The Great Train Massacre Page 5

  “You know damn well he didn’t kill all four of ’em at the same time. What he done, no doubt, was sneak up on ’em one at a time. There are three of us, ’n only one of him.”

  “Yeah, but what if he just gets one of us?” Ira asked. “I ain’t all that willin’ to be that one.”

  “Ira’s got a point,” Andy said. “What good does the money do if you’re dead? And what if he does just get one of us? I don’t want to be that one either.”

  “Yeah,” Jed said, stroking a week’s growth of whiskers on his chin. “Yeah, I see what you mean. I don’t want to be the one that gets kilt neither. We’re goin’ to have to think on this for a bit.”

  “Well, I got an idea as to what we can do,” Ira said. “What if the three of us was to go over to the sheriff right now, ’n tell him we was the ones that kilt Breen ’n the others, ’n we’re the ones that should get the reward money?”

  “What good would it do us to tell him that?” Andy asked. “Jensen is the one that brung ’em in.”

  “Well, who knows, there’s three of us ’n only one of him. Even if the sheriff don’t give us the money right off, he’d more ’n likely not give it to Jensen neither, till he figured out who was lyin’.”

  “He ain’t goin’ to believe us,” Andy said. “I can tell you that right now.”

  “I don’t know,” Jed said. “Seems to me like it wouldn’t hurt us to try.”

  “All right,” Andy agreed. “We can at least try.”

  Sheriff Curtis was in his office, sitting back with his feet propped up on his desk. He was drinking coffee when the three men came in. He put his feet down and sat up straight.

  “Yes, sir, what can I do for you boys?” he asked.

  “You can give us the reward for them four men you got standin’ up down at the undertaker’s place,” Ira said.

  Sheriff Curtis frowned in confusion. “What? Why would I do that?”

  “On account of ’cause we was the ones what actual caught them four,” Jed said. “We had been trackin’ ’em for a long time, ’n we finally caught up with ’em ’bout ten miles west of here. We got the drop on ’em, ’n we tied all four of ’em up to a tree.”

  “Then we left ’em there whilest we went huntin’ ’n fishin’ to get us somethin’ to eat, seein’ as we was all out of food by then,” Andy said.

  “But when we come back, they was all four gone,” Ira said.

  “We thought they’d all got away from us,” Andy said. “We figured, maybe we didn’t tie ’em up too good.”

  “So we come here, thinkin’ to get some more grub ’n go out lookin’ for ’em again,” Jed said.

  “Only, that’s when we seen ’em standin’ up down there at the undertaker’s. Now, what we don’t none of us understand is, how’d them four get theirselves kilt, ’n wind up here,” Ira finished.

  Sheriff Curtis took the final swallow of his coffee before he answered. “Now, boys, that’s quite a story you’ve just told,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, I reckon it is,” Andy said. “Onliest thing is, we still don’t know how it is that they wound up dead, here.”

  “That is, unlessen they all four come into town ’n you kilt ’em,” Jed said.

  “I reckon we didn’t think about that. If you kilt ’em, of course, there ain’t no reward in it for us,” Ira said.

  “Did you kill ’em?” Andy asked.

  “No, I didn’t kill them,” the sheriff replied. “They came into town belly down across their saddles.”

  “Who was it brought ’em in?” Ira asked. “’Cause whoever it was, Sheriff, they just flat-out stole ’em from us. ’N more’n likely what they done is, they shot ’em down in cold blood, too, seein’ as we already had ’em tied up ’n ever’thing. Are the men that done this still in town?”

  “It wasn’t men, it was a man. Just one.”

  “One man brung ’em in, all by hisself?” Andy asked.

  “Andy, that wouldn’t be too hard when you stop to think about it,” Jed said. “Remember, we had ’em all tied up ’n ever’thing. It wouldn’t ’a been that hard for one man to just come in there ’n shoot ’em dead. It would be that easy.” Jed snapped his fingers.

  “Let me see if I understand this,” Sheriff Curtis said. “You are saying that you had these four men tied up, and Matt Jensen came into your camp while you were fishing, killed all four of them, then brought them in for the reward?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why don’t you believe us? It’s our word against his’n, and that makes it three to one, don’t it?” Ira asked.

  “Just because three people are telling the same lie, that doesn’t make it true,” the sheriff said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean, it don’t matter?” Jed asked.

  “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” Sheriff Curtis said.

  “What does that mean? I ain’t never heard of such a thing,” Andy said.

  “That means that Matt Jensen brought the four bodies in, and it would take an overwhelming preponderance of evidence to deny him the reward. Word of mouth, even from three others, is not enough. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the reward will be paid to Mr. Jensen.”

  Chapter Seven

  Leaving the jail, the three men returned to the Muddy Bottom Saloon.

  “We ain’t goin’ to get no reward money from the sheriff,” Andy said. “So what do we do now?”

  “I know how to get it,” Ira said.

  “How?” Jed asked.

  “We just wait for Jensen to get the money, then we’ll kill ’im, ’n take it from him.”

  “Uh, uh, we done talked about that, remember?” Jed said. “I don’t plan on facin’ that son of a bitch, even if it is three of us to his one. He’s bound to get one of us, ’n there ain’t none of the three of us that want to take a chance on bein’ that one.”

  “Who said anything about facing him down? We’ll wait until he leaves town, then we’ll shoot him from ambush,” Ira said.

  “How are we going to collect the reward for killing him?” Jed asked. “You plannin’ on takin’ his body all the way to California to prove that we kilt ’im?”

  “Yeah, come to think of it, how would we prove we kilt him?” Andy asked. “I mean, even if we had got to ’im before he kilt Breen ’n the others, there wouldn’t ’a been no way we coulda proved that we kilt ’im.”

  “That don’t matter none now, anyway,” Ira replied. “I mean, once we kill him, we’ll take the thousand dollars offen his dead body, ’n just forget about the reward money.”

  “Yeah,” Jed said. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

  Two days later Ira came into the Muddy Bottom Saloon and dropped a newspaper on the table in front of Jed and Andy.

  “Look at this.”

  “Look at what? You know I don’t read all that good,” Andy said.

  “This here newspaper says that Matt Jensen has done been paid the thousand dollars reward.”

  “All right,” Jed said. “So it’s just there for the takin’ now.”

  “Yeah,” Ira replied with a smile.

  “So, how do we do it?”

  “He told the newspaper that he was on his way to San Francisco. He said he wanted to have a look around at the big city,” Ira said.

  “When’s he goin’?”

  “He’s still here, ’cause I seen ’im over at Mama Belle’s Café, but I reckon he’ll be leavin’ pretty soon. If he’s actual’ goin’ to go to San Francisco, there’s only one road he can take out of town. And when he takes it, we’ll be a-waitin’ on ’im.”

  Two hours later, Ira was lying on top of a flat rock, looking back along the trail over which he, Andy, and Jed had just come. He saw the lone rider half a mile behind them.

  “Is Jensen still a-comin’?” Jed asked.

  “Yeah,” Ira growled. He climbed back down from the rock and ran his hand across the stubble on his unshaven cheek. “He’s still there.”
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  “I’m gettin’ tired of waitin’ on ’im. Let’s hurry up ’n kill the sumbitch and get it over with,” Jed said.

  “Come on, I know a perfect spot,” Ira said.

  “Do you think he knows we’re here?” Andy asked.

  “No, I don’t think he suspects a thing,” Ira answered. “I mean, we ain’t showed ourselves even once. There ain’t no way he could know.”

  Matt knew that there was someone ahead of him, and he knew they were watching for him. There had been little hints that most people wouldn’t have noticed, but Matt had learned from his mentor, Smoke Jensen, who had learned from his mentor, Preacher, and Matt had picked up a lot of trail wisdom on his own. He stopped at a creek and dismounted to let Spirit get a drink while he studied the lay of the land.

  Horse droppings told him that there were three men ahead of him, and he saw footsteps leading over to an elevated flat rock that overlooked the back trail. One man had climbed up there for a look, while the other two waited.

  But why? What was their interest in him? Were they actually going to try to collect on the reward that had been put out on him?

  Just ahead, the trail led into a canyon, and Matt knew that if anyone was planning an ambush, that would be where they would do it. When he reached the canyon, he pulled his long gun out of the saddle holster, then dismounted and started walking, leading his horse. The horse’s hooves fell sharply on the stone floor and echoed loudly back from the canyon walls. The canyon made a forty-five-degree turn to the left just in front of him, so he stopped.

  “All right Spirit, run, and keep your head down,” he said, speaking quietly. He slapped his horse on the rump and sent it on through.

  Matt’s suspicion that someone was waiting to ambush him was validated when the canyon began echoing with the sound of gunfire. The bullets of the ambushers whizzed harmlessly over Spirit’s empty saddle, raising sparks as they hit the rocky ground, then ricocheted away, echoing and reechoing in a cacophony of whines and shrieks

  From his position just around the corner from the turn, Matt saw the gun smoke of the three ambushers rising from behind a rock. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there.

  The firing stopped, and after a few seconds of dying echoes, the canyon grew silent.

  “Where the hell is he?” one of the ambushers asked, and though he may have thought that he was speaking quietly, the concave canyon walls amplified the voice, and Matt could hear the last two words repeated in echo down through the canyon . . . is he, is he, is he?

  Matt waited, knowing that eventually his ambushers would get impatient, and at least one of them would raise his head for a better look. Bracing himself against the rock wall, he aimed just over the rock where he expected the assailant to appear.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Less than thirty seconds later, someone popped up to peruse the canyon. Matt’s rifle boomed loudly, and he saw a little cloud of blood spray from the man’s head. The thunder of the detonating cartridge picked up resonance through the canyon, doubling and redoubling in intensity.

  “Son of a bitch! He kilt Andy!” a frightened voice called.

  “Where did that shot come from?” another voice asked.

  “How the hell do I know? The sound was comin’ from everywhere!”

  “I’m down here, boys,” Matt called. He stepped out into the open, holding the rifle in his left hand.

  “Shoot ’im ’afore he can get that rifle up!” one of the two men shouted, and both of them stood up with pistols in hand.

  Matt drew his own pistol and fired twice, doing so quickly and accurately. Both of his adversaries went down, one falling back and the other tumbling over the rock they had been using for cover, and slid to the bottom of the canyon.

  Matt didn’t know whether there was a reward on the three men or not, and he didn’t care. Even if there was a reward on the three men, he doubted that it would be enough to make it worth his while. He certainly hadn’t set out to kill them, and he didn’t intend to take any more time with them.

  Retrieving Spirit, he continued his trip to San Francisco. He didn’t intend to ride all the way; he had promised Spirit he wouldn’t ride him the whole way, and now with the one thousand dollars, he could afford to catch the train a lot earlier than he had planned. There was no railroad at Grizzly Flats, but he would be in Cañon City before nightfall and in San Francisco within three days.

  Behind him, the buzzards began circling, wary of any wolves that might beat them to their unexpected feast.

  San Francisco

  “Mr. Conroy, I wonder if we might have been ill-served by listening to those who said that you could handle our situation.”

  “You have to give me a little time,” Conroy replied to the consortium representative. “You are asking me to deal with one of the wealthiest men in America, if not in the world. There are as many people who would recognize the name John Gillespie as there are who would recognize the name Grover Cleveland. This is no easy job, and I doubt, seriously, that you would be able to find anyone else in San Francisco, or anyone else in the country, for that matter, who would be as uniquely qualified to carry out this task as I am.”

  “So you say, but you failed on your first attempt to kill Gillespie and his daughter, and you have failed to eliminate Matt Jensen.”

  “Well, we don’t know about Jensen yet,” Conroy said. “I did distribute the wanted posters. We’ll have to wait to see if they bear fruit.”

  “I can tell you already that they did not,” the representative said. “Jensen is already in the city. He has boarded his horse at the Heckemeyer Stables, and he has taken a room at the Royal Hotel.”

  “May I remind you, sir, that you are the one who suggested putting out the wanted posters?” Conroy said.

  “So I did. And I will take full responsibility for the failure of that plan. However, I still think it is going to be necessary for you to eliminate Jensen, if you are to succeed in your assignment.”

  “As I understand it, the principal concern of you and the consortium is that neither Gillespie, nor his daughter, come back from Chicago alive. That is what you have hired me for, isn’t it?” Conroy asked.

  “It is.”

  “Then, please. Allow me to do my job.”

  “We will give you more time, Mr. Conroy, but I hope you realize that our patience isn’t without limit.”

  After his visitor left, Conroy thought about the job he had undertaken. The first attempt had failed. Lucas Conroy had hired someone to cut halfway through the tongue pin, hoping it would cause an accident that would result in the death of John Gillespie and his daughter, Mary Beth. He had been surprised to learn that the consortium wanted both of them dead, but he had no qualms about killing the daughter, as long as his clients were willing to pay him enough. And that they were.

  Conroy was playing a very high-stakes game, but that was what he did. Conroy had a very successful business . . . his business being to “arrange” things for wealthy clients. The kinds of things he arranged, however, could not be advertised. In the past two years, he had “arranged” for an oceangoing ship to be sunk, for a hotel to be burned down, and for a mine to be disabled by a cave-in.

  Conroy was very successful in his chosen occupation. He owned a house on Knob Hill and a fine coach, driven by a liveried driver. He dined in the finest restaurants and drank the finest whiskey, wine, and champagne. He seldom traveled, because he had neither need nor desire to leave San Francisco. On those few occasions when he did travel, though, he always traveled first-class, and he stayed only at the best hotels.

  Everyone was aware that Conroy was a very wealthy man, but only a very few knew the source of his wealth.

  “He owns a gold mine,” some said of him.

  “No, a shipping line.”

  “I heard he owns a bank somewhere.”

  Conroy represented only the very wealthy, and that was necessary because he charged a great deal of money for his services. Never, however, had he charg
ed anyone as much as he was charging for this current job. For this job he was being paid fifty thousand dollars.

  The money had been placed in an escrow account, though ten thousand of it had been released to him to be used for expenses. When the job was completed, Conroy would be able to keep that part of the fifty thousand dollars that he had not used in bringing the job to fruition.

  He had been willing to pay five hundred dollars to get Matt Jensen out of the way, but had thought, from the beginning, that merely putting out wanted posters was an inefficient way of doing the job. He wondered how important it was to actually get rid of Matt Jensen.

  There was a light knock on his door.

  “Yes?” he called.

  The door opened, and Maurice McGill, a lawyer who occupied the same building, stuck his head in.

  “Lucas?” he called.

  “Yes, Maurice, come in, come in.”

  McGill believed that Conroy was an exceptionally successful freelance stockbroker.

  “Lucas, there is a man downstairs who presented me with this and wanted to know what I knew about it,” McGill said. He held out one of the wanted posters that Conroy had printed and circulated in his attempt to get rid of Matt Jensen.

  Conroy looked at it, waiting for McGill to make the next comment.

  “Do you know anything about it?” McGill asked.

  Conroy shook his head. “No, you being a lawyer, it seems like this would be more in your bailiwick than mine. You say a man gave it to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he still here?”

  “Yes, he’s just outside your office.”

  “Well, bring him in. Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this,” Conroy said.

  Matt was waiting just outside the office door, but he was able to overhear the conversation between the two men, including the part where Lucas Conroy asked McGill to bring him in. Matt knew Conroy’s name, only because of the name on the door.

  LUCAS CONROY