Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory

by William W. Johnstone

  The woman, who was obviously Abigail Sutherland, turned her head to look up at her son as she was helping the wounded man from the coach. “Did they get the mail pouch?” she asked, and the slight quaver in her voice was evidence of just how important that question was to her.

  Gil shook his head. “Not this time. These two strangers came along and lit into Judson’s bunch. They wounded a couple of the outlaws and ran them off.”

  “Not in time to keep me from gettin’ plugged, though,” Ponderosa grumbled.

  Scratch had dismounted. He came around the back of the coach, leading his bay with the reins in one hand. He used the other hand to sweep the cream-colored Stetson off his head and gave Abigail Sutherland a big, toothy smile.

  “Scratch Morton, at your service, ma’am,” he said, introducing himself.

  Abigail turned to him. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Morton,” she said. “And your friend is…?”

  Scratch waved the hand holding the Stetson in Bo’s general direction. “That’s Bo Creel. Don’t let that look on his face fool you, ma’am. He ain’t as sour in disposition as he appears. Not quite.”

  Bo grunted and said from the driver’s box, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Sutherland. Just wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “So do I,” said Ponderosa. “In case anybody’s forgotten, I got a dang bullet hole in my carcass!”

  “Yes, and I’ll take you down to Dr. Chambers’ house right now,” Abigail told him. “Can you walk all right?”

  Ponderosa sniffed. “I reckon. Got hit in the shoulder, not the leg. I was a mite dizzy earlier, but I’m feelin’ better now.”

  Abigail got an arm around his waist to help support him, and they started along the street toward the rest of the settlement. She glanced up at her son as they passed the front of the coach, and asked, “Can you take care of the team, Gil?”

  “Sure. But where’s Dave?”

  “I don’t know,” Abigail said, and that worried look was back on her face, as well as the concern in her voice.

  “We’ll give you a hand with those horses, son,” Scratch said as he put his hat back on. “Won’t we, Bo?”

  “Yeah.” Bo placed the shotgun on the floorboard where he had found it.

  Gil got the team moving again, and drove the stagecoach around the adobe office to the barn in the rear. He took the coach all the way into the barn before stopping. Scratch followed, leading his horse.

  Bo and Gil climbed down from the box. Along with Scratch, they went to work unhitching the horses. Watching the sure, practiced actions of the older men, Gil commented, “You fellas have worked around stagecoaches before, haven’t you?”

  “We ran a way station in Kansas for a while,” Bo replied.

  “And we hired on as jehus and shotgun guards in other places,” Scratch added. “Fact is, you won’t find many jobs on the frontier that we ain’t done at one time or another. Ain’t that right, Bo?”

  “Except for donning aprons and clerking in a store,” Bo said. “I don’t think we’ve ever done that.”

  A shudder went through Scratch. “And we ain’t gonna,” he declared.

  When the team had been unhitched and the horses turned out into the corral, Gil reached into the compartment under the driver’s seat on the coach and pulled out a canvas pouch. “I’ll take the mail down to the post office,” he said. “If you’re going to be staying around Red Butte for a while, feel free to unsaddle your horses, give them some grain, and put them in the corral with the others if you want to.”

  Scratch looked at Bo and asked, “What do you think? We gonna be stayin’ in these parts for a while?”

  “We don’t have anywhere else we have to be,” Bo replied. “And Red Butte looks like a pretty nice little town.”

  Scratch grinned. “That’s what I was thinkin’.” To Gil, he added, “Much obliged for the hospitality, son.”

  Gil lifted a hand in farewell and left the barn while Bo was untying his dun from the back of the stagecoach. Bo commented, “I notice you started calling that boy ‘son’ as soon as you got a look at his mother. Thinking about settling down with the Widow Sutherland, are you?”

  “Me?” Scratch held his hand over his heart for a moment, then grinned. “You got to admit, Bo, she’s a fine figure of a woman.”

  “It was a pretty picture,” Bo mused, “her standing there on that porch with the wind in her hair and those cactus roses blooming at her feet. But we don’t know a blasted thing about her, other than the fact that she’s got a couple of sons and a stage line started by her late husband. We don’t even know how long he’s been gone. She may still be in mourning.”

  “Wasn’t wearin’ black,” Scratch pointed out.

  “No, she wasn’t, that’s true,” Bo admitted as he undid one of his saddle cinches.

  “And she’s got a whole heap o’ problems on her plate, from the sound of it. Might be we could give her a hand with ’em.”

  “Nobody’s asked us for our help.”

  “Give it time. Anyway, ain’t you curious about what’s goin’ on around here? You always did like to get to the bottom of any trouble we ran into.”

  “That’s true,” Bo said with a shrug. “I guess we could hang around for a while and see what happens. Like I said, it seems like a pretty nice little town.”

  Scratch grinned. “And a pretty nice little woman, too.”

  Bo just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  Chapter Three

  There were a couple of rocking chairs on the porch of the adobe office. Bo and Scratch walked around the building after tending to their horses, and sat down in those chairs to wait. They weren’t sure what they were waiting for, but that was a pretty common situation. Years of drifting had taught them to be patient.

  They didn’t have to wait long for something to happen. Three men came down the street, stopped in front of the headquarters of the Sutherland Stage Line, and dismounted. One of them was young, twenty or twenty-one more than likely, and his brown hair and the cast of his features resembled those of Gil Sutherland. Bo figured he and Scratch were looking at the heretofore-missing Dave Sutherland, Gil’s younger brother.

  The other two men were older, but still in their twenties. One was tall and scrawny, with a shock of straw-colored hair under a battered, pushed-back hat. The other was short and broad, built like a bull with an animal-like dullness in his eyes and on his face. He wore a derby over dark hair that grew down low on his forehead.

  “You hombres looking for somebody?” asked the young man Bo and Scratch took to be Dave Sutherland. He swayed back and forth, and his speech was slurred enough to indicate that he’d been drinking.

  The afternoon was well advanced, so it wasn’t like he was drunk first thing in the morning or anything like that. Still, he was a mite young to be putting away enough liquor to get him in such a condition. His companions might have been drinking, too, but they didn’t appear to be as drunk as young Dave.

  “We’re waiting for Mrs. Sutherland to get back,” Bo said.

  “If you wanna buy tickets on the st-stage, you might as well wait until morning. There’s one due in this afternoon any time now, and there won’t be another one leaving until tomorrow.”

  Dave was making a visible effort to stand up straight, and he was being more careful and precise when he talked now, two more signs that he’d guzzled too much rotgut.

  “Today’s stage is already in,” Scratch said. “We came in with it.”

  “Then why are you hanging around here? Go on about your business!”

  Bo frowned. “What did you say, mister?”

  “You heard me! You look like saddle tramps to me. Probably want a handout or something. Well, you won’t get it here!”

  “You’re makin’ a mistake, son,” Scratch said.

  “You’re the one who made the mistake, old-timer. I’m Dave Sutherland. My ma owns this stage line, and I’m telling you to rattle your hocks!”

  Dav
e had confirmed what Bo and Scratch already suspected, that he was Abigail’s younger son, but his belligerence took them by surprise. Some people got proddy like that when they’d had too much to drink, though, and evidently Dave was one of them.

  The tall, straw-haired man stepped forward. “You heard Dave. Vamoose, you two old pelicans!”

  Scratch frowned, too, and looked over at Bo. “You hear what he called us?”

  “Yeah,” Bo said. “Looks like this town isn’t as friendly as we thought it was.”

  “Hey! We’re talkin’ to you!” the straw-haired man said.

  Scratch nodded. “Oh, we heard you. Either that or there’s a donkey brayin’ somewhere close by.”

  The man’s hands closed into bony fists. “Why, you—”

  “We’ll just wait here for Mrs. Sutherland,” Bo cut in. “We’re not looking for trouble.”

  “You got it whether you’re lookin’ for it or not. Now drift or—”

  “Or what?” Scratch said.

  “Or Culley and me will make you wish you had!”

  Scratch nodded toward the short, broad man and said to Bo, “You figure the baby bull there’s Culley?”

  “I reckon,” Bo said.

  “He looks strong enough to bend a railroad tie.”

  The straw-haired man sneered. “He is, and you’re about to find out for yourself, old man.”

  “But dumb as dirt,” Scratch went on as if the other man hadn’t spoken.

  Bo heaved a sigh. If a fight hadn’t been inevitable to start with, it sure as blazes was now. Culley’s face darkened with slow anger, and he started toward the porch steps. He was so muscular that his walk had a peculiar rolling gait to it.

  Bo made one final attempt to stave off a ruckus. He stood up, held out a hand, and said, “You boys don’t want to do this.” He looked at Dave. “I’m betting your mother won’t like it if there’s a brawl on her front porch.”

  “My mother doesn’t tell me what to do,” Dave shot back. “And you shouldn’t have mouthed off to Angus and Culley.”

  “Hey!” Scratch said indignantly as he got to his feet. “I’m the one who mouthed off, and don’t you forget it!”

  Culley spoke for the first time, rumbling, “Gonna rip you apart, old man!” He charged up the steps, followed closely by the straw-haired man, whose name was Angus, evidently.

  Scratch lifted his right leg, planted his boot heel in Culley’s chest, and shoved. Culley went backward into Angus, knocking him over like a ball in a game of ninepins. Both men sprawled in the dirt in front of the porch, looking surprised. Scratch hadn’t seemed like he was moving very fast. His movements had appeared almost casual.

  Dave gaped. “You gonna let that old varmint do that?” he demanded, the slur slipping back into his voice.

  “Not hardly,” Angus vowed as he scrambled to his feet. He had to help Culley up, because the muscle-bound man was flailing his arms and legs like a turtle that’s been flipped over onto its back.

  Once they were both up, Angus said to his companion, “All right, we’re gonna go at this different. I’ll take the preacher, you handle the fancy Dan in the buckskin jacket.”

  Culley nodded. He didn’t have much of a neck, just a thick column of muscle. “Yeah. Gonna bust him to pieces.”

  Scratch grinned and said, “Come on, baby bull. You try it.”

  Angus and Culley advanced up the steps side by side this time, moving more slowly and more carefully. The Texans split up, Bo going down the porch to the right, Scratch to the left.

  “Try not to bust up those rockers,” Bo called to his trail partner. “They’re pretty comfortable. Be a shame if they got broken.”

  “Yeah,” Scratch agreed. “Might upset Mrs. Sutherland, too.”

  Dave yelled, “You leave my mother out of this, saddle tramp!”

  Angus charged, swinging a malletlike fist at Bo’s head. At the same time, Culley barreled toward Scratch.

  Bo blocked Angus’s punch with the same sort of effortless ease that Scratch had demonstrated in kicking the two ruffians down the porch steps a few minutes earlier. In a continuation of the same movement, Bo’s right fist shot forward in a short, sharp blow that landed flush on Angus’s nose. Blood spurted under the impact. Angus staggered back with a howl of pain.

  He retreated only a couple of steps, though, before he caught himself and attacked again, this time wind-milling punches at the black-clad stranger. Bo blocked the first few blows, but then one of Angus’s knobby fists clipped him on the jaw. Angus might be scrawny, but his punches packed plenty of power. Bo was knocked against the railing that ran along the front of the porch. With a shout of triumph, Angus crowded in on him, trying to seize and hold the advantage.

  Meanwhile, at the other end of the porch, Scratch had his hands full with Culley. The pocket-sized titan was slow, but even though Scratch was able to land several sizzling punches, Culley just shrugged them off. He appeared to be able to absorb as much punishment as Scratch wanted to deal out.

  At the same time, he swung his tree-trunklike arms in lumbering roundhouse blows that Scratch was able to avoid without much trouble. If one of those big fists ever landed, though, it would be like being hit with a piledriver. Scratch would go down hard.

  He didn’t intend to let that happen. He darted in and out, peppering Culley’s face with punches in hopes that sooner or later the fella’s brain would realize how badly he was being pummeled.

  To his horror, Scratch suddenly felt Culley’s arms snap closed around his torso like bands of steel, and he knew that he had made the mistake of getting too close. Scratch’s arms were still loose, but Culley just ignored the blows and squeezed. As those brawny arms tightened more and more, Scratch grunted and felt his ribs begin to creak.

  While Scratch was trying to deal with that bone-crushing threat, Bo thrust a foot between Angus’s ankles as the straw-haired man tried to crowd him into the railing. Angus lost his balance long enough for Bo to hook a left to his jaw and stagger him. Bo reached out, grabbed the front of Angus’s shirt, and heaved him around in a turn that sent Angus hard into the railing.

  The wooden rail was sturdy enough so that it didn’t break under the impact of Angus’s body. Instead, Angus’s momentum caused him to flip over the railing. With a startled cry at this unexpected turn of events, he fell to the ground in front of the porch.

  And landed right in those cactus roses.

  Bo winced at the sudden screeches of agony that came from Angus as his flesh was pierced by hundreds of the razor-sharp cactus needles. Angus tried to jump up, slipped and fell again, and just made his situation that much worse as he landed in the cactus again. He finally rolled clear of the spiny plants, but continued shrieking in pain.

  Some of the roses had been crushed. Bo shook his head in regret at that. The blooms had been mighty pretty.

  He turned to see how Scratch was doing, and was alarmed to see that Culley had Scratch trapped in a bear hug. Bo could see Scratch’s face over Culley’s shoulder. It was almost purple from the lack of air, and Scratch’s eyes were open wide in pain and desperation.

  Bo palmed out his Colt as his long legs carried him quickly to the other end of the porch. He raised the gun, reversing it as he did so, and brought the butt crashing down on Culley’s skull. Bo didn’t hold back, figuring that Culley was one hardheaded son of a gun. The blow landed with a heavy thunk!

  Culley just shook his head and kept squeezing.

  Bo hit him again, and this time Culley’s grip relaxed a little. It took a third wallop, though, before the baby bull finally let go. Scratch slipped out of the bone-crushing, suffocating embrace and slumped against the adobe wall of the building, his chest rising and falling violently as he tried to drag air back into lungs that were starved for it.

  Culley swung around ponderously toward Bo. His little piglike eyes still glittered with fury, but they glazed over as he took a step forward. The damage he had taken finally soaked all the way into his brain, and he pitche
d forward to land at Bo’s feet, out cold.

  Bo stepped over to Scratch and put a steadying hand on his friend’s arm. “You all right?” he asked.

  Scratch managed a shaky nod. “I…I will be…once I…catch my breath.”

  “Hey!” That was Dave Sutherland again. “You can’t do that!”

  Bo turned toward the young man and saw that Dave seemed more sober now. Seeing his two friends being defeated like that must have gotten to him. Culley was unconscious, and Angus was curled up in a ball on the ground. He had stopped screaming, but was still whimpering pathetically.

  Furious, Dave reached for the gun holstered on his hip. Before he could even touch it, Bo’s Colt had flipped around again so that his hand was curled around the walnut grips and he had a finger on the trigger. The barrel was centered on the young man’s chest.

  “Don’t do it, Dave,” Bo said in a quiet, solemn tone. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I won’t stand here and let you shoot me or Scratch either.”

  Dave stared at him, taken by surprise yet again. Clearly he hadn’t expected Bo to react so swiftly. His hand hovered over the butt of his gun as he visibly struggled with the decision of what to do next.

  He was saved from having to make it by the sharp, angry voice that cut through the air. “Mr. Creel! What are you doing threatening my son?”

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 2008 William W. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.