In addition to the sign cautioning gamblers against cheating, the walls were decorated with game heads and pictures, including one of a reclining nude woman. Three bullet holes strategically placed had augmented the painting, though one shot was slightly off, giving her left breast two nipples. Below the painting was a mirror which reflected back the long glass shelf of whiskey bottles. At each end of the bar was a large jar of pickled eggs as well as pickled pigs’ feet.
The saloon was also a first-class brothel and Matt saw one of the girls taking a cowboy up the stairs at the back of the room.
The upstairs area didn’t extend all the way to the front. The main room, or saloon, was big, with exposed rafters below the high, peaked ceiling. There were a score or more customers present, sitting at tables or standing at the bar talking with the girls, drinking or playing cards.
Matt was one of those standing at the bar when a woman known as Magnificent Maggie went over to him and put her arm through his. She got her name, not from her beauty, but from her size. Weighing over three hundred pounds, she was the owner of the Gold Nugget.
“Welcome, Mr. Jensen. It has been a while since you have graced us with your presence. What brings you to Fort Collins?”
“You know me, Maggie. I follow the tumbleweed.” Matt looked around the saloon. “You seem to be doing a pretty good business today.”
“Some days are better than others. Could I get you something to drink, Mr. Jensen?”
“Yes.”
“Wine, beer, or whiskey?”
Whiskey.”
At the back of the saloon a piano player with a pipe clenched in his teeth, wearing a round derby hat and garter belts around his shirt sleeves, was playing “The Gal I Left Behind Me,” though few were listening.
“Oh my, still alone? You haven’t found a girl to keep you company?” Maggie asked when she returned with Matt’s whiskey.
Matt put his arm around her shoulders. “Maggie, do you think I could settle for anyone but you?”
Magnificent Maggie laughed out loud. “My, my, Mr. Jensen you do have the gift of glib. But what would you do if I thought you were serious and took you up on it?”
“I don’t know. I’d do my best, I guess,” Matt replied.
She laughed again, a loud cackle that rose over the piano music and all the conversation in the room. “Oh, damn! You just made me laugh so hard that I peed in my drawers.”
Matt had just taken a swallow and at her pronouncement he laughed, spewing out some whiskey.
She hurried off to take care of the situation, leaving Matt standing alone at the bar, smiling and drinking his whiskey.
One of the customers got up and walked over to Matt, carrying his beer with him. “Hello, Matt. It’s been a while.”
“Hello, Bart,” Matt replied.
“What are you doing in Fort Collins?”
“A man’s got to be somewhere. You still deputying?”
“No, I’m working as a messenger for Wells Fargo now. It pays some better. Oh, by the way, I suppose you heard what happened in Livermore last week?”
“No, what?”
“Bart, there’s an open chair. You in or not?” someone called from one of the tables.
“Ah, I’ve been waiting to get into the card game.” Bart held up his beer. “It was good seeing you again.”
“What happened in Livermore?” Matt asked.
“Someone killed the bank president and his wife and daughter. There’s a paper down at the end of the bar. You can read all about it.”
Matt moved down to the end of the counter where newspapers were stacked. He put a nickel in the bowl and took one, then found an empty table where he sat down to read.
In what may be the most gruesome event in the history of Livermore, Jarvis Winslow and wife and daughter were found murdered in their home.
Mr. Winslow was president of the bank and many will tell you there was no finer man for the job, as he always showed a willingness to work with people who needed loans.
Mrs. Winslow and her young daughter were discovered tied to a bed, their throats cut and their clothes removed, giving evidence of ravages being visited upon them. Mr. Winslow was on the floor with a knife wound in his back.
The murder seems to be connected to the bank robbery, for over twenty-three thousand dollars is missing. In what must be considered a clue, a paper was found in the bank bearing the names Red Plummer, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy.
The funeral of the three slain was attended by nearly all residents of the city.
Jarvis Winslow, like Matt Jensen, had been an orphan in the Soda Creek Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. They were there at the same time, and a friendship had developed between them. Though they had not maintained steady contact, Matt considered Winslow a brother of sorts, and he took it personally when Jarvis and his family were killed in such a way.
Matt was too late for the funeral, but he went out to the cemetery where he found three fresh mounds of dirt, side by side. There was only one tombstone set in the middle of the three graves.
JARVIS WINSLOW
His Wife JULIE
His Daughter CYNTHIA
Two years older than Matt, Jarvis had helped him adjust to life in an orphanage. Matt remembered a moment he had shared with Jarvis.
“Jarvis,” Matt said, speaking quietly over the three graves. “I don’t know if your spirit is still hanging around here or not. I reckon that’s a mystery we only find out after we’re dead. But in case your spirit is here, and you can hear me, I’m going to make you this promise. I intend to find the low-life sons of bitches who did this to you and your wife and daughter, and I am going to send their sorry asses to hell.”
Matt left the cemetery, then rode across town to the sheriff’s office. When he went inside he saw Sheriff Garrison and two of his deputies looking at wanted posters.
