“Who’s that with him?” Dunnigan asked.
“You mean the one ridin’ with him? Or the fella he’s bringin’ in?” Peterson replied.
“Both.”
“I expect the one with him is a fella by the name of Colby. I’ve heard Colby is his partner. I don’t have no idea who the one draped over the horse is,” Peterson said.
“Yeah, well, they say that Bodine ain’t none too particular,” Dunnigan said. “If you’re wanted, no matter what the reward is, he’ll bring you in. And most of the time when he does bring someone in, he’s dead.”
When they passed by the saloon, Colby pulled over and dismounted, then tied his horse to the hitching rail.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Bodine called to him.
“I’ll be in the saloon,” Colby called back.
By the time Bodine reached the sheriff ’s office, Sheriff Adams had already heard about his arrival and was standing on the front porch, waiting for him.
Bodine stopped in front, then rode back to the trail horse, leaned over to cut a rope, then gave the body that was draped over the saddle a push. The body landed on the dirt street, faceup, his arms thrown out to either side. His eyes were still open but opaque. His face had a bluish tint.
“Sheriff, I’m . . .” Bodine started, but Sheriff Adams finished for him.
“Amos Bodine. Yeah, I know who you are,” Sheriff Adams said. He nodded toward the body on the ground. “Who is that?”
“His name is Wright. Cleo Wright,” Boone said. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “I got a dodger here says he’s worth two hundred fifty dollars.”
“Did you have to kill him?”
“Read what it says on the paper,” Boone said. “It says dead or alive.”
“I’m sure it does,” Sheriff Adams said. He sighed. “That’s not what I asked. I asked if you had to kill him.”
“He drew on me,” Bodine said.
“They always draw on you, don’t they, Bodine?”
“I reckon they figure that’s better’n goin’ to jail.”
“And it makes it easier for you to bring them in, doesn’t it?”
“Some,” Bodine admitted.
“How many have you killed, Bodine?”
“Twenty-five or thirty, I reckon,” Bodine replied. “I really don’t know, but I’ve never killed anyone that I didn’t get paid for killin’.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
“Speakin’ of which, when am I goin’ to get paid for this one?” he asked, nodding toward Cleo Wright.
“It’ll be a day or two before I can get your money,” the sheriff answered.
“That’s fine by me, as long as I get it,” Bodine said. “My partner, Colby, is already down to the saloon. If you need me, I’ll be there. I can wait.”
“You’ve got a partner now?”
“It’s come in handy a time or two,” Bodine replied. He turned his horse to ride away.
“Bodine?” Sheriff Adams called out.
Bodine turned back.
“Yeah?”
“Bodine, I don’t want any trouble in my town,” the sheriff said. “Do you hear me? I don’t want any trouble in my town.”
“Sheriff, let me get this straight. Are you sayin’ that if I see a wanted man in Meeker, I can’t go after him?”
“Yes—uh, no,” Sheriff Adams replied.
“Yes or no what?”
“Just—just don’t cause any trouble in my town,” Adams repeated.
Chapter Twelve
When they rode into Meeker, Matt had a good look around. It had been several months since Matt had been in any town at all, and he had not really seen that many Western towns, so he had no real way of judging this one.
Someday, such towns would become the means of defining his life. Like mileposts, he would move from one town to another, each with a different name and with different people, but all with the same personality. And in some strange way that he could neither comprehend nor explain, he seemed to sense that even now.
The town was called Meeker, and it sat at the junction of Sulphur Creek and the White River. No railroad served the town, and its few streets were dotted liberally with horse droppings. The buildings of the little town were as washed out and flyblown up close as they had seemed from some distance.
The first building they rode by was a blacksmith’s shop, and a tall and muscular man was bent over his anvil, working a piece of metal. The ringing of his hammer on steel was audible above everything else.
They rode by a butcher shop, a general store, a leather goods shop, and an apothecary. Next to the apothecary was a building that had a sign reading:
ASSAY OFFICE
That was where they stopped.
“What is an assay office?” Matt asked.
“You know all the panning we’ve been doing this summer?” Smoke asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, this is where it pays off. This is where we are going to get some money.”
Swinging down from his horse, Smoke took the saddlebags down from his horse. “Let’s go see how we did.”
Matt followed Smoke into the little building. Smoke dumped the contents of his saddlebags out onto a counter. Matt knew that this was only a portion of what they had panned over the last three months. The rest of it was buried in cans around Smoke’s cabin, with Smoke being careful to show Matt where each can was buried.
The man behind the counter was wearing a white shirt, buttoned to the neck. He was wearing a collar too, but the collar was askew. He had rimless glasses, which were raised to his forehead, but as he saw the nuggets that were dumped from the saddlebags, he moved the glasses down to his eyes, then positioned them with his forefinger.
“Oh, my,” he said as he looked at the display before him. “Oh, my, oh, my, oh, my.”
“Is that good, Smoke?” Matt asked. “Why does he keep saying oh, my?”
“You’ll see,” Smoke said.
The man with the glasses picked up a magnifying glass and looked more closely at the rocks.
“It’s going to take me a while to figure how much all this is worth.”
“Is it worth enough for you to advance my partner and me forty dollars apiece right now?” Smoke asked.
“Oh, heavens, yes,” the assayer said. “It’s worth much, much more than that.”
“Give me a receipt for the ore, less eighty dollars,” Smoke said. “We’ll be back for the rest of the money later.”
The assayer wrote out a receipt, then handed Smoke four twenty-dollar bills. Smoke gave two of the bills to Matt.
“No,” Matt said, shaking his head and handing it back. “This is your money.”
“Are you saying you didn’t have anything to do with panning it? Are you saying you didn’t feed and water the animals, you didn’t chop firewood, you didn’t bring in water, you didn’t do any hunting?”
“Well, yeah, I did all that but . . .”
“No buts,” Smoke said. “We’re full partners in this operation.”
From the assayer’s office, they went to a café for lunch. Although he had spent three years eating in a dormitory, this was the first café that Matt had ever been in in his life.
A very large woman, seeing them come in, smiled broadly.
“Smoke Jensen, you old heartbreaker you,” she said in greeting. “I see you survived another winter in the mountains.”
“That I did, Julie, that I did,” Smoke replied.
Julie looked at Matt. “Well, now, either Preacher has found some elixir that made him get really young, or you’ve got yourself a new partner. This sure don’t look like Preacher.”
“This is my friend Matt,” Smoke said.
“Matt is ever’ bit as good-lookin’ as you are. You been hidin’ somethin’ from me, Smoke? Have you gone off and spawned a young’in of your own?”
“Afraid not,” Smoke said. “But I wouldn’t be ashamed to claim Matt as my own. He is a fine young man.”
“What will I have?”
“To eat,” Julie said. “What do you want to eat?”
“I’m not particular,” Matt said. “Whatever you’ve fixed for supper, I’ll eat it.”
“You have to be more specific than that,” Julie said.
“Maybe this will help you,” Smoke said, picking up a menu and showing it to Matt. “You can have ham, roast beef, fried chicken, pork chops, meat loaf.”
“All that? Who could eat all that?” Matt asked incredulously.
Smoke chuckled. “You’ve never been in a café before, have you?”
Matt shook his head.
“You don’t order all of it. You just order what you want.”
“Anything I want?”
“Sure.”
“I want fried chicken and apple pie,” he said.
“You want potatoes with your chicken?” Julie asked.
Matt shook his head. “All I want is fried chicken and apple pie.”
“Hon, that’s not a very . . .” Julie began, but Smoke interrupted her.
“You heard him, Julie,” Smoke said. “Bring him some fried chicken and apple pie.”
At the next table someone got up and, as he was leaving, handed a newspaper to Smoke.
“Here’s the latest paper, friend, if you would care to read it,” he said.
“Thank you,” Smoke replied. He read the paper for a few minutes, then glanced across the table toward Matt.
“The full name of the man you are looking for is Clyde Payson,” he said.
“What? How do you know that?” Matt asked. “Is it in the paper?”
“See for yourself.”
Smoke handed the paper to Matt.
DASTARDLY DEEDS IN CEDAR CREEK!
Bank Robbers Kill Teacher
and a Child.
Leave One of Their Own Dead.
On the fifth, ultimate, a band of bank robbers led by desperado Clyde Payson rode into the small town of Cedar Creek, Colorado. In a daring daylight robbery, the robbers relieved the Bank of Cedar Creek of its cash reserves, equaling at the time a little over six thousand dollars.
Told of their presence by an alert citizen, Marshal Jeremiah D. Cobb established wagon barricades at either end of the street, with the intent of preventing the robbers from getting out of town. However, the robbers managed to escape by riding through a school yard, which, at the time, was crowded with children at play.
Miss Margaret Miller, a beloved matron and longtime schoolteacher, as well as little Holly McGee, one of her second-grade students, were both killed in the gun battle that ensued. Also killed was Pete Lew, one of the robbers.
Clyde Payson is described as being a peculiarly ugly man. He is five feet nine inches tall, with a purple scar that starts at his forehead, disfigures the left eye, then proceeds unabated down his cheek and jawline until it pulls the left side of his mouth into a sneer.
One other member of the gang has also been identified as Garvey Laird. Laird is easily identified by the fact that, during the war, a minié ball diminished his left ear by one half. Readers are cautioned not to approach any of these men as they are very dangerous. Should one of them be seen, a county sheriff or United States marshal should be informed of their whereabouts. Marshal Cobb reminds readers not to inform him as he has no jurisdiction beyond the town limits of Cedar Creek.
“That’s them!” Matt said, tapping the newspaper article with his fingers. “They are the ones who killed my ma, pa, and sister.”
“If they stay this active, you won’t have much trouble finding them,” Smoke suggested. “Unless somebody else kills them first.”
“I don’t care who kills them,” Matt replied. “As long as they are dead.”
After the café meal, they went to a general store, where Matt bought three pair of jeans, three shirts, some underwear, socks, and boots.
“My, what a large purchase,” the proprietor said. “It’s almost as if you were starting from scratch.”
“I am starting from scratch,” Matt said without any explanation.
The shopping done, Smoke took Matt into one of the saloons.
“There’s a way of entering saloons,” Smoke explained. “And though you don’t have any need to do so now, the time will come when it will serve you well. So you may as well learn how to do it.”
“All right,” Matt said.
Following Smoke’s lead, Matt went into the saloon, then stepped immediately to one side with his back at the door.
“Always take a good look around,” Smoke said, quietly.
“What are we looking for?”
“You’ll know it if you see it,” Smoke said.
Matt saw it almost as quickly as Smoke. A rather gaunt-looking man with a sweeping handlebar mustache was standing at the far end of the bar. He had seen them both in the mirror. He reached down and slipped his pistol out of his holster, then held it down out of sight, alongside his leg. He did it quietly and unobtrusively, and neither looked around nor made any sign of recognition. Had Smoke and Matt not been making it a point to study everyone in the saloon, neither of them would have seen it.
Because of their diligence, both saw it.
“Smoke,” Matt hissed.
“I see it, boy,” Smoke answered quietly. “Step away from me, over to the other side of the door. And keep your back to the wall.”
Matt had only been with Smoke for about six months now, but he knew enough to do exactly as Smoke asked, doing so without question.
The man at the bar called out without turning toward Smoke.
“Mister, would your name be Jensen? Smoke Jensen?” the man from the bar called.
“That’s me,” Smoke replied.
“I’ve seen paper on you,” the man said. “The paper says you are a murderer and a low-life son of a bitch.”
These were challenging words, words that even Matt knew were killing words. Everyone at the bar knew so as well because, almost as one, they broke away from the bar and scrambled quickly to get out from between the two men.
“Are you the law?” Smoke asked.
“Nah, I ain’t the law,” the man replied. “The law can’t collect rewards.”
“I guess that makes you a bounty hunter.”
“That’s what I am, all right. And you are worth fifteen hundred dollars to me.”
“No, I’m not,” Smoke said. “The paper on me has been called back, so I’m worth nothing to you. Even if you could take me in.”
“I don’t plan on takin’ you in. I plan on just killin’ you right here, and havin’ the sheriff vouch for it so’s I can collect me that reward.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bodine,” the man answered. “Amos Bodine. I reckon you’ve heard of me.”
“Bodine, we don’t have to do this,” Smoke said. “You can just walk away now and nobody has to get hurt. I told you there is no reward.”
“Well, now, maybe there is a reward and maybe there isn’t,” Bodine replied. “That still leaves you a murderin’ low-life son of a bitch.”
“Is there any way I’m going to be able to talk my way out of this?” Smoke asked.
Smoke’s question surprised and disappointed Matt. Was Smoke scared? He would never have thought that Smoke would run scared.
Almost as soon as he thought it through, he felt ashamed of himself. Smoke had saved his life, and had kept him alive through the long, cold winter. What’s more, Smoke had shared his gold secret with Matt. And right now, Matt still had about thirty dollars in his pocket, more money than he had ever held at any one time in his entire life. What an ingrate he was for questioning anything Smoke did.
At the bar, Bodine just shook his head. He still hadn’t turned around to face Smoke.
“You ain’t goin’ to be able to talk your way out of this one, mister,” Bodine said. “The reward says you are worth fift
een hundred dollars dead or alive, and I intend to collect.”
“Then I expect it’s time the killin’ started,” Smoke said dryly.
Bodine suddenly swirled away from the bar, his hand already coming up with a cocked pistol.
Smoke, reacting to the bounty-hunter’s move, had his own pistol out so fast that it was a blur. He drew, fanned the hammer back, and fired in one fluid motion.
Matt saw Bodine gasp in surprise as the bullet from Smoke’s gun plunged into his chest. Bodine staggered backward, then fell flat on his back on the floor of the saloon. His gun arm was thrown to one side, and the still-unfired pistol was in his hand.
Then, even as Bodine was falling, Smoke was firing a second time. Looking up, Matt saw someone tumble over the railing at the top of the stairs. The second man had been holding a rifle and the rifle fell before him, reaching the floor an instant before the man did. Matt had not even seen him until this moment, and he was amazed that Smoke had.
In the close confines of the barroom, the two gunshots were a sustained roar, like a sudden clap of thunder.
Smoke stood in place for a long moment, holding the discharged gun in his hand while a little stream of smoke drifted up from the end of the barrel.
“Holy shit!” someone said. “Did you see that?”
“And I thought Bodine was fast,” another said.
“I need a drink,” the first man said, and there was a mad rush to the bar.
“Matt, are you all right over there?” Smoke asked quietly.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Matt answered in a small, awed voice.
“Get us a table,” Smoke said. “I’ll get you a sarsaparilla.”
“I’d rather have a beer,” Matt said.
“You might rather have a beer, but you are getting a sarsaparilla,” Smoke said resolutely.
“Yeah, that’s what I said. I’d like to have a sarsaparilla.”
Smoke smiled. “I thought that was what you said.”
Matt found a table and sat down.
Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Page 9