The depot was small and unpainted, except for a sign that read: MARICOPA COACH COMPANY. At the side of the building was a fenced-in corral, and at the rear of the corral, a large barn that was badly in need of painting.
Matt pulled his horse to a halt, dismounted, then tied his mount off before he started tending to the string of eight horses he had brought with him. A man about Matt’s age came out of the barn and started walking across the corral, picking his way carefully between deposits of “horse apples.” He had on an apron and was using it to wipe his hands as he came up to the fence.
“The name is Joe Claibie,” he said. “And you might be?”
“Cavanaugh,” Matt said. “Martin Cavanaugh.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Cavanaugh?”
“Actually, I suppose it’s what I can do for you,” Matt replied. “I’ve brought you this string of replacement horses for the stage line.”
“I thought that might be it,” the affable young man said. “You working for Rittenhouse now, are you?”
“Temporarily,” Matt answered.
“Temporarily? What do you mean, temporarily?”
“I mean I’m not working for Mr. Rittenhouse full time. He just hired me to deliver this string for him.”
“Well, you must’ve done a pretty good job at it,” Claibie said. “I see you got them all here in one piece.” He laughed at his joke. “You’ve already been paid, right? I mean, we don’t owe you anything?”
“Not a thing,” Matt said.
“Good.” The hostler smiled. “You’re a good man, Mr. Cavanaugh. You’d be surprised at the number of people who would try and get paid twice.”
“I imagine there are a few like that,” Matt said. He ran his hand across the bare back of the horse he had been riding. “This horse belongs to you as well.”
“It does?” Claibie replied in surprise.
“Yes, Mr. Rittenhouse loaned it to me so I could bring over the string.”
“Just a minute,” Claibie said. “Let me get a closer look.” He made a thorough examination of the horse, then smiled. “I’ll be damn. You say Rittenhouse loaned you this horse himself?”
“Yes. Why, is there something wrong?”
“No, no, nothing wrong,” Claibie replied quickly. “I tell you, Mr. Cavanaugh. You must’ve done somethin’ to impress him, because this is Blue, and Ole’ Man Rittenhouse don’t let just anybody ride him.”
“Blue is a good horse,” Matt said
“You’re needin’ a horse, are you?” Claibie asked.
Matt nodded. “Yes. Do you have one for sale?”
“Not exactly,” Claibe said. “I thought I was going to get one, I showed up at the marshal’s auction last night, but the marshal outbid me.”
“Marshal’s auction?”
“Yes. You see, by law, whenever the city marshal confiscates a horse, like say from an outlaw that’s goin’ to prison, he is required to hold an auction to sell it off. But lots of times he’ll keep news of the auction so quiet that nobody shows up. Then the marshal can buy ’em real cheap.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yep. The marshal’s damn smart, he is,” the hostler said. “He has purt’ nigh become rich by buyin’ horses for a dollar, then sellin’ ’em for seventy-five to a hunnert dollars. He’s got one for sale now, a fine sorrel with a bright, reddish-brown coat. That’s the horse I was biddin’ on but, like I say, the marshal outbid me.” Claibie stroked his chin. “Truth to tell, with this marshal, I don’t know if he actually paid the money he bid anyway. There’s no way of checking since he was buyin’ the horse from his ownself, so to speak.” Claibie laughed. “He may have stepped in it, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hell, Mr. Cavanaugh, there can’t nobody ride that horse ’ceptin’ Matt Jensen. That’s the fella that owned him, and he ain’t likely to ever ride again, seein’ as how he come into town, kilt Deputy Gillis, was tried, then took to Yuma to be hung, all in the same day.”
“Maybe the fact that nobody can ride him will make the marshal sell the horse cheap,” Matt said.
“Maybe, but what good would it do you if you did get the horse? Like I said, there can’t nobody ride him.”
“I’m pretty good with horses,” Matt said. “I’ve broken a few in my day. I’d like to give it a try. What about the saddle? Did the marshal confiscate the saddle as well?”
“I’m sure he did. Lot’s of times he sells the saddle with the horse. Wait a minute, let me step into my office here. Would you like to see the paper the marshal put out?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
“All right, wait here and I’ll go get it. But if you buy it, tell ’im Joe Claibie sent you. He might give me a little somethin’ for suggestin’ it to you.”
Matt waited while Claibie stepped into the office. A moment later, he came back outside with a piece of paper and showed it to Matt.
FOR SALE
Sorrel with red coat and white face
Fine Saddle
$150.00
See City Marshal Andrew Cummins
Matt handed the paper back to Claibie. “Thanks for showing this to me, but I’m afraid a hundred and fifty dollars is a little too expensive for my blood.”
“Yeah, well, that is a little steep, especially for a horse you would have to break in order to even ride him. Listen, are you be staying around town long? The reason I ask is, if you’re looking for a job, I could maybe put you on. Business is real brisk since the railroad got cut.”
“That can’t last much longer, though,” Matt said. “I came by the wreck today. They’re working really hard, and will probably have it cleaned up within a few days. And, I don’t think you would want to be taking on extra help now, only to have to cut back when your business slows again.”
“Come to think of it, I guess you have a point there. Well, I’d better see to the horses. Thanks again.”
“Oh, wait,” Matt called.
“Yes, sir?”
“Let’s say I wanted to have a look at this horse. Where could I see it?”
“When I seen it, it was down at the city corral, but now that it belongs to Marshal Cummins, I reckon you’d probably find it in the marshal’s stable.”
“The marshal’s stable?”
“Yes, it’s just behind his office. Ask one of the deputies, they’ll take you back and let you see him.”
“Thanks,” Matt said.
Matt walked on down toward the town, oblivious of the red and gold sunset behind him. He stayed on the boardwalk, keeping close to the buildings so as not to stand out in plain sight for anyone who might have been in the saloon at the time of his trial.
About half a block before he reached the marshal’s office, he ducked in between a boot maker’s shop and a meat market, then moved back to the alley. The smell of blood and freshly butchered meat was overpowering, and in the alley, he could hear the loud buzzing of flies as they feasted on the discarded beef entrails and bones.
He saw the marshal’s stable about fifty yards up the alley and, glancing around to make certain he wasn’t seen, moved quickly to it. The top half of the door was open to allow some cooling air for the horses. Matt stepped up to the half-open door and looked into the shadowed interior.
At first, he didn’t see Spirit.
“Spirit,” he called. “Spirit, are you in here, boy?”
He heard Spirit whinny, heard his foot paw at the ground.
“Good boy,” Matt said. “You just be patient for a little while. Once it gets dark, I’ll come get you.”
Matt went out behind the alley, which was actually behind the town, and finding a dry arroyo that ran parallel with the alley, he slipped down into it to wait for darkness.
It was interesting to watch the transition of the town as darkness fell. The sounds of commerce—the ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer, the rattle of wagons and buckboards, the hoofbeats of horses and footfalls of pedestrians, gave way to the sounds of night. He could hear a baby crying, the yap of a dog, the laughter of children, the carping complaint of an angry wife. But soon, even those sounds gave way to the sounds of those who were seeking pleasure. A piano, high and tinny, spilled out the melody to “Buffalo Gals.” A bar girl cackled—a man guffawed loudly. From a whore’s crib, he heard the practiced moans of a prostitute with her customer.