Matt chuckled. “The only visitor I want tonight is Morpheus.”
“Who?” Clyde asked.
“Morpheus,” Matt repeated.
“Who is Morpheus?”
“Damn, Clyde, don’t you know anything?” Doc asked. “According to Ovid, Morpheus is the god of dreams
Clyde shook his head. “I guess I never met either one of them,” he said.
“Never met who?”
“Them two fellers you just mentioned, Ovid or Morpheus.”
“Sure you have,” Sam said. “Them’s the two that used to work down at the locomotive shop.”
“Oh, yeah, wait, I think I do remember them now. One of ’em had him a scar right here, didn’t he?” Clyde asked, running his finger down his cheek.
“Yeah, but I don’t remember which one it was, though,” Sam said.
Doc looked up at Matt with a long-suffering sigh; then both of them smiled.
“Are you sure you want to leave me with these cretins?” Doc asked.
Matt chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll manage, Doc. You seem quite capable.”
“Thank you. Good night, Mr. Jensen,” Doc said.
“Good night.”
***
Across the street from the saloon, and tucked into the dark space between the apothecary and boot store, Meacham waited patiently for Jensen to leave the saloon. He had been waiting for about two hours now, and because he was growing increasingly impatient, he was just about to give up when he saw Matt Jensen push through the batwing doors.
“Well, it’s about time you came out,” Meacham said under his breath. He drew his pistol, and bracing it against the side of the apothecary building, took aim. Not wanting to hurry his shot, Meacham took a long moment, tracking Matt’s walk by moving his pistol. Before he could pull the trigger, though, he heard a loud shout.
“Eeeyah! Eeeyah!”
The call came from the driver of a stagecoach who, by shouting and snapping the reins, was urging the team into a gallop so that the stagecoach would make a dramatic arrival in town. The sound of twenty-four hooves beating against the ground, as well as the creak and rattle of the coach and the singing of steel-rimmed wheels, filled the street with thunder.
The arrival of the coach caused Meacham to pull his pistol back until the coach had cleared the street. After the coach rumbled by, Meacham raised his pistol once more, but it was too late. Matt Jensen was no longer on the street. The coach had shielded him until he went into the hotel.
“Gramma!” a child shouted, and looking half a block down the street, Meacham saw a little girl run from the stage into the open arms of an older woman. There was a great deal of commotion around the arrival of the coach as the travelers stepped down to the welcome of those who had been waiting for the stage.
This was the terminus for the coach, and after all the passengers had debarked and the luggage, mail, and express packages had been taken off, the coach was driven around behind the depot, where the team could be unharnessed and the horses turned into the corral. Meacham waited until all the commotion had died down, then considered going into the hotel again tonight as he had last night. But whereas he’d had two others with him on the night before, plus the benefit of surprise, he had no such advantage tonight. If he went in tonight he would have to do it alone, and more likely than not, Jensen would be expecting him.
Meacham dismissed the idea. He was going to kill him, but he would just have to wait for a more favorable opportunity. He crossed the street to the saloon. He might as well have a few drinks before he went back to the livery to turn in for the night.
The bright sun, streaming in through his hotel window, awakened Matt the next morning. From somewhere nearby, construction was under way, and he could hear the sound of sawing and hammering. Down the street from the hotel, the blacksmith was working at his forge so that the ringing sound of iron on iron could also be heard. There were other sounds as well: a freight wagon moving up the street and, irritatingly, the sound of a sign, squeaking in the hot dry breeze. From Wong Sing’s Laundry, he could hear a couple of women, doing the wash and chatting loudly to each other in the melodic, but totally incomprehensible, Chinese language.
Matt got up, poured water from the porcelain pitcher into the basin, washed his face and hands, shaved, then got dressed. Checking out of the hotel, he walked down the street to Lambert’s Cafe for breakfast, where he was greeted by several well-wishers.
“Any excitement last night, Mr. Jensen?” one of the other diners asked.
“All was calm,” Matt said.
Others started asking questions as well, until the cafe owner himself, Joe Lambert, intervened. “For crying out loud, will you people let him eat his breakfast in peace? Eggs ain’t good when they get cold.”
Matt nodded his thanks at Lambert, then finished his breakfast undisturbed.
It was almost by accident that Meacham saw Matt Jensen go into the depot later that morning. He followed, and when he heard Matt buy a ticket to Salida, Colorado, Meacham waited for a few minutes, then he stepped up to the ticket agent’s window, made arrangements for his horse to be taken on the train, and bought a ticket for himself to Salida. The train was not due to leave Pueblo until ten o’clock that night, and wasn’t due to arrive in Salida until seven the next morning. Meacham would have all day to plan his operation, and all night to carry it out.
Chapter Ten
