Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Sí, I am interested.”

  “You haven’t asked what the job is.”

  “You will pay fifty dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not care what the job is, Señor. If you will pay fifty dollars, I will do it.”

  “We need to find one more person,” Les said.

  Matt had come into El Gato earlier in the day and, after boarding his horse, spent most of the afternoon in the saloon, playing cards and listening in on conversations for any clues that might help him find Clyde Payson. It was dark when he finally left the saloon and started down the street toward the hotel.

  There were no street lamps in this small town, but a full moon and a few dim squares of light splashing through open windows kept the street from being in total darkness. Back in the saloon Matt had just left, the piano player was hard at work, his discordant and cacophonous attempt at music spilling out into the street.

  From the shadows of the Mexican quarters on the south side of town, a strumming guitar and a trumpet competed with each other, and though they were playing different songs, they somehow seemed to blend together.

  He heard a dog’s insistent yap.

  A baby’s cry joined the mix.

  “That’s him,” Les whispered to the two Mexicans he had hired.

  “That’s the gringo you want killed?” Manuel asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why would a gringo pay me to kill another gringo?”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Sí, it will be easy.”

  “Then do it. It doesn’t matter why.”

  Matt felt the assassins coming for him before he heard them, and he heard them before he saw them. Two men suddenly jumped from the dark shadows between the buildings, making wide slashes with their knives. But that innate sense that allowed him to perceive danger when there was no other sign had saved his life, for he was moving out of the way at the exact moment the two men were starting their attacks. Otherwise, their knives, swinging in low, vicious arcs, would have disemboweled him.

  Despite the quickness of his reaction, however, one of the knives did manage to cut him, and as Matt went down into the dirt, rolling to get away from them, the flashing blade opened up a long wound in his side. The knife was so sharp and wielded so adroitly that Matt barely felt it. He knew, however, that the knife had drawn blood.

  One of the assassins moved in quickly, thinking to finish Matt off before he could recover. But Matt twisted around on the ground, then thrust his feet out, catching the assailant in the chest with a powerful kick and driving him back several feet. The second one darted in on the heels of the first, but by now Matt had managed to pull his own knife and he held it out low, with the blade parallel to the ground, letting his attacker impale himself on it.

  He heard the attacker grunt in pain and surprise, then give out a long, life-surrendering sigh. Matt twisted the knife in him so that, as the attacker fell, his own weight against the knife opened him up.

  “Mamá de Dios, usted me ha matado, señor,” the Mexican said, trying to hold his guts in as he collapsed in the dirt. “You have killed me,” he repeated in English.

  The first attacker, thinking he had the advantage, made another wide, slashing thrust. He was good, skilled and agile, but Matt managed to twist away from him. As he twisted away from his assailant, Matt’s knife was not in position to counterthrust, but his left hand was. Matt thrust his left hand out, using stiffened fingers to gouge out both eyes.

  “Aiiyee!” the assailant screamed, dropping his knife and reaching up to his face. Mucus and eye matter streamed through his spread fingers, and Matt knew that he had blinded him. This fight was over.

  Matt’s assailant stood in the middle of the street, screaming in pain and terror.

  “Soy ciego! Soy ciego!”

  By now several of the townspeople, having heard the commotion, had come out into the street to see what was going on. They had watched in awe as Matt defended himself against two attackers.

  “What’s that Mexican fella sayin’?” one of the onlookers asked.

  “He says he is blind.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Across the street, in the darkness afforded by the unlit shadows, Les stood between the apothecary and the leather-goods store. Jacking a round into his rifle, he raised it to his shoulder and aimed at Matt, but before he could pull the trigger, those who had poured into the street crowded around, blocking his target.

  “Damn it!” Les said under his breath. “Get out of the way!”

  More people arrived, pouring out of other saloons, and even coming from the houses. With a sigh of disgust, Les lowered his rifle.

  “I’ll give you this, Matt Jensen,” he said under his breath. “You are one hard son of a bitch to kill.”

  Matt felt the nausea beginning to rise. Bile surged to his throat. Light-headed now, he turned and staggered back toward the saloon. He was barely aware of those who had come into the street to watch the fight, barely aware of them moving aside, like the sea parting for Moses, as he walked back to the saloon. Reaching the front of the saloon, he grabbed the overhang pillar for support and pulled himself up onto the plank porch, then pushed in through the door to stand in the brightness. It was not until he was inside, in the bright light, that the severity of his wound could be seen.

  One of the bar girls, seeing the bloody apparition standing there, screamed. All conversation came to a halt, and a dead silence hung over the saloon as if it were something palpable. Everyone stared at him, their eyes wide and their mouths open in shock.

  Matt stood just inside the doorway, ashen-faced and holding his hand over a wound that spilled bright red blood between his fingers. He looked around the room for just a moment, then with effort, walked over to the bar.

  “Whiskey,” he ordered.

  “Mr. Jensen, you better let a doctor look at that wound you got there,” the bartender said. By now Matt’s side was drenched with blood from his wound, and the blood was beginning to soak into the wide-plank floor.

  “I’ll be f ine,” Matt said. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor, passed out cold.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  When Matt awakened, he experienced a moment of confusion as to where he was. But when he moved, a sharp stitch in his side reminded him of what had happened the night before and he reached down to feel the bandage. He was gratified to see that there had been no more bleeding since last night.

  Matt looked around at his surroundings. He knew that he was in a hotel room, but he wasn’t quite sure how he got there. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but he could tell by the texture of the sunlight streaming in through the window that it was still fairly early in the morning. He also saw his clothes, clean and neatly folded, lying on a chair by the window.

  He thought back to last night and remembered the knife fight he had had with the two Mexicans. He didn’t know who they were, nor did he know why they had attacked him, though he suspected it might have something to do with Clyde Payson. He had heard that Payson had put out a reward for him, and the incident last night seemed to validate that.

  Matt was startled when the door to his room opened. Thinking his gun belt and pistol were hanging from the headboard of the bed, he reached for his weapon.

  It wasn’t there!

  He was about to get out of bed, despite the pain in his side, when the person who opened the door stepped into his room.

  It was Tamara!

  “Tamara!” he gasped in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “You’re awake!” she said happily.

  “Well, yes. It’s morning. I normally wake up in the morning,” Matt replied. “But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

  “Why, I’m here to take care of you, of course,” Tamara answered. “I came as soon as I heard you had been wounded.”

  The expression on Matt’s face reflected his confusion. “How could that be pos
sible?” he asked. “I was just wounded last night.”

  “Last night?” Tamara said. She laughed. “Silly boy. Do you actually think you were wounded last night?”

  “Yes, of course. I had just come out of the saloon when a couple of . . .” Matt stopped in mid-sentence.

  Suddenly a jumbled series of scenes began tumbling through Matt’s mind.

  He recalled the fight.

  He remembered going into the saloon.

  A worried-looking doctor had cleaned his wound and sewn it shut.

  Some men carried him to the hotel room.

  Sometime during all this, Tamara showed up, and now, as he thought back on it, he could recall seeing her face many times, worried as she sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at him, sometimes washing his face with a damp cloth, other times stroking his cheek. Sometimes she kissed him.

  He looked up at her, and saw that she had been watching him go through the thought process.

  “How long have I been here?” Matt asked.

  “Ten days.”

  “Ten days?” Matt gasped. “Have I been out all that time?”

  “Not entirely,” Tamara said. “You’ve been in and out of it, and a few times you have even recognized me.”

  “Really? Have we—uh—have we been together?” Matt asked.

  Tamara laughed. “You haven’t exactly been in the mood,” she said. “Why do you ask? Are you in the mood now?”

  “I might be,” Matt said.

  “Oh, my,” Tamara said. “Then I would say you are just about fully recovered.”

  Tamara walked over to the door, opened it, looked outside, then closed and locked it. When she returned to the bed, she began removing her dress. She lay it neatly on a chair, then stepped out of her petticoat. Next came the camisole, exposing her rather small but well-formed breasts.

  “You know, when I first started in this business, the way I was able to get through it was to imagine that the man I was with was you,” she said.

  “How did that help?” Matt asked. “You remembered me as a twelve-year-old boy.”

  “Maybe it was my fantasy of what you would become,” Tamara said. “And I was right, because look at you now.”

  Smiling, Tamara started to step out of her bloomers.

  Suddenly, there was the tinkling sound of broken glass as something whizzed through the window, followed by a solid “thock,” like the sound of a hammer hitting a nail.

  Tamara pitched forward, even as a mist of blood was spraying out from the back of her head.

  “No!” Matt shouted in a loud, grief-stricken voice.

  Across the street from the hotel, on the roof of the hardware store behind the false front, Les saw the woman step into his line of fire just as he pulled the trigger.

  “No!” he said, ironically matching Matt.

  “Son of a bitch! What did you move for!” Les asked, jacking another round into the rifle. He fired a second time.

  Matt heard the second bullet come through the window and slam into the wall behind the bed. This bullet missed him by no more than an inch.

  Rolling out of bed, Matt looked around for his pistol, then saw that it was on the chair under his clothes. He crawled over to the chair, pulled his pistol, then crawled to the window.

  When Matt looked down onto the street, he saw two men standing in front of the tobacco store. They had obviously heard the shots fired, and were looking up. One was pointing toward the roof of the hardware store.

  Yes, he thought. That made sense. The hardware store was directly across the street from the hotel. If someone wanted to shoot into the second floor of the hotel, that would be the best place to shoot from.

  At first, Matt saw nothing. Then, something caught his attention on the wall of the feed store that was next to the hardware store. The morning sun was at exactly the right angle to project shadows from the roof of the hardware store, and there he saw the shadow of the shooter.

  Using the shadow as a guide, Matt aimed at the false front. He knew that it consisted of thinly cut boards, and he aimed at a point where he calculated the shooter to be. He fired three times in quick succession.

  He didn’t need the shadow to know he had been successful. He saw the shooter fall off the roof, then land hard on the ground, where he lay without moving. Moving away from the window, he went back into the room to check on Tamara.

  There was nothing to check. Tamara was dead.

  Salcedo

  Clyde Payson threw a whiskey bottle against the wall of the saloon.

  “What the hell?” he shouted in anger. “Is he a ghost or something? Is there nobody who can kill him?”

  “I can kill him,” someone said.

  Payson looked toward the door at the man who had just come into the saloon. He was dressed all in black, except for a turquoise and silver band around his short-crowned black hair.

  “Boone?” Payson said.

  Boone nodded.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I would welcome anyone killing him. But why do you want to kill him?”

  “Because I can,” Boone said.

  Payson chuckled. “Because you can,” he said. He nodded. “Yes, yes, I really believe you can kill him. And if you want to kill him just because you can, well, that’s a good enough reason for me.”

  “And for the one thousand,” Boone added.

  “What? What one thousand dollars?”

  “The thousand dollars you are going to pay me to kill Matt Jensen,” Boone said.

  “I don’t know,” Payson said. “One thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  “How much is your life worth to you?” Boone asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I don’t kill Matt Jensen, he will kill you. Isn’t your life worth one thousand dollars to you?”

  “Yes, of course it is. But where am I supposed to get one thousand dollars?” Payson asked.

  “That’s your problem.”

  “What if you kill him, and I haven’t been able to come up with one thousand dollars?”

  “Then it will still be your problem, because I will kill you,” Boone said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Payson thought for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “Kill him.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Salcedo

  “Yeah, he was here,” the bartender told Matt. “Matter of fact, he hung around here for several weeks. But he left a few days ago.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Why should I tell you that?” the bartender replied. “If I tell you where he went and word gets back to Payson that I told you, why, my life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.”

  “It won’t make any difference if word gets back to him,” Matt said.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I’m going to kill him.”

  “So you say. But people have been trying to kill him for a lot of years, and he ain’t dead yet,” the bartender said.

  At that moment a boy, no older than twelve, came into the saloon.

  “Here, what you doing here, boy?” the bartender scolded. “This is no place for kids.”

  “Is there a Mr. Matt Jensen in here?” the boy asked.

  “I’m Matt Jensen,” Matt said.

  “He said if you don’t come, he will shoot another one.”

  “What? Who said that? What do you mean, he will shoot another one?”

  “Another kid,” the boy said. “Like he shot me,” the boy added in a voice that was strained with pain. It wasn’t until then that Matt noticed the boy was holding his hand over his arm. Blood was just beginning to ooze through his fingers.

  “Quick! Somebody get a doctor,” Matt said. He pointed to the bartender. “You, give me a clean towel and a bottle of whiskey.”

  “What the hell?” the bartender said. “Who did this to you, kid? Who shot you?” the bartender asked as he pulled a clean towel from under the bar.

  “Angus Boone shot me,” the boy said. M
att was the first one to him, and he sat the boy down in a chair. “Boone is down at the school. Mr. Jensen, he said he was going to shoot someone every ten minutes until you come out into the street to meet him.”

  “Boone!” someone said. “Did you say Boone shot you?”

  “Yes, sir. Angus Boone.”

  “That’s the fella they call the Gravedigger,” another said.

  The boy looked at Matt. “He’s callin’ you out, Mr. Jensen. He said he would meet you in the middle of the street.”

  “You ain’t a’goin’ to do that, are you, Jensen?” one of the patrons asked. “I mean, this is Angus Boone we are talking ’bout. Nobody is crazy enough to go up against Angus Boone, face-to-face.”

  “Looks to me like Jensen don’t have much choice,” the bartender said. “If he don’t, Boone will shoot another kid.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. Not even Boone is that mean.”

  “Yeah, he is that mean,” Matt said as he poured whiskey onto the boy’s wound, then wrapped the towel around it. “He shot this boy just to prove that he would do what he said he was going to do. What’s your name, son?”

  “Cole,” the boy answered. “Cole Virdin.”

  “Cole, you are a brave young man,” Matt said. The doctor arrived then, his rapid arrival facilitated by the fact that his office was just next door. He was walking quickly and carrying his bag.

  “God in heaven,” he said when he saw Cole. “What kind of mad man would shoot a boy?”

  “It’s Boone, Doc,” one of the patrons told him. “Angus Boone. He’s down at the school and he says he’s goin’ to shoot a kid ever’ ten minutes unless Matt Jensen meets him on the street.”

  Matt pulled his pistol and checked all the chambers; then he put his pistol back in his holster.

  “You aren’t actually going to go out in the street and meet him, are you?” the doctor asked.