“Doc, my job isn’t either-or, my job is both,” Kyle said. “So I’ll be going after the train robbers and Matt Jensen. And until I see some physical evidence to the contrary, I’m still not convinced they aren’t one and the same. Oh, by the way, Doc, is Deputy Hayes’ body still here?”
“Yes, I believe it is. Except for those who lived here, I think all the bodies are still in Seth McKenzie’s warehouse.”
“Good. I want the bullet that killed Hayes. And, I want to take Hayes’ body back to Purgatory. Oh, and give me a description of Jensen.”
“I don’t know that it is Jensen,” Doc said. “Like I said, he told me his name was Cavanaugh.”
“All right, then give me a description of Cavanaugh.”
“Mid-to-late twenties, I guess. He was a lot younger in the face than in the eyes. Those eyes have seen a lot,” Doc added. “He’s about six feet tall, broad shoulders, narrow waist, light blue eyes, and hair that’s about halfway between blond and brown.”
“Sally, you’re a good artist, you’ve drawn pictures of half the people in this town. Would you draw a picture of Jensen for me? Doc, you can watch her draw it, then tell her when she’s close.”
“You don’t need to describe him to me,” Sally said.
“What do you mean? You mean you aren’t going to draw his picture?”
“No, I mean he doesn’t have to describe him to me. He was in here that first night. I bought supper for him. I know what he looks like.”
“Good. You draw the picture, and I’ll take it over to Blanton to get a woodcut made.”
“Marshal?” someone said, coming up to the table where Kyle, Doc, Boomer, and Sally were sitting.
“Yes, Barney, what can I do for you?” Kyle asked, recognizing the whiskey drummer.
“I heard tell you was looking for whoever robbed the train.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I was on the train and I think I seen them.”
“You think you saw them, or you did see them?” Kyle asked.
“I think—that is, I’m sure I did see them.”
“If you did see them, Barney, would you tell me why in the hell you are just now getting around to telling me about it?”
“I had to think on it some to be certain in my own mind that that is what I did see,” Barney explained.
“All right,” Kyle replied. “Tell me about it.”
“Yes, sir. Well, like I said, I was on the train, but I wasn’t hurt none. Anyhow, I got out of the car, and was just sort of wanderin’ around, when I seen these here four men go into the express car. I thought maybe they was part of the train. Then, no more’n a minute later, I seen ’em come out carrying a canvas bag. I didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time ’cause, to tell the truth, I guess I was still all confused and dizzy ’n’ all over havin’ just come through the wreck. But when I heard the train was robbed, it got me to thinkin’ that maybe they was the ones who done it.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Yes, sir, I think I can. One of ’em had a scar, a big, ugly, purple scar that run from his forehead, through his left eye, and down. And the eyelid was all puffed up, like it had a big wart on it or somethin’,” Barney said. He used his finger to outline the position of the scar on his own face.
“Marshal, that sounds just like Cletus Odom,” Boomer said.
“Yes, it does,” Kyle said. “Barney, you said there were others?”
“Yes, sir, there was three others.”
“Tell me about them.”
“One of them was a big man, I’d say six feet four or so, over two hundred pounds. I mean, he was a big, strong-lookin’ son of a bitch.” Then, as if just realizing that Sally was sitting at the table he nodded toward her. “Sorry, Miss Sally,” he apologized.
“That’s all right, Barney, from what I’ve heard of Cletus Odom, anyone who would ride with him would have to be a son of a bitch.”
Barney smiled. “Yes, ma’am, I reckon you’re right.”
“You said there were four,” Kyle said, urging Barney to get back to his descriptions.
“Uh, yeah, four. Well, there was the scar faced man, and the big one, like I said. Then there was one who was small and dark, I think he was probably a Mexican. The fourth one was a drunk.”
“Drunk?”
“No, he wasn’t drunk when I seen him. But he is a drunk,” Barney clarified.
“What do you mean he is a drunk?” Kyle asked. “How can you tell if a man is a drunk if he isn’t drunk? And even then, you can be drunk without being a drunk.”
“Yes, sir, you can, and that’s how I know,” Barney said. “You forget, Marshal, I’m a whiskey salesman. I reckon I have seen more drunks than just about anyone. Not even bartenders see as many drunks as a whiskey drummer does. But even they can tell someone who is a drunk.”
Kyle drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then he called out. “Fred, could you come over here for a moment?”
“Sure, Marshal,” Fred replied affably. Throwing the bar towel over his shoulder, he came from behind the bar and walked over to the table where Kyle, Boomer, Doc, and Sally were seated.
“Fred, can you tell if a man is a drunk just by looking at him?” Kyle asked. “I don’t mean drunk, I mean a drunk.”
“Oh, yes, sir, Marshal, sure you can,” Fred replied. “You can tell in a heartbeat.”
“How can you tell?”
“I don’t know quite how to explain it,” Fred replied. “But they all have a certain look about them. You can just tell, that’s all.”
“All right, thanks,” Kyle said.
“Can I get anybody anything else?” he asked.
“I’ll have me another beer,” Boomer said.
The others indicated they were fine.
“All right,” Kyle said after Fred returned to the bar. “So, what do we have here? Cletus Odom, a big man, a small Mexican, and a drunk?”
“Yes, sir, that pretty much sums it up,” Barney said. “I hope that helps you find the ones that done this.”
“It’s a start,” Kyle said. “Thanks.”
Barney left just as Fred put another beer in front of Boomer.
Boomer took a drink of his beer, then wiped the foam away from his lips before he spoke.
“Well, if it was Cletus Odom, then it’s a lead-pipe cinch that he’s the one that stole the money. Seems to me that lets this fella Jensen off the hook, don’t you think?” Boomer asked.
Kyle sighed. “Yes, you might be right. It could be that Jensen just took advantage of the situation to escape. But that still leaves us with the fact that Jensen is a convicted murderer, so even if he didn’t rob the train, I don’t think I would go so far as to say that this would let him off the hook.”
“What about Odom?” Boomer asked. “Shouldn’t we ought to do somethin’ about him?”
“Yes, if it was Odom, we should do something about him,” Kyle said. “But first, we need to find out if it was him. We’ve got some pretty good pictures of Odom down at the office. Boomer, how about taking Barney down to the office and showing him some pictures. Don’t tell him who they are—let him pick one out on his own.”
“I know how to do this, Benjamin. I didn’t just start deputyin’ yesterday, you know,” Boomer said, a little miffed that the marshal felt he had to tell him that.
“I know you know how to do it, Boomer, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Kyle said. “I was just sort of thinking out loud, is all.”
“That’s all right, I ain’t put out with you none,” Boomer said, easing his tone a bit. He looked over at Barney. “Come along, Barney I got some pretty pictures to show you.” Boomer chuckled. “Well, now that I think about it, they ain’t all that pretty. But I’m goin’ to show ’em to you anyway.”
Kyle, Sally, and Doc watched Boomer and Barney leave. Then, Doc picked up his mug of beer and took a drink. “I’m glad Barney came along,” he said. “I knew Cavanaugh—or Jensen as you say—didn’t have anything to d
o with robbing that train.”
“Maybe not, Doc,” Kyle replied. “But like I said, he’s not off the hook. He is still an escaped murderer.”
“And I’m telling you, there’s no way on God’s green earth that that man who pulled all those injured folks from the train, and who worked alongside me nursing them, could be a murderer,” Doc insisted.
Chapter Fifteen
Before he came in sight of the track, Matt could hear the sound of puffing steam engines, the screech of metal being moved, and the loud banging of heavy loads being lifted and deposited. When he reached the scene, he saw two huge, steam-operated cranes lifting the mangled cars and the twisted and broken wheel trucks from on and around the track, then depositing them onto the long line of flatbed cars that had been brought out to the scene of the wreck. Already, new and temporary tracks had been built around the wreck to allow the work trains access.
Matt was surprised at how much progress had been made in cleaning up the mess. At this rate, they would be finished within one more day, and the passenger and freight trains would be returning to their normal operational schedule.
After getting his horse back, Matt returned to the scene of the wreck, not to watch the clean-up operation, but to get a lead on tracking Cletus Odom and the others who were responsible. He started on the south side of the track where he had found the pickax, thinking this was probably the side on which the outlaws had waited. It didn’t take him long to find the signs of four horses, and the direction they took when they left. He knew this had to be them, because the number of horses, four, matched the number of train robbers, four.
As he examined the tracks, a sudden smile spread across his face. One of the horses had a tie-bar shoe.
“Spirit, I don’t know which one of these sons of bitches are riding a tie-bar shoe, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll lead me to the rest of them,” Matt said as he started on the trial.
The little town of Saucita was American only because it was on the American side of the border. In fact, three fourths of the people in town were either Mexican nationals, or Americans only by an accident of their birth. In layout, the town could have been any village between here and Mexico City, for it was nothing more than a series of adobe buildings built around a center square. In the center square there was a well, and the well was Matt’s first stop. He drew up two buckets of water and added them to the watering trough, which was already more than half full.
With Spirit’s thirst satisfied, Matt led, rather than rode, him across the square to the Cantina de las Rosas. He tied him off at the hitching rail, then checked the right rear hooves of the other horses that were tied there. He hit pay dirt with the third horse he checked.
Matt pushed through the hanging strings of clacking red and green beads, and then stepped into the cantina. There were at least two dozen customers in the cantina, and all were of the same swarthy complexion. There were a dozen or more conversations going on as well, all in Spanish.
Matt stepped up to the bar. “Tequila por favor.”
“Ten cents,” the bartender said in English, as he put the glass in front of Matt.
Suddenly, there was the sound of a slap, then a woman’s cry of pain and fear. That was followed by a loud, angry sentence, spoken in English and ringing clear through the cacophonous babble of Spanish.
“You dumb bitch! I ordered whiskey, not this Mexican shit!’
“I’m sorry, Señor.”
“Sorry my ass. Now get rid of this shit and bring me a bottle of whiskey.”
“Sí, señor.”
Looking toward the commotion, Matt saw a man who was head and shoulders bigger than anyone else in the room. He had broad shoulders and big hands and he was eating a steak, not by using a knife and fork, but by holding it in his hands. In addition to the woman he had just slapped, there were two other women with him, one sitting on either side.
This was not a handsome man by any means, and the only explanation for his popularity with the women would be that he had a lot of money and was a free spender. Kyle knew that the man fit that bill, because he recognized him as soon as he saw him. This was the one called Bates.
Kyle ordered a meal of beans and tortillas, then ate slowly, all the while keeping an eye on Bates, though without being obvious about it. When Bates left the saloon, Matt walked over to the window and watched as he mounted the horse with the tie-bar. He stayed at the window until Bates rode out of town, then Matt left the saloon, mounted Spirit, and followed.
Matt remained so far behind Bates that were was no way the outlaw could see him. Of course, that also meant that he couldn’t see the outlaw, but that was no problem. Bates was still riding the horse with the tie-bar shoe, which meant he might as well have been leaving a painted trail, so easily could it be followed.
When Bates made camp for the night, Matt did as well, satisfying himself with a strip of jerky and a couple of chewed coffee beans, washed down with a swallow of tepid canteen water.
During the night, Matt sneaked into Bates’s camp. The fire Bates had built before he went to bed was burned down now, though a few of the coals were still glowing. Bates was snoring loudly from the blanket he had thrown out on the ground. Bates’s hat was over his face as Matt moved quietly toward him.
Slipping his knife from his belt, Matt got down onto his knees beside Bates, then brought his knife up to Bates’s throat. He hesitated there for just a second. Then, he cut the top from Bates’s hat. The last thing he did before he sneaked back out of camp was leave a note, pinned to the hat.
Bates—
I know that you were one of the ones who wrecked and robbed the train. You, Cletus Odom, a Mexican named Paco, and a man named Schuler killed a lot of people that day—including several women and children.
I could have cut your throat tonight, the way I cut up your hat, but I’m going to wait until you lead me to the others. And I know you will do that, Bates, because anyone who is cowardly enough to kill children is too much of a coward to face me alone.
I figure you have no more than ten days left to live. And to show you that I mean business, I am even going to sign my name to this note. Prepare to die, Bates.
Matt Jensen
The next morning, Matt waited on top of a hill, looking down on Bates’s campsite. Matt wasn’t on the actual crest of the hill, but was just below the crest, behind a cut that afforded him concealment. He watched as Bates woke up.
The first thing Bates did when he awoke was relieve himself. Then he rolled up his blanket, and was tying it to the back of his saddle when he noticed his hat. Matt could tell the very moment Bates saw the hat because he stopped what he was doing and stared at it for a long moment as if he didn’t know what he was seeing. Then he saw the note and moved quickly to it, jerking the note off and reading it.
Matt could hardly keep from laughing as he saw Bates stiffen, then, gingerly, reach his hand up to his throat. Bates looked at the hat, then let out a yell.
“Ahhhhhhhh!”
The yell echoed back.
“Ahhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhh!”
Bates threw the hat down, then pulled his pistol and looked around.
Matt threw a rock and it hit far down the hill from his position, clattering as it bounced down the rocky hillside.
Bates began firing wildly, the shots echoing back, doubling and redoubling the sound so that Bates had the feeling he was being shot at, even though he was the only one shooting.
Quickly, Bates saddled his horse, then swinging into the saddle, urged the horse into a gallop.
Given Bates’s weight and size, Matt knew that the horse would not be able to sustain a gallop for very long. Because of that, he was almost leisurely as he saddled Spirit, then rode at no more than a trot in pursuit.
Matt Jensen stopped on a ridge just above the road leading into Choulic. He took a swallow from his canteen and watched an approaching stage as it started down from the pass into the town. Then, corking the canteen, he slapped his legs against
the side of his horse and sloped down the long ridge. Although he was actually farther away from town than the coach, he would beat it there because the stage would have to stay on the road, working its way down a series of switchbacks, whereas Matt rode down the side of the hill, difficult, but a much more direct route.
No railroad served Choulic, so the only way to reach it was by horse or by stagecoach. And after a few hours on a bumping, rattling, jerking, and dusty stagecoach, the passengers’ first view of Choulic was often a bitter disappointment. Sometimes visitors from the East had to have the town pointed out to them, for from this perspective, and at this distance, the settlement looked little more inviting than another group of the brown hummocks and hills common to this country.
A small sign just on the edge of town read:
CHOULIC, population 294
A growing Community
The weathered board and faded letters of the sign indicated that it had been there for some time, erected when there might actually have been optimism for the town’s future. Choulic was like many towns Matt had encountered over the years, towns that bloomed on the prairies and in the deserts desperately hoping the railroad would come through, staking all on that uncertain future, only to see their futures dashed when the railroad passed them by. Despite the ambitious welcome sign, Matt doubted that there were as many as two hundred residents in the town today, and he was positive that it was no longer a growing community.
The town baked under a sun that was yellow and hot.
Finding the saloon, Matt saw what he was looking for. Tied to the hitching rail out front were nine or ten horses, and one of them he recognized as belonging to Bates.
While Matt was dismounting, the stagecoach he had seen earlier came rolling into town, its driver whistling and shouting at the team. As was often the case, the driver had urged the team into a trot when they approached the edge of town. That way, the coach would roll in rapidly, making a somewhat more dramatic arrival than it would have had the team been walking.
Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory Page 16