“Matt,” Marcus called. “Lean down here and listen to me. Don’t pay no attention to that punk. I got somethin’ else I want you to do for me if you will.”
With another menacing, and warning, glance toward Willis, Matt knelt beside his friend.
“Matt, I got me a little over two thousand dollars in my pocket here,” he said. “It’s money from the diggin’s. Take some of it and buy yourself a train ticket to St. Louis. When you get there, look up my brother, Andrew. You’ll find him listed in the city directory. I want you to give him what money is left. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes,” Matt answered, nodding. “I’ll be glad to do that for you, Lee.”
“I got me a pocket on the inside of this vest. Reach in there and get the money.”
As Matt was reaching for the money, the sheriff arrived and, seeing Matt, he pulled his gun.
“Hold on there, mister,” the sheriff called. “I ain’t goin’ to stand here and watch you steal from a dyin’ man.”
“No!” Marcus shouted, finding a last bit of strength. “He ain’t stealin’ it, Sheriff Allen. This here is my friend, Matt Jensen. I’m givin’ it to him!”
“Matt Jensen?” Sheriff Allen said. He nodded. “Yes, sir, I know who you are. Go ahead.”
Matt looked down at his friend again. “I’ll get it to him, Lee, I promise. I’ll get the money to your brother.”
Marcus didn’t answer, because Marcus was dead.
Matt continued to stare down at his friend for a long moment, then he turned his gaze toward Pogue Willis.
“What?” Willis said. He held both hands out in front of him. “Look here, Jensen, I got no quarrel with you,” he said.
“Really?”
“No, I ain’t got no—”
That was as far as Willis got, because Matt grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants, picked him up, then with a mighty heave, sent him, belly-down, sliding for the entire length of the bar.
Those who were standing at the bar got out of the way as they watched in surprise while the gunman careened by in front of them, knocking over bottles and glasses. Willis fell off the far end of the bar, hitting the floor with a loud thump. When he got up, he had bits and pieces of expectorated tobacco quids sticking to him from those spittoon users who had been errant in their aim.
Everyone in the bar laughed loudly at Willis as he began picking the pieces off him.
“Sheriff, you seen it!” Willis said. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but mindin’ my own business when he grabbed me and tossed me like that.”
“Sheriff Allen, the reason Jensen done that is because Willis here is the one who killed his friend,” the bartender said.
“That right, Willis? Did you kill Lee Marcus?” Allen asked.
“He drew on me first,” Willis said. “Ever’body in here will tell you that. That’s why Jensen had no call to throw me down the bar like he done.”
Allen pursed his lips and shook his head. “I agree with you, Willis. That seems like an awfully unfriendly thing for Matt Jensen to do.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right,” Willis said, nodding.
“So if you want to throw down on him, why, I reckon I won’t try to stop you.”
“What?”
“Go ahead, draw if you want to,” the sheriff said. “I’ll stay out of it.”
“No, wait, that ain’t what I had in mind,” Willis said. “That ain’t what I had in mind at all.”
“No, I didn’t think it would be,” Allen said. “I tell you what, Willis, why don’t you just give your gun to me now and I’ll take you into custody until after the trial.”
“Trial? What trial?”
“Why, the murder trial, Mr. Willis. We’re goin’ to be tryin’ you for the killin’ of Mr. Marcus.”
“But he drew first! Ever’one in here will tell you, he drew first!”
“Then the trial shouldn’t be a problem.”
Willis glared at the sheriff. It was obvious that he was considering this further, perhaps as far as drawing against the sheriff. But it was equally obvious that he was worried about the presence of Matt Jensen.
The glare changed to a forced smile and, slowly, using only his thumb and forefinger, he pulled his pistol from the holster.
“All right, Sheriff,” he said. “Let’s have the trial.”
Chapter Six
From the
A FATAL DISCOURSE
