Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory

by William W. Johnstone

  “What the hell were you doing in there anyway, you goddamn drunk?” the cowboy asked Schuler. “You ain’t had a woman in so long, you wouldn’t even know what a naked woman looks like.”

  “I’m sorry,” Schuler said.

  “Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t get it,” the angry cowboy said. “Just get the hell out of the way and let a man get his business done.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” Schuler repeated.

  Schuler followed Paco to the head of the stairs, then stopped for a moment in order to steady himself before he tackled the task of going down the narrow, steep flight of stairs. By holding on to the banister, he managed to negotiate them; then, standing on the main floor, he looked around the saloon for the others.

  “Do you want breakfast, Señor?” Paco asked.

  “Breakfast? No,” Schuler answered, the expression on his face reflecting his nausea over the thought of breakfast. “Where are Odom and Bates?” he asked.

  “Odom said we are to meet him and Bates in Puxico.”

  “We are to meet them in Puxico? Why?”

  “We will divide the money there.”

  “I don’t understand. Didn’t we divide the money last night?”

  “Sí, we divided the money last night. But then we gave the money back to Señor Odom.”

  “We did?” Schuler replied.

  “Sí.”

  “Why did we do that?”

  “Señor Odom said it would be better if we went to Puxico before we divided the money. Do you not remember this, amigo? We talked about it, and we all agreed.”

  “No, I—I don’t remember,” Schuler said. His confusion was very evident now. “I don’t think I would agree to such a thing. I don’t want to go to Puxico.”

  “That’s because you were drunk, Señor,” Paco said.

  Schuler ran his hand through his thinning, white hair. “All right,” he said. “Are you coming?”

  “You go, Señor, I will come later,” Paco said.

  “Puxico?”

  “Sí, Puxico.”

  Paco watched Schuler leave the saloon, then he walked over to the window. He saw Schuler saddle his horse and ride away before he walked back into the saloon to sit at one of the tables.

  “Do you want breakfast, Paco?”

  “Sí.”

  “Beans, tortillas?”

  “No, Señor. I want steak, eggs, and coffee.”

  “Ha! Did Rosita give you some money or something? You are ordering like a rich man.”

  Paco laughed, then thought of the saddlebags he had hidden in his room. In them, he had almost eight thousand dollars, counting the money he had just stolen from Schuler.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The battlefield was a cacophony of sound, with the tinny calls of bugles, the distant roar of cannon fire, the closer rattle of musketry, and the wailing moans of the wounded. It was also a kaleidoscope of images: flags fluttering atop carried staffs, shells bursting in air, and smoke drifting across the field.

  “You’d better get ready,” the colonel said. “We have just been committed to battle. I expect there will be casualties.”

  “I’m ready, Colonel.”

  Overhead, there was a sound, not unlike that of an unattached rail car rolling quickly down a track. It was an incoming shell from the Yankee artillery, and it burst with an ear-shattering explosion nearby.

  “Dr. Presnell?”

  Dr. Presnell heard the long roll of drums, as the Tenth Georgia was called into a line of battle.

  “Dr. Presnell?”

  There were already too many wounded. Why were they going to attack again? He was just one doctor, he couldn’t handle everyone all by himself.

  “Dr. Presnell?”

  There was another cannon blast, this one so close that it woke him up.

  Woke him up?

  “Dr. Presnell?” someone was saying.

  Outside, there was a thunderstorm in progress, and a flash of lightning turned the dimly lit room into the brightest day, but just for an instant. It was followed almost immediately by another roar of thunder. Rain, like the rattle of musketry and the roll of drums, slashed against the windows of the school building.

  Doc rubbed his eyes. He had been dreaming!

  “Dr. Presnell?” Harry White was saying. White, who was Sentinel’s only pharmacist, was helping tend to those who had been injured in the train wreck.

  “Yes, Harry?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” White said. “But you said you wanted to know if Mr. Carter’s fever broke.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Doc said. “So, it broke, did it?”

  “About five minutes ago,” White said. White smiled. “You know what? I think all the rest of them might pull through now.”

  Doc stood up, stretched, then returned White’s smile. “I think you may be right,” he said. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you there.”

  “Oh, my, don’t apologize,” White said. “You have been tending to these people night and day for several days now. Many of them would have died, had it not been for you.”

  “I’ve had help,” Doc said. “You have been invaluable to me.”

  “Thank you,” White answered.

  “I guess I’ll walk around and have a look at them.”

  There was another flash of lightning and roar of thunder.

  “Some storm we’re having,” Doc said.

  “Yes, it is. A few are disturbed by it, but I think it’s just because they are still traumatized by the train wreck.”

  “Yes, I think you are right,” Doc said, as he walked up to look at the first of his many patients.

  Dr. Galen Presnell was a veteran of the Civil War. He had participated in many campaigns throughout the war, but none worse than Gettysburg, where he treated battlefield wounds that ranged from mere scratches to traumatic amputations. But not since that time had he been involved with such massive numbers of dead and injured. Thirty-three men, women, and children had been killed in the train wreck. Forty more were injured, twelve of whom were seriously injured.

  The number of dead had overwhelmed the town’s only undertaker, so two more undertakers had come to help Albriton, one from Stanwix and one from Mohawk Summit. Those were the next two towns west of Sentinel on the Southern Pacific line, thus making it easy for them to come over.

  Seth McKenzie, who owned the wagon repair shop, had cleared a place in his warehouse for the bodies to be stored until they could be shipped back home. At the same time, the school building had been turned into a makeshift hospital, there being no hospital in Sentinel, and Dr. Presnell’s office not being big enough to handle those who required hospitalization.

  Dr. Presnell stopped by the bed of each of his patients, spoke for a moment with the ones who were awake, assuring one and all that the worst had passed.

  “Cannon fire,” one man said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Doc replied.

  There was more thunder, but this was distant, a long, low, growling roar.

  “The thunder, it sounds like cannon fire,” the patient said.

  “I take it you have heard cannon fire on the battlefield,” Doc said.

  “Yes, I was with the Second Wisconsin at Gettysburg. Colonel Fairchild’s Regiment.”

  Doc put his hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I was at Gettysburg as well.”

  “Then you know what I mean when I say it sounds like cannon fire.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “Who were you with?”

  “I was with the Tenth Georgia, under Colonel John B. Weems, assigned to General James Longstreet’s First Army Corps.”

  For a moment, the two men looked at each other. Once committed to a battle that made them deadly enemies, they were now experiencing a moment of reflection that no one else in the room could share, or even understand.

  “Welcome home, brother,” Doc said.

  “Welcome home, Doc,” the patient replied.

  By the time Doc finished his rounds,
the thunder had moved off and was now little more than a distant rumble. White was standing by a window looking outside when Doc stepped up alongside him.

  “Looks like the rain has stopped,” White said.

  “Harry, if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave these folks with you for a while. I think I’m going to go over to the Ox Bow to have a beer.”

  “You go right ahead, Doctor,” White replied. “Lord knows you have earned it.”

  The rain had left the streets a muddy quagmire, but fortunately, the school building and the saloon, though at opposite ends of the town, were on the same side of the street. Doc was able to negotiate the distance with a minimum need to walk in the mud. Nevertheless, he did have to spend a moment scraping mud from his shoes before he stepped into the Ox Bow.

  The Ox Bow was brightly lit with overhead chandeliers and lantern sconces throughout. After he had spent the entire day in the makeshift hospital, the bright and cheery atmosphere of the saloon was a dramatic and very welcome change.

  “Doc,” Boomer called from a table at the back of the saloon. “Come on back and join us.”

  Answering the summons, Doc picked his way through the crowd toward Boomer. As he got closer, he saw that Sally was sitting with him.

  “How is it going with all those people from the train, Doc?” Dave Vance asked. Vance owned the leather goods store. “Have we lost any more?”

  “No, and I don’t think we will lose any more now,” Doc answered. “I think we’re through the worst of it.”

  “You’re a good man, Doc,” one of the other customers said.

  “Hey, ever’body, let’s hear it for Doc!” still another shouted. “Hip, hip!”

  “Hoorah!”

  “Hip, hip!”

  “Hoorah!”

  “Hip, hip!”

  “Hoorah!”

  “Doc, let me buy you a drink!” Vance called out to him.

  “Well, I would appreciate that, Dave,” Doc replied. He pointed to the table where Boomer and Sally were sitting. “But would you mind if I took it back there to the table with Sally and Boomer? I need to get a load off my feet.”

  “Doc, you can have your drink anywhere you want it,” Vance said.

  “Thanks.” Doc worked his way through the crowd to Boomer and Sally’s table while shaking hands with the many well-wishers who offered to shake.

  “Boomer, Sally,” Doc said as he joined the deputy and the pretty saloon owner at their table.

  “Well, Doc, you ought to run for mayor or something,” Boomer said. “Right now it looks like you’re about the most popular man in town.”

  “I think it’s just folks feeling pretty good about the fact that the worst is over,” Doc replied.

  “And their acknowledgment of the fact that it’s because of you,” Sally said. “No, sir, Doc, whatever accolades you get now, you more than deserve.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, Sally, I really do,” Doc said.

  “Hey, Doc, Dave Vance is buying you a drink. What’ll it be?” the bartender called over to him.

  “Hello, Fred,” Doc called back. “After this last two days, I’m not drinking for pleasure, I’m drinking for medicinal purposes. How about a whiskey, with a beer chaser?”

  “You got it,” Fred said. “I’ll throw in the beer chaser myself.”

  “How are things going, Doc?” Sally asked. “Do you really think the worst is over?”

  “I think so, yes. I’m almost positive we won’t lose any more. Actually, I think nearly all of them can go home within another couple of days. We had the last critically injured man die last night. His name was Walter Casey, and he was from Chicago. Can you imagine, coming all the way down here from Chicago, just to get killed in a train wreck?”

  “Yes, and not even an ordinary train wreck,” Boomer said. “It’s a train wreck that somebody caused, just so they could rob the train.”

  “You have to wonder what kind of man would cause a train wreck and kill all those people just for a few dollars,” Doc said, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Hanging is too good for whoever did it,” Boomer said.

  “Oh, there’s Ben,” Sally said, her face brightening at the sight of Marshal Kyle coming into the saloon.

  “Ben,” Doc said. “Join us for a beer.”

  “I don’t mind if I do, Doc,” Kyle said.

  “Did you talk to Miz Dobbs?” Boomer asked.

  “Louise Dobbs?” Doc asked.

  “Yes,” Kyle said as he joined the others at the table.

  “How is Mrs. Dobbs doing? I know she broke her arm. Is it giving her much trouble?”

  “She seems to be handling that all right,” Kyle said. “She’s having a hard time over the death of her daughter, though. I didn’t plan it, but I got there just as they were having her funeral.”

  “That must have been awkward,” Sally said.

  “It was at first, but they seemed to think I had come out there just for that purpose, and they made me feel very welcome,” Kyle said.

  “Jeremiah and Louise Dobbs are good people,” Doc said.

  “Poor thing, my heart goes out to her.” Sally said.

  “So, how did your talk with her go?” Boomer asked.

  “I didn’t get too much out of her,” Kyle said. “Evidently she believes that Jensen saved not only her life, but the lives of several others who were on the train, so she’s not all that disposed toward giving any information that might help find him.”

  “How does she know that it was Jensen who saved her life?”

  “Turns out that she and her son Jerry are the only two who could identify him because they saw him back in Purgatory. Then, when he came into the car to get her out, Mrs. Dobbs recognized him,” Kyle said. Kyle looked over at Doc. “She said he helped you, Doc.”

  “Helped me?”

  “Yes. She said he rode in the car with you on the relief train, helping you tend to the injured.”

  “Oh, well, then she was mistaken. That wasn’t Jensen,” Doc said.

  “That wasn’t Jensen who rode with you?”

  “No, sir. At least, Jensen isn’t the name he gave me. He told me his name was Cavanaugh. Martin Cavanaugh.”

  “Cavanaugh?”

  “Yes.”

  Kyle pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and studied it for a moment, then he smiled and hit his fist into his hand. “That’s him,” he said, nodding. “Cavanaugh is Matt Jensen.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I have the name of every passenger that was on the train,” Kyle said. “And there is no Cavanaugh listed. So, since Jensen is the only one we can’t account for, and since Cavanaugh is not even listed, it stands to reason that Cavanaugh and Jensen are one and the same.”

  “That sounds reasonable to me,” Boomer said. “And if you think about it, knowin’ he had just escaped, there ain’t no way a fella like Jensen would give you his real name anyhow.”

  “It would sound reasonable to me as well,” Doc said. “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Isn’t this man Jensen supposed to be a convicted murderer?”

  “That’s right. He shot and killed a deputy over in Purgatory,” Kyle said.

  “Yes, well you see, that’s the problem. I worked nearly a full day with this man Cavanaugh. I don’t know what he is, but I know what he is not. He is not a murderer. I’m a pretty good judge of character, Ben, and there’s no way Cavanaugh would kill somebody in cold blood. Self-defense maybe, yes, I could see that. But I could not see him killing anyone in cold blood.”

  “What is it with this Jensen fella?” Kyle said. “He seems to charm everyone he meets. He’s got you charmed, he’s got Mrs. Dobbs convinced that he saved her life, even though, by wrecking the train, he’s the one who put her life in danger in the first place.”

  “He didn’t wreck the train,” Boomer said.

  “What? You, too?”

  “I’ve never met the man,” Boomer said. �
�But he was in chains, in the train, being taken to Yuma to hang, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I was talkin’ to some of the railroad workers today—you know, the ones who have been cleaning up the mess out there?” Boomer said.

  “And?”

  “Well, sir, they found that some of the spikes had been pulled out.”

  “Maybe they had just worked themselves out over a period of time,” Kyle suggested.

  “No, sir,” Boomer said. “They know the spikes were pulled out because they had been tossed to one side. Besides which, they found a pickax there, as well as the place where several horses had waited. And from the amount of horse droppin’s, the horses were probably there for over an hour, which means they had to be waitin’ for the train. The railroad workers think the train robbers pulled up the spikes, then kicked the track out, just so as to cause the wreck.”

  “It’s hard to believe that anyone could be that cruel,” Sally said.

  “Yes, ma’am, it is,” Boomer agreed. “But one thing it does do is it pretty much proves that this here Jensen fella couldn’t of done it. Not what with him bein’ in chains in the car ’n’ all.”

  “Maybe he didn’t, or maybe he had arranged for someone to wreck the train so he could escape,” Kyle suggested.

  “Ben, seems to me that would be a pretty foolhardy thing to do,” Doc said. “He was in the express car. Mr. Kingsley was also in the express car, and he got killed.”

  “I don’t care how much this Jensen person has charmed all of you. He is still a murderer. At the very least he murdered Deputy Gillis, because he has already been convicted of that murder back in Purgatory. And the evidence is pretty convincing that he killed Deputy Hayes as well. But maybe it was someone else who wrecked the train.”

  “Did the train robbers actually get anything?” Sally asked.

  “I hope to say they did,” Kyle replied. “The train was carrying a bank transfer of twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Instead of going after this man Jensen, what about whoever actually caused the train wreck?” Doc asked. “I’ve got a vested interest in getting them, seeing as how I was on that train and could’ve been killed myself.”