Snake River Slaughter

Chapter Fourteen

When Matt went into town that evening, he had dinner at a restaurant called the Railroad Café. It was dark by the time he finished dinner and walked down the street to the Sand Spur. This was his first visit to the most popular of the local watering places. Inside the saloon, the bartender was standing at the end of the bar, wiping the used glasses with his stained apron, then setting them among the unused glasses. When he saw Matt step up to the bar, he moved down toward him.

“I’ll have a beer,” Matt said.

The bartender set the beer in front of him with shaking hands, and even though this was Matt’s first time in the Sand Spur, he knew he had been recognized.

Clutching the beer in his left hand—he always left his right hand free when he went in to a new place—Matt turned his back to the bar and looked out over the room. A bar girl sidled up to him. She was heavily painted and showed the dissipation of her profession. There was no humor or life left in her eyes.

“Mister, are you looking for good time?” she asked.

Matt wasn’t interested, but he felt a sense of compassion for the girl, perhaps heightened by hearing the story Kitty told of her own experiences.

“How much?” he asked.

The girl smiled at the prospect. “Two dollars,” she said.

Matt pulled two dollars from his pocket and gave it to her. “Suppose I give you two dollars and you let me buy you a drinki?” he asked. “Would you be interested in that?”

“Gee, Mister, thanks,” the girl said, sticking the money down into the top of her dress. “Charley, I’ll have a sarsaparilla.”

“Coming right up,” Charley said.

“Is that all you want?” Matt asked.

“I can’t drink whiskey all day long, I’d be a helpless drunk,” the girl said.

Matt chuckled. “I see your point,” he said.

The bartender put the glass in front of the girl and for the next few minutes, Matt and the girl had a pleasant conversation. As she relaxed, her features softened, and Matt realized that, at one time, she was probably a very pretty girl. During the conversation, Matt saw the bartender go to a table over on the side and, as he was picking up an empty glass, speak to the man at the table. The man glanced up at Matt, though the glance was so fleeting that few would have caught it.

At the rear of the saloon the piano player, who wore a small, round, derby hat and kept his sleeves up with garter belts, was pounding out a rendition of “Buffalo Gals,” though the music was practically lost amidst the noise of a dozen or more conversations.

The man the bartender spoke to got up and walked over to the bar, carrying his beer with him. It wasn’t until then that Matt saw the star on his shirt.

“Mr. Jensen, I’m Marshal Bill Sparks. Welcome to Medbury.”

“Thank you,” Matt said.

“I can’t help but wonder what you are doing in our little town, though.”

“I’m visiting a friend.”

“Word I got is that you’ve come to hire out your gun to Mrs. Wellington.”

“I don’t hire out my gun, Marshal,” Matt said. “And, like I told you, I’m here to visit a friend.”

“Very well, Mr. Jensen, I’ve got no call to dispute you. But I do know that Mrs. Wellington has accused Poke Terrell of horse stealing, and she seems a little put out that I’ve done nothing about it.”

“Why haven’t you done anything about it?” Matt asked.

“What am I supposed to do? There is only Prewitt’s word that Poke Terrell was one of the rustlers. And he saw Poke, if that is who he saw, in the dark. On the other hand, Poke had three witnesses who swore that they were with him that night, and he wasn’t anywhere close to Coventry on the Snake.”

“And I’m sure that his witnesses are all first-class citizens,” Matt said. “Like Poke Terrell.”

Marshal Sparks chuckled. “Well, you’ve sized that up pretty well,” he said. “But I hope you can see that, legally, my hands are tied.”

“Mine aren’t,” Matt said.

“What does that mean?”

“That means I don’t have to prove Poke’s guilt in a court of law. I only have to be convinced of it myself.”

“I see. By the way, I assume you know that Poke Terrell used to ride with Clay Sherman and the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse.”

“So I’ve heard,” Matt said.

“Of course ‘used to’ may not be the correct term,” Marshal Sparks said.

“You mean he is still with the Posse?”

“According to Tate, he’s the telegrapher down at the depot, Poke has exchanged a few telegrams with Sherman since he arrived.”

“What did the telegrams say?”

Marshal Sparks shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you,” he said. “Tate ain’t allowed to divulge what’s in the telegrams. Truth to tell, he probably wasn’t even supposed to tell me that Poke and Sherman been sending them back and forth to each other. But I figure Tate thinks it’s something I should know, otherwise he would never have mentioned it.”

“I think your assumption is probably right,” Matt said.

“But my point is, Mr. Jensen, that if Poke Terrell is still with the Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse, he’s not somebody you want to take too lightly. I would be a bit cautious around him, if I were you.”

“That sounds like good advice,” Matt said. He lifted his beer. “May I buy you a beer, Marshal?”

“Thanks, maybe later,” Marshal Sparks said. “Right now I need to make my rounds.”

Matt looked around the saloon. “Oh, before you leave, Marshal, could you point out Poke Terrell to me?”

“Do you think I’d be talking about him like this if was in here now?” Marshal Sparks asked. He pointed toward a table near the stove. Though every other table in the saloon was full, this particular table was conspicuously empty. “When he is in here, which is most of the time, by the way, he sits at that table over there and plays solitaire.”

“Solitaire?”

“Yeah, he’s too damn mean to get anyone to play with him. And, get this, Jensen, this will tell you what kind of man he is. When he plays solitaire, he cheats. Can you imagine that? A man who cheats at cards, even when he’s playing himself.” Sparks laughed, then started toward the door. “Like I said, I need to make my rounds. I’ll collect on that beer later.”

“Anytime, Marshal,” Matt said.

Matt turned back to the bar. The bar girl who was talking to him before had left when the sheriff approached. Now she came back to him, and though he was not looking for company, he smiled a welcome anyway.

The bar girl picked up her drink then held it in front of her mouth so that when she spoke, nobody could see her lips moving. She spoke very quietly.

“Be very careful when you leave the saloon, Mr. Jensen. Someone may be waiting for you.”

“Thanks,” Matt said, covering his reply with the glass, just as the girl had.

When Matt stepped out into the street a few minutes later, he checked the false front of the building across the street, and looked toward the watering trough for any place that might provide concealment for a gunman. He expected the trouble, if it came, to be in the form of someone shooting at him. He wasn’t prepared for and was surprised by two men with knives who suddenly jumped from the dark shadows between the buildings. It was only that innate sense that allowed him to perceive danger when there was no other sign that saved his live. Because of that sense, and his lightning quick reflexes, he was already moving out of the way of the attack even as the two men were starting it. The two assailants were dressed in black which, because of the darkness of the street, made it difficult for Matt to see them.

The attackers made low swinging, vicious arcs with their knives, and had he not moved when he did, Matt would have been disemboweled. Despite the quickness of his reaction, however, one of attackers did connect, and the flashing blade opened a wound in his side.

The other attacker moved in quickly to finish Matt off but Matt managed to slip to one side before sending a wicked right toward his attacker, hitting him in the side of the head and knocking him away. Almost immediately the other one moved in. Matt managed to avoid his thrust, then, before the attacker could draw his hand back, Matt grabbed him by arm and twisted it, causing the attacker to turn around. Matt pulled the attacker toward him, using him as a shield against another thrust by the first attacker.

The first attacker’s knife plunged into the heart of the man Matt was holding. The first attacker realized with shock that he had not only just killed his friend, he was also now at a distinct disadvantage in this fight. Not willing to press his luck any further, he turned and ran off into the night.

The knife wound caused Matt to lose a lot of blood, and feeling faint and nauseous, he dropped the man he was holding, then managed to find his way back into the Sand Spur. His sudden and unexpected entrance startled everyone into silence. He stood just inside the door, holding his hand over his side while blood spilled between his fingers. Despite his nausea and dizziness, Matt could see the expressions of shock on their faces. Even the piano player stopped playing and was now turned all the way around on his bench. Not one person was speaking, and it was so quiet that the only sound to be heard was the ticking of the clock and the quiet hiss of the burning lanterns.

Matt walked over to the bar, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He pulled a silver dollar from his pocket and put it down in front of the bartender.

“Better make it a whiskey this time,” he said.

Without so much as one word, the bartender responded quickly, putting the glass in front of Matt. He started to pull the bottle back, but Matt reached out and put his hand on the bartender’s arm.

“Leave the bottle,” Matt demanded.

The bartender left the bottle. “Mr. Jensen, you need to see a doctor with that wound.”

“I’ll be fine,” Matt replied, his voice strained. He poured some whiskey into the glass and drank it. Then he opened his shirt, and poured a considerable amount of the whiskey from the bottle over his wound.

The whiskey washed away some of the blood, exposing the wound which, originally was but a thin slice, had been opened up by the exertion of the fight.

The bar girl who had warned Matt now came up to him, holding her petticoat in her hand. She tore it into two pieces, one of which she used to clean the wound, and the other to press over the wound.

“Thanks,” Matt said.

“Damn, Mister, who did this?” the bartender asked.

“They didn’t leave their names,” Matt said as he closed the shirt over the wound.

“They? You mean there was more than one?”

“There’s only one now,” Matt said. “The other one is lying out in the street.”

“Dead?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said. “I certainly intended for him to be.”

Matt had saved enough whiskey for one more drink. He poured another glass, tossed it down, set the empty glass on the bar, then turned to address those in the saloon who, after halting all card games, conversation, and drinking at his entrance, continued to stare at the bleeding apparition who stood before them.

“I’ll be going now,” he said with a strained voice. “I don’t want anyone to follow me. If I see anyone following me, I’ll kill them.”

“Like I said, Mr. Jensen, you had better see a doctor,” the bartender repeated.

“I thank you for your concern,” Matt said. “But I’ll be fine.”

Matt looked at the bar girl who had warned him to be alert. He raised his hand to the brim of his hat.

“Miss,” he said. “I’m obliged for your company and your conversation.”

After that, Matt turned and walked away from the bar, growing more dizzy with each step. When he reached the batwing doors he had to reach out and grab the door frame to steady himself. Then, calling on every ounce of reserve strength, he took his hand down, leaving a bloody hand print behind as he stepped outside into the darkness.

Matt mounted Spirit and started away from the saloon.