Purgatory

Book 3: Matt Jensen/The Last Mountain Man

by J.A. Johnstone, William W. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

William W. Johnstone's breathtaking Mountain Man series set the standard for Western adventure. Now, the adopted son of Smoke Jensen takes his place on the unforgiving American frontier. . . Sentenced To Die Purgatory, Arizona, is the last place you'll ever cross the law. Because in this town, the law is the personal fiefdom of an evil man--as Matt Jensen discovered on his first day in town, when an unavoidable gunfight and a dead deputy landed him in jail, sentenced to hang at Yuma Prison. But when the train from Purgatory to Yuma is violently derailed, Matt is set free amidst the carnage--with a choice to make. He can run for his life and live like an outlaw or take a chance with the determined U.S. Marshall who must hunt him down. For Matt, the choice will be easy. Because when both he and his pursuer tangle with a vicious band of outlaws, they're both caught on the same bloody trail. . .that leads straight back to Purgatory.

Release date: August 1, 2008

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 334

Sample

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.

“I don’t know the two who were holding me,” Garvey said. “But the one doing the hitting was a man named Odom. Cletus Odom.”

“What did you do to make Odom so angry?”

Garvey held up his finger as if suggesting that Matt wait for a moment. Then he got up from the table and walked over to the counter. Picking up a newspaper, he returned to the table and handed the paper to Matt.

“This might have done it,” he said. He pointed to a story on the front page.

A VILLAIN WALKS AMONG US

Story by Stan Garvey

If there were no other reasons why Arizona should strive for early statehood, then the lack of any sense of justice would be reason enough. On the fifth, instant, three masked men entered the Bank of Wickenburg with the express purpose of robbing it. Their attempt was foiled by the fast and heroic action of Adam Thomas, who slammed shut the safe.

When the leader of the robbers demanded that Thomas reopen the safe or forfeit his life, Thomas maintained his resolve. As a result, the leader of the robbers shot and killed this brave husband and father of two.

There are credible eyewitnesses who say that, despite the fact that he was wearing a mask, they recognized Cletus Odom as the robber and murderer. They are not shy in making these claims, but, thus far, no arrests have been made. That means that Cletus Odom is free to roam about, unafraid of any possibility of apprehension.

Perhaps if Arizona enjoyed statehood, its citizens would have sufficient voice in the state capital to force more effort into bringing the murderer Odom to justice.

As editor of this newspaper, I will do all within my power to see to it that Odom is brought to justice. I call upon all of you, who are citizens of the territory of Arizona, as well as citizens of our fair city of Wickenburg, to write a letter to Governor Fremont asking, no, demanding that justice be done, and that Cletus Odom pay the supreme penalty for his foul deed.

“That’s quite a story, Mr. Garvey,” Matt said as he folded the paper over and laid it alongside his plate.

“Thanks.”

“But with Odom still free, do you not think it was a little risky to write such a story?”

“My good man,” Garvey said, “freedom of the press is one of our nation’s most precious rights. I will not be intimidated by the mere threat of violence.”

Matt smiled. “From my observation, Mr. Garvey, this wasn’t a threat, this was an actuality.”

At that moment, Little Man arrived carrying two plates.

“Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen,” Little Man said. “And, Stan, I’ll put the two pieces of pie in a warming oven so they’ll be nice and hot for you.”

“Thanks,” Garvey replied.

The two men began eating. “Oh,” Matt said. “I have to say that after several days of eating on the trail, this is very good.”

“I thought you might like it. Are you new to Wickenburg, Mr. Jensen?”

“I’m just passing through.”

“Passing through, are you? Where are you going?” Garvey laughed. “It’s rude of me to be so nosy, I know, and I beg your forgiveness. But this unbridled curiosity is what made me become a journalist, I suppose.”

“That’s all right,” Matt said. “I don’t mind answering, because truth to tell, I’m not going anywhere in particular. I’ve just been wandering from place to place.”

“Like a tumbleweed?”

Matt laughed. “You might say that. I have no family encumbrances, nobody to worry about, or to worry about me. This is a big country, Mr. Garvey, and I just thought I would see as much of it as I can.”

“Well, I envy you that freedom, Mr. Jensen, I truly do.” Garvey touched his eye, which was now swollen. He winced at the touch. “But, from a personal point of view, I’m certainly glad you chose this night of all nights to be in Wickenburg. I’m not sure what condition I would be in now if you had not come to my rescue. How long are you going to stay with us?”

“I’ll be leaving at first light in the morning.”

“To continue your adventure,” Garvey said.

“You might say that.”

“Are you a writer, Mr. Jensen?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that question. If you are asking if I can read and write, the answer is yes.”

“No, my question is more specific than that. I mean do you keep a journal of sorts, an account of your wanderings and adventures?”

Matt chuckled. “No, I don’t, nor could I imagine anyone would ever want to read about me.”

“Oh, don’t be so sure about that,” Garvey said. “You see, I have a very strong theory that the American West will be the source of lore and legend for many generations to come. And it is people like you—wanderers and heroes—”

“Heroes?” Matt said, interrupting Garvey in mid-sentence.

“Yes, heroes,” Garvey insisted. “Did you or did you not come to my assistance tonight? And, I might add, at no small danger to yourself.”

“I saw that you were in trouble, and I did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances.”

“No, Mr. Jensen, don’t be so self-deprecating. Very few would have done what you did tonight. That’s why I believe that someday someone will write stories about you. If not about you, personally, certainly about the kind of person you represent. And I don’t just mean the penny dreadful,” he said.

“I must say, that is an interesting observation, Mr. Garvey, but I would turn that around. If you want my opinion, if any of this West is to be preserved, it will be because of men like you, newspapermen who are not afraid to write the truth. You are the true heroes of the West.”

Garvey raised his cup of coffee. “A toast, Mr. Jensen,” he said, a big smile spreading across his face. “A toast between heroes.”

Laughing, Matt touched his own coffee cup to Garvey’s.

“A toast,” he said.

Purgatory

McKinely Peterson had named his saloon the Pair O Dice, because he thought the idea of “paradise” in a town called Purgatory made an interesting contrast. The saloon was a great success, but Peterson didn’t live long enough to enjoy it. He was killed within six months of opening the saloon, and, because he died intestate, the saloon was put up for sale at a city marshal’s auction.

Announcement of the auction appeared as a two-line entry in the Purgatory Purge, the town’s only newspaper.

Pair O Dice Saloon to be sold at city marshal’s auction, 2 a.m. Saturday.

Andrew Cummins was the city marshal of Purgatory. It was not by coincidence that Andrew Cummins was also the only one who showed up for the auction. And because the city marshal owned Pair O Dice, the saloon soon became the de facto city marshal’s office as Cummins spent all his time there.

Although there was a mayor and a city council, the real power in town belonged to Marshal Cummins. He backed up his power by having a personal cadre of eight deputies, all chosen for their skill with a gun and their willingness to use physical force when necessary. In fact, they often used physical force when it wasn’t necessary, but complaints to the city council fell upon deaf ears. One reason the city council was not responsive to citizens’ complaints was because four of the seven council members were Cummins’s deputies.

Marshal Cummins was able to maintain a large force of deputies because the town had imposed a draconian tax, which was extracted, not only from every business, but from every household, every week.

“Hey!” Cummins shouted to the others in the saloon.

Cummins was standing at the front of the saloon, looking over the batwing doors out onto the street. The westbound train was sitting down at the depot, waiting to continue its journey. Half-a-dozen passengers had detrained, and one, who had separated himself from the others, was standing in the street, looking around as if trying to get his bearings. From the way the man was dressed, it was obvious that he was from the East.

“Hey!” Cummins shouted again. He laughed, then pointed. “If you boys want a laugh, come over here and take a look at this.”

“Take a look at what?” Emil Jackson asked. Jackson was one of Marshal Cummins’s deputies.

“Take a look at the hat on that little feller out there,” Cummins said, pointing.

The object of Cummins’s derision was a bowler hat with a small brim and a low round crown.

“What is that thing he’s wearin’ on his head? Is that a piss pot?” Moe Gillis asked. Like Jackson, Gillis was a deputy.

“What are you three laughing at?” one of the other deputies asked.

“This here fella and the piss pot he’s wearin’ on his head,” Moe said.

Soon, all the other deputies were standing at the batwing doors, looking out into the street at the smallish man who was wearing, not only a bowler hat, but a three-piece suit.

“Hey, Marshal, I’ll bet you can’t shoot that hat off his head,” Jackson said.

“Sure I can.”

“A beer says you can’t.”

“You mean you’ll buy me a beer if I shoot the hat off his head?” Cummins asked.

“Yes. But you buy me one if you miss.”

“All right,” Cummins said. “I guess it’s about time I showed you boys why I’m the marshal and you are the deputies.” He drew his pistol and aimed, then lowered it.

“What’s wrong? You can’t do it?”

“Stand here in front of me and let me use your shoulder as a brace,” Cummins said.

“Hell, no, you have to do it yourself. Or admit you can’t do it.”

“You don’t worry about me, I can do it,” Cummins said. He aimed again, then, sighing, leaned against the wall and braced the pistol against the door frame.

Cummins pulled the trigger and the pistol roared and jumped up in his hand.

“Oh, shit!” Jackson shouted.

The little man wearing the bowler hat fell back in the street. Several of the deputies ran out to him.

There was a small, dark hole in the man’s temple, and a trickle of blood ran down across his ear.

“Son of a bitch, Marshal, you kilt him!” Jackson said.

“It was an accident,” Cummins said. “You all seen it. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

By now several others from the town had been drawn to the scene and they stood around, looking on in horror and morbid curiosity.

“What happened?” someone asked.

“Who is this fella?”

“Anybody know him?”

“He just got off the train,” another said. “I saw him get off, but I don’t know who he is.”

“Who shot him?”

“I did,” Cummins said.

“Good heavens, Marshal, why?”

“I didn’t shoot him on purpose,” Cummins said. “I was—uh—”

“He was showing me his gun,” Jackson said. “And it went off.”

“Damn, Marshal, you need to be more careful with that thing.”

“Yeah, I know,” Cummins said.

 

An hour later Marshal Cummins stepped into the undertaker’s parlor. The man he shot was lying naked on a lead-covered slab. Beneath the slab was a bucket filled with blood. Hanging from a hook over the slab was a bottle of formaldehyde, and a little tube ran from the bottle through a needle in the arm and into the dead man’s veins.

“Hello, Prufrock. How are you doing with him?” Cummins asked the undertaker.

“I’m about finished,” Prufrock replied. “Who’s going to pay me for this? The town?”

“No,” Cummins said. “I’m the one who killed him, I’ll pay the charges. I didn’t mean to kill him, but I feel like I should pay the charges anyway. Have you found out who he is?”

“His name is Cornelius Jerome,” Prufrock said. “He’s from New York City.”

“How do you know?”

“There’s a letter in his pocket to Governor John C. Fremont,” Prufrock said.

“He wrote a letter to the governor?”

“He didn’t write it, his pa did,” Prufrock said. “Turns out his pa is some bigwig back in New York. You want to read the letter?”

“Yes,” Cummins answered.

“It’s over there, on that table.”

Walking over to the table, Cummins saw, in addition to the letter, the other personal effects belonging to the man: a pipe and a pouch of tobacco, a pair of glasses, and a billfold. Looking in the billfold, Cum-min’s saw over three hundred dollars in cash. He read the letter.

To The Honorable
John C. Frémont, Governor of Arizona Territory.

Governor, I am sure you remember me as one of your most active supporters in your run for the Presidency in 1856. I also served as your adjutant in St. Louis during the Civil War. Although our paths have not crossed since that time, I have followed your fortunes with great interest.

By this letter, I want to introduce my son, Cornelius Jerome. Actually, this will not be the first time you have met him, for indeed, you often held him on your lap during the exciting days of your election campaign. It is my intention that my son make his fortune, if not in money, then by life experiences, as he sojourns through our great American West. I call upon you as an old friend to make him welcome, and to provide him with the advice you would deem necessary.

Sincerely, your friend,
Ronald J. Jerome
New York, N.Y.

“He sounds rich, doesn’t he?” Cummins asked.

“I’d say so.”

“Who would have thought that about this odd-looking little man?”

“What do you want me to do with the body?”

“What do you mean? You’re doing it, aren’t you?”

“I mean after I’m finished here. What should I do next?”

“Bury him,” Cummins said.

“Shouldn’t we send him back home?”

“How can we do that? We don’t know where he came from,” Cummins said.

“Sure we do,” Prufrock said. “It’s right there in the letter.”

Pointedly, Cummins tore up the letter. Then he took the three hundred dollars from the Jerome’s billfold and pressed it into Prufrock’s hands.

“What letter?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Prufrock replied, stuffing the wad of money down into his pocket. “I didn’t see any letter.”

 

By any definition of the term, Cletus Odom was an ugly man. A scar, like a purple flash of lightning, ran from his forehead, through his left eye, and down his cheek to hook in under his nose. As a result of the scar, the eyelid was now a discolored and misshapen puff of flesh. For a while, the eye had been black and swollen as a result of an encounter he’d had three weeks ago in an alley in Wickenburg. Angry over an article that had appeared in the Wickenburg newspaper, Odom had found a couple of men in the saloon there who, for the price of a drink, agreed to help him “teach the newspaper editor a lesson.”

Odom had not expected anyone to come to Garvey’s aid and was surprised when someone appeared, out of nowhere, to interrupt him.

“Instead of beating him up, I should have just killed the son of a bitch,” Odom said aloud.

But enough thinking about that. It was time to move on, and he had a plan in mind that would net him a lot of money. All he needed to implement the plan were a few men who would work with him. And he had already set about recruiting them.

Odom reached the tiny town of Quigotoa, Arizona, just after nightfall. Quigotoa was a scattering of flyblown and crumbling adobe buildings that were laid out in no particular pattern around a dusty plaza. What made the town attractive to people like Odom was i. . .