Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory

by William W. Johnstone

  “Do you know where he is?” Matt asked.

  Jennie was quiet for a long moment, as if struggling with her soul.

  “Jennie, he alone expressed surprise and remorse at the outcome of the train wreck. I won’t kill him unless he tries to kill me,” Matt said. “Right now, the one I am really after is Cletus Odom. I’m just hoping that Schuler can help me find him.”

  “You might try Quigotoa,” Jennie said.

  “Quigotoa?”

  “It’s a small town just a little north of here. That’s where Moses hangs out most of the time.”

  “Does he live there?” Matt asked.

  “Does he live there?” Jennie nodded her head. “I suppose you could say that he lives there. But a more accurate answer would be to say that the only reason he is there is because the folks in Quigotoa are willin’ to put up with him.”

  It was now two weeks since Dempster had had a drink, and though it was still hard to abstain, it seemed to him to be getting a little easier. The cravings still occurred, but they were more isolated and did not occupy every waking moment as they once had. He was also taking more pride in his personal appearance, and had just taken a bath, shaved, and put on another clean suit, shirt, and tie. Now it was time for another haircut, so he walked down the street to Tony’s Tonsorial Treatments.

  Nobody recognized him when he stepped into the barbershop.

  “Yes, sir, friend, are you needing a haircut?” Tony asked. The barber had one customer in his chair, and there were two more waiting. “There are two more ahead of you, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Tony,” Dempster answered.

  Although nobody had recognized Dempster on sight, they all recognized his voice.

  “Dempster? Is that you?” one of the waiting customers asked.

  “In the flesh,” Dempster replied.

  “It is you. Who would’ve thought it?”

  “I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

  “No, not at all, not at all. Have a seat,” one of the men said in invitation.

  Dempster took off his hat and hung it on the rack. As he did so, he happened to glance through the window, and that was when he saw Cletus Odom riding into town.

  “I’ll be damn,” Dempster said. “What is he doing here?”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “Cletus Odom,” Dempster said. “I just saw him ride by, as big and bold as you please.”

  “Cletus Odom? Are you sure?” Tony asked.

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  “How do you know it’s him?”

  “I know it is him because I once had the dubious distinction of defending him against a charge of murder, back in the days when he was still a bounty hunter. Tony, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put off getting that haircut until later.”

  “Anytime, Mr. Dempster,” Tony replied. “Anytime.”

  Leaving the barbershop, Dempster hurried down the street to the bank. When he went into the bank, he caused the same initial reaction he had in the barbershop. People were startled when they recognized him. He walked quickly to the desk of Joel Montgomery, the owner of the bank.

  “Mr. Dempster,” Montgomery said, rising to greet him. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Mr. Montgomery, may I speak to you alone for a moment?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so,” Montgomery said. “What is it about?”

  “Possible trouble,” Dempster replied without being more specific.

  “Bernard,” Montgomery called to his teller. “I’m going to be busy in the back for a while.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Montgomery,” Bernard answered.

  Montgomery led the way to the conference room, then closed the door behind them. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I just saw Cletus Odom ride into town,” Dempster said.

  “The outlaw? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Oh, my,” Montgomery said. He ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, my. If he is in town, it can only be for one reason. He’s planning to rob the bank.”

  “I think you might be right,” Dempster said. “Only, we know he is here so that gives us a little advantage.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “We are paying a heavy tax to the marshal and his deputies, aren’t we?” Dempster asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then it is time that Cummins started earning his money.”

  “I—yes, you are right.” Montgomery was quiet for a moment. “I never thought I would hear myself say this, but I’m glad that Cummins has all those deputies. Surely they can handle Cletus Odom.”

  “One would certainly think so, wouldn’t one?” Dempster replied.

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “Now? Now we go to Marshal Cummins, inform him of the presence of a wanted outlaw, and demand that he do his duty.”

  “Who?” Montgomery asked.

  “Who what?”

  “Who is going to see Cummins and demand action?”

  “I’ll do it,” Dempster said.

  Cummins and two of his deputies were in the marshal’s office when Dempster stepped inside. Evidently someone had just told a joke, because all three were laughing loudly.

  “Excuse me,” Dempster said.

  The three men looked over toward him and Jackson laughed out loud. “Well, now, look what the cat drug in,” he said.

  “Dempster,” Cummins said. “It’s good of you to drop by.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, filled a glass, then slid the glass across his desk toward Dempster. “Have a drink.”

  “Thank you, no,” Dempster said.

  “No?” Cummins looked at his two deputies. “Boys, did you just hear Mr. Dempster say no?”

  “I never thought that old drunk would turn down a drink,” Crack said.

  “Maybe he thinks he’s too good to drink with us,” Jackson suggested.

  “No, it isn’t that,” Dempster said. “I’m sure you understand. I’m an alcoholic. I’m trying to quit drinking.”

  “Hah! You’re trying to quit drinking?” Cummins replied. He looked at the others. “Boys, have either of you ever known a drunk who gave it up?”

  “I ain’t never known one,” Jackson said.

  “Me neither,” Crack added.

  “No, and you ain’t never goin’ to know one ’cause it can’t be done.” He looked at Dempster again. “So why are you tryin’ to fight it? You know you want a drink, and here it is, just waitin’ for you. And it is being offered in friendship.”

  “Maybe he don’t want to be our friend,” Crack said. “He’s been meetin’ with Montgomery and them other troublemakers.”

  Dempster gasped, and Cummins laughed again.

  “Well now, Mr. Dempster, you act a little surprised,” Cummins said.

  Dempster didn’t answer.

  “You don’t think folks can hold meetin’s in this town without me knowin’ about it, do you?” Cummins asked. “This is Purgatory, Mr. Dempster.” Cummins made a fist of his right hand, then used his thumb to point to himself. “And I own Purgatory. Nothing happens in Purgatory without my knowledge, or permission.”

  “You are the marshal, not the king,” Dempster said.

  “The marshal, not the king? Hmm, that sounds like a political slogan. Are you considering running for some office, Mr. Dempster?”

  In fact, though he had told no one, Dempster had considered running for circuit judge.

  “If I run for anything, you’ll know it, Marshal Cummins,” Dempster said. “Believe me, you’ll know it.”

  “Well now, that sounds like a threat,” Cummins replied. “Are you threatening me, Counselor?”

  A quick spasm of fear overtook Dempster, and the hackles rose on the back of his neck. The conversation had gone beyond mere banter and he needed to change the tone.

  “No!” he said quickly. “No, I’m not making any threat. I just meant that, uh, if I ever did
run for office, why, everyone would know about it.” He forced a laugh. “They’d have to know about it, otherwise, who would vote for me?”

  “I can answer that question for you,” Jackson said. “Nobody would vote for you, because nobody is going to vote for a drunk.”

  “What do you want, Dempster?” Cummins asked. He picked up the glass of whiskey and drank it himself. The bantering was over.

  “I just saw Cletus Odom coming into town,” Dempster said.

  “Cletus Odom, you say?” Cummins replied. “You saw him coming into town?”

  “Yes. He was riding right down the middle of Central Street, just as big and bold as you please.”

  “What about that, Marshal?” Jackson said. “Cletus Odom is in town.”

  There was a matter-of-fact tone to Jackson’s comment that Dempster found disturbing.

  “Mr. Dempster, why did you feel you had to come tell me about Cletus Odom?” Cummins asked.

  “Because you are the marshal.”

  “And?”

  “And because Cletus Odom is a wanted outlaw.”

  “Not in Purgatory, he isn’t,” Cummins said.

  “Of course he is. He’s wanted all over the Arizona Territory,” Dempster said.

  Cummins shook his head and made a clucking sound with his tongue. “And you once defended him,” he said. “What kind of lawyer are you, Dempster, that you would turn on a man you once defended?”

  Dempster had never told anyone that he had once defended Odom, until he shared that information with Montgomery just a few minutes earlier.

  “How—how did you know I once defended him?”

  “Because Cletus told me you did,” Cummins replied.

  “Odom told you? I don’t understand. When did you and Odom ever have a conversation? And why would he have told you that?”

  “Because brothers share things,” Cummins answered.

  “Brothers? You and Cletus Odom are brothers?”

  “Half brothers,” Cummins said. “Cletus!” he called. “Get out here, I want you to meet an old friend of yours!”

  A door at the back of the room opened, and Cletus Odom stepped out. Dempster noticed, in shock, that Odom was wearing a star pinned to his vest.

  “Mr. Dempster, meet my newest deputy,” Cummins said.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It started raining about an hour before Matt reached Quigotoa. Although rainfall was scarce in the desert, when it did rain it was often a torrential downpour. This was just such a rain, and Matt had to be careful to avoid dry creek beds, arroyos, and low-lying areas for fear of a sudden flash flood.

  Matt put on a rain slicker and hunkered down in the saddle, but nothing helped.

  “Just a little farther, Spirit,” he said to the horse, who, with frequent tossing of his head, showed his discomfort with the downpour. “I’ll find a place to get you dry, I promise.”

  Finally, cresting a ridge, Matt saw the town of Quigotoa in the distance, low-lying and gray behind the diaphanous curtain of the rainstorm.

  “There it is, boy,” Matt said. “I told you it wouldn’t be much farther.”

  It took another fifteen minutes or so after the little town was spotted before Matt reached it. The street was a slurry of mud mixed with horse apples, the droppings reconstituted by the water so that the stench was released. He saw a stable that was no more than a roof over a pen. It wasn’t exactly a livery, but it would provide Spirit with some shelter from the rain, and from the sun after the rain passed.

  He rode up to it, then dismounted. At first, he didn’t see anyone; then, at second glance, he saw someone sitting in one corner of the stable where, in addition to the roof, there were half walls, thus providing a bit more shelter from the rain.

  “Is this a public livery?” he called, having to raise his voice to be heard through the rain.

  “Sí, señor. Ten cents, one night,” the man responded without leaving the partial shelter.

  “Here’s fifty cents,” Matt said, fishing the coin from his pocket. “Give him something to eat, and take care of my saddle.”

  The prospect of fifty cents was enough to bring the old Mexican away from the shelter, and he had a big smile on his face as he approached.

  “Gracias, señor. Cuidaré muy bien de su caballo.”

  “You hear that, Spirit? He is going to take very good care of you.”

  After turning his horse over to the stable hand, Matt found a board stretched across the street, and though it didn’t keep the rain off him, it did keep him out of the muck and mud. Reaching the boardwalk on the other side of the street, he walked down to the Casa del Sol Cantina.

  Inside the cantina, a long board of wooden pegs was nailed along one wall about six feet from the floor. Matt dumped the water from the crown of his hat, then hung his slicker on one of the pegs to let it drip dry. A careful scrutiny of the saloon disclosed a card game in progress near the back. At one of the front tables, there was some earnest conversation. Three men stood at the bar, each complete within themselves, concentrating only on their drinks and private thoughts. A soiled dove, near the end of her professional effectiveness, overweight, with bad teeth and wild, unkempt hair, stood at the far end. She smiled at Matt, but getting no encouragement, stayed put.

  “What’ll it be, mister? the bartender asked, making a swipe across the bar with a sour-smelling cloth.

  “Whiskey, then a beer,” Matt said. He figured to drink the whiskey to warm himself from the chill of the rain, then drink the beer for his thirst. The whiskey was set before him and he raised it to his lips, then tossed it down. He could feel its raw burn all the way to his stomach. When the beer was served, he picked it up, then turned his back to the bar for a more leisurely survey of the room.

  Ascertaining that there was nothing here that represented an immediate threat, he turned back to the bartender.

  “I’m looking for Moses Schuler,” Matt said. “I’m told I might find him here.”

  “Why do you want Schuler?”

  “That’s between Schuler and me,” Matt said.

  “You the law?”

  “Schuler,” Matt said again without answering the question.

  “We don’t care much for the law around here,” the bartender said.

  Suddenly, Matt reached his left hand across the bar and grabbed the collar of the bartender’s shirt. He twisted it into a knot that put pressure on the bartender’s neck, making it hard for him to breathe.

  “Mister, I’ve ridden half a day in a driving rainstorm,” Matt said. “I’m in no mood for games. I’m going to ask you one more time where I can find Schuler. If you don’t answer me, I am going to break your neck, then find someone who will answer me.”

  To illustrate his point, Matt twisted the collar even tighter, so tight now that when the bartender tried to talk, it came out as an unintelligible rattle.

  Matt eased up just enough to allow the bartender to speak.

  “I’ll see if I can find him,” the bartender said.

  “I appreciate that,” Matt replied.

  “Juan,” the bartender called.

  A Mexican boy in his teens stepped out of the back room. He was wearing an apron and holding a broom.

  “Sí, señor?” the boy replied.

  “You seen Schuler around?”

  “Sí, señor. He is sleeping in the back room,” Juan answered.

  “Get ’im out here. There’s someone who wants talk to ’im.”

  “I will try, señor. Maybe I cannot wake him up,” Juan said. “He is sleeping very hard.”

  “Sleeping, or passed out?” the bartender asked.

  “I think maybe he is passed out,” Juan replied.

  The bartender poured a drink into a glass, then slid it down the bar toward Juan. “Give him this,” he said. “Tell ’im there’s someone out here that wants to buy him another drink. That’ll bring him out.” The bartender looked at Matt. “You will buy him a drink, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” Matt
said. “Give me a bottle.”

  The bartender handed Matt a bottle, Matt took it, looked over at Juan, then pointed to an empty table. “I’ll be over there, Juan,” he said. “Bring him to me.”

  “Sí.”

  Juan disappeared into the back room. After a long moment, a bent, white-haired man came out of the room. At first, Matt was about to say this wasn’t the one he was looking for. This man looked nothing like the robber he had seen in the express car. But as he studied him more closely, he saw that this was, indeed, the same man. Dispirited, but the same man.

  “Someone is going to buy me a drink?” Schuler asked.

  “That man over there, señor,” Juan said. He pointed to the table where Matt was sitting, and Schuler shuffled over toward him, unabashedly scratching his crotch as he did so. Matt had rarely seen a man who had come down as far as Schuler had since the last time he saw him. Schuler needed a shave, and his clothes reeked of stale whiskey and sour vomit. How could this be? Didn’t Schuler get his share from the robbery?

  Schuler pointed at Matt with a shaking finger.

  “Do I know you?” he asked. “Who are you?”

  “I am a friend of Jennie Schuler,” Matt said.

  Schuler looked at Matt for a moment, as if trying to process what he had just heard.

  “Anyone who has money is a friend of Jennie Schuler,” he said. “She is a whore.”

  “I am also the man that’s going to buy you a drink,” Matt answered. He poured whiskey into a glass, then slid it across the table toward Schuler.

  “What—what do I have to do for it?”

  “Just give me a little information,” Matt said. “That’s all.”

  “Information? I don’t know anything about anything,” Schuler said quietly.

  “Oh, you know something about what I want,” Matt said. Matt reached out to pick up the glass, then began pouring it back in the bottle.

  “Wait!” Schuler said. “What do you want to know?”

  “First, let me ask you something. With all the money you got from the train robbery, why are you having to beg for drinks now? Have you already spent it all?”