Massacre at Powder River

Chapter Eight

William Teasdale stood at the bar in his parlor at Thistledown and poured two bottles of Scotch.

“Ah, Moreton, it is good to have a fellow countryman to drink with,” he said. “And to have someone who appreciates good whiskey. These Americans and their awful bourbon, except most of the time it isn’t even bourbon, it is some indescribable, abominable concoction they call, and rightly so, rotgut.”

Frewen chuckled as he accepted the glass of Scotch. “Their drink may be foul,” he agreed. “But I have found much about the Americans to admire.”

“Well, of course you would say that, wouldn’t you? After all, you are married to an American.”

“I am indeed, old boy, but that’s not the only reason. I find most Americans to be loyal and trustworthy,” Frewen said.

Teasdale raised the glass to his lips and held it there for a moment. “Does that include the members of the Yellow Kerchief Gang?” he asked.

“It does not. They have killed six of my men, William. Six. They are fiends of the lowest order.”

Teasdale tossed down his drink.

“And how many cattle have you lost?” he asked.

“I told you, I don’t know,” Frewen answered. “Compared to the loss of human life, why should I be concerned about the loss of a few cows?”

“From what I’ve heard, Moreton, it is many more than a few cows you have lost,” Teasdale suggested.

“I suppose it is,” Frewen said.

“I am concerned about every cow I may lose,” Teasdale said. “And unlike you, I have no investors back home. That means that I survive or sink on my own, without bringing others down with me. You, on the other hand, have many investors, all of whom will be very concerned about how many cows you have lost.”

“It seems to me like we are being singled out for this gang’s activity,” Frewen said.

“Of course we are going to be targeted,” Teasdale said. “We are the two biggest landowners in the county.”

“I suppose that is right,” Frewen said.

“Look, Moreton, I know that several of your investors are very upset with you because, despite your promise of returning a profit to them, you are losing money, and you have been losing money for over two years.”

“I think they know that I am doing my best by them,” Frewen said. “Any investment is a risk. At least they aren’t holding me personally responsible for the losses.”

“Don’t you think, though, for the sake of your investors, and especially for your sake, that you should consider cutting your losses before they get any higher?”

“How would I do that?” Frewen asked.

Perceiving a weakness, Teasdale plunged ahead.

“Simple,” he said. “You sell your ranch to me, and let me worry about your creditors and investors.”

“I thank you for your offer,” Frewen said. “But no, I think I’ll hang on to my ranch.”

“Mark my words, you don’t have enough funds to weather this storm,” Teasdale said.

“There may not be a storm, if I have my way,” Frewen said. He smiled.

“What do you mean, if you have your way?”

“I have hired someone to come to my assistance.”

“Who?”

Frewen reached into his jacket pocket and pulled a paperback novel, and held it out toward Teasdale. Teasdale looked at the cover. The cover picture showed a man astride a horse in full gallop. The man had the reins of the horse secured by his teeth and held pistols in both hands. A streak of fire streamed from the barrel of each pistol.

The title was big and bold.

MATT JENSEN

and the

DESERT OUTLAWS

“I have hired this man.”

Teasdale looked at the book, then at Frewen, then at the book again. He laughed out loud.

“Matt Jensen? Have you gone daft, Moreton? Matt Jensen isn’t even real. He is the hero of a series of penny dreadful novels. What on earth would make you do such a thing?”

“Oh, this story in this book isn’t real,” Frewen said. “I know that. But Matt Jensen is real.”

“What makes you think so?”

“This newspaper article,” Frewen said. He showed Teasdale the article he had cut from the Cheyenne Leader, telling how Matt Jensen had tracked down and killed two of the outlaws who had robbed the bank in Livermore, Colorado, and killed the banker and his family. “I have already been in contact with him, and I expect he will be here within the week.”

“Wait a minute, Moreton. So what you are telling me is that you have hired a gunfighter?”

“He isn’t a gunfighter,” Frewen replied. “Well, yes, he is. But it isn’t like you think. He uses his gun for justice, not for evil.”

“I don’t know,” Teasdale said. “I think you are making a big mistake.”

“And I think that I have no other choice,” Frewen replied. Frewen took his watch from his pocket and examined it. “I must get back,” he said. “Clara will be expecting me.”

Shortly after Frewen left Thistledown, Teasdale saddled his horse and rode up to Nine Mile Creek Pass. To anyone who happened to be riding by, this was just another of the many small streams and creeks that were common throughout Johnson County. It was a distance of fifteen miles from Thistledown, and it took Teasdale almost two hours of easy riding to reach it. As he approached the pass, he pulled his rifle from its saddle sheath, tied a piece of yellow cloth to the barrel, then held it up as he continued to ride.

Looking toward the notch at the left side of the pass, he saw the flash of a mirror, signaling that he had been seen, and that he would be allowed to come in. Returning the rifle to its holster, he slapped his legs against the side of his horse, urging it into a trot.

Riding up through the notch, he knew that he was being watched. Although he couldn’t see anyone, he could feel several eyes on him. Not until he reached the place where a trail turned hard left did he see anyone. This was the entry guard, and he stood there with his right leg on a stone, the butt of his rifle resting on his leg as he watched Teasdale ride up the trail. At the end of the trail was a small cabin. The cabin had actually once been a line shack on Teasdale’s ranch, but was moved from the ranch to this place.

When Teasdale dismounted in front of the cabin, he was met by Sam Logan. Sam Logan was wiry, just under six feet tall, with a pockmarked complexion and a sweeping, very dark handlebar mustache that seemed to hang on to a hooked nose. His dark eyes were set deep in their sockets. His hair was as dark as his mustache.

“Well, now, Mr. Teasdale. Come to pay us a visit, have you?” Logan asked.

Teasdale dismounted, then rubbed his behind. He didn’t like riding horses. Normally, he went everywhere by buckboard, carriage, or coach. But a wheeled vehicle was useless here.

“What brings you here?”

“Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Matt Jensen?” Teasdale asked.

“Yeah, sure. Who hasn’t heard of him?” Logan asked.

“Then you mean he is real?”

“You damn right he is real.”

“You are sure now,” Teasdale said. “You aren’t talking about some dime-novel cowboy, are you? Because that is the only place I’ve ever heard of him.”

“Well, the books they write about him are all full of shit,” Logan said, “But Matt Jensen is real. Why are you askin’?”

“Moreton Frewen says that he has hired Matt Jensen to come to his assistance.”

“Yeah? Well, if Frewen really has hired him, that ain’t goin’ to be no good for us. A man like Matt Jensen is nothing but trouble. My advice to you is to get someone to take care of him, and do it quick.”

“Get someone to take care of him? What do you mean by get someone? I thought it was your job to take care of the seamier side of our partnership.”

Logan shook his head. “Yeah, well, I ain’t goin’ to go up against Matt Jensen, that’s for sure. Not unless I get forced into it. I’ve got too good a thing goin’ here, and I ain’t goin’ to risk it by gettin’ tangled up with Matt Jensen. Leastwise, not unless I have at least half of my men with me. If I was you, I would hire someone to take care of him, and I would do it pronto.”

“Do you have any suggestions as to who I might get to take care of him?”

“I don’t know, Jensen is ... wait, yeah, maybe I do have an idea. I know a man who just might be able to do it. He’s faster ’n greased lightning, and I know for a fact he has been wanting to face Jensen down. I expect if you paid him enough, he would do it.”

“Who is this man, and how do I get in contact with him?”

“His name is Kyle Houston. And he is my cousin. I’ll get in touch with him for you.”

“You may be good, but I’m pretty damn good myself,” Andy Masters said.

“And I’m even better than he is,” Andy’s brother Aaron added.

“So my advice to you is, clear on out of Trabling now, while you’re still breathing,” Andy said.

The two brothers owned the Ace High Saloon in the little town of Braggadocio, Wyoming, which was about thirty miles east of Sussex. They had just ordered Kyle Houston out of town.

“I’m not sure you boys want to do that,” Houston replied. Houston was a small man, with small, almost delicate hands. In a world without guns, he would be so insignificant as to be overlooked. But there was a reason that the word “equalizer” had been applied to Sam Colt’s products. The small man who would be unable to stand up to any challenge in physical match was more than adequate to the task when it came to the use of pistols.

Kyle Houston was not only exceptionally proficient with a pistol, he enjoyed using it and had developed a very thin skin. That was a deadly combination, and had Houston been one to carve notches on the handle of his gun, it would be filled with them.

Earlier this morning, in a dispute in a card game, Houston had run three cowboys out of the saloon, telling them that if they came back, they had better come back armed. The Masters brothers, upon hearing about it, made the same demand of Kyle Houston.

“As far as I’m concerned, you are nothing but a visitor here,” Andy said. “And a not very welcome visitor at that. Those boys you ran away are good customers of ours. We can’t have someone like you saying who and who cannot come into our saloon. That means you have to leave.”

During the entire challenge, Houston had stood still, with a half-smile on his face as he looked at the two brothers. The physical contrast between them was dramatic. Andy and Aaron Masters were both big men, with broad shoulders and powerful arms. Either of them could have brushed Houston aside as one would a fly.

And yet here was Kyle Houston, not only standing up to the two men, but actually relishing the challenge.

“Boys, before we go any futher,” Houston said, “I want to hear you say aloud, in front of these witnesses, that I ain’t the one that’s provoking this fight.”

“Why do you need us to say that?” Aaron asked.

“Because I’m going to kill both of you,” Houston said, speaking the words as calmly as if he had just ordered a beer. “And I want these witnesses to tell the law that I tried to avoid this fight.”

“You don’t have to worry about tellin’ the law nothin’,” Andy said. “Because unless you walk through that door, right now, you are going to be dead.”

Houston sighed. “I tried,” he said. He held his hands out in front of him, turning his palms up. “I guess it’s all up to you, now.”

“Draw!” Andy shouted, his hand darting toward his pistol. Aaron started his draw as well.

Although the action seemed instantaneous to those who were watching, and even to Andy and Aaron, Kyle Houston had the unique ability to slow everything down in his mind. He analyzed the situation before him. Andy was the one who had called draw, which meant he had already started his draw when he shouted. Aaron, who didn’t start his draw until Andy initiated the sequence of events, was a fraction of a second behind.

That enabled Houston to make his target selection: Andy first, then Aaron. And though Houston fired two times, the shots were so close together that they sounded like one shot.

Andy pulled the trigger on his gun, but by the time he pulled the trigger, he had already been fatally wounded by a bullet to his heart. And though Aaron managed to clear the holster with his pistol, he went down before he was able to get off a shot.

With the two owners of the saloon now lying on the floor, both dead, a stunned silence fell over the saloon patrons. They were awed by the demonstration they had just seen, and spoke, when they did speak, in whispers, lest they say something to anger the little man who was dressed all in black.

Houston looked around the saloon to make certain there were no further challenges, then he put his pistol, which was literally still smoking, back into its holster.

“I think I’ll have a whiskey,” he said to the bartender.

“I—I don’t know,” the bartender said.

“What is it you don’t know?”

“You just killed the two men who owned this saloon. What happens now?”

“How long have you been working here?” Houston asked.

“Four years, ever since they opened it.”

“They got ’ny wives, kids, anything like that?”

“No, neither one of them was married.”

“Then it looks to me like you just inherited a saloon.”

At first the bartender was surprised by the comment, then its possibility sank in, and a broad smile spread across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it does look like that, doesn’t it?” He poured the whiskey, slid it in front of Houston, then addressed the others in the saloon, calling out loudly.

“Step up to the bar, boys! Drinks are on the house, compliments of the new owner!”

As everyone was hurrying to the bar they avoided any contact with Houston, not wanting to do anything that might irritate him. However, one man did step up to him.

“Mr. Houston, my name is Clem Daggett. Sam Logan sent me to fetch you.”

“Yeah?” Houston said. “What does my cousin want?”

“He wants you to do a job for him.”