have half a dozen people who will say that they saw it.”

  “That’s just it,” Dempster said. “If he had shot Wash in the back, we might have a case. But he shot him in the front, and that same half a dozen people will say that Durbin told him he was under arrest, and ordered him to throw down the gun. If Wash had dropped the gun before he turned around, we could issue a warrant. But Wash was still holding the gun when he was shot, and that could be construed as a threat to the arresting officer.”

  “Arresting him for what?” Annabelle said. “You can’t just arrest someone without a reason.”

  “He had a county arrest warrant for the murder of Luke Warren.”

  “That wasn’t murder, it was self-defense,” Matt said. “Hell, they could just as easily put out a warrant on me, for killing Wade Matthews.”

  “I’m sure that the case would have been dismissed before it ever got to court,” Dempster said.

  “And I’m just as sure that Durbin never intended it to go to court,” Matt said. “I think Durbin intended to kill Wash.”

  While Matt and Annabelle were meeting with the city attorney, Durbin released Brax Barlow from jail, then took him down to the Pig Palace to meet with Jacob Bramley.

  “Would you like a whiskey?” Bramley asked.

  “I ain’t got no money,” Brax said. “I been in jail.”

  “Harry, get our new friend a whiskey,” Bramley said. “Bring the whole bottle.”

  “All right.”

  Durbin brought a bottle to the table, and Bramley poured a glass, then slid the glass across the table toward Brax.

  “Enjoy,” he said.

  Brax tossed the drink down quickly, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “Damn,” he said. “You don’t know how much I been wantin’ that.”

  “I thought you might be a bit thirsty.”

  Brax looked at Bramley, then at Durbin. “I don’t get it,” he said.

  “What is it you don’t get?”

  “How come the law got me out of jail, then brought me here to you?”

  “Well, let’s just say that he delivered you to my custody.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means that you are out of jail, but I am responsible for you.”

  “Oh. Well, I thank you for that.”

  “I want more than thanks,” Bramley said. “I look at this as sort of a bargain between the two of us. I do something for you, and you do something for me. Or, if you don’t agree with that, I can have Deputy Durbin return you to your cell.”

  “No, no, I agree. I’ll do whatever it is you want me to do.”

  “I’m told you tried to kill Matt Jensen.”

  “Yeah,” Brax said. “The peckerwood kilt my two brothers.”

  “You also mentioned, a moment ago, that you didn’t have any money.”

  “I ain’t got one red cent.”

  “Suppose I offered you a way to make some money, and to get revenge for your two brothers? Would you be interested in such a deal?”

  “Yeah, I would be.”

  “You’ll find Matt Jensen over at the Texas Star. I’ll give you twenty-five hundred dollars to kill him.”

  “What good would the money do if I murdered him? I’d get hung.”

  “Not if it is a fair fight.”

  “Mister Bramley, there don’t nobody go up ag’in Jensen in a fair fight and win.”

  “Suppose you had an edge?”

  “What kind of edge?”

  “For one thing, he won’t be expecting to see you. He thinks you’re still in jail. And if he’s sittin’ down, like he most of the time is when he’s over at the Texas Star, well, he won’t be able to get to his gun.”

  “Twenty-five hundred dollars?”

  “As soon as I get word he’s dead.”

  Brax poured himself a second glass of whiskey and tossed it down.

  “I ain’t got no gun. That fool deputy took it away from me when I got put in jail.”

  “Harry, give our new friend a gun and holster,” Bramley said. “You’ll find one in my office.”

  Brax started to pour himself a third whiskey, but Bramley reached out to prevent it.

  “You’d better lay off that until the job is done. Then you can drink the whole bottle to celebrate.”

  “Yeah,” Brax said. “Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.”

  As Bramley had said, Matt Jensen was in the Texas Star, and when Brax stepped in through the front door he walked directly over to the table where Matt was sitting.

  “We have some unfinished business, you and me,” Brax said.

  “How did you get out of jail?” Matt asked.

  “That don’t really matter now, does it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I’m goin’ to kill you, Jensen, just like you kilt my two brothers.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll let me stand up, first?”

  An evil, triumphant smile spread across Brax’s face.

  “You mean to make the fight fair? I’m not here be fair, Jensen. Like I said, I’m here to kill you.”

  “Then maybe I should tell you that I already have my gun out. I drew it when I saw you come in through the door.

  “The hell you do. I can see your pistol still in your holster.”

  “Oh, that. Well, what I have in my hand is a holdout gun. A double derringer. Not very good for distance shooting, but from here I couldn’t miss.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “If you don’t believe me, go for your gun,” Matt said easily.

  Brax stood there for a long moment as he tried to make up his mind what he should do next.

  “Go for your gun, or get out of here,” Matt said.

  Brax looked for a moment as if he were going to try it; then he raised a hand and pointed his finger at Matt.

  “This ain’t finished,” he said.

  Matt watched until Brax disappeared through the swinging batwing doors. Then he brought his hands up from under the table. He was not holding a derringer.

  “Damn, Matt, what if he had called your bluff?” Hawkins asked.

  “It might have gotten even more interesting,” Matt said. He stood up. “I think I better check with the marshal. I’m sure she doesn’t know Barlow is out of jail.”

  Matt stood up, but just as he did so, Brax Barlow came darting back into the saloon, this time with his pistol already in his hand.

  “You son of a bitch!” Barlow shouted. He fired at Matt, the bullet hitting the iron stove, then careening off with a whine. The other patrons of the saloon dived to the floor when the shooting started.

  Matt drew his own pistol and returned fire, and a puff of dust and a little shower of blood flew up from Barlow’s shirt where the bullet hit, exactly between the second and third buttons.

  Barlow was slammed back against the batwing doors with such force as to tear them off the hinges. He landed on his back at the far side of the boardwalk with his head halfway down the steps. Matt walked to the front of the saloon, where he stood in the wrecked doorway, looking down at Brax’s body.

  Durbin had been waiting across the street, watching to see what happened so he could take the information back to Bramley. For a moment, he gave some consideration to shooting Jensen himself. After all, if Bramley was going to give twenty-five hundred dollars to Barlow, he could just as easily give it to Durbin.

  Although Durbin gave the idea some considerat
ion, he gave it up as soon as he saw that Jensen was still holding the pistol in his hand.

  “Jensen kilt that Barlow fella,” Durbin reported when he returned to the Pig Palace.

  “Yeah, I sort of thought he would,” Bramley said without showing any reaction. “But I figured it was worth a chance.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Durbin was eating pickled pigs’ feet and drinking beer when he saw two men come into the Pig Palace. He had never seen either of them before, but he could tell by looking at them that they weren’t ordinary cowboys. One of them was a Mexican, and as long as Durbin had been here, he had never seen a Mexican come into the place, because unlike most Texas towns this close to the border, Shady Rest had no cantina, and no Mexicans. Sensing trouble, Durbin walked over to Bramley’s table.

  “Boss, there’s a couple of men just come in that look like they could be a problem,” he said.

  Bramley didn’t look up from his table, but he smiled.

  “They aren’t a problem, Durbin. They’re a solution.”

  “A solution? What are you talkin’ about?”

  “They’re goin’ to do a job for us. Go ask them to come over to talk to me.”

  Nodding, Durbin walked over to the door. “You here to talk to the boss?” he asked.

  “We don’t talk to the law,” the Anglo said.

  “Law?” For a second, Durbin didn’t know what they were talking about. Then he realized they had seen his badge, and he laughed. “Ha! Don’t let this badge fool you. Come on, if you’re here to talk to Mr. Bramley, he’s over there at his table.”

  When the two men reached the table, Bramley looked up at them and, seeing them for the first time, he frowned. “I didn’t know that one of you would be Mex,” he said.

  The Mexican had obsidian eyes, a dark, brooding face, and a black moustache which curved down around either side of his mouth. He was wearing an oversized sombrero.

  “I don’t work with Mexicans,” Bramley said.

  “Bustamante is a good man,” the Anglo said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Me an’ him have done a couple of jobs together.”

  “All right, I know his name is Bustamante. What is your name?”

  “Baker.”

  “Baker. That’s your last name. What is your first name?”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “I reckon you’re right, I don’t need to know,” Bramley said. He looked at the Mexican again. “All right, I’ll use the Mexican. But to him, I’ll pay only half what I offered.”

  Bustamante didn’t reply to the comment. Instead, he turned and started to walk away.

  “Wait a minute,” Bramley called out to him. “Where are you going? You ain’t even heard yet what I want you to do.”

  “It does not matter, señor. I get the full amount, or I don’t do mierda.” Bustamante said.

  “Mierda?” Bramley asked.

  “Shit,” Baker translated. “He gets the full amount, or he doesn’t do shit.”

  “He would just walk away?”

  “Yeah, and so would I.”

  Bramley laughed. “All right. That’s the kind of man it’s goin’ to take to do this job anyway. I’ll pay full amount.”

  “What is the job?” Baker asked.

  “You mean you came here without even knowing what the job was going to be?”

  “I heard that you was payin’ twenty-five hundred dollars. That’s all I heard, and that’s all I needed to hear.”

  “What will you do for twenty-five hundred dollars?” Bramley asked.

  “Anything you say.”

  “I want you to kill someone. No, I want you to kill two people,” Bramley said.

  “Yeah, well, twenty-five hundred dollars is a lot of money, so I sort of figured it meant you wanted someone kilt.”

  “You don’t have a problem with killing someone?”

  “No problem,” Baker said.

  “What about you, Bustamante. Do you have a problem with killing?”

  “No tengo ningún problema.”

  “What the hell did he say?”

  “He says he has no problem.”

  “Good, then you are in.”

  “Who do we kill?” Baker asked.

  “Like I said, there are two people I want killed. A man, and a woman.”

  “A woman?” Bustamante asked. “You want me to kill a woman?”

  “Yeah, I thought you said you didn’t have a problem with killing.”

  “You did not say you wanted me to kill a woman. It is bad luck to kill a woman.”

  “This isn’t just any woman,” Durbin said, speaking for the first time. “This woman is wearing a badge. She is the law.”

  “A woman sheriff?” Baker asked. “You’ve got a woman sheriff?”

  “She isn’t a sheriff, she is a city marshal.”

  “Oh,” Bustamante said. “If she is a mariscal, then she isn’t a woman. I will kill her.”

  “What is the woman’s name?” Baker asked.

  “O’Callahan.”

  “And who is the man you want killed?”

  “He is her deputy.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Jensen. Matt Jensen.”

  “Matt Jensen?” Baker turned toward the door. “Come on, Bustamante. Let’s go.”

  “Wait!” Bramley called. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not going to go up against Jensen for twenty-five hundred dollars,” Baker said.

  “What would it take?”

  “Five thousand.”

  Bramley drummed his fingers on the table for a moment before he answered. “All right,” he said. “Five thousand dollars. But I want both of them killed, and I don’t pay a cent until they are both dead.”

  Baker nodded. “We’ll do it.”

  Matt and Annabelle were strolling down Railroad Avenue, responding to the greetings from the townspeople.

  “Miss O’Callahan, my wife wants to know when you’re goin’ to open your shop back up,” one of the citizens said.

  “Why, Mr. Peabody, are you that anxious to spend some more money with me?” Annabelle asked, flashing a smile.

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am. I mean, well, my wife does like the dresses you make, and I don’t mind admittin’ that I like the way she looks in ’em.”

  “Jensen!” someone called. “Jensen!”

  Turning toward the sound of the voice, Matt saw someone standing in the street.

  “I’m callin’ you out, Jensen!”

  “Annabelle, get out of the way,” Matt said.

  “I’m the marshal here,” Annabelle said. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

  “Annabelle, please,” Matt said, and there was something about his voice, a pleading desperation, that made Annabelle listen.

  “All right,” Annabelle said, and she stepped back to the corner of the building.

  Upon hearing the issued challenge, the pedestrians and riders moved quickly to get out of the way and in less than a moment the street was empty, except for Matt and the man who had challenged him. But though they were alone in the middle of an empty street, the drama wasn’t without an audience, for scores of people, from the safety of buildings, were watching to see how it was about to play out.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this, Jensen,” the man in the street said.

  “Have we met?”

  “The name is Baker. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “I remember a Lynn and Harry Baker.”2

  “You killed them.”

  “Yeah, I did. They needed killing.”

  “They were my brothers.”

  “So you plan to get some revenge, do you?”

  “Somethin’ like that.”

  “I know your mama must be proud.”

  “Now!” Baker shouted loudly.

  Matt heard a gunshot from behind him, and turning quickly, he saw Annabelle holding a smoking gun in her hand. Turning back, he saw a man with a rifle fal
l from the roof of the mercantile. All that had taken Matt’s eye off Baker, who, taking advantage of Matt’s distracted moment, drew his pistol and, in a rare event, actually had his pistol out and fired before Matt drew. Matt’s draw, once he started it, was instantaneous, and he returned fire.

  Baker missed.

  Matt did not.

  With his pistol still in hand, Matt made a quick perusal of all the roofs of the other buildings, and seeing no further threats, he hurried over to Annabelle.

  “Did I . . . did I kill him?” she asked, timorously.

  “You sure as hell did,” Matt replied with a little chuckle.

  “Oh!”

  “Annabelle, if you hadn’t shot him when you did, I would be dead now.”

  “I saw him aiming his rifle at you so I aimed at him. And I remembered what you said about squeezing, rather than pulling, the trigger.

  “Annabelle, from my point of view, that may be the most valuable lesson I’ve ever taught. It, and you, saved my life.”

  “Jensen killed both of them?” Bramley asked.

  “No, and that’s the hell of it,” Durbin said. “Jensen kilt Baker, but it was the woman that kilt the Mex.”

  “What the hell is it goin’ to take to kill that son of a bitch?” Bramley asked in disgust.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  There were five men who rode into town, then stopped in front of the Pig Palace. The five were Prichard Crowley, Bill Carter, Lenny Fletcher, Dax Williams, and Titus Carmichael.

  “Come on in,” Carter said. “I’ll introduce you.”

  As the men started into the saloon, Prichard turned to Carter. “I believe you said that Bramley is the one who is generally in charge?”

  “Yeah,” Carter said.

  “Then he is the one I wish to meet.”

  Durbin was surprised to see Carter and Fletcher, and he hurried back to Bramley’s office.

  “Boss, you ain’t goin’ to believe who just come in,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “It’s Carter and Fletcher. I didn’t think we would ever see them again. I’d be willin’ to bet they was the ones that kilt Lila.”