The Great Train Massacre

by William W. Johnstone

  “Do you see the sumbitch?” a voice called.

  “No. I wonder if we kilt ’im. Why don’t you go down there ’n take a look? I’ll keep you covered.”

  “The hell with that! You go take a look, ’n I’ll keep you covered.”

  “No need to look, I’m right here,” Matt called. He had hoped his answering them would cause them to shoot at him so he could locate them by the wisps of gun smoke, but he got no response.

  There was a long moment of silence from the two men, then Matt heard the sound of horses hooves, and when he raised up to have a look, he saw that the two men had mounted and were now galloping toward him. Both had pistols in hand and they were shooting at Matt as they approached. The bullets were close enough that he could hear them buzz and pop as they flew by him.

  Matt returned fire, and he saw a puff of dust rising from the vest of one of the riders and a spray of blood from the head of the other. The one he hit in the chest pitched backward out of his saddle. One foot hung up in the stirrup and his horse continued to run, raising a plume of water as he was dragged through the stream. As the horse tried to climb the bank out of the water, the shooter’s foot disconnected from the stirrup and he lay motionless, half in and half out of the water.

  Matt ran over to him, surprised to see that he was still breathing, though he knew he wouldn’t be alive much longer.

  “How the hell did you know we were there?” the shooter asked.

  “Just a feeling I had,” Matt replied.

  “That’s some feelin’. I’m dyin’, ain’t I?”

  “I expect you are.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Those were his last words. He gasped two more times, then died.

  Matt looked over his shoulder as he led the two horses across the swiftly running stream. Each of the horses was carrying a body, belly down across its back. He didn’t really know which body belonged to which horse, and he didn’t care; he had just tossed the two dead men on, first come, first served.

  He had been underway for about half an hour when he realized that two more men were following him. They weren’t exactly following him, it was more like they were keeping pace with him, riding parallel, and keeping a ridge between them. They were pretty good at what they were doing, but Matt was better.

  Matt rode on for a couple of miles more, waiting to see if they would make their move, then decided not to wait any longer. He would make the first move.

  The opportunity presented itself when the trail led in between two parallel rows of hills. Once into the defile he dropped the lines to the two horses, knowing that they would continue at the pace he had established and, because they were in a draw, they couldn’t wander off. Then he galloped ahead about two hundred yards until he crossed over the ridge line, which put him ahead of the two men who were following him. Dismounting, he climbed onto a rocky ledge to wait for them to appear.

  It didn’t take long. He waited until they were right on him, then he suddenly stood up. He realized then that he hadn’t chosen the best place to confront them, because he was staring right into the setting sun.

  “Hello, boys, don’t you think it’s about time we met?”

  “How’d you get here?” one of the riders shouted as he started for his gun.

  “Don’t do that!” Matt shouted, holding his empty hand out toward the two riders.

  The rider pulled his hand back. “Who are you?” he asked. “And what are you doing here?”

  “I expect you already know my name,” Matt said. “That’s why you’re following me, isn’t it?”

  “You’re Matt Jensen, ain’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “They’s paper out on you, Jensen.”

  “It’s worthless.”

  “The hell you say. It says you’re worth five hunnert dollars.”

  “It’s not a paper put out by the law,” Matt said.

  “Hell, Jensen, I don’t care whether the law put it out or not. Five hunnert dollars is five hunnert dollars, no matter who pays it.”

  “If you try and collect it, you won’t live long enough to ever see it.”

  “Did you kill them two bodies that’s belly down on their horses?” the other rider asked.

  “I did.”

  “What did you kill ’em for?”

  “I killed them because they were trying to kill me.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “No.”

  “One of ’em is Enos Walker, ’n the other one is Jake Breen. They was friends of our’n.”

  “Like you, they were trying to collect a phony reward. If you two are smart, you won’t make the same mistake. I’d advise you men to just walk away now.”

  The talkative one laughed. “That’s real funny, you talkin’ about us walkin’ away. Like I told you, you’re worth five hunnert dollars. That means we ain’t goin’ to be walkin’ away from this, ’n neither are you.”

  “Oh, I think I will,” Matt said easily. He lifted his hand to block out the sun.

  “Ha! Sun in your eyes, is it?” the talkative one asked.

  “I’ll admit, it is a little bothersome,” Matt replied.

  By then the sounds of the hoofbeats echoed through the draw. “That’ll be the two horses with . . . who did you say they were? Walker and Breen? So if you boys will excuse me, I’ll gather them up and be on my way.”

  Matt turned away from them and as he did so, he looked at the shadows of the two men, which were cast against the rocky wall in front of him. As he thought they might, both men made a grab for their guns.

  Matt drew and whirled around, startling the two men with the quickness of his reaction. He fired two times in rapid succession. Only one of the two men managed to even get off a shot, and because it was a wild shot as he was going down, it hit the rock wall, then careened off down the canyon. Both men were knocked from their saddles and both were mortally wounded.

  Matt now had four horses to lead, each horse bearing a body, but it took less than half an hour to reach a town that was identified at its edge by black letters on a small white sign.

  GRIZZLY FLATS

  Population 508

  Just inside the town limits a dog started running alongside the four horses, yapping at the bodies that were draped across the horses’ saddles.

  “Look at that! Them’s bodies, ain’t they?” someone asked.

  “Yeah them’s bodies. What else would they be?”

  “Who are they? Does anyone recognize ’em?”

  “Whoever they are, they ain’t nobody I’ve ever seen before.”

  “Who are them men you’re a totin’ there, mister?” someone shouted.

  “Did you kill ’em?” another asked.

  Matt neither responded to the shouted questions, nor glanced toward the questioners. Instead, with eyes straight ahead, he continued to ride on into town. He saw a water pump on one side of the street, and realizing that he was thirsty, he headed toward it, leading the four body-laden horses. There was a young boy standing at a pump, and though he had been filling a bucket with water, he stopped pumping the handle and just stood there, staring in morbid fascination at Matt and his gruesome load.

  “Son, are you finished with the pump?” Matt asked.

  The boy didn’t give a verbal reply, but he did nod.

  “Good. Would you mind filling that dipper with water and handing it to me, please?”

  Matt flipped the boy a quarter, and when boy saw the coin, the look of shock on his face was replaced with a big smile.

  “Yes, sir!” he said, and lifting the dipper from its hook, worked the pump handle a couple of times, then handed it to Matt. Matt turned the dipper up and began drinking, allowing the water to cascade down each side of his mouth and wet his shirt.

  “Would you point out the sheriff’s office?” Matt asked as he took the dipper down.

  The boy pointed to a building about halfway down the street. By now, several people, seeing or hearing about a strange man ridin
g into town with four bodies draped over horses, had come outside to see for themselves. Then a man came out of the building that had been pointed out to him by the boy, and Matt saw a flash of reflective light from the badge on the man’s shirt.

  Matt dismounted, took a canteen down from his saddle and held it under the mouth of the pump, then began working the handle, filling it. The man who was approaching him looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. He was rawhide slender, with dark hair that was laced with ribbons of gray. He had dark eyes and a big curving moustache.

  For just a moment the man stood there without saying a word. The silence was broken only by the sound of the clacking pump handle and the gurgle of water. Finally, the man with the badge nodded toward the four bodies, then he spoke.

  “These here bodies. This your doin’? Or did you find ’em on the trail?”

  “It’s my doing,” Matt answered as he continued to work the pump handle.

  “Are you telling me you killed all four of ’em?”

  “All four of them.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “I know the names of two of them,” Matt said as he closed his canteen. “One of them is Walker, and one of them is Breen. Or, so I was told. I don’t know which is which, and I don’t know their first names.”

  “Were you also told that there was a reward on them?”

  “Is there a reward on them?”

  “You a bounty hunter?” the sheriff asked, without answering the question.

  “No. But if there is a reward on them, I’ll take it.”

  “Tell you the truth, mister, I don’t much hold with bounty hunters. They’ll go after someone that’s got a dead or alive price on their head, and they most never bring ’em in alive. More often than not, they’ll sneak up on ’em and shoot ’em in the back.”

  “Check them out, Sheriff. You’ll see that the holes are in front,” Matt said, easily. He turned the canteen up and took a long drink, as the sheriff checked out the bodies.

  Chapter Six

  The sheriff checked the bodies, then nodded. “You’re tellin’ the truth. All four was shot in front. You said Walker and Breen. You know who the other two men are?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  “If you don’t know who they are, why did you kill ’em?”

  “For the same reason I killed Walker and Breen. They were trying to kill me.”

  “Well, this one,” the sheriff said, pointing to the one who had been so talkative, “is Ross Martell. And this one is Pete Dooley. They’ve got a price on their heads, too. For someone who doesn’t claim to be a bounty hunter, you’ve done pretty well for yourself today. There’s two hundred and fifty dollars reward on each one of them. That’s a thousand dollars you’ve made in one day, which is a whole year’s salary for me. Why would they be trying to kill you?”

  Matt smiled. “As it turns out, I have a price on my head as well.”

  “What? Look here, mister. Who are you, anyway?”

  “The name is Jensen. Matt Jensen.”

  The frown on the sheriff’s face was replaced by a smile and he stuck out his hand.

  “Matt Jensen! Well, I’ll be damned! Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I’ve heard of you, Jensen. Hell, I don’t know many people who haven’t heard of you. I’m Sheriff Ben Curtis. Listen, it will more than likely be a couple of days for the reward to be paid. I hope you’ll stick around town until we can get the funds transferred.”

  “For that much money, I’ll be glad to stay around,” Matt said.

  “Wait a minute. Did you say you had a price on your head?”

  Matt reached into his pocket and took out the folded piece of paper. “I’ve seen a few of these posted around,” he said, turning over the poster he had taken from the tree.

  “This here says you’re wanted for murder, but, even though it’s printed up real nice, I don’t see no lawman’s name on it.”

  “That’s because it’s not official. I’ve seen such flyers before, though I’ve never seen any that were printed up as nice as this one,” Matt said. “From time to time someone will take it on himself to get revenge if I’ve killed a relative or a good friend. Not long ago I was working as a railroad detective, and I stopped a train holdup, and I had to kill three of the robbers in the attempt. I expect this is related to that.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t see how somebody can just take it on hisself to put out wanted posters though.”

  “It says contact the Solari Building in San Francisco,” Matt said. “I don’t know what that is, but I doubt there are any of these posters in California.”

  “I reckon you’re right. Let’s get these stiffs delivered to Potashnick. He’s the undertaker here. Then come on down to the Anderson’s Saloon with me, and I’ll buy you a beer,” Sheriff Curtis said.

  “I should be the one buying, Sheriff. I’m the one that’s going to get the reward.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it,” Sheriff Curtis said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It won’t be me buyin’ you a beer anyhow. It’ll be the town.”

  Half an hour later Matt was in the Anderson’s Saloon, being introduced by Sheriff Curtis to the others, as if the sheriff and Matt were old, and longtime friends.

  “You might remember them fellers that held up the stagecoach last month and kilt the driver,” the sheriff said. “Well, I’m happy to report that all four of ’em are down at the undertaker now, ’n Matt Jensen is the one who put ’em there.”

  The four men Matt shot were on display for a short time in front of the Potashnick Undertaking Parlor. They were wearing the same clothes they had been wearing when they were brought in, and because the town wouldn’t pay any money for embalming, they weren’t embalmed. The only accommodation made for them was a rough, pine box, and all four boxes were standing up. There were several people standing around staring at them, and there was a hat on a table in front of the four boxes and a sign that read:

  Everyone deserves a Christian burial.

  PLEASE DONATE.

  Matt put twenty dollars into the hat.

  “Do you think you can buy off your conscience with twenty dollars?” someone asked.

  “My conscience isn’t bothering me,” Matt said.

  “I understand you’ll be getting blood money for killing these men.”

  “Yes, one thousand dollars, or so I’ve been told.”

  “Mister, you didn’t even give these men a chance to come in and stand trial. Everyone deserves a fair trial.”

  “You’ve got that right. I couldn’t agree with you more,” Matt said.

  “Then why didn’t you bring them in so they could stand trial?”

  “Why would I have done that? I didn’t even know they were wanted.”

  “What? You mean you killed them for no reason?”

  “Mister, do you know who you are talking to?” one of the others asked. “You’re talking to Matt Jensen.”

  “I don’t care who he is, everyone deserves a fair trial.”

  “As I said, I agree with you,” Matt said, refusing to be agitated by the heckler. “Everyone deserves a fair trial.”

  “But you didn’t give these four gentlemen a fair trial, did you?”

  “Well, if you put it that way, I guess I didn’t,” Matt said.

  One of the men in the group who had been listening to the exchange between Matt and the obnoxious heckler turned and walked away from the others. When he was some distance away, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and looked at it. It was exactly like the paper Matt had shown the sheriff the night before. It was a five-hundred-dollar reward.

  He walked into the Muddy Bottom, which was somewhat rougher in character than the Anderson’s Saloon. There, he joined two other men who were sitting at a table in back of the saloon. A bar girl was on the knee of one of the two men.

  “What do you think, Jed? Ira thinks this girl has fallen in love with him,” the man without the
girl said by way of greeting.

  “You’re just jealous, Andy, ’cause she ain’t sittin’ on your lap.”

  “Leave,” Jed said to the girl.

  “What?”

  “I said leave.” Jed made a gesture with his thumb.

  “Well, I . . .”

  “You better go,” Ira said, pushing the girl off his knee.

  “Well, don’t expect me to be back here soon,” the girl said in a huff as she walked away.

  “We don’t have to worry ’bout Breen ’n his bunch gettin’ to Jensen before we do,” Jed said.

  “Why not?”

  “They’re all four standin’ up dead down at the undertakers, that’s why not.”

  “All four of ’em? What happened to ’em?”

  “Jensen kilt ’em.”

  “I don’t believe that. I mean, he couldn’t ’a possibly kilt all four of ’em. Could he?”

  “Kilt ’em, ’n is goin’ to collect a thousand-dollar reward for ’em.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Unless we collect it first,” Jed said.

  “How are we goin’ to do that?”

  “We’ll accuse Jensen of stealin’ them bodies from us and use that as our excuse to pick a fight with Jensen. If we provoke ’im, we can kill ’im in broad daylight, ’n there won’t be no murder charges. Also, oncet he’s dead, we’ll push our claim to the sheriff that we was the ones that kilt Breen, Walker, Martel, and Dooley. ’N with Jensen dead, there won’t be nobody to say otherwise. We can collect that thousand, and the five hunnert for killin’ Jensen, ’n that’ll give us five hunnert dollars apiece.”

  “You’re forgettin’ one thing,” Andy said.

  “What’s that?”

  “He kilt Breen ’n the others, ’n they was four of them. If he could kill four of them, what makes you think he couldn’t kill three of us?”