The Loner: Trail Of Blood (28 page)

Knowing they would be pursued, the two outlaws took great pains to cover their true trail, while leaving false trails for anyone who would follow. Reaching a stream, they rode right down the middle of it, confident they were erasing any sign that could possibly be followed.

For most trackers that might work, but not for Matt. He had learned his tracking expertise from Smoke Jensen, who had learned his own skills from an old mountain man named Preacher, arguably, the best tracker who had ever lived. Because that know-how had been passed down, Matt was almost as accomplished as Smoke or Preacher. He could follow a trail through the water by paying attention to such things as rocks dislodged against the flow of water, or silt disturbed by horse’s
hooves, leaving a little pattern in the water for several minutes afterward.

Matt was tracking down the streambed when a rifle boomed and a .44-40 bullet cracked through the air no more than an inch from his head.

He leaped from his horse and ran though the stream, his feet churning up silver sheets of spray as he ran. The rifle barked again. Right on top of that he heard the flatter sound of a pistol shot. Almost simultaneously two bullets plunged into the water close by.

Reaching the bank on the opposite side of the stream, Matt dived to the ground then worked his way toward a nearby outcropping of rocks. He sat with his back against the biggest of the rocks while he took a few deep breaths.

“Who are you?” one of the men called out to him.

“My name is Jensen,” Matt called back.

“Jensen? Matt Jensen? Son of a bitch!” The outlaw had obviously recognized Matt’s name. There was fear in his voice.

“Which one are you?” Matt called back. “Are you Hayes or Cruise?”

“What? I’m Hayes. How did you know our names?”

“Half the town saw you two boys riding away from the bank, and half the ones who saw you, knew who you were.”

“What are you after us for, Jensen?” Hayes called. “I’ve heard of you, but I ain’t never heard that you was someone who would chase a fella down for the reward. Is that why you are chasin’ us?”

“I’m not after the reward.”

“Then if you ain’t after the reward, what the hell are you comin’ after us for?”

“It seems the thing to do,” Matt said, without being specific as to his reasons.

“Well, mister, you made a big mistake,” Hayes shouted. “’Cause all you’re goin’ to do now is get yourself kilt!”

Hayes and Cruise fired again, and once more the bullets whistled by harmlessly.

“You still there?” Hayes called.

“I’m still here.”

“I tell you what, mister. Me and my partner here just talked it over, and we got us an idee. We have got us near ’bout five thousand dollars that we taken from the bank. A thousand of it is your’n if’n you’ll just go away,” Hayes called.

“No deal.”

There was a beat of silence, then Hayes called out again. “All right, how ’bout two thousand? We’ll give you two thousand and all you got to do is let us ride away.”

“You expect me to believe you two are willing to give me nearly half of what you took from the bank?”

“Why not? It’s no big deal, we can always rob another bank,” Hayes shouted back. “Two thousand dollars. You don’t come across money like that very often, do you?”

“Not very often,” Matt agreed.

“So, what do you think? You going to take us up on the offer?”

“Let me think about it,” Matt said.

“You do that.”

Matt had no intention of taking the two men up on their offer, but he responded in such a way as to enable him to stall for time until he figured out how best to handle the situation. He picked up a stick about two feet long, put his hat on top of the stick, then raised it slightly above the rock.

A rifle boomed, and the hat flew off the end of the stick.

“Ha! You got ’im, Cruise!” Hayes shouted.

“Whoa, I guess you two boys weren’t really serious about giving me all that money, were you?” Matt called out.

“Son of a bitch, I missed!” Cruise said.

“Mister, you know what I said about givin’ you that money? Well you can forget about it. We ain’t goin’ to give you nothin’,” Hayes said. “Except maybe a bullet right between your eyes.” His shout was punctuated with another rifle shot hitting the top of the rock, then whining off into the valley.

After that there was silence.

The silence stretched into several long minutes.

“Hayes? Cruise? You still up there?” Matt called.

Another rifle shot hit the rock just to the right of him. The one with the rifle had improved his position. As Matt scooted around to put the rock between himself and the shooter, there was a second shot.

Matt saw the puff of smoke from the rifle, so he aimed at the spot and waited. Seconds later he was rewarded by seeing Cruise’s face raise up.

Matt pulled the trigger, and Cruise fell forward, sliding belly down until his face ended up in the stream. Matt watched for a moment longer to
make certain Cruise was dead when suddenly he heard the sound of horses’ hooves. Looking around he saw that Hayes had used the opportunity to get mounted and was galloping toward him. Hayes had his pistol in his hand, firing at Matt as he rode.

Matt fired back. A puff of dust rose from Hayes’ vest, followed by a tiny spray of dust and blood. Hayes pitched backward out of his saddle but one foot hung up in the stirrup. His horse continued to run, raising a plume of water as the outlaw was dragged through the stream. When the horse reached the other side of the stream and started up the bank, Hayes’ foot disconnected from the stirrup and he lay motionless, half in the water and half out, not more than ten feet from where the body of his partner lay.

Matt ran over to them, his gun still drawn, but the gun wasn’t necessary. Both men were dead.

Hayes and Cruise were not the first outlaws Matt had ever tracked down. He was neither a lawman nor someone who hunted other men for a reward the government paid, but he was always on the side of law and order. Sometimes, going after an outlaw just seemed to be the right thing to do.

He never sought trouble but, somehow, trouble had a way of finding him. As a result, Matt Jensen was one of a select company of men in the West whose very name evoked fear among the outlaws and evildoers.

Matt took the bag of bank money from Hayes’ saddle, and started back to Pueblo, but just after noon, his horse stepped into an unseen prairie dog hole. The horse broke a leg and Matt had to shoot him. It was a hard thing to do; Spirit was only the second horse he had ever owned. Indeed, that horse had carried with him the spirit of his first horse, who was also named, not coincidentally,
Spirit. There was nothing Matt could do but take shanks mare, so, throwing his saddle, saddle bags, and the money bag over his shoulder, he began walking.

Matt Jensen dropped his saddle with a sigh of relief, then climbed up the berm to stand on the ballast between the railroad tracks. Before him the clear tracks of the Denver and New Orleans lay like twin black ribbons across the landscape, stretching north to south from horizon to horizon. For the moment they were as cold and empty as the barren sand, rocks, and mountains that surrounded him, but Matt knew a train would pass through there sometime before sundown.

Since putting his horse down, Matt had walked for two hours, carrying his saddle with him. At the moment, he was standing alongside the railroad tracks some thirty miles south of Pueblo. All that was left for him to do was catch the train, so, using his saddle as a pillow, he lay down beside the tracks to wait. As he waited, he thought of the horse he had just put down. In order to combat the grief that threatened to consume him, he turned his thoughts to his first horse named Spirit, and how he had come by him.

Right after the war, while still a boy named Matt Cavanaugh, the man known as Matt Jensen made the trip west from Missouri with his father, mother, and sister. On the trail west, their wagon
was attacked by outlaws, and all were killed but Matt. He escaped, managing to kill one of the outlaws in the process. The incident left Matt an orphan and shortly thereafter he wound up in the Soda Springs Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. Rather than providing a refuge, the orphanage was so evilly run that eventually Matt escaped from the home.

A few days later Matt, nearly dead from hunger and the cold, was found in the mountains by the legendary Smoke Jensen. Smoke took the boy in and raised him to adulthood. Out of respect and appreciation, Matt Cavanaugh changed his name to Matt Jensen and though there was no blood relationship between the two men, they regarded each other as brothers. When it was time for Matt to go out on his own, Smoke surprised him with an offer.

“Why don’t you go out to the corral and pick out your horse?” Smoke had asked.

“
My
horse?”

“Yeah, your horse. A man’s got to have a horse.”

“Which horse is mine?” Matt asked.

“Why don’t you take the best one?” Smoke replied. “Except for that one,” he added, pointing to an appaloosa in one corner of the corral. “That one is mine.”

“Which horse is the best?” Matt asked.

“Uh-uh,” Smoke replied, shaking his head. “I’m willing to give you the best horse in my string, but as to which horse that might be, well, you’re just going to have to figure that out for yourself.”

Matt walked out to the small corral that Smoke had built and, leaning on the split-rail fence, looked at the string of seven horses from which he could choose.

After looking them over very carefully, Matt smiled, and nodded.

“You’ve made your choice?” Smoke asked.

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“I want that one,” Matt said, pointing to a bay.

“Why not the chestnut?” Smoke asked. “He looks stronger.”

“Look at the chestnut’s front feet,” Matt said. “They are splayed. The bay’s feet are just right.”

“What about the black one over there?”

“Uh-uh,” Matt said. “His back legs are set too far back. I want the bay.”

Smoke reached out and ran his hand through Matt’s hair.

“You’re learning, kid, you’re learning,” he said. “The bay is yours.”

Matt’s grin spread from ear to ear. “I’ve never had a horse of my own before,” he said. He jumped down from the rail fence and started toward the horse.

“That’s all right, he’s never had a rider before,” Smoke said.

“What?” Matt asked, jerking around in surprise as he stared at Smoke. “Did you say he’s never been ridden?”

“He’s as spirited as he was the day we brought him in.”

“How’m I going to ride him, if he has never been ridden?”

“Well, I reckon you are just going to have to break him,” Smoke said, passing the words off as easily as if he had just suggested that Matt should wear a hat.

“Break him? I can’t break a horse!”

“Sure you can. It’ll be fun,” Smoke suggested.

Smoke showed Matt how to saddle the horse, and gave him some pointers on riding it.

“Now, you don’t want to break the horse’s spirit,” Smoke said. “What you want to do is make him your partner.”

“How do I do that?”

“Walk him around for a bit so he gets used to his saddle, and to you. Then get on.”

“He won’t throw me then?”

“Oh, he’ll still throw you a few times,” Smoke said with a little laugh. “But at least he’ll know how serious you are.”

To Matt’s happy surprise, he wasn’t thrown even once. The horse did buck a few times, coming down on stiff legs, then sunfishing and, finally, galloping at full speed around the corral. But, after a few minutes he stopped fighting and Matt leaned over to pat him gently on the neck.

“Good job, Matt,” Smoke said, clapping his hands quietly. “You’ve got a real touch with horses. You didn’t break him, you trained him, and that’s real good. He’s not mean, but he still has spirit.”

“Smoke, can I name him?”

“Sure, he’s your horse, you can name him anything you want.”

Matt continued to pat the horse on the neck as he thought of a name.

“That’s it,” he said, smiling broadly. “I’ve come up with a name.”

“What are you going to call him?”

“Spirit.”

*  *  *

As Matt lay alongside the track he continued to think about his two horses named Spirit. He had given them good lives, treated them well, always making certain they were well fed and cared for, but in the end, both had died before their time. By being his horses, they had been subjected to more danger than most.

He thought about the expression in Spirit II’s eyes, just before he had pulled the trigger. It was as if Spirit II knew what was about to happen to him. Was he blaming Matt? Was he telling Matt he understood it had to be done?

Before he could sink any deeper into the morass of melancholy, he heard a distant whistle. Pushing the gloomy thoughts away, he got up from his impromptu bed and looked south, toward the train. When first he saw it, it seemed to be creeping along, though Matt knew it was doing at least twenty miles per hour. It was the distance that made it appear as if the train was going much slower. That same distance also made the train seem very small. Even the smoke pouring from its stack seemed but a tiny wisp against a sky which had now been made gold by the setting sun.

Matt could hear the reverberation of the puffing engine, sounding louder than one might think, given the distance. When the train came close enough for him to be seen, Matt stepped onto the track and began waving. After a few waves, he heard the train braking so he knew the engineer had spotted him and was going to stop. The train,
which had appeared so tiny before, appeared huge. It ground to a squeaking, clanking halt with black smoke pouring from its stack. Tendrils of white steam, escaping from the drive cylinders and limned in gold by the rays of the setting sun, wreathed the huge wheels.