The Ox Bow Saloon was filled with patrons when Matt stepped inside. Nearly all were talking about the train wreck, and not only about the train wreck, but also about Matt.
“Yes, sir, Marshal Kyle said this here Jensen fella not only kilt the deputy, but he stole the money that was being transferred. Twenty thousand dollars it was.”
“Twenty thousand dollars? Damn, with that much money, I don’t know but what I’d’a been tempted myself.”
“Tempted enough to shoot a fella between the eyes in cold blood?”
“No, I don’t reckon I could have done that. It would take someone who was particular mean to kill a man what had just been in a train wreck.”
“I heard the marshal talkin’ to Mr. Blanton over to the newspaper office. They’ll have posters out on this Jensen fella soon, and there’s a reward of five thousand dollars bein’ put up for him.”
“Ain’t enough, if you ask me. Anyone that would shoot somebody in cold blood after a train wreck? Hell, that fella needs to be caught and needs to be hung.”
“Yes, well, I reckon he was about to be hung anyway, or so I understand. He was bein’ took to Yuma for that very purpose. Besides which, the reward says ‘Dead or Alive.’”
“Hey, you, mister,” one of the customers said to Matt. “You was on the train, wasn’t you?”
Was this someone who had seen him being put on the train in chains, someone who could recognize him?
“Yes, you was on the train, I recognize you,” the man said.
Matt braced himself for a confrontation.
“You pulled how many out of that burning train? Ten? Fifteen? Mister, as far as I’m concerned, you’re a genuine hero.”
Matt relaxed.
“Folks,” the speaker said to the others. “While most the rest of us was wanderin’ around with our thumb up our ass wonderin’ what to do, why, this here fella was doin’. Fred, whatever this fella is drinkin’, I’m buyin’.”
“And I’ll buy the next one,” another patron said.
“Thank you,” Matt said, surprised by the unexpected accolades he was receiving. “But I thought I’d just have maybe one beer, then get something to eat.”
“If you don’t mind biscuits, bacon, gravy, and fried potatoes, you can eat here,” an attractive auburn-haired woman said. “On me,” she added.
“On you?”
“I’m Sally Fontaine. I own this place.”
“Well, I thank you, ma’am, but it’s not necessary for you to buy my supper. I can pay for it.”
“I know it isn’t necessary,” Sally said. “But from what I’ve heard about you, it would be my privilege to buy your supper.”
Matt smiled. “Thank you.”
“What’s your name, mister?” the saloon patron who had first pointed him out asked.
“Cavanaugh. Martin Cavanaugh.”
The patron lifted his beer mug, then called out loudly to the others in the saloon. “Here’s to Martin Cavanaugh!”
“Martin Cavanaugh!” the others answered as one.
“Here you go, sir,” Fred said, bringing Matt’s supper to his table.
“Thanks,” Matt said, digging into the meal, realizing this was the first time he had eaten all day. His plans to have a late breakfast in Purgatory this morning had been thwarted by a gunfight, a mockery of a trial, and then a train wreck. He ate his meal with much enthusiasm.
After his supper, Matt got into a card game. Playing very conservatively, and raising or calling only on sure hands, he doubled his money.
Leaving the saloon, he walked through the dark to the Homestead Hotel, only to learn that, due to the train wreck, there were no rooms available.
“Is there anyplace else in town that rents rooms?” he asked.
“There’s Ma Baker’s Boardin’ House, but it’s all full up as well.”
“I see,” Matt said. He turned to leave.
“Mister, was you on the train that had the wreck?”
“Yes, I was.”
“I’ll tell you what. The hotel don’t rent out stalls in the stable for sleepin’, and I’m not supposed to do this, but if you want, you can bed down in the stable out back. You ought to be able to find enough clean straw to accommodate you.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. “I reckon I’ll just take you up on that.”
“It’ll cost you a quarter.”
“I thought the hotel didn’t rent out the stalls for sleeping.”
