Purgatory

MATT JENSEN: THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN PURGATORY

MATT JENSEN: THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN PURGATORY

William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone

PINNACLE BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter One

The rain that had been threatening for the day started shortly after nightfall. In the distance, lightning flashed and thunder roared and the rain beat down heavily upon the small Arizona town, cascading off the eaves before drumming onto the roof of the porch just below the second-story window of the Morning Star Hotel.

Matt Jensen was standing at the window of his hotel room, looking down on the street of the town. There were few people outside, and when someone did go outside, they would dart quickly through the rain until they found a welcome door to slip through. The town was dark, the rain having extinguished all outside lamps, and the lanterns that were inside provided only the dullest gleam through rain-shrouded windows. The meager illumination did little or nothing to push away the gloom of the night.

The room behind Matt glowed with a soft, golden light, for he had lit the lantern and it was burning very low. Though Matt was used to the outdoors, and had spent many a night sleeping on the prairie in such conditions, this was one of those nights where he appreciated being under a roof.

Matt Jensen was just a bit over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He was a young man in years, but his pale blue eyes bespoke of experiences that most would not see in three lifetimes. He was a lone wolf who had worn a deputy’s badge in Abilene, ridden shotgun for a stagecoach out of Lordsburg, scouted for the army in the McDowell Mountains of Arizona, and panned for gold in Idaho. A banker’s daughter in Cheyenne once thought she could make him settle down—a soiled dove in The Territories knew that she couldn’t, but took what he offered.

Matt was a wanderer, always wondering what was beyond the next line of hills, just over the horizon. He traveled light, with a bowie knife, a .44 double-action Colt, a Winchester .44-40 rifle, a rain slicker, an overcoat, two blankets, and a spare shirt and spare socks, trousers, and underwear.

He called Colorado his home, though he had actually started life in Kansas. Colorado was home only because it was where he had reached his maturity, and Smoke Jensen, the closest thing Matt had to a family, lived there. In truth, though, he spent no more time in Colorado than he did in Wyoming, Utah, New Mexico, or Arizona. He was in Wickenburg, Arizona, now, having arrived just ahead of the rain and just before dark.

He had no reason to be in Wickenburg—but then, as he liked to remind himself, he had no reason not to be in Wickenburg. He had arrived here in a restless drift that neither proposed a particular destination nor had a sense of purpose.

He was about to turn away from the window when, in a flash of lightning, he saw two men holding one man while a third was hitting him. When the lightning went away, he could see nothing except the darkness of the alley, and for a moment, Matt wasn’t sure that he had seen anything. It might have been a trick of shadows and light.

Another lightning flash, this one prolonged for a full second, revealed the scene again. It was no trick of lighting—three men were attacking a fourth. Matt had no idea who the man being held was, nor did he know who was beating him. He didn’t know why the man being held was being beaten, but he didn’t like the odds.

His common sense dictated that he do nothing, but instinct overcame common sense.

“Damn,” he said aloud. Lifting the window, he crawled out onto the edge of the hotel’s porch roof, moved through the rain to the edge, then dropped down to the ground. By now he was so close that, even through the staccato rhythm of the falling rain, he could hear the sound of fists on flesh and the grunts of pain.

Matt moved quickly through the rain, unseen and unheard by either the assailants or the hapless man being beaten. Reaching out, he grabbed the shoulder of the man doing the actual beating, spun him around, then knocked him down with a hard blow to the man’s chin.

“What the hell?” one of the two who were holding the man shouted.

Matt started toward him, but he and his partner released the beating victim, then ran quickly up the alley. The beating victim collapsed, and Matt decided that attention to his condition was more important than chasing down the two villains.

“Look out!” the victim suddenly shouted, and turning, Matt saw the man he had knocked down reaching for his gun. Because he was still lying on the ground, it was an awkward draw, which gave Matt time to step through the mud and kick the pistol out of the man’s hand.

Unarmed now, the man turned over onto his hands and knees and crawled far enough away to regain his feet. Then he, like the other two men, ran away.

“Are you hurt?” Matt asked, turning back to the victim.

“A few bruises and cuts,” the man said, rubbing a finger against his cut lip. “No broken bones, thanks to you.”

“Come on, let’s get in out of the rain,” Matt suggested.

“That’s a good idea. Oh, have you had your supper yet? If not, I’d like to treat you. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Matt said. “I think anyone would have come to your aid if they had seen what was going on.”

“I’m not so sure of that. But I’d like to buy you dinner anyway. The name is Garvey. Stan Garvey.”

“Matt Jensen.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Jensen.” Garvey chuckled. “That’s an understatement. I’m damn glad to meet you.” He pointed. “Little Man’s Café is just down the street here. Little Man makes a damn good pot roast.”

Matt followed Garvey into the restaurant, and the two men stood just inside the door for a moment, dripping water. Because it was quite late for dinner, the restaurant was nearly empty.

“Hello, Stan, wet enough for you?” someone asked. The man who greeted them was wearing the white apron and cap of a cook. He was very short, standing just over five feet tall.

“Hello, Little Man. Two pot roast dinners,” Garvey said.

“Two pot roast dinners coming right—uh—damn, Stan, what the hell happened to you?”

“I fell down,” Garvey said.

“You fell down?”

“Yes.”

“Well, all I can say is, it must’ve been one hell of a fall.”

“You have any apple pie left?” Garvey asked pointedly, making it obvious that he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Yes. You want it now?”

“No, for dessert.”

Leading Matt to a quiet corner of the dining room, Garvey took out a handkerchief to dab at his bloody lip. The handkerchief was as wet as his clothes.

“Who were those men?” Matt asked.

“I don’t know the two who were holding me,” Garvey said. “But the one doing the hitting was a man named Odom. Cletus Odom.”

“What did you do to make Odom so angry?”

Garvey held up his finger as if suggesting that Matt wait for a moment. Then he got up from the table and walked over to the counter. Picking up a newspaper, he returned to the table and handed the paper to Matt.

“This might have done it,” he said. He pointed to a story on the front page.

A VILLAIN WALKS AMONG US

Story by Stan Garvey

If there were no other reasons why Arizona should strive for early statehood, then the lack of any sense of justice would be reason enough. On the fifth, instant, three masked men entered the Bank of Wickenburg with the express purpose of robbing it. Their attempt was foiled by the fast and heroic action of Adam Thomas, who slammed shut the safe.

When the leader of the robbers demanded that Thomas reopen the safe or forfeit his life, Thomas maintained his resolve. As a result, the leader of the robbers shot and killed this brave husband and father of two.

There are credible eyewitnesses who say that, despite the fact that he was wearing a mask, they recognized Cletus Odom as the robber and murderer. They are not shy in making these claims, but, thus far, no arrests have been made. That means that Cletus Odom is free to roam about, unafraid of any possibility of apprehension.

Perhaps if Arizona enjoyed statehood, its citizens would have sufficient voice in the state capital to force more effort into bringing the murderer Odom to justice.

As editor of this newspaper, I will do all within my power to see to it that Odom is brought to justice. I call upon all of you, who are citizens of the territory of Arizona, as well as citizens of our fair city of Wickenburg, to write a letter to Governor Fremont asking, no, demanding that justice be done, and that Cletus Odom pay the supreme penalty for his foul deed.

“That’s quite a story, Mr. Garvey,” Matt said as he folded the paper over and laid it alongside his plate.

“Thanks.”

“But with Odom still free, do you not think it was a little risky to write such a story?”

“My good man,” Garvey said, “freedom of the press is one of our nation’s most precious rights. I will not be intimidated by the mere threat of violence.”

Matt smiled. “From my observation, Mr. Garvey, this wasn’t a threat, this was an actuality.”

At that moment, Little Man arrived carrying two plates.

“Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen,” Little Man said. “And, Stan, I’ll put the two pieces of pie in a warming oven so they’ll be nice and hot for you.”

“Thanks,” Garvey replied.

The two men began eating. “Oh,” Matt said. “I have to say that after several days of eating on the trail, this is very good.”

“I thought you might like it. Are you new to Wickenburg, Mr. Jensen?”

“I’m just passing through.”

“Passing through, are you? Where are you going?” Garvey laughed. “It’s rude of me to be so nosy, I know, and I beg your forgiveness. But this unbridled curiosity is what made me become a journalist, I suppose.”

“That’s all right,” Matt said. “I don’t mind answering, because truth to tell, I’m not going anywhere in particular. I’ve just been wandering from place to place.”

“Like a tumbleweed?”

Matt laughed. “You might say that. I have no family encumbrances, nobody to worry about, or to worry about me. This is a big country, Mr. Garvey, and I just thought I would see as much of it as I can.”

“Well, I envy you that freedom, Mr. Jensen, I truly do.” Garvey touched his eye, which was now swollen. He winced at the touch. “But, from a personal point of view, I’m certainly glad you chose this night of all nights to be in Wickenburg. I’m not sure what condition I would be in now if you had not come to my rescue. How long are you going to stay with us?”

“I’ll be leaving at first light in the morning.”

“To continue your adventure,” Garvey said.

“You might say that.”

“Are you a writer, Mr. Jensen?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that question. If you are asking if I can read and write, the answer is yes.”

“No, my question is more specific than that. I mean do you keep a journal of sorts, an account of your wanderings and adventures?”

Matt chuckled. “No, I don’t, nor could I imagine anyone would ever want to read about me.”

“Oh, don’t be so sure about that,” Garvey said. “You see, I have a very strong theory that the American West will be the source of lore and legend for many generations to come. And it is people like you—wanderers and heroes—”

“Heroes?” Matt said, interrupting Garvey in mid-sentence.

“Yes, heroes,” Garvey insisted. “Did you or did you not come to my assistance tonight? And, I might add, at no small danger to yourself.”

“I saw that you were in trouble, and I did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances.”

“No, Mr. Jensen, don’t be so self-deprecating. Very few would have done what you did tonight. That’s why I believe that someday someone will write stories about you. If not about you, personally, certainly about the kind of person you represent. And I don’t just mean the penny dreadful,” he said.

“I must say, that is an interesting observation, Mr. Garvey, but I would turn that around. If you want my opinion, if any of this West is to be preserved, it will be because of men like you, newspapermen who are not afraid to write the truth. You are the true heroes of the West.”

Garvey raised his cup of coffee. “A toast, Mr. Jensen,” he said, a big smile spreading across his face. “A toast between heroes.”

Laughing, Matt touched his own coffee cup to Garvey’s.

“A toast,” he said.

Chapter Two

Purgatory

McKinely Peterson had named his saloon the Pair O Dice, because he thought the idea of “paradise” in a town called Purgatory made an interesting contrast. The saloon was a great success, but Peterson didn’t live long enough to enjoy it. He was killed within six months of opening the saloon, and, because he died intestate, the saloon was put up for sale at a city marshal’s auction.

Announcement of the auction appeared as a two-line entry in the Purgatory Purge, the town’s only newspaper.

Pair O Dice Saloon to be sold at city marshal’s auction, 2 a.m. Saturday.

Andrew Cummins was the city marshal of Purgatory. It was not by coincidence that Andrew Cummins was also the only one who showed up for the auction. And because the city marshal owned Pair O Dice, the saloon soon became the de facto city marshal’s office as Cummins spent all his time there.

Although there was a mayor and a city council, the real power in town belonged to Marshal Cummins. He backed up his power by having a personal cadre of eight deputies, all chosen for their skill with a gun and their willingness to use physical force when necessary. In fact, they often used physical force when it wasn’t necessary, but complaints to the city council fell upon deaf ears. One reason the city council was not responsive to citizens’ complaints was because four of the seven council members were Cummins’s deputies.

Marshal Cummins was able to maintain a large force of deputies because the town had imposed a draconian tax, which was extracted, not only from every business, but from every household, every week.

“Hey!” Cummins shouted to the others in the saloon.

Cummins was standing at the front of the saloon, looking over the batwing doors out onto the street. The westbound train was sitting down at the depot, waiting to continue its journey. Half-a-dozen passengers had detrained, and one, who had separated himself from the others, was standing in the street, looking around as if trying to get his bearings. From the way the man was dressed, it was obvious that he was from the East.

“Hey!” Cummins shouted again. He laughed, then pointed. “If you boys want a laugh, come over here and take a look at this.”

“Take a look at what?” Emil Jackson asked. Jackson was one of Marshal Cummins’s deputies.

“Take a look at the hat on that little feller out there,” Cummins said, pointing.

The object of Cummins’s derision was a bowler hat with a small brim and a low round crown.

“What is that thing he’s wearin’ on his head? Is that a piss pot?” Moe Gillis asked. Like Jackson, Gillis was a deputy.

“What are you three laughing at?” one of the other deputies asked.

“This here fella and the piss pot he’s wearin’ on his head,” Moe said.

Soon, all the other deputies were standing at the batwing doors, looking out into the street at the smallish man who was wearing, not only a bowler hat, but a three-piece suit.

“Hey, Marshal, I’ll bet you can’t shoot that hat off his head,” Jackson said.

“Sure I can.”

“A beer says you can’t.”

“You mean you’ll buy me a beer if I shoot the hat off his head?” Cummins asked.

“Yes. But you buy me one if you miss.”

“All right,” Cummins said. “I guess it’s about time I showed you boys why I’m the marshal and you are the deputies.” He drew his pistol and aimed, then lowered it.

“What’s wrong? You can’t do it?”

“Stand here in front of me and let me use your shoulder as a brace,” Cummins said.

“Hell, no, you have to do it yourself. Or admit you can’t do it.”

“You don’t worry about me, I can do it,” Cummins said. He aimed again, then, sighing, leaned against the wall and braced the pistol against the door frame.

Cummins pulled the trigger and the pistol roared and jumped up in his hand.

“Oh, shit!” Jackson shouted.

The little man wearing the bowler hat fell back in the street. Several of the deputies ran out to him.

There was a small, dark hole in the man’s temple, and a trickle of blood ran down across his ear.

“Son of a bitch, Marshal, you kilt him!” Jackson said.

“It was an accident,” Cummins said. “You all seen it. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

By now several others from the town had been drawn to the scene and they stood around, looking on in horror and morbid curiosity.

“What happened?” someone asked.

“Who is this fella?”

“Anybody know him?”

“He just got off the train,” another said. “I saw him get off, but I don’t know who he is.”

“Who shot him?”

“I did,” Cummins said.

“Good heavens, Marshal, why?”

“I didn’t shoot him on purpose,” Cummins said. “I was—uh—”

“He was showing me his gun,” Jackson said. “And it went off.”

“Damn, Marshal, you need to be more careful with that thing.”

“Yeah, I know,” Cummins said.

An hour later Marshal Cummins stepped into the undertaker’s parlor. The man he shot was lying naked on a lead-covered slab. Beneath the slab was a bucket filled with blood. Hanging from a hook over the slab was a bottle of formaldehyde, and a little tube ran from the bottle through a needle in the arm and into the dead man’s veins.

“Hello, Prufrock. How are you doing with him?” Cummins asked the undertaker.

“I’m about finished,” Prufrock replied. “Who’s going to pay me for this? The town?”

“No,” Cummins said. “I’m the one who killed him, I’ll pay the charges. I didn’t mean to kill him, but I feel like I should pay the charges anyway. Have you found out who he is?”

“His name is Cornelius Jerome,” Prufrock said. “He’s from New York City.”

“How do you know?”

“There’s a letter in his pocket to Governor John C. Fremont,” Prufrock said.

“He wrote a letter to the governor?”

“He didn’t write it, his pa did,” Prufrock said. “Turns out his pa is some bigwig back in New York. You want to read the letter?”

“Yes,” Cummins answered.

“It’s over there, on that table.”

Walking over to the table, Cummins saw, in addition to the letter, the other personal effects belonging to the man: a pipe and a pouch of tobacco, a pair of glasses, and a billfold. Looking in the billfold, Cum-min’s saw over three hundred dollars in cash. He read the letter.

To The Honorable

John C. Frémont, Governor of Arizona Territory.

Governor, I am sure you remember me as one of your most active supporters in your run for the Presidency in 1856. I also served as your adjutant in St. Louis during the Civil War. Although our paths have not crossed since that time, I have followed your fortunes with great interest.

By this letter, I want to introduce my son, Cornelius Jerome. Actually, this will not be the first time you have met him, for indeed, you often held him on your lap during the exciting days of your election campaign. It is my intention that my son make his fortune, if not in money, then by life experiences, as he sojourns through our great American West. I call upon you as an old friend to make him welcome, and to provide him with the advice you would deem necessary.

Sincerely, your friend,

Ronald J. Jerome

New York, N.Y.

“He sounds rich, doesn’t he?” Cummins asked.

“I’d say so.”

“Who would have thought that about this odd-looking little man?”

“What do you want me to do with the body?”

“What do you mean? You’re doing it, aren’t you?”

“I mean after I’m finished here. What should I do next?”

“Bury him,” Cummins said.

“Shouldn’t we send him back home?”

“How can we do that? We don’t know where he came from,” Cummins said.

“Sure we do,” Prufrock said. “It’s right there in the letter.”

Pointedly, Cummins tore up the letter. Then he took the three hundred dollars from the Jerome’s billfold and pressed it into Prufrock’s hands.

“What letter?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Prufrock replied, stuffing the wad of money down into his pocket. “I didn’t see any letter.”

By any definition of the term, Cletus Odom was an ugly man. A scar, like a purple flash of lightning, ran from his forehead, through his left eye, and down his cheek to hook in under his nose. As a result of the scar, the eyelid was now a discolored and misshapen puff of flesh. For a while, the eye had been black and swollen as a result of an encounter he’d had three weeks ago in an alley in Wickenburg. Angry over an article that had appeared in the Wickenburg newspaper, Odom had found a couple of men in the saloon there who, for the price of a drink, agreed to help him “teach the newspaper editor a lesson.”

Odom had not expected anyone to come to Garvey’s aid and was surprised when someone appeared, out of nowhere, to interrupt him.

“Instead of beating him up, I should have just killed the son of a bitch,” Odom said aloud.

But enough thinking about that. It was time to move on, and he had a plan in mind that would net him a lot of money. All he needed to implement the plan were a few men who would work with him. And he had already set about recruiting them.

Odom reached the tiny town of Quigotoa, Arizona, just after nightfall. Quigotoa was a scattering of flyblown and crumbling adobe buildings that were laid out in no particular pattern around a dusty plaza. What made the town attractive to people like Odom was its reputation as a “Robbers’ Roost,” or “Outlaw Haven.”

The town had no constable or marshal, and visitations by law officers from elsewhere in the territory were strongly discouraged. There was a place in the town cemetery prominently marked as “Lawmen’s Plot.” Here, a deputy, an Arizona Ranger, and a deputy U.S. marshal, all uninvited visitors to the town, lay buried.

Odom had come to Quigotoa as a first step to set his plan into operation, and stepping into the Casa del Sol Cantina, he spotted someone sitting at a table in the back. He was a big man, with a broken nose that lay flat and misshapen on a round face.

“Hello, Bates,” Odom said when he stepped up to the table.

“I thought you was goin’ to get here today,” Bates replied.

“It is today.”

“Yeah, I meant earlier.”

“I’m here now,” Odom said. “Did you get someone?”

“Yeah. You want to meet him?”

“Tomorrow,” Odom said. “I had a long ride today.”

“All right,” Bates said.

Leaving Bates, Odom bought a bottle of tequila, then picked up a Mexican whore and went with her to her little crib out back, as much for her bed as for her services.

“Do you think Rosita is pretty, Señor?” the whore asked as she smiled at him.

“Pretty?” Odom replied. He took a swallow of tequila, drinking straight from the bottle. “What the hell do I care whether you are pretty or not? You are a puta—a whore. And all whores look just alike to me. All I want you to do is shut up, get naked, and get in bed. I’m not in the mood for any of your prattle.”

The smile left Rosita’s face. “Sí, señor,” she said flatly. Mechanically, she took off her clothes, then crawled in bed beside him. She turned off all feeling as he climbed on top of her.

Chapter Three

Even as Odom was settling down for the night in Quigotoa, Matt Jensen had just found a likely place to camp for the night. Dismounting, he took off the saddle and blanket, which caused his horse, Spirit, to whicker and shake his head in appreciation over being relieved of the burden.

This was Matt’s second horse to be named Spirit; the first was killed by an outlaw who was trying to kill Matt. Spirit One was a bay, given to Matt by Smoke Jensen, Matt’s mentor and friend. Spirit Two was a sorrel. Matt had named him Spirit as well, in part to honor his first horse, but also because he considered Spirit Two to be worthy of the name.

Matt spread the saddle blanket out on the ground to provide a base for his bedroll, then, using the saddle for a pillow, prepared to spend the night on the range. To the casual observer, the saddle, which was ordinary in every detail, was no different from any other saddle. There was, however, one very extraordinary thing about it. The saddle had a double bottom, which allowed him to secret away more than a thousand dollars in cash, which Matt used as his emergency reserve.

Nobody who happened to see Matt would ever suspect that he was carrying so much money. In fact, Matt had a lot more money than that in a bank account back in Colorado. He had come by the money honestly, as his part of a gold-panning operation he had entered into with Smoke Jensen, back when he was but an eighteen-year-old boy.

Smoke and Matt Jensen panned the streams for gold as long as they continued to be productive. For the entire time Matt had been with Smoke, they had buried the gold, each year taking just enough into town to buy goods and supplies for another year. But in the spring of Matt’s nineteenth year, they took everything they had panned over the last six years into town, having to enlist four pack animals to do so. When they cashed it out, it was worth a little over thirty thousand dollars, which was more money than the local bank had on deposit.

“We can have the money shipped from Denver,” the assayer said.

“Can you write us a draft that will allow us to go to Denver to get the money ourselves?” Smoke asked.

“Yes,” the assayer said. “Yes, of course, I can do that. But you don’t have to go to all that trouble. As I say, I can have the money shipped here.”

“It’s no trouble,” Smoke said. “Denver’s a big city, I think I’d like to have a look around. How about you, Matt?”

“I’ve never seen a big city. I’d love to go to Denver,” Matt replied enthusiastically.

“Write out the draft,” Smoke said.

“Very good, sir. And who shall I make this payable to?”

“Make it out to both of us. Kirby Jensen and Matt…,” Smoke looked over at Matt. “I’ve never heard you say your last name.”

“Smoke, just make the draft payable to you,” Matt said.

“No, what are you talking about? This is your money, too. You helped pan every nugget.”

“You can pay me my share after you cash the draft.”

“It might be easier if it is made to just one man,” the assayer said.

Smoke sighed. “All right,” he said. “Make it payable to Kirby Jensen.”

The assayer wrote out the draft, blew on it to dry the ink, then handed it to Smoke.

“Here you are, Mr. Jensen,” he said. “Just present this to the Denver Bank and Trust, and they will pay you the amount so specified.”

Smoke held the bank draft for a moment and looked at it. “Hard to believe this little piece of paper is worth all that money,” he said.

In Denver, Matt and Smoke went to the bank, where the teller proudly counted out the money. Smoke divided the money while they were still in the bank, giving Matt fifteen thousand and fifty dollars.

“That’s a lot of money,” Matt said.

“Yes, it is,” Smoke agreed. “Most folks don’t make that much money in twenty years of work, and here you are, only eighteen, with fifteen thousand dollars in your pocket. What are you going to do with it?”

Matt thought for a moment before he answered. “I’ll figure something out,” he said.

It was getting late in the evening and Smoke and Matt were on their way back, a good ten miles down the road from Denver, when they decided they would start looking for a place to camp for the night. Often, during the ride, Matt had leaned forward to touch the saddlebags that were thrown across his horse. It made him almost dizzy to think that he had so much money. It also made him feel guilty, because he knew this was more money than his father had made in his entire life.

If Matt’s father had been able to come up with this much money, they would have never left the farm in Missouri, and Matt would just now be beginning to think of his own future.

Matt had been thinking about his future ever since they left Denver. It wasn’t the first time he had considered such a thing. He knew he would not be able to stay with Smoke forever.

But now, with this money, the future was no longer frightening, nor even mysterious to him. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

Matt’s thoughts were interrupted when four men, who had been hiding in the bushes, suddenly stepped out into the road in front of them. All four were holding pistols, and the pistols were pointed at Smoke and Matt. The leader of the group was Kelly Smith, a man with whom Smoke had been playing cards the night before.

“You boys want to get down from them horses?” Smith asked.

Slowly, Matt and Smoke dismounted.

“Well, now,” Smith said. “You didn’t think I was really going to let you get out of town with all that money, did you?”

“What money?” Smoke asked.

“Why, the thirty thousand dollars you got at the bank today,” Smith said. “The whole town is talkin’ about it.”

“Is that a fact?” Smoke asked.

“Oh, yes, it’s a fact,” Smith said. “You’ve got that money, plus the money you took from me in the card game last night.”

“Well, now, Mr. Smith, if I had known you were going to be that bad of a loser, I’ll be damned if I would have played poker with you,” Smoke said. “And here you told me you were a professional gambler and all. I guess it just goes to prove that you can’t always believe what people say.”

Smith laughed, a dry, cackling laugh. “You’re a funny man, Jensen,” he said. “I’ll still be laughin’ when I’m in San Francisco spending your money.”

“What makes you think you’re going to get my money?”

“Are you blind?” Smith asked. “There’s four of us here, and we’ve got the drop on you.”

“Oh, yeah, there is that, isn’t there? I mean, you do have the drop on us,” Smoke said almost nonchalantly. “By the way, Matt, do you remember that little trick I showed you?”

“I remember,” Matt answered.

“Now would be a good time to try it out.”

“Now?”

“Now,” Smoke replied.

Even before the word was out of his mouth, Smoke and Matt both drew and each fired two quick shots. Kelly Smith and the three men who were with him were dead before they even realized they were in danger.*

The mournful wail of a distant coyote calling to his mate brought Matt back to the present, and looking up, he saw a falling star streak across the black velvet sky. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

At dawn the next day, the notches of the eastern hills were touched with the dove gray of early morning. Shortly thereafter, a golden fire spread over the mountaintops, then filled the sky with light and color, waking all the creatures below.

Matt rolled out of his blanket and started a fire, then began digging through his saddlebags for coffee and tobacco. He would have enjoyed a biscuit with his coffee, but he had no flour. He had no beans either, and was nearly out of salt. He did have a couple of pieces of bacon, and they now lay twitching and snapping in his skillet, alongside his coffeepot.

After his breakfast of coffee and bacon, he rolled himself a cigarette, lighting it with a burning stick from the fire. Finding a rock to lean against, Matt sat down for a smoke as he contemplated his next move. It was clear that he was going to have to replenish his supplies.

“Spirit, I think it’s about time we went into town again,” he said.

Sometimes on the long, lonely trail, Matt felt the need to hear a human voice, even if it was his own. Talking to Spirit satisfied that need, and because he was talking to his horse, it didn’t seem quite as ridiculous as talking to himself.

Quigotoa

In the Casa del Sol Cantina the next morning, Odom rolled a tortilla in his fingers and, using it like a spoon, scooped up the last of his breakfast beans. He washed it down with a drink of coffee, then lit a cigar and looked up as Emerson Bates came over to his table.

“Here’s the man I was tellin’ you about,” Bates said, indicating the man who was with him. “His name is Paco Bustamante.”

The man with Bates was short, but looked even shorter by comparison with Bates. He had obsidian eyes, a dark, brooding face, and a black mustache that curved down around either side of his mouth. He was wearing an oversized sombrero.

Odom frowned. “He’s a Mex,” he said. “I don’t work with Mexicans.”

“Paco’s a good man,” Bates insisted.

“How do you know?”

“Me an’ him have done a couple of jobs together,” Bates said. He chuckled. “Besides, you slept with his sister last night.”

Odom took a puff of his cigar, then squinted through the smoke. “Well, if you come along—Paco—you only get half a share,” he said, setting the Mexican’s name apart from the rest of the sentence.

Without a word, Paco turned and started to walk away.

“Wait a minute,” Odom called to him. “Where you goin’?”

“For half a share, Señor, I don’t do shit,” Paco said. It sounded like “sheet.”

Odom laughed. “I reckon if you got that much gumption, you might do after all.”

Paco came back to the table.

“What will you do for a full share?” Odom asked.

“Anything you say, Señor,” Paco replied.

“There might be some killin’,” Odom suggested.

“I do not want to be the one who is killed,” the Mexican said. “But I do not mind if I am the one doing the killing.”

“You’re in,” Odom said.

If Odom had expected some expression of gratitude from Paco, he was disappointed, for neither by word nor gesture did he respond. Instead, he looked at Odom with his unblinking, black eyes.

“What about Schuler?” Odom said. “Did you get him?”

“Odom, are you sure you want Schuler?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Odom said.

“He’s a drunk.”

“I know he’s a drunk. But he’s also a good powder man. The last job I pulled, the son of a bitch slammed the safe shut on me. I don’t intend to let that happen again. If I have to, I’ll blow the damn safe this time, but I want someone who can do it without killing us all. Now, go get him.”

“I already got ’im,” Bates said. “He’s out front.”

“Bring ’im in.”

With a sigh, Bates walked to the front door, pushed the beaded strings to one side, and called out.

“Schuler, get in here.”

The man who answered Bates’s call was of medium height and very thin. His face was red, though whether from a natural complexion, or from skin long unwashed and subjected to alcohol, no one knew. His eyes were so pale a gray that, at first glance they looked to be without color of any kind. He shuffled up to the table.

“You know why I asked for you?” Odom asked.

“Bates said you had a job for me.”

“I might. If you can do it.”

“I can do it.”

“How do you know you can do it?”

“You have something you want blown,” Schuler said.

“What makes you think I want something blown?”

“I’m a drunk,” Schuler replied. “You wouldn’t want me for anything unless it was for something that I was the only one who could do it. I’m a powder man. That means you want something blown.”

“Let me see your hands.”

“Why do you need to see my hands?”

“Hold them out here, let me see them,” Odom ordered.

Schuler held his hands out for Odom’s inspection. They were shaking badly.

“Damn,” Odom said. “Look at that. Hell, shaking like that, you couldn’t even light the fuse, let alone plant the charge.”

“Give me a drink,” Schuler said.

“You’ve had too much to drink already.”

“Give me a drink,” Schuler said again.

Odom poured a drink from his bottle and handed it to Schuler. Schuler tossed it down, then held his hands out again. They were as steady as a rock.

“I’ll be damn,” Odom said. “All right, you’re in.”

“I’m in what?”

“Does it really matter as long as there’s money in it?”

“How much money, Señor?” Paco asked.

Odom studied them through his half-drooped left eye. “A lot of money,” he finally answered. “If you was to take all the money the four of us have ever had in our whole lives and put it in one pile, it wouldn’t make as much as one share of the money I’m talking about now. Are you boys interested?”

Bates smiled. “Hell, yes, I’m interested. I told you that from the beginnin’, you know that.”

“What about you, Paco?”

“Sí, señor. I am interested.”

“What do you want me to blow?”

“A safe.”

“Where is the safe?”

“In a train.”

“A train. You are planning to hold up a train?” Schuler asked.

“Yeah. You have a problem with that?”

Without asking, Schuler poured himself another drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No,” he said. “I don’t have a problem with that.”

“When do we do it?” Bates asked.

“Couple more days,” Odom replied. “I’ll let you know when it’s time.”

Chapter Four

When Matt Jensen first encountered the town of Purgatory, Arizona, it rose from the prairie in front of him so indistinct in form and substance that it resembled nothing more than a rise of hillocks and rocks. But as he drew closer, the hillocks and rocks began to take on shape and character until it was obviously a town.

It had been a long ride since the last water hole, and Matt’s canteen was down to less than a third full. But the sight of a town gave promise of more water, so he stopped, and allowed himself a long drink.

“I wish I had some for you, Spirit,” he said, patting the animal on the neck. “But there’s water just ahead, and I promise you your fill, as well as a good rubdown and a supper of oats.”

Matt hooked the empty canteen onto his saddle, then slapped his legs against Spirit’s side to urge him on down into the town. A rabbit jumped up alongside the road and ran in front of him for a little while before darting off to one side. A hand-painted sign greeted him at the edge of town. PURGATORY

Pop. 263

OBEY OUR LAWS

Just beyond the sign was a house, and in the yard of the house was a water pump. An old woman was pumping water into a bucket, though it was obvious that the pumping action was difficult for her. Smelling the water, Spirit whickered again, and tossed his head. Matt headed toward the pump.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Matt said. He swung down from the horse. “May I pump for you?”

The woman, who could have been anywhere between fifty and eighty, looked at him with eyes that were too tired to be frightened. Without saying a word, she relinquished the pump handle.

Matt filled the bucket, then handed it to the woman. “I wonder if I might have a little of your water for my canteen and my horse,” Matt asked.

“You are welcome to the water,” the old woman answered.

“Thank you,” Matt said. He took his hat off, put it under the pump, and filled it with water. Holding the hat in front of his horse, he watched as the animal drank thirstily. It took three more hats to slake the horse’s thirst. Not until then did Matt fill his own canteen.

“You are a kind man, sir, to see to the thirst of your horse before yourself,” the old woman said.

“I’ve managed to drink a little from time to time,” Matt said. “He hasn’t. His thirst was much greater than mine.”

Matt put the canteen back onto his saddle, then handed the woman two dollars.

The woman took the money without comment. Never once, during Matt’s entire time here, had the expression on her face changed. The old woman looked as if just staying alive had become a tiring effort.

Matt rode on into town, looking it over as he entered. The town consisted of the usual stores and businesses: a general store, an apothecary, a leather-goods store, a gun shop, a dress shop. All the buildings were of ripsawed, sun-dried lumber, most with false fronts, thus aspiring to more substance than they actually possessed.

Matt rode slowly on up the street, the fall of Spirit’s well-shod hooves making enough noise to generate an echo that rolled back from the false fronts of the various stores and establishments. Except for Matt, the street was empty. Several of the townspeople inside the buildings heard the sound of a solitary rider, but few ventured to look outside and see who it might be.

Matt stopped in front of the Pair O Dice saloon, the name illustrated by a pair of dice showing the number seven.

Millie’s Dress Emporium was directly across the street from the Pair O Dice, and Mrs. Emma Dawkins was there being fitted for a new dress. Her son, Timmy, was sitting on the floor by the front window.

“Mama, there’s a man riding into town,” Timmy said. “A stranger.”

“Don’t stare at him, dear,” Mrs. Dawkins said. “Strangers are none of our concern.” Then, to Millie, Emma continued with her ongoing conversation. “My sister is getting married back in St. Louis and I simply must look my best.”

“My dear, you will be the envy of everyone at the wedding,” Millie promised as she pinned up the hem of the skirt.

Young Timmy Dawkins continued to stare at the rider who had just come into town, and saw him dismount in front of the saloon. He had never seen the man before, and wondered where he came from and why he was in Purgatory.

“He’s going into the saloon,” Timmy said.

“Who is going into the saloon, dear?” Emma asked.

“The stranger.”

“I told you not to stare at strangers.”

Matt hung his wet hat on the saddle horn so that the sun would dry it. He then patted himself down, raising a cloud of dust as he did so. Just as he started toward the front porch and the promise of a late morning breakfast, a man stepped out of the saloon. He was a tall man, dressed in black. He had a star on his chest, and he wore his pistol hanging low to his right side.

“That’ll be five dollars,” the lawman said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Five dollars,” the lawman repeated.

“I don’t understand. Five dollars for what?”

“For a visitors tax,” the lawman explained. “We charge everyone who visits our town five dollars.”

“Oh, well, I can take care of that,” Matt said. He turned to go back to his horse. “I just won’t visit your town.”

“You already have.”

“Mister, I just rode into town,” Matt said. “I didn’t know anything about your five-dollar tax.”

“You don’t have five dollars? Maybe I should lock you up for vagrancy.”

“It’s not the money, it’s the principle of the thing,” Matt said. “Whoever heard of a town charging five dollars just to visit? Why, if you were going to do such a thing, the least you could do is post a sign just outside of town so people could be warned.”

“Tell that to the city council. But first, give me the five dollars.”

“I told you, I’m not going to visit your town. I’ll just ride on.”

“And I told you, you’ve already visited the town. Now you’ll either give me the five dollars, or I’ll shoot you down in the street and take it off your dead body.”

“What?” Matt said, his voice rising in surprise over the lawman’s statement.

“You heard me.”

“Mister, you need to let this drop. I told you, I’m going to—”

Suddenly, Matt saw the lawman’s hand going for his pistol.

“No!” Matt shouted, going for his own pistol at the same time.

Matt was fast, very fast. He not only had his gun out, but he fired it, just as the lawman was clearing leather.

The bullet hit the lawman in the chest and, with a surprised expression on his face, the lawman dropped his gun, then slapped his hand over the wound. Ironically, when he dropped his gun, it slipped back into his holster. He turned around and walked back into the saloon through the batwing doors.

“What was it, Moe?” Marshal Cummins asked. “What was that shot about?”

Moe looked at Cummins with a peculiar expression on his face, then fell to the floor. At that moment, Matt stepped inside as well, still holding the smoking gun.

“Moe!” someone shouted.

“My God! He’s dead!”

“Drop that gun, mister!”

Looking up, Matt saw a man, wearing a star, pointing a pistol at him. One man pointing a pistol might not have been so bad, but there were four other pistols being pointed toward him, as well as a double-barrel shotgun, all being wielded by men who were wearing stars.

“How many marshals does this town have?” Matt asked.

“I’m Marshal Cummins,” the first man said. “These men, and the man you just murdered, are my deputies.”

“I didn’t murder him. He drew on me first,” Matt said.

“He drew on you, huh?” Marshal Cummins said. “Mister, you are a liar, and a poor one at that. Moe’s gun is still in his holster.”

“Yes, it fell back in the holster when I shot him,” Matt said. His explanation sounded weak, even to his own ears.

“Mister, I didn’t fall off the turnip wagon yesterday,” Cummins said. “Now drop that gun.”

Matt took in the situation around him, then, realizing that resistance would be futile, he dropped his gun and raised his hands.

“Put some cuffs on him, Jackson,” Marshal Cummins said.

“My goodness, what was that?” Emma Dawkins asked at the sound of the gunshot.

“It’s probably some fool drunk over in the saloon,” Millie answered. She was on her knees with a mouth full of pins. “My apartment is just upstairs, you know, and sometimes at night, there is so much yelling and shooting going on over there that you would think they are having a battle. All they are really doing is just getting drunk and raising Cain. Turn to the left just a bit, would you, dear?”

“I seen it, Mama,” Timmy said.

“It’s ‘saw,’ not ‘seen,’” Timmy’s mother corrected. “And what did you see?”

“I saw the stranger shoot Deputy Gillis.”

“What? What on earth are you talking about?”

“The man that shot Deputy Gillis,” Timmy said.

“You mean he just rode up and shot him?”

“No, ma’am. Deputy Gillis went for his gun first, then the stranger went for his, and he shot first.”

“Are you saying the stranger killed Deputy Gillis?”

“I don’t know,” Timmy said. “He hit the deputy because I saw the blood, but then the deputy turned around and went back into the saloon, and the stranger followed him in.”

“Hush,” Emma said. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Uh-huh, yes, I do,” Timmy said.

“No, you don’t,” Emma insisted. “You don’t have the slightest idea of what you are talking about. Never mention it again.”

“But Mama—”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Then there is no ‘but Mama’ about it.”

“I think you are doing the right thing, Emma,” Millie said. “Heaven knows what-all trouble you could get in in this town.”

“I know,” Emma replied. “I hate doing it, I’ve always stressed that Timmy tell the truth. But sometimes it’s better to be safe than to be right.”

“I understand,” Millie said. “This will be our secret.”

“Get a rope!” someone yelled. “Let’s hang the son of a bitch now!”

“I got a new rope! I’ll go get it!”

“No!” Cummins said, his voice so loud that it reverberated back from the windows of the establishment.

“Come on, Marshal Cummins, you know damn well he’s guilty. Hell, you got a whole saloon full of eyewitnesses.” The protester was wearing a deputy’s star.

“That’s right, Hayes, we do,” Marshal Cummins said. “That’s why we’re goin’ to do this legal. We’re goin’ to try him now, find him guilty, then send him to Yuma and let them hang him.”

“When we goin’ to try him? The circuit judge ain’t due back for near ’bout a month,” Hayes said.

“We don’t need to wait for a circuit judge,” the marshal said. “We’ll try him right here, right now. You forget I’m an associate judge.”

“What about the jury?” the bartender asked.

“Hell, there’s at least thirty men in here,” the marshal said. “Pick twelve of them. Oh, and to make it legal, don’t pick none of my deputies.”

“All right,” the bartender said. “I’ll be one of the jurors. You, you, you,” he said, pointing to others in the saloon until he had assembled a jury of twelve men.

“Put the jury here,” Cummins said, pointing to an area of the saloon that was near the cold, iron stove. “Set up twelve chairs. Deputy Pike, you’ll be the bailiff. Morgan, you and Gates move a table over there to give me a place to sit. Oh, and set a table there for the defense and there for the prosecution,” he added.

There was a scurry of activity as the saloon was turned into a courtroom.

“As of now, the bar is closed,” Cummins shouted.

“Come on, Marshal, what’s the harm of a drink if all we’re goin’ to do is watch?” Jackson asked. “You done said there can’t none of us deputies be on the jury.”

“I intend this to be a proper court,” Cummins said. “The bar is closed. Hayes, you’re going to be the prosecutor.”

“I ain’t no lawyer, Marshal,” Hayes said.

“I know you’re not,” Cummins answered. “But we only got us one real lawyer in town, and that’s Bob Dempster. I think it’s only fair that the defendant get the real lawyer.”

“Dempster?” Hayes said. He laughed. “Yeah, all right, I don’t mind goin’ up against Dempster.”

“He’s back there in the corner,” Cummins said. “Deputy Posey, go get him.”

When Matt looked back into the corner Cummins had indicated, he saw a man sitting at a table. A whiskey bottle was on the table beside him, and his head was down on the table. He was either asleep, or passed out.

“Hey, Dempster,” Posey called.

Dempster made no response.

“Dempster!” Posey said again, louder this time. “Are you dead? Or are you just drunk?”

Everyone in the saloon laughed.

“Somebody get a pitcher of water,” Cummins ordered, and a moment later, someone showed up with it, handing it to Posey.

“Dempster!” Posey shouted, while at the same time throwing the pitcher of water into his face. “Wake up!”

“What? What’s happening?” Dempster sputtered, raising up as water dripped from his hair and face.

Again, everyone in the saloon laughed.

“Whiskey,” Dempster said, wiping his hand across his face.

There was more laughter.

“No whiskey, Dempster,” Cummins said. “The bar is closed.”

“Closed?” Dempster looked around in confusion. “What do you mean, closed? It’s still light. Oh, is it Sunday?”

“It’s closed because the saloon has been turned into a courtroom,” Cummins said. “We are about to have a trial, and I have appointed you to defend the bastard who murdered Moe Gillis.”

“You have appointed me?”

“Yes.”

Dempster shook his head. “Marshal Cummins—” Dempster began, but he was interrupted by Cummins.

“For the purposes of this trial, I am acting, not as marshal, but as an associate judge,” Cummins said. “And you will refer to me as such.”

“Your Honor,” Dempster corrected. “I can’t act as attorney,” he said. “I’m—uh—in no condition to act as attorney.”

“Yeah? Well, you don’t have any choice,” Cummins said. “I’ve appointed you and you will defend this man, or I will throw you in jail for contempt of court. And I don’t have to remind you, do I, Counselor, that you won’t be getting anything to drink while you are in jail?”

Dempster sat at the table for a long moment, looking around at everyone who was staring at him. It was obvious that he was very uncomfortable with the scrutiny of all the patrons. He ran his hand across his wet face one more time.

“Where is the defendant?” he asked.

“Right there,” Cummins said, pointing toward Matt. Matt was still standing, with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“Take his cuffs off,” Dempster said.

“He’s my prisoner,” Jackson replied.

“Right now he is the defendant in a court trial, and he is innocent until proven guilty,” Dempster said. “As the court-appointed attorney for the defense, I am ordering you to take off his cuffs.”

Jackson made no move to comply.

“Your Honor,” Dempster complained.

Cummins looked over toward Jackson and nodded. “Take them off,” he said.

Jackson complied with the order, and Matt brought his hands back around front, then rubbed the wrists.

“Your Honor, I will need a few minutes to consult with my client,” Dempster said.

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes,” Cummins said.

“And some coffee. Strong and black.”

“Pauley, get the counselor some coffee,” Cummins said to the bartender, who had already taken a seat as the foreman of the jury.

“Back here, please,” Dempster said, motioning toward Matt.

Matt walked back into the corner of the saloon, then sat at the table with Dempster. Dempster’s silver hair was unkempt, and though he didn’t have a beard as such, he was badly in need of a shave. He was wearing a jacket and white shirt, but both were badly worn and, from the smell, had not seen a cleaning in some time.

“Hey, Marshal, while we’re waitin’, could we have another drink?” someone shouted.

“Yeah,” another added. “After all, it’s your saloon. If you keep us from buyin’ drinks, you’re just cuttin’ off your own nose to spite your face.”

That comment brought laughter from everyone, including Cummins.

“All right,” he said. “Pauley, go ahead and open the bar. You can keep it open for fifteen minutes, but when the trial starts, you have to close it.”

“Right,” Pauley said, returning to the bar. The fact that the opening was temporary was very good for business, because nearly everyone in the saloon, including all the jurors, rushed to the bar to get drinks before time ran out.

One of the deputies brought a pot of coffee and a single cup to Dempster’s table.

“Bring a cup for the defendant,” Dempster said.

“He ain’t here to enjoy no coffee,” the deputy growled.

“Give him a cup, Foster,” Cummins ordered.

Begrudgingly, Deputy Foster went into the kitchen, then returned with another coffee cup. By the time he returned, Dempster was already on his second cup of coffee.

“What is your name?” Dempster asked.

“Jensen. Matt Jensen.”

“Did you kill—uh—who is it you killed?”

“I believe they said his name was Gillis. Moe Gillis.”

“Gillis,” Dempster said. “Well, if you were goin’ to kill someone, that son of a bitch needed it more than just about anyone else I can think of. Let me ask you this. Did you kill him in cold blood?”

“No, I—”

Dempster held up his hand. “That’s enough. I’d rather hear you tell your side during the trial. It will give it more spontaneity.”

“All right.”

“Dempster, your fifteen minutes are up,” Cummins called.

“Your Honor, can I request a twenty-four-hour delay so that I can—uh—that is so that I could be in better condition to present my case to the court?”

“Dempster, you know and I know that if I give you twenty-four hours, you’ll do nothing but drink for the entire time. You won’t be in any better condition tomorrow than you are right now.”

Dempster ran his hand across his face, then looked over at Matt. “He’s right,” he said. “A twenty-four-hour delay isn’t going to do me one ounce of good. So, what do you say?”

Matt chuckled. “Mr. Dempster, it doesn’t look to me like I have much say in this at all.”

“You don’t,” Dempster replied. “And I’m glad you can keep your sense of humor.”

“Bailiff,” Cummins said. “Call the court.”

“Oyez, oyez, oyez!” Jackson called. “Ever’body stand up! This here court is now in session!”

Cummins sat, then banged the handle of his pistol on the table. “Be seated,” he said. “Mr. Prosecutor, make your case.”

When nobody responded, Cummins said, “Hayes, that’s you.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hayes said. He stood up and looked toward the jury.

“Here’s what happened,” he said. “We was all in here when Deputy Gillis went out front. Next thing you know, we heard a shot, then Gillis, he come walkin’ back into the room just like nothin’ a’tall had happened. Then all of a sudden he fell on the floor dead. Before anyone could even say a how-do-you-do, this here fella come in behind him. He had a gun in his hand, and the gun was still smokin’. And get this. Moe’s pistol was still in his holster! Now, there ain’t one man in here who didn’t hear the gunshot, and there ain’t one man in here who didn’t see what I just told you. So, there ain’t no doubt a’tall but that the defendant is guilty.”

Hayes sat down to a round of applause. Then, in a bit of showmanship, he stood up and bowed to the others in the saloon.

“That’ll be enough, Hayes,” Cummins said.

“Sorry, Marshal,” Hayes said.

“You will address me as Your Honor.”

“Your Honor,” Hayes corrected.

“Defense?”

Dempster stood. “Your Honor, I call Matt Jensen to testify in his own behalf.”

Matt was sworn in, then took a chair.

Matt testified for himself, explaining how Gillis had confronted him with a demand for five dollars for a visitors tax.

“I didn’t know anything about the tax. I’d never heard of a visitors tax, not in this town or any town I’ve ever visited. So, it was my intention to just ride on out of town,” Matt said. “But the deputy wouldn’t let me. He said that just by being here, I was already a visitor.”

“What he said was correct,” Cummins said, interrupting Matt’s testimony. “And, as the deputy, he had every right to collect five dollars from you. The five dollars is to pay for law enforcement.”

“There’s nothing right about that,” Matt said.

“Uh-huh, and so, since you didn’t agree with him, you shot him, is that it? You shot him down in cold blood,” Hayes said.

“Your Honor, I object,” Dempster said. “It is not yet redirect.”

“I’m going to allow the question.”

“It wasn’t even a question, it was an interruption. I haven’t turned the witness over to him yet,” Dempster complained.

“We’re after the truth here, Counselor, no matter what technique we use to get it. I am going to allow the question. Answer it, Jensen.”

“No, sir, I did not shoot him down in cold blood. He drew on me first. I was faster, and when I shot him, his gun somehow just slipped back into his holster.”

Nearly everyone in the saloon laughed.

“It is the truth, I swear it,” Matt said.

“Mister,” Hayes replied. “There ain’t no one person in all of Arizona who is faster than Moe Gillis was.”

“I am,” Matt said simply.

“I have no more questions, Your Honor,” Dempster said.

“All right. Give your closing arguments.”

Dempster held up his finger, then walked back to the table where he had left the coffee. He poured himself another cup, then drank it, before he returned to address the jury.

“You have heard the defendant say that Gillis drew on him first,” he said. “And since Mr. Jensen is the only eyewitness to the actual confrontation, his testimony should have some weight. We all knew Gillis, we all knew what a hothead he was, and we all know that it would not be out of character for him to draw first, especially if he thought he was right to defend some law, such as collecting a five dollar visitors tax fee. But you have the perception that Mr. Jensen drew first, because the pistol was still in Gillis’s holster.

“Perception,” he repeated.

Dempster held up a finger. “I would like to remind you that, according to the law, you can only find my client guilty if you are convinced, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he is guilty. You cannot find him guilty based upon a perception of guilt.

“In addition to this, I would like to point this out to you. If you find him guilty as charged, there is an excellent chance that the sentence will be overturned on appeal, based upon all the irregularities in this trial.”

Dempster held up a finger. “One, there could be a real question as to Andrew Cummins’ authority to try this case, seeing as he acted as the arresting officer. There is no precedence for the arresting officer to also act as judge.

“Two, the Constitution of the United States guarantees every man a competent lawyer to act as his defense. All of you know me. I am a trained lawyer, that is true, but I am also a drunk and I was only given fifteen minutes to prepare for this case.

“And finally, I was given no opportunity for voir dire. I believe this jury to be incapable of rendering a fair decision, based upon the fact that you were all present at the time of the incident.

“I ask that you find Mr. Jensen not guilty.”

“Ha!” one of the jurors said. “There ain’t a chance in hell we’re goin’ to do that.”

Everyone in the saloon laughed.

Cummins banged his revolver on the table. “Order,” he called. He looked over at Hayes. “Mr. Hayes, your summation.”

“What?”

“It’s your turn to talk to the jury, to wrap up your case.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Hayes said. He cleared his throat and looked over toward the jury. For a long moment, he said nothing, then he pointed to Matt.

“This son of a bitch is guilty,” he said. “You know it and I know it, and I say, let’s hang the bastard.” He sat down, again to the laughter and cheers of those assembled.

“It’s time now to poll the jury,” Cummins said. He looked at the twelve men who had been selected by the bartender.

“Jury, how do you find the defendant?” Marshal Cummins asked the jury.

“Guilty!” they all yelled as one.

“So say you one, so say you all?” Cummins asked.

“Yeah, that’s what we all say,” one of the jurors said. He looked at the others. “Anyone say anything different?”

There were no dissensions.

“Mr. Matt Jensen, you have been found guilty of murder, and are sentenced to hang.”

“I’ll get a rope,” Hayes shouted.

“Yeah, let’s string the son of a bitch up right here, in front of the saloon for the whole town to see!” Another added.

“No!” Cummins replied. “I told you, we are going to do this legal.” The marshal looked at Matt. “You’ll be put on tonight’s train and taken to the territorial prison in Yuma, where the execution will be carried out.”

“Who are you going to send with him?” Hayes asked.

“Why? Are you volunteerin’?” Cummins replied.

“Yeah, I’ll see to it that the son of a bitch gets to Yuma.”

“Hayes, you was the one wantin’ to string him up now. I don’t know if I can trust you to get him there safe.”

“I’ll get him there,” Hayes said. “You got my word.”

Chapter Five

“I’m not going to let you put a convicted murderer in the same car as paying passengers,” the station agent said.

“Come on, Randall, he’s been tried, all legal, and we got to get him to Yuma to hang,” Hayes said. “I ain’t goin’ to trust him on a horse, and we can’t walk all the way.”

Randall drummed his fingers on the counter for a moment, then sighed. “I suppose you two can ride in the express car,” he said.

“The express car? Yeah, all right, that’ll be fine. We’ll ride in the express car.” Hayes looked over at Matt, who had said nothing from the moment the marshal had put him in shackles.

“All right, Mr. Killer Man,” Hayes said. “Take a seat out there in the waiting room. And don’t give me no trouble if you know what’s good for you.”

Matt’s ankles were shackled with just enough chain length to allow him to walk at a slow shuffle. He was also shackled by the wrists.

There were four other people waiting for the train, the assembly consisting of a mother and her two children and a salesman. One of the children, a young girl of about five, smiled at Matt as Hayes led him out into the waiting room.

“We’re going back home,” the little girl said to Matt. “We came here to see my Aunt Suzie. I’m named after my Aunt Suzie.”

“Suzie!” her mother called. “Get back over here and leave that man alone.”

“Mama, why is he wearing chains like that?” a boy of about seven asked.

“Jerry, get back over here and sit down,” the mother said, without answering his question.

Even before the train arrived, Emma Dawkins and her young son, Timmy, were just down the street from the depot, standing in front of small, brick building, looking at a sign.

ROBERT DEMPSTER.

Attorney-at-Law.

“What are we doing here, Mama?” Timmy asked.

“This man is a lawyer,” Emma said. “I want you to tell him what you saw.”

Pushing open the door, Emma stepped inside. At first, she thought the office was empty, so she called out.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

Dempster came in from the back room.

“I’m here,” he said. He looked at the woman. “You are Mrs. Dawkins, aren’t you? The dentist’s wife?”

“Yes,” Emma said.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Dawkins?”

“My son and I were in Millie’s dress shop,” Emma said. “A few minutes ago, we saw Deputy Hayes come out of the saloon, with a man in shackles.”

“Yes, the man in shackles would be Matt Jensen.”

“Why is he in shackles?”

“Why? Because he has just been found guilty of murder,” Dempster said. “He is being sent by train to Yuma prison to be hanged.”

“For shooting Deputy Gillis?”

“Yes,” Dempster said. He squinted at Emma. “Excuse me, Mrs. Dawkins, but how do you know this? This just happened.”

“I seen the whole thing,” Timmy said.

“Saw,” Emma corrected.

“I saw it,” Timmy said.

“What did you see?” Dempster asked.

“I seen—uh, I saw—Deputy Gillis draw his gun first. Then the other man drew his gun faster, and he shot the deputy. I didn’t know he killed the deputy ’cause all I saw was Deputy Gillis turn around and walk back into the saloon.”

“You say you saw the deputy draw his gun first?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“That’s not possible,” Dempster said. “When Gillis came back into the saloon, his pistol was still in his holster.”

“He pulled his gun about halfway out. Then, when he got shot, it fell back in the holster, but he drew first,” Timmy said.

“Timmy, have you seen very many gunfights?”

“No, sir, I ain’t—uh, I haven’t ever seen any except this one.”

“Neither have I actually. But I’ve tried cases that had to do with gunfights, and the one thing all of them have in common is confusion. Two people can see the same thing but tell completely different stories, without either one of them lying.”

“How can they tell something different without one of them lying?” Timmy asked.

“Because it isn’t a lie if you believe what you are saying is the truth. Take your story, for example. I don’t believe you are lying. I think you really believe that you saw Deputy Gillis draw first. But a gunfight can be over in the wink of an eye. It could be that when Gillis saw this fella Jensen starting to draw, that he went for his own gun, but it was too late, the other fella had the drop on him. You might have seen Gillis starting his draw, but didn’t notice that the other man had already drawn his own gun.”

Timmy didn’t answer.

“Don’t you think it might have been that way?” he asked.

“No, sir, it wasn’t that way,” Timmy said. “I know what I saw. I saw the stranger, Mr. Jensen, come riding into town on a sorrel. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a wet hat.”

“A wet hat?”

“Yes, sir. He must’ve given his horse some water from a hat, because the hat was wet, and he took it off and hung it on his saddle. Then, Deputy Gillis came outside and they talked for a moment—but I don’t know what they were talking about. Then, Deputy Gillis started to draw his gun, but Mr. Jensen drew his gun, too, and he drew it faster than Deputy Gillis. When he shot Deputy Gillis, the deputy’s gun fell back into the holster, and he turned around and went back inside the saloon. That’s what I saw.”

Dempster stroked his chin. “Young man, that—that is a very detailed and descriptive observation. And it coincides almost exactly with the way he told it.”

“With the way who told it?” Emma asked.

“Matt Jensen. I defended him in the trial.”

“You mean, they’ve already had the trial?” Emma asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so. I sure wish you had come forward earlier. I could have used Timmy’s testimony then.”

“Maybe it isn’t too late,” Emma said. “Maybe you can go see Marshal Cummins and he’ll change his mind.”

“No. Cummins will not change his mind,” Dempster said.

“Come on, Timmy,” Emma said. “Mr. Dempster, I’m sorry we bothered you.”

“It’s not a bother, Mrs. Dawkins,” Dempster replied. “The boy was just doin’ what he thought was right, that’s all. And nobody can fault him for that.”

Dempster waited until Emma and Timmy left. Then he closed his office and hurried back down to the saloon. Since the trial, the saloon had returned to normal, and there were scores of people there, drinking and reliving the great drama of the trial so recently played out before them. Cummins was sitting at his usual table in the back of the room, and Dempster went straight to him.

“Well, the counselor is back,” Cummins said. He had a bottle of whiskey on the table and he poured some into a glass.

“Go ahead, drink up,” he said. “It’s your pay for defending an indigent client.”

“No, thanks,” Dempster said.

Cummins chuckled. “What? Bob Dempster is refusing a drink? Quick, someone, get hold of the publisher of the Purge. This should be front-page headlines.” Cummins held his hand out—then moved it sideways, as if displaying headlines.

“Robert Dempster, run-down has-been lawyer, refuses the offer of a drink!”

“Marshal, I think you ought not to be so quick about sending Jensen to Yuma,” Dempster said.

“Oh? And why is this?”

“Something has come up,” Dempster said. “New evidence. Evidence I did not have when I made the case for my client.”

“And just what is this evidence?”

“You know Emma Dawkins, don’t you? The dentist’s wife?”

“Yes, I know her,” Cummins said. “Quite a handsome woman, as I recall.”

“Well, she and her son just paid me a visit,” Dempster said. “Her son—Timmy is his name—was an actual witness to the shooting. He is a remarkably astute young man, and he tells the same story that Jensen told. He says that Gillis started his draw, but Jensen was faster, shot him, and Gillis’s pistol slipped back into the holster. I think you should send someone down to the depot before the train arrives, and bring Jensen back.”

“That’s what you think, is it?” Cummins asked.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“How old is that boy?”

“I don’t know. Ten, eleven, twelve maybe?”

“And you think his word carries some weight?”

“Sure, why not? He has no vested interest in this case. And as I said, he is quite articulate. I see no reason why his word would be challenged.”

“Challenged,” Cummins said. “Yes, that’s a good word for it. Because I have an eyewitness that would challenge him.”

“Marshal, when you say eyewitness, you can’t use the people who were here in the saloon as eyewitnesses, because none of them actually saw the event. All they saw was the result of the event.”

“One of them actually saw the event, and he will challenge the boy,” Cummins said.

“You have a real eyewitness?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. If you have a real eyewitness, why wasn’t his testimony used in the trial?”

“We didn’t need his testimony during the trial,” Cummins replied. “We found Jensen guilty without his testimony.”

“Who was the eyewitness?” Dempster asked.

“Jackson?” Cummins called.

“Yes, Marshal.”

“You was standin’ at the window, watchin’ when Jensen drew on Moe, wasn’t you?”

“No, sir, Marshal, don’t you ’member? I was over at the table with the rest of you.”

“No you wasn’t, you was standin’ by the window, lookin’ outside,” Cummins said pointedly.

“No, sir, I—”

“Listen to me, you dumb shit!” Cummins said sharply. He spoke very slowly. “You was standin’ by the window. You saw it all. You saw Moe talking to Jensen, and you saw Jensen suddenly draw his pistol and shoot Deputy Gillis. Do you remember now?”

It wasn’t until that moment that Jackson understood what the marshal was suggesting.

“Uh, yes, sir, I remember. And that’s just how I seen it happen, too. Moe asked the stranger—”

“Not stranger—Jensen. You have to be very specific about that. It was Matt Jensen.”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson continued. “Moe asked Matt Jensen to pay the visitors tax, and Jensen got so mad that he pulled iron and kilt Deputy Gillis in cold blood.”

“I want you to write that out and sign it,” Cummins said.

“What for? We’ve done had a trial.”

Cummins sighed. “Goddamnit, Jackson, will you just do the hell what I tell you to do without givin’ me any argument?”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said. “I’ll be glad to write it out on a piece of paper for you.”

“And sign it.”

“Yes, sir, and sign it.”

Cummins watched as Jackson wrote out his statement, then signed it.

“Now, Mr. Lawyer,” Cummins said, holding the piece of paper out in front of him. “You put the word of a young boy against the sworn word of Deputy Jackson and we’ll see which one of us gets the furthest.”

Dempster reached down to grab the glass of whiskey. He tossed it down in one swallow, without so much as a grimace, then pointed a finger at Cummins.

“You railroaded that man, Marshal,” he said. “That man is going to be hung for somethin’ he didn’t do, and you are responsible for it.”

Cummins chuckled. “Well, if I am, I reckon I’m just going to have to live with it, aren’t I?” he said.

Down at the depot, Matt Jensen was unaware that a young boy had seen everything and had tried unsuccessfully to tell the truth about the shooting. From his perspective right now, the future looked pretty bleak.

“Train’s a’comin’,” someone shouted, though as the engineer had blown the whistle at almost the same moment, no announcement was necessary. Those who were waiting for the train got up and started toward the door.

“Don’t be gettin’ anxious now, Killer,” Hayes said even though Matt had made no effort to move. “We’ll let the decent folks on first.”

The floor began to shake under Matt’s feet as the heavy train rolled into the station with its bell ringing and steam spewing from the cylinders.

“All right, Killer, on your feet now. Let’s go,” Hayes said after the train came to a complete stop and everyone else had left the building.

Stepping outside onto the wide wooden boarding platform, Matt saw that the sliding door on the side of the express car was open, and that the express man inside the car was squatting down to talk to the station agent. Both the express man and the station agent glanced over toward Matt and Deputy Hayes, so Matt knew they were talking about him. After a moment, the agent made a waving motion to them.

“All right, looks like Randall has it worked out for us,” Hayes said. “Come on, let’s go.”

With Hayes’s hand on Matt’s elbow, the two men walked over to the express car. As it was the first car after the coal tender, it was close enough to the engine to hear the rhythmic venting of the steam relief valve, sounding as if the engine were some steel beast of burden, breathing hard from its labors.

The engineer was leaning on the windowsill of the engine cab, enjoying a moment of rest. There was no such rest for the fireman, who, even though the train was motionless, was shoveling coal into the furnace to keep the steam pressure up. Glistening coals fell from the firebox to the rock ballast between the tracks. There, they glowed for a moment, then went dark.

The engineer looked at Matt, and Matt met his glance with a steady gaze of his own. The engineer nodded a greeting at him, which, under the circumstances, Matt greatly appreciated.

“All right, Killer, you get on first,” Hayes said.

“It’s not going to be easy with these chains,” Matt said.

“Yeah? Well, I’m not about to pick you up and throw you on, so I suggest you get on the best way you can. Try.”

Matt put his hands on the edge of the car, then vaulted up easily.

“Well, now,” Hayes said with a little chuckle. “I’m real impressed. You done that just real good. You, express man,” Hayes called.

“The name is Kingsley,” the express agent replied. “Lon Kingsley.”

“All right, Kingsley.” Hayes gave the express man his gun. “Keep him covered till I get up there. He’s a killer.”

“A killer?” Kingsley replied, obviously disturbed by the fact.

“Yeah, so be careful with him.”

Nervously holding the gun, Kingsley stepped back away from Matt. “D-don’t you try nothin’ now,” he ordered.

“Easy, mister,” Matt said. “I don’t intend to try anything.”

With some effort, Hayes managed to climb up into the express car. He reached out for his pistol. “I’ll take that back now,” he said.

Kingsley handed the pistol back to Hayes, who put it in his holster.

“Aren’t you going to keep him covered?” Kingsley asked.

“Why?” Hayes replied. “He’s in chains. It’s for sure he’s not goin’ anywhere.”

“I guess not.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t be that much of an inconvenience to you,” Hayes promised.

“I reckon you two can ride with me as long as you stay out of my way. I’ll be processin’ mail along the way.”

“We won’t be no bother,” Hayes promised. He pointed to the end of the car where there was one chair. “Sit there,” he said.

When Matt started to sit on the chair, Hayes called out to him.

“Huh-uh, not on the chair, the chair is mine. You’ll be sitting on the floor, so you may as well sit there now and make yourself comfortable.”

As instructed, Matt sat down on the floor, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. He and Hayes no sooner got settled than the engineer blew his whistle, then opened the throttle. The train started forward with a series of jerks, then smoothed out as it gradually began gaining speed.

Chapter Six

Shortly after the train left the depot, Cummins held a meeting of all his deputies.

“All right, boys, it’s time to go to work. You fellas know what stores, businesses, and homes you are responsible for. Get started, then bring it all to the saloon.”

“Marshal, maybe we had better ease up a bit,” one of the deputies suggested.

“Ease up a bit?” Cummins said. “What do you mean by that, Crack?”

“Well, I mean, some of the folks, at least the folks I’m dealin’ with, are beginnin’ to get contrary about payin’ taxes ever’ week.”

“They are, are they?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s just too bad,” Cummins said.

“So, what do I tell ’em when they start complainin’ like that?”

“Tell them it’s the law,” Cummins said. “If they want to live in my town, they have to pay the piper.” Cummins giggled. “And we’re the piper,” he said. “Are you going to have a problem with that?”

“No, I ain’t goin’ to have no problem with that,” Crack said. “I was just commentin’, that’s all.”

“If I want any comments, I’ll ask for them. What about the rest of you? Any of you have any trouble with this?”

None of the deputies responded.

“Boys, when you think about it, we’ve got us a real sweet deal here,” Cummins said. He laughed out loud. “You might say that what we have is a license to steal. Ever since the city council voted to put in the law tax, all we have to do is just control a few drunks, make sure nobody gets beat up, and arrest anyone who spits on the sidewalk. Now, what do you say you get to work?”

At the very moment Cummins was charging his deputies with the task of spreading out to collect the “law tax,” a secret meeting was being held in the back room of the Bank of Purgatory.

Joel Montgomery, the president of the bank, was conducting the meeting, and he poured himself a drink before calling the meeting to order. “Goodman?” he called. “Are you keeping a lookout?”

“Yes,” Goodman said. “There’s nobody out on the street.”

“Well, there will be soon. This is the day they spread out to collect their tax. So if you see anyone coming this way, let me know.”

“I will,” Goodman promised.

“Men,” Montgomery said. “There’s a bottle here. If any of you want a drink before we get started, get it now. Because once we get started, we’ve got some serious business to discuss.”

“It ain’t goin’ to work,” one of the men said. He was short, with a reddish tint to his skin, and a large, blotchy nose.

“What isn’t going to work, Amon?”

Amon Goff owned the leather goods store.

“All of us gettin’ together and tellin’ Cummins we ain’t goin’ to pay his taxes no more,” Amon said. “It ain’t goin’ to work.”

“And why won’t it work?” Montgomery asked.

“Because the tax is a law that’s done been passed by the city council. If we don’t pay it, why, they’ve got the right to put us in jail. What we need to do is get the city council to pass a law changin’ that.”

“And how do you propose that we do that, Amon?” Josh Taylor asked. Taylor ran the feed store. “There’s only seven men on the city council, and four of ’em are Cummins’ deputies.”

“I don’t know how we’re goin’ to get it done,” Amon said. “I just know that if one of us refuse to pay the taxes, we’re goin’ to wind up one of two ways. Either dead, or in jail.”

“Yeah,” a man named Bascomb said. Drew Bascomb owned the freight line. “Even if we fight back, we could wind up getting hung. You seen what happened to that stranger that rode in here today. Gillis tried to collect the five-dollar visitors tax and the stranger shot him. Now, I say, good for the stranger, ’ceptin’ he’s on the way to Yuma to get hung.”

“I heard about that,” Montgomery said. “Did any of you see it? I mean, how is it that it just happened today, and already the stranger has been tried and convicted? The judge isn’t even in town.”

“Cummins held the trial himself,” Goff said. “Within five minutes after it happened, Cummins had a jury picked and he held the trial right there in the Pair O Dice saloon.”

“That’s not legal, is it?” Bascomb asked. “I mean, can Cummins hold a trial without the judge?”

“You may remember that Cummins got himself appointed associate judge,” Montgomery reminded the others. “His authority might be questionable, but he probably was within his right to conduct the trial. Now, as to the trial itself, I’m sure there were all sorts of technical errors that would qualify for an appeal. For example, does anyone know if he had a lawyer?”

“Bob Dempster was his lawyer,” Goff said.

“Bob Dempster? Good Lord, was Dempster sober?”

“Ha!” Bascomb said. “When was the last time anyone saw Bob Dempster sober?”

“Damn, the stranger could appeal this case a dozen ways from Sunday,” Montgomery said.

“Maybe so,” Bascomb said. “But he just left on the train to Yuma. Chances are, he’ll be hung by this time tomorrow night.”

“Fellas, here comes Crack,” Goodman said from the window.

“Well, what are we going to do?” Goff asked. “Are we going to pay the taxes this week, or refuse?”

Montgomery ran his hand through his hair, then let out a long, frustrated sigh. “We’ll pay them,” he said. “Right now, we have no other choice. But I don’t intend to go on paying them. We’re going to put a stop to this. There is no way I’m going to let this go on forever.”

“How are we going to stop them?” Bascomb asked.

Montgomery shook his head. “I don’t know yet,” he answered. “That’s what we are going to figure out, as soon as we get organized.”

At the same time Joel Montgomery and a few other citizens of the town were holding their meeting, Robert Dempster was sitting in a darkened room in the back of his office. A half-full whiskey bottle was on his desk in front of him, and he reached for it—drew his hand back, reached for it again, and again drew his hand back.

His head hurt, his tongue was thick, his body ached in every joint, and he had the shakes.

He reached for the bottle again, picked it up, and filled his glass, though he was shaking so badly that he got nearly as much whiskey on the desk as he did in the glass. Putting the bottle down, he picked up the glass and tried to take a drink, but the shaking continued, and he couldn’t get it to his mouth. He put the glass down, leaned over it, took it in his lips, then tried to lift the glass that way, but it fell from his mouth and all the whiskey spilled out.

In a fit of anger, Dempster grabbed the bottle and threw it. The bottle was smashed against the wall and the room was instantly perfumed with the aroma of alcohol.

“No!” he shouted in anger and regret.

He leaned his head back, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

Robert Dempster had not always been an alcoholic. In fact, he had once been a productive member of society, a husband, father, and vestryman in his church. As he sat in the dark room, his body rebelling against the denial of alcohol, he began to remember, though they were not memories he wanted to revisit. In fact, he drank precisely so he wouldn’t have to remember, but despite his best efforts, those memories, unbidden though they might be, came back to fill his brain with pain—a pain that was even worse than the pain of alcoholism.

“No,” he said aloud, pressing his hands against his temples, trying to force out the memories. “No! Go away!”

Benton, Missouri, five years earlier

Judge Dempster was studying the transcripts of the third day of a trial that, on the next day, would hear the summations before being remanded to the jury. The sound of a slamming door in a distant part of the Scott County Courthouse echoed loudly through the wide, high-ceilinged halls like the boom of a drum. Dempster paid no attention to it as it was a familiar sound. He should have paid attention to it, because while it was a familiar sound during the day, it was not a normal sound for ten o’clock at night.

“Hello, Judge,” someone said, interrupting Dempster’s reading.

Looking up, Dempster saw three men. All three had been regulars in the courtroom during the trial, but he only knew the name of the one who spoke. That man’s name was Carl Mason, and he was the brother of Jed Mason, the defendant in the trial. Jed Mason was being tried for murder in the first degree.

“Mason,” Dempster said.

Mason didn’t wear a beard, but neither was he clean-shaven. He had yellow, broken teeth and an unruly mop of brown hair.

“Nobody is supposed to be in here at this hour. How did you get in?” Dempster asked.

“You need to have the lock fixed on the front door,” Mason replied with a chuckle. “It didn’t cause us any trouble at all.”

“You have no business here.”

“Well now, Judge, that ain’t the way I see it,” Mason said. “The way I see it, my brother is goin’ to get hisself hung if this here trial don’t come out like it’s supposed to. So I figure I got the right of a lovin’ brother to be here.”

“You are welcome in court tomorrow for closing arguments,” Dempster said. “I think we will also have a verdict tomorrow.”

“What will that verdict be?” Mason asked.

“Well, Mr. Mason, I have no way of knowing what the verdict will be.”

“Sure you do. You’re the judge, ain’t you?”

“Yes, of course, I’m the judge.”

“Then see to it that my brother gets off.”

“Mr. Mason, I don’t think you understand. I am bound by the decision of the jury. If they find your brother guilty of murder, I will have no choice but to pronounce sentence on him.”

“Yeah? And what would that sentence be?” Mason asked.

“That he be hanged by the neck until dead,” Dempster said.

“That ain’t goin’ to happen,” Mason insisted.

“It very well may,” Dempster replied. “As I told you, it is up to the jury.”

Mason shook his head. “You better find some way to make it be up to you. If you don’t…” Ominously, Mason stopped in mid-sentence.

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Mason?”

“You?” Mason said. He shook his head. “No, Judge, you ain’t the one I’m threatening. I’m threatening them.”

“Them?”

Reaching into his pocket, Mason pulled out something gold and shiny, then lay it on the desk in front of Dempster.

“You recognize this, Judge?” he asked.

“It’s Tammy’s locket,” Dempster said with a gasp. He had given his twelve-year-old daughter the locket last Christmas, and she was never without it.

“And this,” he said, putting a wide gold wedding band down. Inside the wedding band were the names “Bob & Lil.”

“Lil’s wedding band,” Dempster said with a sinking feeling. “What have you done with my family?”

“You make the right decision tomorrow, and your wife and daughter will be fine,” Mason said.

“Please, don’t hurt them.”

Mason chuckled. “Like I said, Judge, that’s all up to you.”

Dempster went home to find his wife and daughter missing. There was a note on the receiving table in the foyer.

IF YOU WANT TO SEE YOU WIFE AND KID ALIVE AGAIN CUT MY BROTHER FREE

Dempster did not sleep a wink that night, and when he showed up in court the next day, he was exhausted from lack of sleep and sick with worry. As the courtroom filled, he looked out over the gallery and saw Mason and the two men who had come to visit him on the previous night. Mason held up a ribbon that Dempster recognized as having come from his wife’s hair, then smiled at Dempster, a sick, evil smile.

Dempster fought back the bile of fear and anger, then cleared his throat and addressed the court.

“Last night, while going over the transcripts, I found clear and compelling evidence of prosecutorial misconduct,” he said.

The prosecutor had been examining his notes prior to his summation, but at Dempster’s words he looked up in surprise.

“What?” the prosecutor said. “Your Honor, what did you say?”

“Therefore, I am dismissing all charges against the defendant. Mr. Mason, you are free to go.”

“What?” the prosecutor said again, shouting the word this time at the top of his lungs. “Prosecutorial misconduct? Judge, have you lost your mind? What are you talking about?”

“Are you crazy, Judge?” someone shouted from the gallery, and several others also shouted in anger and surprise.

“This court is adjourned!” Dempster said, banging his gavel on the bench. Getting up, he left the courtroom amid continued shouts of anger.

“Judge, what happened?” his clerk asked when he returned to his chambers.

“I have to go home,” Dempster said.

“Is something wrong?”

“My wife and child,” Dempster said without being specific. “I must go home.”

Dempster’s house was four blocks from the courthouse, and he half-ran, half-walked, calling out as he hurried up the steps to the front porch.

“Lil! Tammy!”

Pushing the door open, Dempster stopped and gasped, grabbing at the pain in his heart when he saw them. His wife and daughter were on the floor of the parlor, lying in a pool of dark, red blood. They were both dead.

“No!” he cried aloud. “No!”

The Missouri Supreme Court offered condolences to Dempster for the loss of his wife and daughter, even as they removed him from the bench and disbarred him. After that, Dempster had no choice but to leave town. He took a train to St. Louis and there boarded a train heading west. He had no particular destination in mind, settling in Purgatory because he felt that the name of the town brought a sense of poetic justice to his own situation. As he explained in a letter he wrote to his brother; “If I could have found a town named Hell, I would have settled there.”

Dempster forced the memories away, returning to the present—a run-down office in a flyblown town. He looked at the broken bottle and the whiskey stain—which had become symbolic of his life. In the beginning the drinking seemed to help ease the pain, but as time went by the whiskey, which had once helped him by temporarily blotting out the memory, took over his soul. The man who had once been the odds-on favorite for appointment to the Supreme Court of Missouri was no more. That man would never be back.

Dempster put his head down on his desk and sobbed until his throat was raw and his tears were gone.

“Dear God,” he said. “I cannot get any lower than this. I want to die, but I don’t have the courage to kill myself. Take me, now. Please, dear God, help me beat this or take me now.”

Incredibly, Dempster’s “prayer of relinquishment” had an almost immediate effect. A sense of calm came over him, a peace that passed all understanding, and he knew what his first step had to be on the long road to recovery.

Getting paper and pen from his desk, Dempster wrote a letter.

To the Honorable John C. Frémont,

Governor of Arizona Territory

Dear Governor Frémont:

My name is Robert Dempster. I am an attorney at law, practicing in Purgatory. I feel it incumbent upon me to call to your attention the condition of affairs here in Purgatory. We are a town that is literally without law, except for the law as administered by Andrew Cummins, who is acting as both marshal and associate judge.

I could list a catalogue of offences he has perpetrated and is perpetrating against the citizens of our town, such as draconian taxes and heavy-handed application of the laws he chooses to enforce. To help him, he has a force of no fewer than eight deputies, all this for a town of less than three hundred people.

However, it is not to seek relief for our own condition that I write this letter. Rather, it is to point out a specific incident that is so glaring that I believe intervention is in order, either from your own resources or the resources of the federal government. I am talking about the trial, conviction, and sentencing of a man, all within one hour of the alleged violation.

The man in question, Matt Jensen, rode into town innocently enough, and was accosted by Moe Gillis, one of Marshal Cummins’s deputies. Gillis ordered Jensen to pay a five-dollar visitors tax, but Jensen refused, saying he would ride on out of town. In the resultant disagreement, Gillis was killed. Jensen was arrested and brought to trial within minutes of the incident, and I was appointed to defend him.

I must in all candidness report to you that I am an alcoholic, and was debilitated by an excessive use of alcohol. Despite the fact that I was in no condition to mount an adequate defense, I was appointed by Marshal Cummins, who, for purposes of the trial, abandoned his roll of marshal and assumed the mantle of associate judge.

During the course of the trial, Jensen claimed that Gillis drew first, and my personal knowledge of Moe Gillis is such that I do not find that claim unrealistic. I was given only fifteen minutes to prepare for this case, which did not allow me to look for eyewitnesses. Later, an eyewitness came forth to testify that he had seen the incident, and the eyewitness’s story confirmed Jensen’s claim, thus making the killing an act of self-defense. When I took the report to Marshal Cummins, he dismissed it out of hand, and in front of me, ordered one of his deputies to perjure himself by signing a statement that he had also been a witness.

I call upon you, Governor, to please intervene in this case to stay the man’s execution (he is to be taken to Yuma), and if that is not possible, to please appoint someone to look into the conditions in this town.

This town has some decent people, Governor, and could be a vibrant and productive community, if only the tyranny of an evil marshal and his minions could be removed.

Sincerely

Robert Dempster

Chapter Seven

The metal bit jangled against the horse’s teeth. The horse’s hooves clattered on the hard rock and the leather saddle creaked beneath the weight of its rider. The rider was a big man, with brindled gray-black hair, a square chin, and steel gray eyes that could stare through a man.

United States Marshal Ben Kyle’s boots were dusty and well worn; the metal of his spurs had become dull with time. He wore a Colt .44 at his hip, and carried a Winchester .44-40 in his saddle sheath

He dismounted, unhooked his canteen, and took a swallow, then poured some water into his hat and put it back on his head, enjoying the brief cooling effect. He was running low on water, but figured to reach the monastery before nightfall, and he knew there would be water there.

There were no natural sources for water at the monastery, but its water was carried in by barrel from a small, not always dependable, river twelve miles to the east.

Kyle was after Emil Taylor and Bart Simmons. Three days ago, the two men had held up a stage, and because the stage was carrying United States mail, Kyle, as a U.S. marshal, had jurisdiction. The trail had led Kyle here, and he was now convinced that the two were headed for the monastery. That wasn’t a hard conclusion to make because anyone coming this way would have to stop at the monastery since there was no other source of food or water within several miles in any direction.

Stagecoach robbery was not the only crime for which the two men were wanted. Kyle believed they were also involved, along with Cletus Odom, in the attempted robbery of the Bank of Wickenburg a few weeks earlier. No money was taken because of the actions of the bank teller, but those same actions also enraged the robbers so that the teller was killed. Kyle was after Taylor and Simmons, but the one he really wanted was Cletus Odom, the outlaw who had planned and led the robbery attempt. The murder in Wickenburg was not the only thing Odom was wanted for. He was a desperate fugitive whose face was plastered on reward dodgers all across the Southwest.

Kyle reached the monastery just before dark. The abbey was surrounded by high stone walls and secured by a heavy oak gate. Kyle pulled on a rope that was attached to a short section of log. The makeshift knocker banged against the large, heavy gates with a booming thunder that resonated through the entire monastery. A moment later, a small window slid open and a brown-hooded face appeared in the opening.

“Who are you?” the face asked.

Kyle was a little surprised by the question. The monk on the other side of the gate was Brother James, and because Kyle had been here many times before, he was absolutely certain that James knew who he was. Why was he pretending that he did not know?

“My name is Ben Kyle. I’m a United States marshal.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m looking for a couple of men—outlaws—who might have come this way,” Kyle said.

Pointedly, the monk cut his eyes to his left. He did that twice. “I’m sorry. This is a holy place. I can’t let you in,” he said. He cut his eyes to the left again.

Kyle nodded once, to let the monk know that he understood.

“But, Brother, I am out of water. You cannot turn me away,” Kyle said, continuing the charade.

“I am truly sorry,” the monk said. “God go with you.” The little window slammed shut.

Kyle remounted, and rode away from the gate.

Taylor and Simmons were standing just inside the gate.

“What’s he doin’ now?” Taylor asked.

“He’s ridin’ off,” the monk answered.

Taylor chuckled, then put his pistol away. He looked at the short, overweight monk. “You done that real good, Padre,” he said. “I don’t think he suspects a thing.”

“I am not a priest,” the monk said. “Therefore I am not addressed as Father.”

“Really? Well, hell, it don’t matter none to me what you’re called,” Taylor said. “I don’t care what I’m called either, as long as I’m called in time for supper.” Taylor laughed at his own joke. “You get it? As long as I’m called in time for supper,” he repeated, and he laughed again.

“Yes, that’s quite amusing,” Brother James said without laughing.

“Yeah, well, speakin’ of supper, what do you say we go see if the cook has our supper finished? I’m starvin’.”

The three men walked back across the little courtyard, which, because of the irrigation system and the loving care bestowed upon it by the brothers of the order, was lush with flowers, fruit trees, and a vegetable garden. There were a dozen or more monks in the yard, each one occupied in some specific task.

The building the three men entered was surprisingly cool, kept that way by the hanging gourds of water called “ollas,” which, while sacrificing some of the precious water by evaporation, paid off the investment by lowering the temperature by several degrees.

“Brother James, who was at the gate?” Father Gaston asked.

“A stranger, Father. I do not know who he was,” Brother James replied.

“And you denied him sanctuary?”

“I had no choice, Father,” Brother James said, rolling his eyes toward Taylor and Simmons.

“You sent him away?” Father Gaston asked Taylor.

Taylor was a small man, with a ferretlike face and skin that was heavily pocked from the scars of some childhood disease.

“He was a United States marshal,” Taylor replied. “A United States marshal ain’t exactly someone we want around right now.”

“I see,” Father Gaston said. “Still, to turn someone away is unthinkable. It is a show of Christian kindness to offer water, food, and shelter to those who ask it of us.”

“Yeah, well, there’s enough of that Christian kindness goin’ on now, what with you takin’ care of us ’n’ all,” Taylor said. “Now, what about that food? How long does it take your cook to fix a little supper?”

“Forgive me for not mentioning it the moment you came in,” Father Gaston said. “The cook has informed me that your supper is ready.”

“Well, now, that’s more like it! Why didn’t you say somethin’?” Taylor said. “Come on, Simmons, let’s me ’n’ you get somethin’ to eat.”

Brother James led the two outlaws into the dining room. The room was bare, except for one long wooden table, flanked on either side by an attached wooden bench. On the mud-plaster-covered wall, there hung a large crucifix with the body of Jesus, clearly depicting the agony of the passion. Simmons stood there looking at it for a moment.

“I tell you the truth, that would be one hell of a way to die,” Simmons said.

“What would be?” Taylor asked. Unlike Simmons, Taylor had not noticed the cross.

“That,” Simmons said, nodding toward the crucifix.

Taylor looked around, then shrugged. “Yeah? Well, I doubt that hangin’ is any better, and more than likely me ’n’ you both are goin’ to wind up gettin’ ourselves hung.”

Almost unconsciously, Simmons put his hand to his throat, then shuddered. “Don’t talk like that,” he said.

Taylor laughed. “I’m just tellin’ you the facts of life is all,” he said. He looked at Brother James. “What about that supper that’s supposed to be ready?” he asked.

“Here it comes now,” Brother James said.

Another monk, who, like Brother James, was wearing a simple, brown, homespun cassock held together with a rope around his waist, came into the dining room then, carrying a tray. Their dinner consisted of a bowl of beans and a crust of bread.

“What the hell is this?” Taylor asked.

“This is your supper,” Brother James said.

“Is this it? What about that Christian kindness you were talkin’ about? You didn’t offer us no meat,” Taylor said with a disapproving growl.

Brother James shook his head. “I’m sorry, in this order we do not eat meat. We cannot offer you what we do not have.”

“Yeah? Are you telling me this is what you people eat?”

“Only one day in three do we get beans,” Brother James said. “The other two days we get bread only.”

“Hell, it ain’t that bad, Taylor,” Simmons said, shoveling a spoonful of beans into his mouth. “It ain’t bad at all. In fact, it’s kind of tasty, and it sure as hell beats jerky.”

Kyle waited until after dark before he returned to the monastery. Leaving his horse hobbled, he slipped up to one of the side walls. Then, using chinks and holes in the stone facade to provide footholds and handholds, he climbed up, slipped over the top, and dropped to the ground inside the abbey walls.

Most of the buildings inside the monastery grounds were dark, for candles and oil for lamps were precious commodities to be used sparingly. Here and there, Kyle saw that some light did manage to escape through the windows of those buildings where there was light.

The grounds themselves were not totally dark, though, because the moon was full and bright, and the chapel, dormitory, stable, and grain storage buildings all gleamed in a soft, silver light like white blooms sprouting from desert cactus.

The night was alive with the long, high-pitched trills and low violalike thrums of the frogs. For counterpoint there were crickets, the long, mournful howl of coyotes, and from the stable, a mule braying and a horse whickering.

With his gun in hand, and staying in the shadows alongside the wall, Kyle moved toward the building that he knew to be the dining hall. He was sure they would be inside there, because it was one of the few buildings that had a light. Finding a window, he looked inside. There, he saw Taylor, Simmons, and Brother James. Though he had been certain that Taylor and Simmons were here, this was his first, actual confirmation of the fact.

Taylor and Simmons were eating, and Kyle thought that might give him the opportunity he needed to sneak up on them. Moving toward the front door, he opened it quietly.

Except for a single candle on the table, the room was dark, and that enabled Kyle to step inside, then slip quickly into the shadows.

“Bring me some more beans and bread,” Taylor said.

“Yeah, and some bacon,” Simmons added.

“I told you, we do not eat meat in this order.”

“Yeah, I know what you told us, but I think you’re shittin’ us,” Simmons said.

“Seeing as you are nothing but a turd anyway, how would you know whether he’s shitting you or not?” Kyle asked.

“What the hell?” Taylor shouted, standing up and spinning around toward Kyle.

“Hold it right there!” Kyle shouted menacingly. He cocked his pistol and the sound it made was loud and deadly. “Drop your gun belts.”

Glaring at him, their features contorted by the candlelight, the two outlaws unbuckled their gun belts and dropped them.

“What are you plannin’ on doin’ with us?” Taylor asked.

“I’m taking you back to jail,” Kyle said.

“There’s two of us and only one of you. Plus, it’s a long way back. How do you plan to do that?”

“That’s not your problem,” Kyle replied.

“You’ll never get us back.”

“Oh, I’ll get you back, all right,” Kyle said. “Either sitting in your saddle, or draped over it.”

When Kyle and his two prisoners rode into Sentinel two days later, the two riders were handcuffed and connected to each other by a rope. They stopped in front of the marshal’s office.

“Get down,” he said.

“It ain’t goin’ to be all that easy, what with us bein’ handcuffed and tied together with a rope,” Simmons said.

“I’ll help,” Kyle said, giving Simmons a shove. The outlaw fell from his saddle and rolled on the ground.

“You need help, too?” Kyle asked the other prisoner.

“No, I can get down on my own,” Taylor said, dismounting quickly.

Kyle herded them into the office. “Back there,” he said, pointing toward the cells at the back of the building.

“Say, Marshal, I’m gettin’ a little hungry here,” Taylor said. “What time do you serve supper?”

“I’ll bring you a biscuit and bacon,” Kyle said as put them into the cell, then closed the door and locked it. “Stick your hands through the bars.”

“Can’t get through, what with these handcuffs.”

“Hold one hand on top of the other, you can do it.”

The prisoners complied and Kyle removed their handcuffs, then hung them on a hook.

“You boys behave yourselves,” he said. “I’m going to get a beer.”

“Hey, Marshal, when you bring back them biscuits, you reckon you could bring us a beer?” Simmons asked. He laughed out loud.

“That’s real funny, Simmons,” Kyle said as he left.

When Kyle opened the door to the Ox Bow Saloon a couple of minutes later, he saw his deputy, Boomer Foley, sitting at a table with Sally Fontaine, the saloon owner. Boomer was a slender man, almost skinny, but appearances were deceiving. Kyle had seen Boomer in action, and he was more than able to handle himself.

Sally was a very attractive auburn-haired woman in her late thirties. She was a widow who had inherited the saloon when her husband was shot and killed by a drunken patron. Most expected Sally to sell the saloon and go back to Virginia where her father had once been a United States Congressman. They were surprised when she announced her intention of remaining in Sentinel to run the Ox Bow. Few thought she would succeed, but it was now three years since Marty Fontaine was killed, and the Ox Bow had not only survived, it did a thriving business.

“Marshal, welcome back,” Boomer said, smiling broadly. “Come over here and join us. We was just talkin’ about Doc Presnell, wonderin’ what kind of a trip he had.”

“Is Doc back?” Kyle asked.

“Not yet. He’s coming in on the seven-thirty train tonight,” Sally said.

“Where did he go again?” Kyle asked.

“Don’t you remember? He was in St. Louis attending some medical conference,” Sally said.

“Doc’s not the only one on the train tonight,” Boomer said.

“What do you mean?”

Boomer pulled a telegram from his pocket. “We got this from the marshal back in Purgatory. I reckon he sent it to every lawman between Purgatory and Yuma.” He handed the page to Kyle.

ATTENTION ALL LAW OFFICERS STOP PLEASE BE ADVISED THAT PRISONER MATT JENSEN WILL BE IN CUSTODY ON TONIGHT’S TRAIN TO YUMA STOP JENSEN HAS BEEN TRIED FOR MURDER CONVICTED AND SENTENCED TO BE HANGED STOP MARSHAL ANDREW CUMMINS

“You sure that’s tonight’s train?” Kyle asked after he read the telegram.

“Yes, sir, I’m sure. We got the telegram this afternoon.”

“That’s funny,” Kyle said. “I haven’t heard of any murder trial being conducted back in Purgatory.”

“Could be that it happened while you was gone,” Boomer said. “Don’t forget, you been gone for a few days now.”

“Still, that seems awfully fast to have a murder, hold a trial, then sentence a man,” Kyle said.

“Do you know this here Marshal Cummins?”

“Only by reputation,” Kyle replied. “I’ve heard that he is a pretty domineering sort.” Kyle sighed. “But, if he is the man the people of Purgatory want, who am I to question them?” Kyle turned to Sally and smiled. “I heard a rumor that a man could get a beer in this place if he knew the right people.”

Sally laughed out loud. “Fred?” she called over to the bartender. “Bring Marshal Kyle a beer.”

“Yes, ma’am, Miss Sally,” Fred answered.

“I take it that was Taylor and Simmons I seen you ridin’ in with a few minutes ago,” Boomer said

“Yes,” Kyle answered.

“Did you have a hard time trackin’ ’em?”

“Wasn’t hard at all,” he said. “Once I saw that they were going southwest from Sentinel, I knew there was only one place they could go.”

“The monastery?” Boomer asked.

Kyle nodded. “The monastery.”

Boomer chuckled. “If any of them outlaws ever get a lick of sense about ’em, this law business would be a lot harder,” he said. “You think they didn’t have any idea you’d know exactly where they would be—where they would have to be?”

“I’m not sure they even thought about it.”

“You’ll be chargin’ ’em with robbin’ that stagecoach, right?”

“Yes. But I’m also sure they took part in that bank robbery up in Wickenburg,” Kyle said. “So I’m hoping they’ll shed some light on where to find Cletus Odom.”

“Ben, do you actually think these two men will tell you anything about Odom?” Sally asked.

“I think so,” Kyle said. “As far as I know, neither Taylor nor Simmons have ever done murder. That is, until the attempted bank robbery in Wickenburg.”

“I thought all the witnesses said it was Odom who shot him,” Boomer said.

“That’s right,” Kyle agreed. “But just by being there, that makes Taylor and Simmons every bit as guilty as Odom. I want them to know that, because then I’ll offer them a deal. It could be that if they think they are facing a hanging, they may turn on Odom to save their hides.”

“I’d sure love to get Odom,” Boomer said. “He’s one evil son of a bitch. Oh, beg pardon, Miss Sally, I’m sorry ’bout that.”

Sally laughed. “No need to apologize for telling the truth.”

“Yes, ma’am, but I hadn’t ought to have used language like that in front of a lady.”

“Boomer, I run a saloon,” Sally said. “Believe me, there’s very little I haven’t heard.” She turned to Marshal Kyle. “Have you had your supper, Ben?” She asked.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Would you like to join me for supper down at Del Monte’s? My treat.”

“Well, now, how could I pass up an offer like that?” Kyle replied. “Boomer, how about getting a couple of biscuit-and-bacon sandwiches to take to our prisoners?”

“All right,” Boomer said. “Then I’ll make the rounds, but I plan to be down to the depot to meet the train when it gets in. Are you two goin’ to be there?”

Sally and Kyle exchanged a smiling glance.

“We may, and we may not,” Kyle said.

“Well, you’ll want to greet Doc, won’t you? I mean, he’s been gone for the better part of a month,” Boomer said. Then, seeing the way the two were looking at each other, he stopped in mid-sentence. “Uh—’course if you’re not there to meet him, it won’t really matter none. I’ll bring Doc down for a drink if he wants one.”

“You do that, Boomer,” Sally said. “And tell Fred that anything you and Doc drink tonight will be on me.”

“Well, Miss Sally, that’s just real nice of you now,” Boomer said, beaming at the offer.

As the train to Yuma hurtled across the desert, Deputy Hayes walked over to the door of the express car and slid it open. When he did so, the wind caused several papers to fly around inside the car.

“Here!” Kingsley shouted angrily as he made a grab for the papers and envelopes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m takin’ a piss out the door,” Hayes answered, laughing.

“I have to have this mail sorted by the time we reach Sentinel,” Kingsley said. “I can’t do it with all the wind coming through. Close the door.”

“All right, all right, hold your horses,” Hayes said. “Soon as I shake the lily a bit, I’ll close the door.”

Matt watched and listened to the exchange between the two men. Matt could smell the smoke that drifted in from the engine, and one gleaming ember even landed on the table of the mail cabinet that was in front of Kingsley.

Agitatedly, Kingsley stamped out the glowing ember. “You’re going to set us on fire,” he complained.

Hayes slid the door shut. “Damn, Kingsley, if you ain’t like some old woman,” he said. “You ain’t done nothin’ but bitch since we left Purgatory.”

“I’m not just a passenger on the train, you know. I have work to do,” Kingsley said.

“Well, go on, I ain’t stoppin’ you,” Hayes said.

Hayes moved back up to the front of the car, where Matt was sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall.

“Hey, Jensen,” Hayes said. “You ever seen a man get hung?”

“Yes,” Matt said.

“Yeah, I have, too,” Hayes said. “It sure is fun to watch. It ain’t pretty, what with the man getting’ hisself hung havin’ his face go all purple, and his eyes buggin’ out like they do.” Hayes laughed, then slapped himself on the knee. “No, sir, it ain’t pretty, but, damn, it’s fun to watch.”

“I don’t enjoy them as much as you do,” Matt said.

“Yeah, well, maybe you’ll enjoy this one more, seein’ as you’re goin’ to be the star,” Hayes said. “Just think, you’ll be standin’ up there on the gallows with ever’one lookin’ right at you while the hangman puts his noose around your neck.”

Hayes made a motion with his hand, as if putting on a noose.

“Then, next thing you know, why, they’ll open that trapdoor under you and you’ll fall through. Skkkkkttttt!” He made the sound with his throat, then he jerked his head to one side, opened his eyes wide, and stuck out his tongue, as if he had just been executed.

Hayes laughed out loud. “Hey, what do you think? Pretty good, wasn’t it?”

At that moment, the train wheels rolled over the junction of two tracks, and the clacking sound was much louder than normal.

“What was that?” Hayes asked, startled by the change in sound.

“It was nothing,” Kingsley said. “Haven’t you ever been on a train before?”

“Yeah, sure,” Hayes said. “But I don’t think I ever been on one as loud as this one.”

“It’s no louder than normal,” Kingsley said, not looking up from his task of sorting letters.

The sun was a bright red disc just resting on the western horizon. Bands of red and purple laced across the sky as Cletus Odom stood in the middle of the tracks, looking back toward the east. The twin ribbons of steel glinted in the setting sun…shining red until they disappeared into the gathering dusk to the east.

“See anything yet?” one of the men behind him called.

“Not yet.”

“Maybe we’ve already missed it.”

“We haven’t missed it,” Odom said. He turned back toward the three men who were bending over the tracks. “How’s it coming?” he asked.

“We’ve pulled out a couple of the spikes,” Bates replied. “But they’re damn hard to remove.”

“They’re supposed to be hard to get out. But all you have to do is pull enough of ’em to be able to push the rail out a few inches.”

“You sure that’ll stop the train?” Bates asked.

“You ever seen a train run on dirt?”

“No.”

“Well, if you push that rail out, the only place the train can go is dirt. Yeah, I’m sure this’ll stop it.”

“Señor, how much money is on the train?” Paco asked.

“How much you got now?” Odom replied.

“Maybe I have one dollar,” Paco answered.

“Then it doesn’t really matter how much money the train is carryin’, does it? Whatever it is, it’ll be more’n you got. Schuler?” Odom called.

“Yeah?” Schuler answered.

“If we have to blow the safe, are you going to be able to handle it? Or are you drunk?”

“I can do the job,” Schuler insisted.

“You damn well better be able to do the job.”

They heard a whistle in the distance.

“Hurry it up!” Odom said, and he came over to join them as, working quickly, they pulled up two more spikes.

“Bates, you’re the biggest one here,” Odom said. “Pick up the sledgehammer and hit the rail here a couple of times—just enough to push it out.”

Bates grabbed the hammer and hit it. The rail popped out. He was about to hit it a second time when Odom stopped him.

“That’s far enough,” he said. “Hurry, get the tools out of the way and get down out of sight.”

It was less than two minutes after the men put the tools away when they first saw the train. It was approaching at about twenty miles per hour, a respectable enough speed, though the vastness of the desert made it appear as if the train was going much slower. Against the great panorama of the desert the train seemed puny, and even the smoke that poured from its stack made but a tiny scar against the orange vault of the sky at sunset.

They could hear the train quite easily now, the sound of its puffing engine carrying to them across the wide, flat ground the way sound travels across water. As the engine approached, it gave some perspective as to how large the desert really was, for the train that had appeared so tiny before was now a behemoth, blocking out the sky.

“Get ready, boys,” Odom said. “It’s nearly here.”

“Say, how long before we reach the next town anyways?” Hayes asked. “What I need to do is, I need to get off this train and get me a beer. And maybe a bottle of whiskey, too.”

“No alcoholic spirits are allowed in the express car,” Kingsley said.

“Yeah? So what are you going to do about it? Go to the law? I’m the law!” Hayes said with a cackling laugh.

“No, I’m not going to the law. If you want to drink I can’t stop you,” Kingsley said. “But I can report you to the railroad.”

“Yeah? And what will the railroad do? Tell me I’m a bad boy?” Hayes laughed out loud.

“Well, for one thing, they will see to it that you can’t ride the train anymore.”

“And that’s supposed to mean something to me?” Hayes asked.

“It means that you’d better not consider going anywhere you can’t walk or ride a horse,” Kingsley said.

Matt laughed.

“What are you laughing at?” Hayes asked.

“Seems to me like Mr. Kingsley has the upper hand,” Matt said.

“Yeah?” Hayes replied. Stepping over to Matt, Hayes suddenly slapped Matt in the face. “There ain’t nothin’ you can do about that, seein’ as you’re all chained up like you are.” Hayes slapped Matt a second time. “Tell me, Mr. Killer, who has the upper hand now?” he asked, laughing.

Hayes was standing over Matt with his legs spread, looking down at Matt, who was still on the floor.

Matt smiled up at him.

“What are you smiling at, you son of a bitch?” Hayes asked.

“I’m about to show you who has the upper hand,” Matt said. He kicked upward, and the toe of his boot caught Hayes in his most sensitive area.

“Ooof,” Hayes said with an expulsion of breath and a gasp of surprise. He bent over double from the pain.

It was at that exact point in time that the engine ran across the place where the rail had been compromised. For a moment the train continued on, as if nothing had happened.

“What the hell?” Bates asked in confusion where the outlaws were hiding. “Nothin’ happened! The train didn’t stop!”

“Just wait,” Odom said.

Less than a second later, they saw the engine quiver, then drop down on one side. The engine continued forward, but now one side was producing thrust, while the other had lost its purchase. The driver wheels, in the dirt now, continued to churn full speed, and they began throwing up a huge rooster tail of sand. There was a loud, screeching sound, as first the engine, then the tender, then the express car tumbled over on their sides. The following cars were dragged along the track with a horrendous screech of metal and then the cacophony of breaking glass and collapsing wood as they began breaking apart and falling in upon themselves.

The boiler of the engine suddenly exploded with the roar of a hundred thunderclaps. Huge pieces of heavy metal, set into motion by the explosion, were hurled high into the sky, before tumbling back down to land several feet away, each falling piece of metal adding its own sound to the terrible noise of the wreck.

Finally, the screeching, grinding, banging, crashing sound stopped, to be replaced for a moment by total silence. But the silence was quickly filled with cries of pain, shouts of anguish, and calls for help.

The explosion of the boiler had sent hundreds of burning embers of coal from the engine’s firebox. Those coals had landed on the wooden passenger cars, most nearly reduced to kindling wood by the wreck, so that within seconds, the cars, many of which still had people trapped in the wreckage, caught on fire.

“Son of a bitch!” Schuler said. “That wasn’t supposed to happen! I thought all that would happen was that the train would stop. I didn’t know it was going to wreck.”

“Yeah, well, the train did stop, though, didn’t it?” Odom said. “Jesus, most of the passenger cars are on fire. Come on, let’s get in the express car, get the money, and get out before it catches fire, too.”

“This ain’t right,” Schuler said. “You never said anything about killing all these people. All you said you was goin’ to do was rob a train.”

“Yeah? Well, how the hell was I supposed to get it to stop? Stand in front of it and hold out my hand?”

When the train left the track, Matt felt the sudden drop of the left side of the car. He had no idea what caused it, but he knew at once that it was very bad, and he spun himself around to put his feet on the lower wall to brace himself.

The car rolled violently onto its side. It slid along the ground for several feet while, inside the car, fixtures broke loose and cargo began sliding around. The mail cabinet fell over on the express man, crushing him beneath its terrible weight. Hayes was slammed against the wall so hard that he was knocked out. Only Matt, of the three, escaped injury because he had managed to brace himself against the wall.

“Mr. Kingsley! Mr. Kingsley!” Matt called, but the express man didn’t answer.

“Hayes? Hayes, are you all right?”

Hayes groaned, showing that he was still alive, though, for now, Matt had no idea as to the seriousness of his condition.

From outside, Matt could hear the wails and cries of the injured, and he wondered what had happened and how bad the wreck was. He pulled himself through the strewn wreckage of the car until he reached Hayes.

“Hayes?” he said.

Hayes was out cold, but his steady breathing told Matt that he wasn’t dead.

Matt searched through Hayes’s pockets until he found the key to his shackles. He was just about to unlock them when he heard someone jerking open the door.

He wasn’t sure who was trying to get in to the car, but because he was in shackles, he thought it might not be a good idea to be seen. Holding on to the key, he moved away quickly, then hid behind an overturned cabinet.

He saw four men, with guns drawn, climb into the car. The fact that they were holding guns told him that they weren’t here as rescuers. A closer look at one of the men confirmed that, when he saw that it was the same man he had encountered in the alley back in Wickenburg. This was Cletus Odom.

Odom, this is the second time I’ve met you, and I haven’t liked you either time, Matt thought as he watched the men step inside the overturned car and look around.

“Señor, hemos hecho un desorden grande,” one of them said as he looked around the car.

“What’s that, Paco? I don’t speak Mex,” Odom replied.

“I said, we have made a big mess,” Paco repeated in English.

“What did you expect? When you wreck a train, you make a mess,” Odom replied. “Let’s find the safe. Schuler, get ready to blow it.”

“There are women and children on this train,” Schuler said. “You didn’t tell me that we might be killing women and children.” Schuler was slender, almost gaunt. “This ain’t right. I wouldn’t have come along if I’d known this was going to happen. We ought to do something to help these people.”

“Are you crazy? You want to get hung? That’s what’s going to happen if you start trying to help anyone now. All you got to do is blow the safe so we can get the money and get out of here.”

“Ain’t no need to blow the safe,” one of the others said. This man was the biggest of them all.

“Why not? What are you talkin’ about, Bates?” Odom asked.

“The money is all in a canvas pouch. I found it.” Bates said.

“Is the pouch locked?”

“Nope,” Bates replied. He stuck his hand down inside and pulled out a couple of bound stacks of currency notes. “It’s full of money.”

“Damn, I wonder how much.”

“Twenty thousand dollars,” Bates answered without hesitation.

“What? How do you know that?” Odom asked.

Bates pulled out a piece of paper, then smiled at the others. “’Cause it’s all been counted out for us,” he said.

“Twenty thousand dollars! Caramba, that is a lot of money, I think,” Paco said

“We’re rich, boys! We’re rich,” Bates said happily.

“This ain’t right,” Schuler said, shaking his head. “There ain’t none of this right!”

“Well, if you don’t like it, you don’t have to take your cut,” Odom said. “Come on, boys, let’s go.”

“What—what happened?” Hayes asked, groaning, and trying to sit up.

“Shit, he’s alive!” Bates said.

Drawing his gun, Odom aimed it at Hayes and fired. His bullet hit Hayes in the forehead and Hayes fell back.

“Not no more, he ain’t,” Odom said. “The dumb son of a bitch. All he had to do was be quiet for one more minute and he wouldn’t of got hisself kilt. Come on, let’s get out before somebody looks in here.”

Matt waited until all four men had left the car before he moved from his hiding place. Using the key he had taken from Hayes, he unlocked his shackles. After that, he strapped on Hayes’s pistol, then looked down at him.

“Like the fella said, Hayes. If you had been quiet for one more minute, you’d still be alive.”

Armed and free, Matt climbed out of the car.

Chapter Eight

When Matt jumped down from the express car, he was totally unprepared for the carnage he saw. The next car after the express car was the baggage car, and the passenger car following it was telescoped into it. The next three passenger cars, while not overturned, were jackknifed, piled up onto each other, and burning. Scattered luggage and clothing created a patchwork quilt of bright colors alongside the track.

Everyone who could do so had evacuated the train. Some, who were bleeding and badly injured, had collapsed near the track. Others, not as severely wounded, were wandering around in a state of shock, as if not sure what had happened to them. There were also several bodies lying on the ground around the train, some evidently thrown from the train, others who might have staggered this far before they died.

It was even worse inside the wrecked cars. Matt could hear the cries of pain and fear from those who were still trapped.

Outside, a few of the people had begun to function again, and they started back into the cars to pull out more of the injured.

“Get the ones out of the cars that are already burning first!” Matt yelled, taking charge only because no one else seemed to be doing so.

Leading by example, Matt moved up to the first car, which, because of its position, presented the windows at face level. Stepping up to the window and looking inside, Matt drew in a sharp breath of shock. Through the smoke that was coming out of the car, he could see seats that were wrenched from their mounts, and a floor that was running red with blood. There were bodies, and body parts, strewn about.

“Anyone here?” he called.

“Yes, I’m here,” a man’s voice answered.

Matt went into the car and and found a man lying on the floor, with his legs badly twisted.

“I can’t walk,” the man said. “Please, get me out of here.”

Turning, Matt saw that a couple others had come in with him.

“Hang on,” Matt said. “We’re going to get you out.”

He passed the passenger back to the one behind him and, making a chain of rescuers, they got the injured man safely off the train.

Leaving that car, Matt went to the next to continue the rescue operation. At the front of the car, he saw the woman and the little boy, Jerry, who had asked about his shackles. Jerry was unhurt and free to move around, but he was sitting on the floor by his mother. Matt saw, then, why Jerry hadn’t left the train. The boy’s mother was trapped under the seat.

Matt crawled in through the window, then worked his way through the smoke and bloody carnage until he reached the front of the car.

“Hello, Jerry,” Matt said, remembering the boy’s name. “How are you?”

“I’m all right, but Mama can’t get up,” Jerry answered.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” Matt asked.

“Yes, I can hear you,” she answered in a weak voice.

“Are you hurt?”

“I think I may have broken my arm,” she replied.

“What about Suzie?”

“She’s here with me,” the woman answered. “We’re both jammed in here and can’t move. I’m worried about Suzie. She hasn’t made a sound.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

The woman and her young daughter were wedged in between the front seat and the collapsed front wall of the car. In addition, the side wall was crushed in as well and pressing down on the seat.

Matt tried to pull the seat out, but he couldn’t make it budge. Then he tried to lift the seat up, and couldn’t do that either. He was not going to be able to move the seat without help, or at least without tools.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

“No, please, don’t leave us,” the woman pleaded. “The car is on fire, I don’t want to burn up.”

Matt squatted down, then put his hand gently, reassuringly, on her shoulder. “I have to get something that will allow me to move this seat,” he said. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

“All right,” the woman agreed reluctantly.

“I’ll stay with you, Mama,” Jerry said.

“No, Jerry, you get out while you can.”

“I’m going to stay here until he comes back,” Jerry said resolutely.

“You’re a good boy, Jerry,” Matt said, running his hand through the boy’s hair. “I promise, I’ll be back.”

Leaving them, Matt crawled back out through the window, then started walking quickly alongside the wrecked train, looking for something he could use to pry up the seat. He was hoping for a piece of metal small enough for him to handle, but strong enough to do the trick, and he picked up several pieces of wreckage, discarding each one as unusable. Then he saw, lying at the bottom of the track berm, a pickax.

For a moment, he wondered how a pickax happened to be here. Then he realized, with a start, that the train robbers must’ve used the pickax in order to pull the spikes and spread the track, which resulted in wrecking the train. Grabbing the pickax, he retraced his path along the length of the burning train, then climbed back into the car.

“Hello?” he called.

“Thank God you’re back,” the woman said.

“Yes, ma’am, I told you I would come back for you,” Matt replied. Once more, he moved to the front of the car until he reached the mangled seat. Putting the head of the pickax under the edge of the seat, he began working on it, putting all his strength into it. He heard metal screeching, then felt the seat beginning to give way.

“It’s moving!” he said. “Hold on!”

Then, with a loud pop, the seat broke loose from its mount and, dropping the pickax, Matt grabbed the seat and pulled it completely free. He tossed the seat aside, then reached down for the woman.

“Can you walk?” he asked as he helped her up.

“Yes,” she said. She stood there with her arm held against her stomach. “There is nothing wrong with my legs, I can walk. Please, get Suzie.”

Matt got down on his hands and knees and looked up under the collapsed wall. Suzie was dead, impaled by a piece of wood that had torn from the side of the car. He looked away quickly and, seeing his reaction, the woman cried out.

“No!” she said. “Oh, God, no! Is she—is she dead?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, ma’am,” Matt said.

“Please, get her out for me,” the woman said.

“I should get you and Jerry off the train first and see if there is someone who can take care of your arm.”

“No!” the woman said. “Please!” she begged. “Get my baby for me! Get her out of there!”

Matt nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll get her for you.”

Reaching back under the collapsed wall, Matt pulled out the piece of wood that had speared through her little body. Then, gently, he pulled her out.

“My baby!” the woman cried, reaching for the little girl with her good arm. Matt handed the child to her mother, then led the mother and Jerry out of the car.

One of the passengers was a doctor, and though he was bloodied and bruised, he was not seriously injured. Putting aside his own injuries, he had the impromptu rescuers bring all those who were hurt to one place so he could look after them as best he could under the circumstances.

Matt took the woman to him.

“Mrs. Dobbs,” the doctor said. “I didn’t know you were on the train.”

“Doctor, it’s Suzie,” Mrs. Dobbs said.

“Let me look at her,” Dr. Presnell said, reaching out to take the child from Mrs. Dobbs’s arms.

“No!” Mrs. Dobbs said, twisting away from the doctor’s reach. As she did, the pain in her arm caused her to wince.

“Suzie?” Dr. Presnell said. He looked at Matt, and Matt shook his head sadly.

“All right, Louise, you can hold on to your little girl,” Dr. Presnell said. “But let me look at your arm.”

“Mrs. Dobbs, won’t you let me hold Suzie for you until Dr. Presnell has examined your arm?” Matt offered.

Mrs. Dobbs hesitated for a moment, then nodded, and gave the little girl to him.

Dr. Presnell looked at her arm, then moved it, and she cried out in pain.

“Jerry,” Dr. Presnell said. “I want you to look around and find me two pieces of wood about this long,” he said, indicating the length with his hands.

“All right.”

“I’m going to make a splint,” Dr. Presnell said. “If I can find some way to hold it in place.”

“There are some items of clothing strewn about,” Matt suggested. “I’ll collect some of it. Maybe we can tear some of that into strips.”

“Good idea,” Dr. Presnell replied.

Matt started to walk away, still carrying the dead baby.

“No!” Mrs. Dobbs called. “Don’t take her away from me!”

“I’ll bring her right back, Mrs. Dobbs, I promise,” Matt said.

“Louise, I need his help if I’m going to fix your arm,” Dr. Presnell said.

Mrs. Dobbs nodded. “All right,” she said.

Mrs. Dobbs did not take her eyes off Matt as he wandered around through the strewn items of clothing, all the while carrying the dead child. Finally, he found a shirt, which he ripped into strips. Then he took the strips of cloth back to the doctor. By now, Jerry had returned with several pieces of wood, gathered from the wreckage of the train.

“Good work, Jerry,” Dr. Presnell said. Selecting two pieces that most suited his purpose, and using the strips of cloth Matt gave him, he made a splint. As soon as he was finished, Mrs. Dobbs reached for Suzie and, gently, Matt returned the child to her.

“People, listen to me!” Dr. Presnell shouted. “I’m a doctor! If any of you are injured, let me know! I’ll do the best I can for you.”

“Doc, somethin’s wrong with my wife,” someone said and, almost immediately on top of his comment, several others began calling out as well.

“Would you help me, young man?” Dr. Presnell asked Matt.

Matt shook his head. “I’m not a doctor.”

“Maybe not,” Dr. Presnell replied. “But you do have common sense, and in a situation like this, common sense is more important than any medical degree.”

Farther up the track, in Sentinel, the people who were waiting to meet the train were beginning to grow nervous. The train was already forty-five minutes late. Boomer, who was waiting to meet Doc Presnell, was listening in to the various conversations of those who were expecting people on the train. They were growing increasingly more concerned.

“Deputy Foley, have you heard anything?” an older woman asked. “My daughter is supposed to be coming in on the train and I’m growing very worried.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry that much about it, Mrs. Anderson,” Boomer said, trying to ease her concerns. “The train’s been late before.”

“Yes, sir, I know it has. But if you go over there and look at the blackboard that has the schedule on it, you’ll see that the train left Purgatory on time,” Mrs. Anderson said. “It should’ve been here a long time ago now.”

“It does seem a little odd, doesn’t it?” Boomer said. “All right, I’ll go talk to the station agent and see what I can find out.”

“Would you? Good, I appreciate that, and I’m sure a lot of other folks will appreciate it just as much.”

As several others, by their comments and nods, indicated their concurrence with Mrs. Anderson’s request, Boomer went inside the depot, then walked back to the ticket cage. There, he saw the station agent standing over the telegrapher. The telegraph instrument was clacking away madly.

“Mr. Cooley?” Boomer called.

The station agent held up his hand as a signal for Boomer to be quiet for a moment, so Boomer complied.

The telegraph key stopped clacking; then the telegrapher put his own hand on the key and sent a short message back.

“Now, Deputy, what can I do for you?” Cooley asked.

“Mr. Cooley?” Boomer said again after the instrument was quiet. “All the folks here that are waitin’ on the train are beginnin’ to get a little worried.”

“Are they, now?”

“Yes, sir, they are,” Boomer replied. “And I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’m somewhat worried myself.”

“Why are you worried, Deputy, you don’t have any people on the train, do you?”

“No, sir,” Boomer said. He pointed toward the platform just outside the depot. “But there’s lots of folks out there who do have people, even family, and they got a right to know what’s happening. And it just so happens that Doc is on that train and, Doc being a friend of mine, that gives me cause to worry as well.”

Cooley sighed, then ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Boomer,” he said. “I had no right to act like that. The truth is I’m worried as well.”

“Has somethin’ happened? I mean, that you know?”

“What I know is that we got a telegram that the train left Purgatory Station one hour and forty-seven minutes ago,” Cooley said. “The normal time it takes the train to get here is just over an hour.”

“You think somethin’ has happened?” Boomer asked. “Or could they have just stopped somewhere?”

“There is no place to stop between here and Purgatory,” Cooley said. He shook his head. “No, sir, Deputy, I’m sure something has happened.”

“A wreck?”

Cooley shook his head. “I think so.”

“Then you’re goin’ to have to tell these folks,” Boomer said, pointing to the crowd out on the depot platform.

“I’m afraid to.”

“Afraid to?” Boomer replied. “Why on earth would you be afraid to?”

“If there has been a train wreck, and I suspect there has been, I don’t know how they are going to take it.”

“Mr. Cooley, it’d be my notion that they’d rather hear the truth than stand around worryin’ about it, not knowin’ one way or the other.”

“Would you tell them?”

“Well, yes, sir, I could, I suppose. But that’s more likely somethin’ the marshal should tell ’em.”

“Where is the marshal?”

“He’s…” Boomer stopped and sighed. He was sure Marshal Kyle was with Sally Fontaine, and he didn’t figure that was anybody’s business. “Never mind, I’ll tell them.”

Boomer walked out of the depot, then held up his hands and started calling for everyone’s attention.

“People, people, people!” he shouted. “Can I have your attention, please?”

The several conversations stopped, not all at once, but rather in a wave of silence that moved quickly across the crowd until everyone was quiet, and looking at the man who had issued the call.

Boomer cleared his throat.

“People,” he said. “The train left Purgatory on time—”

“Well, then, where is it?” someone shouted.

“Let me finish, please.”

“Yes, let the deputy finish,” someone else shouted.

“Like I was sayin’, the train left Purgatory on time,” Boomer said. “But as you can plainly see, it hasn’t made it here yet. That leads us to believe that there has been a train wreck somewhere between here and Purgatory.”

“A wreck?”

“What! No, my God, no!” some woman shouted.

“How bad is it? How many are hurt? Was anyone killed?”

“Hold on, hold on here,” Boomer shouted, holding up his hands. “The truth is, we don’t even know for sure that there was one.”

“But, you just said there was.”

“No, I said we believe there has been one. Given that the train ain’t here yet, and it should ought to be, well, it just seems most likely that a wreck is what has happened. And of course, the next thing is, if there has been a wreck, we don’t know how bad it might be.”

“Is it possible there wasn’t any wreck at all—that the train may have just broken down out on the road?” another asked.

Boomer turned to look at Cooley, who was standing beside him.

“What about that, Mr. Cooley?” Boomer asked. “Is it maybe possible that the train has just broke down out on the track somewhere?”

“Yes, of course that is possible,” Cooley answered.

“Well, then, maybe we don’t have anything to be worried about at all,” one of the men in the crowd suggested.

“It’s possible, but it’s not very likely,” Cooley added.

“What do you mean, it’s not very likely? Why not?” another asked.

Cooley sighed, giving pointed evidence that he was very uncomfortable with the situation.

“The reason I say that a simple breakdown is unlikely is because if that is what has happened, why, they have a little gadget on board that will allow them to clamp onto the telegraph wire so as to be able to send a message. Most of the time, when it’s no more than a breakdown, they’ll be able to get in contact with us, to let us know. But there hasn’t been any such message so—I hate to say this, but I’m afraid we have to assume the worst.”

“Well, I ain’t waitin’ around here to find out. I’m goin’ out there!” one man shouted. “My wife is on that train!”

“Mr. Zimmer, if there has been a wreck, we’ll need to organize a rescue party, so I hope several of us will be going out there,” Boomer said. “So if you’ll wait a bit, I’ll go get the marshal. I expect he’ll be puttin’ together a rescue party, and I’m sure you’ll want to be a part of it.”

“Yeah,” Zimmer said. “Yeah, I want to go. But hurry back, will you? If there really was a train wreck, those folks out there are goin’ to be needin’ us to come out as quick as we can.”

Marshal Kyle was lying in bed with his hands laced behind his head. Sally was lying on her side, with her head elevated and supported by her left hand. The way she was lying, with her arm crooked at the elbow, caused the bedsheet to slide down and expose both her breasts.

A small smile played across Kyle’s lips.

“What?” Sally asked. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re laughing at something. I can see it in your face.”

Kyle turned to look at her. “I was just thinking of what a difference one day can make,” he said. “Last night, I had to be satisfied with some Indian girl I saw on the trail. Now, here I am with a beautiful white woman in her own bed.”

It took just a second for Kyle’s words to sink in. Then, when she realized what he said, she gasped.

“What?”

Kyle started laughing.

“What Indian girl?”

Kyle laughed harder. “I’m joking.”

“That’s nothing to joke about!” Sally insisted, and getting up, she jerked the cover off the bed so that both were exposed.

They looked at each other for a moment, then Kyle reached for her. “On the other hand,” he said, “this is no joke.”

“Indian girl my foot,” Sally said as she sat down on the edge of the bed, then leaned over to kiss him.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the door.

“Marshal? Marshal Kyle, are you in there?”

Boomer’s loud words were augmented by more knocking on the door.

“Just a minute, Boomer, just a minute!” Kyle said with a frustrated sigh. He reached for his clothes. “Give me a minute.”

“Yes, sir,” Boomer said. “I don’t mean to disturb you and Miss Sally none, but this is important.”

“It damn well better be,” Kyle said.

A few moments later, when both were fully dressed, Kyle walked over to sit on a settee. He nodded toward Sally as a signal that she could open the door now.

“Good evening, Boomer,” Sally said as sweetly and innocently as she could muster.

“Evenin’, ma’am,” Boomer replied. “Is the marshal here?”

“I’m here in the parlor, Boomer,” Kyle called back. “What is it? What is so all-fired important?”

“It’s about the train, Marshal. Doc’s train.”

“What about Doc’s train? Did he miss it?”

“No, sir,” Boomer replied. “Well, that is, I don’t know.”

“No, he didn’t miss it, or you don’t know? Which is it?” Kyle asked, confused by the answer.

“I mean the train ain’t got in yet,” Boomer said.

“The train hasn’t arrived?” Kyle glanced at the wall clock. The clock read five minutes until nine. “It was supposed to have arrived at seven thirty, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. And Mr. Cooley, he got a telegram that said the train left Purgatory Station on time. The thing is, Marshal, it don’t take but a little over an hour to get here—but the train is already an hour and a half late.”

“Does Cooley know where it is? What happened to it?”

“No, sir, I don’t reckon he does know,” Boomer said. “There don’t nobody know.”

“Saddle our horses,” Kyle said. “We’ll ride down the track toward Purgatory and see what we can find.”

“We could do that,” Boomer said. “Or we could…” He let the sentence hang.

“We could what?”

“We could take a train. Cooley’s puttin’ on the switch engine, and he plans to run it back down the track toward Purgatory. If the train left Purgatory when it was supposed to, and when the folks back in Purgatory said it did, then we’ll find it quicker by goin’ on a train than if we was to go back ridin’ horses.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Kyle said. “Also, if there was a wreck, we’d need the train to bring the people back to Sentinel.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, come along then. No sense in wasting time here.”

“No, sir, I figured you’d be wantin’ to get on this right away,” Boomer said. “Miss Sally, I’m sorry to be bustin’ in like this, breakin’ up your welcome home to Marshal Kyle ’n’ all.”

Sally nodded. “Don’t you worry about it, Boomer, you did the right thing,” she said. “If there was a train wreck, Ben needs to get out there as fast as he can.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s sort of what I was thinkin’, too,” Boomer said.

Chapter Nine

By the time Kyle and Boomer made it back to the railroad station, they saw that a car had been attached to the little switch engine. The car was crammed full with rescuers, in the event their worst fears were realized and there was an actual train wreck. For that reason, Kyle believed there were probably as many sightseers as there were actual rescue workers on the train.

“Cooley! You need to add some more cars!” Kyle said. “At least three, and maybe more.”

“What for? Ever’body that’s goin’ is already aboard,” Cooley replied.

“What about the people we find at the train wreck?” Kyle asked. “Don’t you plan on bringing them back?”

“Oh, yes,” Cooley said. “Damn, I completely forgot that.”

It took another five minutes for the engine to back up the switch track to find a couple more cars. Not until then was it ready to go.

As Kyle and Boomer started to board, Kyle walked up toward the engine.

“Where you goin’?” Boomer called.

“I’m going to ride up here,” Kyle said.

“All right, I will, too.”

“No,” Kyle replied. “There won’t be room for both of us. And I really think you should be back with the others to sort of keep them calm.”

“Yes, sir, I reckon you’re right about that.”

The fireman, seeing Kyle starting to climb up in the engine, reached down to give him a hand.

“You ever been in the cab of an engine before?” he asked.

“No,” Kyle said. “Just tell me where the best place is to stay out your way, and I’ll go there.”

“If you want to look ahead, you can stand there on the left side of the cab,” the fireman said. “I’ll be busy keeping the steam up, and the engineer looks out the other side.”

Taking in the engine cab, Kyle saw a bar running horizontally across the cab from the left to the right.

Seeing him look at it, the engineer spoke up.

“Maybe I’d better explain some of this to you,” he said. “If you know what is what, it’ll help you to stay out of the way.”

“Good idea,” Kyle replied.

The engineer pointed to the bar that had caught Kyle’s immediate attention.

“That’s the throttle,” he said. “You make it go by pulling it back. And this sturdy-looking ratcheted lever with a hand release—this vertical bar on the right is the Johnson bar. It controls which way the steam goes into the cylinders. Helps you to decide whether you want to go frontwards or backwards. And right next to it here, this chunky-looking brass handle sticking out to the left is the air brakes.”

“Thanks for the lesson,” Kyle said. “It will help me keep out of your way, I’m sure.”

“All right, boys, here we go,” the engineer said; then, after three long whistles, the engineer positioned the Johnson bar and opened the throttle. The train pulled out of the station. At first it was moving rather slowly, but the speed kept building and building until soon the engine was going so fast that the ground below was whizzing by in a blur.

Looking ahead, Kyle saw the track unfold out of the black void, come into the light of the gas headlamp, then slip behind them as the train hurtled through the darkness.

“How fast are we going?” Kyle shouted above the noise of the engine.

“I’d say we’re doing at least forty miles per hour,” the engineer replied.

“Don’t you think we ought to slow down a little?”

“Why?”

“If there has been a train wreck, we may not see it in time to stop,” Kyle suggested.

“Oh, damn, you’re right!” the engineer said, easing off on the throttle. The train slowed gradually until they were doing no more than fifteen miles per hour.

Then, ahead in the darkness, Kyle saw the golden glow of several fires.

“There ahead!” Kyle shouted. “The fires! Do you see them?”

“Yes,” the engineer said. “They were smart to light some fires.”

“I hope they are fires that were lit, and not a burning train,” Kyle said.

The engineer reached up to the pull cord, and the whistle let out a long, melodic, wail.

Back at the site of the train wreck, Matt worked with Dr. Presnell and the others pulling out the injured, freeing the trapped, and removing the dead. He wanted, with everything that was in him, to run away now that he had the chance. But when the train caught on fire, he knew there was no way he could leave all the people who had been so badly injured trapped in the burning wreckage.

Working with the others, he managed to get everyone out of the train, including those who had been killed on impact, so that even as the train burned down to the truck and wheel assemblies, there was no smell of burning bodies to add to the horror of the occasion.

In the distance, Matt heard the two-toned sound of a train whistle. He wasn’t sure he heard it the first time, but when it sounded again, he knew exactly what it was.

“Listen, do you hear that? That’s a train! They are coming for us!” someone shouted, though by now everyone had heard it and several cheered.

“We’d better get up to the track and wave it down!” someone shouted.

“Yes, get one of the lanterns and wave it,” another suggested.

“They don’t need to wave the train down,” Matt said to Dr. Presnell, who even then was doing the best he could do toward cleaning a wound. “I’m sure the train was sent here just for us.”

“I am sure as well,” Dr. Presnell said. “But right now, they need to feel like they have some input into their own fate. Let them yell all they want.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean, Doc,” Matt said.

By now, several of the uninjured and those not seriously injured had moved up to the track, where they began waving at the oncoming train. They were shouting as well, though it was obvious that no one on board the oncoming train could hear them.

The train, now with the bell clanging, continued coming, now moving no faster than a slow walk. Finally, it screeched to a stop no more than a few feet from the compromised track.

“God help us, look at this, Marshal,” Boomer said, his voice almost reverent as he and Kyle stepped down from the train, even before it had come to a complete halt. “The last three cars of the train has burned completely to the ground. Only the coal tender, the express car, and baggage car ain’t burned up. I wonder how many have been killed.”

“We’ll figure that out later,” Kyle said. “For now, we need to get busy helping those who are still alive. I just hope—”

“Marshal! There’s Doc Presnell!” Boomer said excitedly, answering Kyle’s concern before it was even spoken.”

“Hello, Ben, Boomer,” Doc Presnell said, greeting his two friends as they came toward him. Doc had a black eye and a cut on his face. Otherwise, he appeared to be all right, though there was blood on his hands and clothes. It didn’t take but a moment to see that it wasn’t Doc’s blood—it was blood from the many injured passengers he had been working with.

“What happened, Doc?” Boomer asked.

“I’ll be damned if I know,” Doc replied. “One minute I was enjoying my dinner in the dining car. The next thing I know we ran off the track. Since that time, it’s been all chaos.”

“The prisoner!” Kyle said.

“What prisoner?” Doc asked.

“According to a telegram I received, this train was supposed to be carrying a prisoner,” Kyle said. “I’d better check on him.”

“Boomer, can you give me a hand here?” Doc asked.

“Sure, Doc, I’ll do what I can,” Boomer said.

Leaving Doc and Boomer, Kyle started looking through the gathering of shocked, frightened, and injured people until he saw someone wearing the blue jacket and hat of a railroad conductor.

“You the conductor on this train?” Kyle asked.

“Look, mister, I don’t know any more about what caused the train wreck than you do,” the conductor answered defensively.

“No, no, it’s not about the train wreck,” Kyle said quickly, holding up his hands to calm the conductor.

“Then, what is it about?”

“I understand you had a prisoner on this train, someone who was being taken to Yuma prison,” Kyle said. It was a statement, not a question.

“You’re talking about the murderer we picked up in Purgatory?”

“Yes. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you seen him since the train wreck?”

“I didn’t see him before the wreck.”

“You didn’t see him when they put him on the train?”

“No. I was told he would be in the express car,” the conductor said. “But I didn’t see them put him on. As far as I know, Lon Kingsley is the only one who saw him.”

“Lon Kingsley?”

“The express man,” the conductor said.

“Can you point him out to me?”

“I can point him out, all right, but it won’t do you any good to talk to him.”

“Why not?”

“He’s dead. Him and the deputy that was ridin’ in the car with him. We found ’em both dead in the express car.”

“What about the prisoner? Did you find him dead, too?”

“No, the only two people we pulled from the express car was Kingsley and the deputy,” the conductor said. “They’re both lyin’ over there if you want to see them.”

“Like you said, they’re both dead, so it won’t do me any good to see them, but I am going to take another look inside the express car.”

Walking back toward some of the railroad officials who’d arrived with the rescue train, Kyle borrowed a lantern, crawled upon the side of the express car that was facing up, then let himself down through the open door into the car. It had not burned, but it had turned over onto its side so it was badly damaged. He moved around inside the car, having to be very careful to pick his way about, since what had been the left wall was now the floor.

“Hello?” a voice called from the open door. “Anyone in here?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Kyle answered.

The person who called started to climb down into the car.

“No need to come in here, the car is empty,” Kyle said.

“Who are you?”

“I’m United States Marshal Ben Kyle. And you are?”

“I’m Hodge Deckert with the United Bank Exchange,” Deckert said. “We are responsible for transferring large amounts of money between banks, and we had a shipment on this train. I’ve come to retrieve the money.”

“Good luck,” Kyle said.

“Good luck? What an odd thing to say,” Deckert replied as he started looking. “Oh, oh,” he said after a moment. “This isn’t good.”

“What isn’t good?”

Deckert held up a small piece of paper. “Here is the transfer document,” he said. “This was in the bag with the money.”

“Maybe it just fell out in the wreck,” Kyle suggested.

“No,” Deckert said, looking around. “I don’t see the bag, and if the transfer slip just fell out in the wreck, some of the money would be here as well.” Deckert sighed. “The money is gone.”

“How much money are we talking about?” Kyle asked.

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Yes, sir, it is. And it was on this train, which means one of these passengers had to have come in here and took it.”

“Maybe,” Kyle answered.

“What do you mean maybe? Who else could have done it?”

“The train was also transporting a deputy and his prisoner,” Kyle said. “Both were riding in the express car. Right now, the prisoner seems to be missing.”

“A deputy and his prisoner were riding in the express car? There should be only one person in this car—and that would be Mr. Kingsley, the express agent.”

“I guess the railroad made an exception in this case,” Kyle said.

“This is unconscionable,” Deckert said. “My company shall certainly send a strongly worded message to the railroad for this breach of security.”

Finding no one in the car, Kyle decided to have a look at all the bodies to see if there might be one in chains. He had the conductor point out Kingsley and Hayes. That was when he saw the small bullet hole in Hayes’s forehead.

“I’ll be damn,” Kyle said.

“What is it?” the conductor asked.

“The deputy,” Kyle replied. “He’s been shot. I guess that solves the mystery as to who took the money.”

The officials who were running the rescue operation broke the passengers down into three groups. Those who were not injured, or were only slightly injured, were allowed to board the train on their own. Those who were seriously injured were put into a car that was being converted into a hospital, while the last car was serving as a morgue-on-wheels.

Matt walked with Louise Dobbs as she and her son, Jerry, went to board the first car. Then one of the officials saw that the little girl Mrs. Dobbs was carrying was dead. He reached for her.

“I’ll take care of her for you, ma’am,” he said.

Louise jerked the little girl back and glared angrily at the railroad official. “No, she stays with me.”

“She can’t stay will you, madam.”

“But she must!” Louise insisted. “Suzie would be terrified if she is separated from me!”

“Madam, your little girl is dead,” one of the railroad officials said. “It will not matter to her whether she is with you or not.”

“It matters to the lady,” Matt said. “Let the girl stay with her, it can’t hurt anything.”

“Who are you?” the official asked.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. I’m someone who knows right from wrong,” Matt answered. “Let the girl stay with her mother.”

“This is not railroad policy,” the official said.

“How about train wrecks?” Matt asked. “Are train wrecks railroad policy?”

“No, of course not.”

“Maybe not, but you had one, didn’t you?”

“Sir, I fail to see how that is relevant.”

“Here is what’s relevant. The mother wants to keep her little girl with her,” Matt said.

“What’s going on here?” Kyle asked, coming up on the conversation. Then, seeing the woman holding the little girl, he took off his hat. He knew the woman, knew that she and her husband lived on a small ranch just outside Sentinel.

“Why, Mrs. Dobbs,” he said. “I didn’t know you were on—” It was not until that moment that he saw that the little girl was dead. He stopped in mid-sentence and paused for a moment before he resumed speaking. “Oh, no, not your little girl,” he said solicitously. “Mrs. Dobbs, I’m so sorry.”

“I want to keep her with me,” Mrs. Dobbs said. “But he says that I can’t.”

“As I tried to explain to the lady, we have a car reserved for the deceased. The little girl must go in there.”

“No!” Louise said, holding her baby even more tightly.

“I think you can make an exception in this case,” Kyle said.

“You may be a United States marshal, but I am an agent for the Southern Pacific Railroad,” the man said haughtily. “And I will inform you, Marshal, that in terms of railroad policy, I am the one who makes the decisions.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“You are under arrest,” Kyle said.

“What?” the railroad agent gasped. “Under arrest for what?”

“For manslaughter,” Kyle said. “By maintaining an unsafe railroad, you caused the death of this little girl.”

“Are you insane? I had nothing to do with that!”

“You said you represent the railroad, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I hold the railroad responsible for the death of this little girl, as well as the deaths of the others who were killed. And as you are a representative of the railroad, I am putting you under arrest. Boomer, put cuffs on him.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” the railroad agent said. “Isn’t there some way we can work this out?”

“There may be,” Kyle said. “Do you have any suggestions?”

The railroad agent sighed. “Suppose I let the little girl stay with her mother.”

“Then I suppose we could work something out so that you wouldn’t be under arrest,” Kyle said.

“That’s not right, Marshal. That is pure coercion.”

“Really?” Kyle said. “I don’t look at it that way. I look at it as common sense.”

“Very well,” he said. “The woman can keep the girl.”

The railroad agent’s acquiescence was met with words of approval from the other passengers nearby.

Noticing that several of the other passengers had gathered around, Kyle took the opportunity to address them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention for a moment? I would like to ask for your assistance. I am United States Marshal Ben Kyle. We had word that this train was transporting a prisoner—a convicted murderer—to Yuma Territorial Prison for hanging. He was riding in the express car.”

“Are you sayin’ he ain’t in there now?” one of the passengers asked.

Marshal Kyle nodded his head. “That’s what I’m saying. He’s gone, and the deputy who had him in custody is dead. I believe the prisoner killed the deputy who was transporting him.”

“What makes you think the prisoner killed the deputy?” the passenger asked. “A lot of folks got killed in this wreck.”

“Yes,” Kyle said. “But how many of them were shot between the eyes?”

“You say the deputy was shot between the eyes?”

“Yes.”

“You’re right. That could only mean that he was killed of a pure purpose,” the passenger said.

“What does this fella look like?” another passenger asked.

“I don’t know,” Kyle replied. “We didn’t get a description of him, just his name. His name is Matt Jensen and he would’ve been in chains when he got on the train.”

Matt glanced at the passengers. Of those who had boarded at Purgatory, only Jerry and his mother had survived. That meant they were the only ones who could identify him. He saw Jerry staring back at him.

“Marshal?” Jerry said.

Jerry’s mother shushed him, then put her arm around him and pulled him to her.

“Yes, son, what is it?” Kyle asked.

Jerry looked up at his mother, and she shook her head no. It was then obvious to Matt that she was not going to give him away.

“I didn’t see anything like that,” Jerry said.

“What about the rest of you?” Kyle said to the others. “Are you telling me that not one of you saw a prisoner being put on board when the train was in Purgatory?”

The uninjured passengers looked at each other and shrugged, but no one spoke up.

“All right, folks, let’s get on the train now,” the railroad official said. “We have to get out of here so we can bring up the wrecker engine to start cleaning this mess up and getting the track open again.”

“Young man,” someone said to Matt, and looking around, he saw that he had been addressed by the doctor. “I noticed you while we were rounding up all the injured. You seemed to know what you were doing. I wonder if you would ride in the car of the injured with me?”

At first Matt was going to refuse, but then he decided that riding in the car with the severely injured might actually be the best thing for him. The marshal would, no doubt, be questioning everyone in the other cars.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I would be glad to.”

By the time the train reached Sentinel, three more of the injured had died, including the first man Matt had pulled from the wreckage. The three deaths weren’t due to inadequate care, but happened because the victims had been so severely injured that even had they been in a hospital with the best of treatment, they would not have survived.

Matt found himself in a somewhat unique position now. Although he had a rather substantial bank account back in Colorado, there was absolutely no way he could access it from here. To do so would require him to write a draft, and while an exchange of telegrams between the banks could validate the check, it would also expose him as Matt Jensen, a wanted man.

Once he stepped down from the train in Sentinel, though, he saw what might be a partial solution to his problem. Some officials of the railroad had set up a table inside the depot building and there, they were giving twenty dollars to each of the passengers, explaining that it was a compensation for what they had been through.

Every cent Matt had had been taken from him when he was arrested back in Purgatory. For him the twenty dollars seemed like a godsend, but when he stepped up to the table, he was told that he would have to show his ticket to collect the money.

Matt made a show of patting himself down, then he said, “I must’ve lost the ticket back at the site of the train wreck.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but without the ticket, we have no way of knowing you really were there,” the train official said. “I hope you understand. If we didn’t do that, then just anyone could come in here and claim they were on the train.”

“This man was on the train, and I will vouch for him,” Doc said. “Without him, I fear many more would have died than did.”

The railroad official ran his hand through his hair, then sighed. “All right, Doc, if you say he was on the train, I’ll take your word for it.” The man gave Matt a twenty-dollar bill. “On behalf of the railroad, I wish to extend my apologies for the ordeal,” he said in what had become a rote statement.

“Thanks,” Matt replied. He turned to the doctor. “And thank you,” he added.

“No, young man. On behalf of the passengers, I thank you.” The doctor extended his hand. “You know, I never got your name. I’m Dr. Presnell.”

“The name is Cavanaugh, Martin Cavanaugh,” Matt said.

“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Cavanaugh. If you are ever in this part of the country again, please look me up. I would love to buy you dinner sometime.”

“Thank you,” Matt said.

Leaving the depot, Matt started up the street toward the saloon. In a small town like Sentinel, the saloon would not only offer Matt the opportunity for a cool beer—he had worked up quite a thirst today—he might also get a line on the people who had caused the train wreck in the first place. It was not that he expected anyone here to have any additional information on the train wreck, but someone might have heard of the man named Odom. And though Matt wasn’t a lawman, he had made himself a vow while holding the little girl’s body in his arms. That vow was that he would go after Odom and the others who had caused this.

When Matt told Dr. Presnell that his name was Martin Cavanaugh, it had not been a complete lie. Martin Cavanaugh was the name of Matt’s father. After his parents were murdered by a ruthless gang of outlaws, young Matt Cavanaugh wound up in an orphanage. Conditions in the orphanage were as brutal as any delinquent detention home, and unwilling to take it anymore, Matt ran away. He would have died, had Smoke Jensen not found him shivering in a snow-bank in the mountains. Smoke took him to his cabin and nursed him back to health.

It had been Smoke’s intention to keep the boy around only until he had recovered, but Matt wound up staying with Smoke until he reached manhood. During the time Matt lived with Smoke, he became Smoke’s student, learning everything from Smoke that Smoke had learned from his own mentor, a mountain man known as Preacher, many years earlier. Matt learned how to use a knife or a gun to defend himself; he learned how to survive in the wilderness, and how to track man or beast. But the most important lesson Matt learned was how to be a man of honor.

When Matt reached the age of eighteen, he felt that the time was right to go out on his own. Smoke did not have the slightest hesitancy over sending him out, because Matt had become one of the most capable young men Smoke had ever seen.

But just before Matt left, he surprised Smoke by asking permission to take Smoke’s last name as his own. Smoke was not only honored by the request, he was touched, and to this day there was a bond between them that was as close as any familial bond could be.

Matt could take back the Cavanaugh name to provide himself with some cover until he could clear himself, and that didn’t bother him. What did bother him was the fact that he might have brought dishonor to the Jensen name—it mattered not that he was an innocent man, wrongly charged. The unpleasant fact was that not only was he considered an escaped murderer, he was also now being accused of robbing the train and killing Deputy Hayes.

The Ox Bow Saloon was filled with patrons when Matt stepped inside. Nearly all were talking about the train wreck, and not only about the train wreck, but also about Matt.

“Yes, sir, Marshal Kyle said this here Jensen fella not only kilt the deputy, but he stole the money that was being transferred. Twenty thousand dollars it was.”

“Twenty thousand dollars? Damn, with that much money, I don’t know but what I’d’a been tempted myself.”

“Tempted enough to shoot a fella between the eyes in cold blood?”

“No, I don’t reckon I could have done that. It would take someone who was particular mean to kill a man what had just been in a train wreck.”

“I heard the marshal talkin’ to Mr. Blanton over to the newspaper office. They’ll have posters out on this Jensen fella soon, and there’s a reward of five thousand dollars bein’ put up for him.”

“Ain’t enough, if you ask me. Anyone that would shoot somebody in cold blood after a train wreck? Hell, that fella needs to be caught and needs to be hung.”

“Yes, well, I reckon he was about to be hung anyway, or so I understand. He was bein’ took to Yuma for that very purpose. Besides which, the reward says ‘Dead or Alive.’”

“Hey, you, mister,” one of the customers said to Matt. “You was on the train, wasn’t you?”

Was this someone who had seen him being put on the train in chains, someone who could recognize him?

“Yes, you was on the train, I recognize you,” the man said.

Matt braced himself for a confrontation.

“You pulled how many out of that burning train? Ten? Fifteen? Mister, as far as I’m concerned, you’re a genuine hero.”

Matt relaxed.

“Folks,” the speaker said to the others. “While most the rest of us was wanderin’ around with our thumb up our ass wonderin’ what to do, why, this here fella was doin’. Fred, whatever this fella is drinkin’, I’m buyin’.”

“And I’ll buy the next one,” another patron said.

“Thank you,” Matt said, surprised by the unexpected accolades he was receiving. “But I thought I’d just have maybe one beer, then get something to eat.”

“If you don’t mind biscuits, bacon, gravy, and fried potatoes, you can eat here,” an attractive auburn-haired woman said. “On me,” she added.

“On you?”

“I’m Sally Fontaine. I own this place.”

“Well, I thank you, ma’am, but it’s not necessary for you to buy my supper. I can pay for it.”

“I know it isn’t necessary,” Sally said. “But from what I’ve heard about you, it would be my privilege to buy your supper.”

Matt smiled. “Thank you.”

“What’s your name, mister?” the saloon patron who had first pointed him out asked.

“Cavanaugh. Martin Cavanaugh.”

The patron lifted his beer mug, then called out loudly to the others in the saloon. “Here’s to Martin Cavanaugh!”

“Martin Cavanaugh!” the others answered as one.

“Here you go, sir,” Fred said, bringing Matt’s supper to his table.

“Thanks,” Matt said, digging into the meal, realizing this was the first time he had eaten all day. His plans to have a late breakfast in Purgatory this morning had been thwarted by a gunfight, a mockery of a trial, and then a train wreck. He ate his meal with much enthusiasm.

After his supper, Matt got into a card game. Playing very conservatively, and raising or calling only on sure hands, he doubled his money.

Leaving the saloon, he walked through the dark to the Homestead Hotel, only to learn that, due to the train wreck, there were no rooms available.

“Is there anyplace else in town that rents rooms?” he asked.

“There’s Ma Baker’s Boardin’ House, but it’s all full up as well.”

“I see,” Matt said. He turned to leave.

“Mister, was you on the train that had the wreck?”

“Yes, I was.”

“I’ll tell you what. The hotel don’t rent out stalls in the stable for sleepin’, and I’m not supposed to do this, but if you want, you can bed down in the stable out back. You ought to be able to find enough clean straw to accommodate you.”

“Thanks,” Matt said. “I reckon I’ll just take you up on that.”

“It’ll cost you a quarter.”

“I thought the hotel didn’t rent out the stalls for sleeping.”

“They don’t.”

“Then what’s the quarter for?”

“The quarter is for me for bein’ willin’ to take the risk,” the clerk said. “I could get fired if my boss found out.”

Matt chuckled, then reached down into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Sounds reasonable enough to me,” he said.

That night, lying in one of the stalls and looking through an open window of the stable at the moon and stars that were shining so brightly above, Matt thought about this day. He had rarely had a day so filled with events. He’d spent the previous night out on the desert, ridden into town for breakfast, killed a man who was bent on killing him, stood trial, been found guilty and sentenced to hang, been put in chains and placed on a train bound for Yuma Prison, then lived through a wreck of that same train. And to make matters worse, that wreck had been purposely caused by men named Odom, Bates, Paco, and Schuler.

Matt had run across Odom before, but he had never heard of any of the other three men. He knew their names only because he had heard them all call each other by name. He had also gotten a very good look at all of them. And while he had vowed to find them to avenge the death of the little girl he had pulled from the wreckage, he now had a new and even more important reason for finding them. If he could bring them justice, it would clear him of the murder of the deputy, and the theft of the money the train was transporting. That would still leave him wanted for the killing back in Purgatory, but he believed that a legitimate trial would settle that issue for him.

Matt picked up a piece of straw from his bed, smelled it to make certain it was clean, then stuck it in his mouth. As he sucked on the straw, he contemplated the path he had just laid out. It would be difficult at best. But for a man without money, and without a horse, it would be almost impossible.

His first order of business would have to be to get his horse and saddle back. He had money hidden in the saddle, and it was hidden so well that he would bet that, if he could recover the saddle, the money would still be there.

Chapter Ten

Joe Claibie worked as a hostler for the Maricopa Coach Line. But he also dealt in horses, sometimes buying horses from the stage line and reselling them. He was an honest man in his dealings, marking them up only enough to make a decent profit. But like many who worked with horses, there was always that dream that someday he might find a really great horse at a bargain price.

Although it didn’t seem likely that he would find such a horse at a marshal’s auction, he kept his eye on the horses that Marshal Cummins had confiscated from his prisoners. By law, Cummins was required to hold an auction, selling off each confiscated horse to the highest bidder. The money would then go into the Purgatory city coffers.

At first glance, it might seem unusual to realize that most of the auctioned property was bought by the marshal himself. But then, when one realized that the marshal had a habit of setting the “marshal’s auction sales” at odd times and in odd locations, it was easy to understand how that might happen.

The marshal had recently confiscated a particularly good-looking sorrel from the man who killed Deputy Gillis, and would be holding an auction soon. Claibie intended to take a look at the horse and if it looked good to him, he would make it a point to find out when, and where, the auction was to be held.

“I heard that the marshal confiscated the horse from the fella that shot Gillis,” Claiborn said to Deputy Jackson.

“It’s ‘Deputy’ Gillis,” Jackson said resolutely. “And he wasn’t just shot, he was murdered in cold blood.”

“Yes, well, I’m not sayin’ otherwise,” Claibie replied. “I’m just askin’ about the horse. Is it true that the marshal confiscated the man’s horse and is goin’ to hold an auction?”

“Yeah, that’s true, but I don’t know when the auction will be,” Jackson said. “It’ll be announced in the paper, same as it always is.”

“Where’s the horse now?”

“It’s where the marshal keeps all his horses, down to the city corral,” Jackson said.

“I think I’ll walk down there and take a look at him,” Claibie said.

“Look out! Look out!”

Claibie heard the warning shout as he was approaching the corral and looking toward the commotion, he saw Kenny Watson, the young stable hand who worked for the city corral, on the ground. The horse rearing over the stable hand was now in the rampant position, and as it came back down, its slashing forelegs barely missed Kenny, who had to roll across the ground to get away from the horse. The horse reared again, but by now Kenny had rolled against a water trough. In this position, there was nowhere he could go to get away from the flailing stallion.

Without a second thought, Claibie grabbed a saddle blanket from the top rail of the fence, then vaulted over and hurried toward the horse, shouting and waving the blanket. Seeing Claibie and the flapping blanket, the horse stopped his attack against Kenny and came toward this new irritant.

“Kenny, get out of here while I keep him busy!” Claibie shouted to the young stable hand.

Kenny crawled and scrambled toward the fence, where he was helped up and over by eager hands.

Using the blanket as a bullfighter would a cape, Claibie managed to entice the horse into one, errant pass. The horse corrected himself and reared again, this time coming right at Claibie. At the last minute, Claibie jumped to one side, tossing his blanket at the horse as he did so. The blanket landed on the horse’s head, temporarily blinding him.

Now the creature reared and whinnied, kicking at the air in rage, as Claibie managed to make it back to the fence. The same hands who had helped Kenny out of the corral, now reached down to pull Claibie up and over the fence. He had barely made it when the horse tossed the blanket off. Then, looking around and seeing that his would-be victims were gone, the horse shook his head, blew, and then trotted back toward the other side of the corral as docilely as if nothing had happened.

“Thanks, Claibie,” Kenny said as he dusted himself off.

“Boy, what the hell did you do to get that horse so made at you?” Claibie asked.

“I didn’t do nothin’ except try to ride him,” Kenny replied. “I don’t know what got into that crazy horse.”

“He’s high-spirited all right,” Claibie agreed. “Is this the horse Marshal Cummins is goin’ to put up for auction?”

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “Though why anyone would want this horse is beyond me.”

Claibie looked at the sorrel, which was now prancing around the corral, lifting its legs high in an excess of energy and tossing its head.

“I’ll say this for him,” Claibie said. “He’s a good-looking horse.”

“Bein’ a pretty horse ain’t good enough if he tries to take your head off ever’ time you ride him.”