Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Read online

  Matt shook his head. “I’m not the law or a bounty hunter,” he said. “This is personal.”

  “Who are you lookin’ for?”

  “I’m looking for two people actually. One named Clyde Payson, the other Garvey Laird.”

  “I’ll be damn,” the bartender said. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

  “Him?”

  “Matt Jensen,” the bartender said. “That would be your name, wouldn’t it? Matt Jensen?”

  “Yes, it is,” Matt said, squinting his eyes. “How do you know my name?”

  The bartender chuckled. “Well, hell, Mr. Jensen. You’ve done got famous, didn’t you know that?”

  “No, I don’t suppose I did know it.”

  “Well, they ain’t here.”

  “What?”

  “Them folks you’re lookin’ for,” the bartender said. “They ain’t here.”

  “Would you know if they were here?”

  The bartended nodded. “I reckon I’d know, seein’ as they’ve both been here before. Payson has a scar here.” He made a motion across his face with his hand. “And the other’n has half an ear gone.”

  “That’s them.”

  “The story I’ve heard is that they kilt your ma and pa and you’re out for revenge.”

  “That’s right,” Matt said, taking another swallow of his beer.

  “Well, like I say, they ain’t here now, but I hope you find ’em,” the bartender said.

  “Thanks.”

  Another customer stepped up to the bar requiring the bartender’s attention, so he stepped way. As he did so, Matt turned his back to the bar and slowly surveyed the interior of the saloon. It was typical of many he had seen. Wide, rough-hewn boards formed the plank floor, and against the wall behind the long, brown-stained bar was a shelf of whiskey bottles, their number doubled by the mirror they stood against. Half a dozen tables, occupied by a dozen or more men, filled the room, and tobacco smoke hovered under the ceiling in a noxious cloud.

  “You got anything to eat?” Matt asked when the bartender came back a moment later.

  “Ham and taters,” the bartender answered.

  “Good enough,” Matt replied. He nodded toward an empty table. “I’ll be over there.”

  “I’ll tell the kitchen,” the bartender said.

  “Thanks.”

  As the bartender left to see to his order, Matt moved over to the table to await his food. When he did so, one of the other saloon patrons left, then walked resolutely to another saloon at the far end of the street. There, two men were sitting at a table at the back of the room. They looked up as the man approached their table.

  “What are you doing here, Les? Did the cards start running bad for you?”

  “Bart, Clem, it’s him,” Les said.

  “Him who?”

  “Matt Jensen. He’s here in Cobb’s Station. He’s down at the Horse Shoe.”

  Bart squinted at Les. “How do you know it’s him? What’s he look like?”

  “He’s a big fella, tall, with wide shoulders, narrow at the hip,” Les said. “It’s him, I tell you.”

  “You ain’t never seen him before. That description could fit dozens of men.”

  “Maybe. But the barkeep recognized him,” Les answered. “He called him out on it, and Jensen didn’t deny it.”

  “Is he still down at the Horse Shoe?”

  “He was when I left, and I figure he still is, seein’ as he just ordered his supper.”

  “You think it’s him for real?” Clem asked.

  “Well, me’n you have both seen him before,” Bart said. “If it ain’t him for real, we’ll know soon enough.”

  “What are we goin’ to do if it is him for real?”

  “We’re goin’ to get ourselves that two hunnert dollars,” Bart said.

  “The only way we can do that is by killin’ him.”

  “That’s the plan,” Bart said. “There’s three of us, and only one of him.”

  “Look here, you are the ones who are lookin’ for him. Not me,” Les said. “All I agreed to do was keep an eye open for him and if I seen him, come let you know. You said you would give me ten dollars. Ain’t no way I’m goin’ up against this man for ten dollars, even if there is three of us. Which there ain’t goin’ to be, ’cause I ain’t goin’ to do it.”

  “What if we give you fifty dollars?” Bart asked.

  “So, what you’re sayin’ is, you want me to take the same risk as you and Clem, but you’ll each get seventy-five dollars and I’ll get fifty?”

  “Well, yeah, but we are the ones that come up with the idea,” Bart said.

  “Fifty dollars ain’t enough to get myself kilt over. Just give me my ten dollars now and I’m out of it.”

  “All right, but if it ain’t him, you don’t get your money,” Bart said.

  “I want the money now,” Les said.

  “Why should I give you any money before I know whether or not it is actually Matt Jensen?”

  “’Cause if it ain’t Matt Jensen, all you got to do is come down here and get your money back,” Les said. “On the other hand, if it is him and he kills you, then I won’t get my money.”

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t givin’ you no money now. So you just better hope we kill him instead of him killin’ us,” Bart said.

  “Yeah? Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t have much hope for that,” Les said.

  “How are we goin’ to do it?” Clem asked. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Yeah, I have a plan,” Bart said. “We’re going to call the son of a bitch out.”

  “Call him out? What are you talkin’ about? Ain’t no way I’m going to call him out. You seen the way he handled Poke and Syl,” Clem said.

  “He know’d who Poke and Syl was,” Bart said. “And they didn’t know who he was. And they was both standin’ right together. Only now the shoe is on the other foot. We know who he is, but he don’t know who we are. And we ain’t goin’ to be standin’ together.”

  “Yeah, well, which one of us is goin’ to call him out?” Clem asked.

  Bart sighed. “It was my idea,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  “You sure you want to do that?” Clem asked. “Go up ag’in him by yourself? You seen what happened to Poke and Syl.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry none about that. I’m callin’ him out by myself, but I ain’t goin’ to fight him by myself. You’re goin’ to be right there with me, only he ain’t goin’ to know it,” Bart said, smiling.

  “Yeah,” Clem said. “Yeah, that plan might work.”

  Matt was halfway through his supper when he saw the two men come into the saloon. He probably wouldn’t have paid any attention to them at all, had it not been for their strange behavior. They were obviously together, but as soon as they came in they split up, one going to one end of the bar and the second going to the other end of the bar.

  It also seemed to Matt as if they had looked at him longer than mere curiosity about a stranger would dictate. Lessons learned from Smoke had not created in Matt the ability to perceive danger long before it was apparent. It had merely enhanced the natural instinct for survival with which Matt had been born.

  To most, the fact that two men came in together, then took up positions at opposite ends of the bar, would mean nothing. But Matt became instantly aware of danger. He moved the chair back from the table and positioned himself so he could watch both men. He watched as each of the men ordered a beer, then stood at the bar, nursing his drink.

  After about five minutes, Matt finished his supper. Neither of the men had tried anything, so he was beginning to think that the perceived danger was just his imagination. He walked back up to the middle of the bar and ordered another beer.

  “Would you be the fella they call Matt Jensen?” the man at the right end of the bar asked.

  Matt almost felt relieved that his instinct had not been a false alarm.

  “I am,” he replied.

  “Well, Mr. Matt Jensen, my name is Ba
rt Ebersole, and I’m callin’ you out,” the man at the bar said.

  With that announcement, there was a sudden repositioning of all the other patrons at the bar, and even in the main part of the saloon, as everyone hurried to get out of the way should shooting begin. Matt noticed, however, that the man at the left end of the bar, the one who had come in with Bart Ebersole, had not left his position.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Mr. Ebersole?” Matt asked.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sure,” Bart said.

  “May I ask why?”

  “Yeah, you can ask why. I’m told you are looking for Clyde Payson. Is that right?”

  “I am,” Matt said. “What does that have to do with you?”

  “Let’s just say that Payson is my friend, and I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to him.”

  “Mister, if Clyde Payson is your friend, all I can say is you have a piss-poor choice of friends,” Matt said.

  “Now, Clem!” Bart shouted as he started his draw.

  Matt sensed, more than saw, Clem drawing his gun behind him.

  For just a moment, Matt was not in a saloon in a festering Western town facing down two armed and determined men. Instead, he was in the little valley alongside Smoke Jensen’s mountain cabin, standing between posts that were set fifty yards apart. There was a tin can on each of the posts, and Smoke Jensen was standing to one side, holding a rock over a pie pan.

  “Are you ready?” Smoke asked.

  Matt nodded. “I’m ready,” he said.

  Smoke opened his hand to let the rock fall and Matt drew his pistol....

  But Matt wasn’t in that peaceful meadow, shooting at tin cans. He was in a saloon, standing between two armed men who wanted to kill him and who had stacked the deck in their favor by positioning themselves to either side of him.

  Although it was Bart who shouted the order to draw, Matt sensed that Clem had begun his draw even before the call. Matt whirled to face the man behind him, surprising Clem, who thought that Matt was unaware of him. Matt fired before Clem could get off a shot. Then, as Clem’s gun clattered to the floor, and blood began pooling in the hands Clem clasped over his wound, Matt whirled toward Bart. Bart was able to get off a shot, but he missed. Matt did not. Matt’s bullet hit Bart right between the eyes and he fell back against the bar, then tumbled forward.

  After the final crash of gunfire, there was a long, pregnant moment of absolute silence, broken only by a measured tick-tock, tick-tock from the swinging pendulum of the clock that hung on the back wall by the scarred piano.

  “Holy shit,” someone said quietly. A few of the others laughed nervously.

  Slowly, the patrons started back toward the bar. “This here one is dead,” someone said of Bart.

  “Yeah, this one too,” one who was standing over Clem said.

  “Here,” the bartender said, sliding some money across the bar.

  “What is that for?” Matt asked.

  “Your drinks and your supper are free,” the bartender said. “Mister, you don’t know it, but you just made this place famous. There will be folks comin’ from all over to see where Matt Jensen took down two men who were standing on opposite sides of him. You’re going to make me a ton of money.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said, pushing the money back. “But I’d rather have some information on where to find Payson.”

  The bartender paused for a moment, then let out a sigh. “You might try the town of Salcedo,” he said. “I heard he was there.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Salcedo

  Payson looked at his cards, then pushed a chip into the middle of the table. Not until then did he look up at the man who was standing beside him.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Les. Les Clemmons.”

  “Well, Les Clemmons, that’s quite a tale you’re telling me. You say that Bart and Clem are dead and . . .”

  “I’m not just saying it. It’s true. They are both dead. And they owe me ten dollars.”

  “Well, now, if they are dead and they owe you ten dollars, it looks like you are going to have a hard time collecting, doesn’t it?” Payson called the bet on the table.

  “Three aces,” Garvey said, turning his cards up, then reaching for the pot.

  “Full house, fives over threes,” Payson replied, showing his hand as he raked in the pot.

  Les cleared his throat. “I thought I might be able to collect the ten dollars from you,” he said.

  Payson laughed out loud. “Now, what makes you think that?”

  “Because I know that Matt Jensen is coming here to look for you.”

  “And you think I should pay for that information?” Payson asked. “Hell, ever’body who has ever heard of Matt Jensen knows that he is lookin’ for me’n Garvey. Why should I pay you for information that I already know?”

  “Do you know that he is coming right here to Salcedo?” Les asked.

  “No, I didn’t know that,” Payson answered.

  “Do you know what he looks like?”

  “ No.”

  “So in other words, he could be right here in this very room, right now, and you wouldn’t even know it, would you?”

  Even now a new hand was being dealt, and Payson was picking it up one card at a time. He looked up at Les.

  “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

  “Just what I said. He could be here right now and you would never know the difference. I could be Matt Jensen.”

  With that remark, Payson got up from the table so quickly that the chair tumbled over behind him. The sudden movement caught the attention of everyone else in the room, and all looked toward Payson to see him pull his gun.

  “No! No! Hold it! Hold it!” Les shouted quickly, frightened that he might have pushed the game too far. “I ain’t Matt Jensen!” he said, holding his hands, palms out, in front of him. “I was just tryin’ to make a point, is all.”

  “Yeah? Well, you’ve got a hell of a way of makin’ a point,” Payson said angrily. He was still holding the pistol.

  “My point is, you don’t know what he looks like, and I do,” Les said. “I figure that ought to be worth some money to you.”

  “That’s worth nothing to me,” Payson said. He put his pistol back in his holster. “But since you know what he looks like, maybe you can do something that will be worth money to me.”

  “What?”

  “Find some way to make the son of a bitch go away,” Payson said.

  “Make him go away? What do you mean? How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t care how you do it,” Payson said. “Just do it, then come talk to me about money.”

  “How much money are you willin’ to pay?”

  “One hundred dollars,” Payson said.

  Les shook his head. “That ain’t enough. You was going to give Bart and Clem two hundred dollars.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “That’s because they didn’t get the job done,” Les said. “If I don’t get the job done, you don’t have to give it to me either. But if I do get the job done, I’m going to want two hundred dollars.”

  Payson nodded. “All right. Get the job done. It’ll be worth two hundred dollars.”

  Halfway between Cobb’s Station and Salcedo was the town of El Gato. One could almost say that El Gato was two towns, one half American, and one half Mexican. The north side of the town was the American side, while the Mexican population was concentrated on the south side.

  Ripsawed lumber buildings made up the American town, while in the Mexican section of town, adobe buildings were laid out around a dusty plaza.

  Les Clemmons rode into the south side of town, aware that he was being stared at by people who wondered what an Anglo was doing there. He tied his horse off at a hitch rail in front of Rosita’s Cantina. A woman’s high, clear voice was singing, and that and the accompanying guitar music spilled out through the beaded doorway. Les pushed through the hanging beads,
then stepped inside.

  He wasn’t concerned about being accepted here. He knew that Americans often came to the Mexican side for tequila, or women, or even to eat the spicy Mexican food. Because of that, he raised little attention as he stepped up to the bar and ordered tequila. Pouring salt on his hand, he licked it off, then tossed down the fiery liquid as he examined the patrons of the cantina. He had an idea how he was going to collect the two hundred dollars from Payson, and the idea started here.

  A woman, wearing a red dress that was cut so low that her breasts threatened to spill out, came up to him. She was dark and sultry-looking, and she smiled up at him.

  “Do you want a woman, Señor? La mayoria de los anglos que vienen a Rosita’s vienen para buscar a una mujer.”

  “Maybe most of the Anglos come looking for women, but I’m looking for men.”

  The woman got a shocked look on her face. “You don’t like women? You like men?”

  “What?” Les asked. Then he realized what she was saying. “No! No, it’s nothing like that. I need to hire some men to do a job for me.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “I need someone who is very good with a knife. A cuchillo,” he said, using the Spanish word to make certain she understood.

  “I think you want Manuel maybe,” the woman said.

  “Is Manuel in here?”

  “Sí.” She pointed. “That is Manuel.”

  Manuel was standing at the far end of the bar. He was almost a head taller than most of those around him. His hat was pushed back so that Les could see his face. He was standing alone, and the expression on his face gave a hint as to why. He looked like someone who was angry with the world.

  Manuel also had a large bowie knife protruding from a sheath that he wore across his chest. Only someone who was very good with a knife would dare to wear it in such a fashion.

  “Thanks,” Les said. He finished his drink, put it down, then walked over to confront Manuel.

  “Manuel?”

  “How do you know my name?” Manuel asked.

  “How I know your name doesn’t matter,” Les said. “What matters is the fifty dollars I am willing to pay you, if you are interested.”