Matt Jensen, The Last Mountain Man Savage Territory Read online

  Kinsley fell forward, the blood from his wound streaming out into the mud puddle.

  Stepping over to him, Willis went through his pockets, relieving him of all his money.

  “Three dollars?” he said with a snort of disgust. “All you got is three dollars? Damn, they don’t pay you lawmen nothin’, do they?”

  A further search turned up a railway ticket to Denver, and another from Denver back to Fort Collins. Willis took the two tickets, then removed the deputy’s star and stuck it into his pocket.

  Willis pulled Kinsley’s body up the berm, then laid it down lengthwise between the rails. After that, he walked back to the depot. Once there, he stepped into the building to get out of the rain. One hour later, a freight train passed through and Willis walked to the edge of the platform and looked down to where he had put Kinsley’s body. The train had not slowed down, and Willis smiled as he knew that the body would now be impossible to identify.

  It was two and a half hours before the stationmaster arrived. He lit a lantern, then walked around behind the ticket counter. That was when he saw Pogue Willis sitting on the bench. Seeing him there startled the stationmaster and he jumped.

  Willis chuckled. “I didn’t mean to startle you there, friend,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” the stationmaster replied. “I just didn’t expect to see anyone here. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I have tickets for Denver and Fort Collins, but I’ve changed my mind, I’d rather go to Santa Fe. The only thing is, I don’t have enough money to buy a ticket on to Santa Fe, so I was wondering if there was any way I could just change these tickets to Santa Fe.”

  “Why, of course you can, there’s no problem there,” the stationmaster said. “I can change those tickets around for you. You just give them to me, and I’ll issue a new ticket down to Santa Fe.”

  “Well, mister, that’s real nice of you,” Willis said.

  The stationmaster took the tickets from Willis, and handed the one from Denver to Fort Collins back. “I won’t need this one,” he said. “Your ticket back to Denver is all I need. This one is still good. Or, you can just cash it out if you want to.”

  “Yeah,” Willis said. “Cash it out for me.”

  “Very well, sir, the Denver and Rio Grande will be happy to accommodate you.”

  The stationmaster gave Willis his new ticket, plus two dollars in cash. As the transaction was completed, they heard the whistle of an approaching train.

  “Well,” the stationmaster said with a broad smile. “We got that business taken care of just in time. That will be your train.”

  Chapter Nine

  St. Louis

  Matt had read somewhere that St. Louis was a booming metropolis of over 300,000 people, and he could believe it by what he was seeing just outside the window. The city sprawl seemed to go on forever. It wasn’t just the spread of houses and business establishments; it was the traffic on the streets. At every crossing, Matt could see wagons, coaches, surreys, and carriages drawn up in a long line, waiting for the train to pass.

  “This your first time in St. Louis, young man?”

  Matt, who had been looking through the window, turned to see the conductor standing in the aisle.

  “Yes,” Matt said.

  “I thought it might be, because of the way you were looking through the window. Beer and shoes. And coffins,” he added.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s what St. Louis is known for,” the conductor continued. “Beer, shoes, and coffins. Oh, and the traffic on the Mississippi. If you’ve never seen it, you must go down to the river and see all the boats that are drawn up there. Yes, sir, that is quite a sight to see.”

  “Thank you, maybe I will,” Matt said.

  “I hope your visit to our fair city is a pleasant one,” the conductor said before moving on through the car.

  The train continued on for several more minutes; then the scenery outside the window changed. Instead of streets and buildings, Matt saw a huge network of tracks. There in the marshaling yard, the train stopped, and began backing. As it did so, it backed under a high roof, and now his view was blocked because the tracks were very close and there was another train on either side. Finally, the train stopped altogether, and Matt and the others stood up and began filing toward the end of the car and the exit.

  Stepping down from the train, Matt found himself in a shed that rumbled and echoed with arriving and departing engines. The walkways between the tracks were crowded with humanity. Steam drifted across the walkways, then rose, with the smoke from the smokestacks, to gather under the eaves of the great roof. Matt moved with the crowd toward the main hall, then, after claiming his luggage, stepped out onto Market Street. Outside the depot, he saw several cabs and carriages drawn up in front of the station, the drivers openly soliciting passengers.

  “Cab, sir?” one of the drivers said to Matt.

  “All right,” Matt answered.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “I don’t have any specific place in mind. Can you recommend a hotel?”

  “Oh, I can indeed, sir,” the driver replied. “I recommend the Travelers’ Rest on Washington Street.” The driver took Matt’s bag and put it into the cab, then pulled a portable step out from the carriage for Matt. Matt climbed up into the seat, then settled back for the ride.

  The traffic Matt had sensed from the train was even heavier once he was actually out in it. The city was noisy, with the sound of the electric trolley cars rolling down the tracks without benefit of a horse, the clatter of hundreds of hoofbeats on cobblestone streets, the rumble of heavy freight wagons, and the incessant whistles of the traffic policemen who stood at every intersection, their movements as graceful as the ballet dancers Matt had once seen in Denver. The policemen wore blue uniforms with high-domed hats, and he watched as one held up a hand to stop the north and south traffic, thus allowing the east and west traffic to proceed, then gracefully turned and, with white gloves, signaled the east and west traffic to proceed.

  The Travelers’ Rest hotel occupied a large, six-story brick building that sat in the middle of the block. A marquee extending from the front of the hotel announced its name, and the cab driver pulled his rig off Washington Street and into the circle drive that passed under the porte cochere. When the cab stopped in front of the hotel, a uniformed doorman stepped out to the cab to take Matt’s bag.

  “Welcome, sir,” he said. He blew his whistle and a bellboy came out to retrieve the bag. “My name is George. If there is anything I can do to make your stay here more comfortable, please let me know.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said as he paid the driver, adding a quarter for a tip.

  “Thank you, sir,” the driver said.

  “Tell me, George, where do I check in?” Matt asked.

  “Just inside, sir, the desk is to your right,” George said.

  “George, you tell Mr. Dixon I brought him this customer,” the driver said as he snapped the reins against the back of his team.

  “I’ll tell him, Tommy,” George replied with a half salute toward the driver.

  Matt followed the bellboy into the hotel lobby.

  “Right over there, sir,” the bellboy, who was a black man, said.

  “Thank you,” Matt replied. He walked over to the desk and began signing the register.

  “Well, Mr. Jensen, is it?” the clerk said, looking at the register. “My, I see you are from Colorado.”

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome to St. Louis. I’ll put you on the sixth floor. That way you will have an excellent view of the city.”

  “Thank you. Tell me, what would be the best way to find someone in this city?” Matt asked as he took the key.

  “Most of the cabbies know the city pretty well,” the clerk answered. “Just give them the address, they’ll take you there.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know the address,” Matt said.

  “Oh, my, well, that does make it a bit more difficult, d
oesn’t it?” the clerk replied. “Do you know the person’s name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if he has a telephone, you can call him. As a guest of the hotel, you are authorized to use the public phone in the lobby.”

  “Telephone?”

  “Have you not used a telephone before, sir?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve read about them, though.”

  “It’s really quite simple. You turn the crank to signal the operator. She will then ask you what number you wish to call, and once you give it to her, she will connect you.”

  The clerk showed Matt how to look up the number. Matt thanked him, looked through the directory, and found an Andrew Marcus. The number beside his name was 109J.

  Matt turned the crank, then held the receiver to his ear.

  “Number, please.”

  The voice was tinny, but quite audible.

  “Ha! I’ll be damned!” Matt said.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Matt said. “Excuse me, it just surprised me to hear how this thing works.”

  The woman chuckled. “You’ve never used the telephone before?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, do you know the number you are calling?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s one zero nine J.”

  “One moment, please, and I will connect you,” the operator said.

  Matt heard a ringing sound in his ear and he jerked the receiver away. “What’s that?”

  “It’s all right, sir,” the operator explained. “What you are hearing is the telephone of the party you just called. The party answering the phone will say ‘Hello.’ Then you can talk.”

  Almost as if waiting for a cue, the phone was answered.

  “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.

  Matt didn’t respond.

  “Hello?” the woman said again.

  “Go ahead, sir,” the operator said.

  “Uh—hello,” Matt said. “I’m trying to find a man named Andrew Marcus.”

  “This is Mrs. Andrew Marcus,” the woman said. “How can I help you?”

  “Mrs. Marcus, I was a friend of Lee Marcus, Andrew’s brother. I’ve come to—”

  “You have the wrong number,” the woman on the other end of the line said.

  “The number I have is one zero nine J,” Matt said.

  “This is one zero nine J,” the woman replied. “But my husband has no brothers. He has two sisters, but no brothers.”

  “Oh,” Matt said. “I’m sorry. I apologize for disturbing you.”

  “That’s all right,” the woman said. “I hope you find your party.”

  That was the only Andrew Marcus with a telephone, though there were two other Andrew Marcuses in the city directory. Writing down the addresses, Matt went up to his room to leave his suitcase, then went back down to hail a cab.

  The first house he went to was on South Grand. Asking the driver to wait for him, he walked up to the house and knocked on the door. It was answered by a man who appeared to be in his late seventies. His name was Andrew Marcus, but he had no brother named Lee.

  The next address was an apartment on Olive.

  “You have the right address in that Andrew Marcus used to live here,” the man said. “But he moved away last month.”

  “Do you know where he moved to?”

  “No, sir, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Oh, but I can tell you that he works at the Anheuser Beer brewing company.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said.

  Matt had seen small breweries before, but never had he seen anything as large as the Anheuser company. It was located in a huge building and bustling with activity. Large wagons moved about, some empty, but many loaded with big barrels of beer. In addition to the wagons, there were also several railroad spurs on which stood freight cars being loaded with beer.

  When Matt checked in at the front office, he learned that Andrew Marcus was no longer an employee of the brewery.

  “Do you know where he is now?” Matt asked.

  “I don’t know,” the personnel clerk replied, “but I’ll bet Cain knows. Cain worked with Marcus. You’ll find him inside at the mash kettles. Cain and Marcus were both brewmasters.”

  “Is it all right for me to go find Mr. Cain?”

  “Sure,” the friendly clerk said. Getting up from his desk, he took Matt over to a large window, then pointed down onto the floor where there were several huge copper pots. “Do you see the tall fellow with the mustache there on the third kettle?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is Gregory Cain,” the clerk said. He pointed to a door. “Go through that door and down the steps.”

  “Thank you,” Matt replied.

  The door led to an open platform that was elevated above the level of the many mash kettles that occupied the floor. From there, one could see every mash kettle and every corner of the large room.

  The room was filled with a very strong, but not unpleasant, aroma of barley, hops, and malt. It was also warm, as the mash was being cooked in the giant kettles.

  Matt walked down the two levels of unpainted stairs, then up between the mash kettles until he found Cain. Cain was on a ladder, looking down into the kettle.

  “Mr. Cain?”

  “That’s me,” Cain answered.

  “I wonder if I could—”

  Cain held his hand up to stop Matt. Then, closing the top of the kettle, he climbed back down the ladder. Picking up a towel, he began drying his hands. Then he smiled at Matt.

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

  “My name is Matt Jensen, Mr. Cain. I’m looking for Andrew Marcus.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you are a little late,” Cain said. As another man walked by, Cain called out to him. “Gary, we need a little more barley in number seven.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll get right on it, Mr. Cain,” the other worker said.

  Cain turned his attention back to Matt. “Why are you looking for Andy?”

  “First, I need to know if this is the right Andrew Marcus,” Matt said. “Does he have a brother named Lee?”

  “Lee? Yeah, I think that’s his name. Andy used to talk about him a lot. He lives out west somewhere, Colorado, Texas, some such place. I know that Andy said he was a fool for buying a gold mine from some scoundrel out there. Or maybe it was a silver mine, I don’t rightly remember now.” The man chuckled. “Anyhow, he used to talk about how dumb his brother was for doing such a thing.”

  “Then he is the one I’m looking for.”

  “Is it something about his brother?”

  “His brother is dead,” Matt said. “Before he died, he asked me to get in touch with his brother to let him know what happened.”

  “Oh,” Cain said. “I’m sorry to hear that. Andy set a great store by his brother. Even though he went on about how dumb he thought Lee was to buy that gold mine, I think that secretly he admired and maybe even envied his brother for doing that.” Cain chuckled. “In fact, I think that’s why he took off for Phoenix.”

  “Phoenix?”

  “Yep. Andy went out there last month. He’s planning on starting a brewery out there.” Cain laughed. “I told him his brother probably had a better chance with the gold mine than he would with a brewery, but, like I said, I think it was his brother doing what he done that inspired Andy, so to speak.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cain. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Glad I could be of help. Oh, and when you find him, tell him I asked about him and tell him that I’m sorry about his brother.”

  “I’ll do that,” Matt said.

  “Mr. Cain, we’ve got a boil over here!” someone shouted.

  “I’d better get on that,” Cain said, hurrying away. “Good luck finding Andy!” he called back over his shoulder.

  Chapter Ten

  Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory

  In New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, where Pogue Willis grew up, his size had been quite a disadvantage
. Strength and the ability to uses one’s fists were what established the hierarchy of Willis’s neighborhood. Bullied by those who were larger than he was, Willis had his earlier years shadowed by intimidation and shame. Then one day, in desperation, Pogue Willis grabbed a shotgun and blew a hole in the guts of one of his tormentors. No one else in the neighborhood had ever seen an argument settled by any means other than sheer strength. When they saw the strongest of their number brought down by the weakest, they were visibly frightened and gave Willis a new, and unexpected, respect.

  Willis discovered two things about himself that day. He found that had no compunctions about pulling the trigger, and he learned that he liked the feeling of power he experienced by seeing the others cowering before him. It was a feeling he didn’t intend to surrender ever again.

  However, one didn’t just shoot someone in New York without answering to the law. Willis had to flee the city and when he did, he came West. It was the best thing to ever happen to him. There he learned a secret. It wasn’t really how fast you were with a gun that counted. What counted was a person’s willingness to kill. And that willingness—in fact eagerness—to kill gave Pogue Willis a tremendous advantage. Within less than two years after leaving New York, Pogue Willis had established a reputation as being one of the deadliest killers in the West. It was a reputation that he cherished.

  Willis had been in Santa Fe for three days when he saw the report in the newspaper:

  GRUESOME DISCOVERY

  On Tuesday, a trackwalker who was making his normal sojourn along the tracks leading south from Antonito discovered the mutilated body of a man who had been run over by a train. As there was no identification found on the body, it is believed to be that of a transient who attempted to board a passing freight train only to slip and fall beneath the wheels.

  Anyone with any information as to who this unknown party might be is asked to contact the city marshal at Antonito, Colorado.

  Willis was in the Occidental Saloon when he read the article, and he smiled in satisfaction. So far, the body hadn’t even been identified, and they were treating the death as an accident.