“I intend to stay here for a few more days,” Matt said. “Let me know what you decide. If you decide to sell out here and go up to Denver, we can go up together.”
“You know the mine, do you think I should do that? Leave here and go up there, I mean.”
Matt shook his head. “No, sir, Mr. Marcus, it’s not my place to tell you. This is a decision you are going to have to make on your own.”
“Yeah,” Marcus said. “Yeah, I guess you are right about that. All right, I’ll give it some thought over the next couple of days.”
Chapter Nineteen
Even as Matt was visiting with Andrew Marcus, Pogue Willis and Billy Meechum were riding into town. Their attention was drawn to a group of people standing in front of a store identified by the red-painted sign on the false front as SIKES’ HARDWARE STORE. The people appeared to be looking at something that was in the front window.
“Look at all them people standin’ in front of that store over there,” Meechum said. “What is it do you reckon they are lookin’ at?”
“I don’t know,” Willis answered. “Why don’t we just ride over that way and take a look?”
Willis and Meechum steered their horses across the street, then stopped just behind the people who were gathered in front of the store.
What they saw was three coffins, the bottom halves of which were closed, the upper halves open. The coffins, thus arrayed, displayed the bodies of Burt Philbin, Deermont Cantrell, and Abe Oliver. All three men were wearing jackets and ties, though Meechum knew for a fact that none of them owned a jacket or a tie—and he was almost certain that none of them had ever even worn a jacket or tie.
Instead of the pallor of death, the three men showed color in their faces. In fact, it was far too much color, very obviously artificially applied by the undertaker.
“Damn,” Meechum said. “It’s Burt, Deermont, and Abe.”
“I can see that,” Willis said. “And if I couldn’t, that damn sign there would tell me.”
The sign Willis spoke of was painted on a square board that was standing on a tripod alongside the three coffins.
Burt Philbin
Deermont Oliver
Andy Cantrell
Robbers Beware!
These three outlaws were killed by Matt Jensen when they tried to hold up the Sun Valley stage.
“Damn, look at that. They got the names all wrong,” Meechm said. “They got Cantrell and Oliver’s names all mixed up. And it’s Abe, not Andy. We ought to do something.”
“Do something? What do you mean, do something?”
Meechum pointed to the sign in the window. “That,” he said. “We ought to at least tell ’em they got the names wrong.”
“Right,” Willis said. “And while you are at it, you can tell them that we was in on the same robbery.”
“What? Well, no, I wouldn’t do anything like that,” Meechum said. He thought for a moment. “Oh,” he said. “Yeah, I guess I see what you mean. But it don’t seem right that they got the names all wrong.”
“What difference does it make whether they got the names wrong or not?” Willis asked. “They’re dead and if you get the names right, they ain’t goin’ to be any less dead, are they?”
Meechum thought for a moment, then he chuckled. “No,” he said. I don’t reckon they will be any less dead.”
“Then why don’t you quit worryin’ about it and let’s go get us a beer,” Willis said.
A long board of wooden pegs nailed along one wall of the Dry Gulch Saloon stood about six feet above the floor and provided a rack for hats and coats. A card game was in progress near the back. At one of the front tables, there was some earnest conversation. Three men stood at the bar, each complete within himself, concentrating only on his drink and private thoughts. A soiled dove, near the end of her professional effectiveness, overweight, with bad teeth and wild, unkempt hair, stood at the far end. She smiled at Willis and Meechum when they came in, but getting no encouragement, stayed put.
“What’ll it be, gents?” the bartender asked, making a swipe across the bar with a sour-smelling cloth.
“Beer,” Willis said.
“The same,” Meechum added.
The bartender drew two mugs of beer, then sat them in front of Willis and Meechum. “I think you’ll like this beer, it’s made local.”
“What do you mean, made local?”
“Why, we got us a beer man right here in this town,” the bartender said. “A master brewer come here from St. Louis. You won’t get no better beer anywhere in the country than this.”
“Beer is beer,” Willis said, taking a swallow.
“You boys just ridin’ through?” he asked.
Willis stared back at him, but didn’t answer.
“The reason I asked is, you might not know ’bout some of the excitement goin’ on.”
“What excitement?” Meechum asked.
“Stagecoach robbery excitement,” the bartender replied. He chuckled, “That is, some fellers tried to rob the stagecoach, only all they got for it was killed.”
“Yes, we saw the bodies in the front of the hardware store,” Meechum said. “Do the folks in this town put ever’ dead body you got on display like that?”
“No, nothin’ like that,” the bartender answered. “But you can’t blame Mr. Prufrock none. You see, he has his undertakin’ business in the back of the Sikes hardware store—Mr. Sikes, he rents the space out. And these three galoots, bein’ outlaws and all, don’t have nobody payin’ to bury ’em except the town, so Prufrock puts ’em on display like that to advertise his business.”
“Tell me, what was them fellas lookin’ to get by robbin’ the stagecoach?” Willis asked. “Was the coach really carryin’ money?”
“I reckon the passengers was carryin’ money,” the bartender said. “Don’t know if the coach was.”
“It was carryin’ some money, but it wasn’t carryin’ near as much as it’ll be carryin’ next week,” one of the men down at the end of the bar said.
Willis took a swallow of his beer, then looked toward the man who had just spoken.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“’Cause, there’s a fella in town now by the name of Bixby. Jay Peerless Bixby. You ever heard of him?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“Well, he’s one rich son of a bitch from what I hear.”
“Bartender, I see my friend here’s mug is empty. Give him another beer,” Willis said, pointing to the talkative man at the end of the bar.
“Be glad to,” the bartender said. He retrieved the mug, filled it, then replaced it. “There you go, Mr. Deckert.”
Deckert held the full mug up toward Willis and Meechum, as if toasting them.
“I thank you, Mister—”
“Tell me more about this man Jay Peerless Bixby,” Willis said, without supplying his own name.
“Oh, he’s a rich one all right,” Deckert said. “He’s come out here to buy ranch land and they say he wants to own the biggest ranch in the entire territory. Anyway, to do that he’s going to have to have a lot of money transferred.”
“How much money is a lot of money?”
Willis asked the question over the brim of his mug as he took another swallow.
“A lot,” Deckert answered. “In fact, some folks say it’ll be as much as forty, maybe fifty thousand dollars, and it’ll be comin’ into town by stagecoach.”
“When?”
“Next week sometime, from what I hear. You seem uncommon interested in all this,” Deckert said.
Willis laughed. “Maybe I’m plannin’ to hold up the stagecoach.”
“Yeah? Well if you do, I hope you have better luck than them three boys that just tried it.”
“They was just particular unlucky is all,” the bartender said. “They happened to try and rob the particular coach Matt Jensen was ridin’ on.”