Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory Page 6

  He walked down to the hall and stood just outside the girls’ dormitory. When Tamara didn’t show up, he was about to leave without her, but suddenly she was there.

  “When I saw you with the blanket, I thought that might be a pretty good idea,” she whispered. “So I went back to get mine.”

  “All right, let’s go, but keep quiet,” Matt said.

  Once outside, they looked back toward the building that housed the Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. For a moment, he almost went back in. It wasn’t much, but it was the only home he’d had for the last three years. For some of the residents, it was the only home they had ever known.

  “Are you sure you want to go with me?” Matt asked. “I mean, when you think about it, the Home kept us warm in the winter, gave us a place to sleep, and provided meals.”

  “Such as they were,” Tamara said.

  “We are giving up a safe haven for the unknown,” Matt said.

  “Who are you trying to talk out of going? Me or you?” Tamara asked.

  “I don’t know,” Matt answered honestly. “Both of us, I guess.”

  The moon was full and bright, and it lit the path for them. A cool night breeze caused Matt to shiver, though in truth he didn’t know if his trembling was entirely from the cold, or from nervousness over his uncertain future. He pulled the blanket around himself, then began walking.

  The Home for Wayward Boys and Girls was three blocks from Muddy Creek and while that had not been a conscious goal, Matt quickly found himself on the bank of the creek, looking down at the water. That’s when he saw the boat.

  “There,” he said excitedly, pointing to the boat. “That’s our way out of here!”

  “We’re going to steal a boat?” Tamara asked.

  “Nah, we’re not stealing it,” Matt said. “We’re just borrowing it. You keep a watch out while I untie it.”

  Scrambling down the creek bank, Matt started untying the boat. That was when he heard the dogs barking.

  “Tamara!” he called up the embankment. “Tamara, what is it?”

  “Someone’s coming,” Tamara called down.

  “Come on, hurry!”

  “No!” Tamara said. You go ahead. I’ll lead them away from the water.”

  “Tamara, no, come on!” Matt said. “Hurry, we have to go now!”

  “You go on!” Tamara called.

  Matt saw Tamara turn and run away from the top of the bank.

  “Help!” Tamara called. “Help me!”

  “What are you doing out here, girl?” a man’s voice asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tamara answered. “I think I must have been walking in my sleep, I just woke up out here. I’m lost and frightened. Please, help me get back to the Home.”

  By distracting the man, Tamara had given Matt the opportunity to get away and Matt took advantage of it. Wandering around in the mountains, he very nearly died of starvation and hypothermia until he was found, nearly frozen, by Smoke Jensen. Not yet widely known, Smoke was well on his way to becoming one of the West’s most enduring legends.

  Smoke not only saved Matt’s life, he took in a boy with potential and began schooling him in such things as horsemanship, marksmanship with a rifle or handgun, the quick draw, how to fight with knife or fist, hunting, tracking, and how to survive in the woods, mountains, or desert.

  But most of all, Smoke instilled in the boy the knowledge of right and wrong, a sense of justice and fair play, and an awareness of when to use his skills as a gunman—and when not to. Having started as a boy, Matt had graduated as a man who, like Smoke, was well on his way to becoming a legend in his own right.

  It was six years after he and Tamara parted on the bank of that river before Matt saw her again.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you, Matt?”

  Matt stared at her. It couldn’t be. This woman looked ten to fifteen years older than he was, not a mere two years older.

  “My God,” he said with an expulsion of breath. “Tamara?”

  “I wondered when you were going to recognize me,” Tamara replied. “Have I changed that much? I recognized you right away.”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s just that—well, I never expected to see you—here.”

  “You mean you didn’t expect to see me whorin’,” Tamara replied.

  Matt didn’t answer.

  Tamara got out of bed and padded, naked, over to a chair where she had put her clothes the night before.

  “What did you expect would happen to the girls at the Home?” she asked as she began dressing. “Mumford had us on the line by the time we were fifteen.” She looked up at him, and he saw tears sliding down her face. “I told you that. You do remember, don’t you, Matt, that I told you that?”

  Matt nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I remember. I tried to take you with me.”

  Tamara’s expression softened, and she nodded.

  “I know you did, honey. But I guess it just wasn’t in the cards.”

  “If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think I would have gotten away that night,” Matt said. “You led them away from me and the boat.”

  “I know I did. And don’t think that I didn’t think about it a lot of times. I thought sure you had died up in the mountains, and I figured that if you had, it would have been my fault.”

  “As you can see, I didn’t die,” he said. “And even if I had, it would not have been your fault. Like I said, I thank you for helping me out that night.”

  Suddenly, there was the tinkling sound of broken glass as something whizzed through the window, followed by a solid “thock,” like the sound of a hammer hitting a nail.

  Tamara pitched forward, even as a mist of blood was spraying out from the back of her head.

  “No!” Matt shouted in a loud, grief-stricken voice.

  Matt had avenged Tamara’s death, but he had never forgotten her, and even now, many years later, he continued to think of her.

  Had Matt loved Tamara? He had thought about that many times over the years. He knew that he had not been “in love with” Tamara, at least not in the classic sense. But she was a part of his youth, and he could not deny that he had loved her, any more than he could deny his own heritage.

  Chapter Eight

  Grand Central Station, New York

  The coach-and-four rolled onto the Park Avenue Bridge, crossing 42nd Street as it approached the great stone edifice that Cornelius Vanderbilt had constructed for his railroad. Inside the coach, on the backseat facing forward, sat financier Jay Peerless Bixby, a rather plump, balding man who wore chin whiskers and muttonchop sideburns. Bixby was dressed in a three-piece suit, as befitting a man of his economic station. He was in his late fifties, but because his wife, Cynthia, was an exceptionally beautiful woman in her mid-twenties, she was often taken for his daughter.

  Riding in the coach with Bixby was Ken Hendel. Hendel, in his early thirties, was a small man who wore wire-rim glasses and, at the moment, was wearing a suit and tie.

  “Are you sure you made all the arrangements so I can transfer the funds as needed?” Bixby asked.

  “Jay, dear, you have asked Mr. Hendel that same question at least three times since we left the house,” Cynthia said.

  “Yes, well, one can never be too careful when dealing with employees,” Bixby said, speaking of Hendel as if he weren’t present. “For the most part, they tend to be unreliable.”

  “I have never known Mr. Hendel to be anything but reliable,” Cynthia said in defense of the man who was their business manager.

  “You can understand my apprehension, I’m sure,” Bixby said. “After all, there is a great deal of money involved, and when I am done, I will be the largest landowner in the entire territory of Arizona. Why, I’ll own a ranch that will be the envy of the West.”

  “For the life of me, I don’t understand your obsession with owning a ranch,” Cynthia said.

  “I am buying a ranch to make money, my dear. The cost of beef is rising every day.”

  “
But you’ve never even been west of the Hudson River,” Cynthia pointed out.

  “That’s why I will do well,” Bixby said. He laughed. “Can you imagine those Western cretins doing business with me? I will be their superior in every respect.”

  When the coach stopped in front of the station, a footman hurried around to open the door. Once outside the coach, they could see the many omnibuses and cabs standing below them. They were met by three porters who picked up the baggage that the footman off-loaded from the coach.

  “Hendel, you go with the porters to make certain our luggage gets checked through,” Bixby ordered.

  “Very well, Mr. Bixby,” Hendel replied.

  “And before you come back, check to make certain the train is on time.”

  “He doesn’t have to do that,” Cynthia said. She pointed to a big blackboard. “You can see right there that the train is on time.”

  “It may have changed and they may not have changed the posting,” Bixby replied to his wife.

  Just beyond the north wall, under the great vaulting roof, trains were arriving and departing. As they did so, the rumble of heavy wheels rolling on the tracks caused the floor to shake and it filled the large cavernous room with echoes.

  Through doors and portals that opened onto the tracks, they could hear the rush of steam, the clang of bells, and, occasionally, the blowing of a whistle.

  “Oh, Jay,” Cynthia said, her eyes shining brightly. “Have you ever seen anything as exciting as this place?”

  “Sometimes, Cynthia, you are such a child,” Bixby said gruffly.

  Cynthia wrapped her arms about her shoulders as if hugging herself. “I don’t care,” she said. “I think this is so exhilarating!”

  Bixby turned his attention away from his wife. “You,” he called to a uniformed railroad employee who was passing by. “Are these miserable accommodations the best you have for your passengers of means?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Do you not understand what I am saying? I am a very wealthy man,” Bixby said. “A man of my class and means should not have to sit on hard benches in a noisy room with the common passengers. Where are your upper-class accommodations?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not aware of any such facility,” the employee replied. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

  “You, come back here!” Bixby ordered. “Well, I never,” he said in exasperation as the railroad employee hurried away without looking back. “I will certainly write Cornelius Vanderbilt a personal letter and complain about this insolence. And I shall inform him that this is no way to run a railroad.”

  “Oh, Jay, don’t be so disagreeable,” Cynthia said. “Look at all these people and think about the journey they are about to make. Imagine just how many stories are here to be told.”

  “Ha!” Bixby said with a mocking laugh. “I can think of nothing more dreary than to listen to some of the stories of these poor wretches. No doubt they are going to see Grandmother or some such thing in some awful place like Indiana or Arkansas.”

  “Why must you always be so hateful, Jay?”

  “I’m not hateful, my dear, I am merely practical,” Bixby answered. “Ah, good, Hendel is back. It is about time. Well?” he asked as the young man approached.

  “The luggage is checked through, sir.”

  “The schedule, man, the schedule,” Bixby said. “Will the train leave on time?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Hendel replied. “In fact, it is already here and I expect they’ll be loading in just a few moments.”

  “The train is already here? Well, why didn’t you say so, man?”

  “Jay, he did say so. He just this moment returned,” Cynthia said.

  Almost as if on cue, someone stepped through one of the doors that led out into the train shed. Lifting a megaphone to his mouth, he began shouting an announcement.

  “Now loading on track number nine, the Western Limited to Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland, Indianapolis, Springfield, and St. Louis. All passengers please proceed to track number nine!”

  “I wonder how long it will take us to get there,” Cynthia said.

  “Two days to St. Louis,” Hendel said. “From there, another three days to Denver, then three days from Denver to Phoenix.”

  “We shall be but one week and one day in transit,” Bixby said. “We do live in a marvelous age. I’m told there was a time, in the early days of the Western migration, when it would take upwards of three months to cover the same distance we shall in a few days.”

  Antonito, Colorado

  The car was dimly lit by no more than four low-burning, wall-mounted, gimbal lanterns. When the train came to a halt, Pogue Willis looked out the window toward the depot. The building, constructed of unpainted, wide planks, was totally dark. A white sign, with black letters, hung from the eave of the roof.

  ANTONITO, Colorado

  The conductor came through the car then, moving quietly so as not to awaken any of the sleeping passengers. He leaned over the seat where Willis and Deputy Kinsley were sitting.

  “Deputy, this is our last stop in Colorado,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Kinsley said. “Uh, the next train back to Denver is at six in the morning. You got any idea where I can stay until then?”

  The conductor pulled out his watch and looked at it. “That’s only about three hours,” he said. “There is a bench inside the depot. You can wait there.”

  “It’s closed, ain’t it?”

  “Well, there is nobody there now, but the building remains unlocked,” the conductor said. He chuckled. “They don’t keep anything of value there.”

  “All right, thanks, I’ll wait there,” the deputy said. He looked over at Willis. “Come on, Mr. Willis, this is where we get off.”

  When Willis and the deputy stepped down from the train, they encountered a pretty stiff wind and the beginning of a rain. A streak of lightning flashed across the sky.

  “Looks like it’s starting to rain,” Kinsley said. A crash of thunder followed his words.

  “Yeah,” Willis said.

  “I expect you’re going to get wet.”

  “What do you mean I’m goin’ to get wet? You mean we, don’t you?”

  Kinsley shook his head. “No, like the conductor said, I’ll be waitin’ in the depot till the next train north.”

  “So what about me?”

  “There is no what about you,” Kinsley replied. “I was told to take you to the state line, then see that you got across, and that’s what I’m about to do.” He pointed to a marker alongside the track. “That marker is the state line,” he said. “On this side is Colorado. On the other side is New Mexico.”

  Another lightning flash, and more thunder.

  The train whistle blew a couple of times, then started forward, enveloping both Willis and Kinsley in a cloud of steam.

  “Why did I have to get off the train here? If you’re sendin’ me to New Mexico, why didn’t you get me a ticket all the way to Santa Fe, or some such place?”

  “The judge said to get you out of the state, he didn’t have no word as to where you was to be—just where you wasn’t to be,” Kinsley said. Again, he pointed to the marker. “You ain’t to be in Colorado, and this is the last town inside of Colorado. That there marker gets you out of the state. Now, come along.”

  The rainfall intensified as they walked alongside the track toward the state-line marker.

  “Look, couldn’t I just wait there in the depot with you until morning? Or at least, until this rain stops?”

  “The depot is in Colorado,” Kinsley said pointedly.

  “So?”

  “My job is to get you out of the state,” Kinsley repeated.

  “So then are you just goin’ to leave me here? What about my gun? Where’s my gun?”

  “More than likely, your gun is on the train we just left.”

  “What?”

  “Sheriff Allen sent your gun on ahead by U.S. mail. You can call for it at general delivery
at the post office in Santa Fe.”

  “That ain’t right,” Willis said.

  “Think about it, Willis. Do you really think I would turn you loose out here with a gun?”

  All the time the two men were talking, they were walking. At one point, Willis tripped and fell against Kinsley, but he recovered quickly.

  “Watch where you’re walkin’,” Kinsley said irritably.

  After a few more steps, they reached the marker.

  “Here we are,” Kinsley said. “From this point, you are on your own.”

  There was another lightning bolt, this one so close that it was followed almost immediately by a huge clap of thunder.

  “Ha,” Kinsley said. “If I was you, I’d be findin’ me a rock to crawl under or a hole to crawl into,” he said. “Otherwise, you’re purt’ near goin’ to drown out here.”

  Willis didn’t reply.

  “Well, so long, Willis. I’ll be seein’ you. Oh, no, I won’t, will I? I mean, seein’ as you can’t come back into Colorado no more.”

  Turning, Kinsley laughed as he started back toward the small depot.

  “Deputy?” Willis called.

  Kinsley stopped.

  “Ain’t no sense in you callin’ after me, Willis,” he said. “You heard the judge’s rulin’ same as me. I done just what he said for me to do. Now, like I said, your best bet would be to find you a place to get out of the rain.”

  “Turn around, Deputy Kinsley,” Willis said.

  There was something in Willis’s voice that caught Kinsley’s attention and he turned back toward him. When he did, he gasped at seeing a gun in Willis’s hand.

  “What the hell?” Kinsley said. “Where did you get that?”

  “It’s your gun,” Willis said. Another lightning flash showed that a wide, demonic smile had spread across Willis’s face. “I got it when I fell against you a while ago.”

  “No,” Kinsley said, holding his hands out in front of him and shaking his head. “Willis, no!”

  Willis pulled the trigger, but the muzzle flame was obliterated by another lightning flash, and the sound of the shot was covered by the crash of thunder from the previous lightning flash.