Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man The Eyes of Texas Read online

  “Yeah, he works for Bramley. He’s Bramley’s gun for hire.”

  “Gerald is right,” Ponder said. “I’ve already buried two of the men he killed, including one that he shot in the back with a twelve-gauge.”

  “Well, to be fair to Durbin, you are talking about Quince Calhoun,” Dempster said. “And Calhoun was not only a wanted man for murder and robbery, he was the one who, but a moment earlier, had killed Marshal Jarvis.”

  “Yes, exactly,” Mayor Trout said. “Mr. Durbin pointed out to me that the man he killed was the one who killed Marshal Jarvis. Now, this town has heaped honor upon Matt Jensen for doing the same thing, haven’t we? There was an impromptu celebration, and we issued a proclamation. How is what Matt Jensen did any different from what Harry Durbin did?”

  “Well, for one thing,” Hawkins said, “Jensen faced Crowley face to face. Durbin shot Calhoun in the back, with a shotgun.”

  “I don’t see that as a consequential difference,” Mayor Trout said. “Both men were murderers, and both had just killed one of our marshals.”

  “You sound like you are actually in favor of appointing Durbin marshal,” Moe Woodward said.

  “Why not? We need a marshal, and he is willing to serve.”

  “Why not? Because we are just asking for trouble if we appoint Durbin, or any of Bramley’s men, as our new marshal,” Hawkins said. “Hell, as all of you know, most of our trouble comes from Plantation Row. And if you think we have trouble now, just think of the trouble we would have if those people had the law on their side.”

  “I think Gerald is right,” Dupree said.

  “So do I,” Tobin said.

  “I have to agree, Mayor,” Dempster said. “Despite the fact that the killing of Quince Calhoun could be called justifiable, I think it would be a huge mistake to hire Durbin.”

  “All right,” Trout said. “I will inform Mr. Durbin that the city council has turned down his request.”

  Shortly after Durbin was told that his application to be the new marshal was rejected, Bramley held another meeting of the Plantation Row Citizens’ Betterment Council.

  “Gentlemen, and lady,” Bramley said, acknowledging Abby’s presence. Abby hooted at the acknowledgment.

  “Bless your heart, darlin’, for callin’ me a lady, which I ain’t,” Abby said. “But I am a woman, as I’ll be glad to show you anytime you’re of a mind.”

  Foster and Gimlin laughed.

  “Abby, I may just surprise you someday, and take you up on that offer,” Bramley said. “But right now, I’ve got other things on my mind.” He turned back to the others who were present at the meeting.

  “It has come to my attention that what we need is to have a lawman on our side. And to that end I sent Harry Durbin to see Mayor Trout to volunteer to be the new town marshal. Trout, in turn, took it to the city council.”

  “So,” Gimlin said with a big smile. “Do we have a new city marshal?”

  “No, they turned him down,” Bramley said.

  “Well, hell, why did you call this meeting then?” Foster asked.

  “We don’t have a new marshal,” Bramley said. “But we have something even better. Harry, come on in here!” Bramley called.

  Durbin stepped into the back room then, prominently displaying a star on his shirt.

  “What is it with the star?” Foster asked. “I thought you said the city council turned him down.”

  “Yes, he has been turned down as the city marshal. But, you are now looking at the newest deputy sheriff in the country. And as such, he will have authority over whoever is eventually appointed as the city marshal.” Bramley gave the others a broad smile.

  “Folks, we are the law. And the first thing I propose is that we refuse to pay these new taxes the city has placed on us.”

  The first thing the new deputy did was visit the mayor’s office.

  “Tell the mayor I want to see him,” Durbin said.

  “Oh, I’m not sure the mayor has time to see anyone this morning,” the clerk said.

  Durbin pointed to the star on his shirt. “You tell him that the deputy sheriff of Pecos County demands to be seen.”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk replied meekly.

  “You’re the deputy sheriff?” Mayor Trout asked, when Durbin stepped into his office.

  “Yeah,” Durbin said. “If you had appointed me city marshal like I asked, I would be working for you. But I don’t work for you now, and I’m here to tell you that nobody on First Street will be paying this new tax.”

  “They have to pay it,” Mayor Trout said. “It’s the city law.”

  “I don’t enforce the city law,” Durbin said.

  The news of Harry Durbin’s appointment as a deputy sheriff spread quickly through the town as Durbin began making the rounds, “enforcing” the law. He arrested a couple of cowboys who were coming out of the Texas Star for “public drunkenness” though neither of the young men were noticeably drunk. On the other hand, within an hour after the two young cowboys were arrested, some men who actually were drunk started having target practice in the middle of Plantation Row, and the new deputy did nothing to stop them.

  Then, on the same day Durbin was appointed as deputy sheriff, he stopped a freight wagon on the road leading into town.

  “What is it, Deputy?” the driver asked.

  “I need to inspect your load,” Durbin said.

  “Inspect it? Inspect it for what? It ain’t nothin’ but whiskey and beer for Mr. Hawkins.”

  “Do you have your beer and whiskey permit?”

  “Beer and whiskey permit?” the driver asked in confusion. “What beer and whiskey permit? I don’t know what you are talkin’ about.”

  “It’s a new law. You can’t bring beer and whiskey into Shady Rest without having a permit, signed by the liquor commissioner.”

  “Well, who is the liquor commissioner?”

  “I am,” Durbin said. “That’s one of my jobs.”

  “Oh, well, then why don’t you sign them for me, so I can get on about my business?”

  “The permit will cost you one hundred dollars,” Durbin said.

  “One hundred dollars? I ain’t got that kind of money on me!”

  “Then you are goin’ to have to unload your wagon, right here.”

  “I can’t do that!” the wagon driver complained. “This here load belongs to Mr. Hawkins. He’s done paid for it.”

  Durbin pulled his pistol and pointed it at the driver. “I’m the law,” he said. “And I’m tellin’ you to unload your wagon, right here, and right now.”

  With the gun pointed at him, the driver had no choice but to unload the wagon, meaning that he had to roll the beer barrels down the incline by himself. It took him the better part of an hour, but he was able to do it without losing one barrel.

  “What do I do now?” the driver asked.

  “You turn your wagon around and go on back to where you come from,” Durbin said.

  Again, it was the threat of the gun that convinced the driver to acquiesce to Durbin’s demand.

  Durbin watched until the driver was out of sight; then he gave the signal, and another wagon, belonging to Jacob Bramley, pulled up to take on the beer that had been “confiscated” for lack of a whiskey and beer permit.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Pecos

  “What has it been, Sheriff, a week since the senseless and brutal murder of that young schoolteacher?” Prichard asked. “Are there any leads?”

  “One lead, though I don’t know how productive it will be. And, I don’t know how credible the witness is.”

  Prichard felt a quick bolt of fear.

  “Witness? Do you mean to tell me that there was someone who witnessed the killing?”

  “No, nobody saw the actual killing, but Charley Keith did see a man go in through her back door.”

  “Charley Keith. Wait a minute, I haven’t been here all that long, but I have heard of him. Isn’t he the town drunk?”

  “Yes, a
nd that’s the problem. I don’t know how credible Charley Keith would be as a witness. I mean, even if he is telling the truth, and I have no reason to doubt him, but if we had a suspect, and brought him to trial on Charley’s word, I’m pretty sure a good lawyer would be able to challenge his . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “The word you are looking for, Sheriff, is credibility,” Prichard said.

  “Yes, credibility. And that’s too bad too, because Charley told me he was in the back alley when he saw someone knock on her door. Then he saw the door open, and he saw the man go inside.”

  “What is your level of confidence in that report?”

  “I believe him. I’ve known Charley Keith for a long time, even before he became a drunk. He has his faults, but he’s never been a blowhard, he’s never been a man to spread tall tales. If he said he saw the man, then I believe he saw him.”

  “Did he get a good look at the man? I mean, if he saw him again, do you think he could recognize him?”

  “No, and that’s the next problem. I asked Charley if he could identify the man again if he saw him, and he said that he didn’t think he could. It was too dark. You know what I’m thinking?” Sheriff Nelson asked.

  “What?”

  “I’m thinking that Miss Margrabe may have had a man friend, and she didn’t want anyone to know anything about it. You know there was a clause in her teaching contract that said she couldn’t be married. There was also a morals clause, meaning she couldn’t be seen with any men. I think all we have to do is find out who she was seeing, and we’ll have our man.”

  “You are probably right,” Prichard said. “But you say that Keith can’t give you a description?”

  “No. Like he said, he was back in the alley, and you know there are no lamps back there. Well, as a matter of fact, there aren’t any streetlamps at all where Miss Margrabe’s house was, so it was too dark for him to actually see anything.”

  “I have an idea,” Prichard said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The killer doesn’t know that he was seen. And the killer doesn’t know that he can’t be identified. Suppose we put the word out that we have a witness, someone who saw, and can identify, the killer?”

  “What good would that do?”

  “If nothing else, it would get the killer nervous, maybe so nervous that he might try something that would inadvertently cause him to fall right into our laps?”

  “Yeah!” Sheriff Nelson said. “Yeah, that’s a great idea. We could . . . no, no wait,” he said. “If we did that, it could make Charley Keith a target. I wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “We don’t have to say who the witness is,” Prichard said. “All we have to do is say that we have a witness.”

  Sheriff Nelson smiled, and nodded. “All right, we’ll do that. I’ll start spreading the word around that we have a witness.”

  Prichard watched Sheriff Nelson leave; then he went over and poured himself a cup of coffee. He laughed as he took a swallow and, because of the laughter, had to spit some of the coffee out. It was fun, playing the sheriff for a fool.

  Shady Rest

  When Matt came down from his hotel room the next morning he was surprised to see Annabelle waiting for him in the lobby.

  “Miss O’Callahan,” he said, walking toward her as she stood up from the sofa.

  Annabelle raised her finger and wagged it back and forth. “No, no, it’s Annabelle, remember?”

  “Annabelle,” Matt said with a smile. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to ask a favor of you.”

  “Sure, anything,” Matt answered. “Except I hope you aren’t going to ask me to serve as city marshal.”

  “No, it isn’t that. Besides, we have a deputy sheriff now.”

  “So I’ve heard. What is the favor?”

  “I want you to teach me to shoot a gun. I think that in a town like Shady Rest it is almost imperative that someone be able to shoot well enough to defend themselves. And I believe that would go for a woman, as well as for a man.”

  Matt smiled, and nodded. “I can’t argue with that,” he said. “I think you’re right. When do you want your first lesson?”

  “This afternoon, right after you buy my lunch,” Annabelle said. “As I recall, you did offer to buy lunch for me, didn’t you? That was several days ago, but I assume the offer is still valid.”

  “It is absolutely valid. That is, if Moe’s is all right.”

  “Moe’s would be fine,” Annabelle agreed. “I’ll meet you there at noon.”

  Pecos

  At the opposite end of the town from the sheriff’s office, in one of the stalls of the livery, Sheriff Nelson and Charley Keith were engaged in conversation. Nelson had not come to the conversation empty-handed, having brought a pint of whiskey as a bribe to get Keith to talk to him.

  “Damn,” Keith said as he examined the bottle. “This really is a blended whiskey, and not the kind of blending I have to do.” He pulled the cork and held the bottle opening under his nose as he inhaled. “It smells like a little bit of heaven,” he said. He turned the bottle up and took a long, Adam’s-apple-bobbing swallow.

  “Ah, yes. I thank you, Sheriff. With all my heart, I thank you.”

  “I thought you might appreciate that, Charley.”

  Keith took another swallow; then he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and looked directly at the sheriff.

  “Now, what is it that you want?”

  “I want to talk about the man you saw going into Margaret Margrabe’s house on the night she was killed.”

  ‘The poet, you mean?”

  “The poet? What do you mean, the poet?”

  “The fella that went into the teacher’s house,” Keith said. “He stood there on the back porch and spoke a poem to her.”

  “Do you remember the poem?”

  “Sort of,” Keith said. “It was somethin’ like ‘love me with everything you are.’ Them might not be the exact words, but they was somethin’ like that.”

  “How do you know it was a poem?”

  “I know ’cause of the way he was sayin’ it. I mean it wasn’t like it is when someone is just talkin’ to another person. He sort of said the words like he was on stage or somethin’. Also, a couple of the words rhymed, but right now I can’t rightly tell you which words it was that was rhymin’.”

  “Charley, do you think you would recognize this person if you saw him?”

  “No, it was too dark,” Keith said. “I wouldn’t be able to recognize him by seein’ him.”

  Sheriff Nelson sighed. “Damn, I was hoping you might recognize him.”

  “I would recognize him.”

  “You just said you wouldn’t.”

  “I said I wouldn’t be able to recognize him by seein’ him.” Keith smiled. “But you didn’t ask if I would recognize him if I heard him talk. Because I would. Especially he was to talk like as if he was recitin’ a poem, or somethin’.”

  “Charley, I thank you for this information,” Sheriff Nelson said. “But for now, let’s just keep this between you and me, all right?”

  “All right, Sheriff, if you say so,” Keith agreed.

  Shady Rest

  “Hello, Matt. Hello, Miss O’Callahan,” Moe said as the two went into the café. Matt had eaten several meals here now, and had befriended Moe.

  “What’s for lunch today, Moe?”

  “Pork chops, potatoes, turnip greens, and cornbread.”

  Matt smiled at Annabelle. “Not as fancy as the dinner we had the other night, but it sounds good to me.”

  “It sounds good to me as well,” Annabelle said.

  After lunch, Matt rented a buckboard and team, and he and Annabelle drove about two miles out of town, where he started his instruction. She had her own pistol, a thirty-two caliber, and she took it out to show Matt.

  “I bought this a few months ago. I hope it’s all right.”

  “If you shoot it accurately, trust me, it’s all
right,” Matt said. “Let me see how you hold it.”

  Annabelle held the pistol, balanced it in her hand.

  “Looks like you’re holding it all right. Let me see what you can do with that rock there, about twenty feet in front of you. That dark red one. See if you can knock a chip off it.”

  Annabelle lifted her hand and without pausing to sight along the barrel, she pulled the trigger. A spark flew from the rock, and the strike of the bullet left a white mark.

  “That’s not bad. But if you hadn’t pulled the trigger you would have hit it dead center,” Matt said. “Pulling the trigger pulled the gun off target.”

  Annabelle laughed. “Now you’re teasing me,” she said. “How do you shoot the gun without pulling the trigger?”

  “Like this.”

  Matt drew, fired, and put the pistol back in his holster in a motion that was so fast that Annabelle couldn’t believe her eyes. And on the red rock, there was a white chip in the dead center.

  “That’s very impressive, Matt, but don’t tell me you didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “I didn’t. Look, wrap your hand around the butt of your pistol, and put your finger on the trigger, and I’ll show you.”

  Annabelle held the pistol as Matt directed, then raised it in the direction of the rock. Matt wrapped his hand around hers.

  “Now, aim the pistol, but don’t think of shooting it. We’ll shoot it together.”

  Annabelle pointed the gun toward the rock, and Matt, slowly began to squeeze down on her hand.

  “Do you feel that?” Matt asked.

  “Yes, I do,” Annabelle answered in a breathy voice.

  Matt either didn’t get the inference of her answer, or paid no attention to it. Instead, he continued to squeeze her hand until quite unexpectedly, as far as Annabelle was concerned, the pistol just seemed to go off in her hand.

  “Oh!” she said, jumping in surprise.

  Matt chuckled. “Look where you hit,” he said.

  Looking toward the rock, Annabelle saw a new white chip, right next to the one that Matt had put there.