“The name is Williams. Robert Williams,” he said as he extended his hand. “I’m the sheriff here. I understand from the driver that you are the one who killed these three men.”
“I killed two of them,” Matt answered. “The guard got the other one.”
“And who might you be, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“My name is Jensen. Matt Jensen.”
The sheriff blinked in surprise. “Matt Jensen? Are you
Matt laughed. “I don’t know if I’m
“Of course you are
A wagon backed up to the coach and the guard’s body was taken off. Because the wagon was closed, and was backed so close to the coach, few actually saw the body as it was removed. The driver of the wagon, a very thin, sallow-faced, hawk-nosed, pinched-cheek man wearing striped pants, a black coat, and a high hat, clucked at his horse and drove away. Only a few paid any attention to him, as most continued to gawk at the three dead outlaws.
“If you’ll excuse me, now that they’ve taken the shotgun guard’s body out of the coach, I think I’ll just go on over there and get my bag,” Matt said.
“I’ll walk over there with you, if you don’t mind, Mr. Jensen,” the sheriff said.
Matt claimed his bag, then stepped out of the way so the other passengers could claim their luggage.
“Do you know who you killed here, Mr. Jensen?” Sheriff Williams asked, pointing toward the three bodies that lay out on the depot platform.
Matt nodded. “Yeah, I know who they are. I can’t call them by name, but I know who they are,” he said. “I ran into them a few months back, but it was up in Colorado.”
“That sounds about right. I heard that they were up in Colorado for a while. I don’t think they’ve been back down here for more than a couple of weeks.”
“Do you know who they are?” Matt asked.
“Oh, yeah, I know them all right,” the sheriff replied. He pointed to the three bodies. “The one on the left went by the name of Burt Philbin, the big one is Deermont Cantrell, and the other one is Abe Oliver. How did you happen to run into them in Colorado, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
Matt told the sheriff about his encounter with them at Ian Crocker’s ranch. “I didn’t know it at the time, but it turns out they had tried to hold up a bank up in Bent Canyon. There was another man running with them then, by the name of Percy Morris. The only reason I know his name is because I killed him in the shoot-out.”
“Hmm, don’t know anything about a fella named Morris. They must’a run into him when they was up in Colorado,” Sheriff Williams said.
“Hey, Sheriff,” someone shouted from the crowd. “Is it all right if I tie these three boys up against some boards, then stand ’em up so’s I can take a picture of them?”
“Sure, Gilbert, go ahead,” the sheriff called back.”
“Get ’em strapped to those boards there, boys,” the photographer ordered, pointing to the bodies, and several men began tying the slain outlaws to the three two-by-six boards the photographer had brought to the depot just for this occasion.
“You say there was another fella with these three?” the sheriff asked as he watched the men work.
“Actually, there were two more with them,” Matt said. “But they were both wearing masks, and I didn’t get that good a look at them.”
“Well, these boys also ran with an hombre by the name of Billy Meechum. Fact is, he was sort of the head of the little group, and I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut that he was one of the two that got away. Of course, without someone actually seeing Meechum there, I don’t reckon I can rightly accuse him just yet.” The sheriff shook his head. “As to who the other one was, though, I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“Okay, boys, get ’em propped up against the wall here,” the photographer said.
At the photographer’s orders, the three outlaws were picked up, then carried over and stood up against the adobe wall of the depot—their grotesque bodies making a grisly display.
“Hey, you, young feller,” the photographer shouted over to Matt. “Bein’ as you’re the one who kilt these outlaws, how ’bout you come over here and stand alongside of ’em, holdin’ up the gun that you done the killin’ with?”
“I’d rather not,” Matt replied.
“Why not? Come on, young feller, this will make you famous. Why, I’ll send your picture back East and it won’t be no time till ever’one in America will know who you are.”
“No, thank you,” Matt repeated.
“I’m just—”
“Gilbert, the man said no,” Sheriff Williams snapped back, interrupting the man in mid-sentence. “Now just get your pictures took and leave us the hell alone.”
“Whatever you say, Sheriff,” the photographer replied. “I was just tryin’ to do right by him, is all.”
“I’m sorry about that, Mr. Jensen,” the sheriff said.
“That’s all right.”
