Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Bobby Joe, seeing his friend killed, and knowing that he was about to die, peed in his pants as Boone’s second shot hit him in the neck. He pulled the trigger on his pistol, firing a shot into the floor before he collapsed and fell on top of Donnie.

  Angus Boone put his pistol back in his holster, and was calmly sipping his whiskey by the time a few of the citizens of the town got up the nerve to look inside.

  Smoke’s cabin

  By the time Matt was eighteen years old, he was six feet tall and strong as an ox. The older Matt got, the narrower was the difference between him and Smoke, in size, in quickness and accuracy with a handgun, and in just about any other attribute.

  Sometimes, for fun, the two would wrestle, and the winner depended not on strength or skill, but on whoever happened to achieve a temporary advantage in leverage or position.

  Also, the age difference between the two seemed less significant now, and the “fatherly” relationship had gradually changed into one of “big brother.”

  The two had continued to pan the streams and the streams had continued to be productive. For the entire time Matt had been with Smoke, they had buried the gold, each year taking just enough into town to buy goods and supplies for another year. But in the spring of Matt’s eighteenth year, they took everything they had into town, having to enlist four pack animals to do so. When they cashed it out, it was worth a little over thirty thousand dollars, which was more money than the local bank had on deposit.

  “We can have the money shipped from Denver,” the assayer said.

  “Can you write us a draft that will allow us to go to Denver to get the money ourselves?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes,” the assayer said. “Yes, of course I can do that. But you don’t have to go to all that trouble. As I say, I can have the money shipped here.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Smoke said. “Denver’s a big city. I think I’d like to have a look around. How about you, Matt?”

  “I’ve never seen a big city. I’d love to go to Denver,” Matt replied enthusiastically.

  “Write out the draft,” Smoke said.

  “Very good, sir. And who shall I make this payable to?”

  “Make it out to both of us. Kirby Jensen and Matt . . .” Smoke looked over at Matt. “I’ve never heard you say your last name.”

  “Smoke, just make the draft payable to you,” Matt said.

  “No, what are you talking about? This is your money too. You helped pan every nugget.”

  “You can pay me my share after you cash the draft.”

  “It might be easier if it is made to just one man,” the assayer said.

  Smoke sighed. “All right,” he said. “Make it payable to Kirby Jensen.”

  The assayer wrote out the draft, blew on it to dry the ink, then handed it to Smoke.

  “Here you are, Mr, Jensen,” he said. “Just present this to the Denver Bank and Trust, and they will pay you the amount so specified.”

  Smoke held the bank draft for a moment and looked at it. “Hard to believe this little piece of paper is worth all that money,” he said.

  “I assure you, sir, it is as good as gold,” the assayer promised.

  Smoke turned to Matt. “What do you say, Matt. You ready to see Denver?”

  “I’m ready!” Matt answered eagerly.

  Denver

  Although there had been predictions that Denver would reach the magic number of 100,000 inhabitants by 1870, the actual growth of the city had fallen far short of the mark.

  Editor William Byers, editor of the Rocky Mountain News, wrote an article about what he called the go-backers:

  Because they cannot shovel out nuggets like they have been accustomed to digging potatoes, they raise the cry that it is all a humbug and take the back track for home, where it is to be hoped that they will ever after remain.

  Despite Byers’s complaint, the city seemed exceptionally crowded on the day that Matt and Smoke arrived. It was certainly larger than any city Matt had ever seen, and as they rode down Wynkoop Street, they actually had to move aside frequently to allow coaches, carriages, and wagons to pass. Men and women walked briskly along the boardwalks on either side of the street, the women carrying parasols against the sun, the men wearing bowler hats and suits.

  On one corner, some musicians were playing a fiddle, banjo, and guitar, accompanied by someone blowing into a jug. Several people had gathered around to hear them, and occasionally someone would drop a coin into an upturned hat.

  There was a large banner stretched across the street. One corner of the sign had come loose and was flapping in the breeze, but it could still be read.

  DENVER WELCOMES

  THE DENVER PACIFIC RAILROAD

  June 24, 1874

  Shortly after they passed under the sign, they saw a building with a new sign proudly proclaiming it as the DENVER PACIFIC DEPOT.

  “Have you ever seen a railroad train, Matt?” Smoke asked.

  “No, I haven’t,” Matt said. “Have you?”

  “I used to see them back in Missouri when I lived there as a boy during the war,” Smoke said. “But I haven’t seen one since.”

  “I’d sure like to see one,” Matt said.

  “According to the sign, the train will be here tomorrow,” Smoke said. “How would you like to come down here tomorrow to watch?”

  “Yes! Yes, I’d like to very much!” Matt said.

  “Well, then, we’ll just do that,” Smoke said. “What do you say we go get our money, then get us a hotel room?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Matt agreed.

  The Denver Bank and Trust was on the corner of Market and 17th Streets. Like most of the buildings in Denver, the bank was constructed of brick, and it was positioned in such a way that the entrance was at the corner of the building. Like nearly every other building in town, it was decorated in a festive mode with red, white, and blue bunting draped over the entrance.

  Inside the bank, on the left wall, there was a Currier and Ives Print. The print was of two trains on parallel tracks. It looked as if the trains were racing each other. Smoke and steam streamed back from the engines and the great drive wheels were blurred in motion. There were people standing alongside the tracks waving at the engineers, who could be seen in the windows of their respective cabs, eyes staring ahead as they drove their iron steeds along the tracks.

  Beside the Currier and Ives print was a large, printed sign.

  The Denver Bank & Trust

  Welcomes

  THE DENVER PACIFIC RAILROAD

  There were three tellers in the bank, and all three were wearing the caps of railroad conductors, as part of the celebration.

  “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” one of the tellers asked as Smoke stepped up to the window.

  “Everyone seems excited about the arrival of the railroad,” Smoke said.

  “Yes, sir, we are indeed excited about it,” the teller said. “By this time tomorrow, Denver will be a part of the railroad age. Why, did you know it will be possible to board a train right here in our own fair town and, within less than one week, be in San Francisco or St. Louis? What’s more, it will only take two weeks to travel all the way to New York City.”

  “That is truly amazing,” Smoke said. He took the draft from his pocket and slid it across to the bank teller. “I would like to negotiate this instrument, please,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, we’ll be glad to take care of . . .” The teller stopped in mid-sentence as he looked at the size of the bank draft. “Uh—sir, this is a draft for over $32,000.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  “But I don’t know,” the teller said.

  “Is the draft not good?” Smoke asked. “Does Colorado Gold and Silver Acceptance Company not have enough money to cover it?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they do,” the teller said. “But they aren’t who I’m worried about.”

  “Who are you worried about?”

  “I don’t know if we have that much money in our
reserve,” the teller said. “Wait here, please. I must talk to the bank manager.”

  The teller started to walk away with the bank draft in his hand.

  “Uh-uh,” Smoke said, pointing. “Leave that here.”

  “But Mr. Flowers will have to see it.”

  “You bring Mr. Flowers here to see it,” Smoke suggested.

  “Yes, sir,” the teller said, handing the draft back to Smoke.

  A few minutes later, the teller returned with a short, rotund man. Mr. Flowers had a flowing mustache that joined with his muttonchop sideburns. He had no chin whiskers.

  “Mr. Jensen is it?” Flowers asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This is quite embarrassing,” he said. “But at the moment, we don’t have enough funds on hand to honor the draft. However, if you will give us twenty-four hours, I believe we will be able to transfer some funds from some of the other banks in town. On the other hand, if you would like to do so, you could open an account in our bank and leave the draft for deposit. I would suggest that as the better solution.”

  Smoke shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said. “You go gather up the money, we’ll wait for it.”

  “Very good, sir. We’ll have the money for you by tomorrow.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A long layer of blue tobacco smoke hung just beneath the ceiling of the Lucky Strike Saloon. Normally, there were as many as five or six poker games going on at the same time, but now there was only one. All the other games had stopped and the other players, the bar girls, and even the casual drinkers had been drawn to the action at the remaining game table.

  Smoke had three piles of poker chips stacked in front of him, representing over fifteen hundred dollars in cash. He pulled out a long, thin cigar and lit it, examining the man across the table from him. The man had just taken a seat at the table, attracted by the size of the stakes.

  “I’m told your name is Smoke Jensen,” the man said.

  “It is.”

  “Do you know who I am, Mr. Jensen?”

  “Should I?”

  “I’m a professional gambler, Mr. Jensen. My name is Kelly Smith. Does it make you nervous to be playing against a professional gambler?”

  “No, not at all,” Smoke replied.

  “It should.”

  “Really? And why is that?”

  “I have been watching you for the last several minutes, Jensen. You are a reckless player. You play with emotion, not with your mind.” Smith put fifteen hundred dollars on the table. “I think I should give you a few lessons. But I warn you, they will be expensive.”

  “I’ve always heard that a good education is expensive,” Smoke said. “But I do seem to have a winning streak going.”

  “Yes. Well, I’m here to stop that winning streak,” Kelly Smith said.

  “I do admire a man with conf idence,” Smoke said. He raked in the cards and started to shuffle them.

  “No, don’t use those cards.”

  Smith stuck his hand out to stop Smoke from shuffling the cards. “I’d like to play with a new deck of cards, if you don’t mind,” Smith said.

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  One of the bar girls standing nearby handed Smoke a new deck of cards, and he broke the seal, then dumped them on the table. They were clean and stiff and shining. He pulled out the joker, then began shuffling the deck. The stiff, new pasteboards clicked sharply. His hands moved swiftly, folding the cards in and out until the law of random numbers became king of the table. He shoved the deck across the table.

  “Cut?”

  Smith cut the deck, then pushed them back. He kept his eyes glued on Smoke’s hands.

  “Five card stud?” Smoke asked.

  “That’ll be fine.”

  Smith won five hundred dollars on the first hand, and a couple of hands later was ahead by a little over a thousand dollars. Smoke was ready to concede that his string of luck had run out. At that time, he was still almost a hundred dollars above what he had started with. He finished his beer.

  “Well,” Smoke said. “I guess your ambition wasn’t misplaced. You’ve broken my streak. Perhaps I should quit while I have something left.”

  “You have a lot more money than you are showing on the table, Mr. Jensen,” Smith said.

  Smoke’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “The whole town knows that you presented a bank draft today that was so large that the bank couldn’t cash it. That is right, isn’t it?”

  “Mister, I figure whatever happens between me and the bank is my business,” Smoke said.

  “Well, seeing as they’re having to raise the money from all the other banks in town, seems to me like it’s everybody’s business now,” Smith said. He looked at the one hundred dollars Smoke had remaining. “What do you say we play one hand of showdown for what you have left on the table?”

  Smoke sighed. “All right,” he said.

  “Let the woman deal,” Smith said.

  Smoke nodded and handed the cards to the bar girl, who was standing by.

  She dealt five cards to each of them, and Smoke took the pot with a pair of fives.

  “Again,” Smith said.

  Within three hands, Smoke was back up to eight hundred dollars.

  “You’ve won three hands in a row. You can’t possibly win a fourth,” Smith said. “Do you have the guts to bet everything on another hand?”

  “You know, Smith,” Smoke said as the girl shuffled the deck, “there are only two of us playing at this table. Mathematically, that means the odds are fifty-fifty that I will win.”

  “So?”

  “So I mean, the fact that I have already won three hands does not lessen the odds of me winning again.”

  Smoke did win with a pair of tens, and Smith threw his cards on the table in disgust. He slid the rest of his money to the center of the table. “I’ve got another thousand here,” he said. “High card.”

  “All right, high card,” Smoke said.

  The bar girl fanned out the cards and Smith turned over a queen of hearts. He looked across the table and smiled triumphantly at Smoke.

  “I’ve got you now,” he said.

  Smoke turned up a king.

  “Well, it looks like my luck has returned,” he said as he reached for the pile of money.

  “You just ran out of luck, mister,” Smith said, drawing his pistol and pointing it at Smoke. “Draw your gun.”

  “You may have noticed that I’m not wearing a gun,” Smoke said easily.

  “Hell, it don’t matter whether you are armed or not. We hang card cheats here in Denver. I’ll just shoot you and save the citizens the cost of a hangman.”

  There was a cold, ominous click of metal, then the barrel of a pistol was pushed against the back of Smith’s head.

  “Put your gun down.”

  “What?” Smith asked in a frightened voice. He lowered his pistol and tried to look around, but the gun barrel prevented him from turning his head. Beads of perspiration popped out on his upper lip. “Who are you? What are you gettin’ mixed up in this for? This ain’t none of your concern.”

  “My name is Matt. You just threatened to shoot an unarmed man, and that unarmed man is my friend. That makes it my concern. Now, put your pistol on the table, please.”

  Gingerly, very gingerly, Smith laid his pistol down. Smoke picked Smith’s gun up, emptied all the cartridges, and then walked over to the stove, opened the door, and tossed the gun inside.

  “Have a nice walk around town, did you, Matt?” Smoke asked as he slammed the door.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’m going to cash in the chips. Then I suggest that we take our dinner at the most expensive restaurant in town.”

  “Good idea,” Matt said. He let the hammer down on his pistol and returned it to his holster. It wasn’t until after the gun was taken from his head that Smith turned to see who had accosted him. He saw a strongly built youth of seventeen or eighteen, with sun-b
leached blond hair and bright blue eyes.

  “Why you’re—you’re just a kid!” Smith sputtered. “You’re going to get yourself into trouble playing a man’s game. I should’ve taken you.”

  Smoke chuckled. “Mr. Smith, have you ever tried to pick up a bobcat by his back legs? That’s exactly what you would have run into if you had tried anything with my partner.”

  “Really?” Smith said in obvious disbelief. “Well, I guess now we’ll never know, will we?”

  “And you’d better hope that you never have to find out,” Smoke said. “Come on, Matt, let’s go.”

  As Smoke and Matt left the saloon, they were poking money into all their pockets.

  “I’ve never seen so much money,” Matt said. “How much did you win tonight?”

  “About twenty-five hundred, I think,” Smoke replied. He laughed. “And if you think this is a lot of money, wait until tomorrow when we get our payoff at the bank.”

  The next day, the entire city of Denver turned out for the arrival of the first train. Most were dressed in their Sunday finest, there to greet the train on what they knew would be a great, historic day. Some were there to take advantage of the gathering, and there were several vendors working the crowd, selling pies, cakes, and candies.

  One man had brought his patent medicine wagon up as close to the tracks as he could get them, and he was standing on the back of the wagon, shouting his pitch to the crowd. He was tall and thin, and wearing a black suit that was badly in need of a cleaning. His long, bony finger jabbed at the air as he spoke.

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have come bearing a new miracle drug that will work wonders for all illnesses. If you suffer from ulceration of the kidneys, loss of memory, weak nerves, hot hands, flushing in the body, consumption, torpidity of the liver, hot spells, bearing down feelings, or cancer, this marvelous Extract of Buchu will be your salvation.