Colorado, his experiment as an army scout concluded.
Chapter Two
To many, the metal bit jangling against the horse’s teeth, the hooves clattering on the hard rock, and the creaking leather saddle might be little more than a cacophony of disparate sounds. But to Matt Jensen, it was music, a symphony that defined the life he had chosen to live. In the six months since Matt had resigned his position as scout for General Crook, he had earned his keep in a variety of ways, from riding shotgun for Wells Fargo, to transporting a prisoner for the sheriff of Fremont County, to delivering a string of horses from Higbee, Colorado, to Belle Meade, Kansas. He was just returning to Colorado from the horse-wrangling job now.
Matt wandered from occupation to occupation because he wanted to, not because he had to. In truth, Matt had a rather tidy sum of money earning interest in a bank in Denver, the result of a very successful operation in which he and his friend and mentor, Smoke Jensen, had panned for gold. Smoke now owned a very productive ranch, and if Matt wanted to, he could probably own one as well. But Matt didn’t want to. He enjoyed the idea of being as free as tumbleweed, feeling at home anywhere he happened to be, but putting roots down nowhere.
Dismounting, Matt unhooked his canteen and took a swallow, then poured some water into his hat. He held it in front of his horse and the horse drank thirstily, though Matt knew that the small amount of water would do little to slake the animal’s thirst. Spirit drank all the water, then began nuzzling Matt for more.
“Sorry, boy,” Matt said quietly. “That’s the best I can do for now. But we’ll reach Crocker’s ranch before nightfall, and there will be water there for both of us.”
Before Ian Crocker got married and settled down, he and Matt had wintered together in the mountains. But Crocker married a schoolteacher and started a ranch. It wasn’t a large ranch, but it was successful enough that he was able to make a living at it. Now, Matt planned his trips so as to stop and call on his old friend from time to time.
Unbeknownst to Matt, even as he was approaching the ranch, there were four unwelcome visitors. The four were Burt Philbin, Deermont Cantrell, Abe Oliver, and Percy Morris. They had tried to hold up a bank in Bent Canyon, Colorado, only to run into a time-lock safe that prevented them from getting any money. Leaving the bank empty-handed, they barely escaped with their lives, and were forced to ride out of town under a hail of gunfire from the armed and angry population of the small town.
The four outlaws had happened across the ranch by accident earlier that same afternoon. There, Crocker’s generosity provided water for parched throats, and the promise of food for starving bellies.
“Where is Meechum?” Cantrell asked the others. Leaving the four would-be bank robbers to drink thirstily from his well, Crocker had gone back inside the house to tell his wife that they had unexpected company. Because of that, he was out of earshot and the men could speak freely.
“He was supposed to meet us at the bank,” Oliver said.
“Maybe he found out that the bank had a safe with a time lock and he knew we wouldn’t be able to get any money,” Morris suggested.
“If I find out he knew about that but didn’t tell us, I’ll shoot him,” Philbin said angrily.
“Hah!” Cantrell said.
“What? You think I won’t?”
“Billy Meechum is your cousin. I don’t see you shootin’ your own cousin.”
“Yeah, well, maybe not, but I don’t know why the son of a bitch didn’t tell us about the time lock on that bank vault,” Philbin said.
“Ah, it could be worse,” Oliver said.
“How could it be worse?”
“We wasn’t none of us killed when we rode out of town,” Oliver reminded them. “Not that they wasn’t tryin’ hard enough. I swear it seemed to me like ever’ one in that town had them a gun and was shootin’ at us. Women and kids, too.”
“You got that right,” Cantrell agreed.
Matt reached Crocker’s ranch at about the time the sun was a large orange orb sitting low in the western sky. The shadows of nearby aspen and cottonwood trees were long as he approached the house and barn. Dismounting, Matt saw four saddled horses tethered out front. He walked over to look at them. It was obvious they had been ridden hard recently and they had not been rubbed down, for streaks of salt stained their coats. There was something sticking out from under one of the saddles and as Matt examined it more closely, he saw that it was a sackcloth with two eyeholes.
It was a mask.
Matt walked away from the horses, then led Spirit over to a water trough where the horse began to drink.
The front door to the house opened, and Crocker stepped out onto the porch.
“What are you doing there, mister?” Crocker called.
Matt could see a look of concern in Crocker’s face.
“I’m getting water for my horse.”
“Water your animal and get. We don’t like strangers around here.”
“All right,” Matt said. “I’m obliged for the water for my horse.”
After Spirit drank his fill, Matt remounted, then rode away.
Philbin, Cantrell, Oliver, and Morris had been standing just inside the house when Matt approached. All four
