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

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  “Then if you would, please, publish the verdict.”

  “Your Honor, we, the people of this legally selected and appointed jury, find the defendant, Mutt Crowley, guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  “So say you one, so say you all? Let me hear from the jury, by the word aye.”

  “Aye!” the jury shouted.

  “Are there any in opposition?”

  There was no response to that question.

  “Very well. Mr. Defense Attorney, please bring the prisoner to stand before the bench.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The prisoner was brought before the bench, and he stared defiantly at the judge.

  “Do whatever you are going to do, you son of a bitch. Just don’t keep me standin’ here for all the peckerwoods to gawk at,” Crowley said.

  The gallery gasped at his gall and lack of respect.

  “Oh, I will, sir. Believe me, I will. Mutt Crowley,” Judge Murchison began. “Tonight the sun will set, and as it so often does, it will spread the western sky in brilliant hues of scarlet and gold, until, finally, it sinks below the horizon. But you, Mutt Crowley, will not see it.

  “Tonight, the dark velvet of a midnight sky will be filled with all the stars of the cosmos, coyotes will sing their lonesome call, and the innocent will sleep peacefully in their beds.

  “But neither are you innocent, nor will you sleep peacefully.

  “At the break of dawn tomorrow these beautiful Rocky Mountains, as they do every morning, will gradually emerge from the shadows of their slumber, and the sun will reach into the canyons and draws to push away the last remnants of the purple haze. There will be in the air the delightful scent of pine needles to perfume the new day. Fish will swim in the cool water, and birds will fly in the air.

  “But, Mutt Crowley, this will be of no concern to you.

  “By noon, the sun will flood the earth with its golden light, even as a few white clouds will hang in the brilliant blue sky, all this the work of a beneficent God, as men and women, boys and girls, will be enjoying their midday repast.

  “But you, Mutt Crowley, will not be sitting down to lunch.

  “By tomorrow afternoon the birds will sing, squirrels will leap from tree limb to tree limb, honeybees will drink the sweet nectar of wild flowers, and beavers will continue with their amazing engineering feats.

  “But, Mutt Crowley, you will take notice of none these things.

  “You will not be here because I hereby order the sheriff of Las Animas County to lead you to the gallows and there, to hang you by the neck until you are dead. Afterward, your body will then be taken down and buried so that it becomes food for the maggots. But you won’t even be there for that, because by then your condemned soul will have left your body, and it will be writhing in the eternal torment of hell.

  “Sheriff, get this worthless dreg of humanity out of my sight,” Judge Murchison said with a concluding rap of his gavel.

  4:17 p.m.

  Deputy Boyle came back to stand just outside the bars, and to look at Crowley, who was lying on his back, with his hands folded behind his head.

  “Sheriff Carson said I was supposed to ask you if you wanted anything to eat. They had a good apple pie over at the Chatterbox Café and the sheriff told me to bring a piece over here just in case you wanted it.”

  Outside the cell, the sound of the gallows being tested floated across the town square, and in through the tiny barred window. As the weight slammed down against the trap door, Mutt Crowley jumped. Deputy Boyle laughed.

  “Kind of scary soundin’, ain’t it?”

  Crowley didn’t answer.

  “What about it, Crowley? You want a piece of apple pie, or not?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t blame you. More’n likely all you’d do is shit it out when you get your neck stretched, anyhow. But if you don’t mind, I’m goin’ to say that you did want it, so’s I can have it for myself.”

  Crowley glared at the deputy, but said nothing.

  “Look at it this way,” Deputy Boyle said. “Gettin’ hung like this, in front of all those people that’s gatherin’ to watch . . . why, boy, this is goin’ to make you famous. There’s little kids out there now that, when they are old men, will be tellin’ their grandkids that they seen Mutt Crowley get hisself hung. Why, I would think you’d be right proud of that.”

  Deputy Boyle put his fist alongside his neck, tilted his head to one side, and made a gagging sound. Then he laughed out loud. “You sure you don’t want that pie, ’cause it’s sittin’ out there on the sheriff’s desk, right now.”

  “I said no,” Crowley said.

  “Good, then I’ll be enjoyin’ it myself. But don’t worry, I ain’t goin’ to leave you out. I’ll be thinkin’ about you while I’m eatin’ it.”

  Outside, they continued to test the device, and, over and over again, the trapdoor would spring and the rope would sing before the sandbag hit the ground with a violent thud.

  Although the trial, verdict, and execution were scheduled to happen on the same day, so sure had everyone been that Crowley would be found guilty and sentenced to hang that visitors had come from miles around to watch him “dance in the air.” As a result, there were a lot of strange faces in the town, most of them gathered on the square.

  The gallows stood in the center of town, its grisly shadow stretching under the afternoon sun. The hanging was not to be until five, and it was now only three-thirty, but the crowd was already thick and jostling for position. Murchison had specifically chosen the time of the hanging so the people would be able to watch it after they got off work, then talk over their dinner about justice being done.

  Several hundred people were gathered around the gallows, men in suits, shirt sleeves and overalls, women in long dresses and bonnets; children, who didn’t quite understand the significance of the event, were there as well. The younger ones stood silently, grasping the hands of their mothers. A couple of older boys approached the cell and tried to peer in through the window, but a woman called out to them and they returned to the crowd.

  A photographer paid a farmer two dollars to allow him to establish his camera tripod in the bed of the farmer’s wagon, and he was there now, sighting through the camera to get the picture set up just right.

  Inside the jail, there was the sound of keys rattling in the lock of the door.

  “Go away. I’ve got at least half an hour left,” Crowley said without looking toward the cell door. “I don’t plan to go out there and stand in front of all those folks any longer than I have to.”

  “Of course you can stay here if you wish,” a voice said. “But I would think you might be ready to leave, about now.”

  “What?” Crowley said excitedly. Looking toward the cell door he saw that it was wide open, and his brother was standing there with a big smile on his face.

  “Prichard! What are you doing here?” Crowley asked, shocked, but very happy to see his older brother.

  “It was brought to my attention that you had gotten yourself into a bit of trouble, so it became incumbent upon me, as your older brother and guardian, to come over and see what I could do to extricate you from the situation.”

  “The jailer and the deputy?” Crowley said.

  “You needn’t concern yourself about them,” Prichard replied.

  “Really?”

  “We had best hurry,” Prichard said. “If someone should see them in their present state, they’re likely to get a little suspicious.”

  “You got horses?”

  “They’re out back.”

  Hurrying out back, the men mounted their horses then rode away slowly, with their hats pulled low.

  “Hey!” someone shouted, and Mutt Crowley felt a quick tinge of fear. “You two boys ain’t leavin’ now, are you? Don’t you want to see the hangin’?”

  “No, thank you, I find hangings to be brutal and inhumane,” Prichard said as the two men continued th
eir slow ride out of town.

  Chapter Three

  One year later—Shady Rest, Texas

  Seconds earlier, the Ace High Saloon had been peaceful. A card game had been in progress in one part of the room; the teases, touches, and flirtatious laughter of the bar girls had been in play in another; and a piano player had been banging away on a beer-stained and scarred, out-of-tune instrument at the back of the room. But all that changed in an instant when Ethan Scarns shouted out, “By God, Moore, I paid to have this woman sit by me, and if you don’t get up and go to another table, I’ll kill you right where you are sitting.”

  The music, conversation, and laughter stopped, so that now the loudest sound in the saloon was the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood next to the piano. There were at least two dozen people in the saloon counting the bartender and the four bar girls. At the moment all eyes were directed toward the table where Scarns, the bar girl, and a cowboy named Moore were sitting.

  “You paid for a drink, you didn’t pay for the woman,” Moore said.

  Ethan Scarns was a small, gnarled-looking man. In a world without guns he would barely draw a second look. But this was a world with guns and Scarns was a perfect example of the saying, “God made man, but Sam Colt made them equal.” Scarns had to be taken seriously because he had proven his skill with the pistol, as well as a propensity, almost an eagerness, to use it.

  “Did you hear what I said, Moore?” Scarns asked. His voice was a low, evil hiss. Slowly and deliberately, he pulled his pistol and pointed it at Moore. “I told you to move to another table.”

  “I like this table,” Moore replied calmly.

  “Move, or so help me, I’ll blow your brains out.”

  “You’re crazy! You’re both crazy,” the bar girl said and she started to get up.

  Scarns reached out toward her and pulled her back down in the chair. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said. “I bought you.”

  “You bought a drink, you didn’t buy me.”

  “It’s the same thing,” Scarns said.

  “Leave the girl be, Scarns,” the bartender called. “What do you want to go shucking her for?”

  “You just stay the hell out of this, Reese. This ain’t none of your concern,” Scarns said. He looked back toward Moore. “I thought I told you to get.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Moore said.

  Scarns cocked his gun, the action making a double click as the sear engaged the cylinder and rotated a new bullet under the hammer. “I ain’t askin’ you again. I’m goin’ to count to three and if you ain’t out of that chair by the time I get to three, I’m goin’ to blow your head off. One,” he said, beginning his count.

  “This ain’t goin’ to turn out good for you,” Moore asked.

  “What the hell are you talking about? Two,” Scarns said, continuing his count.

  Suddenly there was a loud bang and a curl of smoke rose from beneath the table. When Moore lifted his right hand from under the table, his fingers were curled around a Colt .44.

  Scarns looked down in surprise at the hole the bullet had just punched in the middle of his chest.

  “Uhnn!” he grunted, standing up and taking a step back. He dropped his gun and put his hand over the wound. “You . . . you killed me,” he gasped.

  “Yeah, I did,” Moore answered easily. “Are you upset that I didn’t wait until you got to three?”

  Scarns collapsed. One of the men nearest him hurried over, then knelt beside him and put his hand on his neck. He looked up at the others.

  “He’s dead,” he said.

  “Yeah, that’s sort of how I planned it,” Moore said.

  “What happened here?” Red Gimlin asked, coming into the main room from his office in the back. Gimlin, whose once-red hair had turned white, was the proprietor of the Ace High Saloon.

  “Moore just killed Scarns,” Reese said.

  “Is that right?” Gimlin asked.

  “Mr. Gimlin, he didn’t have no choice. Scarns was about to kill him,” the bar girl said.

  “I need a whiskey,” Moore said.

  “Reese?” Gimlin called.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Give Moore a whiskey, on the house.” He looked down at Scarns. “Scarns was a worthless peckerwood anyway.”

  Marshal Jarvis came running in then, drawn by the sound of the gunshot. His own gun was drawn and after a quick glance around the room, he saw Scarns lying on the floor.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I see you’re a day late and a dollar short, as usual,” Gimlin said. “As you can see, Scarns got hisself killed.”

  “Who did it?”

  “What difference does it make who did it? Scarns is dead, no matter who did it.”

  Marshal Jarvis walked over to Scarns’s body and stared down at it for a moment. He kicked the body lightly, then a little bit harder. Scarns did not respond. Then he kicked him so hard that it moved his body slightly.

  “You’re right,” Jarvis said. “He’s dead.”

  There was a spattering of nervous laughter.

  Jarvis looked around the saloon, returning everyone’s curious gaze with one of his own. “So, is anyone going to tell me who did it?” he asked.

  “I killed him,” Moore said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Moore said easily.

  “Go on about your business, Marshal,” Gimlin said. “There’s nothing for you to do here.”

  “I’ll, uh, send Ponder down for the body.”

  “You do that. And you tell Ponder that the Ace High won’t be paying for the burying. He’ll have to get the money from the town.”

  “Yeah,” Jarvis said. “The town is going to run out of money if the killing doesn’t slow down.”

  The Ace High Saloon was one of three saloons, a whorehouse, a couple of dance halls, a gambling house, and half a dozen prostitute cribs that occupied an area of Shady Rest called Plantation Row. It was called Plantation Row because it was just the opposite of what one thought of when thinking of plantations. Plantation Row, which was really First Street, was one of two cross streets of the main street in town, which was called Railroad Avenue. Railroad Avenue was as inaccurately named as Plantation Row, for no railroad served the town of Shady Rest.

  The most successful of all the businesses on Plantation Row was a saloon called Pig Palace, and it was run by a man named Jacob Bramley. Bramley was a vain man who almost always dressed in black, with a low-crowned black hat, around which was a band of silver. He had dark, brooding eyes, and a neatly trimmed van dyke beard. Because of his greed and corruption, Bramley was the recognized head of Plantation Row. And his saloon, though the most successful, was in appearance typical of the other two saloons of Plantation Row.

  The bar of the Pig Palace was made of pine and painted with a flat, red paint. There was no brass foot railing, and no cushions in the chairs. There were four women who worked the Pig Palace, and all four of them had been “on the line” for several years now. The dissipation of their profession had taken a severe toll on their looks.

  Just after dark on that same day a man named Quince Calhoun rode into Shady Rest. The street was dimly illuminated by squares of yellow light, which spilled through the doors and windows of the buildings. High above the little town stars winked brightly, while over El Capitan Mountain, the moon hung like a large, silver wheel.

  He tied his horse off, then went into the Pig Palace Saloon. The barkeep slid down the bar toward him.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Whiskey,” Calhoun said. “And leave the bottle.”

  “What kind?”

  “The cheapest.”

  The bartender took a bottle from beneath the counter. There was no label on the bottle and the color was dingy and cloudy. He pulled the cork, then poured a glass.

  “That’ll be a nickel,” he said.

  Calhoun took a swallow, then almost gagged. “Goddamn!” he
said. “This tastes like horse piss.”

  “It’s all in the way you drink it,” the bartender said. “You don’t just bolt it down. This is sippin’ whiskey.”

  “Sippin’ whiskey, you say?”

  “Yeah, just go easy on it. You’ll get it down, and it’ll get you drunk, if that’s all you want.”

  “That’s all I want,” Calhoun said. He took a smaller swallow and grimaced, but got it down.

  “See what I mean?” the bartender said.

  As Calhoun raised his glass to take another sip of his whiskey, he saw, in the mirror, a man step in through the swinging batwing doors. The man was wearing a badge, and he was sure that the star-packer had recognized him.

  “Who’s the lawman?” he asked the bartender.

  “His name is Jarvis. He’s the city marshal.”

  “How long has he been your marshal?”

  “Only about a month. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” Calhoun answered.

  In fact, Calhoun had a good reason. Calhoun was wanted for the murder of a railroad messenger up in Howard County. Jarvis had been a deputy sheriff up in Howard County at the time.

  Calhoun tried to avoid the marshal, but when he looked into the mirror again, he saw that Jarvis was looking at him. He also saw, by the expression on Jarvis’s face, that he had been recognized.

  “Calhoun?” the marshal called.

  Calhoun drew his pistol even as he was turning. Jarvis saw that Calhoun had a pistol in his hand, and he tried to draw, but it was too late.

  Calhoun fired, the loud and unexpected gunshot surprising everyone. Jarvis went down.

  “Ever’ body, get back against the wall!” Calhoun shouted, waving his pistol. “If I see any of you goin’ for your gun, I’m goin’ . . .”

  Calhoun’ declaration was interrupted by an even louder explosion, and he was suddenly launched forward to crash over a table that was in front of him. His back was opened up by buck and ball shot, the gaping wound so deep that the white bone of his spine could be seen protruding through the wound.

  Harry Durbin, the private security man for the saloon, came walking toward Calhoun’s body, carrying a smoking shotgun.