Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory Read online

  “Before, my blood ran cool, because I wanted only to marry Alope, hunt, fish, and have sons to hunt and fish. But the white man has killed Alope, and now my blood runs hot. I want to join you and kill as many white men as I can.”

  Delshay nodded, then reached out to put his hand on Cochinay’s shoulder. “You are welcome, my brother,” he said.

  Half an hour later, Chandeisi came into the wickiup where Cynthia was being kept.

  “We must leave,” he said.

  “But we always leave in the morning,” Cynthia replied. “Why must we leave now?”

  “Because Delshay has said we must,” Chandeisi replied.

  Cynthia nodded, then began getting together the possessions she had been given. By now she had two dresses, a bowl and a spoon, a comb, a pair of moccasins, and most valuable of all, a tablet and a pencil.

  Cynthia had convinced Chandeisi that she needed the tablet and pencil in order to “write her prayers,” and because Chandeisi had a genuine respect for the religious practices of everyone, he did not question Cynthia.

  When Cynthia left the note, just before they left that night, she felt a slight twinge of guilt, as if she were somehow betraying Chandeisi’s trust and friendship. But her desire to be found and rescued transcended any sense of betrayal she might have.

  Phoenix

  Ken Hendel and Jay Peerless Bixby were sitting at a table in the Dry Gulch Saloon. From the back of the room a woman screamed, but her scream was followed by her high-pitched laughter, then punctuated with the bass guffaws of the men who were with her.

  Bixby looked back toward the table with an expression of disgust on his face.

  “How can anyone live in a place like this?” he asked.

  “Oh, I think it has its attractions,” Hendel said.

  “Really? And what, pray tell, would be those attractions?” Bixby took in the saloon with a sweep of his arm. “Back in New York, I am a member of the Ambassador Club, where we have a collection of the finest wines and spirits in the world. Would you compare this—this saloon to the Ambassador Club? I tell you, Hendel, it is not by accident that they call this place the Dry Gulch.”

  Hendel held up his beer. “This beer is brewed here in Phoenix by Andrew Marcus. I think that even you would agree that it is as good a beer as you will find anywhere—and far superior to most.”

  “The beer is all right, I suppose,” Bixby said. “Though I much prefer wine.”

  “Whoooeee!” somebody shouted as the batwing doors were kicked open. Looking toward the sound, Hendel saw Willis and several of the other men who had ridden out with him this morning when they started their search for Cynthia Bixby.

  “Bartender, line up the bottles and start pouring drinks!” Willis yelled. “You’ve got a thirsty bunch of men comin’ in.”

  A dozen men came filing in behind Willis. All of them were carrying souvenirs of some sort, from bows and arrows to buffalo robes to beaded rugs. A couple were even carrying what appeared to be scalps.

  “Let me tell you, boys!” Willis said loudly. “It’s goin’ to be a cold day in hell before any bunch of Apaches kill any more white men or women.”

  “What happened, Willis? What are you talking about?” the bartender asked as he began placing empty glasses on the bar, preparatory to filling them with whiskey or beer.

  “I’ll tell you what happened. We found the camp of that murderin’, thievin’ bastard Delshay,” Willis said. He laughed, then held up his finger to emphasise his statement. “And we rode through that camp like shit through a goose. We must have killed more than half of ’em. The rest skedaddled like scalded-ass rabbits, leavin’ the camp behind ’em. So we burned ever’ tent, ever’ grain storage, we even burned up their dried meat. Yes, sir, even if they do come back, they won’t be able to live there ’cause they have got no place to live no more. And what’s more, they have got no food to eat.”

  “Did you kill Delshay?” one of the patrons of the saloon asked.

  “No, no, we didn’t get him. He’s one of them that got away. Which says a lot about him, if you want my opinion. It tells me that the son of a bitch is a coward when it comes to fightin’ against real fightin’ men.”

  “I don’t know,” one of the saloon patrons replied. “I’ve heard a lot about Delshay, but I’ve never heard anyone call him a coward.”

  Willis glared at the patron. “Well, I’m calling him a coward,” Willis said. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “What? No, sir, no, sir, not at all, Mr. Willis,” the patron said quickly. With trembling hands he picked up his beer, drained the rest of it, then left quickly, chased by the laughter of the members of Willis’s posse.

  “You ever’ see anyone move as fast as that feller just done?” Meechum asked derisively, and the posse laughed again.

  “What about Mrs. Bixby?” Hendel asked, surprised by the fact that Bixby hadn’t ask about his wife first.

  Willis shook his head. “Sorry, we didn’t see no white women.”

  “Did you look?” Hendel asked.

  “Did we look? You damn right we looked. In case you forgot, they’s a ten-thousand-dollar reward bein’ offered up for her. They ain’t no way we’re goin’ out there and do what we done without lookin’ for the woman that’s missin’. Only, she wasn’t there and the nearest I can figure is they must of took her out with them when they left. Either that, or she’s dead.”

  “Do you think that it is more or less likely that she is dead?” Bixby asked.

  “Well, I don’t rightly know how to answer that,” Willis said. “But now, let me ask you a question. What if we would happen to find her and it turns out she is already dead? Would you still pay the ten thousand dollars?”

  “The bill reads that the reward is to be paid only if she is returned safely,” Bixby said. “So the answer to your question is no. Why should I pay the reward if she is dead?”

  By now all the drinks had been poured, and Willis picked up a glass of whiskey, then tossed it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he replied.

  “I’m told by the folks who know them best that Indians don’t bury the whites they kill, and like I told you, we did not find a white woman’s body,” Willis said. “So, if you was to ask me, I would say that they have not killed her.”

  “But you don’t know for sure.”

  “No, I don’t know for sure.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Bixby said. “It turns out that you are no different from all the other cretins who live out here. You are incompetent and irresponsible. The truth is, if you lived in New York, there is no doubt in my mind that you would all be incarcerated by now.”

  Willis took another drink and studied Bixby over the rim of his glass for a long moment.

  “Jay Peerless Bixby,” he said. “Only you are Jay Peerless Bixby Junior, aren’t you now? And it’s remembering, I am, that your old man, Jay Peerless Bixby Senior, is the bloke what was sent upriver for dippin’ some sticky fingers into Crédit Mobilier. Whether you do your stealin’ on the docks or in some fancy office, it’s still stealing, now ain’t it, laddie?”

  Gone was the flat Western twang Willis had acquired, to be replaced by the accent of Hell’s Kitchen in New York.

  “What?” Bixby asked, his cheeks flaming in color. “How—how do you know about that? Who are you?”

  “Let’s just say that I am someone you don’t want on your bad side, whether it’s in Hell’s Kitchen or Tombstone, Arizona,” Willis replied.

  Willis’s words had not only surprised Bixby, but everyone else in the saloon as well.

  “I never know’d that about you,” Meechum said.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Willis said, still using his New York accent. Then, switching to a Western twang, he added, “But why are we standin’ around here jawbonin’? Seems to me like we got us some celebratin’ to do. We done what the entire U.S. Army ain’t been able to do, and that’s find and destroy the camp of that murderin’ bastard
Delshay.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Every time Delshay and his followers broke camp, they took every precaution to erase all signs of having been there. They used tree branches to brush away any tracks, they covered the holes in the ground that were made by the tent stakes, and they even picked up the pony droppings. Such attention to detail was enough to throw off almost anyone who might be searching for them.

  Almost anyone.

  Matt wasn’t just anyone. Having initially learned his craft from his mentor, Smoke Jensen, Matt had a base upon which to build and, over the years, his own experience, intuition, and native intelligence had added to that skill so that he was the equal of or superior to any scout alive.

  One thing the Indians could not do was alter where the ponies had grazed. Matt’s keen eye caught the uneven cut of vegetation, including some sprigs that had merely been broken, and not consumed. And although the fires had been extinguished and the coals removed, there were a couple of circles of slight discoloration in the sand showing where the fires had been laid.

  He was about to move on when he saw a piece of dark green silk stuck in the notch of a tree, and he remembered that Hendel had told him that Cynthia had been wearing a green dress when she left.

  This was not something the Indians had merely overlooked, this was something that had obviously been placed there, no doubt at great risk, as the Indians were leaving their camp. As he approached the silk, he saw that it was folded into a small square, and inside the square, he found a note:

  To the Finder of this note:

  My name is Cynthia Bixby. I can but pray that you are a white man, and one who is aware of my situation. On the 5th of September, my husband, Jay Peerless Bixby, and I departed from Phoenix in a rented conveyance for the purpose of examining some property my husband intended to purchase.

  The conveyance broke down and we were put afoot. While walking back to Phoenix, we were set upon by a band of Indians led by one who is called Delshay. Moved to pity by the sight of my husband’s great fear, Delshay let him leave unharmed, though he kept me as his captive. It is both my belief and hope that my husband has sounded the alarm as to my condition of captivity, thus putting into motion a search.

  I do not know how to tell you where I am, as we move from place to place each day. If you are reading this, that means I have at least been successful in getting word through to the outside world. May I here hasten to add that the Indians have not mistreated me in any way. On the contrary, they have provided me with food, water, and clothing, for which I am eternally grateful.

  With hope for my eventual rescue, I am most sincerely, Cynthia Bixby

  “Moved to pity by the sight of my husband’s great fear, Delshay let him leave unharmed, though he kept me as his captive.” Matt read aloud. “I knew there was something fishy about that.”

  Folding the note back into the little square of green silk, Matt put it in his shirt pocket and started to mount Spirit. That was when he saw him.

  Pulling his pistol, he pointed it at a nearby bush.

  “If you want to live, mister, you had better come out of there now,” he called.

  After some hesitancy, the branches of the bush moved and someone came out. It was an Indian, but Matt perceived immediately that he represented no danger. Like with many Indians, it was difficult to ascertain his age, though the man could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy years old. He was holding his hand to his side, and Matt saw that his side was matted with blood.

  “Do you speak English?” Matt asked as put his pistol back in his holster.

  “I speak English,” the Indian said.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Many white men came to attack my village. They killed many of my people. They killed my wife. They killed my daughters. They killed many others.”

  “Who were these white men?” Matt asked.

  “I do not know.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am called Nopoloto.”

  “The village that the white men attacked, was it the village of of Delshay?”

  Nopoloto shook his head. “No.”

  “Do you know Delshay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where Delshay is?”

  “He is not on the reservation,” Nopoloto said.

  “There is a white woman with Delshay. I am looking for her,” Matt said.

  “I do not know of any white woman,” Nopoloto said. “My village is on the reservation,” he said. “Once I was with Cochise, but now I am reservation Indian.”

  “You say you are a reservation Indian, but you are not on the reservation now,” Matt challenged.

  “I left the reservation after the attack,” Nopoloto said.

  “When was this attack?”

  “Today. The white men attacked as the sun rose.”

  “Do you have a horse?” Matt asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You need to have someone look at your wound. Come with me, I will ride with you to the reservation hospital.”

  It was much later on the same day when Matt rode back into Phoenix, this time accompanied by Indian Agent Baker. They stopped at the office of Sheriff Robert Williams. Williams drank a cup of coffee as he listened to Matt relate to him the story of the attack he had heard from Nopoloto.

  “Where is Nopoloto now?” Williams asked.

  “He is in the hospital at the reservation, being treated for his wounds,” Matt said.

  “And Nopoloto says the attack took place on the reservation?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m pretty sure I know who did it,” Sheriff Williams said. “Pogue Willis, Billy Meechum, Karl Lathum, Angus Pugh, and nearly a dozen others are over at the Dry Gulch now, drinking it up. They claim they attacked Delshay’s camp.”

  “I don’t think so,” Matt said. “I found Delshay’s camp. There was no sign of an attack.”

  “Did you find the woman?” Williams asked.

  “No,” Matt said. He purposely withheld the information about finding a letter from her.

  “I don’t think you are going to find her. Not alive anyway.”

  “As long as I don’t find her dead, I maintain the hope of finding her alive,” Matt said.

  Williams sighed. “Well, if the attack happened off the reservation, it would come under my jurisdiction, seeing as how it was white men who did the attacking. But if it happened on reservation grounds—”

  “It did,” Matt and Indian Agent Baker replied, speaking at the same time.

  “Then you need to see U.S. Marshal Gilmore.”

  “Do you want to come along with us?” Matt asked.

  Sheriff Williams walked over to retrieve his hat, then put it on. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll go down to Gilmore’s office with you.”

  “Did either of you see the attack?” Gilmore asked.

  “No,” Matt answered.

  “I was at the agency headquarters,” Baker said.

  “Did you hear anything? Shooting, or yelling, or anything?”

  Baker shook his head. “The agency headquarters are too far away from Nopoloto’s village. I didn’t hear anything.”

  “We did ride out to the village,” Matt said.

  “What did you find?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No survivors?”

  “No.”

  “No bodies?”

  “The bodies had already been moved,” Baker said.

  “Uh-huh,” Gilmore replied. “If they were ever there in the first place.”

  “Marshal, are you saying the attack didn’t happen?” Matt asked. He pointed up the street toward the Dry Gulch. “There is a saloon full of people who are bragging about it.”

  Gilmore shook his head. “No, they are bragging about attacking Delshay’s village. And if that is true, I have no quarrel with them. And without any eyewitnesses or even evidence to tell me otherwise, I have no reason not to believe them.”

  “You have an eyewitness,”
Matt said.

  “Who?”

  “Nopoloto.”

  “Nopoloto,” Marshal Gilmore replied with a derisive snort. “You expect me to arrest more than a dozen white men on the word of one old Indian? And not just any Indian, but one who used to ride with Cochise, making war against us. Like I said, I have no eyewitnesses.”

  Baker raised his finger at Gilmore. “It is this kind of thing that caused all our problems in the first place,” he said. “Geronimo had settled peacefully onto the reservation, until white men murdered his family. Delshay had settled peacefully onto the reservation until white men murdered his entire family. Now, Cochinay has gone to join either Geronimo or Delshay. And all because you aren’t doing your job.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Baker,” Gilmore replied angrily. “The entire U.S. Army has been chasing Indians throughout the West for the last forty years. When Custer and all his soldier boys got themselves killed, it had nothing to do with the marshal’s office. I don’t know what is going on with Delshay and I don’t care. Dealing with Delshay is the responsibility of the U.S. Army. Now, if you gentlemen would excuse me, I have some work to do.”

  “Mr. Jensen, I’m sorry I suggested this,” Sheriff Williams said. “It is obvious to me that the marshal is going to do nothing to help us.”

  “This is not my jurisdiction, Williams, and you know it,” Marshal Gilmore said.

  “Right,” Williams said, his voice dripping with disgust. “Come along, gentlemen, we are wasting our time here.”

  “I have to get back to the reservation,” Baker said. “And I want to do so before dark.”

  As Baker started back to the Indian reservation, and Sheriff Williams returned to his office, Matt headed toward the Phoenix House to see Bixby.

  “I believe he and Mr. Hendel are at the Dry Gulch,” the hotel clerk said.

  Matt couldn’t help but chuckle. “Bixby at the Dry Gulch?”

  The clerk chuckled as well. “Yes, it is hard to imagine, isn’t it? Someone like Bixby at a place like the Dry Gulch?”

  When Matt stepped into the saloon a few minutes later, the celebration was in full swing. Nearly all the men of Willis’s posse were drunk and a few had even passed out. The others were talking loud, telling stories of the great battle that had taken place.