“Cavanaugh. Martin Cavanaugh.”
The patron lifted his beer mug, then called out loudly to the others in the saloon. “Here’s to Martin Cavanaugh!”
“Martin Cavanaugh!” the others answered as one.
“Here you go, sir,” Fred said, bringing Matt’s supper to his table.
“Thanks,” Matt said, digging into the meal, realizing this was the first time he had eaten all day. His plans to have a late breakfast in Purgatory this morning had been thwarted by a gunfight, a mockery of a trial, and then a train wreck. He ate his meal with much enthusiasm.
After his supper, Matt got into a card game. Playing very conservatively, and raising or calling only on sure hands, he doubled his money.
Leaving the saloon, he walked through the dark to the Homestead Hotel, only to learn that, due to the train wreck, there were no rooms available.
“Is there anyplace else in town that rents rooms?” he asked.
“There’s Ma Baker’s Boardin’ House, but it’s all full up as well.”
“I see,” Matt said. He turned to leave.
“Mister, was you on the train that had the wreck?”
“Yes, I was.”
“I’ll tell you what. The hotel don’t rent out stalls in the stable for sleepin’, and I’m not supposed to do this, but if you want, you can bed down in the stable out back. You ought to be able to find enough clean straw to accommodate you.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. “I reckon I’ll just take you up on that.”
“It’ll cost you a quarter.”
“I thought the hotel didn’t rent out the stalls for sleeping.”
“They don’t.”
“Then what’s the quarter for?”
“The quarter is for me for bein’ willin’ to take the risk,” the clerk said. “I could get fired if my boss found out.”
Matt chuckled, then reached down into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Sounds reasonable enough to me,” he said.
That night, lying in one of the stalls and looking through an open window of the stable at the moon and stars that were shining so brightly above, Matt thought about this day. He had rarely had a day so filled with events. He’d spent the previous night out on the desert, ridden into town for breakfast, killed a man who was bent on killing him, stood trial, been found guilty and sentenced to hang, been put in chains and placed on a train bound for Yuma Prison, then lived through a wreck of that same train. And to make matters worse, that wreck had been purposely caused by men named Odom, Bates, Paco, and Schuler.
Matt had run across Odom before, but he had never heard of any of the other three men. He knew their names only because he had heard them all call each other by name. He had also gotten a very good look at all of them. And while he had vowed to find them to avenge the death of the little girl he had pulled from the wreckage, he now had a new and even more important reason for finding them. If he could bring them justice, it would clear him of the murder of the deputy, and the theft of the money the train was transporting. That would still leave him wanted for the killing back in Purgatory, but he believed that a legitimate trial would settle that issue for him.
Matt picked up a piece of straw from his bed, smelled it to make certain it was clean, then stuck it in his mouth. As he sucked on the straw, he contemplated the path he had just laid out. It would be difficult at best. But for a man without money, and without a horse, it would be almost impossible.
His first order of business would have to be to get his horse and saddle back. He had money hidden in the saddle, and it was hidden so well that he would bet that, if he could recover the saddle, the money would still be there.
Chapter Ten
Joe Claibie worked as a hostler for the Maricopa Coach Line. But he also dealt in horses, sometimes buying horses from the stage line and reselling them. He was an honest man in his dealings, marking them up only enough to make a decent profit. But like many who worked with horses, there was always that dream that someday he might find a really great horse at a bargain price.
Although it didn’t seem likely that he would find such a horse at a marshal’s auction, he kept his eye on the horses that Marshal Cummins had confiscated from his prisoners. By law, Cummins was required to hold an auction, selling off each confiscated horse to the highest bidder. The money would then go into the Purgatory city coffers.
At first glance, it might seem unusual to realize that most of the auctioned property was bought by the marshal himself. But then, when one realized that the marshal had a habit of setting the “marshal’s auction sales” at odd times and in odd locations, it was easy to understand how that might happen.
The marshal had recently confiscated a particularly good-looking sorrel from the man who killed Deputy Gillis, and would be holding an auction soon. Claibie intended to take a look at the horse and if it looked good to him, he would make it a point to find out when, and where, the auction was to be held.
“I heard that the marshal confiscated the horse from the fella that shot Gillis,” Claiborn said to Deputy Jackson.
“It’s ‘Deputy’ Gillis,” Jackson said resolutely. “And he wasn’t just shot, he was murdered in cold blood.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sayin’ otherwise,” Claibie replied. “I’m just askin’ about the horse. Is it true that the marshal confiscated the man’s horse and is goin’ to hold an auction?”
“Yeah, that’s true, but I don’t know when the auction will be,” Jackson said. “It’ll be announced in the paper, same as it always is.”
“Where’s the horse now?”
“It’s where the marshal keeps all his horses, down to the city corral,” Jackson said.
“I think I’ll walk down there and take a look at him,” Claibie said.
“Look out! Look out!”
Claibie heard the warning shout as he was approaching the corral and looking toward the commotion, he saw Kenny Watson, the young stable hand who worked for the city corral, on the ground. The horse rearing over the stable hand was now in the rampant position, and as it came back down, its slashing forelegs barely missed Kenny, who had to roll across the ground to get away from the horse. The horse reared again, but by now Kenny had rolled against a water trough. In this position, there was nowhere he could go to get away from the flailing stallion.
Without a second thought, Claibie grabbed a saddle blanket from the top rail of the fence, then vaulted over and hurried toward the horse, shouting and waving the blanket. Seeing Claibie and the flapping blanket, the horse stopped his attack against Kenny and came toward this new irritant.
“Kenny, get out of here while I keep him busy!” Claibie shouted to the young stable hand.
Kenny crawled and scrambled toward the fence, where he was helped up and over by eager hands.
Using the blanket as a bullfighter would a cape, Claibie managed to entice the horse into one, errant pass. The horse corrected himself and reared again, this time coming right at Claibie. At the last minute, Claibie jumped to one side, tossing his blanket at the horse as he did so. The blanket landed on the horse’s head, temporarily blinding him.
Now the creature reared and whinnied, kicking at the air in rage, as Claibie managed to make it back to the fence. The same hands who had helped Kenny out of the corral, now reached down to pull Claibie up and over the fence. He had barely made it when the horse tossed the blanket off. Then, looking around and seeing that his would-be victims were gone, the horse shook his head, blew, and then trotted back toward the other side of the corral as docilely as if nothing had happened.
“Thanks, Claibie,” Kenny said as he dusted himself off.
“Boy, what the hell did you do to get that horse so made at you?” Claibie asked.
“I didn’t do nothin’ except try to ride him,” Kenny replied. “I don’t know what got into that crazy horse.”