“Sure you have,” Sam said. “Them’s the two that used to work down at the locomotive shop.”
“Oh, yeah, wait, I think I do remember them now. One of ’em had him a scar right here, didn’t he?” Clyde asked, running his finger down his cheek.
“Yeah, but I don’t remember which one it was, though,” Sam said.
Doc looked up at Matt with a long-suffering sigh; then both of them smiled.
“Are you sure you want to leave me with these cretins?” Doc asked.
Matt chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll manage, Doc. You seem quite capable.”
“Thank you. Good night, Mr. Jensen,” Doc said.
“Good night.”
***
Across the street from the saloon, and tucked into the dark space between the apothecary and boot store, Meacham waited patiently for Jensen to leave the saloon. He had been waiting for about two hours now, and because he was growing increasingly impatient, he was just about to give up when he saw Matt Jensen push through the batwing doors.
“Well, it’s about time you came out,” Meacham said under his breath. He drew his pistol, and bracing it against the side of the apothecary building, took aim. Not wanting to hurry his shot, Meacham took a long moment, tracking Matt’s walk by moving his pistol. Before he could pull the trigger, though, he heard a loud shout.
“Eeeyah! Eeeyah!”
The call came from the driver of a stagecoach who, by shouting and snapping the reins, was urging the team into a gallop so that the stagecoach would make a dramatic arrival in town. The sound of twenty-four hooves beating against the ground, as well as the creak and rattle of the coach and the singing of steel-rimmed wheels, filled the street with thunder.
The arrival of the coach caused Meacham to pull his pistol back until the coach had cleared the street. After the coach rumbled by, Meacham raised his pistol once more, but it was too late. Matt Jensen was no longer on the street. The coach had shielded him until he went into the hotel.
“Gramma!” a child shouted, and looking half a block down the street, Meacham saw a little girl run from the stage into the open arms of an older woman. There was a great deal of commotion around the arrival of the coach as the travelers stepped down to the welcome of those who had been waiting for the stage.
This was the terminus for the coach, and after all the passengers had debarked and the luggage, mail, and express packages had been taken off, the coach was driven around behind the depot, where the team could be unharnessed and the horses turned into the corral. Meacham waited until all the commotion had died down, then considered going into the hotel again tonight as he had last night. But whereas he’d had two others with him on the night before, plus the benefit of surprise, he had no such advantage tonight. If he went in tonight he would have to do it alone, and more likely than not, Jensen would be expecting him.
Meacham dismissed the idea. He was going to kill him, but he would just have to wait for a more favorable opportunity. He crossed the street to the saloon. He might as well have a few drinks before he went back to the livery to turn in for the night.
The bright sun, streaming in through his hotel window, awakened Matt the next morning. From somewhere nearby, construction was under way, and he could hear the sound of sawing and hammering. Down the street from the hotel, the blacksmith was working at his forge so that the ringing sound of iron on iron could also be heard. There were other sounds as well: a freight wagon moving up the street and, irritatingly, the sound of a sign, squeaking in the hot dry breeze. From Wong Sing’s Laundry, he could hear a couple of women, doing the wash and chatting loudly to each other in the melodic, but totally incomprehensible, Chinese language.
Matt got up, poured water from the porcelain pitcher into the basin, washed his face and hands, shaved, then got dressed. Checking out of the hotel, he walked down the street to Lambert’s Café for breakfast, where he was greeted by several well-wishers.
“Any excitement last night, Mr. Jensen?” one of the other diners asked.
“All was calm,” Matt said.
Others started asking questions as well, until the café owner himself, Joe Lambert, intervened. “For crying out loud, will you people let him eat his breakfast in peace? Eggs ain’t good when they get cold.”
Matt nodded his thanks at Lambert, then finished his breakfast undisturbed.
It was almost by accident that Meacham saw Matt Jensen go into the depot later that morning. He followed, and when he heard Matt buy a ticket to Salida, Colorado, Meacham waited for a few minutes, then he stepped up to the ticket agent’s window, made arrangements for his horse to be taken on the train, and bought a ticket for himself to Salida. The train was not due to leave Pueblo until ten o’clock that night, and wasn’t due to arrive in Salida until seven the next morning. Meacham would have all day to plan his operation, and all night to carry it out.
Chapter Ten
Fullerton, Dakota Territory
John Bryce discovered the identity of the two slain cowboys by following up on the only clues he had available to him. Witnesses had heard the two men address each other as Billy and Jeff, and in Billy’s pocket there had been a receipt for a saddle purchased from Dockum’s Ranch in Crosby County, Texas. An exchange of telegrams had established the identity of the two men, along with a request to please give the two men a Christian burial. John wrote about it in the next issue of the Defender.
Murdered Men Identified
COWBOYS FROM CROSBY COUNTY,TEXAS
The two young men murdered in the street three days previous, have now been identified as Billy Gilbert, age 23, and Jeff Hodges, age 20. Strangers to our town, for the last three years they have been riders for Merlin Dockum, owner of Dockum’s Ranch in Northwest Texas. “They are as fine a couple of young men as I have ever had ride for me,” Mr. Dockum told this newspaper in an exchange of telegrams. He also asked that Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Hodges be given Christian burials, and I replied that the good people of Pueblo would do just that.
I am now calling upon the citizens of Pueblo to make a donation to a fund that will pay any expenses as may be incurred by providing a decent burial for these two fine young men. It is the least we can do now, for we all bear some guilt of their murder, if not by commission, then by omission. We have allowed the psychopath, Ollie Butrum, to live among us with neither question nor challenge.
John and Millie stood in the pastor’s study of the Good Hope Baptist Church. As it happened, the Reverend Bertis Landers was Millie’s father, and he was about to conduct the funeral for Billy Gilbert and Jeff Hodges. Mrs. Rittenhouse, the organist, was playing a funeral dirge as citizens of the town filed by the coffins. The plain pine coffins were now sitting on sawhorses at the front of the nave. They were open for viewing and the two cowboys, cleaned up by the undertaker Tom Lisenby, were wearing suits that neither of them had ever seen in their lifetime.
“John, itwas very good of you to find out who these two young men were, and to write an article that would pay for the funeral,” Reverend Landers said.
“It was good of you to agree to conduct a funeral for someone you didn’t even know,” John replied.
“They are children of God,” Landers replied. “That’s all I need to know.”
Recognizing that the music was nearly completed, Landers nodded at his daughter and son-in-law, and they left the pastor’s study to take a seat in the congregation. Shortly after they were seated, Landers stepped up behind the pulpit.
The church was completely full, and Landers glanced out at them, silent for a long moment. Then he began to speak.
“These two young men, Billy Gilbert and Jeffrey Hodges, are a long way from their homes, and some may lament that they are away from their families as well. But I say no, they are not away from their families. We are all brothers and sisters in the sight of God, and no more is that evident than here, today, when so many of you have come here to share the love and brotherhood we feel for these two young men.”
After
the church service, the two coffins were carried out to the cemetery, one stacked on top of the other inside the hearse. At least half of those who had come to the funeral service in the church went out to the cemetery for the interment, and John was surprised to see that Denbigh had come into town as well. He told him so when he greeted him.
“I have not only come to town, Mr. Bryce. I have also made a donation to the Reverend Landers, equal to the amount of money the town raised for the funeral. I told him to use the donated money for the church.”
“Surprisingly decent of you,” John said.
“I am glad you appreciate my effort,” Denbigh replied. “I just wish you would be somewhat more circumspect in the provocative articles you write.”
“Sometimes the truth is provocative,” John said.
“Oh, but I beg to differ with you, sir,” Denbigh said. “You have falsely accused one of my employees of murder.”
“It was murder.”
“All who witnessed the shooting testified to the contrary. They all say that the two cowboys drew their guns first.”
“They also say that Butrum goaded the young men into drawing.”
“You can’t kill someone just by goading them,” Denbigh said. “No, sir, it is quite clear. Mr. Butrum did not draw until he was forced to do so to defend himself.”
“You can say what you want, I’ll say what I want,” John said.
“Yes, but the only difference is, when you talk, you do so in your newspaper, and that gives you a distinct advantage over everyone else.”
“I am speaking for everyone else, Mr. Denbigh. My newspaper is the voice of the people.”
“A word of advice, Mr. Bryce. Use some caution in exercising that voice, or I fear you may lose it. Next time one of your irate readers takes umbrage with one of your inflammatory articles, he may do more than just a little vandalism.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Not a threat, just a little friendly, but cautionary, advice.”
“I will not be shut down, sir, do you hear me? As long as there is breath in my body, I will fight for the people of this town, and against you,” John said.
Denbigh applauded lightly. “How very noble of you, Mr. Bryce. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my ranch.”
John watched Denbigh walk back to his coach, where a liveried footman held the door open for him.
The graveside services were finished, and as the grave diggers shoveled dirt down onto the two plain wooden coffins, the people of the town started leaving the cemetery.
“What was all that about?” Millie asked, coming up to stand beside her husband.
“Nothing much,” John said. He was well aware that he had just been threatened, but he had no intention of letting Millie know about it. Millie worried enough already.
“It was a nice funeral,” Millie said. “I know their families would be pleased to know that so many strangers turned out just to bury them. I’m proud of you.”
“Proud of me for what?” John replied. He was still distracted by the warning Denbigh had given him.
“I’m proud of you for making all this possible. Instead of being dumped into some unmarked grave, they now have a nice plot and a tombstone that identifies them by name,” Millie said. “You know what I would like to do? I would like to have Mr. Ludwig take a picture of the tombstones, and have you send the picture back to Texas. I’ll bet they would appreciate that.”
“I’m sure they would,” John said. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulder as they started out of the cemetery, back toward the newspaper office. “I’ll get in touch with Mr. Ludwig, and we’ll just do that.”
Pueblo, Colorado
At nine forty-five that evening, Meacham had a moment of concern. It was nearly time to leave, but Jensen had not yet shown up at the train station. Had he changed his mind? Had he left town by stage? Meacham’s concern was eased, though, when he saw Jensen arrive in the mayor’s personal carriage.
“Mr. Jensen, next time you are in this part of the country, do visit us here in Pueblo again,” Mayor McClelland said. “You are always welcome.”
Matt stepped down from the carriage, then threw the saddlebags, his only luggage, over his shoulder. “Will I get another parade?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” the mayor replied.
“It would give you another opportunity to make a speech.”
Mayor McClelland laughed out loud, then reached out to shake Matt’s hand. “In that case, Mr. Jensen, I will guarantee you another parade. Good-bye, Mr. Jensen, do have a pleasant trip. Driver,” McClelland said with a little wave of his hand.
“Where to, Mr. Mayor?” the driver asked.
“Home. Heavens, at this hour, I dare not go anywhere else. Not if I want to stay on Mrs. McClelland’s good side.”
Matt went into the depot to make certain that his saddle had been checked through. Then he stepped out onto the depot platform to wait for the train.
Meacham waited on the platform as well, though he stayed on the opposite side from Matt.
“Here comes the train!” someone shouted, and those waiting on the depot platform, which, even at this hour of the night, were a rather significant number of people, moved toward the track for a better view.
The kerosene headlamp that sat just in front of the bell-shaped smokestack was but a small light in the distance. The headlamp, Matt knew, was not to light the track in front of the train, because the distance the light would illuminate was less than the distance it would take to stop the heavy train. The sole purpose of the headlamp was to warn others of the approaching train.
As the train grew closer, the light became more prominent and the sound of the engine louder. Finally, the engine rushed in with white wisps of steam escaping from the thrusting piston rods, sparks flying from the pounding drive wheels, and glowing hot embers dripping from the firebox. The train was so heavy that it caused the wooden depot platform to shake, and Matt could actually feel the vibrations in his stomach. Then came the yellow squares of light that were the windows of the passenger cars, slowing, and finally grinding to a halt with a shower of sparks and a hissing of air from the Westinghouse air brakes.
Even after it came to a complete stop, the train was still alive with the gurgling of boiling water, the hiss and puff of vented steam, and the snap and pop of overheated bearings. A dim glow of orange shone through the window of the locomotive, and those who ventured close enough to peer inside were baffled by the maze of pipes, levers, and gauges.
Matt waited as the arriving passengers stepped down from the train. The three lady passengers were helped down the boarding steps by the solicitous conductor.
As soon as the last arriving passenger had detrained, the conductor pulled out his watch and examined it, snapped the cover closed, then put it away.
“All aboard!” he called.
That was the signal for the departing passengers to board the train, and Matt started toward the train with the others.
***
Lucas Meacham made certain to select the same car as Matt Jensen, and when Jensen took a seat toward the front of the car on the left-hand side, Meacham sat on the right-hand side, toward the rear. The juxtaposition of their seats gave Meacham the opportunity to keep an eye on Matt.
Although this would be an all-night trip, the car in which they were sitting was a day car with no provisions for berths. That meant that if anyone did any sleeping, they would have to do so by accommodating themselves as comfortably as they could to the seat, awkward though it may be. Meacham was sure that he would have ample opportunity during the night to kill Matt Jensen.
Three times during the night, Meacham got up from his seat and went to the front of the car, but each time he passed Matt Jensen, Jensen looked up at him. Each time, Meacham nodded, then went to the water scuttle at the front of the car.
The first time Meacham passed his seat, Matt nodded politely, then watched as the man unfolded a paper cup and used it to take a d
rink of water. The second time the man passed, Matt became a little curious, thinking it unusual that someone would have such a thirst, but he brushed it off. The third time the man passed by, Matt was intensely alert. He remembered now having seen this man in the saloon back in Pueblo. This was the same man who had walked out of the saloon, looking nervous and leaving behind a full glass of whiskey. Matt didn’t know who this person was, but was reasonably sure he wasn’t just someone who was made uncommonly thirsty by train travel.
Although Matt had dozed a few times when the train first left the station, he had no intention of sleeping anymore. He stayed awake for the rest of the night, keeping a wary eye on the man at the rear of the car.
When the train pulled into the Salida station the next morning, Meacham watched in frustration as Matt Jensen got off the train. He had missed his opportunity to kill him during the night.
It was still early in the morning, but Meacham had been awake most of the night, so he was more in the mood for a beer than he was for a cup of coffee. Fortunately for him, the Pair-o-Dice Saloon was already open, so he went inside.
“Well, now, I ain’t seen you in coon’s age,” someone said, and looking toward the speaker, Meacham recognized Angus Witherspoon. The two men had been bounty hunters together for a while.
Meacham took his beer over to the table to join him.
“Witherspoon,” he said. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Here and there. You?”
“Here and there,” Meacham answered. “What are you doing here? You on someone’s trail?”
“No, I got no prospects at the moment,” he replied. He was drinking coffee, and he took a sip, eyeing Meacham over the rim of his cup. “You taking to drinking beer for breakfast, have you?”
“No. I was up on the train all night,” Meacham replied.
“Following a prospect?”
For a moment, Meacham wasn’t going to answer; then he decided that Witherspoon might come in handy. They had worked together before, and Jensen was proving to be a little more difficult than Meacham had expected.
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