“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”
“Are you Mr. Jones?”
The man shook his head. “Jones died a couple of years ago and I bought the place from his widow. I kept the name ’cause folks knew it that way. I’m Keith Collins.”
“Mr. Collins, I’m looking to buy a horse,” Matt said.
“Are you now? Well, sir, you have come to the right place, I can tell you that.” He stuck his hand out. “And you are?”
“Jensen. Matt Jensen.”
“Matt Jensen, is it? I believe I just read about you, Mr. Jensen. Are you the same Matt Jensen who recovered the stolen bank money for the Bank of Pueblo?”
“Yes, I am. Unfortunately, I lost my horse while doing so.”
“That’s a shame. I know how much store a man can put in his horse. And I can see why you need a replacement right away. I tell you what, why don’t you come around back and take a look at the livestock? That’s where I keep the horses that I have for sale.”
There were about a dozen horses in the paddock, and Matt pointed to an Appaloosa. “How about that one?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, I can tell that you have an eye for horses,” Collins said. “He is the best one I have. Would you like to take him for a ride?
“If you don’t mind.”
“No, sir, I don’t mind at all,” Collins said. “Do you have your own saddle?”
“Yes, it’s back at the depot.”
“Well, you can go get it, or I can supply you with one.”
“I prefer to use my own,” Matt said.
“Can’t say as I blame you. If you’re buyin’ this horse for your use, might as well get him used to the saddle he’ll be wearin’ right away,” Collins said. “I’ll move him out front and have him waiting for you when you get back.”
“Thanks,” Matt said.
***
“Looks like he’s renting a horse,” Meacham said to Witherspoon. “I wonder where he’s goin’.”
“Only one road out of here and it goes toward Cleo,” Witherspoon said. He smiled. “And I know just where we can go to wait for him.”
Matt was about half an hour out of Salida when he decided to go back into town. He had twisted around in his saddle to look back when a rifle cracked, and he heard the deadly whine of a bullet frying the air right by his head. Luckily, he had just changed positions in his saddle at almost exactly the same moment the rifle was fired. Had he not done this, he would be dead.
Matt leaped out of the saddle, snaking his rifle out of the boot as he did so. He slapped the horse on the rump to get it out of the line of fire; then he ran, zigzagging, toward a little knoll. Another bullet hit the dirt just after he zigged, and it whined away into the desert. Matt dived for the top of the knoll, then rolled over to the other side. He turned around then, and inched back up to peek over the top.
He saw no one.
Matt slipped back down, then put his hat on the end of his rifle and poked it up over the edge of the knoll. He held it there for a long moment, hoping to draw fire, but nothing happened. Then, when he was absolutely certain that there was no one there, he moved cautiously to where the ambusher had been.
Whoever had been there was gone, but Matt found the remains of a cigarette, and the spent brass casing of a couple of .44-40 shells, jacked out of the rifle by the assailant after firing. He also found tracks, indicating that there had been two men involved in the ambush, though as both shell casings appeared to come from the same rifle, only one had fired at him.
Who was trying to kill him? And why?
Matt chuckled as he considered the question. With as many enemies as Matt had made over the years—a better question might be, who wasn’t after him?
Looking around, he saw the Appaloosa he had been riding, standing about a quarter of a mile away. Matt put his fingers to his lips and whistled. Such a whistle would have brought either of his previous horses trotting toward him, but this horse stood still.
“Well, at least you didn’t run away,” Matt said aloud, as he started toward the animal. It took him a couple of minutes to cover the distance between the horse and himself and, fortunately, the horse stayed in place for the entire time.
“You had a clear shot and you missed,” Meacham said as he and Witherspoon rode back into town.
“The son of a bitch moved just as I fired,” Witherspoon said.
“You missed,” Meacham said.
“I’ll get him next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll take care of him myself.”
Though he was very alert on the ride back, there were no other attempts on his life. Matt returned to the corral, dismounted, and was patting the horse on the neck as the owner came out to greet him, a wide, salesman’s smile spread across his face.
“So, what do you think, Mr. Jensen? Is this a fine horse, or what?”
