William Johnstone - Snake River Slaughter

“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 somersault on his way down and landing on his back on the piano below. The impact caused a discordant ring of the piano strings. The piano player, as well as the soiled dove who had been standing beside the piano, were in no danger because, like the others, they had moved to get out of the way as soon as Madison made his declaration known.

Realizing that his backup had not only been discovered, but killed, the expression on Madison’s face changed quickly from one of easy confidence to shock and fear over the fact that he no longer had an edge. Frightened now, he pulled the trigger on his pistol, even before he could bring it all the way up to bear. The bullet from Madison’s gun hit a spittoon that was sitting on the floor halfway between him and Matt, causing a fountain of noxious brown liquid to erupt from the container.

Matt’s second shot hit Madison in the forehead, and he fell back.

Matt continued to hold his pistol at the ready as the smoke from the four gun discharges drifted toward the ceiling, then spread out to collect in a bluish gray, nostril-burning cloud that hovered just above the wagon wheel chandelier. He looked around quickly to make certain there were no other challengers.

Seeing none, he holstered his pistol, then looked over at the bartender who had ducked down behind the bar when the shooting started.

“You can stand up now,” Matt said, easily.

“Is it all over?” the bartender asked in a nervous voice.

“It’s all over, and it looks like I’ll be needing another beer,” Matt said.

Like everyone else, Gilmore had been shocked by the sudden drama that had erupted in here. Unlike everyone else, Gilmore knew Madison and Jernigan, and he knew they were unpleasant characters, but he did not realize they would actually commit, or at least attempt to commit, murder.

Logan, the third man of the group, had watched the whole thing from just on the other side of the batwing doors. He came back into the saloon now, to have a closer look at his two dead friends. Gilmore held his breath while he waited to see what Logan was going to do. To his surprised relief, Logan did nothing but look around for a moment, then, turning, he left the saloon.

Chapter Seven

After he served Matt another beer, the bartender leaned over the bar to look at the two bodies. Madison was lying on his back at the end of the bar, his arms thrown out to either side of him, his pistol a few feet away from his right hand.

The second shooter was also on his back, but he was draped across the piano with his head hanging down. His hat and pistol were on the floor just in front of the piano bench. Gradually, cautiously, the others in the bar began approaching the two bodies.

“Are they both dead?” the bartender asked.

“This here’n is deader’n shit,” someone said as he poked at Madison’s body with his foot.

“This one is as well,” the piano player said, returning to his instrument. He lifted the shooter’s hand, then let it go. It fell against the keyboard, striking several keys inharmoniously.

“Damn, Floyd, that feller plays the piano better dead than you do alive,” someone said, and a few of the others laughed, nervously, not from the humor of the comment, but from the fact that it tended to relieve the tension.

Only the women of the bar did not gather around the two bodies. Instead, the one who had smiled at Matt when he first came into the saloon, and the other two who had been working the bar with her, now stood in a frightened cluster back in the far corner of the barroom, near the large, upright clock.

“Did you all you see what I just seen?” someone asked. “That feller at the bar took ’em both out.”

“Damndest thing I ever saw.”

“I seen Hickock in action oncet. He war’nt nowhere near as fast as this here fella was.”

“I’ve hear’d tell of a feller named Matt Jensen, but this here is the first time I ever actual saw him.”

For a long moment nobody approached Matt, and he was glad. He had come in here for a beer, and that was all. He had no idea he would get involved in a gun fight, and he still had no idea why he was challenged. It couldn’t have been, as Madison said, to make a name for himself. For if that had been the case, there would not have been a second shooter on the balcony. And if there was a second shooter that meant this was planned. But how could they have planned it? Nobody knew Matt was coming to American Falls.