Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory #3

strongly discouraged. There was a place in the town cemetery prominently marked as “Lawmen’s Plot.” Here, a deputy, an Arizona Ranger, and a deputy U.S. marshal, all uninvited visitors to the town, lay buried.

Odom had come to Quigotoa as a first step to set his plan into operation, and stepping into the Casa del Sol Cantina, he spotted someone sitting at a table in the back. He was a big man, with a broken nose that lay flat and misshapen on a round face.

“Hello, Bates,” Odom said when he stepped up to the table.

“I thought you was goin’ to get here today,” Bates replied.

“It is today.”

“Yeah, I meant earlier.”

“I’m here now,” Odom said. “Did you get someone?”

“Yeah. You want to meet him?”

“Tomorrow,” Odom said. “I had a long ride today.”

“All right,” Bates said.

Leaving Bates, Odom bought a bottle of tequila, then picked up a Mexican whore and went with her to her little crib out back, as much for her bed as for her services.

“Do you think Rosita is pretty, Senor?” the whore asked as she smiled at him.

“Pretty?” Odom replied. He took a swallow of tequila, drinking straight from the bottle. “What the hell do I care whether you are pretty or not? You are a puta—a whore. And all whores look just alike to me. All I want you to do is shut up, get naked, and get in bed. I’m not in the mood for any of your prattle.”

The smile left Rosita’s face. “Si, senor,” she said flatly. Mechanically, she took off her clothes, then crawled in bed beside him. She turned off all feeling as he climbed on top of her.

Chapter Three

Even as Odom was settling down for the night in Quigotoa, Matt Jensen had just found a likely place to camp for the night. Dismounting, he took off the saddle and blanket, which caused his horse, Spirit, to whicker and shake his head in appreciation over being relieved of the burden.

This was Matt’s second horse to be named Spirit; the first was killed by an outlaw who was trying to kill Matt. Spirit One was a bay, given to Matt by Smoke Jensen, Matt’s mentor and friend. Spirit Two was a sorrel. Matt had named him Spirit as well, in part to honor his first horse, but also because he considered Spirit Two to be worthy of the name.

Matt spread the saddle blanket out on the ground to provide a base for his bedroll, then, using the saddle for a pillow, prepared to spend the night on the range. To the casual observer, the saddle, which was ordinary in every detail, was no different from any other saddle. There was, however, one very extraordinary thing about it. The saddle had a double bottom, which allowed him to secret away more than a thousand dollars in cash, which Matt used as his emergency reserve.

Nobody who happened to see Matt would ever suspect that he was carrying so much money. In fact, Matt had a lot more money than that in a bank account back in Colorado. He had come by the money honestly, as his part of a gold-panning operation he had entered into with Smoke Jensen, back when he was but an eighteen-year-old boy.

Smoke and Matt Jensen panned the streams for gold as long as they continued to be productive. For the entire time Matt had been with Smoke, they had buried the gold, each year taking just enough into town to buy goods and supplies for another year. But in the spring of Matt’s nineteenth year, they took everything they had panned over the last six years into town, having to enlist four pack animals to do so. When they cashed it out, it was worth a little over thirty thousand dollars, which was more money than the local bank had on deposit.

“We can have the money shipped from Denver,” the assayer said.

“Can you write us a draft that will allow us to go to Denver to get the money ourselves?” Smoke asked.

“Yes,” the assayer said. “Yes, of course, I can do that. But you don’t have to go to all that trouble. As I say, I can have the money shipped here.”

“It’s no trouble,” Smoke said. “Denver’s a big city, I think I’d like to have a look around. How about you, Matt?”

“I’ve never seen a big city. I’d love to go to Denver,” Matt replied enthusiastically.

“Write out the draft,” Smoke said.

“Very good, sir. And who shall I make this payable to?”

“Make it out to both of us. Kirby Jensen and Matt…,” Smoke looked over at Matt. “I’ve never heard you say your last name.”

“Smoke, just make the draft payable to you,” Matt said.

“No, what are you talking about? This is your money, too. You helped pan every nugget.”

“You can pay me my share after you cash the draft.”

“It might be easier if it is made to just one man,” the assayer said.

Smoke sighed. “All right,” he said. “Make it payable to Kirby Jensen.”

The assayer wrote out the draft, blew on it to dry the ink, then handed it to Smoke.

“Here you are, Mr. Jensen,” he said. “Just present this to the Denver Bank and Trust, and they will