Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory Page 5

  Judge Heckemeyer arrived in Fort Collins in a black surrey with yellow wheels. The surrey was drawn by two black horses, each of which had a yellow tassel on its head. A rather large man, Heckemeyer had been summoned by telegraph, so he was not surprised to see that many in the town turned out to welcome him.

  “Are you goin’ to hang him, Judge?” someone shouted from the porch of the apothecary.

  Believing a response, any response, would be beneath the dignity of the office, Heckemeyer didn’t answer. Instead, he drove straight through town to the Hungry Miner Saloon. The irony was that Pogue Willis would be tried in the same saloon in which he had killed Lee Marcus.

  “Hello, Judge, welcome to Fort Collins,” Sheriff Allen said, greeting Heckemeyer just as he stepped into the saloon.

  “Hello, Seth,” Heckemeyer replied. Seeing two people standing at the bar, drinking beer, Heckemeyer pointed to the bartender. “Hodge, you know better than that,” he said. “Shut this bar down.”

  “The bar is closed, Judge. They’re just still drinkin’ what they bought before the bar was closed,” Hodge replied.

  “You two boys got three choices,” Heckemeyer said to the two men who were drinking the beer. “Pour it out now, or leave the saloon with it and don’t come back.”

  “You said three choices, Judge,” one of the beer drinkers replied.

  “Oh, yes. Your third choice is to be put in jail for thirty days for contempt of court.”

  Both drinkers immediately handed their beers over to Hodge, who, obligingly, poured out the rest.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” Heckemeyer said.

  Clearing his throat, Sheriff Allen turned and called out loudly: “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. This court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Anthony Heckemeyer presiding.”

  One table had been set up at the end of the saloon that was closest to the piano. Two other tables were set up, one for the defense and one for the prosecution. All the other tables had been moved to one side of the room and twelve chairs had been set up for the jury. The remaining chairs had been put in rows for the spectators.

  There were only two lawyers in Fort Collins, and they took turns being the prosecutor. Today, the prosecution was being handled by George Dempster, and the defense by David Craig.

  Dempster called witnesses who testified that Pogue Willis had goaded Marcus into finally drawing his gun.

  Juanita Simpson was called to the stand. One of her eyes was black and nearly swollen shut. There was also a bruise on her cheek, both being visual evidence of the treatment she had received from Pogue Willis.

  “Miss Simpson, Would you tell us, please, in your own words, what happened?” Dempster asked.

  “Mr. Willis asked me to bring him a drink and when I did, he accused me of stickin’ my finger into it.”

  “Did you stick your finger into the drink?”

  “No, sir, I did not. And I told him I didn’t, but that didn’t make no never-mind. He hit me anyway. Then, Mr. Marcus said to Mr. Willis that he didn’t have no call to hit me like that. One thing led to another and, the next thing you know, there was shootin’ and poor Mr. Marcus was dead.”

  Juanita’s testimony was most poignant, and she broke down on the stand while testifying.

  “Take your time, Miss Simpson,” Dempster said.

  Juanita wiped her eyes and blew her nose before she continued. “The thing is, Mr. Marcus died because he was takin’ up for me,” she said.

  “Miss Simpson,” Craig said in his cross-examination. “You say you did not stick your finger in Mr. Willis’s drink?”

  “No, sir, I did not.”

  “Why do you think he accused you of doing that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, surely you know, Miss Simpson. Why did he accuse you of sticking your finger in the drink? Do you think it might be because you refused to do business with him?”

  “Do business with him?” Juanita said.

  “Yes, do business. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, Miss Simpson. What sort of business are you in?”

  “I work at the Hungry Miner.”

  “Is it true, Miss Simpson, that you are a whore at the Hungry Miner? And is it not also true that you angered Pogue Willis, not by sticking your finger in his drink, but by refusing to go upstairs with him?”

  “Objection,” Dempster said quickly. “Irrelevant!”

  “Withdraw the question,” Craig said. “Miss Simpson, did you actually see the gunfight?”

  “Yes, I saw it.”

  “Who drew first?”

  “You don’t understand. Pogue Willis just kept on goading Mr. Marcus. He just wouldn’t leave him alone. He was wantin’ Mr. Marcus to draw his gun.”

  “Who drew first?” Craig repeated.

  “Well, it was Mr. Marcus, but he—”

  “Thank you, Miss Simpson. I have no further questions of this witness, Your Honor.”

  When all the witnesses had testified, Judge Heckemeyer invited the counselors to give their closing arguments. Counselor for the defense was first.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the witnesses to this shooting and, since it happened right here in the saloon during a busy time, more than a dozen were able to testify.”

  Craig paused for a moment.

  “More than a dozen witnesses had a good enough view of the shooting to be able to give us a very detailed description of what happened. And, gentlemen of the jury—” Craig paused and held up his forefinger. “No one, not one witness, testified that Willis drew first. In fact, every eyewitness who testified before this august court and honorable judge testified that it was Marcus who drew first.”

  Craig pointed to Willis.

  “You may not like Pogue Willis. Indeed, few do, for he is not a very likable man. But you cannot find him guilty of being unlikable. And if you are honest with yourself, you know that you cannot find him guilty of murder either.”

  Dempster stood up when Craig sat down. It was time for him to give his closing argument, but he stood silent for a long moment, then shook his head.

  “An unlikable man?” Dempster said, speaking very quietly. “Unlikable?” he repeated, just a little louder. Then he pointed to Willis. “He is not merely unlikable—he is an evil spawn of Satan!”

  Dempster shouted the last phrase.

  “This unlikable”—he twisted his mouth as he said the word—“man has killed fifteen human beings! Do you fully understand that? Fifteen men, men who were someone’s son, brother, husband, and father, fifteen men were killed by Pogue Willis.

  “And now we are asked to find him innocent because the other man drew first? You have heard witness after witness testify that Pogue Willis goaded, cajoled, beleaguered, and intimidated Mr. Marcus until he felt that he had no choice but to draw. It has also been testified here that Pogue Willis had a smile on his face as he pulled the trigger.

  “I ask that you find this man guilty, and that the judge sentence him to hang.”

  “Hear, hear!” someone in the gallery shouted.

  Judge Heckemeyer quickly restored order by the judicious use of his gavel. Once order was restored, he charged the jury and they adjourned to the back room of the saloon to make their decision. After only a few minutes of deliberation, the jury returned.

  “Mr. Foreman,” he said. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

  “We have, Your Honor,” the foreman answered. The foreman was Al Frakes, owner of Frakes Photography.

  “Please hand the verdict to the bailiff.”

  Frakes gave a little piece of paper to the bailiff, who took it over to the judge. Heckemeyer read the verdict silently.

  “Mr. Willis, approach the bench,” he said sternly.

  Although Matt Jensen had already bought a round-trip train ticket to St. Louis, he’d stayed in town long enough to attend the trial and now, as Pogue Willis approached the bench, Matt studied the expression on his face. Throughout the trial Willis had displayed arrogance and
bravado. Now, however, being summoned to stand before the judge, he began to show a little bit of apprehension.

  Matt could understand Willis’s concern. For Willis, a prison sentence would be as deadly as a sentence to be hanged. Willis had made a lot of enemies during his short, but very brutal, career, and many of his enemies were now in prison. On the outside, where he could carry a pistol, Pogue Willis feared few men. But, if he had to go to prison, he would be unarmed. Without a gun, Pogue Willis would be dead within less than a week.

  “Pogue Willis, it has been testified to in this court that when a Good Samaritan saw you hitting a woman, he asked you politely to quit. It has further been testified to that you took issue with that Good Samaritan and, for no good reason, began goading him, challenging him, and pushing him beyond reasonable limits until he was forced to draw against you.

  “If it were my case to decide, I would find your sorry carcass guilty and sentence you to hang within the week. But it is the law of our land that you are to be tried by your peers, and your peers, following the letter if not the intent of the law, have ruled that, because Lee Marcus drew first, you are not guilty.”

  “Ha!” Willis shouted happily. “I know’d I was goin’ to beat this one.”

  “I am going to acquiesce to the ruling of the jury, for I have no other choice,” Judge Heckemeyer said. “However, sir, I am now issuing this court order. You are to vacate the town of Fort Collins and the state of Colorado. If you return to Colorado, I will have you arrested and thrown into prison for violation of this court order. I do not think, Mr. Willis, that you would fare very well in prison.”

  “Judge, you got no right to run me out of the state,” Willis protested.

  “You are free to appeal my decision, Mr. Willis,” Heckemeyer said. “But in order to make that appeal, you will have to remain in the state. And if you remain in the state, I will put you in prison, where you will remain until that appeal is acted upon. So your choice is simple. Leave the state, or make an appeal from behind prison walls. Now, which shall it be?”

  “I’ll, uh, leave the state, Judge,” Willis said.

  “I thought you might see it my way. Sheriff, escort this man to the depot and put him on the next train,” Heckemeyer said. He banged the gavel down on the table that was serving as his bench. “This court is dismissed.”

  “Gents! The bar is open!” the bartender shouted, and there was a rush to the bar as the patrons hurried to quench the thirsts that had been generated by the trial.

  Chapter Seven

  At the Fort Collins train depot, Matt Jensen stood with his arms folded across his chest as he watched the activity on the platform. Pogue Willis, unarmed, meek, and unchallenging, was here also, sitting on a bench under the watchful eyes of one of Sheriff Allen’s deputies. As it happened, both Matt and Willis would be taking the same train south from Fort Collins, though when Matt reached Denver, he would transfer to a train heading east, while Willis and the deputy would continue on with the train heading south, toward New Mexico Territory. The deputy would stay with Willis until they reached the state line. At that point, Willis would be released and the deputy would come back.

  Although Matt was disappointed by the outcome of the trial, he realized that technically the jury had come in with the correct verdict. No matter the provocation, Lee didn’t have to draw his gun. That meant that in the final analysis, it was his own fault. Matt just wished that he could have arrived a few minutes earlier. He was sure that if he had been there, none of this would have happened.

  “Mr. Jensen?”

  Turning, Matt saw the bar girl Willis had been beating.

  “Yes, uh, Miss Simpson, isn’t it?” Matt replied.

  The girl smiled and, even with the bruises, the smile softened her features. It was obvious that, before the dissipation of her profession had taken its toll, Juanita Simpson had been an attractive woman.

  “Here, folks was callin’ me miss all durin’ the trial, and now you’re callin’ me miss, too. Don’t hardly nobody ever call me miss no more,” she said. “Not what with me bein’ a bar girl an’ all. Most folks call me much worse. You can call me Juanita if you want to.”

  “I’d be pleased to call you Juanita.”

  “You was a friend of Mr. Marcus, wasn’t you?” Juanita said. “I seen that you and him talked some right there at the end, just before he died.”

  “Yes, we were friends,” Matt said.

  “You was friends, and now he is dead. And it was all my fault him gettin’ killed all ’cause of the way he took up for me like he done.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Juanita. Not at all,” Matt said. “Don’t be blaming yourself for it. The person to blame is that little pipsqueak over there.” Matt pointed to Pogue Willis.”

  “He don’t look very scary now, does he?” Juanita said.

  “No, not at all.”

  Juanita walked over to the bench where Willis was sitting.

  “Mr. Willis, there’s somethin’ I owe you,” she said.

  “Yeah? What is that?” Willis asked.

  Suddenly and totally without warning, Juanita swung her hand around, putting all her weight into it. With her doubled up fist, she hit Willis on the cheek just under his eye, hitting him with enough force to send him tumbling off the bench.

  “Why, you bitch, I’m going to—”

  “Do nothing, except sit back down on the bench and shut up,” the deputy said.

  The others at the depot, having seen what happened, laughed.

  “Hey, Willis, you ain’t much of a man without a gun, are you?” someone called.

  Glaring, Willis sat still and stared down at the ground between his feet.

  Juanita turned and walked away from him.

  “Good for you, miss,” someone said, and a few others joined in with their own positive comments.

  Matt chuckled when Juanita returned.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  Juanita smiled. “I feel a lot better,” she said. “Oh! Do you think I was wrong?”

  “No, Juanita, I think you were very right,” Matt said. “To be honest, I’ve been standing here wishing I could do it myself. But it’s even better coming from you.”

  Juanita laughed. “I hope Mr. Marcus is lookin’ down from heaven and saw it.”

  “I’ll just bet he is,” Matt said.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Juanita said. She stepped back into the depot, then came back out a moment later, holding a package. “I made this for you while you are on the train,” Juanita said as she handed the package to him. “I know I’m nothin’ but a bar girl, but I’m also a pretty good cook. And I’m just particular good at bakin’ cookies. This here is my mother’s recipe. I made a batch of ’em for you.”

  “Well, that’s very nice of you,” Matt said. “I don’t know what I did to cause you to want to make cookies for me, but I appreciate it.”

  “Like I said, you was Mr. Marcus’s friend,” Juanita said. “And you treated me real nice durin’ the trial and all.”

  In the distance, they heard a train whistle.

  “Eastbound!” the station manager shouted, coming out onto the platform. “This here train is for Eagle, Sherwood, Wolcott, Allentown, Minturn, Rock Creek, Wheeler, Pano, Denver, and all points east, north, and south.”

  “I reckon that’s your train,” Juanita said.

  “Yes.”

  “If you wanted to stay here a couple days, maybe I could—uh—well if you wanted to stay here a couple of days, you could—what I mean is…” she said, not completing her thought.

  “I appreciate the invitation, Juanita,” Matt said. “But I made a promise to Lee that I intend to keep.”

  “Yes, sir, and you are the kind that keeps his promises,” Juanita said. “Mr. Marcus was lucky to have a friend like you.”

  The train pulled into the station then, arriving with a rush of steam, a rattle of connectors, and the squeal of steel on steel as the brakes were applied.

  The stat
ion manager walked out to the engine and held a sheaf of papers up to the engineer, who took them. The engineer filled his pipe as the engine sat at rest, venting steam from the pressure-relief valve.

  Arriving baggage was taken from the baggage car while departing baggage was loaded. The conductor stood on the platform, self-assured in his importance, as the arriving passengers stepped down. He pulled out his pocket watch and examined it, then put it back.

  “All aboard!” he shouted.

  With last-minute good-byes, the outgoing passengers began loading onto the train. Matt watched as the deputy and Willis climbed onto the first car behind the baggage car. Matt boarded the next car behind the one that the deputy and Willis had taken, then took his seat for the start of what was going to be a very long trip.

  Matt watched the other passengers settle in—a drummer with his wares, an older couple, two young cowboys, and a young woman with a baby. When the young woman tried to put her grip in the overhead rack, one of the cowboys came to her aid, saluted her with a touch to the brim of his hat, then took his seat beside his friend.

  Matt heard the whistle of the train; then the train started, causing a series of jerks to be distributed down through the line of cars as the slack was taken from the couplers. As the train pulled out of the station, he looked through the window toward Juanita, who, like many of the others, was still standing on the platform. He waved at her and, with a quick and grateful smile, she waved back.

  For a moment, Matt wondered what there was about Juanita that generated in him a feeling of warmth for her; then he realized that it was because she reminded him of Tamara.

  The train began gathering speed and, as it did so, Matt leaned his head back on the seat, closed his eyes, and remembered Tamara. Both he and Tamara had been orphans at the Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. It was run by a man named Mumford, an exceptionally evil man who insisted that all call him Captain, though he had no military experience, and all the children of the home were victims of his cruelty. Unwilling to take any more of it, Matt ran away from the home when he was twelve years old. Tamara, who was fourteen, ran away from the home with him.

  Matt wasn’t sure exactly what time it was when he left.* He knew it was late at night because everyone was asleep and he could hear the snores and rhythmic breathing of the others. It was getting colder outside, and he had no overcoat, so he decided to take the blanket off his bed.