Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man Purgatory by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Pinnacle
Published: 2008-07-31T22:00:00+00:00

FOR SALE

Sorrel with red coat and white face

Fine Saddle

$150.00

See City Marshal Andrew Cummins

Matt handed the paper back to Claibie. “Thanks for showing this to me, but I’m afraid a hundred and fifty dollars is a little too expensive for my blood.”

“Yeah, well, that is a little steep, especially for a horse you would have to break in order to even ride him. Listen, are you be staying around town long? The reason I ask is, if you’re looking for a job, I could maybe put you on. Business is real brisk since the railroad got cut.”

“That can’t last much longer, though,” Matt said. “I came by the wreck today. They’re working really hard, and will probably have it cleaned up within a few days. And, I don’t think you would want to be taking on extra help now, only to have to cut back when your business slows again.”

“Come to think of it, I guess you have a point there. Well, I’d better see to the horses. Thanks again.”

“Oh, wait,” Matt called.

“Yes, sir?”

“Let’s say I wanted to have a look at this horse. Where could I see it?”

“When I seen it, it was down at the city corral, but now that it belongs to Marshal Cummins, I reckon you’d probably find it in the marshal’s stable.”

“The marshal’s stable?”

“Yes, it’s just behind his office. Ask one of the deputies, they’ll take you back and let you see him.”

“Thanks,” Matt said.

Matt walked on down toward the town, oblivious of the red and gold sunset behind him. He stayed on the boardwalk, keeping close to the buildings so as not to stand out in plain sight for anyone who might have been in the saloon at the time of his trial.

About half a block before he reached the marshal’s office, he ducked in between a boot maker’s shop and a meat market, then moved back to the alley. The smell of blood and freshly butchered meat was overpowering, and in the alley, he could hear the loud buzzing of flies as they feasted on the discarded beef entrails and bones.

He saw the marshal’s stable about fifty yards up the alley and, glancing around to make certain he wasn’t seen, moved quickly to it. The top half of the door was open to allow some cooling air for the horses. Matt stepped up to the half-open door and looked into the shadowed interior.

At first, he didn’t see Spirit.

“Spirit,” he called. “Spirit, are you in here, boy?”

He heard Spirit whinny, heard his foot paw at the ground.

“Good boy,” Matt said. “You just be patient for a little while. Once it gets dark, I’ll come get you.”

Matt went out behind the alley, which was actually behind the town, and finding a dry arroyo that ran parallel with the alley, he slipped down into it to wait for darkness.

It was interesting to watch the transition of the town as darkness fell. The sounds of commerce—the ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer, the rattle of wagons and buckboards, the hoofbeats of horses and footfalls of pedestrians, gave way to the sounds of night.

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