Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning, Matt was awakened by the sounds of morning commerce in Soda Creek. Someone was using an ax and he could hear the thump each time the ax fell.

  Thump, thump.

  In counterpoint, and sounding on the offbeat of the ax, was the ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer.

  Thump—ring. Thump—ring.

  Next door, one of the clerks of the general store was sweeping the porch, and the scratch of his broom could be clearly heard over the thump and ring of the ax and hammer.

  Thump—ring—scratch, scratch. Thump—ring—scratch, scratch.

  Finally, adding a coda to the cacophonous symphony, was the squeak of a wagon wheel as it passed down the street of the town.

  Thump—ring—scratch, scratch—squeak. Thump—ring—scratch, scratch—squeak.

  It was not by mere chance that Matt had come back to Soda Creek. In so doing, he felt as if he was closing one part of his life and starting a new chapter. And as a rite of passage, last night he had been with a woman for the first time. Matt turned his head to see the woman who was lying in bed with him.

  She was on her back. Her head was turned away from him, and the bedcovers had slipped down from her left shoulder, exposing her left breast. Matt stared at the nipple, which was lighted by a bar of sunlight that spilled in between the bottom of the window shade and the top of the windowsill.

  The woman was lying in such a way that her breast was nearly flat so that the globe of flesh Matt had seen last night—and had thoroughly explored—was now just a gentle curve that was topped by the taut nipple that gleamed in the single shaft of sunlight.

  Quietly, and gently enough so that the woman wasn’t aware of what he was doing, Matt lifted off the cover, then rolled it all the way down to the bottom of the bed. That action caused her body to be fully revealed so that Matt was able to see everything. He lay with his elbow bent and his head resting on his hand, studying her for a long time.

  The woman chuckled. “Have you seen enough, honey?” she asked without turning her head or opening her eyes. “Because I’m getting cold.”

  “Oh!” Matt said, startled by her response. He had not known she was awake. “I’m sorry.” He pulled the cover back over her.

  The woman chuckled again. “You don’t need to be sorry,” she said, turning to look at him. “I’m not a virgin, you know.”

  Matt smiled. “Neither am I,” he said.

  “You mean, you are no longer a virgin, don’t you? Last night was your first time, wasn’t it?”

  Matt nodded. “Yeah, it was.”

  The woman shook her head and clucked. “You don’t recognize me, do you, Matt?”

  Matt stared at her. It couldn’t be. This woman looked ten to fifteen years older than he was, not a mere year or two older.

  “My God,” he said with an expulsion of breath. “Tamara?”

  “I wondered when you were going to recognize me,” Tamara replied. “Have I changed that much? I recognized you right away.”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s just that—well, I never expected to see you—here.”

  “You mean you didn’t expect to see me whorin’,” Tamara replied.

  Matt didn’t answer.

  Tamara got out of bed and padded, naked, over to a chair where she had put her clothes the night before.

  “What did you expect would happen to the girls at the Home?” she asked as she began dressing. “Mumford had us on the line by the time we were fifteen.” She looked up at him and he saw tears sliding down her face. “I told you that. You do remember, don’t you, Matt, that I told you that?”

  Matt nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I remember. I tried to take you with me.”

  Tamara’s expression softened, and she shook her head.

  “I know you did, honey. But I guess it just wasn’t in the cards.”

  “If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think I would have gotten away that night,” Matt said. “You led them away from me and the boat.”

  “I know I did. And don’t think that I didn’t think about it a lot of times. I was sure you had died up in the mountains, and I figured that if you had, it would have been my fault.”

  “As you can see, I didn’t die,” he said. “And even if I had, it would not have been your fault. Like I said, I thank you for helping me out that night.”

  “And last night?” Tamara asked, a conspiratorial smile spreading across her face. “How about last night? Do you want to thank me for that as well?”

  Matt chuckled and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I want to thank you for that as well.”

  “Are you leaving town again?”

  “Yes,” Matt said. “I—have something to do.”

  “I know. I remember that you told me a long time ago. You are going to find the people who killed your parents, aren’t you?”

  “If I can.”

  “How do you know they are still alive?”

  “I know one of them is still alive, because I’ve seen his name in the paper. It’s Clyde Payson.”

  “Payson?” Tamara said. “Is that who you are looking for?”

  “Yes,” Matt said. He looked at Tamara with a curious expression on his face. “Tamara, do you know Payson?”

  “Not exactly,” Tamara said. “But I know where you can find him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Men talk, honey,” Tamara said. “I don’t know, maybe it’s a way of showing off, a way of saying they are dangerous, or they know someone who is dangerous. Most of it is just talk, but over the years I’ve learned how to tell what is true and what isn’t.”

  “And they have told you where Payson is?”

  “Sort of,” she said. “He’s running a town called Gehenna.”

  “He’s running the town? What do you mean he’s running it? Is he the mayor? Is he the sheriff?”

  “He’s both as far as I can determine,” Tamara said. “Gehenna is what’s called an outlaw town. There is no law there, and the only ones who live there are all wanted by the law. From the talk I’ve heard, the top outlaw there is Payson.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said.

  Tamara shook her head. “Payson is a really bad man. I’ve seen strong men start shaking with fear just at the mention of his name. I wish you would just ignore him now. Whatever he did has been done, and going after him won’t bring your parents back.”

  “Believe me, Tamara, I know every argument there is as to why I should just forget about this and get on with my life,” Matt said. “I know all the arguments because I have used them on myself. But I cannot put this down. I have to find Payson.”

  “Even if it gets you killed?”

  “Even if it gets me killed,” Matt said.

  “You haven’t changed a bit. Matt . . .” Tamara began. Then she looked questioningly at him. “What is your last name, Matt? If you recall, one of the things Mumford did was take our last names away from us. I never knew your last name.”

  Matt hesitated for just a moment. What name should he tell her? Should he say his birth name, which was Cavanaugh, or the name he intended to use for the rest of his life?

  “Jensen,” Matt said, making his choice. “My name is Matt Jensen.”

  “My name is Tamara Peabody.” Tamara smiled. “And you may be the only one I’ve ever told that.”

  “Well, Tamara Peabody, would you like to have breakfast with me?”

  “No, Matt, I can’t,” Tamara said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a whore, remember? It wouldn’t do you to be seen with a whore.”

  “You’re also my friend,” Matt said. “I’ll be hurt if you turn me down.”

  Tamara smiled. “All right,” she said. “I’ll have breakfast with you.”

  They drew a couple of stares when they went into Lucy’s Café, but Lucy greeted them warmly, and that seemed to ease the situation with the rest of the customers. Within a few minutes, nobody was paying any attention to them at all a
nd they were enjoying their breakfast.

  Then Jules came up to the table and stood there for a moment until Matt noticed him.

  “Good morning, Jules,” Matt said, smiling broadly. He handed Jules a couple of biscuits and a couple of pieces of bacon.

  “Thank you, no, I’ve eaten,” Jules said. “That’s not why I come over to your table.”

  “Oh?”

  “The feller you had words with last night? The one you stopped from beatin’ me with a belt? He’s waitin’ for you out in the street.”

  “Connors is waiting for me?”

  Jules nodded. “He aims to kill you,” he said.

  “I see.”

  “If you want, you can leave through the back way. He won’t see you ’cause the alley is all blocked off.”

  Matt shook his head. “No, if Connors is throwing a party for me, it would be rude not to show up.”

  “Matt, no, don’t go out there,” Tamara said. “I’ve seen Connors before. He works at the stamp mill, guarding the gold shipments. He’s really good with a gun.”

  “I have to go, Tamara,” Matt said as he pulled his pistol and checked the loads. He slipped the pistol back in his holster. “If I don’t go out there and face him now, like as not he’ll shoot me in the back.”

  In a town as small as Soda Creek, news of an impending gunfight traveled faster than the telegraph. The street that had been so busy with commerce that it had awakened Matt earlier was now deserted, except for Connors, who stood in the middle of the street about one hundred feet away. Men and women were scurrying down the boardwalks, stepping into buildings to get out of the line of fire while taking observers’ positions in the doors and windows so as to be able to see everything. Even the horses had been moved off the street, as nervous owners feared they might be hit by a stray bullet.

  “I didn’t think you’d come out,” Connors called.

  “Yeah, you would’ve liked that, wouldn’t you?” Matt said. “I would’ve sneaked out the back, you would look big in front of the rest of the town.”

  Suddenly, a bullet fried the air just beside his ear, hit the dirt beside him, then skipped off with a high-pitched whine on down the street. The sound of a rifle shot reached him at about the same time, and Matt dropped and rolled to his left, his gun already in his hand. That was when he got a quick glimpse of the rifleman. But it was a quick glance only, as the rifleman ducked behind the Chinese laundry.

  By now, Connors had his own pistol out. He fired but missed, his bullet crashing harmlessly into the wooden front stoop of Lucy’s Café.

  From a prone position on the ground, Matt fired at Connors and hit him in the knee. Connors let out a howl and went down.

  The rifleman fired again, this time sending a bullet through the crown of Matt’s hat. This time, Matt got a close enough look at him to see that it was Simon.

  “Connors! Connors, are you hit?” Simon called.

  “Yes!” Connors answered, his voice reflecting the pain of a busted kneecap.

  Simon fired again, and the bullet came so close that Matt could feel the concussion of its passing.

  Matt was lying out in the open, so he got up and ran across the street, bending low and firing as he went. He dived behind the porch of the barbershop, then rose and saw that he had a perfect shot at Simon, who had moved into position behind a watering trough. He fired, saw Simon drop his rifle into the watering trough, then fall back.

  By now, Connors had managed to improve his own position, and he fired again at Matt. His bullet sent splinters of wood into Matt’s face.

  Matt stared across the street, trying to find an opening for a shot. Then he smiled. Connors had improved his position by getting out of the street and behind a wooden bench in front of a dressmaker’s shop. What he didn’t realize, though, was that the large mirror in the window of the dressmaker’s shop showed his reflection, and from across the street, Matt watched as Connors inched along on his belly to the far end of the bench. Matt took slow and deliberate aim at the end of the bench where he knew Connors’s face would appear.

  Slowly, Connors peered around the corner of the bench to see where Matt was, and what was going on. Matt cocked his pistol and waited. When enough of Connors’s head was exposed to give him a target, Matt squeezed the trigger. The pistol roared and bucked in his hand, and a cloud of smoke billowed up, then floated away. When the cloud cleared, Matt saw Connors lying facedown in the dirt with a pool of blood spreading out from under his head.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Matt was well armed. He carried a throwing knife that he wore on a scabbard that hung just behind his right shoulder, a bowie knife hanging from his belt on his left hip, a .44 double-action Colt on his right hip (though he still kept his .36 Navy Colt stuck down in a saddlebag), and a Winchester .44-40 rifle. He also had a rain slicker, an overcoat, two blankets, two spare shirts, two extra pairs of socks, two pairs of trousers, and two sets of underwear.

  But perhaps most significant of everything that he carried was the fifteen thousand dollars Smoke had given him when they divided up. That money was still in its original bank packets, rolled up in oilskin and kept in a secret sleeve on the inside of his saddle blanket.

  Matt didn’t know the name of the town he was approaching, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t know today’s date, but that didn’t matter either. He was looking for Clyde Payson and Garvey Laird, and until he found them, not much else mattered.

  Since leaving Soda Creek almost six months ago, he had heard other references to the town of Gehenna, though some referred to it as Purgatory, and others called it Perdition. It was the various names by which it was known that was making the town hard to find.

  Of course, the fact that it was a lawless town and a sanctuary for outlaws also made it hard to find. It was on no maps, and many thought it might just be a myth.

  Matt was reasonably certain that the town did exist, and he was sure he would locate it. When he did find it, and Payson and Garvey, he knew that the advantage would be all his. He was sure he would recognize them, while they would never connect the six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man he had become with the runny-nosed skinny little boy he had been when they encountered him on the trail.

  It was mid-morning, and the sun was halfway through its transit to high noon, as Matt approached the town, which was no more than a cluster of buildings clinging to the side of a hill. Shimmering sunlight bounced off the roofs and flashed back from the windows.

  This appeared to be a mining community, and a little higher up, above the buildings of the town, zigzagging wooden trestles filigreed the face of the mountain. White wisps of steam escaped from the vents of the press mill, and its cylinder steam pipe boomed loudly, as though the place were under a cannonade. Boiling out of the high smokestack was a large plume of black smoke, its sulfurous odor permeating the entire valley.

  Matt’s horse, Spirit, realizing that he was near the end of a long journey, picked up the pace slightly as they approached into town.

  A kiosk in the middle of the street advertised The Pickax Saloon, and even though it was not yet noon, Matt found the idea of a cool beer appealing. He would have a beer, but not before he had taken care of his horse. Smoke had inculcated that in him a long time ago, not from sentimentality or from affection for the critter, but from practicality—that the health of his horse could mean the difference between surviving and dying.

  A few minutes later, with Spirit boarded at the livery, Matt crossed the street and walked down the boardwalk passing a handful of buildings until he came to The Pickax Saloon. A large sign touting the establishment hung over the boardwalk, squeaking an invitation as it rocked in a gentle breeze. Right under the swinging sign was another sign, nailed to the wall alongside the door. This was a big picture of a beer mug, golden yellow at the bottom, white foam at the top. It was actually for those who couldn’t read, but it also had the effect of appealing to those who could, for Matt literally licked his dry lips as he passed it on his w
ay inside.

  Remembering to enter the saloon the way Smoke had taught him, he pushed through the batwing doors, then stepped to one side and placed his back against the wall as he studied the establishment.

  There were eight people in the saloon, the bartender, six men customers, and one woman. Three of the men, wearing coveralls and hats with unlit lanterns, were sitting together at one of the tables. These were obviously miners. The other three men were at a different table. These men were wearing jeans and flannel shirts. They were also wearing cowboy-style hats, and all were wearing pistols with bullet-studded belts. The one woman in the place was sitting in a chair by a piano. The piano was silent and looked as if it had not been played for some time.

  The woman, seeing someone new come into the bar, smiled broadly and walked over to meet him. Matt guessed that she was in her early thirties, though her face was older and her eyes were ancient.

  “Buy me a drink, mister?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Matt said.

  “My name’s Sue,” the woman said. “What’s yours?”

  “Matt.”

  “You ever been here before, Matt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t know where here is,” Matt replied honestly.

  “Why, this is The Pickax Saloon,” Sue said.

  “What’s the name of the town?” Matt asked.

  “The town is called Slick Rock,” Sue said.

  “No,” Matt said.

  Sue looked confused by his reply. “No?”

  “You asked if I had ever been here before. The answer is no, I’ve never been to Slick Rock.”

  Sue laughed.

  “How do we get those drinks?”

  “Give me the money, I’ll get them,” Sue offered.

  “I want a beer.”

  Matt sat at one of the tables and waited as Sue walked over to the bar, spoke to the bartender, then stood there for a moment waiting for him to fill her order.

  “You come to Slick Rock lookin’ for work, mister?” one of the miners called over to him.