Purgatory

Claibie chuckled. “You’ve got a point there,” he said.

“I don’t understand the problem, though. The man that shot Deputy Gillis must’ve been ridin’ him,” Kenny said. “Or else, how would the marshal’ve got ahold of him?”

“Could be this is a one-man horse,” Claibie said.

“A one-man horse?”

“There are such horses, horses that are trained so that only one person can ride them,” Claibie said.

“That don’t make no sense to me,” Kenny said. “No, sir, that don’t make no sense a’tall. Why would anyone want to train a horse that way? You make him a one-man horse, that means you can never sell him.”

“It also means nobody can steal him,” Claibie said. “And when someone gets a horse like this one, well, I reckon the natural tendency is to want to hold on to him. And you can do that by training him so that only you can ride him.”

“You’ve worked with horses all your life, Claibie. You ever seen any other horses like this? I mean, trained so’s that only one person could ride ’em?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve seen them,” Claibie said.

“Well, can that ever change? I mean, you take this horse. You think this horse can ever be rode?” Kenny asked.

Claibie looked at the horse. The sorrel was now standing on the opposite side of the corral, looking back toward Claibie and Kenny.

“Yeah, I think it could be rode. By the right person anyway.” Claibie laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“The marshal isn’t the right person.”

“Think he’ll be able to sell him?” Kenny asked.

“Well, not at the auction, since if it goes true to form, he’ll have the auction in the middle of the night, when no one is there to bid against him. What happens afterward is anybody’s guess. Kenny, do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell the marshal that this is a one-man horse.”

Kenny looked confused for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. “All right,” he agreed. “I won’t say a word. But I sure plan to sneak me a peek first time Marshal Cummins tries to mount this critter. Yes, sir, that’s goin’ to be a sight to see.”

The reaction of any ordinary man who had, by circumstances, escaped the sentence of death by hanging would be not to return to the town that had handed down his sentence. But Matt Jensen was no ordinary man. Matt Jensen was a man with a mission. He planned to clear his name, and avenge the killing of an innocent little girl—not necessarily in that order.

To do this, Matt needed a horse, and the horse he wanted was Spirit, but Spirit was back in Purgatory.

“I can sell you a ticket to Purgatory if you don’t mind ridin’ up on the seat with the driver,” the ticket agent told Matt the next morning when he went to the stage depot to inquire about passage to Purgatory. “The thing is, you see, with the railroad between here ’n’ Purgatory still out, why, we’re runnin’ twice as many trips as normal, and ever’ one of ’em is full.”

“I don’t mind riding with the driver,” Matt said.

“Truth to tell, Mr. Cavanaugh, the ride is better up there anyhow,” the agent said as he handed Matt the ticket.

“Yes, I’ve ridden there before,” Matt said.

Matt took a seat in the waiting room, then watched as two others attempted to buy a ticket on the next stage, only to be turned away because the coach was full.

All the other passengers on the stage had come to Sentinel by the eastbound train. In Sentinel, they learned that they would have to leave the train, and continue by coach for the next thirty-six miles, before they could reboard an eastbound train at Purgatory.

“This is no way to treat customers,” one of the waiting passengers said. “I intend to write a strongly worded letter to the president of the Southern Pacific, expressing my displeasure.”

“The railroad doesn’t care,” another said. “To them, we are just tickets. They have no concern over the disruption they are causing.”

“They can be that way because they have no competition. If another railroad were to be built, believe me, I would take it.”

Matt thought of the injured and dead he had seen lying alongside the wrecked train, and he wanted to suggest to these complaining blowhards that they had no idea what had really caused the disruption. Instead, he just stood up and walked outside to get a breath of fresh air.

Outside, he saw a young man nailing a poster onto the wall of the stagecoach depot.

WANTED

Matt Jensen

for MURDER and TRAIN ROBBERY

$5,000 REWARD DEAD or ALIVE

Contact U. S. Marshal Ben Kyle, Yuma, A. T.

“Whoowee, wouldn’t I like to run across that fella?” someone said from behind Matt. Turning, he saw a short man with a gray beard and hair. The man spit out a stream of tobacco juice, then rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I don’t know,” Matt said. “If he’s a murderer, I’m not sure he’s the kind of person you would want to meet.”

“Sonny, for five thousand dollars, I’d take a chance. Would you be Mr. Cavanaugh?”

“Yes,” Matt said. Turning, he saw an older man with a head of white hair and a full, white beard.

“I’m Gabby Martin,” the bearded man said. “I’ll be drivin’ the stage today. I’m told you’ll be ridin’ alongside me.”

“Yes, I will, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. It’s a six-hour trip to Purgatory, and it gets awful lonely up there by myself with nobody to talk to.” Gabby chuckled. “And it ain’t for nothin’ that they call me Gabby, if you get my meanin’.”

“I don’t mind a little conversation on a long trip,” Matt replied.

“Well, good for you, good for you,” Gabby said. “I reckon that’ll make this run just real pleasant.”

A few minutes later, a stagecoach drew up in front of the depot. The coach was weather-worn and the name on the door, MARICOPA COACH COMPANY, was so dim that it could scarcely be read.

Gabby chuckled. “I’ll be damn. I thought they had put this one in the barn forever,” he said. “I reckon, what with the railroad out ’n’ all, that Mr. Teasedale had to round up everything that rolls.”

The driver who had brought the stage around was a young man, and he set the brakes, then tied off the reins before he climbed down.

“Here you go, Mr. Martin,” the young man said. “It’s all ready for you.”

“Tell me, Johnny, do you think this old junk heap will make it all the way to Purgatory?” Gabby asked, only half-teasing.

“Oh, yes, sir, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble a’tall,” Johnny said. “You might remember that the right rear wheel had a flattened axle, but I packed it real good with a lot of grease. It should hold up just fine.”

Gabby stepped back to look at the wheel in question. A crown of black grease oozed out from the wheel hub. He grabbed the top of the wheel rim and pulled and pushed it a couple of times to examine the play in the wheel.

“If that wheel comes off on me, Johnny, when I get back here I’m goin’ to come down on you like flies on a cow turd.”

Johnny laughed. “Trust me, it’ll be fine.”

“Ha! The last time someone said ‘Trust me,’ she wound up givin’ me a case of the pox,” Gabby said. “But, I reckon I got no choice but to trust you.” He looked at Matt. “What do you say, sonny? You willin’ to take a chance?”

“I’m willing,” Matt replied.

“I figured you would be. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say nothin’ to the other passengers about that wheel.”

“I won’t say a word,” Matt promised.

“All right, Johnny, let’s get the luggage loaded, then you can tell the folks in there we’re ready to go.”

The luggage was brought out onto the porch, then loaded into the boot, though there was so much that several pieces had to be put on the roof. Gabby and Johnny spent about five minutes loading and securing the luggage. Then Gabby climbed up into the driver’s seat.

“Come on up, sonny,” Gabby called down to Matt. “Soon as the others get loaded, we’ll get under way.”

The road ran parallel with the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks, and about two hours after they left Sentinel, they passed the burnt-out, smashed, and strewn cars from the wreck. A huge, rail-mounted lifting crane was on the scene as a railroad work crew went about the business of repairing the railroad and cleaning up the mess.

“That must’ve been some wreck,” Gabby said.

“It was.”

Gabby looked over at Matt. “Was you in it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll be. All this time we’ve been talkin’, and you ain’t said nothin’ about bein’ in the wreck.”

Matt laughed. “Gabby, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, all this time you’ve been talking.”

Gabby laughed. “Well, I guess you got me on that one, sonny,” he said. “It weren’t for nothin’ that I come by this moniker Gabby. So you was in that train wreck, was you?”

“Yes.”

“I figured it was pretty bad, what with all the bodies and the injured that was brought into town and all. I guess I just didn’t have me any idee of what it actual looked like.”

“Maybe, seeing the train wreck, the complainers down inside will understand why they are being inconvenienced,” Matt suggested.

“Ha, don’t count on it,” Gabby said. “Folks like that would complain if you hung ’em with a new rope.”

Matt chuckled, though as he had been on his way to being hanged, the joke hit a little closer to home than he would have wanted.

“Gabby, have you ever heard of an outlaw named Cletus Odom?”

“I hope to smile I’ve heard of him. Why are you asking about him? Don’t tell me you are a bounty hunter, lookin’ to claim the reward on him.”

“No, I just heard the name and I was wondering about him, that’s all,” Matt said. “Why, is there a reward on him?”

“Oh, yeah, there’s a reward on him all right. Five thousand dollars it is, same as what’s on this Jensen fella. But whoever goes after it will have to earn it, because I’ll tell you this about him. He may be just about the meanest son of a bitch that ever drawed a breath. He robbed a coach once, then shot ever’ man, woman, and child so’s nobody could identify him. Only one of the women lived long enough to tell the law who did it, which is how come we know who it was.”

“That was a brave woman,” Matt said.

“Yes, sir, she was that.”

“This man, Cletus Odom,” Matt continued. “Would he be the kind of man that would wreck a train just to rob it?”

“Hell, yes,” Gabby said. “He’d do that in a heartbeat. And to tell you the truth, if we didn’t know for sure that this here Matt Jensen fella wrecked the train, I would’a bet a dollar to a doughnut that Odom did it.”

“How do we know that Matt Jensen did it?”

“How do we know? ’Cause Marshal Kyle said he done it.”

“And you believe everything Kyle says?”

“Well, Ben Kyle is a good man,” Gabby said. “He ain’t given much to lies and such. So, if he said Jensen done it, then I reckon I have to go along with that.”

“How do you think he did it?”

“There’s prob’ly lots of ways he could’a done it. He could’a shot the engineer and fireman, so there was nobody to run the train. And it if was goin’ too fast around a curve, well, you could see what would happen.”

“But why would he have done such a thing?”

“Well, if he stole the money, then he prob’ly wrecked the train just to cause a lot of confusion so’s he could get away.”

“You seem to have it all worked out,” Matt said.

Gabby chuckled. “Yes, sir. Well, truth to tell, though I ain’t never done nothin’ like that, from time to time I like to plan things out. Sort of a hobby, you might say.”

“I see.”

“But now, don’t go gettin’ me wrong,” Gabby said. “They ain’t no way on God’s green earth I’d ever actual do somethin’ like that.”

“Getting back to Cletus Odom,” Matt said. “Do you know much about him?”

“You sure are askin’ a lot of questions,” Gabby said.

Matt chuckled. “Well, I tell you, Gabby, you like to talk, so I figured I would just see to it that you talk about something I’m interested in.”

Gabby guffawed. “You got me there, sonny,” he said. “Yes, sir, you really did. Well, let’s see, what do I know about Cletus Odom?”

Gabby spit a wad of tobacco, which hit the top of the wheel, then rolled under with the progress of the stage. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Cletus Odom,” he said again. “All right, sonny, you just sit there and listen, and I’ll tell you about Cletus Odom.

“At one time, Cletus Odom was on the right side of the law. Leastwise, you could say that. He was a bounty hunter, you see, but he was the kind who would rather bring in dead quarry than live prisoners. He always made the claim that he didn’t have no choice, that he was only defendin’ himself. Even then, there was folks that didn’t like him, but then he done somethin’ that put him on the wrong side of the law for good.”

Gabby pulled out a twist of chewing tobacco, offered it to Matt, who declined, then bit off a big chew. He worked the chew down somewhat before he continued his tale.

“Seems there was a couple of cowboys named Evans and McCoy. They rode for the Rocking J. That’s a spread about ten miles south of Sentinel. I know’d ’em both, they was good boys—a little rambunctious at times, if you know what I mean. But all in all they was good boys.

“Well, sir, after a drive one day—wan’t that much of a drive, all they done was just bring some cows into town from the ranch in order to ship ’em out on the railroad. Then, after they got the cows loaded and drawed their pay, they went into the Ox Bow and started drinkin’.

“Turns out that Odom was in the saloon, too, and he was causin’ trouble for this little ole’ gal that Evans liked. I mean, she was a whore, there was no gettin’ around that, but Evans was sweet on her. Anyhow, when he seen Odom slap her, he walked over and knocked Odom down.”

Gabby spit out a stream of tobacco, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he continued the story.

“Well, sir, Odom, he didn’t like that much. No, sir, he didn’t like that none at all. So he got to eggin’ Evans and McCoy on, callin’ ’em cowards and other things that no man could take and still call hisself a man. Then, Evans and McCoy pulled iron agin’ Odom. And that was their mistake.”

“He killed them?”

“He kilt both of ’em, deader’n a doornail,” Gabby said. “There was an inquest, but it was ruled self-defense, bein’ as a lot of people seen that Evans and McCoy drawed first. ’Course nobody felt good about it, what with Odom eggin’ ’em on like he done. So whatever support Odom might have had for bringin’ in outlaws was sort of used up that day.”

“If he was found not guilty, why is there a reward out for him?” Matt asked.

“Well, sir, like I said, Odom didn’t have many friends left after he kilt them two cowboys. Then, not long after that, he kilt a man and brung him in for the reward. Onliest thing is, they had already pulled the paper on the feller he brought in, when they found out that he wasn’t guilty. Besides which, the reward didn’t say nothin’ about ‘dead or alive’ in the first place. They tried Odom again, an’ this time they found him guilty of murder, but he escaped and went on the outlaw trail.”

“What about the men who ride with him?” Matt asked. “A Mexican named Paco. A big man named Bates and someone named Schuler.”

“They’re all ridin’ with Odom?” Gabby asked.

“So I’ve heard,” Matt answered, not wanting to give away how he actually knew.

“I’ll be damn. I didn’t know that. Well, I can tell you about two of them fellers,” Gabby said. “Bates, the big fella, is a mean son of a bitch, all right. Word is, he once beat a miner to death with his bare hands. The Mexican, I don’t know nothin’ about. I ain’t never heard of him. But the other fella would be Moses Schuler. Me ’n’ Moses Schuler was friends once. He didn’t start out to be an outlaw, but I don’t doubt that he’s rid down that trail by now.”

“What sent him that way?”

“Whiskey, I reckon. Once whiskey gets aholt of a man, it don’t let him go.”

“You say the two of you were friends?”

“Yes, sir. Moses was a powder monkey with the Cross Point Mine. He was a good one, too. Why, he could shave off shale as easy as cuttin’ butter. But that’s a dangerous job and Schuler started drinkin’ a bit, just to settle his nerves, you understand. Only, he drank too much once, and he double-loaded a shoot. Instead of carving off a little bit of shale, it caused a mine cave-in. There was nine men kilt in that cave-in.

“Moses was never the same after that. He started drinkin’ more and workin’ less until he was fired. I heard tell that he blew a safe during a bank robbery down in Tucson, but don’t nobody know that for sure. You say he’s workin’ with Odom now?”

“Yes, or so I’ve heard,” Matt said.

“That’s too bad. Moses may not be dependable, and maybe he’s even stole a few things. But I don’t think he would ever kill anyone, not with how he was so upset over the accident in the mine.”

“How long since you’ve seen him?” Matt asked.

“How long? Lord ’a mercy, I’m not sure how long it’s been,” Gabby said. “I’d make it three years or more.”

“So he could be riding with Cletus Odom now and you would never know it,” Matt suggested.

Gabby spit out another stream of tobacco juice, then nodded. “You got me there, sonny, you got me there,” he said.

“Sorry I was the one who had to tell you about your friend,” Matt said.

“Don’t worry about it. I reckon I would have found out soon enough anyway. Ah, there’s the relay station just ahead. We’ll grab a bite to eat here, change teams, then be on our way. Oh, and while I’m looking after the teams, would you mind givin’ this to Rittenhouse over there?” Gabby asked. “The marshal wants these posted everywhere.”

Gabby gave Matt one of the wanted posters he had seen tacked up earlier.

“Sure,” Matt said. “I’d be glad to.”

Chapter Eleven

As the coach rolled into the station, Gabby hauled back on the reins and set the brake. With the stage at a standstill, the little cloud of dust that had been following them now rolled by them, and Matt heard some of the passengers coughing below.

Gabby chuckled. “You’re better off up here,” he said. “That dust really gets inside down there.”

“I know. I’ve ridden shotgun guard a few times in my life.”

“I figured you probably knew your way around a stagecoach,” Gabby said. He climbed down and yelled at the passengers in the stage. “Folks, we’ll be here for half an hour. Stretch your legs, take care of your needs, maybe grab some lunch. Miz Rittenhouse runs the kitchen here, and she makes some mighty fine chicken ’n’ dumplin’s.”

“Chicken and dumplings?” one of the men said. “My God, the driver actually said that as if we could possibly find such pedestrian fare appealing.”

Matt climbed down as well, listening to the continuing complaints of the two men who, it would appear, were trying to outdo each other. He was glad he wasn’t riding down in the box.

While the others went inside, Matt walked over to a couple of men who were standing near the corral.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” the older of the two men asked.

“Are you Rittenhouse? Gabby asked me to give this to you,” Matt said, showing him the poster.

The man looked at it for a moment, then whistled. “Five thousand dollars? That’s a lot of money.”

“Yes, it is,” Matt agreed.

“Damn. No picture? No description? How’s anyone supposed to find this fella?” the relay manager asked.

“You’ve got me,” Matt replied.

Rittenhouse turned to the young man to continue the conversation they were having when Matt had walked up.

“So, you are telling me that you are not going to take that string of horses for me?”

“I can’t, Mr. Rittenhouse,” the young man said. “Ma says Cindy is goin’ to have the baby just anytime now, and I wouldn’t want it to come while I was off pushin’ horses.”

“Damnit, Jimmy, I’ve got to get that string to Purgatory,” Rittenhouse said. “Now, suppose you just tell me how the hell I’m goin’ to do that.”

“I’ll take them for you,” Matt said.

Rittenhouse looked at Matt. “I beg your pardon?”

“You have a string of horses you want to take to Purgatory, I’m going to Purgatory, I’ll take them for you. But you’ll have to loan me a horse and saddle, I got here on the stage.”

“Mister, I don’t know anything about you,” Rittenhouse said. “How do you expect me to trust you with a string of horses?”

Matt smiled. “I guess you’ll just have trust your instinct,” he said.

“What’s your name?”

“Cavanaugh,” Matt answered. “Martin Cavanaugh.”

“Cavanaugh? Martin Cavanaugh?” Rittenhouse shook his head. “I know’d me a Martin Cavanaugh oncet. He was a good man, too. A hell of a good man. Cap’n Martin Cavanaugh it was. I served with him durin’ the war.”

“My pa was a captain in the army during the war,” Matt said.

“Your pa, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I don’t reckon there’s much a chance it’d be the same man or nothin’ like that,” Rittenhouse said. “But just ’cause I’m curious, what outfit was your pa in?”

“Pa started with the First Regiment of the Kansas Militia,” Matt said. “But he was wounded, and after that, he became adjutant to General Cox of the Twenty-third Army of Ohio.”

Rittenhouse broke into a big smile. “I’ll be damn! Yes, sir, that’s him! That’s the same Cap’n Cavanaugh I was talkin’ about!” he said. He stuck his hand out. “Any son of Cap’n Cavanaugh is all right in my book. Are you sure you’d like to take the string on into Purgatory?”

“I’d be glad to,” Matt said.

“All I can pay is ten dollars.”

“Ten dollars will be fine,” Matt replied. “Like I said, I’m going there anyway.”

“Jimmy?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Rittenhouse?”

“Cap’n Cavanaugh was one of the finest officers I ever run across. And his son just saved your job by agreein’ to take the horses. You owe him a word of thanks.”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Jimmy said. “Thank you, Mr. Cavanaugh. I hope you understand, if it weren’t for Cindy about to whelp, I’d’a been glad to go.”

“I understand,” Matt said. “You give your wife my best.”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“You owe him a bit more than thanks,” Rittenhouse said. “Saddle up Rhoda for him. And get them horses on a line. But before you do all that, get this posted.” He handed Jimmy the dodger on Matt.

“Yes, sir,” Jimmy said, taking the flyer in his hand.

“You can come on in and have some lunch while Jimmy’s getting ever’thing ready for you,” Rittenhouse said.

“Thanks, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon get started right away,” Matt said.

“I understand. All right, I’ll just go in and get your money.”

“I appreciate that.”

As Rittenhouse walked toward the relay station, Matt watched Jimmy tack up the poster on the wall of the barn. There were several other posters there as well, so Matt walked over to have a look at them as Jimmy got the horses ready. It didn’t take him long to find the one he was looking for.

WANTED

DEAD or ALIVE

for MURDER and ROBBERY

CLETUS ODOM

Reward of $1,500

Unlike the wanted poster for Matt Jensen, this reward poster did have a picture of Odom. It was a woodcut, but evidently taken from an actual photograph, because Matt saw a striking resemblance between the picture and the man he had seen robbing the train.

Looking around to make certain he wasn’t being observed, Matt tore the dodger down from the gray, weathered plank siding of the barn, and stuck it in his pocket. He was standing at the fence with his arms folded on the top rail when Rittenhouse came back. He handed Matt a ten-dollar bill and a brown paper bag.

“I know you said you didn’t plan to eat, but there’s some fresh baked bread and ham in the sack. I thought you could gnaw on it a bit while you were on the trail.”

“Thanks, Mr. Rittenhouse. I appreciate that.”

“No problem,” Rittenhouse said. “Say, whatever happened to your pa anyway? I never heard from him again after we was all mustered out. Course, him bein’ an officer and me just a private, I didn’t expect to. But I have wondered about him from time to time.”

“My father died some years ago,” Matt said.

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

Matt didn’t elaborate, though he could have said that his father hadn’t just died, he had been killed. He could also have gone on to say that he himself had personally killed, or watched the hanging of, everyone who had been involved in one way or another with the murder of his father, mother, and sister.

“It was a long time ago,” Matt said.

“Yes, and as they say, time heals all wounds,” Rittenhouse said.

At that moment, Jimmy came out, riding a saddled horse, while holding on to a line which six other horses were attached to. He swung down from the horse, then handed the reins to Matt.

“I’ll hold the string until you’re good mounted,” Jimmy offered.

“Thanks.”

Matt hopped up into the saddle, then reached down for the string. Jimmy handed it up to him.

“Don’t run ’em too hard because it may be they’ll have to take out a coach first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll take care of ’em.”

“You should arrive just before dark. Go right to the relay station. They’ll be lookin’ for them and they’ll no doubt meet you when you get there.”

Matt nodded, then reached down into the sack to pull out a sandwich. He took a bite, waved at Rittenhouse and Jimmy, then, slapping his legs against the side of his mount, rode out of the station.

When Odom, Paco, Bates, and Schuler reached the little town of Quigotoa, they stopped in front of the saloon.

“Ha!” Bates said as he dismounted. “I’m goin’ to get me a whole bottle of whiskey and a woman. No, two women. I ain’t never in my life been able to do nothin’ like that before.”

“You ain’t goin’ to do it now neither,” Odom said.

“What do you mean, I ain’t?” Bates replied. “I got my share of the money comin’ to me, don’t I?”

“Yes, and we’ll make the split here,” Odom said. “But then we are goin’ to go on our separate ways before we start spendin’ any of it. We won’t be spendin’ any of it here in this town.”

“That don’t make sense,” Bates said.” Why not spend money here? It’s our money now, ain’t it? So what’s the problem?”

“Think about it, Bates,” Odom said. “If the four of us come into a little place like this, then suddenly start spending money like it was water, don’t you think some people might get a little suspicious?”

“Hell, I don’t care whether they get suspicious or not,” Bates said. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference to me,” Odom said. “Like I say, we’ll split the money here, but you ain’t goin’ to start spendin’ it till we all go our separate ways. Once we do that, you’re on your own, and you can do any damn thing you want.”

“Sí, señor, I believe that is the smart thing to do,” Paco said.

“See, even Paco agrees with me,” Odom said.

“Paco’s a damn Mexican,” Bates replied. “What the hell do I care what a damn Mexican has to say about anything? What about you, Schuler?”

“I need a drink,” Schuler replied.

“Ha, I ain’t never seen you when you didn’t need a drink,” Bates teased.

The four men stepped into the saloon and looked around. It was nearly empty.

“What the hell?” Bates said. “Is this here saloon open?”

“Sí, we are open,” the Mexican bartender replied.

“How come there ain’t hardly nobody here?”

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Señor,” the bartender said. “We don’t get busy until afternoon.”

“Whiskey,” Schuler said.

“We have tequila and beer.”

“Tequila.”

“And breakfast,” Odom added. “You serve breakfast in here?”

“Sí, señor, bacon, eggs, beans, tortillas,” the bartender answered.

“That’ll do,” Odom said. “We’ll be there in the back.” He pointed to the table that was the most distant from the bar.

When the four men took their seat at the back of the room, Odom put the canvas bag on the table.

“All right,” he said. “If this bag has twenty thousand dollars, that is eight thousand for me, and four thousand for each of you.”

“Señor, how is it that you get twice as much as we get?” Paco asked.

“Because I am twice as smart,” Odom answered, glaring at Paco. “You should be glad I agreed to let you come with us in the first place.”

“Paco, we agreed going into this that Odom would get the most money,” Bates said.

“I did not agree,” Paco said.

“Then I agreed for you,” Bates replied.

Paco glared at Bates for a moment, then looked over at Schuler. “How much money is he getting?”

“He is getting four thousand, same as the rest of us,” Bates replied.

Why should he get as much money as we are getting? He did nothing. Estaba borracho todo el tiempo.”

“What did you say?” Bates asked.

“I said he was drunk the whole time. We did not need him to plant explosives on the safe. He did not earn his way.”

“He gets his cut,” Odom said, ending the discussion as he counted out the money, eight thousand dollars for himself, then four thousand each for Bates, Paco, and Schuler.

“Here you go, boys,” he said. “Don’ t spend it all in the same place.” He laughed at his own joke.

Chapter Twelve

The stagecoach depot and corral of horses were on the west end of Purgatory. That was good for Matt, because it meant he could deliver the string of horses without having to ride all the way into town and take a chance on being recognized. However, being seen in town wasn’t as risky as it might appear to be, because his trial had been held within an hour of the shooting. The trial had not taken place in a courthouse, nor even a city building. Instead, the trial was held in a saloon—the Pair O Dice Saloon—and the jury was made up entirely of saloon patrons, most of whom were drunk. That meant that there were very few of the town’s citizens who had actually had the opportunity to see him. He could probably walk the streets without fear of being recognized.

The depot was small and unpainted, except for a sign that read: MARICOPA COACH COMPANY. At the side of the building was a fenced-in corral, and at the rear of the corral, a large barn that was badly in need of painting.

Matt pulled his horse to a halt, dismounted, then tied his mount off before he started tending to the string of eight horses he had brought with him. A man about Matt’s age came out of the barn and started walking across the corral, picking his way carefully between deposits of “horse apples.” He had on an apron and was using it to wipe his hands as he came up to the fence.

“The name is Joe Claibie,” he said. “And you might be?”

“Cavanaugh,” Matt said. “Martin Cavanaugh.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

“Actually, I suppose it’s what I can do for you,” Matt replied. “I’ve brought you this string of replacement horses for the stage line.”

“I thought that might be it,” the affable young man said. “You working for Rittenhouse now, are you?”

“Temporarily,” Matt answered.

“Temporarily? What do you mean, temporarily?”

“I mean I’m not working for Mr. Rittenhouse full time. He just hired me to deliver this string for him.”

“Well, you must’ve done a pretty good job at it,” Claibie said. “I see you got them all here in one piece.” He laughed at his joke. “You’ve already been paid, right? I mean, we don’t owe you anything?”

“Not a thing,” Matt said.

“Good.” The hostler smiled. “You’re a good man, Mr. Cavanaugh. You’d be surprised at the number of people who would try and get paid twice.”

“I imagine there are a few like that,” Matt said. He ran his hand across the bare back of the horse he had been riding. “This horse belongs to you as well.”

“It does?” Claibie replied in surprise.

“Yes, Mr. Rittenhouse loaned it to me so I could bring over the string.”

“Just a minute,” Claibie said. “Let me get a closer look.” He made a thorough examination of the horse, then smiled. “I’ll be damn. You say Rittenhouse loaned you this horse himself?”

“Yes. Why, is there something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing wrong,” Claibie replied quickly. “I tell you, Mr. Cavanaugh. You must’ve done somethin’ to impress him, because this is Blue, and Ole’ Man Rittenhouse don’t let just anybody ride him.”

“Blue is a good horse,” Matt said

“You’re needin’ a horse, are you?” Claibie asked.

Matt nodded. “Yes. Do you have one for sale?”

“Not exactly,” Claibe said. “I thought I was going to get one, I showed up at the marshal’s auction last night, but the marshal outbid me.”

“Marshal’s auction?”

“Yes. You see, by law, whenever the city marshal confiscates a horse, like say from an outlaw that’s goin’ to prison, he is required to hold an auction to sell it off. But lots of times he’ll keep news of the auction so quiet that nobody shows up. Then the marshal can buy ’em real cheap.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yep. The marshal’s damn smart, he is,” the hostler said. “He has purt’ nigh become rich by buyin’ horses for a dollar, then sellin’ ’em for seventy-five to a hunnert dollars. He’s got one for sale now, a fine sorrel with a bright, reddish-brown coat. That’s the horse I was biddin’ on but, like I say, the marshal outbid me.” Claibie stroked his chin. “Truth to tell, with this marshal, I don’t know if he actually paid the money he bid anyway. There’s no way of checking since he was buyin’ the horse from his ownself, so to speak.” Claibie laughed. “He may have stepped in it, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hell, Mr. Cavanaugh, there can’t nobody ride that horse ’ceptin’ Matt Jensen. That’s the fella that owned him, and he ain’t likely to ever ride again, seein’ as how he come into town, kilt Deputy Gillis, was tried, then took to Yuma to be hung, all in the same day.”

“Maybe the fact that nobody can ride him will make the marshal sell the horse cheap,” Matt said.

“Maybe, but what good would it do you if you did get the horse? Like I said, there can’t nobody ride him.”

“I’m pretty good with horses,” Matt said. “I’ve broken a few in my day. I’d like to give it a try. What about the saddle? Did the marshal confiscate the saddle as well?”

“I’m sure he did. Lot’s of times he sells the saddle with the horse. Wait a minute, let me step into my office here. Would you like to see the paper the marshal put out?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

“All right, wait here and I’ll go get it. But if you buy it, tell ’im Joe Claibie sent you. He might give me a little somethin’ for suggestin’ it to you.”

Matt waited while Claibie stepped into the office. A moment later, he came back outside with a piece of paper and showed it to Matt.

FOR SALE

Sorrel with red coat and white face

Fine Saddle

$150.00

See City Marshal Andrew Cummins

Matt handed the paper back to Claibie. “Thanks for showing this to me, but I’m afraid a hundred and fifty dollars is a little too expensive for my blood.”

“Yeah, well, that is a little steep, especially for a horse you would have to break in order to even ride him. Listen, are you be staying around town long? The reason I ask is, if you’re looking for a job, I could maybe put you on. Business is real brisk since the railroad got cut.”

“That can’t last much longer, though,” Matt said. “I came by the wreck today. They’re working really hard, and will probably have it cleaned up within a few days. And, I don’t think you would want to be taking on extra help now, only to have to cut back when your business slows again.”

“Come to think of it, I guess you have a point there. Well, I’d better see to the horses. Thanks again.”

“Oh, wait,” Matt called.

“Yes, sir?”

“Let’s say I wanted to have a look at this horse. Where could I see it?”

“When I seen it, it was down at the city corral, but now that it belongs to Marshal Cummins, I reckon you’d probably find it in the marshal’s stable.”

“The marshal’s stable?”

“Yes, it’s just behind his office. Ask one of the deputies, they’ll take you back and let you see him.”

“Thanks,” Matt said.

Matt walked on down toward the town, oblivious of the red and gold sunset behind him. He stayed on the boardwalk, keeping close to the buildings so as not to stand out in plain sight for anyone who might have been in the saloon at the time of his trial.

About half a block before he reached the marshal’s office, he ducked in between a boot maker’s shop and a meat market, then moved back to the alley. The smell of blood and freshly butchered meat was overpowering, and in the alley, he could hear the loud buzzing of flies as they feasted on the discarded beef entrails and bones.

He saw the marshal’s stable about fifty yards up the alley and, glancing around to make certain he wasn’t seen, moved quickly to it. The top half of the door was open to allow some cooling air for the horses. Matt stepped up to the half-open door and looked into the shadowed interior.

At first, he didn’t see Spirit.

“Spirit,” he called. “Spirit, are you in here, boy?”

He heard Spirit whinny, heard his foot paw at the ground.

“Good boy,” Matt said. “You just be patient for a little while. Once it gets dark, I’ll come get you.”

Matt went out behind the alley, which was actually behind the town, and finding a dry arroyo that ran parallel with the alley, he slipped down into it to wait for darkness.

It was interesting to watch the transition of the town as darkness fell. The sounds of commerce—the ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer, the rattle of wagons and buckboards, the hoofbeats of horses and footfalls of pedestrians, gave way to the sounds of night. He could hear a baby crying, the yap of a dog, the laughter of children, the carping complaint of an angry wife. But soon, even those sounds gave way to the sounds of those who were seeking pleasure. A piano, high and tinny, spilled out the melody to “Buffalo Gals.” A bar girl cackled—a man guffawed loudly. From a whore’s crib, he heard the practiced moans of a prostitute with her customer.

About one hour after full darkness, Matt climbed out of the arroyo and walked quietly, cautiously, up to the marshal’s stable. Opening the bottom half of the door, he moved into the stable, which was partially lit by a silver bar of moonlight that splashed in through the door.

“Spirit?” he called out.

Again, he heard Spirit respond and, heading toward the sound, reached the stall where Spirit was being kept. Stepping inside, he reached out to pat Spirit on the neck. Spirit lowered his head and nuzzled him.

“Did you think I had abandoned you, boy?” Matt asked.

Spirit pawed at the ground.

“I need to find the saddle,” Matt said. Taking a match from his pocket, he lit it by popping it on his fingernail. A little bubble of golden light illuminated the stall sufficiently well for him to see the saddle, which was draped across a sawhorse in the back of the same stall that housed Spirit. Extinguishing the match, Matt got the saddle, and then put it on Spirit, all the time talking quietly and reassuringly to him.

Once Spirit was saddled, Matt led him out of the stable, back across the arroyo. Not until he was on the other side of the arroyo did he climb into the saddle. He rode out into the desert country just to the north of the town of Purgatory. Once again, he was well mounted and free. It was a good feeling, and he knew that the only thing he had to do to put all this behind him was ride back to Colorado.

The instinct to return to Colorado was strong, but he couldn’t get the scene of the little girl, impaled by the bloody stake from the smashed railroad car, out of his mind. As he had passed her broken body to her mother, he had made the decision to go after the men who had caused the wreck. And he wasn’t going to go back on that decision now.

He would take care of that first. Then he planned to come back to Purgatory and clear his name. He wasn’t sure how he would be able to do that, but he did not plan on spending the rest of his life with wanted posters dogging him everywhere he went.

Matt reached down and patted Spirit on the neck. “It’s good to have you back, boy,” he said. “I was getting lonely without my old friend to talk to.”

Spirit whickered, and bobbed his head a couple of times. Matt laughed out loud. “Yes, I know, I know, you’ve heard all my stories. You’re just going to have to hear them again,” he said.

It was mid-morning of the next day when Matt happened onto a remote building. At first he thought it might be a line shack for some ranch, no more substantial did it appear. But as he came closer, he saw that it was a combination store, saloon, and hotel. The sign out front read:

LONESOME CHARLEY’S

Food–Beer–Beds.

Some might wonder how a business so remotely located could possibly survive, but Matt knew that it survived precisely because it was so remote. Any traveler who happened by and needed supplies would have to shop here, as there was no competition.

The building either had never been painted, or was in such need of new paint that no semblance of the old paint remained. The wood was baked gray by the Arizona sun, and the roof over the porch was sagging on one end. There was a wasps’ nest in the joint between the roof and the front of the building. A dog lay sleeping on the porch, so confident in his position that he didn’t even wake up as Matt stepped by him, then pushed open the door to go inside.

The inside of the building was lit by washed-out sunlight that stabbed in through windows that were so covered with dirt that they were nearly opaque. In addition, bars of sunlight stabbed through the wide cracks between the boards illuminating thousands of glowing dust motes. The inside of the building smelled of bacon, flour, and various spices. An old woman was sitting on a chair, smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper. Matt could see the headline on one of the stories.

TRAIN WRECK ON SOUTHERN PACIFIC! MANY DEAD! MANY INJURED!

The woman looked up as Matt entered. “My man will be with you in a moment,” the said. “He’s back in the outhouse.”

“I’m in no hurry,” Matt replied.

Almost before Matt got the words out of his mouth, a white-haired man, wearing an apron, came in through the back door. He was still poking his shirttail down into his pants.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’ll take some jerky and coffee,” Matt said.

“Yes, sir, we’ve got some fine jerky. What about bacon? Freshly smoked, it’s mighty tasty with biscuits and a little redeye gravy.”

“I’m sure it is,” Matt said. “But jerky and coffee are all I need right now.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll get it together for you. We just got the paper in today. We’ve been readin’ all about the big train wreck on the Southern Pacific. Have you heard anything about it?”

“Not too much,” Matt answered.

“They’re sayin’ a fella by the name of Matt Jensen caused the wreck. Got away with a hunnert thousand dollars, too.”

“Don’t be silly, George, it wan’t no hunnert thousand dollars,” the woman said. “It was only fifty thousand.”

“How much ever it was, I hope they catch him,” George said. He wrapped Matt’s purchase up in a piece of oilcloth and slid it across the counter to him. “That’ll be five dollars,” he said.

“Five dollars?” Matt replied, stunned by the amount. The purchase should have been little more than fifty cents. “That’s pretty high, isn’t it?”

“You don’t have to buy here,” George said.

Matt chuckled, then shook his head. He gave George a five-dollar bill. “You know what? You are what they call a sharp business man.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” George said.

Taking his purchase, Matt told both George and his wife good-bye, then went outside, swung back into the saddle, and rode away.

“That was a handsome young man,” George’s wife said after Matt left.

“I suppose so,” George said. “I sure wouldn’t want that fella mad at me, though.”

“Why not?”

“There was somethin’ about him, a hint of sulfur or somethin’, that tells me he is one dangerous man. And the way he was a’wearin’ that gun—he knows how to use it, I’m sure.”

“Oh, pooh,” George’s wife said. “A nice, pretty man like that has probably never even shot a gun.”

George was silent for a moment before he responded.

“Yeah,” he said. “You might be right.”

United States Marshal Ben Kyle sat at the desk in his office in Sentinel, drumming his fingers as he looked at the passenger list from the train wreck. By now, all the dead had been identified, as had all the injured. Some of the uninjured passengers had already continued their westbound journey, but he had managed to talk to each of them before they left. None of them recalled seeing a man brought on board in chains, and none recalled seeing anyone in chains leave the scene of the wreck.

Sentinel had been the final destination for four of the passengers, and he had spoken to them as well, but none of them could recall seeing a man in chains. Or at least, if anyone saw him, they wouldn’t admit to it. Why was that? he wondered. Were they frightened? Had Jensen gotten to them, threatened them in any way?

As Kyle continued to study the passenger list, he picked up his pencil and then drew a line under two names.

Louise Dobbs

Jerry Dobbs

Marshal Kyle knew Louise and Jeremiah Dobbs. They owned a small ranch just outside of town. Mrs. Dobbs and her two children, Jerry and Suzie, had gone to Purgatory to visit her sister, and were returning when the train was wrecked. Purgatory was where Matt Jensen had boarded and Mrs. Dobbs had to have seen him.

In fact, as he recalled the incident now, young Jerry had almost said something to him. When questioned, Jerry said that he hadn’t seen anything, but that was only after a stern glance from his mother.

Kyle had seen the look Louise Dobbs gave her son then, but because her little girl had been killed, he had not wanted to bother her with questions, hoping that he would get the information he needed from one of the other passengers. Unfortunately, that had not worked out for him, and now it appeared as if Mrs. Dobbs would be his only source.

Sighing, Kyle stood up. “Boomer?” he called to his deputy.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m going to ride out to the Dobbs ranch.”

“You’re going to question Mrs. Dobbs, are you?”

“Yes,” Kyle said. “But I swear, I’d rather be horsewhipped than bother that poor woman right now.”

“I don’t blame you. Would you like for me to come with you?”

“No, I appreciate the offer, but there’s no need for that. You just hold down the fort while I’m gone,” Kyle said as he reached for his hat.

“Yes, sir, I’ll do that,” Boomer said. “Benjamin, why is it, do you suppose, that nobody wants to tell us anything about this Jensen fella? Do you think he has them all buffaloed?”

“I don’t know, Boomer. I’ve been wondering about that myself,” Kyle said. “Maybe I can find out something from Mrs. Dobbs.”

The Dobbs ranch was about five miles south of Sentinel, and when Marshal Kyle rode up to the house, he saw that there were at least half-a-dozen wagons and buckboards parked out in the yard, the teams still in harness and standing quietly. At first, he was surprised that there were so many people here. Then suddenly, he realized that he must have arrived around the time of the funeral. These were all friends, neighbors, and relatives, come to pay their respects to the Dobbses over the loss of their little girl. For a moment, he wished he hadn’t come to impose on them, and he was considering turning around when Jeremiah Dobbs stepped out onto the porch to greet him.

“Marshal Kyle,” he said. “How nice of you to come to Suzie’s funeral. My wife and I never expected anything like this. You honor us. Please, get down and come in.”

Dobbs thought this was a sympathy visit, and Kyle saw no reason, at this point, to disabuse him of that idea. He swung down from his horse, then wrapped the reins around a hitching post.

“How are you doing, Jeremiah?” Kyle asked in as solicitous a voice as he could muster.

“I’m doing as well as can be expected, I suppose,” Jeremiah said, “having lost my little girl. It’s Louise I’m worried about. She’s takin’ this real hard, she keeps blamin’ herself.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kyle said. “Why would she blame herself?”

“That’s what I keep tellin’ her,” Jeremiah said. “But she says if she just hadn’t gone to see her sister when she did, or, if she had taken better care of Suzie while they were on the train, maybe Suzie would still be with us.”

“None of that has anything to do with the wreck, or with Suzie getting killed,” Kyle said. “I know she’s upset, but as soon as she realizes that there was nothing she could have done to prevent it, I expect she’ll come around.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Kyle followed Jeremiah into the house. There were at least two dozen people gathered in the parlor, sitting, standing, talking in low, soothing tones. There were a few people down at the end of the large room who appeared to be looking down at something, and as Kyle studied them more closely he realized, with a start, that they were staring at the body of the little girl.

“Would you like to see her?” Jeremiah asked. “Mr. Albriton fixed her up just real nice. She looks just like she’s sleeping.”

“I—” Kyle began, and then he stopped. He was about to tell Jeremiah that he would just as soon not look at the little girl, but he knew that the viewing of his daughter’s remains was very important to Jeremiah.

“Yes, I would be very honored to look at her,” Kyle said.

Jeremiah led Kyle through the room toward the open coffin. Nearly everyone in the room recognized him, and they spoke to him as he passed by. In some cases, Kyle gave single syllable answers; in others, he just nodded.

The coffin was child-sized. The lid was open and Suzie could be seen lying in the coffin, her head slightly elevated by a white pillow. She was wearing a pink dress with white lace, and her hands, crossed in front of her, grasped a single yellow rose. Her blond hair cascaded over her shoulders in ringlets of curls. The pallor of death had been pushed back by the artful application of paint and powder.

“Doesn’t she look just like a little angel?” one of the women standing over the coffin asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Kyle said. “She does indeed.”

“Folks, if you’ll all find a place to sit, we’ll commence the funeral now,” a man in black said. Kyle recognized him as the Reverend E. D. Owen, pastor of the Sentinel Holiness Church.

For a moment, Kyle just stood there, but Jeremiah called to him and offered him a chair. Clearing his throat, Kyle took the seat and looked around the room at the others. The men, women, and children who had come to Suzie’s funeral were all dressed in their Sunday best. Kyle, who was wearing his normal work clothes of denim trousers and a white, collarless shirt, felt a little embarrassed by his dress, though neither Jeremiah nor anyone else, by word or deed, added to his discomfort.

Reverend Owen stood in front of Suzie’s coffin, waiting until everyone was settled before he began to speak.

“My brothers and sisters,” he began. “We are gathered here to pay our final respects, and to commit to the Lord’s keeping the soul of this wonderful child, Suzie Dobbs.

“It is a sad thing when we lose a loved one, and that sadness is particularly bitter when the loved one is a child. Such a loss might cause many to question their faith, to be angry with God for allowing such a terrible thing to happen.

“But I say to you, my brothers and sisters, do not be angry, nor saddened by the loss of this child, for remember, Suzie, like all of us, belongs to God. He loaned her to us for just a little while, before taking her back into His glory. Our time in this life is measured, the years known but to God. But our time in the hereafter is without measure, for we will all meet again in the eternal glory that awaits us all.

“Into God’s gracious mercy and protection we commit this child. The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace, both now and evermore. Amen.”

Suzie was buried in a family plot out behind the house, alongside the graves of Jeremiah’s mother and father and that of a stillborn infant. Afterward, all returned to the house, where a meal was served from dishes prepared by the friends, neighbors, and relatives.

Louise Dobbs was sitting on the far side of the room. Jerry was on the floor beside his mother, and Louise’s left hand was resting on Jerry’s shoulder. In her right hand was a tightly gripped, wadded handkerchief, the handkerchief wet with her tears. Occasionally, someone would stop by the chair to say a word or two to her; then they would go on, leaving her to herself.

Kyle hated to use this time to question her, but he had ridden this far and he was here, so he might as well get it done. He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and then walked over to see her.

“Mrs. Dobbs,” Kyle said when he stepped up to the chair. “May I offer you my most sincere sympathy?”

“Thank you,” Louise said.

“I—uh, wonder if I could ask you a few questions?”

“What about?”

“About the train wreck,” Kyle said.

“I don’t know anything about it,” Louise answered. “One minute, we were riding along normally, and the next moment, the car was bumping all over the place. Then it went off the track and turned over. I don’t remember much after that.”

“Yes, ma’am, well, that’s not exactly what I want to talk about.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’m trying to find the man who caused all this. He killed the deputy from Purgatory. Then I’m sure that, somehow, he caused the wreck so he could steal the money and get away in all the panic and confusion. I think that man’s name is Matt Jensen, and he got on the train in Purgatory, the same time you did. I’m hoping you might have seen him.”

“He didn’t cause the train wreck,” Louise said. “And I don’t believe he killed the deputy or stole the money.”

Louise’s answer surprised Kyle. He had thought, at best, that she might claim to have seen him, but be able to offer little information. But her answer not only indicated that she had seen him, it also meant that she had interacted with him in some way.

“Mrs. Dobbs, excuse me, but what do you mean? I am confused as to why you would say such a thing. Do you know this man?”

“No.”

“Then, how can you be so sure that he didn’t cause the wreck, kill the deputy, and steal the money?”

“Because he saved my life,” Louise replied. “And he also saved the lives of several others on the train. If he had done all those things you said he did, I do not believe he would have stayed around to help the others. Do you believe that he would?”

“I don’t know,” Kyle said. “There’s no telling how some people are going to react to certain things. He may have just done that to throw people off.”

“No, that wouldn’t be necessary. In fact, Jerry and I are the only ones who could have recognized him, so he had no reason to throw people off. I knew who he was the moment he showed up in the car where I was pinned under the seat. He had been in chains when he got on the train, but somehow he got out of them. And I’ll you the truth, Marshal, I was very glad to see him because, as I say, he saved my life.”

“Let’s say that you are right, let us say that he did save your life—”

“There is no ‘let us say’ to it,” Louise said, interrupting Kyle. “He did save my life.”

“All right, he did save your life. If that is the case, then don’t you think that might cause you to have a loyalty to him? A loyalty that is misplaced? Especially if he was the cause of the accident in the first place?”

“How could he have caused the accident?” Louise asked. “You said yourself that he was in chains.”

“But, by your own admission, he wasn’t in chains when you saw him, was he?”

“No.”

“Could you describe him for me?”

“I don’t think I can,” Louise said.

“You don’t think you can, or you don’t think you will?”

Louise didn’t answer.

“Mrs. Dobbs, please,” Kyle said.

“You can say anything you want, Marshal. You are not going to make me believe that this man, Matt Jensen, did all the terrible things you said he did. Like I told you, he worked harder than anyone to pull people out of the wreckage. Then he helped Dr. Presnell tend to the injured. As a matter of fact, I doubt that he was even guilty of whatever crime put him in chains in the first place.”

“First-degree murder,” Kyle said. “He was tried and convicted, and was on his way to Yuma to be hanged, until he got away.”

“Well, all I can say is, I’m glad he got away.”

“I see,” Kyle said. He sighed. “Again, Mrs. Dobbs, my condolences for your loss.” He turned and walked away.

Unwittingly, Louise Dobbs had given him more information than she realized. She had told him that the man he had looked for had worked with Dr. Presnell. All he had to do now was talk to the doc.

Chapter Thirteen

When Odom and Bates left Quigotoa, Paco and Schuler stayed behind. Schuler stayed because he had gotten drunk the night before and was still passed out drunk the next morning. Paco stayed to, in his words, “look after Schuler.”

“Señor,” Paco said, shaking Schuler awake. “Señor, wake up.”

“What?” Schuler mumbled. “What is it? What do you want?”

“Wake up, Señor,” Paco said.

Sitting up, Schuler rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked around.

“Paco, what are you doing here?”

“I have come to wake you up, Señor Schuler.”

“Why?”

“Because you are in the room of my sister,” Paco said, only sister came out as seester. “My sister is a puta. She needs the room now.”

“What time is it?” Schuler’s eyes seemed to be floating in their sockets, and it was obvious he was having a hard time focusing.

“It is seven o’clock, I think.”

“Damn. I need a drink.”

Paco handed Schuler a bottle of tequila, and Schuler turned the bottle up to his lips, then took several swallows before lowering it. The drink had the effect of waking him up, and the eyes that couldn’t focus but a moment earlier now stared pointedly at Paco.

“Paco,” he said, as if just seeing him for the first time. “What are you doing here?”

“My sister needs this room now,” Paco said.

“Hey!” a voice shouted from the hallway outside the room. “If you ain’t got a whore in there with you, get the hell out!”

“All right, all right,” Schuler called back. “I’m coming.”

There was no need for Schuler to get dressed, because he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on when he went to bed the night before. For that matter, he was wearing the same clothes he’d worn last week, and the week before that.

Schuler got to his feet rather unsteadily, stabilized himself for a moment by holding on to the bedpost, then, summoning as much dignity as he could, took two steps across the little room and opened the door.

There was an Anglo cowboy standing in the hall, with his arm draped around Rosita’s neck. His hand was cupped around one of Rosita’s breasts.

“What the hell were you doing in there anyway, you goddamn drunk?” the cowboy asked Schuler. “You ain’t had a woman in so long, you wouldn’t even know what a naked woman looks like.”

“I’m sorry,” Schuler said.

“Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t get it,” the angry cowboy said. “Just get the hell out of the way and let a man get his business done.”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Schuler repeated.

Schuler followed Paco to the head of the stairs, then stopped for a moment in order to steady himself before he tackled the task of going down the narrow, steep flight of stairs. By holding on to the banister, he managed to negotiate them; then, standing on the main floor, he looked around the saloon for the others.

“Do you want breakfast, Señor?” Paco asked.

“Breakfast? No,” Schuler answered, the expression on his face reflecting his nausea over the thought of breakfast. “Where are Odom and Bates?” he asked.

“Odom said we are to meet him and Bates in Puxico.”

“We are to meet them in Puxico? Why?”

“We will divide the money there.”

“I don’t understand. Didn’t we divide the money last night?”

“Sí, we divided the money last night. But then we gave the money back to Señor Odom.”

“We did?” Schuler replied.

“Sí.”

“Why did we do that?”

“Señor Odom said it would be better if we went to Puxico before we divided the money. Do you not remember this, amigo? We talked about it, and we all agreed.”

“No, I—I don’t remember,” Schuler said. His confusion was very evident now. “I don’t think I would agree to such a thing. I don’t want to go to Puxico.”

“That’s because you were drunk, Señor,” Paco said.

Schuler ran his hand through his thinning, white hair. “All right,” he said. “Are you coming?”

“You go, Señor, I will come later,” Paco said.

“Puxico?”

“Sí, Puxico.”

Paco watched Schuler leave the saloon, then he walked over to the window. He saw Schuler saddle his horse and ride away before he walked back into the saloon to sit at one of the tables.

“Do you want breakfast, Paco?”

“Sí.”

“Beans, tortillas?”

“No, Señor. I want steak, eggs, and coffee.”

“Ha! Did Rosita give you some money or something? You are ordering like a rich man.”

Paco laughed, then thought of the saddlebags he had hidden in his room. In them, he had almost eight thousand dollars, counting the money he had just stolen from Schuler.

Chapter Fourteen

The battlefield was a cacophony of sound, with the tinny calls of bugles, the distant roar of cannon fire, the closer rattle of musketry, and the wailing moans of the wounded. It was also a kaleidoscope of images: flags fluttering atop carried staffs, shells bursting in air, and smoke drifting across the field.

“You’d better get ready,” the colonel said. “We have just been committed to battle. I expect there will be casualties.”

“I’m ready, Colonel.”

Overhead, there was a sound, not unlike that of an unattached rail car rolling quickly down a track. It was an incoming shell from the Yankee artillery, and it burst with an ear-shattering explosion nearby.

“Dr. Presnell?”

Dr. Presnell heard the long roll of drums, as the Tenth Georgia was called into a line of battle.

“Dr. Presnell?”

There were already too many wounded. Why were they going to attack again? He was just one doctor, he couldn’t handle everyone all by himself.

“Dr. Presnell?”

There was another cannon blast, this one so close that it woke him up.

Woke him up?

“Dr. Presnell?” someone was saying.

Outside, there was a thunderstorm in progress, and a flash of lightning turned the dimly lit room into the brightest day, but just for an instant. It was followed almost immediately by another roar of thunder. Rain, like the rattle of musketry and the roll of drums, slashed against the windows of the school building.

Doc rubbed his eyes. He had been dreaming!

“Dr. Presnell?” Harry White was saying. White, who was Sentinel’s only pharmacist, was helping tend to those who had been injured in the train wreck.

“Yes, Harry?”

“I’m sorry to wake you,” White said. “But you said you wanted to know if Mr. Carter’s fever broke.”

“Yes, thank you,” Doc said. “So, it broke, did it?”

“About five minutes ago,” White said. White smiled. “You know what? I think all the rest of them might pull through now.”

Doc stood up, stretched, then returned White’s smile. “I think you may be right,” he said. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you there.”

“Oh, my, don’t apologize,” White said. “You have been tending to these people night and day for several days now. Many of them would have died, had it not been for you.”

“I’ve had help,” Doc said. “You have been invaluable to me.”

“Thank you,” White answered.

“I guess I’ll walk around and have a look at them.”

There was another flash of lightning and roar of thunder.

“Some storm we’re having,” Doc said.

“Yes, it is. A few are disturbed by it, but I think it’s just because they are still traumatized by the train wreck.”

“Yes, I think you are right,” Doc said, as he walked up to look at the first of his many patients.

Dr. Galen Presnell was a veteran of the Civil War. He had participated in many campaigns throughout the war, but none worse than Gettysburg, where he treated battlefield wounds that ranged from mere scratches to traumatic amputations. But not since that time had he been involved with such massive numbers of dead and injured. Thirty-three men, women, and children had been killed in the train wreck. Forty more were injured, twelve of whom were seriously injured.

The number of dead had overwhelmed the town’s only undertaker, so two more undertakers had come to help Albriton, one from Stanwix and one from Mohawk Summit. Those were the next two towns west of Sentinel on the Southern Pacific line, thus making it easy for them to come over.

Seth McKenzie, who owned the wagon repair shop, had cleared a place in his warehouse for the bodies to be stored until they could be shipped back home. At the same time, the school building had been turned into a makeshift hospital, there being no hospital in Sentinel, and Dr. Presnell’s office not being big enough to handle those who required hospitalization.

Dr. Presnell stopped by the bed of each of his patients, spoke for a moment with the ones who were awake, assuring one and all that the worst had passed.

“Cannon fire,” one man said.

“I beg your pardon?” Doc replied.

There was more thunder, but this was distant, a long, low, growling roar.

“The thunder, it sounds like cannon fire,” the patient said.

“I take it you have heard cannon fire on the battlefield,” Doc said.

“Yes, I was with the Second Wisconsin at Gettysburg. Colonel Fairchild’s Regiment.”

Doc put his hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “I was at Gettysburg as well.”

“Then you know what I mean when I say it sounds like cannon fire.”

“I do indeed.”

“Who were you with?”

“I was with the Tenth Georgia, under Colonel John B. Weems, assigned to General James Longstreet’s First Army Corps.”

For a moment, the two men looked at each other. Once committed to a battle that made them deadly enemies, they were now experiencing a moment of reflection that no one else in the room could share, or even understand.

“Welcome home, brother,” Doc said.

“Welcome home, Doc,” the patient replied.

By the time Doc finished his rounds, the thunder had moved off and was now little more than a distant rumble. White was standing by a window looking outside when Doc stepped up alongside him.

“Looks like the rain has stopped,” White said.

“Harry, if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave these folks with you for a while. I think I’m going to go over to the Ox Bow to have a beer.”

“You go right ahead, Doctor,” White replied. “Lord knows you have earned it.”

The rain had left the streets a muddy quagmire, but fortunately, the school building and the saloon, though at opposite ends of the town, were on the same side of the street. Doc was able to negotiate the distance with a minimum need to walk in the mud. Nevertheless, he did have to spend a moment scraping mud from his shoes before he stepped into the Ox Bow.

The Ox Bow was brightly lit with overhead chandeliers and lantern sconces throughout. After he had spent the entire day in the makeshift hospital, the bright and cheery atmosphere of the saloon was a dramatic and very welcome change.

“Doc,” Boomer called from a table at the back of the saloon. “Come on back and join us.”

Answering the summons, Doc picked his way through the crowd toward Boomer. As he got closer, he saw that Sally was sitting with him.

“How is it going with all those people from the train, Doc?” Dave Vance asked. Vance owned the leather goods store. “Have we lost any more?”

“No, and I don’t think we will lose any more now,” Doc answered. “I think we’re through the worst of it.”

“You’re a good man, Doc,” one of the other customers said.

“Hey, ever’body, let’s hear it for Doc!” still another shouted. “Hip, hip!”

“Hoorah!”

“Hip, hip!”

“Hoorah!”

“Hip, hip!”

“Hoorah!”

“Doc, let me buy you a drink!” Vance called out to him.

“Well, I would appreciate that, Dave,” Doc replied. He pointed to the table where Boomer and Sally were sitting. “But would you mind if I took it back there to the table with Sally and Boomer? I need to get a load off my feet.”

“Doc, you can have your drink anywhere you want it,” Vance said.

“Thanks.” Doc worked his way through the crowd to Boomer and Sally’s table while shaking hands with the many well-wishers who offered to shake.

“Boomer, Sally,” Doc said as he joined the deputy and the pretty saloon owner at their table.

“Well, Doc, you ought to run for mayor or something,” Boomer said. “Right now it looks like you’re about the most popular man in town.”

“I think it’s just folks feeling pretty good about the fact that the worst is over,” Doc replied.

“And their acknowledgment of the fact that it’s because of you,” Sally said. “No, sir, Doc, whatever accolades you get now, you more than deserve.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Sally, I really do,” Doc said.

“Hey, Doc, Dave Vance is buying you a drink. What’ll it be?” the bartender called over to him.

“Hello, Fred,” Doc called back. “After this last two days, I’m not drinking for pleasure, I’m drinking for medicinal purposes. How about a whiskey, with a beer chaser?”

“You got it,” Fred said. “I’ll throw in the beer chaser myself.”

“How are things going, Doc?” Sally asked. “Do you really think the worst is over?”

“I think so, yes. I’m almost positive we won’t lose any more. Actually, I think nearly all of them can go home within another couple of days. We had the last critically injured man die last night. His name was Walter Casey, and he was from Chicago. Can you imagine, coming all the way down here from Chicago, just to get killed in a train wreck?”

“Yes, and not even an ordinary train wreck,” Boomer said. “It’s a train wreck that somebody caused, just so they could rob the train.”

“You have to wonder what kind of man would cause a train wreck and kill all those people just for a few dollars,” Doc said, shaking his head in disgust.

“Hanging is too good for whoever did it,” Boomer said.

“Oh, there’s Ben,” Sally said, her face brightening at the sight of Marshal Kyle coming into the saloon.

“Ben,” Doc said. “Join us for a beer.”

“I don’t mind if I do, Doc,” Kyle said.

“Did you talk to Miz Dobbs?” Boomer asked.

“Louise Dobbs?” Doc asked.

“Yes,” Kyle said as he joined the others at the table.

“How is Mrs. Dobbs doing? I know she broke her arm. Is it giving her much trouble?”

“She seems to be handling that all right,” Kyle said. “She’s having a hard time over the death of her daughter, though. I didn’t plan it, but I got there just as they were having her funeral.”

“That must have been awkward,” Sally said.

“It was at first, but they seemed to think I had come out there just for that purpose, and they made me feel very welcome,” Kyle said.

“Jeremiah and Louise Dobbs are good people,” Doc said.

“Poor thing, my heart goes out to her.” Sally said.

“So, how did your talk with her go?” Boomer asked.

“I didn’t get too much out of her,” Kyle said. “Evidently she believes that Jensen saved not only her life, but the lives of several others who were on the train, so she’s not all that disposed toward giving any information that might help find him.”

“How does she know that it was Jensen who saved her life?”

“Turns out that she and her son Jerry are the only two who could identify him because they saw him back in Purgatory. Then, when he came into the car to get her out, Mrs. Dobbs recognized him,” Kyle said. Kyle looked over at Doc. “She said he helped you, Doc.”

“Helped me?”

“Yes. She said he rode in the car with you on the relief train, helping you tend to the injured.”

“Oh, well, then she was mistaken. That wasn’t Jensen,” Doc said.

“That wasn’t Jensen who rode with you?”

“No, sir. At least, Jensen isn’t the name he gave me. He told me his name was Cavanaugh. Martin Cavanaugh.”

“Cavanaugh?”

“Yes.”

Kyle pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and studied it for a moment, then he smiled and hit his fist into his hand. “That’s him,” he said, nodding. “Cavanaugh is Matt Jensen.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I have the name of every passenger that was on the train,” Kyle said. “And there is no Cavanaugh listed. So, since Jensen is the only one we can’t account for, and since Cavanaugh is not even listed, it stands to reason that Cavanaugh and Jensen are one and the same.”

“That sounds reasonable to me,” Boomer said. “And if you think about it, knowin’ he had just escaped, there ain’t no way a fella like Jensen would give you his real name anyhow.”

“It would sound reasonable to me as well,” Doc said. “Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Isn’t this man Jensen supposed to be a convicted murderer?”

“That’s right. He shot and killed a deputy over in Purgatory,” Kyle said.

“Yes, well you see, that’s the problem. I worked nearly a full day with this man Cavanaugh. I don’t know what he is, but I know what he is not. He is not a murderer. I’m a pretty good judge of character, Ben, and there’s no way Cavanaugh would kill somebody in cold blood. Self-defense maybe, yes, I could see that. But I could not see him killing anyone in cold blood.”

“What is it with this Jensen fella?” Kyle said. “He seems to charm everyone he meets. He’s got you charmed, he’s got Mrs. Dobbs convinced that he saved her life, even though, by wrecking the train, he’s the one who put her life in danger in the first place.”

“He didn’t wreck the train,” Boomer said.

“What? You, too?”

“I’ve never met the man,” Boomer said. “But he was in chains, in the train, being taken to Yuma to hang, right?”

“Right.”

“I was talkin’ to some of the railroad workers today—you know, the ones who have been cleaning up the mess out there?” Boomer said.

“And?”

“Well, sir, they found that some of the spikes had been pulled out.”

“Maybe they had just worked themselves out over a period of time,” Kyle suggested.

“No, sir,” Boomer said. “They know the spikes were pulled out because they had been tossed to one side. Besides which, they found a pickax there, as well as the place where several horses had waited. And from the amount of horse droppin’s, the horses were probably there for over an hour, which means they had to be waitin’ for the train. The railroad workers think the train robbers pulled up the spikes, then kicked the track out, just so as to cause the wreck.”

“It’s hard to believe that anyone could be that cruel,” Sally said.

“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Boomer agreed. “But one thing it does do is it pretty much proves that this here Jensen fella couldn’t of done it. Not what with him bein’ in chains in the car ’n’ all.”

“Maybe he didn’t, or maybe he had arranged for someone to wreck the train so he could escape,” Kyle suggested.

“Ben, seems to me that would be a pretty foolhardy thing to do,” Doc said. “He was in the express car. Mr. Kingsley was also in the express car, and he got killed.”

“I don’t care how much this Jensen person has charmed all of you. He is still a murderer. At the very least he murdered Deputy Gillis, because he has already been convicted of that murder back in Purgatory. And the evidence is pretty convincing that he killed Deputy Hayes as well. But maybe it was someone else who wrecked the train.”

“Did the train robbers actually get anything?” Sally asked.

“I hope to say they did,” Kyle replied. “The train was carrying a bank transfer of twenty thousand dollars.”

“Instead of going after this man Jensen, what about whoever actually caused the train wreck?” Doc asked. “I’ve got a vested interest in getting them, seeing as how I was on that train and could’ve been killed myself.”

“Doc, my job isn’t either-or, my job is both,” Kyle said. “So I’ll be going after the train robbers and Matt Jensen. And until I see some physical evidence to the contrary, I’m still not convinced they aren’t one and the same. Oh, by the way, Doc, is Deputy Hayes’ body still here?”

“Yes, I believe it is. Except for those who lived here, I think all the bodies are still in Seth McKenzie’s warehouse.”

“Good. I want the bullet that killed Hayes. And, I want to take Hayes’ body back to Purgatory. Oh, and give me a description of Jensen.”

“I don’t know that it is Jensen,” Doc said. “Like I said, he told me his name was Cavanaugh.”

“All right, then give me a description of Cavanaugh.”

“Mid-to-late twenties, I guess. He was a lot younger in the face than in the eyes. Those eyes have seen a lot,” Doc added. “He’s about six feet tall, broad shoulders, narrow waist, light blue eyes, and hair that’s about halfway between blond and brown.”

“Sally, you’re a good artist, you’ve drawn pictures of half the people in this town. Would you draw a picture of Jensen for me? Doc, you can watch her draw it, then tell her when she’s close.”

“You don’t need to describe him to me,” Sally said.

“What do you mean? You mean you aren’t going to draw his picture?”

“No, I mean he doesn’t have to describe him to me. He was in here that first night. I bought supper for him. I know what he looks like.”

“Good. You draw the picture, and I’ll take it over to Blanton to get a woodcut made.”

“Marshal?” someone said, coming up to the table where Kyle, Doc, Boomer, and Sally were sitting.

“Yes, Barney, what can I do for you?” Kyle asked, recognizing the whiskey drummer.

“I heard tell you was looking for whoever robbed the train.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, I was on the train and I think I seen them.”

“You think you saw them, or you did see them?” Kyle asked.

“I think—that is, I’m sure I did see them.”

“If you did see them, Barney, would you tell me why in the hell you are just now getting around to telling me about it?”

“I had to think on it some to be certain in my own mind that that is what I did see,” Barney explained.

“All right,” Kyle replied. “Tell me about it.”

“Yes, sir. Well, like I said, I was on the train, but I wasn’t hurt none. Anyhow, I got out of the car, and was just sort of wanderin’ around, when I seen these here four men go into the express car. I thought maybe they was part of the train. Then, no more’n a minute later, I seen ’em come out carrying a canvas bag. I didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time ’cause, to tell the truth, I guess I was still all confused and dizzy ’n’ all over havin’ just come through the wreck. But when I heard the train was robbed, it got me to thinkin’ that maybe they was the ones who done it.”

“Can you describe them?”

“Yes, sir, I think I can. One of ’em had a scar, a big, ugly, purple scar that run from his forehead, through his left eye, and down. And the eyelid was all puffed up, like it had a big wart on it or somethin’,” Barney said. He used his finger to outline the position of the scar on his own face.

“Marshal, that sounds just like Cletus Odom,” Boomer said.

“Yes, it does,” Kyle said. “Barney, you said there were others?”

“Yes, sir, there was three others.”

“Tell me about them.”

“One of them was a big man, I’d say six feet four or so, over two hundred pounds. I mean, he was a big, strong-lookin’ son of a bitch.” Then, as if just realizing that Sally was sitting at the table he nodded toward her. “Sorry, Miss Sally,” he apologized.

“That’s all right, Barney, from what I’ve heard of Cletus Odom, anyone who would ride with him would have to be a son of a bitch.”

Barney smiled. “Yes, ma’am, I reckon you’re right.”

“You said there were four,” Kyle said, urging Barney to get back to his descriptions.

“Uh, yeah, four. Well, there was the scar faced man, and the big one, like I said. Then there was one who was small and dark, I think he was probably a Mexican. The fourth one was a drunk.”

“Drunk?”

“No, he wasn’t drunk when I seen him. But he is a drunk,” Barney clarified.

“What do you mean he is a drunk?” Kyle asked. “How can you tell if a man is a drunk if he isn’t drunk? And even then, you can be drunk without being a drunk.”

“Yes, sir, you can, and that’s how I know,” Barney said. “You forget, Marshal, I’m a whiskey salesman. I reckon I have seen more drunks than just about anyone. Not even bartenders see as many drunks as a whiskey drummer does. But even they can tell someone who is a drunk.”

Kyle drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then he called out. “Fred, could you come over here for a moment?”

“Sure, Marshal,” Fred replied affably. Throwing the bar towel over his shoulder, he came from behind the bar and walked over to the table where Kyle, Boomer, Doc, and Sally were seated.

“Fred, can you tell if a man is a drunk just by looking at him?” Kyle asked. “I don’t mean drunk, I mean a drunk.”

“Oh, yes, sir, Marshal, sure you can,” Fred replied. “You can tell in a heartbeat.”

“How can you tell?”

“I don’t know quite how to explain it,” Fred replied. “But they all have a certain look about them. You can just tell, that’s all.”

“All right, thanks,” Kyle said.

“Can I get anybody anything else?” he asked.

“I’ll have me another beer,” Boomer said.

The others indicated they were fine.

“All right,” Kyle said after Fred returned to the bar. “So, what do we have here? Cletus Odom, a big man, a small Mexican, and a drunk?”

“Yes, sir, that pretty much sums it up,” Barney said. “I hope that helps you find the ones that done this.”

“It’s a start,” Kyle said. “Thanks.”

Barney left just as Fred put another beer in front of Boomer.

Boomer took a drink of his beer, then wiped the foam away from his lips before he spoke.

“Well, if it was Cletus Odom, then it’s a lead-pipe cinch that he’s the one that stole the money. Seems to me that lets this fella Jensen off the hook, don’t you think?” Boomer asked.

Kyle sighed. “Yes, you might be right. It could be that Jensen just took advantage of the situation to escape. But that still leaves us with the fact that Jensen is a convicted murderer, so even if he didn’t rob the train, I don’t think I would go so far as to say that this would let him off the hook.”

“What about Odom?” Boomer asked. “Shouldn’t we ought to do somethin’ about him?”

“Yes, if it was Odom, we should do something about him,” Kyle said. “But first, we need to find out if it was him. We’ve got some pretty good pictures of Odom down at the office. Boomer, how about taking Barney down to the office and showing him some pictures. Don’t tell him who they are—let him pick one out on his own.”

“I know how to do this, Benjamin. I didn’t just start deputyin’ yesterday, you know,” Boomer said, a little miffed that the marshal felt he had to tell him that.

“I know you know how to do it, Boomer, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Kyle said. “I was just sort of thinking out loud, is all.”

“That’s all right, I ain’t put out with you none,” Boomer said, easing his tone a bit. He looked over at Barney. “Come along, Barney I got some pretty pictures to show you.” Boomer chuckled. “Well, now that I think about it, they ain’t all that pretty. But I’m goin’ to show ’em to you anyway.”

Kyle, Sally, and Doc watched Boomer and Barney leave. Then, Doc picked up his mug of beer and took a drink. “I’m glad Barney came along,” he said. “I knew Cavanaugh—or Jensen as you say—didn’t have anything to do with robbing that train.”

“Maybe not, Doc,” Kyle replied. “But like I said, he’s not off the hook. He is still an escaped murderer.”

“And I’m telling you, there’s no way on God’s green earth that that man who pulled all those injured folks from the train, and who worked alongside me nursing them, could be a murderer,” Doc insisted.

Chapter Fifteen

Before he came in sight of the track, Matt could hear the sound of puffing steam engines, the screech of metal being moved, and the loud banging of heavy loads being lifted and deposited. When he reached the scene, he saw two huge, steam-operated cranes lifting the mangled cars and the twisted and broken wheel trucks from on and around the track, then depositing them onto the long line of flatbed cars that had been brought out to the scene of the wreck. Already, new and temporary tracks had been built around the wreck to allow the work trains access.

Matt was surprised at how much progress had been made in cleaning up the mess. At this rate, they would be finished within one more day, and the passenger and freight trains would be returning to their normal operational schedule.

After getting his horse back, Matt returned to the scene of the wreck, not to watch the clean-up operation, but to get a lead on tracking Cletus Odom and the others who were responsible. He started on the south side of the track where he had found the pickax, thinking this was probably the side on which the outlaws had waited. It didn’t take him long to find the signs of four horses, and the direction they took when they left. He knew this had to be them, because the number of horses, four, matched the number of train robbers, four.

As he examined the tracks, a sudden smile spread across his face. One of the horses had a tie-bar shoe.

“Spirit, I don’t know which one of these sons of bitches are riding a tie-bar shoe, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll lead me to the rest of them,” Matt said as he started on the trial.

The little town of Saucita was American only because it was on the American side of the border. In fact, three fourths of the people in town were either Mexican nationals, or Americans only by an accident of their birth. In layout, the town could have been any village between here and Mexico City, for it was nothing more than a series of adobe buildings built around a center square. In the center square there was a well, and the well was Matt’s first stop. He drew up two buckets of water and added them to the watering trough, which was already more than half full.

With Spirit’s thirst satisfied, Matt led, rather than rode, him across the square to the Cantina de las Rosas. He tied him off at the hitching rail, then checked the right rear hooves of the other horses that were tied there. He hit pay dirt with the third horse he checked.

Matt pushed through the hanging strings of clacking red and green beads, and then stepped into the cantina. There were at least two dozen customers in the cantina, and all were of the same swarthy complexion. There were a dozen or more conversations going on as well, all in Spanish.

Matt stepped up to the bar. “Tequila por favor.”

“Ten cents,” the bartender said in English, as he put the glass in front of Matt.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a slap, then a woman’s cry of pain and fear. That was followed by a loud, angry sentence, spoken in English and ringing clear through the cacophonous babble of Spanish.

“You dumb bitch! I ordered whiskey, not this Mexican shit!’

“I’m sorry, Señor.”

“Sorry my ass. Now get rid of this shit and bring me a bottle of whiskey.”

“Sí, señor.”

Looking toward the commotion, Matt saw a man who was head and shoulders bigger than anyone else in the room. He had broad shoulders and big hands and he was eating a steak, not by using a knife and fork, but by holding it in his hands. In addition to the woman he had just slapped, there were two other women with him, one sitting on either side.

This was not a handsome man by any means, and the only explanation for his popularity with the women would be that he had a lot of money and was a free spender. Kyle knew that the man fit that bill, because he recognized him as soon as he saw him. This was the one called Bates.

Kyle ordered a meal of beans and tortillas, then ate slowly, all the while keeping an eye on Bates, though without being obvious about it. When Bates left the saloon, Matt walked over to the window and watched as he mounted the horse with the tie-bar. He stayed at the window until Bates rode out of town, then Matt left the saloon, mounted Spirit, and followed.

Matt remained so far behind Bates that were was no way the outlaw could see him. Of course, that also meant that he couldn’t see the outlaw, but that was no problem. Bates was still riding the horse with the tie-bar shoe, which meant he might as well have been leaving a painted trail, so easily could it be followed.

When Bates made camp for the night, Matt did as well, satisfying himself with a strip of jerky and a couple of chewed coffee beans, washed down with a swallow of tepid canteen water.

During the night, Matt sneaked into Bates’s camp. The fire Bates had built before he went to bed was burned down now, though a few of the coals were still glowing. Bates was snoring loudly from the blanket he had thrown out on the ground. Bates’s hat was over his face as Matt moved quietly toward him.

Slipping his knife from his belt, Matt got down onto his knees beside Bates, then brought his knife up to Bates’s throat. He hesitated there for just a second. Then, he cut the top from Bates’s hat. The last thing he did before he sneaked back out of camp was leave a note, pinned to the hat.

Bates—

I know that you were one of the ones who wrecked and robbed the train. You, Cletus Odom, a Mexican named Paco, and a man named Schuler killed a lot of people that day—including several women and children.

I could have cut your throat tonight, the way I cut up your hat, but I’m going to wait until you lead me to the others. And I know you will do that, Bates, because anyone who is cowardly enough to kill children is too much of a coward to face me alone.

I figure you have no more than ten days left to live. And to show you that I mean business, I am even going to sign my name to this note. Prepare to die, Bates.

Matt Jensen

The next morning, Matt waited on top of a hill, looking down on Bates’s campsite. Matt wasn’t on the actual crest of the hill, but was just below the crest, behind a cut that afforded him concealment. He watched as Bates woke up.

The first thing Bates did when he awoke was relieve himself. Then he rolled up his blanket, and was tying it to the back of his saddle when he noticed his hat. Matt could tell the very moment Bates saw the hat because he stopped what he was doing and stared at it for a long moment as if he didn’t know what he was seeing. Then he saw the note and moved quickly to it, jerking the note off and reading it.

Matt could hardly keep from laughing as he saw Bates stiffen, then, gingerly, reach his hand up to his throat. Bates looked at the hat, then let out a yell.

“Ahhhhhhhh!”

The yell echoed back.

“Ahhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhh!”

Bates threw the hat down, then pulled his pistol and looked around.

Matt threw a rock and it hit far down the hill from his position, clattering as it bounced down the rocky hillside.

Bates began firing wildly, the shots echoing back, doubling and redoubling the sound so that Bates had the feeling he was being shot at, even though he was the only one shooting.

Quickly, Bates saddled his horse, then swinging into the saddle, urged the horse into a gallop.

Given Bates’s weight and size, Matt knew that the horse would not be able to sustain a gallop for very long. Because of that, he was almost leisurely as he saddled Spirit, then rode at no more than a trot in pursuit.

Matt Jensen stopped on a ridge just above the road leading into Choulic. He took a swallow from his canteen and watched an approaching stage as it started down from the pass into the town. Then, corking the canteen, he slapped his legs against the side of his horse and sloped down the long ridge. Although he was actually farther away from town than the coach, he would beat it there because the stage would have to stay on the road, working its way down a series of switchbacks, whereas Matt rode down the side of the hill, difficult, but a much more direct route.

No railroad served Choulic, so the only way to reach it was by horse or by stagecoach. And after a few hours on a bumping, rattling, jerking, and dusty stagecoach, the passengers’ first view of Choulic was often a bitter disappointment. Sometimes visitors from the East had to have the town pointed out to them, for from this perspective, and at this distance, the settlement looked little more inviting than another group of the brown hummocks and hills common to this country.

A small sign just on the edge of town read:

CHOULIC, population 294

A growing Community

The weathered board and faded letters of the sign indicated that it had been there for some time, erected when there might actually have been optimism for the town’s future. Choulic was like many towns Matt had encountered over the years, towns that bloomed on the prairies and in the deserts desperately hoping the railroad would come through, staking all on that uncertain future, only to see their futures dashed when the railroad passed them by. Despite the ambitious welcome sign, Matt doubted that there were as many as two hundred residents in the town today, and he was positive that it was no longer a growing community.

The town baked under a sun that was yellow and hot.

Finding the saloon, Matt saw what he was looking for. Tied to the hitching rail out front were nine or ten horses, and one of them he recognized as belonging to Bates.

While Matt was dismounting, the stagecoach he had seen earlier came rolling into town, its driver whistling and shouting at the team. As was often the case, the driver had urged the team into a trot when they approached the edge of town. That way, the coach would roll in rapidly, making a somewhat more dramatic arrival than it would have had the team been walking.

The coach stopped in front of the depot at the far end of the street, and half-a-dozen people crowded around it. Matt turned his attention back to the task at hand, and checking the pistol in his holster, he went into the saloon.

The shadows made the saloon seem cooler inside, but that was illusory. It was nearly as hot inside as out, and without the benefit of a breath of air, it was even more stifling. The customers were sweating in their drinks and wiping their faces with bandannas. Matt looked for Bates, but he didn’t see him.

The bartender was wearing an apron that might have been white at one time, but was now soiled and stained. On the bar in front of him were two abandoned glasses in which a little whiskey remained. One of the glasses had been used to extinguish the last dregs of a rolled cigarette. Picking out the little pieces of paper with his fingers, the bartender poured it, tobacco bits and all, into the other glass, then poured that back into a bottle. Corking the bottle, he put it on the shelf behind the bar. He wiped the glasses out with his stained apron, and set them back among the unused glasses. Seeing Matt step up to the bar, the bartender moved down toward him.

“Whiskey,” Matt said.

The barman reached for the bottle he had just poured the whiskey back into, but Matt pointed to an unopened bottle.

“That one,” he said.

Shrugging, the saloon keeper pulled the cork from the fresh bottle.

“I’m looking for a man named Odom,” Matt said. “Cletus Odom.”

“Mister, if you want whiskey or beer, I’m your man. If you want anything else, I can’t help you,” the bartender replied.

“How about a man named Bates? He’s a big man. He isn’t wearing a hat.”

The bartender poured the whiskey into a glass.

“Bates’ horse is tied up out front,” Matt continued.

“Is he wanted?”

“I know Odom is. Bates might be.”

“You the law?”

“No,” Matt said.

“You a bounty hunter?”

“No.”

“Then why are you lookin’ for him?”

“It’s personal,” Matt said.

“Mister, maybe you don’t know it but with the clientele I get in here, it ain’t a good idea to go around blabbing everything I know. Hell, I could wind up gettin’ myself kilt if I was to do somethin’ like that,” the bartender said.

Matt took out a ten-dollar bill and, though he wasn’t obvious about it, he made certain that the bartender saw it.

“You say Bates is a big man. We have a lot of big men who come in here, so that doesn’t tell me much. What about the other one you were talking about? What does he look like?”

“He’s uglier than a toad,” Matt said. “He has a purple scar on his face and a misshapen eyelid.”

Matt did notice a slight reaction to his description.

“He is here, isn’t he?” Matt asked.

The bartender said nothing, but looking around to make certain no one saw the transaction, he took the money, raised his eyes, and looked toward the stairs at the back of the room.

“Thanks,” Matt said.

At the back of the saloon, a flight of wooden stairs led up to an enclosed loft. Matt guessed that the two doors at the head of the stairs led to the rooms used by the prostitutes who worked in the saloon. Pulling his pistol, he started up the stairs.

The few men in the saloon had been talking and laughing among themselves. When they saw Matt pull his gun, their conversation died, and they watched him walk quietly up the steps.

From the rooms above him, Matt could hear muffled sounds that left little doubt as to what was going on behind the closed doors. He tried to open the first door, but it was locked. He knocked on it.

“Go ’way,” a voice called from the other side of the door.

Matt raised his foot and kicked the door hard. It flew open with a crash and the woman inside the room screamed.

“What the hell?” the man shouted. He stood up quickly, and Matt saw that it was the big man, Bates. He heard a crash of glass from the next room and he dashed to the window and looked down. He saw a naked Odom just getting to his feet from the leap to the alley below.

“Who the hell are you?” Bates shouted from behind him in the room.

Matt smiled at him. “Where’s your hat, Bates?”

“It’s you!” Bates yelled. Bates grabbed his knife from a bedside table. “You son of a bitch, I’m going to gut you like a hog!”

Bates lunged toward Matt, making a long, stomach-opening swipe. Matt barely managed to avoid the point of the knife. One inch closer and he would have been disemboweled.

Bates swung again and Matt jumped deftly to one side, then brought the barrel of his pistol down, sharply, on Bates’s knife hand. That caused Bates to drop his knife and when it hit the floor, Matt kicked it so that it slid across the floor and under the bed.

Inexplicably, Bates smiled.

“Well, I’d rather kill you with my bare hands anyway,” he said, lunging toward Matt.

Again, Matt stepped to one side, but this time he grabbed Bates and pushed him in the same direction that Bates had lunged, thus using Bates’s own momentum against him. Bates slammed headfirst through the window, breaking the glass. With a sharp, gurgling sound, he pulled away from the window, staggered back a few paces, then fell to his knees. A large shard of glass was protruding from his neck. The glass had severed his carotid artery, causing bright red blood to spill from the wound down onto his naked chest.

“Where are the others?” Matt asked, kneeling beside the wounded man. “The others who robbed the train. Where are they?”

“You—go—to—hell,” Bates said. Blood bubbled at his lips when he spoke.

Matt heard a horse galloping away, and hurrying back to the broken and now bloodied window, he saw Odom, still naked, riding hard out of town, lashing the animal on both sides of his neck with the ends of the reins, urging him to greater speed.

Matt stood up angrily. He had lost valuable time trying to get the outlaw to talk. He turned and ran from the room, down the stairs, and out the front, then urged Spirit into a gallop in the direction Odom had gone.

Matt found the horse Odom had been riding about five miles out of town, contentedly cropping grass. He also found the body of a man who had been stripped naked. Odom now had clothes and a different horse.

Chapter Sixteen

As soon as the track was repaired and service restored, Marshal Kyle took the nine p.m. train, which was the first eastbound train from Sentinel. Deputy Hayes was in a pine box in the baggage car ahead. Kyle was taking him back to Purgatory, though he had no idea where to deliver the body, other than to the office of the city marshal.

The train was crowded because several eastbound passengers had waited for rail service to be restored, preferring to wait in the comfort of a Sentinel hotel to the long and uncomfortable ride in a stagecoach. Kyle managed to find a window seat halfway back in the second car, and once the train was under way, he watched the little yellow squares of light slide by on the ground outside the night train as he listened to the rhythmic click of the wheels passing over the rail joints.

In addition to Hayes’s body, Kyle was carrying several wanted posters for Matt Jensen. This time, the wanted posters had a woodcut likeness of Jensen that was so accurate that several of the people who had been passengers on that ill-fated train remembered seeing him.

“I sure can’t see this fella as a murderer, though,” one of the injured passengers told Kyle. “He pulled me and two others from the wreckage. I don’t reckon I’d be alive today, if it weren’t for him.”

That passenger’s story was not unique, as it was repeated by at least a dozen others, if not from personal experience, then from observation.

“What kind of man are you, Matt Jensen?” Kyle asked quietly as he studied the picture. “On the one hand, you shoot a man down in cold blood. On the other, you go out of your way to save the lives of perfect strangers when you could have used the confusion of the train wreck as an opportunity to get away.”

It was Kyle’s intention to leave the packet of wanted posters with Marshal Cummins so they could be distributed, not only around Purgatory, but all over Maricopa County.

The run from Sentinel to Purgatory, which took almost six hours by stagecoach, took just over an hour by train. Even though he was on the train for such a short time, the gentle rocking of the car, the click of wheels over rail joints, and the rush of wind had combined to put Kyle asleep. He was awakened by the conductor’s call.

“Purgatory, Purgatory!” he called. “Folks, if you are going on through, don’t get off the train because we will only be here long enough to let off some passengers and pick up a few more. We will not be here more than a couple of minutes. This here is Purgatory,” he repeated. The conductor stopped beside Kyle.

“Marshal, I believe you said you were going to Purgatory?” he asked.

“Yes,” Kyle replied. “Thanks for waking me up.”

“Well, you only paid as far as Purgatory,” the conductor said. “I couldn’t let you go any farther now, could I?” He laughed at his own joke.

“I reckon not,” Kyle replied. “Conductor, you understand I have something that has to be unloaded from the baggage car, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, Marshal, don’t you worry none,” the conductor said. “We won’t leave till that’s all taken care of.”

“Thanks.”

Kyle felt the train beginning to lose speed, a gradual slowing at first, then slower, and slower still, until by the time they reached Purgatory, the train was traveling at a virtual crawl. Looking through the window, he saw the dark, or at best dimly lit, houses sliding by outside until, finally, the train came to the much more brightly lit depot. There, the train stopped with the screech of steel on steel, and a final jerk, which left them motionless. The few who were getting off here got up from their seats, reached into the overhead bins for their packages, then began shuffling toward the end of the car in order to detrain. The passengers who were going on remained in their seats, some dozing, some reading, others looking through the window.

Stepping down from the train, Kyle stood on a wooden platform that was adequately, if not brightly, lit by several kerosene lanterns. While the train snapped and popped and hissed alongside him, he watched as Hayes’s coffin was taken down.

“What have we got here?” the station agent asked, coming over to look at the coffin.

“Who are you?” Kyle asked.

“I’m Colin Randall. I’m the Southern Pacific agent in charge of this depot. Who are you?”

“I’m U.S. Marshal Ben Kyle. This is Deputy Hayes,” he said, pointing to the box. “He is one of yours, I believe.”

“Hardly one of mine, Marshal,” Randall said disdainfully. He sighed. “However, he does belong to Marshal Cummins.”

“Do you know where I can hire a wagon at this hour?”

Randall held up his finger as if asking Kyle to give him a moment. “Bustamante!” he called.

“Sí, señor?” A short, stubby, gray-haired Mexican shuffled out from the freight section of the depot.

“Hitch up the wagon and take the marshal where he wants to go.”

“Sí, señor.”

Kyle waited for a few minutes; then he heard the creaking sound of a wheel in need of lubrication. A moment later, he saw the wagon appear from the side of the depot. Bustamante drove up to Marshal Kyle, then stopped.

“Grab that end, will you?” Kyle ordered, standing at one end of the coffin.

“Sí, señor.”

Because there were only two of them, it was a heavy lift to put the box containing Hayes’s body on the back of the wagon, but they were able to do so. Then Kyle climbed up onto the seat.

“Where to, Señor?” Bustamante asked.

“The city marshal’s office,” Kyle answered.

“Sí.”

They were the only traffic on the street as they drove from the railroad depot to the city marshal’s office. Behind them the train, after a few blasts on the whistle, got under way with the puffing of steam and the sound of the coupling slack being taken up as, one by one, the cars were jerked into motion. There were a few moments of train noise. Then, as the train noise faded, the only sounds remaining were that of the wagon, the hollow sound of the horse’s hoofbeats, and the incessant squeaking of the wheel that Kyle had determined was the left front one.

“You need to do something about that wheel,” Kyle said.

“Sí, señor,” Bustamante replied, staring straight ahead and with no change of facial expression. It seemed fairly obvious to Kyle that this subject had been broached with Bustamante before, and probably responded to in the same way.

The wagon pulled up to the front of the city marshal’s office, then stopped.

“Wait here,” Kyle told Busatamante.

“For how long, Señor?”

“For as long as it takes,” Kyle said resolutely.

“Sí, señor.”

Going inside, he saw someone sitting in a chair behind a desk. The chair was tilted back, so that the man’s head was resting against the wall. His eyes were closed, his mouth was open, and Kyle could hear the deep, rhythmic breathing of sleep.

“Excuse me,” Kyle said.

The response was a quiet snore.

“Excuse me,” Kyle said, louder this time.

The man’s eyes popped open.

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“Are you Marshal Cummins?”

“No, I’m his deputy.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Yeah, I have a name,” the deputy answered with a snarl. “Do you have a name?”

“I’m United States Marshal Ben Kyle,” Kyle said pointedly. “What is your name, Deputy?”

The deputy tipped his chair forward, then stood up. “The name is Warren. Deputy Ted Warren, Marshal. What can I do for you?”

“I have Deputy Hayes’ body on a wagon out front,” Kyle said. “I want you to take care of it.”

“What? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t care what you do with it,” Kyle said. “I brought the body back, now it’s your problem. Get it off the wagon.”

“How’m I goin’ to do that? I’m all by myself here.”

“Like I said, that’s your problem,” Kyle repeated.

“I’ve got some men in jail, I’ll have them help me,” Warren said.

“Fine, you do that. Where can I find the marshal?”

“More’n likely he’s down at the Pair O Dice.”

“The what?”

“The Pair O Dice. It’s the saloon, just down the street. He ’n’ all the other deputies hang out down there.”

“All the other deputies? How many deputies are there?”

“Eight—well, no, only six now, seein’ as both Gillis and Hayes has been kilt.”

“Six deputies in a town of less than three hundred?” Kyle said, surprised at the number. “My God, man, that’s one deputy for every fifty people.”

“Yes, sir, well, Marshal Cummins, he likes to keep order,” Warren said.

“You get Hayes’ body taken care of,” Kyle ordered. “I’m going to find the marshal.”

“Yes, sir,” Warren said. He took a large key ring off a hook on the wall behind the desk. Walking over to the cell, he opened the door and called out to the two prisoners who were inside.

“Poke, Casper, come help me get somethin’ off a wagon.”

As the two prisoners struggled with the coffin containing Hayes’s body, Kyle left the marshal’s office and walked up the street to the saloon.

The Pair O Dice was the most substantial-looking building in the entire town. There was a drunk passed out on the steps in front of the place, and Kyle had to step over him in order to go inside. Because all the chimneys of all the lanterns were soot-covered, what light there was was dingy and filtered through drifting smoke. The place smelled of sour whiskey, stale beer, and strong tobacco. There was a long bar on the left, with dirty towels hanging on hooks about every five feet along its front. A large mirror was behind the bar, but like everything else about the saloon, it was so dirty that Kyle could scarcely see any images in it, and what he could see was distorted by imperfections in the glass.

Over against the back wall, near the foot of the stairs, a cigar-scarred, beer-stained upright piano was being played by a bald-headed musician. The tune was “Buffalo Gals,” and one of the girls who was a buffalo gal stood alongside, swaying to the music. Kyle was once told that this song was now very popular back East, and was often sung by the most genteel ladies. The Easterners had no idea that the term buffalo gal referred to doxies who, during the rapid expansion of the railroad, had to ply their trade on buffalo robes thrown out on the ground. This was because there were few beds and fewer buildings.

Kyle couldn’t help but make a comparison between this saloon and the Ox Bow back in Sentinel. The Pair O Dice did not come out well in the comparison.

Out on the floor of the saloon, nearly all the tables were filled. A half-dozen or so buffalo gals were flitting about, pushing drinks and promising more than they really intended to deliver. A few card games were in progress, but most of the patrons were just drinking and talking.

An exceptionally loud burst of laughter came from one of the tables and, looking toward it, Kyle saw that all the men were wearing stars on their shirts or vests. There were six men and three girls at the table, which was the largest table in the saloon.

Kyle walked over toward them, then dropped the bundle of wanted posters on the table.

“What the hell is this?” one of the men asked.

“What does it look like?” Kyle replied.

“I’ll ask the ques—” the man at the table began, but looking up, he saw Kyle’s badge. “You’re a U.S. marshal?” he asked.

“I am. The name is Kyle. You’re Marshal Cummins, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Cummins said. He looked at the bundle, then smiled. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “How’d you get a picture of him?”

“Does it look like him?”

“Yeah,” Cummins said. “It looks just like him. What do you think, boys?” he asked.

All the deputies commented in the affirmative.

“Duke, get the marshal a chair,” Cummins ordered. “Crack, you get some of these posters passed out.”

The two deputies got up to comply with the marshal’s order, Crack taking the dodgers with him, and Duke bringing over a chair for the U.S. marshal. Kyle sat at the table with the others.

“Tell me, Marshal, what brings you to Purgatory?” Marshal Cummins asked. “You could’ve just sent these posters.”

“I brought Deputy Hayes’ body back,” Kyle said.

“You brought his body back? Why in the hell did you do that?”

“He was your deputy, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then I figured this was the place for him. We have enough bodies over in Sentinel now, what with the train wreck.”

“Yeah, I reckon you would at that,” Cummins said. “So, you say you brought Hayes back. Where is he?”

“He is in your office,” Kyle answered.

“In my office? Damn, why did you take him there? What the hell am I supposed to do with the son of a bitch?”

“Well, this is just a guess, mind you, but it’s been my experience that it is generally customary to bury bodies,” Kyle replied.

“Well, yeah, sure, but families do that, don’t they?”

“Does Hayes have a family here?”

“No,” Cummins said. “Fact is, I don’t even know where his family is.”

“I think Hayes was from somewhere in Texas,” one of the deputies said.

“He was from somewhere in Texas? That’s not very helpful. Texas is a big state,” Kyle said.

“Yeah, I know it is. But that’s all he ever told me. He just said that he was from somewhere in Texas.”

“I think he got in trouble with the law back there,” one of the other deputies said.

“He was in trouble with the law, but you hired him as a lawman?” Kyle asked.

“He was a good deputy,” Cummins said. “And when someone comes out here, I believe in givin’ them a fresh start.”

“Then it seems to me that the least you can do is give him a decent burial,” Kyle said.

Cummins stroked his chin for a moment, then he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I reckon I can do that.”

“Tell me something about Jensen,” Kyle said.

“Tell you about Jensen?”

“Yes, what kind of man is he?”

“He’s a cold-blooded murderer, that’s what kind of man he is,” Cummins said.

“That’s funny, because from everything I’ve been able to find out about him, he just doesn’t fit the picture of a cold-blooded murderer. What was he like before the murder?”

“Don’t nobody know,” Cummins said. “He just come into town and shot Deputy Gillis without so much as a fare-thee-well. Nobody had ever seen him before that.”

“You mean the day he arrived is the day he shot Gillis?”

“Not the day he arrived, the moment he arrived.”

“Did he know Gillis from before?”

“Not that I know of,” Cummins said.

“Did Gillis give him any call to shoot him?”

“No,” Cummins said. “All Gillis done was try and collect the tax from him.”

Kyle looked confused. “What tax? I thought you said he had just come into town?”

“That’s true, he had just come into town. But there’s a five-dollar visitors tax for ever’one who comes into town. ’Cept you, of course, you bein’ the law and all.”

“So, what you are saying is, Gillis tried to collect the visitors tax and Jensen didn’t want to pay it, so he shot him down in cold blood.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’re sayin’.”

“Were there any witnesses?”

“We all saw it,” Cummins said.

“Yeah, ever’one of us, plus a bunch of the folks that was in the saloon that day,” one of the other deputies said. “They seen it, too.”

“And you are?” Kyle asked.

“Duke. The name is Duke.”

“So, it happened here in the saloon?”

“Same as. It was out front.”

“No,” Kyle said. “Out front is not the same as happening inside. Were any of you out front when it happened?”

“Yeah,” Cummins answered. “Jackson was out front. He saw it.”

“Who is Jackson?”

“I am,” one of the deputies said.

“And you saw it?”

“We all saw it, in a manner of speaking,” Cummins said, answering for Jackson. “We heard the shot, then we seen Gillis come in here with a hole in his chest. He took about two or three steps, then he fell dead on the floor. Right after that, Jensen come in behind him, and he was still holdin’ the gun in his hand.”

“And the gun was still smokin’,” one of the other deputies said.

“What about Gillis’s gun?”

Cummins smiled broadly. “I was hopin’ you’d ask me that,” he said. “Gillis’s gun was still in his holster. He hadn’t even drawn it.”

“Jackson, tell me exactly what you saw,” Kyle asked.

“It’s like they said. We heard the shot, then we seen Gillis come into the saloon with a bullet hole in his chest.”

“What do you mean you heard the shot? I thought you said you saw it.”

“Yeah, uh—yeah, I did see it.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Then we seen Gillis come into the saloon.’ How could you see him come into the saloon if you were out front?”

“I didn’t say he was out front, Marshal,” Cummins said, speaking quickly. “I said he saw it. Jackson was standing over there in the window, looking outside.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “I was standin’ over there by the window, lookin’ outside.”

Kyle stroked his chin for a moment. “I have to agree that your account does sound pretty damming,” Kyle said.

“I thought you’d see it our way, once you knew the whole story,” Cummins said.

“Yes, well, like I said, the picture folks painted of Jensen after the train wreck just didn’t quite fit with what happened here. But then, the evidence is pretty strong that he did shoot Hayes after the train wreck.”

“I don’t doubt that he did that,” Cummins said. “I mean, we already know he was a killer, but he was in chains, and he didn’t have a gun, so the truth is, I’m wonderin’ how he did it.”

“Hayes had a gun, didn’t he?” Kyle asked.

“Yes.”

“We didn’t find a gun with Hayes,” Kyle said. “So I figure that the train wreck must’ve knocked Hayes out, and that’s when Jensen got the keys, unlocked his shackles, then took the deputy’s pistol. After that, he needed to keep Hayes from coming to and identifying him, so he shot deputy with his own gun.”

“Damn, that was a brand-new gun, too,” Duke said. “I was with him when he bought it off the gun salesman that come through here. A Smith and Wesson .44. Yes, sir, Hayes set some store in that gun.”

“Did you say it was a .44?”

“Yes.”

“That’s funny.”

“What’s funny?”

Kyle reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a bullet. He showed it to the others. “This is the bullet that killed Hayes,” he said. “I had the undertaker extract it for me.”

“So?”

“This is a .36 caliber.”

“You sure that’s a .36 caliber?” Cummins asked. “Sometimes a bullet will get all bent out of shape when it’s been fired. I’ve seen it a lot of times, and I know you have, too.”

“Does this bullet look all out of shape to you?” Kyle asked.

Cummins shook his head. “No, it don’t. But that don’t mean nothin’. Jensen must’ve had a pistol hid on him somewhere.”

“Are you telling me that you arrested him, tried him, found him guilty, and sentenced him, but in all that time you never bothered to search him for a pistol?”

“Well, it might have been one of them derringers,” Duke said. “They’re little and you can hide them real good.”

“The only derringers I know are .41 caliber,” Kyle said.

“Yeah, well, it don’t make no difference whether Jensen kilt Hayes or not. We know he kilt Gillis, and that’s what he was bein’ sent to Yuma for.”

“That’s true,” Kyle agreed. “No matter what happened with Hayes, it doesn’t let Mr. Jensen off the hook. He still stands convicted for killing Deputy Gillis. But it does make my job of finding out what actually happened to Hayes and the money from the train robbery a little more difficult.”

“Money?” Cummins said. “What money from the train robbery?”

“The train was carrying a money shipment of twenty thousand dollars,” Kyle said. “That money is gone, Jensen is gone. It stands to reason that he took it.”

Cummins whistled. “Twenty thousand dollars. Damn, what I couldn’t do with that money.”

There was a disapproving expression on Kyle’s face as he looked at Cummins.

“What are you lookin’ at?” Cummins asked.

“What do you mean, what you couldn’t do with that money?” Kyle asked. “That’s a strange thing for a law enforcement officer to say.”

“Hell, it ain’t like I was thinkin’ on stealin’ it,” Cummins defended. “I was just commentin’ on how nice it would be to have that much money. Don’t you agree?”

“It isn’t something I let myself think about,” Kyle replied.

Chapter Seventeen

“Marshal? Marshal Cummins?”

The lawmen looked around to see Joe Claibie standing by the bar. He was holding one of the wanted dodgers.

“Yeah, Claibie, what is it?” Cummins asked.

Claibie held up one of the wanted flyers that Kyle had brought with him. “Crack give me this here dodger a couple minutes ago.”

“Yes, I told him to hand some of them out.”

“Well, the thing is, him givin’ me this flyer and all makes me think I know who it was now that stole your horse.”

“Stole my horse?” Cummins said in an agitated voice. “What do you mean? When was my horse stole?”

“Not the horse you ride,” Claibie said. “I’m talkin’ about the sorrel you was goin’ to sell. You mind that sorrel?”

“Yes, of course I remember it.”

“Well, sir, I’m right sure that I know who stole it. It was this here same fella that you got on the wanted poster here.”

Claibie showed the marshal the woodcut picture on the flyer.

“Matt Jensen? Are you tellin’ us that Matt Jensen is the one stole that horse?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m tellin’ you.”

“You’re out of your mind. Jensen is long gone from here.”

“He ain’t that long gone,” Claibie said. “He was here just a couple of days ago.”

“Are you talkin’ about before Gillis was kilt?” Jackson asked.

Claibie shook his head. “No, sir, I’m talkin’ after that. Fact is, I’m talkin’ about after the train wreck, too, ’cause what he done was, he brung in a string of horses from Sentinel.”

“I don’t understand,” Cummins said. “Why would he bring in a string of horses?”

“He done that because we had had to put on extra coaches ’cause of the train wreck.”

“So what you are saying is, after Matt Jensen escaped, he took a job with the stage line, then came back to the same place where he was convicted for murder?” Cummins asked. “Either you are out of your mind, or he is.”

“If this here fella in the picture is Matt Jensen, then yes, sir, that’s exactly what I’m sayin’,” Claibie said.

“All right, suppose it is. Suppose he did bring a string of horses into town. What does that have to do with my horse? What makes you think he’s the one that stole it?” Cummins asked.

“Because after he brung them horses in, we started talking about horses and such. I mean, him not havin’ one, you see. He rode in here on one of the horses that belongs to the stage line. He said he was lookin’ for a horse, so I told him about the sorrel you had for sale and he seemed real interested. I figured maybe he would buy it, and maybe if he done that, why, you’d give me a little somethin’ for steerin’ him to you. Of course, after seein’ his picture on this poster, I know why he was interested. And of course, that bein’ his horse you had, why, he wouldn’t have no trouble ridin’ it or nothin’.”

“It wasn’t his horse!” Cummins said angrily. “That horse was contraband. I confiscated it legal and proper after the trial.”

“Excuse me, Marshal, but when you do that, aren’t you supposed to hold an auction, with all the proceeds to go to the city?” Kyle asked.

“I did hold an auction,” Cummins said. “And I bought and paid for it, with my own money. That money did go to the city.”

“When did you see Jensen?” Kyle asked.

“Two days ago,” Claibie answered.

Kyle looked at Cummins. “And when was your horse stolen?”

“Two days ago,” Cummins admitted.

“Then I’d say that Claibie is right. Jensen is the one who took it.”

“Claibie, if you saw him, why the hell didn’t you report him to someone?” Cummins asked.

“How was I to know who he was, Marshal? He never told me his name or nothin’. And I hadn’t never seen him.”

“You didn’t see him at the trial?” Kyle asked.

“I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout the trial. By the time I heard about Gillis gettin’ hisself kilt and all, why, this here fella had already been tried and was on the train to Yuma to get hisself hung.”

Kyle looked at Cummins. “Are you telling me that the killing and the trial happened on the same day?”

“Yes.”

“And Judge Craig allowed that?”

“Judge Craig didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” Cummins said. “I held the trial my ownself.”

“You held the trial?”

“In addition to bein’ the city marshal, I’m also an associate circuit court judge,” Cummins said. “It was all legal and proper.”

“It was awfully fast, wasn’t it?”

“We had to do it fast, Marshal,” Cummins answered. “Deputy Gillis was just a real popular man. He was well liked by everyone, and there were folks around here wantin’ to string Jensen up that very day. Only way I could keep order was to have a real fast trial.”

“The only way you could keep order?” Kyle questioned. “My God, man, you’ve got six deputies for a town that has a population of less than three hundred people. Do you expect me to believe that you couldn’t keep order?”

“Like I said, Deputy Gillis was a very popular man,” Cummins repeated. “And feelin’s was runnin’ real high then. I done what I thought was right.”

“You did what you thought was right? Or you did what you wanted to do?” Kyle asked.

Cummins smiled. “Why, Marshal, wouldn’t that be the same thing?” he asked.

“Would you like dessert, Marshal? We have a wonderful cherry pie.”

Kyle, who had eaten a late dinner in the City Pig Café, looked up at the waiter. “Cherry pie, you say?”

“Yes, sir, just baked today.”

“Well, now, I suppose a piece of cherry pie would be good. And another cup of coffee, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll bring it right out,” the waiter promised.

As the waiter walked away, Kyle saw someone approaching his table. The man had unkempt silver hair and clothes that were disheveled, absolute indications that he was down on his luck. Kyle was sure the man was coming to ask him for enough money to buy a drink, and anxious to get rid of him, he reached into his pocket for a nickel. He held the coin out toward the man as he reached the table.

“Here you go, friend,” he said. “Have a drink on me.”

“Thank you, but no,” the man replied. “I’ve been six days without a drink, and I hope never to take another.”

“You don’t say,” Kyle said, surprised by the man’s pronouncement. “Well, then, what can I do for you?”

“Did the governor send you?” the man asked. “Are you here in response to my letter?”

“No,” Kyle said, shaking his head. “I don’t know anything about a letter.”

“Oh,” the man said, obviously disappointed. “You are a U.S. marshal, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I was sure you had come in response to my letter.”

“What letter would that be?”

“You are a U.S. marshal?”

“Yes. I’m Marshal Ben Kyle.”

“Marshal Kyle, my name is Robert Dempster. I am an attorney.”

“An attorney?” Kyle asked, obviously surprised by the man’s announcement. Then, realizing how that must’ve sounded, he apologized. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound—”

“That’s all right,” Dempster said quickly. “There is no need to apologize. I realize that I make less than a sterling impression. I wonder, Marshal, if I might have a few words with you?”

At that moment the waiter brought the pie and coffee.

“Won’t you join me, Mr. Dempster?” Kyle asked. “Waiter, bring another piece of pie and a cup of coffee.”

“There’s no need for you to—” Dempster began.

“Please, join me,” Kyle said.

“All right,” Dempster agreed. “I don’t mind if I do.”

“Another slice of pie and another cup of coffee,” Kyle said again.

“Are you sure it’s coffee you want?” the waiter asked, looking at Dempster with obvious disdain.

“I believe I said coffee,” Kyle said, his voice showing his irritation with the waiter’s rudeness.

“Yes, sir, right away,” the waiter responded.

“I’m sorry for that man’s insolence,” Kyle said.

“Don’t blame him,” Dempster replied. “I’ve brought this on myself.”

“You say you are a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“What—uh—what brought on this—this present condition? Wait, never mind it’s none of my business. You don’t have to answer that.”

The waiter delivered the pie and coffee, and then withdrew without a word.

“It’s all right,” Dempster said, holding his response to Kyle until after the waiter left. “I can see why one might be curious.”

Dempster added a copious amount of sugar and cream to his coffee, then stirred it with a spoon for a long moment, as if gathering his thoughts.

“Back in Missouri, I was a circuit judge,” he said.

“That’s quite an honorable position.”

“Yes,” Dempster said. “Which makes the fact that I dishonored it even more reprehensible.”

“You took a bribe?”

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose you could say that,” Dempster said. “I was trying a murder case when some friends of the defendant informed me that if I did not find some way to free their friend, they would kill my family and me.”

“And did you find some way to free the defendant?”

“Yes, I did just as they asked.”

“Well, if your family was in danger, I don’t know as too many people can blame you.”

Dempster took a drink of his coffee. “Only it didn’t help,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“They killed my family anyway.”

“Oh, damn,” Kyle said. “Damn, no wonder you—have problems.”

“Problems with no solution,” Dempster said. “Drinking is no solution.”

“You said that you haven’t had a drink in six days,” Kyle said. “That’s a long time between drinks for an alcoholic, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I hope it goes much longer.”

“What made you stop drinking?”

“Matt Jensen,” Dempster answered.

“Matt Jensen? Are you talking about the convicted murderer?”

“Mr. Jensen is no more of a murderer than I am,” Dempster said. “His trial was a charade and the biggest miscarriage of justice I have ever seen.”

“Was it a real trial? Did he have a judge, a lawyer, and a jury of his peers?” Kyle asked.

“His defense attorney was an incompetent drunk, the judge was crooked, and the jury was fixed.”

“That’s quite a charge,” Kyle said.

“I suppose it is,” Dempster agreed. “But I would gladly make that same charge in an open courtroom. Assuming, of course, that the judge hearing the case would be someone other than Andrew Cummins,” he added.

“Yes, I can see how you might be hesitant to make such a charge to the very man you are making the charge about. But let me ask you this. What makes you think this man, Jensen, is innocent? I was told by Marshal Cummins that there were eyewitnesses to the shooting who confirmed that he killed Deputy Gillis.”

“There was only one eyewitness to the shooting, a young boy, and the story he told me exactly coincided with what Jensen said. Gillis drew first, but Jensen was much faster. He drew his own pistol and shot Gillis. Gillis’s pistol slipped back down into his holster. But it was not until he went into the saloon that anyone else saw him. That’s where he died.”

“I believe you said you sent a letter to the governor?”

“I did indeed,” Dempster said. “I asked the governor to stay the execution until another trial, a fair trial, could be arranged.”

“As it turns out, your letter was unnecessary,” Kyle said. “It would seem that Jensen has arranged his own stay of execution. He escaped.”

“So I’ve heard,” Dempster said. “I hope he gets clear out of Arizona. But I would also hope he could clear his name so this doesn’t hang over him for the rest of his life.”

“Mr. Dempster, if what you tell me is true, then I must say that you have not painted a very good picture of your marshal,” Kyle said.

“Our marshal is a despot,” Dempster said. “He rules this town as if it is his own personal fiefdom.”

“Why does the town council allow such a thing?”

“He has enough of his deputies placed on the council that he quite easily controls it. They pass any law he dictates and authorize any funding he requests. As a matter of fact, the council no longer even serves the town. They are here for one purpose, and one purpose only. They exist for the convenience of Marshal Andrew Cummins.”

“Do the people of the town support Marshal Cummins?”

“Support him?” Dempster replied. “No, they don’t support him, but most are too frightened to do anything about it. There are a few merchants who have been holding secret meetings, I understand, but whether or not they will be able to do anything, I don’t know.”

“Have you met with them?”

Dempster shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I have not earned their trust. But I hope to. Right now, the thing that is keeping me sober is my determination to see Marshal Cummins run out of office and justice done.”

“That is an honorable goal,” Kyle said.

Dempster ate the last bite of pie, then smacked his lips appreciatively. “You know, coming off a three-year drunk, I had forgotten all the good things about life, such as cherry pie. I thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Kyle replied.

Chapter Eighteen

The Bob Dempster who showed up at the meeting held at Joel Montgomery’s bank did not look like the Dempster everyone thought they knew. Dempster had taken a bath, gotten a haircut and shave, and was wearing a very nice suit. He arrived at the meeting with Marshal Kyle, Mrs. Dawkins, and her son, Timmy.

“It’s good of you to come, Mr. Dempster,” Montgomery said.

“I thank you very much for allowing me to come,” Dempster replied. “I am well aware of the fact that I have not conducted myself in any way that would inspire confidence.”

“I believe everyone deserves a second chance,” Montgomery said. “Marshal, Mrs. Dawkins, Timmy, it’s good to have you as well. Please, come into the conference room and have a seat. The meeting is about to get started.”

Dempster, Kyle, Mrs. Dawkins, and Timmy followed Montgomery to the back of the bank, where Montgomery opened a door to show them into the back room.

“Do you think it will be safe here?” Mrs. Dawkins asked.

“We’ve got the marshal with us,” Dempster said. “How much safer do you want it?”

“The marshal isn’t always going to be here,” Mrs. Dawkins pointed out. “And after he leaves, Marshal Cummins will still be here.”

“It’s safe,” Montgomery said. “We’ve had several meetings here without any problem. I often have to work late, so people are used to seeing a light in here. Besides, at this time of night, the marshal and his deputies are over at the Pair O Dice, drinking.”

“That’s not all they do over there,” Goff said with a ribald chuckle.

“Amon, we have a woman and a child with us,” Montgomery chastised.

“Sorry, ma’am, didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Goff said.

“I’ve taken no offense, Mr. Goff,” Mrs. Dawkins said. “I want to do what is best for the town, but I’m sure you can understand that my primary concern is for the safety of my son.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s our concern as well,” Montgomery said. “And on behalf of the Citizens’ Betterment Committee, I want to thank you and your son, and tell you that we understand the danger, and appreciate your courage in coming to the meeting.”

“Citizens’ Betterment Committee,” Mrs. Dawkins said. She smiled, and nodded her head. “Yes, I like that.”

“All right, if everyone will take their seats, we’ll get started now,” Montgomery said.

Goff, Goodman, Taylor, and Bascomb, who were, in addition to Montgomery, members of the Citizens’ Betterment Committee, took their seats around the table. Dempster, Kyle, Mrs. Dawkins, and Timmy joined them.

“Timmy, my wife made some cookies if you’d like one,” Taylor said, offering a plate of cookies to Timmy.

“Gee, thanks,” Timmy said, taking three of them.

“Timmy, he said one,” Mrs. Dawkins said.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Dawkins, he can have as many as he wants,” Taylor said. Then, seeing the expression on the woman’s face, he amended his comment. “Although you are right. Too many wouldn’t be good for him.”

Timmy put two of the cookies back.

“Gentlemen,” Montgomery said. “I called this meeting after Marshal Kyle and Mr. Dempster came to visit me. As you know, Marshal Cummins recently conducted a court trial, if you can call it that, in which he found a man guilty and sentenced him to hang. In order to give some semblance of legality to it, he had the man sent to Yuma Prison, where the hanging was to be carried out. As you also know, Robert Demptster acted as defense counsel for the accused. He came to me with an interesting account of that trial, and I invited him to share the information with the rest of us. Mr. Dempster, the floor is yours, sir.”

“Thank you,” Dempster said. He cleared his throat, then stood up to speak to the others.

“Mr. Montgomery is correct when he says I acted as defense counsel for the accused. In this case acted is the operative word, for the truth is, I was far too drunk to provide an adequate defense for anyone.

“Marshal Cummins knew this, and counted upon this when he selected me as attorney for the defense.

“I’m not going to go through a litany of all the errors in this trial that could cause a reversal of the outcome—though they are legion. I will tell you, however, that any fair judge would at the least call this a mistrial, and in all probability completely reverse the decision and declare Matt Jensen innocent.”

“Mr. Dempster, may I ask a question?” Goff asked, holding up his hand.

“Certainly, Mr. Goff.”

“I know that you, being a lawyer and all, are probably concerned about all the technical things of the trial, whether he got a good defense, whether the trial was held too fast, that sort of thing. But shouldn’t the bottom line be whether or not he is guilty? I mean, if he killed Moe Gillis in cold blood, then that’s murder and it seems to me like it shouldn’t make all that difference how the trial was conducted. The man committed murder, and he should pay for it.”

“That’s just it,” Dempster said. “I don’t think the man did commit murder.”

“How can you say that?” Goff asked. “My brother-in-law was in the saloon that day, and he tells me that he saw Gillis come staggering in through the door, already gut-shot, with his pistol in his holster. Then, a second or two later, this fella Jensen come in behind him, holding a gun in his hand. And that gun, my brother-in-law says, was still smoking.”

“There was only one eyewitness to the actual event,” Dempster said. “And he tells a different story.”

“What about Jackson?” Goodman asked. “I hear Jackson was standin’ in front of the saloon, and he seen the whole thing.”

Dempster shook his head. “Jackson did not see it.”

“He claims that he did.”

“Gentlemen, I was present when I heard Marshal Cummins order Jackson to make that claim.”

“Wait a minute, hold it. Are you saying that the marshal told Jackson to lie?” Taylor asked.

Goff laughed. “My oh my, who could possibly believe that our marshal would ask someone to lie for him.”

The others laughed as well.

“You said there was an eyewitness,” Goff said.

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

“It was young Timmy Dawkins,” Dempster said.

“A kid? You’re saying the only eyewitness was a kid?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Come on, who’s going to believe a kid? And how did he happen to see it in the first place?”

“Timmy, you want to answer that?” Dempster asked.

“I was in the dress shop with Mama,” Timmy said. “It’s right across the street from where it happened. I was looking through the window and saw it all.”

“All right,” Goodman said. “Maybe the kid did see it. But like Goff said, who is going to believe a kid? Even if Timmy thinks he is telling the truth, kids don’t always see things the way they actually are.”

“Timmy happens to be a remarkably observant young man,” Dempster said.

“Observant? What do you mean, remarkably observant?”

“Test him.”

“What do you mean, test him?”

“Ask him something to test his observation skills.”

“All right,” Goodman said. “Timmy, there is a calendar in this room. Without looking at it, tell me about the picture.”

“It is a picture of a train at night,” Timmy said. “The train’s headlight is on, and some of the car windows are lit, but not all of them. And there is a coyote on a cliff, looking down at the train.”

Goodman smiled. “Yes. That’s very good.”

“Timmy, am I wearing a ring?” Goff asked.

“No, sir, you aren’t. But Mr. Montgomery is,” Timmy answered. “It has a red stone.”

Montgomery’s hands were under the table, and with a smile, he raised them to show a ring with a red stone.

“All right,” Goodman said. “I think we can all agree that Timmy is a very observant and very bright young man.”

“Good,” Dempster said. He looked over at Timmy. “Tell us exactly what you saw on the day of the shooting,” he said.

“I saw Mr. Jensen come riding into town,” Timmy said. “Of course, I didn’t know who he was then. But I saw that he was riding a very pretty sorrel horse. He got off the horse, hung a wet hat onto the saddle—”

“Wait a minute, a wet hat? How could his hat be wet? It wasn’t raining that day,” Goff said.

“I wondered about that as well,” Dempster said. “But it turns out that as Jensen rode into town, he stopped at Mrs. Poindexter’s place. She was pumping water into a bucket. He finished filling the bucket for her. Then he pumped water into his hat and gave it to his horse.”

“I’ll be damn. Then it checks out,” Goff said. “Oh, beg pardon for the cuss word, Mrs. Dawkins.”

“That’s quite all right,” Mrs. Dawkins said.

“Go on with your account, Timmy,” Dempster said.

“Yes, sir,” Timmy said. “Well, after he hung the wet hat on the saddle, he tied his horse to the hitching rail in front of the saloon. Then Deputy Gillis stepped out onto the front porch. They talked for a moment, but I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. Then, Deputy Gillis reached for his gun. Mr. Jensen went for his gun, too, and he drew his faster than Deputy Gillis. He shot Deputy Gillis—and the deputy dropped his pistol back into his holster, then turned and walked back into the saloon. Mr. Jensen followed him into the saloon, and that was all I saw.”

“Thank you, Timmy,” Dempster said. He looked at the others. “You may be interested to know that this is the very same story Jensen told during that debacle of a trial.”

Montgomery drummed his hands on the table. “All right, suppose this is true,” he said. “At this point, what can we do about it?”

“We can remove the marshal,” Dempster said.

“How?”

“If you will back me up with a bill of particulars, I will go to the governor’s office,” Kyle said.

“Will the governor listen to us?” Taylor asked.

“I think he will,” Kyle said. He glanced over at Dempster. “Mr. Dempster has started the ball rolling with a letter he sent to the governor. I’ll follow up on it.”

“You can count on us, Marshal,” Montgomery said.

Chapter Nineteen

Kyle was sitting in the governor’s outer office. He was holding his white hat in his lap, and he glanced down toward his boots, which gleamed in a high gloss, polished just for this occasion.

At the back of the room was a door, and in the transom window over the door were the words GOVERNOR’S OFFICE. The door opened, and an aide to the governor came out.

“Governor Frémont will see you now, Marshal Kyle,” the aide said.

“Thank you,” Kyle said.

The door to the governor’s office was open and, looking in, Kyle saw John C. Frémont standing with his back to the door, studying a map that was hung on the wall. The map was very large, and included all the states and territories west of the Mississippi River. It appeared that Frémont had not seen Kyle, so the marshal cleared his throat and tapped lightly on the door frame.

“Why does everyone clear their throat to announce their presence?” the governor asked without turning around. “Why not just call out, ‘Hey, you?’”

“Hey, you,” Kyle said, and the governor’s resultant laughter was genuine. The tension was eased as the governor turned to face Kyle.

“So, Marshal, you are here to talk about the town of Purgatory?” Governor Frémont asked.

“Yes, sir,” Kyle replied.

“Do you know the town?”

“I just came from Purgatory,” Kyle said.

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you know the town.”

Kyle nodded. “I think I do,” he said. “It was more than just a casual visit. I met with some of the town’s most influential people.”

“Robert Dempster?”

“Yes, sir, I met with Dempster.”

“He’s a drunk, isn’t he?”

“Do you know Mr. Dempster?”

“I know him by reputation only,” Governor Frémont said. “From what I understand, he was once a very fine jurist.”

“Yes, sir, that is my understanding as well,” Kyle said.

“And now he is a drunk.”

“I think it might be better to say that now he is a reformed drunk,” Kyle said. “When I met him he was sober, and he stayed sober for the entire time I was there.”

“I see,” Frémont said. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.” He stroked his chin, then picked something up from his desk. “He wrote me a letter, you know.”

“Yes, sir, so he said.”

“It was about the trial of Matt Jensen,” the governor continued.

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you know about the trial?” Governor Frémont asked.

“Only what I learned while I was there,” Kyle replied. “And from what I have learned, the trial was a gross miscarriage of justice. In fact, the word justice can hardly be applied. Cummins was both the arresting officer and, in the case of the trial, the judge. And the shooting, trial, and conviction all happened within less than an hour. I don’t see how a trial like that could possibly be fair. The only thing that kept it from being a lynching was the fact that they were sending Jensen to Yuma to be hanged.”

“Do you think Jensen killed Deputy Gillis?”

“Oh, there is no question that he did. But I also heard from an eyewitness who testified that he saw the deputy draw first.”

“Do you believe the witness?”

“Yes, Governor, I believe him. On top of that, from everything I have been able to find out about Matt Jensen, there is nothing that would make me think he could kill a man in cold blood.”

“Do you know Matt Jensen?” Governor Frémont asked.

Kyle shook his head. “Not exactly. I met him at the train wreck, though I didn’t know at the time who he was. He was working to pull people from the wreckage, and he helped Doc Presnell attend to the injured. And also it seems anyone who ran into him has nothing but praise for the man.”

“Let me tell you what I know about Matt Jensen,” Governor Frémont said.

“You know him?” Kyle asked, surprised by the comment.

“No, but Governor John Routt of Colorado does. I checked with neighboring states and this is what I got back from Governor Routt.”

Frémont began reading from a sheet of paper:

“Last winter during an attempted train robbery, some bandits killed both the engineer and the fireman of the Midnight Flyer. Now, the dead-man’s throttle is supposed to stop the train anytime the engineer is incapacitated, but it failed, and rather than stopping the train as the bandits planned, their actions caused a runaway train. Matt Jensen was a passenger on that train. And while he knew nothing about the attempted holdup, he did realize rather quickly that the train was in great danger. He knew also that somehow he would have to get to the engine.

The only way for him to get to the engine was to crawl along the top of the swaying, ice-covered cars on a train that was speeding through the dark at sixty miles per hour. Matt finally managed to reach the engine and stop the train, just before it rounded a sharp turn. Had he not succeeded, the speed they were traveling would have sent the train, and all 131 passengers over the side of a mountain to a sure and certain death.

As governor of the State of Colorado, I issued a proclamation declaring a day to be officially entered into the State historical records, as Matthew Jensen Day.”

Frémont put the paper down. “Does that sound like someone who would kill in cold blood?”

“No, sir, it doesn’t,” Kyle said. “That’s more like the person I saw at the site of the train wreck.”

“But Marshal Cummins believes him to be a murderer,” Frémont said.

“He either believes it, or has reason to want others to believe it,” Kyle said.

“Does Marshal Cummins have everything under control?”

“Yes,” Kyle said. “If you call having the entire town under his thumb as being ‘under control.’”

“Under his thumb?”

“Governor, Marshal Cummins has six deputies to help him keep control.”

“Isn’t that a little excessive?” Governor Frémont asked.

“Excessive? Yes, and much more than a little excessive,” Kyle said. “If I had my way, that town would be cleaned up and Cummins would be gone.”

“You do have your way,” Governor Frémont replied.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am overturning the results of the trial,” Frémont said. “I am granting Matt Jensen a full and complete pardon. It would probably be better to have a new trial so he could be completely absolved—but in the meantime, the pardon will have to do. I also have something else I want you to look into.”

“What is that?”

Governor Frémont picked up a letter from his desk.

“This is a letter from a man named Ronald Jerome,” the governor said, handing it to Kyle. “He was my adjutant during the war, and he is a longtime friend. It seems his son disappeared in Purgatory.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yes. Apparently Jerome bought some property near Purgatory and his son, Cornelius, came out here to take possession of it. And while Cornelius posted a letter to his father every day of the trip, he did not do so on the day he was to have arrived in Purgatory. Would you look into that for me?”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

Frémont stroked his chin. “Based upon what you have just told me, and based upon the letter I received from Robert Dempster, I am now convinced that this man Cummins has no right to occupy the office of city marshal. Unfortunately, I have no authority to relieve him unless we can find him guilty of a felony. I’m going to give you that responsibility.”

“That is quite a responsibility,” Kyle said.

“I know that you can handle it. But first, I want you to find this man Matt Jensen, and inform him that he is no longer wanted for the murder of this man”—the governor checked a piece of paper—“Moe Gillis. I don’t want that hanging over his head much longer. When someone is wanted for murder, they are sometimes pressed into doing things they would not otherwise do. I think it is important that we notify him as quickly as we can.”

“I agree,” Kyle said. “I’m not exactly sure how we are going to do that, but I agree with you that it does need to be done.”

When Paco Bustamante rode into Choulic, he saw a small group of people standing in front of the hardware store. At first, he didn’t know what they were looking at, but then he saw a coffin, standing upright. Riding over toward it, he was startled to see that the coffin was occupied by a body.

The body was that of Emerson Bates.

There was a sign above the coffin.

This corpse was prepared by:

Ebeneezer Cartwright

SEE ME

for all your undertaking needs.

“I think it is disgusting to put a body on display like that just to advertise your work,” a woman in the crowd said.

“Well, from what I heard, his throat was cut and he looked pretty bad. I reckon ole Cartwright is some pleased with his work,” a man answered.

“Besides which, didn’t nobody know where Bates came from, so it ain’t like he’s goin’ to have kin to complain,” another said.

One of the other men laughed. “And the only friend he had rode out of town butt-naked.”

Paco hung back as the men in the group told and retold, with great relish, the story of Cletus Odom leaping through a window on the second floor, then, without a stitch of clothes, riding out of town.

“I never thought of Odom as bein’ someone who would run from anyone,” another said. “Who was he runnin’ from?”

“He was runnin’ from the same person who killed Bates. His name was Cavanaugh.”

“Oh, yeah, I know who you are talkin’ about. Fact of it is, Cavanaugh is still in town, stayin’ over to the Homestead Hotel. He’s been askin’ a lot of questions. He’s trying to find the ones who wrecked that train a couple of weeks ago. I think he’s a lawman or somethin’.”

“He says he ain’t no lawman. He says he just wants revenge against the ones who wrecked the train and killed all those people.”

“Revenge, huh?”

“Yeah, revenge. Leastwise, that’s what he says.”

“Revenge. Damn, I tell you the truth then. I don’t think I’d want to be one of the people he’s after then. When it is the law that’s after you, you can figure that most likely what will happen to you is you’ll get a trial and maybe go to jail. Even if you get hung, it’ll take a while for them to appeal and all that. But when someone is after revenge, then they don’t stop until they find you. And most likely when they find you, the only thing on their mind is killin’ you. If you ask me, Odom is makin’ a big mistake by runnin’.”

“What do you mean, he’s makin’ a big mistake? Didn’t you just say that the only thing a man out for revenge wants to do is kill you?”

“Yes, and the only way you are going to stop him is to kill him first.”

“Damn. Remind me never to piss someone off so much that he wants revenge.”

A few others laughed nervously.

“How does this fella—Cavanaugh is it? How does he know who he is lookin’ for?”

“Turns out he was on the train that was robbed and he saw the outlaws. Not only that, he even knows every one of them by name. According to him, Bates was one of the train robbers, Cletus Odom was another, along with a fella named Schuler. He also says there was a Mexican by the name of Paco.”

“Paco?” another said, and he laughed. “The fourth train robber was a Mexican by the name of Paco? Well, that should narrow it down to about a thousand Mexicans.”

The others laughed as well.

Paco remounted, then rode back out of town. He had planned to meet Odom and Bates here, but with Bates dead and Odom running, there was no reason for him to remain. Paco’s first thought was to just keep riding, but he stopped and thought about what the man back in town had said about revenge. They never give up until they find the ones they are looking for. And in this case, Cavanaugh knew them by name.

Paco had no choice. He had to kill Cavanaugh before Cavanaugh killed him. He dismounted, found a spot of shade, and waited for nightfall.

Matt had no idea what awakened him. It may have been a type of kinesthetic reflex born from years of living on the edge. He rolled off the bed just as a gun boomed in the doorway of his room. The bullet slammed into the headboard of the bed where, but a second earlier, Matt had been sleeping.

At the same time Matt rolled off the bed, he grabbed the pistol from under his pillow. Now the advantage was his. The man who had attempted to kill him was temporarily blinded by the muzzle flash of his own shot, and he could see nothing in the darkness of Matt’s room. That same muzzle flash, however, had illuminated the assailant for Matt, and he quickly aimed his pistol at the dark hulk in the doorway, closed his eyes against his own muzzle flash, and squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand as the roar filled the room. Matt heard a groaning sound, then the heavy thump of a falling body.

“What is it? What’s happening?” a voice called. All up and down the hallway of the hotel, doors opened as patrons, dressed in nightgowns and pajamas, peered out of their rooms in curiosity. Slipping on his trousers, but naked from the waist up, Matt stepped out into the hallway, then looked down at the the man he had just killed. The body was illuminated by the soft glow of a wall-mounted kerosene lantern. It was the same Mexican he had seen on the train during the robbery.

“You again?” someone said. “You’ve already killed one man in this town. How many are you plannin’ on killin’?”

Matt glared at the questioner, but he didn’t answer him.

“Who is this man?” another asked, pointing to the body on the floor. “He’s not a guest of the hotel, is he?”

“You think any Mexicans would stay here?”

“Has anyone ever seen him before?”

“His name is Paco,” Matt said.

“Why did you kill him?”

“Because he was trying to kill me,” Matt answered. “And that seemed like the practical thing to do.”

“Why was he trying to kill you?”

“Because he knew I was going to kill him, if I found him,” Matt said easily.

“Mister, that don’t make any sense a’tall.”

“It does to me.”

“What are you going to do about him now?” one of the others asked.

“Nothing,” Matt said. “I don’t need to do anything about him now. He’s dead.”

“Well, good Lord, man, you don’t plan to just leave him layin’ out here in the hall, do you?”

“If you want him out of here, take him out of here,” Matt said.

“The hell you say. I didn’t kill him.”

“He’s got a point there, mister,” one of the others said. “You killed him. The least you can do is get rid of him.”

“All right,” Matt said. Leaning down, he picked Paco up and threw his body over his shoulder.

“Now you are being sensible,” the complainer said.

Without another word, Matt walked to the rear end of the hall where he raised the window that opened out onto the alley.

“Hey! What are you…?”

That was as far as the questioning hotel patron got, because without any further hesitation, Matt pushed Paco’s body through the window. It fell with a crash to the alley below. That done, he lowered the window, then, brushing his hands as if having just completed an onerous task, returned to his own room.

“That should take care of it,” Matt said. “Sleep well, everyone.”

Chapter Twenty

Matt was eating breakfast at the Choulic Café when a woman came in. Looking around for a moment, she saw Matt and came directly to his table.

“Mr. Cavanaugh?”

This was the same soiled dove that had been in bed with Bates when Matt and Bates had had their encounter. By now, Matt had been in town long enough, and had spent enough time in the saloon, to know her by name.

Matt stood up. “Hello, Jennie,” he said.

“Oh, my,” Jennie said, flustered by that gentlemanly act. “You don’t have to stand for me.”

“You are a woman,” Matt replied. “I treat all women with courtesy.”

“Oh, I, uh—I appreciate it,” Jennie said.

“Have you had your breakfast?”

“I’m not much of a breakfast person,” Jennie replied.

“You could join me for coffee, couldn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Jennie said, looking around. “Mr. Appleby doesn’t like for people like me—uh, you know, women who are on the line—to come in here.”

“Nonsense, you are my guest,” Matt said. He held a chair out for Jennie, then moved around the table to retake his own seat. He was fully aware of some of the glances he was receiving from many of the other diners, but he paid no attention to them.

“What brings you to my table, Jennie?” Matt asked. “Although I’m enjoying the company, I have the feeling that you didn’t stop by just to be sociable.”

“I hear that you are looking for Moses Schuler,” Jennie said.

“Yes,” Matt said. “Do you know him? You must know him if you know his full name. I don’t believe I’ve mentioned his first name since I arrived in Choulic.”

“Yes, I know him,” Jennie said. “I know him very well.” She paused for a moment. “Moses killed my husband,” she added.

“Your husband?”

Jennie nodded, and Matt saw that her eyes had welled with tears.

“Yes, Mr. Cavanaugh, my husband,” Jennie said. “I wasn’t born a whore.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to imply that you were.”

“I know, I know. I guess, when I think about it, I’m just a little sensitive,” Jennie said. “Carl and I had been married for a little over a year. His parents didn’t approve of the marriage. After all, Carl was an educated man, a mining engineer, and he met me when I was working as a maid for his family. But Carl didn’t care what they thought—he loved me and I loved him, so we were married, and we left Louisville to come out West. Carl had taken a position with the Cross Point Mine.”

“Oh, I see,” Matt said. “Earlier, when you said Schuler killed your husband, you were talking about the cave-in at the Cross Point Mine, weren’t you? The one Schuler caused.”

“Yes,” Jennie said. She looked surprised. “You know about that?”

“I’ve heard about it.”

“It was an accident,” Jennie said. “I don’t really blame Moses, but he blames himself. That’s why he turned into an alcoholic.”

“Did you know Schuler before the accident?”

“I knew him very well. I told you that Carl’s family was opposed to our getting married. But that’s only true about his mother and father. His brother was very supportive—something that Carl and I both appreciated.”

“His brother?

“Yes, Mr. Cavanaugh. Moses Schuler was Carl Schuler’s brother. My brother-in-law,” Jennie said simply.

“I see.”

“No, I’m not sure you do see,” Jennie said. “I do want to help you find him because I believe he is on the path to self-destruction and needs to be stopped. But before I tell you where to look, I need to ask what you are going to do with him when you do find him?”

“If you are worried about that, don’t tell me where he is,” Matt said, his reply surprising Jennie. “Because whatever I do will be between him and me. I don’t want you saddled with any kind of a guilty conscience.”

“I have to know, Mr. Cavanaugh, was he one of the people who robbed the train?”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t the law, and you aren’t a bounty hunter. Why are you after these men?”

“Because of Suzie Dobbs.”

“Suzie Dobbs?” Jennie asked. Then, in a sudden insight, she took in a quick, audible breath. “Was she killed in the train wreck?”

“Yes.”

“Who was she? Your wife? Your fiancée. Your girlfriend?”

“No, she was a little four-year-old girl,” Matt answered. He described how he had pulled her from the wreck, dead with a stake driven through her heart.

“Oh,” Jennie said. “Oh, that’s awful.”

“I then made a vow to myself to find justice for her.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Cavanaugh. I know that Moses has done some things he shouldn’t have done since he started drinking. And I’m sure some of it is against the law. Moses is no angel, that’s for sure. But I cannot believe that he would have anything to do with killing that little girl.”

Matt remembered Schuler’s reaction when the train robbers were in the express car. He alone had expressed some remorse and concern over what they had done.

“Of course, I haven’t seen Moses in quite a while. It could be that, him being a drunk and all, that he might—well, I suppose if he needed a drink bad enough, you could talk him into about anything.”

“Do you know where he is?” Matt asked.

Jennie was quiet for a long moment, as if struggling with her soul.

“Jennie, he alone expressed surprise and remorse at the outcome of the train wreck. I won’t kill him unless he tries to kill me,” Matt said. “Right now, the one I am really after is Cletus Odom. I’m just hoping that Schuler can help me find him.”

“You might try Quigotoa,” Jennie said.

“Quigotoa?”

“It’s a small town just a little north of here. That’s where Moses hangs out most of the time.”

“Does he live there?” Matt asked.

“Does he live there?” Jennie nodded her head. “I suppose you could say that he lives there. But a more accurate answer would be to say that the only reason he is there is because the folks in Quigotoa are willin’ to put up with him.”

It was now two weeks since Dempster had had a drink, and though it was still hard to abstain, it seemed to him to be getting a little easier. The cravings still occurred, but they were more isolated and did not occupy every waking moment as they once had. He was also taking more pride in his personal appearance, and had just taken a bath, shaved, and put on another clean suit, shirt, and tie. Now it was time for another haircut, so he walked down the street to Tony’s Tonsorial Treatments.

Nobody recognized him when he stepped into the barbershop.

“Yes, sir, friend, are you needing a haircut?” Tony asked. The barber had one customer in his chair, and there were two more waiting. “There are two more ahead of you, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all, Tony,” Dempster answered.

Although nobody had recognized Dempster on sight, they all recognized his voice.

“Dempster? Is that you?” one of the waiting customers asked.

“In the flesh,” Dempster replied.

“It is you. Who would’ve thought it?”

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

“No, not at all, not at all. Have a seat,” one of the men said in invitation.

Dempster took off his hat and hung it on the rack. As he did so, he happened to glance through the window, and that was when he saw Cletus Odom riding into town.

“I’ll be damn,” Dempster said. “What is he doing here?”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Cletus Odom,” Dempster said. “I just saw him ride by, as big and bold as you please.”

“Cletus Odom? Are you sure?” Tony asked.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“How do you know it’s him?”

“I know it is him because I once had the dubious distinction of defending him against a charge of murder, back in the days when he was still a bounty hunter. Tony, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put off getting that haircut until later.”

“Anytime, Mr. Dempster,” Tony replied. “Anytime.”

Leaving the barbershop, Dempster hurried down the street to the bank. When he went into the bank, he caused the same initial reaction he had in the barbershop. People were startled when they recognized him. He walked quickly to the desk of Joel Montgomery, the owner of the bank.

“Mr. Dempster,” Montgomery said, rising to greet him. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Mr. Montgomery, may I speak to you alone for a moment?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” Montgomery said. “What is it about?”

“Possible trouble,” Dempster replied without being more specific.

“Bernard,” Montgomery called to his teller. “I’m going to be busy in the back for a while.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Montgomery,” Bernard answered.

Montgomery led the way to the conference room, then closed the door behind them. “What is it?” he asked.

“I just saw Cletus Odom ride into town,” Dempster said.

“The outlaw? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh, my,” Montgomery said. He ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, my. If he is in town, it can only be for one reason. He’s planning to rob the bank.”

“I think you might be right,” Dempster said. “Only, we know he is here so that gives us a little advantage.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“We are paying a heavy tax to the marshal and his deputies, aren’t we?” Dempster asked.

“Yes.”

“Then it is time that Cummins started earning his money.”

“I—yes, you are right.” Montgomery was quiet for a moment. “I never thought I would hear myself say this, but I’m glad that Cummins has all those deputies. Surely they can handle Cletus Odom.”

“One would certainly think so, wouldn’t one?” Dempster replied.

“So, what do we do now?”

“Now? Now we go to Marshal Cummins, inform him of the presence of a wanted outlaw, and demand that he do his duty.”

“Who?” Montgomery asked.

“Who what?”

“Who is going to see Cummins and demand action?”

“I’ll do it,” Dempster said.

Cummins and two of his deputies were in the marshal’s office when Dempster stepped inside. Evidently someone had just told a joke, because all three were laughing loudly.

“Excuse me,” Dempster said.

The three men looked over toward him and Jackson laughed out loud. “Well, now, look what the cat drug in,” he said.

“Dempster,” Cummins said. “It’s good of you to drop by.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, filled a glass, then slid the glass across his desk toward Dempster. “Have a drink.”

“Thank you, no,” Dempster said.

“No?” Cummins looked at his two deputies. “Boys, did you just hear Mr. Dempster say no?”

“I never thought that old drunk would turn down a drink,” Crack said.

“Maybe he thinks he’s too good to drink with us,” Jackson suggested.

“No, it isn’t that,” Dempster said. “I’m sure you understand. I’m an alcoholic. I’m trying to quit drinking.”

“Hah! You’re trying to quit drinking?” Cummins replied. He looked at the others. “Boys, have either of you ever known a drunk who gave it up?”

“I ain’t never known one,” Jackson said.

“Me neither,” Crack added.

“No, and you ain’t never goin’ to know one ’cause it can’t be done.” He looked at Dempster again. “So why are you tryin’ to fight it? You know you want a drink, and here it is, just waitin’ for you. And it is being offered in friendship.”

“Maybe he don’t want to be our friend,” Crack said. “He’s been meetin’ with Montgomery and them other troublemakers.”

Dempster gasped, and Cummins laughed again.

“Well now, Mr. Dempster, you act a little surprised,” Cummins said.

Dempster didn’t answer.

“You don’t think folks can hold meetin’s in this town without me knowin’ about it, do you?” Cummins asked. “This is Purgatory, Mr. Dempster.” Cummins made a fist of his right hand, then used his thumb to point to himself. “And I own Purgatory. Nothing happens in Purgatory without my knowledge, or permission.”

“You are the marshal, not the king,” Dempster said.

“The marshal, not the king? Hmm, that sounds like a political slogan. Are you considering running for some office, Mr. Dempster?”

In fact, though he had told no one, Dempster had considered running for circuit judge.

“If I run for anything, you’ll know it, Marshal Cummins,” Dempster said. “Believe me, you’ll know it.”

“Well now, that sounds like a threat,” Cummins replied. “Are you threatening me, Counselor?”

A quick spasm of fear overtook Dempster, and the hackles rose on the back of his neck. The conversation had gone beyond mere banter and he needed to change the tone.

“No!” he said quickly. “No, I’m not making any threat. I just meant that, uh, if I ever did run for office, why, everyone would know about it.” He forced a laugh. “They’d have to know about it, otherwise, who would vote for me?”

“I can answer that question for you,” Jackson said. “Nobody would vote for you, because nobody is going to vote for a drunk.”

“What do you want, Dempster?” Cummins asked. He picked up the glass of whiskey and drank it himself. The bantering was over.

“I just saw Cletus Odom coming into town,” Dempster said.

“Cletus Odom, you say?” Cummins replied. “You saw him coming into town?”

“Yes. He was riding right down the middle of Central Street, just as big and bold as you please.”

“What about that, Marshal?” Jackson said. “Cletus Odom is in town.”

There was a matter-of-fact tone to Jackson’s comment that Dempster found disturbing.

“Mr. Dempster, why did you feel you had to come tell me about Cletus Odom?” Cummins asked.

“Because you are the marshal.”

“And?”

“And because Cletus Odom is a wanted outlaw.”

“Not in Purgatory, he isn’t,” Cummins said.

“Of course he is. He’s wanted all over the Arizona Territory,” Dempster said.

Cummins shook his head and made a clucking sound with his tongue. “And you once defended him,” he said. “What kind of lawyer are you, Dempster, that you would turn on a man you once defended?”

Dempster had never told anyone that he had once defended Odom, until he shared that information with Montgomery just a few minutes earlier.

“How—how did you know I once defended him?”

“Because Cletus told me you did,” Cummins replied.

“Odom told you? I don’t understand. When did you and Odom ever have a conversation? And why would he have told you that?”

“Because brothers share things,” Cummins answered.

“Brothers? You and Cletus Odom are brothers?”

“Half brothers,” Cummins said. “Cletus!” he called. “Get out here, I want you to meet an old friend of yours!”

A door at the back of the room opened, and Cletus Odom stepped out. Dempster noticed, in shock, that Odom was wearing a star pinned to his vest.

“Mr. Dempster, meet my newest deputy,” Cummins said.

Chapter Twenty-one

It started raining about an hour before Matt reached Quigotoa. Although rainfall was scarce in the desert, when it did rain it was often a torrential downpour. This was just such a rain, and Matt had to be careful to avoid dry creek beds, arroyos, and low-lying areas for fear of a sudden flash flood.

Matt put on a rain slicker and hunkered down in the saddle, but nothing helped.

“Just a little farther, Spirit,” he said to the horse, who, with frequent tossing of his head, showed his discomfort with the downpour. “I’ll find a place to get you dry, I promise.”

Finally, cresting a ridge, Matt saw the town of Quigotoa in the distance, low-lying and gray behind the diaphanous curtain of the rainstorm.

“There it is, boy,” Matt said. “I told you it wouldn’t be much farther.”

It took another fifteen minutes or so after the little town was spotted before Matt reached it. The street was a slurry of mud mixed with horse apples, the droppings reconstituted by the water so that the stench was released. He saw a stable that was no more than a roof over a pen. It wasn’t exactly a livery, but it would provide Spirit with some shelter from the rain, and from the sun after the rain passed.

He rode up to it, then dismounted. At first, he didn’t see anyone; then, at second glance, he saw someone sitting in one corner of the stable where, in addition to the roof, there were half walls, thus providing a bit more shelter from the rain.

“Is this a public livery?” he called, having to raise his voice to be heard through the rain.

“Sí, señor. Ten cents, one night,” the man responded without leaving the partial shelter.

“Here’s fifty cents,” Matt said, fishing the coin from his pocket. “Give him something to eat, and take care of my saddle.”

The prospect of fifty cents was enough to bring the old Mexican away from the shelter, and he had a big smile on his face as he approached.

“Gracias, señor. Cuidaré muy bien de su caballo.”

“You hear that, Spirit? He is going to take very good care of you.”

After turning his horse over to the stable hand, Matt found a board stretched across the street, and though it didn’t keep the rain off him, it did keep him out of the muck and mud. Reaching the boardwalk on the other side of the street, he walked down to the Casa del Sol Cantina.

Inside the cantina, a long board of wooden pegs was nailed along one wall about six feet from the floor. Matt dumped the water from the crown of his hat, then hung his slicker on one of the pegs to let it drip dry. A careful scrutiny of the saloon disclosed a card game in progress near the back. At one of the front tables, there was some earnest conversation. Three men stood at the bar, each complete within themselves, concentrating only on their drinks and private thoughts. A soiled dove, near the end of her professional effectiveness, overweight, with bad teeth and wild, unkempt hair, stood at the far end. She smiled at Matt, but getting no encouragement, stayed put.

“What’ll it be, mister? the bartender asked, making a swipe across the bar with a sour-smelling cloth.

“Whiskey, then a beer,” Matt said. He figured to drink the whiskey to warm himself from the chill of the rain, then drink the beer for his thirst. The whiskey was set before him and he raised it to his lips, then tossed it down. He could feel its raw burn all the way to his stomach. When the beer was served, he picked it up, then turned his back to the bar for a more leisurely survey of the room.

Ascertaining that there was nothing here that represented an immediate threat, he turned back to the bartender.

“I’m looking for Moses Schuler,” Matt said. “I’m told I might find him here.”

“Why do you want Schuler?”

“That’s between Schuler and me,” Matt said.

“You the law?”

“Schuler,” Matt said again without answering the question.

“We don’t care much for the law around here,” the bartender said.

Suddenly, Matt reached his left hand across the bar and grabbed the collar of the bartender’s shirt. He twisted it into a knot that put pressure on the bartender’s neck, making it hard for him to breathe.

“Mister, I’ve ridden half a day in a driving rainstorm,” Matt said. “I’m in no mood for games. I’m going to ask you one more time where I can find Schuler. If you don’t answer me, I am going to break your neck, then find someone who will answer me.”

To illustrate his point, Matt twisted the collar even tighter, so tight now that when the bartender tried to talk, it came out as an unintelligible rattle.

Matt eased up just enough to allow the bartender to speak.

“I’ll see if I can find him,” the bartender said.

“I appreciate that,” Matt replied.

“Juan,” the bartender called.

A Mexican boy in his teens stepped out of the back room. He was wearing an apron and holding a broom.

“Sí, señor?” the boy replied.

“You seen Schuler around?”

“Sí, señor. He is sleeping in the back room,” Juan answered.

“Get ’im out here. There’s someone who wants talk to ’im.”

“I will try, señor. Maybe I cannot wake him up,” Juan said. “He is sleeping very hard.”

“Sleeping, or passed out?” the bartender asked.

“I think maybe he is passed out,” Juan replied.

The bartender poured a drink into a glass, then slid it down the bar toward Juan. “Give him this,” he said. “Tell ’im there’s someone out here that wants to buy him another drink. That’ll bring him out.” The bartender looked at Matt. “You will buy him a drink, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Matt said. “Give me a bottle.”

The bartender handed Matt a bottle, Matt took it, looked over at Juan, then pointed to an empty table. “I’ll be over there, Juan,” he said. “Bring him to me.”

“Sí.”

Juan disappeared into the back room. After a long moment, a bent, white-haired man came out of the room. At first, Matt was about to say this wasn’t the one he was looking for. This man looked nothing like the robber he had seen in the express car. But as he studied him more closely, he saw that this was, indeed, the same man. Dispirited, but the same man.

“Someone is going to buy me a drink?” Schuler asked.

“That man over there, señor,” Juan said. He pointed to the table where Matt was sitting, and Schuler shuffled over toward him, unabashedly scratching his crotch as he did so. Matt had rarely seen a man who had come down as far as Schuler had since the last time he saw him. Schuler needed a shave, and his clothes reeked of stale whiskey and sour vomit. How could this be? Didn’t Schuler get his share from the robbery?

Schuler pointed at Matt with a shaking finger.

“Do I know you?” he asked. “Who are you?”

“I am a friend of Jennie Schuler,” Matt said.

Schuler looked at Matt for a moment, as if trying to process what he had just heard.

“Anyone who has money is a friend of Jennie Schuler,” he said. “She is a whore.”

“I am also the man that’s going to buy you a drink,” Matt answered. He poured whiskey into a glass, then slid it across the table toward Schuler.

“What—what do I have to do for it?”

“Just give me a little information,” Matt said. “That’s all.”

“Information? I don’t know anything about anything,” Schuler said quietly.

“Oh, you know something about what I want,” Matt said. Matt reached out to pick up the glass, then began pouring it back in the bottle.

“Wait!” Schuler said. “What do you want to know?”

“First, let me ask you something. With all the money you got from the train robbery, why are you having to beg for drinks now? Have you already spent it all?”

“I don’t have any money. Paco cheated me out of—” Schuler started to say, then he stopped in mid-sentence. “What money?” he asked.

“The money you got cheated out of,” Matt said. “That is what you were about to say, isn’t it? That Paco cheated out of your share of the money from the train robbery?”

“What train robbery?” Schuler said. “I don’t know anything about any train robbery.”

“Don’t lie to me, Schuler,” Matt said. “I don’t like being lied to. I know you took part in the train robbery because I was there. I was on the train when it wrecked.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, but it does. It means that you, Odom, Paco, and Bates are guilty of murder.”

“I didn’t murder anyone,” Schuler said.

“If you are talking about the deputy, I know you didn’t shoot him. I know that he was shot by Cletus Odom.”

Schuler’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “How do you know that?” he asked.

“I told you,” Matt said. “I was there. I saw it. I was in the express car when you and the others came in. I saw everything, Schuler. I’m talking about all the people who were killed when you and the others wrecked the train. I’m talking about a little four-year-old girl who was traveling with her mother and her brother. Do you know what happened to that little girl?”

Schuler was quiet for a long moment. “I ain’t got any of the money,” he said. “Like I said, Paco stole it.”

“I don’t care about the money,” Matt said.

“You don’t care about the money?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want Odom,” Matt said.

“There are three others,” Schuler said.

“No, there is only one other.”

“You are forgetting Paco and Bates.”

“I’m not forgetting them,” Matt said. “They are dead.”

“Dead?”

“I killed them both,” Matt said calmly.

Schuler made no response, but looked at the bottle and empty glass on the table. Matt waited for a long moment, then refilled the glass and slid it across the table toward Schuler.

Schuler reached out with a trembling hand—picked up the glass—spilled some, then, steadying it with his other hand, drank it down in one swallow.

“Where is Odom?” Kyle asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying,” Matt said matter-of-factly. “What are you afraid of, Schuler?”

“Nothin’,” Schuler answered. “I don’t know where he is, that’s all.”

“You do know, don’t you, Schuler?”

Schuler held his empty glass out, and Matt refilled it.

“Don’t be afraid,” Matt said. “I’m here.”

“You’re here?” Schuler said. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a weak bark. “So, you’re goin’ to protect me if he comes for me? There’s not one man in ten who wouldn’t pee in his pants if he comes face-to-face with Cletus Odom.”

“You think that’s what I would do, Schuler? You think I would pee in my pants?”

“I don’t know,” Schuler said. “Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter who I am,” Matt replied. “You know where he is, don’t you?” he asked.

“What if I do?” Schuler asked. He tossed down the second drink.

“Tell me where to find him,” Matt said.

“I can’t,” Schuler said.

Matt slid the bottle of whiskey toward him. “Forget about the glass. I’ll give you the whole bottle.”