Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Page 4

“Yes, sir.”

  “Then I already paid for you. You are in the right place.”

  “You paid for me?”

  “Twelve and a half good dollars,” the man said. “You’ll be workin’ that off.”

  “But he took my rifle.”

  “Who took your rifle?”

  “Brother Landers. He said he paid you so I could stay here, and he took my rifle to pay him back.”

  The man chuckled. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he said. “Don’t trust somebody just because they tell you they are a preacher.”

  “Isn’t he a preacher?”

  “He is sometimes, I reckon. What’s your name?”

  “Matthew Cava . . .”

  The man held up his hand. “Your ma and pa alive?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you don’t have a last name.”

  “But my last name is . . .”

  “You don’t have a last name,” the man said again. “Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, Captain Mumford.”

  “What?”

  “When you talk to me, you will always address me as Captain Mumford.”

  “Yes, Captain Mumford,” Matt said.

  “You’re awfully small for twelve years old.”

  “I’m not twelve,” Matt said.

  Mumford slapped Matt in the face, not hard enough to knock him down, or even bring blood, but hard enough that it stung.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m not twelve,” Matt repeated.

  Mumford slapped him again. “You don’t learn very well,” he said. “Now, I’m going to ask you again. What did you say?”

  “I said I’m not twelve—Captain Mumford,” Matt said, getting the last part out just before Mumford slapped him again.

  Mumford smiled. “Well, maybe you aren’t so dumb after all. Not twelve, huh? How old are you?”

  “I’m nine, Captain Mumford.”

  “Nine, huh? Well, you are a big enough boy for nine. I’m sure I can find something for you to do. Connors!” he called loudly.

  An older boy came into the office from the back of the house.

  “Yes, Captain Mumford?”

  “Here is a new boy,” Mumford said. “His name is Matthew. Take him into the back and”—Mumford paused for a moment, then smiled, though Matt found the smile frightening, rather than comforting—“break him in.”

  “Yes, Captain Mumford,” Connors said, his own smile as malevolent as that of Mumford.

  Connors led Matt through a door and down a hall. Matt saw a room with a lot of bunk beds, and he started toward it.

  “Nah, that’s for the girls,” Connors said. “Boys is this way.”

  “There are girls in this place?” Matt asked.

  “Yeah,” Connors said. “But don’t get no ideas about any of them. All the girls belong to me’n Simon.”

  “What do you mean they belong to you and Simon?”

  Connors looked at Matt and laughed. “Never mind,” he said. “You’re too young to know.”

  Chapter Four

  The room was long and relatively narrow. The floor was made of wide, unfinished boards and the walls were nothing more than studs and outside planking. There was only one window in the entire room.

  The beds that ran in rows down either side of the room were crowded so close together that there was barely room to get between them. Most of the beds looked to be very spartan; small, even for children, with blankets with holes and lumpy cotton mattresses. There were no sheets.

  “You’ll sleep here,” Connors said, pointing to one of the beds. Stuffing was coming from the mattress, and roaches were running across the filthy blanket.

  “Where do you put your clothes?” Matt asked.

  “You got ’nything other than what you are wearin’?” Connors asked.

  “ No.”

  Connors chuckled. “Then don’t worry about it.”

  Glancing toward the far end of the room, under the window, Matt saw two beds that were set aside from the others. These beds were larger, had sheets, pillows, and blankets. There was also a rack and shelf on the wall beside each bed and a trunk between the beds. Several changes of clothes hung from the racks, and boxes were stacked on the shelves.

  The open window provided some relief from the sweltering heat outside, though none of that relief reached the rest of the room. There was a stove there too, and though the stove was now cold, it didn’t take much thought for Matt to realize that what little warmth it would produce in the wintertime would be confined to the area immediately around it.

  “Who sleeps there?” Matt asked, pointing to the two beds.

  “The bed on the left is mine,” Connors said. He pointed at Matt. “And don’t ever let me see you down there. The other bed belongs to my friend, Simon.”

  “How come you two get the good beds?”

  Connors laughed. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said.

  Matt heard voices from outside.

  “The others is comin’ back for supper,” Connors said. “To show you what a good guy I am, I’m goin’ to let you eat with us tonight, even though you ain’t done no work yet to earn it.”

  “You are going to let me eat? I thought Captain Mumford was in charge.”

  “He is in charge,” Connors said. “But you’ll mostly be dealin’ with me’n Simon.” Connors smiled proudly, and hooked his thumbs under his armpits. “Cap’n Mumford says that me’n Simon is his sergeants.”

  “Am I supposed to call you Sergeant?”

  Connors laughed. “You don’t even talk to me, boy, unless I talk to you first,” Connors said. “I’m just talkin’ to you now ’cause you’re new and you need to know the rules. Come on, I’ll show you where we eat.”

  The dining room was about the same size as the dormitory. It had two long tables, flanked on either side of the table by a wooden bench. One of the tables appeared to be for the girls, the other for boys. At the back of the room there was one smaller table. Matt didn’t have to ask who that table belonged to.

  “From here on, you are on your own,” Connors said as he walked away.

  Matt saw a line of boys and girls and, figuring they were waiting to be fed, he joined them. At nine years old, he decided he was one of the youngest—if not the youngest—but he wasn’t the smallest.

  Matt had been around other children before, at school and in church, but he had never seen such dispirited expressions as he saw here. Not one person was smiling, there was no animated conversation, and in fact there was very little interaction of any kind. They just stood there in silence until a couple of women came out, carrying a large pot and a plate of bread. The woman carrying the pot was very fat. The one carrying the tray of bread was very skinny.

  “Bow your heads!” the fat woman shouted.

  Matt bowed his head, but he looked up with his eyes to see what the others were doing.

  “Lord, for the blessing of this food, we thank you!” the fat woman shouted.

  Once the blessing was given, the atmosphere changed. The boys and girls who were standing in line became much more animated, engaging each other in conversation. The boy just in front of Matt turned to him.

  “You just get here today?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Eddie, what’s yours?”

  “Matt Cavanaugh.”

  “Shh!” Eddie said, putting his finger across his lips. “Don’t let nobody hear you say that.”

  “Say what?”

  “Your last name,” Eddie said. “We don’t have last names in here. Don’t none of us have last names.”

  “That’s right. Captain Mumford told me that.”

  “It could get you a beatin’,” Eddie cautioned.

  “I wonder what’s for supper,” Matt said.

  Eddie laughed. “Can sure tell you are new,” he said.

  “Why is that?”

  “’Cause what is for supper is what we have
for supper ever’ night. Pease porridge. Pease porridge and bread. There’s s’posed to be some bacon in the pease porridge, but ain’t nobody ever seen none.”

  “You have that every night?” Matt asked.

  “Oatmeal for breakfast ever’ mornin’ and pease porridge for supper ever’ night.”

  “What about them?” Matt asked, pointing to the table at the back of the room. There he saw Connors and another boy as big as he was. They were eating fried chicken and mashed potatoes, talking and laughing with each other.

  “That’s Connors and Simon,” Eddie said. “They don’t count. They’re Captain Mumford’s toadies,” Eddie said.

  “Toadies?”

  “Yeah, they get the best food, the best clothes, the best everything. Wait until you see where they sleep,” Eddie said.

  “I did see it. Why do they get such good treatment?”

  The boy that was standing just in front of Eddie laughed. “For one thing, they are the oldest. They’re both thirteen. And for another, they are tattletales. They tell Captain Mumford everything we do.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m Timmy,” the second boy said.

  “Matt Cava—uh, Matt,” Matt said, remembering to correct himself.

  “I’ll bet they don’t have any friends,” Matt said.

  “They don’t need friends. They’ve got everything else,” Timmy said.

  Matt took his bowl of pease porridge and a hunk of bread to the table where he sat with Eddie and Timmy. Eddie introduced him to some of the others, though, for the moment, the names sort of passed him by. He knew that if he stayed here long enough he would eventually learn everyone’s name, so he didn’t ask anyone to repeat it.

  Matt looked down at his pease porridge with obvious distaste. “This is what we have for supper every night?” he asked.

  “Every night.”

  “What do we have for dinner?”

  “We don’t eat dinner here,” Eddie said. “But most of us get lunch from the place where we’re workin’. And that’s generally the best. Where will you be workin’?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You ever worked anywhere before?”

  “I’ve mucked stable stalls,” Matt said.

  “Yeah, well, you don’t want to have to do that if you can help it. Best thing is to get a job with a café or a saloon. You’ll be sweepin’ out and washin’ dishes, but you get to eat good there.”

  “How do I get a job there?”

  “I’ll talk to Mr. McDougal down at the saloon and see if he’ll ask for you,” Eddie said.

  The bread was good and Matt was hungry, not having eaten since the day before when Landers had shared some jerky with him. But not even hunger could make him eat the pease porridge. He took one bite, then pushed the uneaten gruel away.

  “If you aren’t going to eat that, can I have it?” Timmy asked.

  “How can you eat it?” Matt asked.

  “After you been here a while, it’ll taste just like apple pie to you,” Timmy said.

  The others at the table laughed. “When have you ever had apple pie?”

  “Well, I know it’s good because I’ve heard said it was good,” Timmy said.

  Matt thought of the last apple pie his mother had made. She had used dried apples and made the pie on the trail for them, just about two days before Payson and the others had attacked them.

  Matt’s eyes filled, and tears began streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t sob out loud.

  Timmy looked at Matt.

  “You thinkin’ about apple pie your mama made?” he asked.

  Matt nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “I’m sorry I brung up the memory,” he said. “Me, I ain’t got no memories like that. They say my mama was a whore, but I got no way of knowin’ that. I don’t even remember her.”

  Matt slid his bowl of porridge across.

  “No,” Timmy said, pushing it back. “Even if you don’t like it, you better eat it.”

  “Like you say, there will come a time when I can eat it,” Matt said. “But I can’t eat it now, so you may as well take it.”

  “Thanks, Matt. So now you got two friends in here. Me’n Eddie. That’s good. Boys that come in here and don’t make friends, they are the ones who have it the hardest.”

  Matt looked back at Connors and Simon, salivating as he saw them eating the fried chicken with such relish.

  Chapter Five

  With Smoke Jensen

  The name of the little town was Prosperity, and it sat on the banks of the Cuchara River. Prosperity was a ranching and farming community with a sign posted just outside the town limits with the proud boast:

  Come Watch Us Grow

  Progress and PROSPERITY in Colorado

  The city marshal, having seen Smoke approaching from some distance away, met him just outside of town.

  “Welcome to Prosperity, stranger,” the marshal said. “The name is Crowell, Marshal Crowell.” He put his hand to his badge, even though Smoke had already seen it.

  “Marshal,” Smoke said, touching the brim of his hat.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Marshal Crowell said.

  “Folks call me Smoke.”

  “Smoke?” The marshal chuckled, more in dismissal than in humor. “That’s it? Smoke? Smoke what?”

  “I’ve been spending some time in the mountains,” Smoke said. “One name is all anybody needs up there.”

  “Well, Smoke, if you’re just makin’ a friendly visit to my town, then you’re welcome,” Crowell said. “But if you’re comin’ here for any other reason, well, I’m goin’ to have to ask you to just keep ridin’.”

  “I’m looking for a man named Casey,” Smoke said. “Ted Casey.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “I’m the law here’bouts,” Crowell said. “I reckon that makes it my business.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “You know what, mister, I don’t much like your attitude,” Crowell said. “Why don’t I just . . . ?”

  That was as far as Crowell got. He was reaching for his gun, but stopped in mid-draw and mid-sentence when he saw the pistol in Smoke’s hand.

  “What the hell?” Crowell gasped. “I didn’t even see you draw!”

  “Like I said, where is Casey?” Smoke asked. He neither raised his voice, nor made it more menacing. Ironically, that made his question all the more frightening.

  Crowell hesitated for a few seconds. “His ranch is south-east of here, on the flats. You’ll cross a little creek before you see the house. I ought to warn you, though, he’s got several men workin’ for him, and they’re all good with a gun. Maybe not as fast as you, but there’s only one of you.”

  “You got an undertaker in this town?” Smoke asked.

  “Of course we do. Why would you ask?”

  “I’m about to give him some business,” Smoke said.

  Ten miles out of town, Smoke encountered two rough-looking riders.

  “You’re on private land,” one of the men said. “Turn your horse around and git.”

  “You’re not being very hospitable,” Smoke said.

  “Don’t intend to be. Strangers ain’t welcome here.”

  “I’m looking for Ted Casey.”

  “You deef or somethin’? I told you to git.”

  “I’m looking for Ted Casey,” Smoke repeated.

  “What do you want with Casey?”

  “Just to renew an old friendship from the war,” Smoke said.

  “From the war?” one of the men said with a laugh. “Boy, you’re still wet behind the ears. You ain’t old enough to have been in the war.”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t very clear. I’m actually looking him up for my pa.”

  “What was your pa’s name?”

  “Jensen,” Smoke said. “Emmett Jensen.”

  “Jensen?”

  “Yeah. You remember him, don’t you?” Smoke said. His words were calm
and cold.

  “Kill ’im!” one of the riders shouted, and both grabbed for their guns.

  They were too slow. Smoke had his pistol in his hand and he fired twice, the shots coming so close together that there was no separation between them.

  The two riders were dumped from their saddles, one dead, the other dying. The dying rider pulled himself up on one elbow. Blood poured through his chest wound, pink and frothy, indicating that the ball had passed through a lung.

  “Figured when we killed your pa that would be the end of it,” he said. He forced a laugh, and blood spattered from his lips. “You’re good, a hell of a lot better’n your brother. Casey shot him low and in the back. It took him a long time to die too. I enjoyed watchin’ him. He was a coward, squealed like a pig and cried like a little girl.”

  Smoke made no reply.

  “So was your pa a coward.”

  Smoke was quiet.

  “What’s the matter with you?” the rider asked. “You just goin’ to let me talk about your folks like that? You’re yellow.”

  Smoke turned his horse and rode around the two men, following the road in the same direction from which the two riders had come.

  “Shoot me!” the rider shouted. “You yellow-bellied coward, don’t leave me here to die like this! Shoot me!”

  Smoke continued to ride away. Thirty seconds later he heard a gunshot, the sound muffled by the fact that the shooter had put the barrel in his own mouth.

  Smoke didn’t bother to look around.

  Stopping in a copse of trees a short distance from the ranch house, Smoke studied it for a moment or two. The house was built of logs with a sod roof. If it came to it, it would burn easily.

  “Casey!” Smoke called. “Casey, come out!”

  “Who’s callin’?” a voice shouted from within the house.

  “Jensen.”

  “Jensen? I thought we killed you.”

  “That was my pa. And my brother,” Smoke said.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m here to settle up.”

  There was a rifle shot from the house, and though it missed, the bullet came close enough for Smoke to hear it whine.

  Smoke took his horse into a ravine that circled the house. Fifty yards behind the house, he dismounted, snaked his rifle from the saddle sheath, then lay against the bank of the arroyo. Inside, he saw an arm on the windowsill. He shattered the arm with one shot from his new Henry. A moment later, he saw someone’s outline through one of the other windows and he shot him, hearing a scream of pain.