Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory

by J. A. Johnstone

  Fortunately, the shotgun guard was spared that indignity, as they decided to keep his body inside the coach until the undertaker could call for him.

  The sheriff, having been notified of the attempted stagecoach robbery, hurried down to the depot. He looked down at the three bodies, then after speaking to the driver for a few minutes, walked over to talk to Matt.

  “The name is Williams. Robert Williams,” he said as he extended his hand. “I’m the sheriff here. I understand from the driver that you are the one who killed these three men.”

  “I killed two of them,” Matt answered. “The guard got the other one.”

  “And who might you be, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

  “My name is Jensen. Matt Jensen.”

  The sheriff blinked in surprise. “Matt Jensen? Are you the Matt Jensen?”

  Matt laughed. “I don’t know if I’m the Matt Jensen, but I’m the only one I know.”

  “Of course you are the Matt Jensen,” Sheriff Williams said. “Nobody else could have done this.”

  A wagon backed up to the coach and the guard’s body was taken off. Because the wagon was closed, and was backed so close to the coach, few actually saw the body as it was removed. The driver of the wagon, a very thin, sallow-faced, hawk-nosed, pinched-cheek man wearing striped pants, a black coat, and a high hat, clucked at his horse and drove away. Only a few paid any attention to him, as most continued to gawk at the three dead outlaws.

  “If you’ll excuse me, now that they’ve taken the shotgun guard’s body out of the coach, I think I’ll just go on over there and get my bag,” Matt said.

  “I’ll walk over there with you, if you don’t mind, Mr. Jensen,” the sheriff said.

  Matt claimed his bag, then stepped out of the way so the other passengers could claim their luggage.

  “Do you know who you killed here, Mr. Jensen?” Sheriff Williams asked, pointing toward the three bodies that lay out on the depot platform.

  Matt nodded. “Yeah, I know who they are. I can’t call them by name, but I know who they are,” he said. “I ran into them a few months back, but it was up in Colorado.”

  “That sounds about right. I heard that they were up in Colorado for a while. I don’t think they’ve been back down here for more than a couple of weeks.”

  “Do you know who they are?” Matt asked.

  “Oh, yeah, I know them all right,” the sheriff replied. He pointed to the three bodies. “The one on the left went by the name of Burt Philbin, the big one is Deermont Cantrell, and the other one is Abe Oliver. How did you happen to run into them in Colorado, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

  Matt told the sheriff about his encounter with them at Ian Crocker’s ranch. “I didn’t know it at the time, but it turns out they had tried to hold up a bank up in Bent Canyon. There was another man running with them then, by the name of Percy Morris. The only reason I know his name is because I killed him in the shoot-out.”

  “Hmm, don’t know anything about a fella named Morris. They must’a run into him when they was up in Colorado,” Sheriff Williams said.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” someone shouted from the crowd. “Is it all right if I tie these three boys up against some boards, then stand ’em up so’s I can take a picture of them?”

  “Sure, Gilbert, go ahead,” the sheriff called back.”

  “Get ’em strapped to those boards there, boys,” the photographer ordered, pointing to the bodies, and several men began tying the slain outlaws to the three two-by-six boards the photographer had brought to the depot just for this occasion.

  “You say there was another fella with these three?” the sheriff asked as he watched the men work.

  “Actually, there were two more with them,” Matt said. “But they were both wearing masks, and I didn’t get that good a look at them.”

  “Well, these boys also ran with an hombre by the name of Billy Meechum. Fact is, he was sort of the head of the little group, and I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut that he was one of the two that got away. Of course, without someone actually seeing Meechum there, I don’t reckon I can rightly accuse him just yet.” The sheriff shook his head. “As to who the other one was, though, I don’t have the slightest idea.”

  “Okay, boys, get ’em propped up against the wall here,” the photographer said.

  At the photographer’s orders, the three outlaws were picked up, then carried over and stood up against the adobe wall of the depot—their grotesque bodies making a grisly display.

  “Hey, you, young feller,” the photographer shouted over to Matt. “Bein’ as you’re the one who kilt these outlaws, how ’bout you come over here and stand alongside of ’em, holdin’ up the gun that you done the killin’ with?”

  “I’d rather not,” Matt replied.

  “Why not? Come on, young feller, this will make you famous. Why, I’ll send your picture back East and it won’t be no time till ever’one in America will know who you are.”

  “No, thank you,” Matt repeated.

  “I’m just—”

  “Gilbert, the man said no,” Sheriff Williams snapped back, interrupting the man in mid-sentence. “Now just get your pictures took and leave us the hell alone.”

  “Whatever you say, Sheriff,” the photographer replied. “I was just tryin’ to do right by him, is all.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Mr. Jensen,” the sheriff said.

  “That’s all right.”

  “People, people,” the photographer called out to the crowd. “If any of you want your picture took with these here desperados, why, step up here now, give me a quarter, and I’ll take your picture with them. You can pass them onto your grandkids someday, tell ’em you’re the one that kilt ’em. By then nobody will ever know the difference.”

  Matt was surprised to hear such a blatant lie proposed, but scores of people crowded forward to take Gilbert up on his dishonest offer.

  “Mr. Jensen, you are aware, are you not, that there is a bounty on these three men?” Sheriff Williams asked.

  Matt shook his head. “A bounty? Well, I can’t say that I am surprised, but no, I didn’t know anything about a bounty. I’m not a bounty hunter, Sheriff, so I don’t keep up with such things.”

  The sheriff chuckled. “Uh-huh. Well, we’re talking fifteen hundred dollars here—five hundred on each of them. I don’t reckon you’ll be turnin’ that money down, will you?”

  Matt chuckled as well. “No, Sheriff, I won’t be turning the money down. I understand from the driver that the guard was married.”

  “Pinkie was married, that’s true.”

  “Give a thousand dollars of the reward to his widow.”

  “I can see her getting five hundred dollars,” Sheriff Williams said. “I mean, seein’ as how Pinkie got one of them. But you don’t need to give her a thousand dollars.”

  “I know I don’t need to. I want to,” Matt said.

  Sheriff Williams stroked his chin and nodded. “All right,” he said. “I reckon you are as good a man as they say you are, Matt Jensen. By the way, I’m pretty sure these men you killed this mornin’ are the same sons of bitches that got all our Indian problems started in the first place,” the sheriff said.

  “By Indian problems, you are talking about Delshay, not Geronimo, right?”

  “That’s right,” Sheriff Williams said. “You know Delshay? I didn’t think anyone outside Arizona Territory had ever even heard of the son of a bitch.”

  “The reason I know about him is because I scouted for General Crook for a while,” Matt said. “I’ve never exactly met Delshay, but I have seen him.”

  Matt recalled his run-in with Delshay—remembering how the Indian had sat calmly on his horse, as if defying the army.

  “I know Delshay rode with Geronimo. I didn’t know he had gone out on his own, though, until I read in the newspaper about one of his raids,” Matt said.

  “You’re right, he did ride with Geronimo for a while. But then, for some reason, he decided to come ba
ck to the reservation. I think if it hadn’t been for Meechum and these galoots here”—he pointed toward the three dead outlaws, alongside whom the citizens of the town were coming up, one by one, to brandish a pistol and pose for photographs—“Delshay would still be living just real peaceable-like out there.”

  “What makes you think these men had anything to do with Delshay leaving the reservation?” Matt asked.

  “It’s something Gene Baker told me, and I just put it together,” Matt said. “Baker is the Indian agent out at San Carlos. It seems that Delshay and his cousin, Chandeisi, were going into the town of Picket Post to do some honest trading. They left their squaws and their children waiting for them on blankets just outside of town. The squaws were watchin’ over the trading trinkets—you know, silver and turquoise necklaces and the like. But when Delshay and Chandeisi came back, their squaws and their children was dead and their trading goods was gone. Baker says he thinks that’s what sent Delshay and Chandeisi and the others they was able to recruit out on the war trail.

  “Anyway, a few weeks ago, right after that happened, Meechum and these three galoots showed up in Phoenix looking to trade silver and turquoise Indian jewelry. It ain’t that far a stretch to figure that these is the same ones that killed the Indian squaws.”

  “If there was a bounty on them, why didn’t you arrest them as soon as they came to town?” Matt asked.

  “I wasn’t in town when they came in,” Sheriff Williams said. “I was down in Maricopa. And by the time I come back up to Phoenix, all four of them boys was long gone.”

  “Excuse me, Sheriff Williams?”

  The man who spoke to the sheriff was the same one who had come for the guard’s body a few minutes earlier. He was back, but this time he was driving an open wagon.

  “Yes?” Williams replied.

  “I wonder, Sheriff, if you would kindly call a halt to the circus Mr. Gilbert is conducting around the deceased so that I may get on with my business.”

  “Mr. Jensen, this here is Abner Prufrock. Mr. Prufrock, as you can tell by his attire, is the undertaker. Mr. Prufrock, your business with the county is compliments of Matt Jensen. He’s the one who killed them.” Sheriff Williams laughed. “Maybe you ought to give him a cut of your fee,” he teased.

  Prufrock cleared his throat. “Yes, Sheriff, well, I’m sure you are having fun with all this. But the truth is, regardless of whether these men were outlaws are not, common decency requires that they be given a proper burial.”

  “All right, I’ll get your bodies for you,” Williams said. “Gilbert, that’s enough picture takin’,” the sheriff called. “It’s time to let Mr. Prufrock here get on with his business.”

  “If you say so, Sheriff,” Gilbert answered.

  “Kindly take them off those planks,” Prufrock said as he walked over toward the bodies.

  “I tell you what, Mr. Jensen, you do have my thanks and the thanks of the town,” Sheriff Williams said, continuing his conversation with Matt. “You stopped a stagecoach robbery and, from what some are saying, you may have even saved a few of the passengers’ lives as well.”

  “Too bad I wasn’t able to do anything for the shotgun guard,” Matt said.

  “Yes, Pinkie was a good man,” Sheriff Williams said. “I’m sorry for his widow, but at least I know that Moses and his wife and kids are grateful that you come along when you did and that you treated him.”

  “The driver’s wound isn’t all that serious. He should come through it just fine,” Matt replied.

  “I tell you what I hope,” Williams said. “I hope that, once word gets back to Delshay that the sons of bitches who killed his family have been killed, that he’ll come back to the reservation.”

  Matt and Sheriff Williams watched as the bodies of the outlaws were untied from the boards, then loaded on to the back of the undertaker’s wagon.

  “But that’s never going to happen,” Williams continued. “Delshay is going to hold every white man responsible for what happened to his family, same as white folks are going to hold all the Apaches responsible for what Geronimo, and now Delshay, have done.”

  Matt picked up his bag. “Can you recommend a hotel, Sheriff?”

  “Well you might try the Phoenix House, though we do have a couple of pretty good ones and I wouldn’t want to be accused of trying to steer you to one certain place.”

  “Phoenix House sounds good to me. Where is it?”

  “It is right down at the end of this same street. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said.

  “Oh, if you don’t mind my askin’, Mr. Jensen, I’m just curious. What brings a man like you to Phoenix?”

  “I’m searching for someone.”

  “Searching for someone? I thought you said you weren’t a bounty hunter.”

  “It’s not that kind of a search,” Matt replied with a chuckle. “This is personal. The man I’m looking for is the brother of a friend. I understand he came here recently.”

  “What’s this fella’s name?” the sheriff asked. “The one you’re looking for?”

  “His name is Marcus. Andrew Marcus.”

  The sheriff smiled. “You don’t say? Well, I’ll be damn. Andy Marcus, yes, I know him.”

  “Let me make sure this is the right one,” Matt said. “The Andy Marcus I’m looking for is a brewer.”

  “Oh, yes, sir, that’s the one all right,” Sheriff Williams said. “Mr. Marcus hasn’t been in town for very long, but the fact is, just about everybody in Phoenix knows him,” Sheriff Williams said. “That’s ’cause he’s buildin’ a brewery, and there isn’t anyone here who wouldn’t like to see us get a brewery. Only problem is, I don’t know if Andy is going to be able to pull it off or not.”

  “Why not? I was given to believe that he is a master brewer. Those men know their stuff,” Matt said.

  “Oh, it’s neither his skills nor his work habits I’m concerned about,” the sheriff said. “Why, Andy Marcus is as dedicated a worker as anyone you’d ever want to meet. But I ain’t all that sure he’s goin’ to be able to raise the money.”

  “How much does he need?”

  “I don’t know exactly how much he needs. But it is more than he has, I know that. That don’t seem to stop him, though. He ain’t one to give up.”

  “Do you have any idea where I can find him?”

  “Sure, you don’t have far to go at all,” the sheriff replied. He pointed to a building right across the street from the stage depot. “He plans to set up his brewery in that building right over there. Unless I miss my guess, you’ll find him there now, and the fact that he didn’t come over here to see the bodies of the outlaws when the whole rest of the town did ought to give you an idea of how dedicated he is to his work.”

  “Yes, it does,” Matt answered. “And thanks for the information.”

  “Glad to be able to provide it,” the sheriff answered. “And if you’ll come down to my office tomorrow morning, by then I’ll have the authorization to pay you your bounty money.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be there,” Matt said.

  Matt decided to check into the hotel before he went to see Andrew Marcus, and as he walked down the street toward the Phoenix House, Prufrock drove by him with the three bodies lying in the back of his wagon. The one the sheriff had identified as Oliver was lying in such a position that, with his open eyes, it gave the illusion that he was staring accusingly at the man who killed him.

  Matt stared back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Ken Hendel came down into the lobby of the Phoenix House, he saw Cynthia sitting in a chair in the streaming light of the window. She was reading Sonnets of the Portuguese, the book he had bought for her.

  “Ah, Mrs. Bixby, reading the book, I see,” he said, walking over to her. “I hope you are enjoying it.”

  “Enjoying it? Oh, Mr. Hendel, I simply love it,” Cynthia replied enthusiastically. “How wonderful of you to buy it for me.”

  “I saw it, and I thoug
ht you might like it.”

  “But you must let me pay you for it,” Cynthia said.

  “No, no, I could never do that,” Hendel said. “I bought this for you because I consider you my friend, and I hope you feel the same way about me.”

  “Oh, indeed I do,” Cynthia said. “I consider you a very, very dear friend.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “May I read one of the sonnets to you?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  Smiling, Cynthia raised the book, cleared her throat, then began to read:

  If thou must love me, let it be for nought

  Except for love’s sake only. Do not say

  “I love her for her smile—her look—her way

  Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought

  That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

  A sense of pleasant ease on such a day”—

  For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

  Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,

  May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

  Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,—

  A creature might forget to weep, who bore

  Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

  But love me for love’s sake, that evermore

  Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity.

  Cynthia drew the book to her chest, then looked up at Hendel. “Isn’t that just the most beautiful thing you have ever heard?” she asked.

  Hendel felt a flush come over him, and he cleared his throat to try and force it away.

  “Yes,” he said. “I must confess that Elizabeth Barrett Browning does have a way with words.”

  “I think reading a poem aloud gives it much more life than merely looking at words lying dormant on the page. But Jay would never let me read anything aloud to him—he says he doesn’t have time for such nonsense. Thank you for allowing me to do that, Mr. Hendel, my dear friend.”