William Johnstone - Snake River Slaughter

“I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch!” Cooter yelled, pulling the trigger at the same time he yelled.

Cooter should not have yelled. He did not count on Matt’s phenomenal reaction time because, even as Cooter was yelling and pulling the trigger, Matt was falling off his horse. The bullet whistled just over Spirit’s empty saddle, passing through the exact spot Matt’s spine had been but a split second before.

The contact with the ground was hard and painful, doubly so because it slightly reopened the wound on Matt’s side. Halfway down to the ground, Matt pulled his pistol. But by the time Matt actually hit the ground, he had brought his gun to bear, and pulled the trigger.

Matt’s bullet caught Cooter in the chest, causing him to let out one, large, expulsion of air.

“How the hell did I miss?” Cooter asked, his voice racked with pain. He raised his pistol and tried to shoot it again, but the gun began wobbling in his hand, then he dropped it and grabbed his chest, then fell.

Chapter Seventeen

When Matt came riding into Medbury, he was leading Cooter’s horse behind him. Cooter was draped, belly down, across his saddle, and Matt’s entry into town aroused immediate attention. Those who were riding or driving in the street, as well as those who were merely pedestrians, saw the body draped over a horse. Many of them interrupted their transit to their original destination in order to follow Matt. There were other townspeople engaged in commerce inside the stores and buildings, both as customers and merchants, who saw the macabre parade through the windows, and they came pouring out of the stores and buildings, including one man who ran out from the barber shop still draped in the barber’s cape, with the barber, brandishing his razor, chasing after him. They joined the growing throngs of people who were now walking alongside Matt, keeping pace with the two horses as they moved down the street, the hoofbeats making loud, clopping sounds.

“Ain’t that Cooter’s horse?”

“Yeah, it’s Cooter’s horse. That’s Cooter lyin’ across the saddle.”

“He looks dead.”

“Hell yes, he’s dead. You think he’d be lyin’ belly down on his horse that way iffen he war’nt dead?”

“That’s Matt Jensen leadin’ him. I reckon you’ve heard of Matt Jensen.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t figure he’d ever come back into town after he kilt the Mexican the other night.”

The curiosity of the crowd grew even greater when Matt stopped in front of the Sand Spur. The crowd followed, but kept a reasonable distance, because no one wanted to incur Matt Jensen’s anger.

“What you reckon he stopped here for? How come he didn’t go on down to the undertaker? I mean, what else for would he be bringin’ in Cooter’s body, iffen he wasn’t bringin’ him in to the undertaker?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“No sir, not me. I ain’t goin’ to ask him nothin’.”

Tying, first his own horse off, then Cooter’s horse, Matt slid Cooter’s body off the saddle, draped it across his shoulders, stepped up onto the porch, then pushed his way through the bat wing doors.

“Here! What are you doin’ there?” one of the saloon patrons shouted. “You can’t be bringin’ no dead body into a saloon like that! They’s folks drinkin’ in here.”

Matt looked at the man who had complained, fixing him with such a steely glare that the man blanched, then took a couple of steps backward.

“Of course, I reckon if you wanted to bring him in here, that would be your business,” the man said, clearing his throat.

Upon seeing Matt come into the saloon with a body draped over his shoulder, most of the patrons jumped up from the tables and moved back out of the way. One man, however, was conspicuous in that, unlike the other patrons of the saloon, he remained seated. He was playing a game of solitaire, and he gave the impression that he was so engrossed in his game that he didn’t even notice Matt.

Matt had never seen Poke Terrell, but the man sitting at the table was short and stocky, baldheaded, and with no neck, which was exactly the way Poke had been describe to him. Matt also saw Mole, and it was obvious that Mole had been talking to Poke because, though he had moved away from the table, he was still in close proximity to it.

Matt walked back to the table. Not until then, did Poke look up.

“I’ve got a play for you, Poke,” Matt said.

“What would that be?”

Without ceremony, Matt dumped Cooter’s body onto the cards that were spread out for the game.

“Dead man on the black queen,” he said.

Poke sighed, but made no abrupt movement.

“I was winning this game,” he said. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to win at Ole’ Sol?”

“This is number five for you,” Matt said.

“Number five? I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Al Madison, Ken Jernigan, Sam Logan, Carlos Garcia, and now Cooter. I don’t know Cooter’s real name,” Matt said.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you are the son of a bitch who keeps sending them after me.”

“Here, you got no call to be talkin’ to Mr. Terrell that way,” Mole said.

Matt jerked his pistol from his holster, pointed it at Mole, and cocked it. “You were there with Cooter, both times,” Matt said. “You were on the canyon wall, and you were with Cooter this morning.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Mole said.

“You don’t?”

“I swear, I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“Then you are going to die dumb,” Matt said. “I don’t plan to give you any more chances to ambush me, so I’m going to kill you right now.”

Several in the saloon gasped.

“No, no!” Mole said, throwing his arms up. “I ain’t even carryin’ a gun. You can see my holster is empty! I think Cooter stole it.”

“Did he, now? Well, you can take that up with him when you see him in hell.”

“No, no!” Mole said. “Please, Mister, don’t kill me. Don’t kill me!” Mole dropped down onto his knees, weeping.

“Get out,” Matt said, making a motion toward the batwing doors. “Get all the way out of town. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Mole shouted. Getting back on his feet, he ran toward the door, pushing through those who had gathered just outside. A moment later, everyone could hear the clatter of hooves as Mole galloped out of town.

“Mister, I don’t know who you are,” Poke said. “But you don’t come in here and threaten me or my friends. I won’t put up with— unh!”

The grunt came from a blow, struck by Matt. Matt was still holding the pistol in his hand, and he brought it around in a vicious backhand, hitting Poke in the side of the head and knocking his chair over. Poke wound up on his back, on the floor.

“You son of a bitch!” Poke shouted in rage, pulling his pistol from his holster.

Matt closed in on him in one step, and as Poke got the pistol out, Matt sent a swift kick against it, knocking the pistol out of Poke’s hand.

Poke rolled over onto his hands and knees and stayed that way for a moment.

“Arrghhh!!” Poke yelled at the top of his voice. Coming up off his hands and knees, Poke launched himself in a bull-like charge toward Matt. The sudden charge caught Matt off guard and he dropped his pistol as Poke drove him across the room before slamming him into the bar.

The ferocity of the attack momentarily stunned Matt and he was unable to respond. Poke took advantage of Matt’s immobility, then pulled back away from him just far enough to send a hammerlike blow into Matt’s side.

Poke was an incredibly strong man, and Matt felt as if he had been kicked in the side by a mule. The pain was excruciating, and he knew that the wound had been opened up. In fact, he could feel a dampness under his shirt, and he knew it was blood.