Your ob’t servant
Lee Marcus
Matt had been in Trinidad, Colorado, when the letter caught up with him toward the end of last week, and because he had nothing else planned, he decided he would drop in to see Marcus. A colorful profusion of late-spring wildflowers, along with agreeable weather, had made the ride up from Trinidad quite pleasant.
When Matt dismounted in front of the Hungry Miner, he saw several people hurrying into the saloon. He surmised from the flurry of activity that the shot he had heard had come from the saloon. And for some reason that he could not explain, he suddenly had the feeling that somehow his friend might be involved.
Matt tied off his horse, Spirit, then joined the throngs moving in through the batwing doors.
You all seen it!” someone was shouting. Holding a pistol in his hand, he was waving it around as he shouted, causing the others to duck or move to get out of his way. “Is there anyone in here who didn’t see him draw agin’ me first?”
Looking over toward the bar, Matt saw Lee Marcus sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bar. The front of his shirt was covered with blood and though Marcus was still alive, Matt had watched enough men die to know that Marcus had but a moment or two of life left.
“Lee!” Matt called out. He hurried over to him, then knelt beside his friend.
“Hello, Matt,” Marcus said. “Too bad you wasn’t here a few minutes earlier. You missed all the excitement.”
“What happened?”
“Me and this little feller here got into a bit of an argument,” Marcus said.
Matt looked up at the small man.
“You do this?” he asked.
“Yeah, I did it. You plannin’ on doin’ somethin’ about it?” the little man asked pugnaciously.
“Matt Jensen, this is Pogue Willis,” the bartender said.
“You’re—you’re Matt Jensen?” Willis asked.
When he heard Matt’s name, the little man’s demeanor changed quickly. Instead of being arrogantly challenging, Pogue Willis suddenly became defensive. Quickly, he put his pistol back in its holster.
“It was a fair fight, Jensen, it was a fair fight,” Willis said. “He drew first. You can ask anyone in here, your friend drew first.”
“Is that true, Lee?” Matt asked.
“Yeah,” Lee replied. He coughed, and blood came from his mouth. “I just got tired of listenin’ to the feller go on so.”
“See, I told you,” Willis said. “Look there, he said it his ownself, he drew first.”
“Shut up, Willis,” Matt said.
“What? Now, see here, you can’t talk to me like that,” Willis said. “I don’t care who you are, you—”
That was as far as Willis got, because Matt stood up and backhanded him across the face, hitting so hard that both his nose and lip began bleeding. Willis staggered back against the bar and his hand moved toward his pistol.
“Do it,” Matt said calmly. “Please, pull your gun.”
Without a saying another word, Willis stopped his hand just above his pistol, then moved instead to grab one of the bar towels.
“I wasn’t goin’ for my gun, I was reachin’ for a towel,” Willis said. He began dabbing at the blood. At that moment, without a gun in his hand, there was nothing at all frightening about the little man.
“Matt,” Marcus called. “Lean down here and listen to me. Don’t pay no attention to that punk. I got somethin’ else I want you to do for me if you will.”
With another menacing, and warning, glance toward Willis, Matt knelt beside his friend.
“Matt, I got me a little over two thousand dollars in my pocket here,” he said. “It’s money from the diggin’s. Take some of it and buy yourself a train ticket to St. Louis. When you get there, look up my brother, Andrew. You’ll find him listed in the city directory. I want you to give him what money is left. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes,” Matt answered, nodding. “I’ll be glad to do that for you, Lee.”
“I got me a pocket on the inside of this vest. Reach in there and get the money.”
As Matt was reaching for the money, the sheriff arrived and, seeing Matt, he pulled his gun.
“Hold on there, mister,” the sheriff called. “I ain’t goin’ to stand here and watch you steal from a dyin’ man.”
“No!” Marcus shouted, finding a last bit of strength. “He ain’t stealin’ it, Sheriff Allen. This here is my friend, Matt Jensen. I’m givin’ it to him!”
“Matt Jensen?” Sheriff Allen said. He nodded. “Yes, sir, I know who you are. Go ahead.”
Matt looked down at his friend again. “I’ll get it to him, Lee, I promise. I’ll get the money to your brother.”
Marcus didn’t answer, because Marcus was dead.
Matt continued to stare down at his friend for a long moment, then he turned his gaze toward Pogue Willis.
“What?” Willis said. He held both hands out in front of him. “Look here, Jensen, I got no quarrel with you,” he said.
“Really?”
“No, I ain’t got no—”
That was as far as Willis got, because Matt grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants, picked him up, then with a mighty heave, sent him, belly-down, sliding for the entire length of the bar.
Those who were standing at the bar got out of the way as they watched in surprise while the gunman careened by in front of them, knocking over bottles and glasses. Willis fell off the far end of the bar, hitting the floor with a loud thump. When he got up, he had bits and pieces of expectorated tobacco quids sticking to him from those spittoon users who had been errant in their aim.
Everyone in the bar laughed loudly at Willis as he began picking the pieces off him.
“Sheriff, you seen it!” Willis said. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but mindin’ my own business when he grabbed me and tossed me like that.”
“Sheriff Allen, the reason Jensen done that is because Willis here is the one who killed his friend,” the bartender said.
“That right, Willis? Did you kill Lee Marcus?” Allen asked.
“He drew on me first,” Willis said. “Ever’body in here will tell you that. That’s why Jensen had no call to throw me down the bar like he done.”
Allen pursed his lips and shook his head. “I agree with you, Willis. That seems like an awfully unfriendly thing for Matt Jensen to do.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right,” Willis said, nodding.
“So if you want to throw down on him, why, I reckon I won’t try to stop you.”
“What?”
“Go ahead, draw if you want to,” the sheriff said. “I’ll stay out of it.”
“No, wait, that ain’t what I had in mind,” Willis said. “That ain’t what I had in mind at all.”
“No, I didn’t think it would be,” Allen said. “I tell you what, Willis, why don’t you just give your gun to me now and I’ll take you into custody until after the trial.”
“Trial? What trial?”
“Why, the murder trial, Mr. Willis. We’re goin’ to be tryin’ you for the killin’ of Mr. Marcus.”
“But he drew first! Ever’one in here will tell you, he drew first!”
“Then the trial shouldn’t be a problem.”
Willis glared at the sheriff. It was obvious that he was considering this further, perhaps as far as drawing against the sheriff. But it was equally obvious that he was worried about the presence of Matt Jensen.
The glare changed to a forced smile and, slowly, using only his thumb and forefinger, he pulled his pistol from the holster.
“All right, Sheriff,” he said. “Let’s have the trial.”
Chapter Six
From the Fort Collins Ledger:
A FATAL DISCOURSE
About one o’clock yesterday afternoon the pistol was used with fatal effect in the Hungry Miner Saloon, resulting in the death of Lee Marcus of a gunshot wound from a weapon in the hand of Pogue Willis. The causes which led to this unfortunate tragedy are brief. Marcus, a mining engineer, had been in Colorado but a period of eighteen months. He was thirty-two years of age, powerfully built, standing over six feet in height and weighing about 190 pounds.