Snake River Slaughter. William W. Johnstone
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started toward Matt with an inviting smile and, while Matt responded with a polite nod of his head, he made it obvious by his action that he wasn’t particularly interested in her company tonight, so she turned and walked back to the piano.
A mirror, almost half as long as the bar itself, was on the wall behind the bar. There was a flaw in the mirror so that the reflections were somewhat distorted. A man was wiping the bar as Matt approached. He wore a low crown black hat, with so many red and yellow feathers sticking up from the hat band that they almost formed a crown.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “What can I do you for?”
“I’ll have a beer,” Matt said, putting a nickel on the bar.
The bartender pulled a clean glass from under the bar, then held it under the spigot of a beer barrel. He cut it off when the head reached the top of the glass.
“Interesting hat,” Matt said, pointing to the feather festooned chapeau. “Couldn’t make up your mind what color feather you wanted?”
The bartender chuckled, then removed his hat and held it out for Matt’s closer appraisal.
“I’ll have you know, sir, that these feathers come from the little known, golden beak twitter, a bird that is adorned with beautiful red and yellow feathers. It is said that, many years ago, the golden beak twitters were as thick as flies, but the Zapmonog Indians treasured their feathers so much that the noble creature was made extinct.”
“Or maybe they are just dyed chicken feathers,” Matt suggested.
The bartender laughed. “I can’t get one over on you, can I, friend?” He put the hat back on his head. “Stranger in town, are you? I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“I just got here.” Matt blew some of the foam away, then turned the mug up and took several deep swallows.”
“You must’ve been ridin’ some,” the bartender said. “You’ve worked yourself up a real beer thirst there.”
Matt finished the beer, set the mug down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You’re right,” he said. “That one was for thirst. Now I’ll have one for taste.” He put another nickel on the bar.
The bartender chuckled. “Yes, sir, I hear you,” he said, taking the mug, then turning around to refill it.
Gilmore had never met Matt Jensen before, so he didn’t know if this was Jensen or not. But it could be. There was a rather heroic aura about his appearance, and he did say he had been riding.
Gilmore got up from his chair and started to approach the stranger, but he saw Madison say something to Jernigan. Jernigan nodded, then went upstairs to the balcony. Going back to his chair, Gilmore looked up toward the balcony and, from his position, was able to see Jernigan step around a corner in the hall, then pull his gun. While he was wondering what that was about, he heard Madison address the man who had just come in.
“Mister, would your name be Matt Jensen?”
Matt looked around and saw that the question had come from a man who was standing at the opposite end of the bar.
The man who asked the question had a pock-marked face, beady eyes, and a drooping moustache. And from the tone of the man’s voice, Matt perceived the question to be more confrontational than a mere request for information. Is this the man who sent him the letter? He decided to give the man the next move, so, saying nothing, he turned his attention back to his beer.
“I asked you a question, Mister!” the man at the other end of the bar said. “Is your name Matt Jensen?”
“Have we met?” Matt asked, without looking back toward the man.
“No, we ain’t never met.”
“Do you have business with me?” This time, Matt did look at him.
“Yeah,” the man answered with what might have been a smile. “Yeah, I got business with you.”
“What business would that be?”
“I aim to kill you,” the man said. “That’s what my business is.”
Those who were close enough to hear the challenge in the man’s voice had already grown quiet in order to better hear where this conversation was going. Now, with the man’s declaration of his intent to kill Matt Jensen, they moved quickly to get out of the line of fire, should shooting begin.
Matt turned to face his challenger. Maybe this was the man who had sent him the letter. Maybe the letter was just a ruse to get him up here, just for this purpose.
“Mister, this ain’t the place for somethin’ like that,” the bartender said. “Why don’t you have another beer, on the house?”
“And why don’t you mind your own business?”
The bartender started to say something else, but as he looked at Matt Jensen, he saw that, despite the tension of the moment, Matt was exhibiting no nervousness.
“You don’t really want to do this,” Matt said.
“Oh yeah, I do want to do it. I very much want to do it.”
“I don’t want to sound like a braggart, mister, but there have been a lot of men who tried to kill me, and a lot of men who died trying.”
“I ain’t a lot of men. I’m just me.”
“What is your name?”
“My name is Al Madison. I reckon you’ve heard of me.”
Matt shook his head. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Well, after this little fracas, I expect ever’ one will know the name Al Madison. They will all know that Al Madison is the man who kilt Matt Jensen.”
“Or they will know that you were the man who was killed by Matt Jensen,” Matt replied, easily. “We don’t have to take this any further, Madison. You don’t need to die tonight. You can stop now, and live to see the sun rise tomorrow.”
“Oh, I ain’t the one that’s goin’ to die, Mister,” Madison said confidently. “You are.”
In the corner of the saloon, Matt saw another man sitting all alone at a table back under the balcony. He was a rather smallish man, and he was wearing, not the denims and shirts most of the other patrons were wearing, but a suit with a vest and a tie. Matt had noticed this man when he first stepped into the saloon, not only because he was dressed differently from the others, but also because he had been one of the few who had paid particular attention to him.
But as Matt glanced toward him now, the well-dressed man pointed up toward the balcony, doing so with a movement of his hand that was almost imperceptible. Matt wasn’t sure he would have even caught the signal at all had the man not also glanced up.
Responding to what he perceived as a warning of some sort, Matt took a quick peek toward the upstairs balcony where he saw someone kneeling behind the railing. He also saw that the man behind the railing upstairs had drawn his pistol.
“Is there any way I might be able to talk you out of this?” Matt asked, continuing the effort to diffuse the situation.
Madison stretched his mouth into what might have been a smile, though it was a smile without mirth or pleasantness. “No, I don’t think so,” Madison said. “I’ve come to the ball—I reckon it’s time we danced.” Without further discussion, Madison’s hand dipped toward his holster.
At the same time Madison made a ragged grab for his pistol, Matt saw the man on the balcony stand up with his pistol raised and pointed directly at him. Considering the man aloft to be the greater danger, Matt drew and fired. The man on the balcony pulled the trigger, but it was too late. Matt’s bullet had already plowed into his heart and the would-be assailant’s pistol shot shattered Matt’s beer mug but missed him. The man fell through the railing, doing a half