MATT JENSEN: THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN PURGATORY
MATT JENSEN: THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN PURGATORY
William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter One
The rain that had been threatening for the day started shortly after nightfall. In the distance, lightning flashed and thunder roared and the rain beat down heavily upon the small Arizona town, cascading off the eaves before drumming onto the roof of the porch just below the second-story window of the Morning Star Hotel.
Matt Jensen was standing at the window of his hotel room, looking down on the street of the town. There were few people outside, and when someone did go outside, they would dart quickly through the rain until they found a welcome door to slip through. The town was dark, the rain having extinguished all outside lamps, and the lanterns that were inside provided only the dullest gleam through rain-shrouded windows. The meager illumination did little or nothing to push away the gloom of the night.
The room behind Matt glowed with a soft, golden light, for he had lit the lantern and it was burning very low. Though Matt was used to the outdoors, and had spent many a night sleeping on the prairie in such conditions, this was one of those nights where he appreciated being under a roof.
Matt Jensen was just a bit over six feet tall with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He was a young man in years, but his pale blue eyes bespoke of experiences that most would not see in three lifetimes. He was a lone wolf who had worn a deputy’s badge in Abilene, ridden shotgun for a stagecoach out of Lordsburg, scouted for the army in the McDowell Mountains of Arizona, and panned for gold in Idaho. A banker’s daughter in Cheyenne once thought she could make him settle down—a soiled dove in The Territories knew that she couldn’t, but took what he offered.
Matt was a wanderer, always wondering what was beyond the next line of hills, just over the horizon. He traveled light, with a bowie knife, a .44 double-action Colt, a Winchester .44-40 rifle, a rain slicker, an overcoat, two blankets, and a spare shirt and spare socks, trousers, and underwear.
He called Colorado his home, though he had actually started life in Kansas. Colorado was home only because it was where he had reached his maturity, and Smoke Jensen, the closest thing Matt had to a family, lived there. In truth, though, he spent no more time in Colorado than he did in Wyoming, Utah, New Mexico, or Arizona. He was in Wickenburg, Arizona, now, having arrived just ahead of the rain and just before dark.
He had no reason to be in Wickenburg—but then, as he liked to remind himself, he had no reason not to be in Wickenburg. He had arrived here in a restless drift that neither proposed a particular destination nor had a sense of purpose.
He was about to turn away from the window when, in a flash of lightning, he saw two men holding one man while a third was hitting him. When the lightning went away, he could see nothing except the darkness of the alley, and for a moment, Matt wasn’t sure that he had seen anything. It might have been a trick of shadows and light.
Another lightning flash, this one prolonged for a full second, revealed the scene again. It was no trick of lighting—three men were attacking a fourth. Matt had no idea who the man being held was, nor did he know who was beating him. He didn’t know why the man being held was being beaten, but he didn’t like the odds.
His common sense dictated that he do nothing, but instinct overcame common sense.
“Damn,” he said aloud. Lifting the window, he crawled out onto the edge of the hotel’s porch roof, moved through the rain to the edge, then dropped down to the ground. By now he was so close that, even through the staccato rhythm of the falling rain, he could hear the sound of fists on flesh and the grunts of pain.
Matt moved quickly through the rain, unseen and unheard by either the assailants or the hapless man being beaten. Reaching out, he grabbed the shoulder of the man doing the actual beating, spun him around, then knocked him down with a hard blow to the man’s chin.
“What the hell?” one of the two who were holding the man shouted.
Matt started toward him, but he and his partner released the beating victim, then ran quickly up the alley. The beating victim collapsed, and Matt decided that attention to his condition was more important than chasing down the two villains.
“Look out!” the victim suddenly shouted, and turning, Matt saw the man he had knocked down reaching for his gun. Because he was still lying on the ground, it was an awkward draw, which gave Matt time to step through the mud and kick the pistol out of the man’s hand.
Unarmed now, the man turned over onto his hands and knees and crawled far enough away to regain his feet. Then he, like the other two men, ran away.
“Are you hurt?” Matt asked, turning back to the victim.
“A few bruises and cuts,” the man said, rubbing a finger against his cut lip. “No broken bones, thanks to you.”
“Come on, let’s get in out of the rain,” Matt suggested.
“That’s a good idea. Oh, have you had your supper yet? If not, I’d like to treat you. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Matt said. “I think anyone would have come to your aid if they had seen what was going on.”
“I’m not so sure of that. But I’d like to buy you dinner anyway. The name is Garvey. Stan Garvey.”
“Matt Jensen.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Jensen.” Garvey chuckled. “That’s an understatement. I’m damn glad to meet you.” He pointed. “Little Man’s Café is just down the street here. Little Man makes a damn good pot roast.”
Matt followed Garvey into the restaurant, and the two men stood just inside the door for a moment, dripping water. Because it was quite late for dinner, the restaurant was nearly empty.
“Hello, Stan, wet enough for you?” someone asked. The man who greeted them was wearing the white apron and cap of a cook. He was very short, standing just over five feet tall.
“Hello, Little Man. Two pot roast dinners,” Garvey said.
“Two pot roast dinners coming right—uh—damn, Stan, what the hell happened to you?”
“I fell down,” Garvey said.
“You fell down?”
“Yes.”
“Well, all I can say is, it must’ve been one hell of a fall.”
“You have any apple pie left?” Garvey asked pointedly, making it obvious that he didn’t want to talk about it.
“Yes. You want it now?”
“No, for dessert.”
Leading Matt to a quiet corner of the dining room, Garvey took out a handkerchief to dab at his bloody lip. The handkerchief was as wet as his clothes.
“Who were those men?” Matt asked.