“I don’t know the two who were holding me,” Garvey said. “But the one doing the hitting was a man named Odom. Cletus Odom.”
“What did you do to make Odom so angry?”
Garvey held up his finger as if suggesting that Matt wait for a moment. Then he got up from the table and walked over to the counter. Picking up a newspaper, he returned to the table and handed the paper to Matt.
“This might have done it,” he said. He pointed to a story on the front page.
A VILLAIN WALKS AMONG US
Story by Stan Garvey
If there were no other reasons why Arizona should strive for early statehood, then the lack of any sense of justice would be reason enough. On the fifth, instant, three masked men entered the Bank of Wickenburg with the express purpose of robbing it. Their attempt was foiled by the fast and heroic action of Adam Thomas, who slammed shut the safe.
When the leader of the robbers demanded that Thomas reopen the safe or forfeit his life, Thomas maintained his resolve. As a result, the leader of the robbers shot and killed this brave husband and father of two.
There are credible eyewitnesses who say that, despite the fact that he was wearing a mask, they recognized Cletus Odom as the robber and murderer. They are not shy in making these claims, but, thus far, no arrests have been made. That means that Cletus Odom is free to roam about, unafraid of any possibility of apprehension.
Perhaps if Arizona enjoyed statehood, its citizens would have sufficient voice in the state capital to force more effort into bringing the murderer Odom to justice.
As editor of this newspaper, I will do all within my power to see to it that Odom is brought to justice. I call upon all of you, who are citizens of the territory of Arizona, as well as citizens of our fair city of Wickenburg, to write a letter to Governor Fremont asking, no, demanding that justice be done, and that Cletus Odom pay the supreme penalty for his foul deed.
“That’s quite a story, Mr. Garvey,” Matt said as he folded the paper over and laid it alongside his plate.
“Thanks.”
“But with Odom still free, do you not think it was a little risky to write such a story?”
“My good man,” Garvey said, “freedom of the press is one of our nation’s most precious rights. I will not be intimidated by the mere threat of violence.”
Matt smiled. “From my observation, Mr. Garvey, this wasn’t a threat, this was an actuality.”
At that moment, Little Man arrived carrying two plates.
“Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen,” Little Man said. “And, Stan, I’ll put the two pieces of pie in a warming oven so they’ll be nice and hot for you.”
“Thanks,” Garvey replied.
The two men began eating. “Oh,” Matt said. “I have to say that after several days of eating on the trail, this is very good.”
“I thought you might like it. Are you new to Wickenburg, Mr. Jensen?”
“I’m just passing through.”
“Passing through, are you? Where are you going?” Garvey laughed. “It’s rude of me to be so nosy, I know, and I beg your forgiveness. But this unbridled curiosity is what made me become a journalist, I suppose.”
“That’s all right,” Matt said. “I don’t mind answering, because truth to tell, I’m not going anywhere in particular. I’ve just been wandering from place to place.”
“Like a tumbleweed?”
Matt laughed. “You might say that. I have no family encumbrances, nobody to worry about, or to worry about me. This is a big country, Mr. Garvey, and I just thought I would see as much of it as I can.”
“Well, I envy you that freedom, Mr. Jensen, I truly do.” Garvey touched his eye, which was now swollen. He winced at the touch. “But, from a personal point of view, I’m certainly glad you chose this night of all nights to be in Wickenburg. I’m not sure what condition I would be in now if you had not come to my rescue. How long are you going to stay with us?”
“I’ll be leaving at first light in the morning.”
“To continue your adventure,” Garvey said.
“You might say that.”
“Are you a writer, Mr. Jensen?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that question. If you are asking if I can read and write, the answer is yes.”
“No, my question is more specific than that. I mean do you keep a journal of sorts, an account of your wanderings and adventures?”
Matt chuckled. “No, I don’t, nor could I imagine anyone would ever want to read about me.”
“Oh, don’t be so sure about that,” Garvey said. “You see, I have a very strong theory that the American West will be the source of lore and legend for many generations to come. And it is people like you—wanderers and heroes—”
“Heroes?” Matt said, interrupting Garvey in mid-sentence.
“Yes, heroes,” Garvey insisted. “Did you or did you not come to my assistance tonight? And, I might add, at no small danger to yourself.”
“I saw that you were in trouble, and I did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances.”
“No, Mr. Jensen, don’t be so self-deprecating. Very few would have done what you did tonight. That’s why I believe that someday someone will write stories about you. If not about you, personally, certainly about the kind of person you represent. And I don’t just mean the penny dreadful,” he said.
“I must say, that is an interesting observation, Mr. Garvey, but I would turn that around. If you want my opinion, if any of this West is to be preserved, it will be because of men like you, newspapermen who are not afraid to write the truth. You are the true heroes of the West.”
Garvey raised his cup of coffee. “A toast, Mr. Jensen,” he said, a big smile spreading across his face. “A toast between heroes.”
Laughing, Matt touched his own coffee cup to Garvey’s.
“A toast,” he said.
Chapter Two
Purgatory
McKinely Peterson had named his saloon the Pair O Dice, because he thought the idea of “paradise” in a town called Purgatory made an interesting contrast. The saloon was a great success, but Peterson didn’t live long enough to enjoy it. He was killed within six months of opening the saloon, and, because he died intestate, the saloon was put up for sale at a city marshal’s auction.
Announcement of the auction appeared as a two-line entry in the Purgatory Purge, the town’s only newspaper.
Pair O Dice Saloon to be sold at city marshal’s auction, 2 a.m. Saturday.
Andrew Cummins was the city marshal of Purgatory. It was not by coincidence that Andrew Cummins was also the only one who showed up for the auction. And because the city marshal owned Pair O Dice, the saloon soon became the de facto city marshal’s office as Cummins spent all his time there.
Although there was a mayor and a city council, the real power in town belonged to Marshal Cummins. He backed up his power by having a personal cadre of eight deputies, all chosen for their skill with a gun and their willingness to use physical force when necessary. In fact, they often used physical force when it wasn’t necessary, but complaints to the city council fell upon deaf ears. One reason the city council was not responsive to citizens’ complaints was because four of the seven council members were Cummins’s deputies.
Marshal Cummins was able to maintain a large force of deputies because the town had imposed a draconian tax, which was extracted, not only from every business, but from every household, every week.
“Hey!” Cummins shouted to the others in the saloon.
Cummins was standing at the front of the saloon, looking over the batwing doors out onto the street. The westbound train was sitting down at the depot, waiting to continue its journey. Half-a-dozen passengers had detrained, and one, who had separated himself from the others, was standing in the street, looking around as if trying to get his bearings. From the way the man was dressed, it was obvious that he was from the East.