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.
Willis had waited in Santa Fe only long enough for the body to be discovered. Now, seeing that he was under no suspicion, he decided it was time to move on. The only problem was, he needed money to do that, and he was flat broke.
Even as he was thinking about the problem, it was solved for him when he saw the tall, gray-haired man at the bar flash several bills.
“Damn, Johnny, what are you doin’ carryin’ so much money around?” the bartender asked.
“Don’t worry, Pete, I don’t intend to carry it with me for long. I’ll be puttin’ it in the bank first thing tomorrow,” Johnny replied. “I just sold a string of horses to Wells Fargo and they give me two hundred dollars.”
“Hey, Johnny, want to play a little poker?” one of the cardplayers called out. “We’d love to have your money.”
The other cardplayers laughed.
“Now, if I played poker with you boys and lost this money, Martha would be down here to clean house. And trust me, you don’t want to see my wife mad.”
This time, not only the cardplayers, but the other customers, laughed as well.
“Speaking of Martha,” Johnny said. He picked up his beer mug and tossed the rest of it down. “I reckon I’d better get on home now or I really will be in the doghouse.”
“Good night, Johnny,” several of the others called.
“Be seein’ you,” Johnny tossed back over his shoulder as he left.
Willis got up from the table then and went through the back door of the saloon, as if he were stepping out to the outhouse. Once outside, he ran up alongside the saloon to see which way Johnny was going. He was heading west, but he stopped to say a few words to someone on the street.
The delay gave Willis the opportunity he was looking for, and he hurried down to the west end of the street, then stepped behind a barn.
He didn’t have to wait very long. No more than a couple of minutes later, Johnny came riding up the street. Willis waited until Johnny was even with him; then he stepped out behind him, aimed, and fired.
Johnny gasped, and fell from his horse. Willis ran up to him and quickly found the money.
The gunshot started some dogs to barking, and in the house nearest the barn, someone came outside carrying a lantern.
“Hello?” the man with the lantern called. “Anyone out here?”
The dogs continued to bark and a mule began to bray.
“What is it, Clyde?” a woman’s voice called from inside the house.
“I don’t know,” the man with the lantern answered. “I thought I heard something, but it must have just been the dog.”
The man with the lantern went back inside, and when he did so, Willis, with money in his pocket, mounted Johnny’s horse and rode away.
St. Louis
Matt was in the Old Strong Tavern on Lafayette Street, reading the telegram he had just retrieved from Western Union.
AS PER YOUR REQUEST YOUR HORSE WILL BE SENT TO SUNDOWN CORRAL IN PHOENIX STOP SPIRIT WILL BE THERE WHEN YOU ARRIVE STOP WILL SETTLE ACCOUNTS WHEN YOU RETURN STOP
REDCLIFF STABLES
“Mr. Jensen? Are you Matt Jensen?”
Looking up from the telegram, Matt saw a man with long hair and a full gray beard. There was something familiar about the man, but Matt didn’t recognize him right away.
“Yes, I’m Matt Jensen.”
A broad smile spread across the man’s face. “I’m J. C. Jones.”
When Matt didn’t respond, the man added, “You may remember me as Trooper Jones.”
Now Matt smiled as well, and he stood up quickly and offered his hand. “Yes!” he said. “Yes, of course I remember you.” Matt motioned toward the man’s clothes. “But the last time I saw you, you were wearing an army uniform.”
“Yes, but no more,” Jones said. “When my hitch was up this time, I left. Oh, I might have stayed if Sergeant Emerson was still around. Me and Emerson was pards and had been since we was in the war together. But, as I am sure you remember, Sergeant Emerson got hisself killed when that fool Trevathan led us into that ambush.”
“Yes,” Matt said. “I remember well.”
“You was smart to leave when you did. Not long after you left, Lieutenant Manning—I reckon you remember him—took a platoon out lookin’ for Delshay.” Jones shook his head. “Manning didn’t have enough sense to pour piss out of a boot, and he made camp down in a ravine, didn’t post no lookouts or nothin’. Delshay attacked him and killed more than half his platoon, includin’ the civilian scout that was with him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Matt said. “I didn’t scout very long, but I met several of the soldiers and liked them.”
“Yes, one of them killed was Angus Pugh. I know you remember him.”
“I remember him very well,” Matt said.
“Ole Angus—he was a colonel in the Confederate Army,” Jones said. “Not a lot of folks knew that.”
“I know he was a good soldier,” Matt said.
“So, Mr. Jensen, what are you doin’ in St. Louis?”
“A friend of mine was killed and I came to St. Louis to give the news to his brother.”
“Oh, that’s got to be hard to do.”
“I haven’t done it yet. Turns out he’s in Phoenix, so I have to go out there to find him. I’ll be taking a train back tomorrow.”
“Damn, that means you’ll be goin’ right back into Delshay country,” Jones said.
“I guess I will,” Matt said. “But I don’t expect to run into him this time.”
“Well, I hope not, for your sake,” Jones said. “I tell you the truth, ever’body knows about Geronimo—but for my thinkin’, Delshay is a lot meaner and smarter than Geronimo.”
“He’s smart all right,” Matt said. “He was the one who set up the ambush that Trevathan led us into.”
“Only, if Trevathan had listened to you, there wouldn’t have been no ambush,” Jones said. He stuck his hand out. “I have to be going. I’m a deckhand on a riverboat now and we’ll be pulling out tonight. It was good seeing you again, Mr. Jensen. Good luck—and don’t run into Delshay.”