“They probably are. I wonder what they are doing back here.”
“I don’t know, but they ain’t alone. There’s three others with them.”
Bramley got up from behind his desk, then stood in his doorway and looked out over the floor of the saloon. He saw Carter, Fletcher, and three more men whom he had not seen before, standing at the bar. Bramley walked out to see them.
“This here’s the one I was tellin’ you about,” Carter said to Prichard.
“You are Mr. Bramley?” Prichard asked.
“Yeah, I’m Bramley. Who are you?”
“I could give you a phony name, but as a show of trust, I will tell you my real name. I am, sir, Prichard Crowley, at your service.”
“Crowley?”
“Mutt Crowley was my brother. I believe you knew him.”
“Yes. But I knew him as Morgan. What are you doing in Shady Rest, Crowley?”
“It has come to my attention, Mr. Bramley, that you and I share a mutual interest.”
“Like what?”
“The demise of Matt Jensen.”
“You got that right.”
“I am also led to believe that you are willing to pay to see that come about.”
“Why should I pay you for it, if you also want him dead?”
“As far as you are concerned, the fact that I want him dead should serve only to provide me with motivation to see the job done. That has nothing to do with whether or not I should be paid for the work.”
“All right, twenty-five hundred dollars, but there are two who must be killed. Jensen, and Annabelle O’Callahan.”
“Annabelle O’Callahan?” Ain’t she the woman that runs the dress shop?” Carter asked.
“Yes. But now she is also the city marshal.”
“Ha! Ain’t that somethin’, though?”
“Five thousand dollars,” Prichard said. “Payable, when the job is completed.”
“All right. Five thousand dollars,” Bramley agreed.
“Good. Now, Mr. Carter tells me that this street is called Plantation Row, is that correct?”
“It’s actually First Avenue, but yeah, people call it Plantation Row.”
“I wonder, Mr. Bramley, you being a man of some importance on this street, if you could empty all the buildings along Plantation Row, so that the street would be completely deserted?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Because it is my intention to lure Jensen onto this street, where I will have my men strategically positioned. We will have him in a cross fire, and it will be easier to do that, if no one else is here.”
“How will you get him to come down here?”
“You empty the building. I’ll take care of the rest,” Prichard said.
Half an hour later, despite protestations from Foster, Gimlin, and the proprietors of the dance hall, gambling house, and even the pawnshop, all the buildings were emptied except for the Pig Palace. And even the Pig Palace was emptied of its customers.
During the process of emptying the street, Prichard had been sitting at a table at the front window of the Pig Palace. He had a pencil, and he was marking something on a sheet of paper. When he was finished, he called his men over and pointed to a map he had drawn.
“All right,” he said. “Dax, you and Fletcher go on the other side of the street. Dax, you’ll be on top of this building, Fletcher you’ll be on this one,” he said, pointing to each building as he made the assignments. “Carter, you and Titus will be on top of these two buildings on this side of the street. I will get Jensen to come down here.... Dax, Titus, he will come by your positions first. Let him pass by you before you start to shoot. Once he passes you by, he’ll be in the middle of all four of you, in the street without cover. He’ll be easy to kill.”
“How are we going to get him to come down here?” Carter asked.
“I’ll be with the woman marshal,” Prichard said. “She’ll help me get Jensen down here. It’s going to be hot up there on the roofs of these buildings, so you may as well get yourselves a beer now to hold you over. As soon as you finish your beer, get into position. Oh, and use rifles—that will give you the advantage.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doin’?” Bramley asked.
“The ambush, Mr. Bramley, has been a classic military maneuver ever since a numerically inferior force of Gothics defeated the Romans in the Battle of Adrianople in the year 378. I think that tactic will work well here, especially as we will not only have the advantage of the ambush, but will also be superior in numbers.”
Bramley walked back over to the bar and poured himself a whiskey.
“He’s a dandy, ain’t he, boss?” Durbin said.
“Yes. Durbin, after he kills Jensen, I want you to kill him.”
Durbin smiled, then finished the beer he had been drinking. “It’ll be my pleasure,” he said.
Even though Annabelle was still the city marshal, she realized that she was going to have to get back to running her shop, if she intended to keep it open. She was in her shop now, and though her appearance—she was still wearing denim trousers with a belt and holster—was very different from what it had been before she took on the marshal’s position, it didn’t keep her from doing the things that needed to be done. She was draping fabric on a clothes dummy when she heard the front door of her shop open.
“I’ll be right with you,” she called and, still holding a tape measure in her hand, moved toward the front door. Expecting to see one of her woman clients, she was surprised to see a man standing there. He didn’t look like any of the habitués of Plantation Row. He was six feet tall, clean-shaven, with blond hair, and, Annabelle had to admit, he was rather attractive in a somewhat foppish way. “Oh!” she said.
“I’m sorry, miss. It was not my intention to startle you,” Prichard said.
“I’m not startled, just a little surprised. I expected to see one of my lady customers. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I certainly hope so, though I am calling on you in your capacity as an officer of the law, rather than seamstress. And it is quite fortuitous that you are a woman, because I believe the situation can best be handled by a woman.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can,” Annabelle said. “What is it?”
“Ah, I must say at the outset, that this entire thing is embarrassing. As a matter of fact, Martha Jane has been an embarrassment to our entire family, but”—here, Prichard looked down and paused for a moment before he continued—“my father—that is, our father, Martha Jane’s and mine—is dying. And despite the fact that he once turned Martha Jane out, he wants to see her one more time before he dies. I’ve come here to get Martha Jane and take her back to Norfolk, Virginia, with me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear about your father, mister . . .”
“Bixby. Jay Peerless Bixby.”
“Mr. Bixby. What, exactly, do you want me to do? Do you need me to convince Martha Jane to go with you?”
“No, Martha Jane wants to go, but she is a—I told you this was embarrassing—Martha Jane is a prostitute. And she owes money to the man that she works for. He has told her that she can’t go. I would like for you, as an officer of the law—and as a woman—to help me convince Martha Jane that the man she works for cannot keep her there against her will.”
“He most definitely cannot keep her there,” Annabelle said. “What is his name?”
“It is Bramley. Jacob Bramley. I’m told he is fairly well known in this community, though I suspect that it is more a matter of infamy than a positive reputation.”
“You certainly have that right,” Annabelle said. “He is a perfect beast of a man. Come, I’ll be glad to talk to him for you and your sister.”
“My, this is strange,” Annabelle said a few minutes later as they walked up First Street.
“What is strange?”
Annabelle looked up and down the street, and through the windows of the buildings. “I’ve never known Plantation Row to be th
is quiet before. It’s almost like a ghost town.”
“It does seem a little quiet, doesn’t it? Oh, this is the place. The Pig Palace,” Prichard said as they approached the saloon.
“Oh, yes, I know this place well,” Annabelle said.
“After you,” Prichard said, stepping back to let her walk through the batwing doors first.
The saloon was completely empty, with not even a bartender in place.
“What’s going on here? This is very odd,” Annabelle said.
Suddenly Prichard reached out from behind her, and jerked her pistol from the holster.
“What? What are you doing?”
“Upstairs, my dear,” Prichard said, his voice losing its dulcet tones to take on a more menacing character.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Annabelle saw Bramley, Durbin, the bartender, and three women. Unlike some of the prostitutes who worked at Suzie’s Dream House, Annabelle had never met any of the women who worked on Plantation Row, but she was fairly certain that these three women were prostitutes.
“You,” Prichard said to one of the women. “I want you to go find Matt Jensen, and tell him that Prichard Crowley is holding Annabelle O’Callahan in the Pig Palace.”
“No, I won’t do it,” the woman said.
Prichard switched the pistol to his left hand, and with his right hand took out a knife. He made a sweeping slash across the woman’s throat. With a look of total shock and fear, she put her hands to her neck, but could do nothing to stop the gushing blood. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she fell to the floor, where she lay with her eyes open wide in terror, until the light of life left them.
“You,” Prichard said pointing to one of the two remaining women. “Do be a good girl and go tell Matt Jensen that Prichard Crowley is holding Miss Annabelle O’Callahan prisoner in the Pig Palace. Tell him if he wants to see her alive again, he had better come down to Plantation Row.”
The woman’s eyes were wide open in terror; then, nodding, she left, hurrying down the stairs.
“Mr. Jensen! Mr. Jensen! Please, someone, call Mr. Jensen!” a woman screamed as she started running up Railroad Avenue. “Mr. Jensen!”
Matt was in the leather goods store, looking at a pair of boots, when he heard the woman calling his name. He went out into the street and saw her running, screaming, and flailing her hands about.
“Mr. Jensen! Oh, please, where is Mr. Jensen?”
“Miss! I’m Matt Jensen!”
The woman stopped, then ran toward him. “He killed her! He killed Karla!”
“Who killed her? Bramley?”
“No, he said his name is, uh, Richard? Richard Crowley.”
“Do you mean Prichard Crowley?”
“Yes, that’s it! He sent me to get you, Mr. Jensen. He said to tell you that he has Miss O’Callahan.”
“Annabelle? Has he done anything to Annabelle?”
“No, sir, not yet. But he said if you wanted to see her alive again that you had better come down to Plantation Row.”
“Thanks,” Matt said.
Matt hurried to the stage depot, where he saddled Spirit.
“Goin’ out for another ride, are you?” Tobin asked.
Matt pulled his rifle from the sheath, then opened the loading tube and found that he could put two more shells in. He did that; then he jacked a round into the chamber.
“What’s goin’ on, Matt?” Tobin asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” Matt answered. “But I’m about to find out.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Swinging into the saddle, Matt rode up to the intersection of Railroad Avenue and First Street.
“Sorry to get you into this, boy,” he said. “But we’ve been in spots like this before.”
Turning up First Street, he started riding slowly toward the far end of the road. The way was completely empty, and at first he thought it was just that everyone had gotten off the street. But he quickly learned that it was more than that. Not only the street, but every building on either side was empty.
He could feel a tingling on the back of his neck, and he knew that someone was aiming at him. Then he saw him—not the actual person, but his shadow on the ground in front of him. He saw the false front of a building, and he saw the silhouette of a man, holding a rifle.
“Go!” he shouted, slapping his legs against Spirit’s sides. Spirit leaped forward like a cannonball, just as the man on the roof fired. The bullet whizzed behind him, and plunged into a watering trough.
With Spirit still at a gallop, Matt twisted in his saddle, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and fired. His would–be assailant dropped his own rifle, then tumbled over the edge. Matt heard the crash of him hitting the ground.
“Ahh,” Prichard said in an oily voice. “The game has started.”
Annabelle was lying spread-eagle on a bed in one of the rooms used by the prostitutes. Her arms had been tied by her wrists to the headboard of the iron bedstead, while her legs had been tied, by her ankles, to the footboard. She had also been gagged. The one remaining prostitute was sitting in the corner, as frightened as Annabelle.
“My dear,” Prichard said. “Do you have any idea how lovely you look that way? So delightfully vulnerable. I must confess, I have rather a weakness for attractive young women. It’s more than a weakness—I dare say it is a pathological disorder that I’m quite unable to resist. When this is over, I’ll show you exactly what I mean.”
Prichard reached down to grab himself. “Yes,” he said. “It will be—so good.”
Because of the gag, Annabelle was unable to respond, but her eyes grew wider in fear.
From outside she heard more gunfire, and though she knew that the gunfire was being directed toward Matt, she drew some comfort in the realization that if they were still shooting, that meant Matt was still alive.
Matt killed his second assailant on the opposite side of the street from where the first had been.
“Carter? Carter, you still alive?” The shout came from the Crooked Branch Saloon, and Matt turned Spirit toward the saloon. Riding hard, Spirit leaped up onto the boardwalk; then, with Matt bending low over the horse’s head, Spirit crashed through the batwing doors and went inside the saloon.
“Hold up here, Spirit. You’ll be safer here.”
“What the hell! Where did he go? Carter, did you see where he went?”
Matt ran up the stairs, then down the upstairs hallway to the back window. The window was raised, and cautiously, Matt looked out, then up. He saw that he could stand on the windowsill and reach up to grab the edge of the roof. He could pull himself up that way, provided there wouldn’t be someone on the roof waiting for his head to pop up. But, if he did climb up, he would have to do so without his rifle. He stood the rifle in the corner, climbed out onto the windowsill, then reached up to grab the roofline.
It wasn’t as easy as it looked, but he was able to pull himself up until he could improve his position so that, now, he was pushing down on the roof rather than pulling up, and, leaning the upper half of his body onto the roof, he threw up his right leg onto the roof, then rolled the rest of his body over.
He was still on the edge of the roof when someone came running across the roof toward him.
“You son of a bitch! How did you get up here?”
The man who was coming toward him was armed with a rifle rather than a pistol, and that made it awkward for him to get into position to shoot Matt. Matt reached up to grab the barrel of the rifle; then he jerked it down, and putting the muzzle onto the roof, caused the would-be shooter to vault completely over the edge. The man screamed on the way down, though the scream lasted less than a second.
Matt looked down into the alley below and he could tell by the way the way the body was twisted on the ground that the man was dead.
Bending over at the waist, Matt ran across the roof until he reached the upright part of the false front. Pulling his pistol, he looked around the edge cautiously.
“Fletcher!
Fletcher, what happened? Who was that, that screamed?”
The shout came from the roof of the Pig Palace, which was just across the street.
“Fletcher? Dax? Where are you?”
He called two names and Matt knew that he had now killed three. Was this the only one left? Was this Prichard? No, he had heard the name Carter being called. That meant there had to be at least two left, Carter and Prichard. And they were probably in the Pig Palace, which meant that was where he was going to have to go.
It was easier coming down from the roof than it had been climbing up because he was able to use the ladder that was built in to the side of the building. He climbed down, then went back into the saloon, where Spirit was standing, patiently waiting for him.
“All right, Spirit, we’re going try and trick them. You just go real slow, and do what I tell you to do.”
Across the street, on top of the Pig Palace, Carter was getting worried. He had seen Titus killed, but he hadn’t heard anything from Fletcher or Dax. Had they also been killed? Was he the only one left? He wasn’t going to face Jensen alone, no way.
Then he saw something across the street. It was the horse, the horse Jensen had been riding. He had seen Jensen ride into the Crooked Branch; now his horse was coming out.
He raised his rifle to be ready, but there was nobody on the horse. The horse came slowly out into the street, turned to Carter’s right, then just ambled on up toward the other end of the street as casually as if grazing in a pasture.
“What the hell? What happened to Jensen?” Carter asked aloud. “Maybe he’s dead!” he said, hopefully.
When Spirit reached the far end of the street, Matt, who was hanging to the side of his horse, totally out of view, turned him so that he crossed the street, still doing so in a way that kept him hidden. Then, Matt jumped down, led Spirit in between two of the buildings, and found a brace to tie him off. That done, he darted quickly up the alley until he reached the back of the Pig Palace. Again he climbed to the roof, but this time he was able to use the ladder.
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man The Eyes of Texas Page 24