“Twenty thousand dollars? Damn, with that much money, I don’t know but what I’d’a been tempted myself.”
“Tempted enough to shoot a fella between the eyes in cold blood?”
“No, I don’t reckon I could have done that. It would take someone who was particular mean to kill a man what had just been in a train wreck.”
“I heard the marshal talkin’ to Mr. Blanton over to the newspaper office. They’ll have posters out on this Jensen fella soon, and there’s a reward of five thousand dollars bein’ put up for him.”
“Ain’t enough, if you ask me. Anyone that would shoot somebody in cold blood after a train wreck? Hell, that fella needs to be caught and needs to be hung.”
“Yes, well, I reckon he was about to be hung anyway, or so I understand. He was bein’ took to Yuma for that very purpose. Besides which, the reward says ‘Dead or Alive.’”
“Hey, you, mister,” one of the customers said to Matt. “You was on the train, wasn’t you?”
Was this someone who had seen him being put on the train in chains, someone who could recognize him?
“Yes, you was on the train, I recognize you,” the man said.
Matt braced himself for a confrontation.
“You pulled how many out of that burning train? Ten? Fifteen? Mister, as far as I’m concerned, you’re a genuine hero.”
Matt relaxed.
“Folks,” the speaker said to the others. “While most the rest of us was wanderin’ around with our thumb up our ass wonderin’ what to do, why, this here fella was doin’. Fred, whatever this fella is drinkin’, I’m buyin’.”
“And I’ll buy the next one,” another patron said.
“Thank you,” Matt said, surprised by the unexpected accolades he was receiving. “But I thought I’d just have maybe one beer, then get something to eat.”
“If you don’t mind biscuits, bacon, gravy, and fried potatoes, you can eat here,” an attractive auburn-haired woman said. “On me,” she added.
“On you?”
“I’m Sally Fontaine. I own this place.”
“Well, I thank you, ma’am, but it’s not necessary for you to buy my supper. I can pay for it.”
“I know it isn’t necessary,” Sally said. “But from what I’ve heard about you, it would be my privilege to buy your supper.”
Matt smiled. “Thank you.”
“What’s your name, mister?” the saloon patron who had first pointed him out asked.
“Cavanaugh. Martin Cavanaugh.”
The patron lifted his beer mug, then called out loudly to the others in the saloon. “Here’s to Martin Cavanaugh!”
“Martin Cavanaugh!” the others answered as one.
“Here you go, sir,” Fred said, bringing Matt’s supper to his table.
“Thanks,” Matt said, digging into the meal, realizing this was the first time he had eaten all day. His plans to have a late breakfast in Purgatory this morning had been thwarted by a gunfight, a mockery of a trial, and then a train wreck. He ate his meal with much enthusiasm.
After his supper, Matt got into a card game. Playing very conservatively, and raising or calling only on sure hands, he doubled his money.
Leaving the saloon, he walked through the dark to the Homestead Hotel, only to learn that, due to the train wreck, there were no rooms available.
“Is there anyplace else in town that rents rooms?” he asked.
“There’s Ma Baker’s Boardin’ House, but it’s all full up as well.”
“I see,” Matt said. He turned to leave.
“Mister, was you on the train that had the wreck?”
“Yes, I was.”
“I’ll tell you what. The hotel don’t rent out stalls in the stable for sleepin’, and I’m not supposed to do this, but if you want, you can bed down in the stable out back. You ought to be able to find enough clean straw to accommodate you.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. “I reckon I’ll just take you up on that.”
“It’ll cost you a quarter.”
“I thought the hotel didn’t rent out the stalls for sleeping.”
“They don’t.”
“Then what’s the quarter for?”
“The quarter is for me for bein’ willin’ to take the risk,” the clerk said. “I could get fired if my boss found out.”
Matt chuckled, then reached down into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Sounds reasonable enough to me,” he said.
That night, lying in one of the stalls and looking through an open window of the stable at the moon and stars that were shining so brightly above, Matt thought about this day. He had rarely had a day so filled with events. He’d spent the previous night out on the desert, ridden into town for breakfast, killed a man who was bent on killing him, stood trial, been found guilty and sentenced to hang, been put in chains and placed on a train bound for Yuma Prison, then lived through a wreck of that same train. And to make matters worse, that wreck had been purposely caused by men named Odom, Bates, Paco, and Schuler.
Matt had run across Odom before, but he had never heard of any of the other three men. He knew their names only because he had heard them all call each other by name. He had also gotten a very good look at all of them. And while he had vowed to find them to avenge the death of the little girl he had pulled from the wreckage, he now had a new and even more important reason for finding them. If he could bring them justice, it would clear him of the murder of the deputy, and the theft of the money the train was transporting. That would still leave him wanted for the killing back in Purgatory, but he believed that a legitimate trial would settle that issue for him.
Matt picked up a piece of straw from his bed, smelled it to make certain it was clean, then stuck it in his mouth. As he sucked on the straw, he contemplated the path he had just laid out. It would be difficult at best. But for a man without money, and without a horse, it would be almost impossible.
His first order of business would have to be to get his horse and saddle back. He had money hidden in the saddle, and it was hidden so well that he would bet that, if he could recover the saddle, the money would still be there.
Chapter Ten
Joe Claibie worked as a hostler for the Maricopa Coach Line. But he also dealt in horses, sometimes buying horses from the stage line and reselling them. He was an honest man in his dealings, marking them up only enough to make a decent profit. But like many who worked with horses, there was always that dream that someday he might find a really great horse at a bargain price.
Although it didn’t seem likely that he would find such a horse at a marshal’s auction, he kept his eye on the horses that Marshal Cummins had confiscated from his prisoners. By law, Cummins was required to hold an auction, selling off each confiscated horse to the highest bidder. The money would then go into the Purgatory city coffers.
At first glance, it might seem unusual to realize that most of the auctioned property was bought by the marshal himself. But then, when one realized that the marshal had a habit of setting the “marshal’s auction sales” at odd times and in odd locations, it was easy to understand how that might happen.
The marshal had recently confiscated a particularly good-looking sorrel from the man who killed Deputy Gillis, and would be holding an auction soon. Claibie intended to take a look at the horse and if it looked good to him, he would make it a point to find out when, and where, the auction was to be held.
“I heard that the marshal confiscated the horse from the fella that shot Gillis,” Claiborn said to Deputy Jackson.
“It’s ‘Deputy’ Gillis,” Jackson said resolutely. “And he wasn’t just shot, he was murdered in cold blood.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sayin’ otherwise,” Claibie replied. “I’m just askin’ about the horse. Is it true that the marshal confiscated the man’s horse and is goin’ to hold an auction?”
“Yeah, that’s true, but I don’t know when the auction will be,” Jackson said. “It’ll be announced in the paper, same as it
always is.”
“Where’s the horse now?”
“It’s where the marshal keeps all his horses, down to the city corral,” Jackson said.
“I think I’ll walk down there and take a look at him,” Claibie said.
“Look out! Look out!”
Claibie heard the warning shout as he was approaching the corral and looking toward the commotion, he saw Kenny Watson, the young stable hand who worked for the city corral, on the ground. The horse rearing over the stable hand was now in the rampant position, and as it came back down, its slashing forelegs barely missed Kenny, who had to roll across the ground to get away from the horse. The horse reared again, but by now Kenny had rolled against a water trough. In this position, there was nowhere he could go to get away from the flailing stallion.
Without a second thought, Claibie grabbed a saddle blanket from the top rail of the fence, then vaulted over and hurried toward the horse, shouting and waving the blanket. Seeing Claibie and the flapping blanket, the horse stopped his attack against Kenny and came toward this new irritant.
“Kenny, get out of here while I keep him busy!” Claibie shouted to the young stable hand.
Kenny crawled and scrambled toward the fence, where he was helped up and over by eager hands.
Using the blanket as a bullfighter would a cape, Claibie managed to entice the horse into one, errant pass. The horse corrected himself and reared again, this time coming right at Claibie. At the last minute, Claibie jumped to one side, tossing his blanket at the horse as he did so. The blanket landed on the horse’s head, temporarily blinding him.
Now the creature reared and whinnied, kicking at the air in rage, as Claibie managed to make it back to the fence. The same hands who had helped Kenny out of the corral, now reached down to pull Claibie up and over the fence. He had barely made it when the horse tossed the blanket off. Then, looking around and seeing that his would-be victims were gone, the horse shook his head, blew, and then trotted back toward the other side of the corral as docilely as if nothing had happened.
“Thanks, Claibie,” Kenny said as he dusted himself off.
“Boy, what the hell did you do to get that horse so made at you?” Claibie asked.
“I didn’t do nothin’ except try to ride him,” Kenny replied. “I don’t know what got into that crazy horse.”
“He’s high-spirited all right,” Claibie agreed. “Is this the horse Marshal Cummins is goin’ to put up for auction?”
“Yeah,” Kenny said. “Though why anyone would want this horse is beyond me.”
Claibie looked at the sorrel, which was now prancing around the corral, lifting its legs high in an excess of energy and tossing its head.
“I’ll say this for him,” Claibie said. “He’s a good-looking horse.”
“Bein’ a pretty horse ain’t good enough if he tries to take your head off ever’ time you ride him.”
Claibie chuckled. “You’ve got a point there,” he said.
“I don’t understand the problem, though. The man that shot Deputy Gillis must’ve been ridin’ him,” Kenny said. “Or else, how would the marshal’ve got ahold of him?”
“Could be this is a one-man horse,” Claibie said.
“A one-man horse?”
“There are such horses, horses that are trained so that only one person can ride them,” Claibie said.
“That don’t make no sense to me,” Kenny said. “No, sir, that don’t make no sense a’tall. Why would anyone want to train a horse that way? You make him a one-man horse, that means you can never sell him.”
“It also means nobody can steal him,” Claibie said. “And when someone gets a horse like this one, well, I reckon the natural tendency is to want to hold on to him. And you can do that by training him so that only you can ride him.”
“You’ve worked with horses all your life, Claibie. You ever seen any other horses like this? I mean, trained so’s that only one person could ride ’em?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen them,” Claibie said.
“Well, can that ever change? I mean, you take this horse. You think this horse can ever be rode?” Kenny asked.
Claibie looked at the horse. The sorrel was now standing on the opposite side of the corral, looking back toward Claibie and Kenny.
“Yeah, I think it could be rode. By the right person anyway.” Claibie laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“The marshal isn’t the right person.”
“Think he’ll be able to sell him?” Kenny asked.
“Well, not at the auction, since if it goes true to form, he’ll have the auction in the middle of the night, when no one is there to bid against him. What happens afterward is anybody’s guess. Kenny, do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t tell the marshal that this is a one-man horse.”
Kenny looked confused for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. “All right,” he agreed. “I won’t say a word. But I sure plan to sneak me a peek first time Marshal Cummins tries to mount this critter. Yes, sir, that’s goin’ to be a sight to see.”
The reaction of any ordinary man who had, by circumstances, escaped the sentence of death by hanging would be not to return to the town that had handed down his sentence. But Matt Jensen was no ordinary man. Matt Jensen was a man with a mission. He planned to clear his name, and avenge the killing of an innocent little girl—not necessarily in that order.
To do this, Matt needed a horse, and the horse he wanted was Spirit, but Spirit was back in Purgatory.
“I can sell you a ticket to Purgatory if you don’t mind ridin’ up on the seat with the driver,” the ticket agent told Matt the next morning when he went to the stage depot to inquire about passage to Purgatory. “The thing is, you see, with the railroad between here ’n’ Purgatory still out, why, we’re runnin’ twice as many trips as normal, and ever’ one of ’em is full.”
“I don’t mind riding with the driver,” Matt said.
“Truth to tell, Mr. Cavanaugh, the ride is better up there anyhow,” the agent said as he handed Matt the ticket.
“Yes, I’ve ridden there before,” Matt said.
Matt took a seat in the waiting room, then watched as two others attempted to buy a ticket on the next stage, only to be turned away because the coach was full.
All the other passengers on the stage had come to Sentinel by the eastbound train. In Sentinel, they learned that they would have to leave the train, and continue by coach for the next thirty-six miles, before they could reboard an eastbound train at Purgatory.
“This is no way to treat customers,” one of the waiting passengers said. “I intend to write a strongly worded letter to the president of the Southern Pacific, expressing my displeasure.”
“The railroad doesn’t care,” another said. “To them, we are just tickets. They have no concern over the disruption they are causing.”
“They can be that way because they have no competition. If another railroad were to be built, believe me, I would take it.”
Matt thought of the injured and dead he had seen lying alongside the wrecked train, and he wanted to suggest to these complaining blowhards that they had no idea what had really caused the disruption. Instead, he just stood up and walked outside to get a breath of fresh air.
Outside, he saw a young man nailing a poster onto the wall of the stagecoach depot.
WANTED
Matt Jensen
for MURDER and TRAIN ROBBERY
$5,000 REWARD DEAD or ALIVE
Contact U. S. Marshal Ben Kyle, Yuma, A. T.
“Whoowee, wouldn’t I like to run across that fella?” someone said from behind Matt. Turning, he saw a short man with a gray beard and hair. The man spit out a stream of tobacco juice, then rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I don’t know,” Matt said. “If he’s a murderer, I’m not sure he’s the kind of person you would want to meet.”
“Sonny, for five thousand dollars, I’d take a ch
ance. Would you be Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“Yes,” Matt said. Turning, he saw an older man with a head of white hair and a full, white beard.
“I’m Gabby Martin,” the bearded man said. “I’ll be drivin’ the stage today. I’m told you’ll be ridin’ alongside me.”
“Yes, I will, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. It’s a six-hour trip to Purgatory, and it gets awful lonely up there by myself with nobody to talk to.” Gabby chuckled. “And it ain’t for nothin’ that they call me Gabby, if you get my meanin’.”
“I don’t mind a little conversation on a long trip,” Matt replied.
“Well, good for you, good for you,” Gabby said. “I reckon that’ll make this run just real pleasant.”
A few minutes later, a stagecoach drew up in front of the depot. The coach was weather-worn and the name on the door, MARICOPA COACH COMPANY, was so dim that it could scarcely be read.
Gabby chuckled. “I’ll be damn. I thought they had put this one in the barn forever,” he said. “I reckon, what with the railroad out ’n’ all, that Mr. Teasedale had to round up everything that rolls.”
The driver who had brought the stage around was a young man, and he set the brakes, then tied off the reins before he climbed down.
“Here you go, Mr. Martin,” the young man said. “It’s all ready for you.”
“Tell me, Johnny, do you think this old junk heap will make it all the way to Purgatory?” Gabby asked, only half-teasing.
“Oh, yes, sir, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble a’tall,” Johnny said. “You might remember that the right rear wheel had a flattened axle, but I packed it real good with a lot of grease. It should hold up just fine.”
Gabby stepped back to look at the wheel in question. A crown of black grease oozed out from the wheel hub. He grabbed the top of the wheel rim and pulled and pushed it a couple of times to examine the play in the wheel.
Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory Page 11