Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory

by William W. Johnstone

  He shivered.

  Chapter Twenty

  Picket Post Road

  The next morning, the sun was a quarter of the way up in the east as the wagon lumbered along the road. Its transit was accompanied by a symphony of sound, from the footfalls of the mules to the jangle of the harness, the rattle of the connecting pins, and the squeak of one of the wheels.

  The driver, a grizzled old man, spat a plug of tobacco, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then turned to the boy sitting next to him.

  “Dewey, did you grease that right rear wheel like I told you?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Malcolm, I done greased it just like you said,” the twelve-year-old replied.

  “Do you hear that?”

  They quit talking for a moment, the silence interrupted by the incessant squeak and chirp of the right rear wheel.

  “Yes, sir, I hear it,” Dewey Calhoun admitted.

  “It sure as hell don’t sound like you greased it now, does it?” Malcolm asked. “If that axle is worn flat when we get back, I’m goin’ to be takin’ it out of your pay to buy a new one.”

  “Well, I done it, just like you told me,” Dewey said.

  They drove on for a few more minutes, then Malcolm tensed. “Get out of the wagon, boy,” he said.

  “What?”

  Malcolm reached for the shotgun that lay in the floor beneath his feet. “Get out of the wagon and run find yourself a place to hide,” he said. “I just seen some Injuns and I don’t think they’re friendly.”

  “Mr. Malcolm, I can’t leave you to—”

  “Damn it to hell, boy, I said get out of the wagon!” Malcolm said harshly. “I don’t intend to be worryin’ none about no snot-nosed boy!”

  “All right,” Dewey said.

  “Jump out here, then go down the side of the hill and head north. When you reach the Salt River, turn left, it’ll take you to Phoenix. It’s about eight miles, but you can make it. Take the canteen.”

  “But there’s only one canteen,” Dewey said.

  “You’ll be needin’ it more’n me,” Malcolm said, holding the canteen out. “Now, do what I told you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dewey said. Taking the canteen Malcolm handed him, Dewey jumped over the edge of the wagon, then started down the hill digging his heels into the dirt to stay upright, and sending rocks rolling down before him.

  Malcolm looked back just long enough to see Dewey get out of sight. Then he picked up the double-barrel shotgun and held it across his lap. When he came around the curve, he saw four Indians in the road in front of him.

  “White man, what do you have in the wagon?” one of them asked.

  “What I have in this here wagon ain’t none of your business,” Malcolm replied. “Now, get out of my way if you don’t want to get gut-shot.”

  “I think if you give us some of what you have in the wagon, we will let you pass,” the Indian said.

  “To hell with that!” Malcolm shouted. He brought the shotgun up and fired. The heavy blast opened up one Indian’s chest and he fell from his horse. The other Indians returned fire and Malcolm was hit with three bullets.

  A quarter of a mile away, as Dewey was still hurrying down the side of the mountain, he heard the gunshots, echoing and reechoing through the mountains. He breathed a quick prayer for the soul of his employer, because he knew, without having to see, that Mr. Malcolm had just been killed.

  Phoenix

  At the very moment young Dewey Calhoun was running for his life, Ken Hendel was sitting in the lobby of the Phoenix House Hotel reading the Arizona Gazette.

  INDIANS RAID RANCH!

  Three Killed.

  A Gruesome Scene.

  On Wednesday last, George Gunter gathered his newborn calves for branding in the expectation that Joe Clark, a helpful and friendly neighbor, would come over to lend him a hand in this necessary task.

  When no small amount of time had passed after the appointed hour and Mr. Clark had not arrived as they had arranged, Mr. Gunter rode over to Rancho Grande for the purpose of ascertaining the reason for his neighbor’s tardiness. That was when he was greeted with a scene that is almost too horrible for the sensitivities of the readers of this newspaper.

  Joe Clark was found on the ground outside his house, foully murdered. It was not difficult to determine the cause of death, as there was an arrow protruding from his back, as well as several bullet wounds. It was obvious by Mr. Clark’s position that he was making a brave attempt to protect his wife and child. That courageous effort, despite Clark’s intrepidity, was to no avail, however, as further exploration resulted in the discovery of Mrs. Clark and their young son, both dead, on the kitchen floor.

  While this might appear to be the work of Geronimo, Agent Eugene Baker of the San Carlos Indian Reservation has advanced his opinion that the Indian most likely responsible for the atrocities at Rancho Grande is the Apache Delshay. If that is true, there is a reason why Delshay’s malevolent deed resembles those perpetrated by Geronimo. According to Agent Baker, Delshay was, but recently, a member of Geronimo’s nefarious band, leaving the war trail to return only because of the impending birth of his son.

  Agent Baker says that he has no idea why Delshay abandoned his peaceful residence at the reservation to, once again, take up the warpath.

  “We treat our Indians with kindness, providing them with food and shelter. It defies all logic and understanding as to why some of them would leave a situation where all the necessities of life are furnished, in order to take up the warpath against the very whites who feed, clothe, shelter, and protect them.”

  “Ah, there you are, Hendel,” Bixby said, coming down the stairs into the lobby. “Have you located a conveyance?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bixby,” Hendel said. “The Sundown Corral will provide a buckboard and team for a dollar-fifty.”

  “A dollar-fifty?” Bixby replied. “Did you tell them I will only be using it for half a day?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. Otherwise, it would have been three dollars.”

  “Why, that is an outrage! An absolute outrage. Could you find nothing less expensive?”

  “I shopped around,” Hendel said. “That was the best offer I could find.”

  “Very well, if that is the absolute best offer, then it will have to do. I do resent, however, that they are taking advantage of me because I am a visitor to this desolate place.”

  “I believe that is the price they charge everyone,” Hendel replied.

  “Of course you would believe that. You are very good with numbers, Hendel, but you are very naive when it comes to business.”

  “If you say so, Mr. Bixby.”

  Bixby didn’t reply because he didn’t quite know how to react to Hendel’s response.

  “Yes, well, Cynthia and I will be taking our lunch now. We’ll leave first thing this afternoon. If Dan Conway shows up at the hotel looking for me, tell him I will meet with him tomorrow morning.”

  “I thought Mr. Conway was going with you.”

  “I decided I would rather look at the land myself first. I don’t want Conway trying to influence me.”

  “Oh, Mr. Bixby, I don’t know if that is such a good idea,” Hendel said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it may not be wise for you and Mrs. Bixby to go out on your own. I’m not sure it’s all that safe.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bixby said. “Safe from what?”

  “Indians.”

  Bixby laughed. “Indians? Where did you get such an idea?”

  Hendel showed Bixby the newspaper he had been reading. Bixby looked at it for a moment, then handed it back.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” he said. “That’s just a story to sell newspapers. Obviously, it’s some fool Indian who has gone off on his own. It isn’t as if there is an Indian war going on.”

  “Still, I would feel better if you had someone local with you. Someone who knows the geography and can keep you out of trouble.”

  “You don’
t worry about me,” Bixby said. “I will be just fine. What I want you to do is to make certain that the transfer of funds between my bank and the local bank is going through all right.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hendel said. Looking toward the stairs, Hendel saw Cynthia coming down into the lobby, and he stood quickly. “Good morning, Mrs. Bixby. My, what a pretty green dress you are wearing.”

  “Why, thank you very much for noticing, Mr. Hendel,” Cynthia said, smiling prettily. “Isn’t it a lovely day today?”

  “Yes, it is indeed,” Hendel replied.

  “Jay and I are going to take our breakfast now,” Cynthia said. “Won’t you join us?”

  “Hendel doesn’t have time to join us,” Bixby said, speaking before Hendel could answer. “I have given him a task to perform and it must be taken care of promptly.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Bixby is correct,” Hendel said. “I do have a task to perform that may keep me busy for the rest of the day.”

  “Oh, such a shame,” Cynthia said. She smiled again. “Perhaps you can take you lunch with us when we return.”

  “I shall endeavor to do so,” Hendel said.

  “For crying out loud, Cynthia, you aren’t arranging a social,” Jay said. “We are out here on business, and Hendel is an employee, not a personal friend.”

  “On the contrary, Jay,” Cynthia replied. “Mr. Hendel has been a close personal friend for more years than I have even known you.”

  “Nevertheless, he is a mere employee, and I do wish you would remember to keep things at that level. Now, come, we can’t tarry here all day.”

  Maison Doree Restaurant

  Five hundred dollars richer, due to his share of the bounty paid for the three would-be stagecoach robbers, Matt Jensen was enjoying his breakfast in the Maison Doree, advertised in the paper as: “The finest restaurant in Phoenix—meals served with European flavor—a new French Chef in residence.”

  He had just started on his omelet when he saw Bixby and his wife come in. Cynthia saw him and smiled broadly.

  “Mr. Jensen, how nice to see you,” she said. “I hope you are having a pleasant meal.”

  Matt stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Bixby, I am enjoying my meal,” he said.

  “Cynthia,” Bixby said gruffly. “I told you not to speak to that man. Come.” He led her to a table in the back of the room and Matt, smiling and shaking his head, sat back down to finish his breakfast.

  “Jay, there was no need for you to be rude to Mr. Jensen,” Cynthia said as the two of them sat at their table in the rear of the restaurant.

  “I told you I didn’t want you to have anything to do with him,” Bixby said. “The man is a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Cynthia said. “He had every right to shoot those robbers. In fact, I think he may have saved our lives.”

  “Regardless of what you think of his heroics, you are to have nothing more to do with him. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand,” Cynthia said.

  “Good. Now, eat quickly. I want to go out and get a good look at the land I’m going to buy, and I expect that will take the rest of the morning.”

  At the other end of town, Sheriff Williams sat at the desk in his office processing the papers that had authorized payment of the bounty for the three would-be stagecoach robbers.

  “One thousand, five hundred dollars,” he said aloud.

  “What?” The response came from Norman Keith, who was serving three days for public drunkenness.

  It wasn’t the sheriff’s policy to arrest everyone who got drunk, but Keith had a habit of getting drunk and urinating in public, thus becoming a regular in the Phoenix jail.

  “I said one thousand, five hundred dollars,” Sheriff Williams repeated. “That’s how much bounty we just paid to Pinkie’s widow and that Jensen fella for killin’ the three stagecoach robbers. That’s a lot of money.”

  “I agree, fifteen hundred dollars is a lot of money. But consider this, Sheriff. When one engages armed robbers to earn it, one should certainly be allowed to keep the fruits of such a hazardous enterprise,” Keith said.

  “I don’t know. I have to do that—that hazardous enterprise you were talking about—all the time because it’s my job,” Sheriff Williams said. “And I only get thirty dollars a month for doin’ it.” He pulled his pistol, looked at it for a moment, then spun the cylinder. “I suppose I could always quit being a sheriff and become a bounty hunter,” he said.

  Keith laughed.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “I’m laughing at the notion of you being a bounty hunter,” he said. “Come on, Bob, could you see your wife letting you do that? You aren’t a bounty hunter, you’re a sheriff. And I’ll admit that you are a pretty good sheriff, but that’s all you will ever be.”

  Williams laughed as well. “Oh, my, and comin’ from the town drunk, I reckon I should be all worried about that,” he said.

  “I guess you got me there,” Kieth said. “Only, just remember, I haven’t always been a drunk.”

  Norman Keith was right, he hadn’t always been a drunk. At one time he was an English professor at Tempe Normal, but a fire in his campus home had taken the life of his wife and two small children. Unable to cope with the grief, Keith had abandoned academia and begun drinking.

  At the Sundown Corral and Equipage Company, Ken Hendel stood waiting beside the rig he had rented for Jay Peerless Bixby. When he saw them coming up the street from the restaurant, he stepped out to meet them.

  “I have the buckboard here for you, Mr. Bixby.”

  “Were you able to talk them down any more?” Bixby asked.

  “No, sir. It cost us a dollar-fifty.”

  “Very well, if we have to pay it we have to pay it,” Bixby said. Without regard to Cynthia, Bixby climbed into the buckboard. Hendel offered his hand to help Cynthia into her seat.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hendel,” Cynthia said.

  “Have you made the arrangement with the bank yet?” Bixby asked.

  “I was there this morning. They are expecting the transfer of money on today’s stagecoach.”

  “Well, stay on it,” Bixby said, snapping the reins against the team.

  “Yes, sir,” Hendel said, stepping back quickly to avoid having his toes run over by the carriage.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It was nearly noon when a bedraggled and exhausted Dewey Calhoun pushed open the door of the sheriff’s office.

  “Sheriff Williams! Sheriff Williams!” he called.

  “I’m Sheriff Williams, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s Injuns, Sheriff,” Dewey said. “I think they killed Mr. Malcolm.”

  “Are you talking about Pete Malcolm, the man that runs a freight service out of Picket Post?” Keith asked.

  “Yes, sir, that’s the one I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Do you know him, Keith?”

  “Yes,” Keith said. “You know him, too, Bob. He’s the one hauled in most of the material that was used to build the college.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember him.”

  “He’s a good man,” Keith said.

  “Yes, sir, he was a good man. But more’n likely, he got hisself kilt savin’ me,” Dewey said.

  “You say it was Injuns that killed him?” Williams asked. “Where did this happen?”

  “It was on the Picket Post Road,” Dewey answered. “Me ’n’ Mr. Malcolm, we was bringin’ a load a saltpeter to the Maricopa Chemical Company when the Apaches attacked us.”

  “Saltpeter?” Keith asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn, that isn’t good,” Keith said. “You put saltpeter with sulphur and charcoal and you can make gunpowder.”

  “I doubt the Injuns have enough sense to know how to use it,” Williams said.

  “Don’t be selling the Indians short, Bob. I’ve known some that were very intelligent,” Keith said.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Dewey Calhoun.”
r />   “How’d you get away, Dewey?”

  “Mr. Malcolm, he seen the Apaches before they attacked and he give me the canteen and told me to run. That’s what I done, and that’s how come I’m here.”

  “How do you know Pete is dead?” Keith asked from behind the bars. “Did you see the Indians kill him?”

  “No sir, I didn’t actual see it, but I heered it.”

  “What do you mean you heard it?” Williams asked.

  “I heered Mr. Malcolm’s shotgun go off—then I heered a lot more shots after that.”

  Sheriff Williams stroked his chin and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d say that’s a pretty good sign he was killed all right.” Williams walked over to take his hat off a hook. He also took down the ring of keys, then came back to open the door to Keith’s cell.

  “You aren’t supposed to be let out till after lunch,” the sheriff said. “But I may not be back by then, so I’m lettin’ you out now. And next time you have to take a pee, for heaven’s sake, Keith, go out into the alley or some such place.”

  “I always do—when I’m sober,” Keith said. “And I thank you for your kindness in letting me out half an hour early.”

  “Yeah, well, it also saves the county the money for buyin’ your lunch,” Sheriff Williams said. “Dewey, come with me, we’ll go find Marshal Gilmore. This is more his jurisdiction than it is mine.”

  “Could I get me a drink of water first?” Dewey asked. “I drunk up all the canteen while I was walkin’ here.”

  “Sure you can, boy,” Sheriff Williams said. “There’s a bucket and dipper back there against the wall.”

  Dewey hurried back to the water bucket and scooped out a dipper full. Turning it up to his lips, he drank deeply, letting the water run down both sides of his lips as he did so.

  “Easy, boy, easy,” Keith said as he stepped out of the jail cell. “You drink that too fast, you’ll make yourself sick.”

  “Yes, sir, I know,” Dewey said. “But I’m powerful thirsty.”

  Sheriff Williams found U.S. Marshal Gilmore having his lunch in Miller’s Café.

  “Marshal, this here is Dewey Calhoun. He came into the office a while ago tellin’ a story about being attacked by Injuns. And seeing as dealing with Indians is more a federal thing than county, I figured we should, more than likely, bring you in on it.”