Massacre at Powder River

Chapter Nine

Onboard the Western Eagle, on the Union Pacific Line

Ten-year-old Winnie Churchill sat between his mother and the window as the train hurtled across the long, empty spaces.

“Mama, have you ever seen a place so large as America?” Winnie asked.

“Of course I have, dear. I was born here, remember?”

“Does that make me half American?”

“It does, indeed.”

“Then if I wanted to be an American cowboy when I grow up, I could be?”

Lady Churchill laughed, and patted her son on the shoulder. “Oh, heavens, darling, I certainly don’t think your father would like for you to be running around out here in the American West as a cowboy,” she said.

“But Uncle Moreton is a cowboy, is he not? And he isn’t even American. I could be an even better cowboy because I am half American.”

“I suppose if you put it that way, you could,” Jennie said. “Although I’m not sure that Moreton considers himself a cowboy. I think he considers himself a rancher.”

She chuckled. “From what I have heard, though, he is not a particularly good one, but please don’t tell him I said so.”

“Well, I am definitely going to be a cowboy when I grow up,” Winnie said. “I am going to ride a horse and carry a gun and fight wild Indians.”

“You are still young. I’m sure that by the time you grow up, some occupation other than being a cowboy will strike your fancy.”

While on the train, Winnie continued to write in his journal. He wrote about the Great Lakes and the city of Chicago. But it wasn’t until they started across the great western plains that his writing really came alive.

The American plains are a grand and impressive sight, vast, and seemingly lifeless but that isn’t so, because all manner of creatures reside here from the mighty buffalo to the small prairie dogs. The prairie dogs are most interesting and do not live alone, but construct entire villages as do people. I believe that as the train passes them by they observe us with as much curiosity as we observe them.

When nighttime comes the porter makes up a berth for my mother and me, and provides us with blankets so that we can be snug and warm. It is good to lie in the berth and look through the windows at the darkness which is so well lighted by the moon that one might think it is all a painting done in black and silver.

I would like to see a village of wild Indians, but have not been so fortunate.

At one of the train stops, a man got on who was obviously drunk. He staggered down the aisle, then settled in a seat across the aisle from the seat that Winnie and his mother were occupying. Jennie Churchill was an exceptionally pretty woman, Winnie knew that. He also knew that there were disquieting rumors about her, rumors that, though unsubstantiated, were nonetheless believable because Jennie was not only pretty, she was flirtatious.

But she liked to be in control of her flirting episodes, and always made certain that they were most discreet. She certainly had no interest in interacting with a drunken train passenger. He had no such reservations, however.

“Well now, ain’t you a purty thang, though?”

Jennie showed no reaction.

“I’m talkin’ to you, sweet thang. You’re ’bout the purtiest woman I ever seen.”

Jennie continued to stare straight ahead.

“What’s the matter, Missy? Do you think you’re too good for the likes of Dewey Butrum?”

Winnie got up from his seat and stood in the aisle between his mother and Dewey Butrum.

“Mr. Butrum, to answer your question, my mother is much too good for the likes of you.”

“Get out of the way, kid. I’m talkin’ to your mama.”

“I have no intention of getting out of the way.”

“Then I’ll just get you out of the way,” Butrum said. Standing up, he started toward Winnie, but Winnie kicked him hard in his shin.

Butrum lifted his leg and grabbed his shin, then began hopping around on one leg.

“Ow! You little shit, I’m going to teach you how to respect your elders.”

“No, you’re not,” another man said, and, looking up, Winnie saw that at least three more men had gotten up from their own seats. “If that little fella has the courage to stand up for his mama, we intend to see that nothing happens to him or her. There’s an empty seat at the back of the car. You go sit there.”

“The hell I will. I like where I’m sittin’,” Butrum said.

“Mister, you’ll either go back there peacefully, or we will throw you off this train,” the man said.

Grumbling, Butrum walked back to the last seat in the car and sat down.

“I thank you gentlemen for coming to our rescue,” Winnie said.

The spokesman for the group touched the brim of his hat, and smiled. “I’m not sure we did rescue you, son,” he said. “It looked to me like you were doing pretty good on your own.”

The three men returned to their seats, and Winnie returned to his.

“You know who those three men were, Mama?” he asked.

“No.”

“They were knights.”

Winnie’s mother reached over, took his hand, then squeezed it. “No,” she said. “You are my knight in shining armor.”

“Ha! I’m not wearing any armor.”

“Oh but you are, dear. You are girded with the armor of courage and righteousness.”

Thistledown

William Teasdale was sitting at his desk in the office of his house, examining the figures on the paper before him. So far, he had bought almost two thousand head of cattle from Sam Logan and the Yellow Kerchief Gang, paying them five dollars a head for cattle that would bring him forty dollars a head at the market. For now, all the rustled cattle were being kept away from his main herd in a part of his ranch that was the most remote from what people normally regarded as Thistledown. They would be kept there until the brands could be changed. Once that was accomplished, the stolen cattle would be integrated into his herd.

Teasdale chuckled at how easy it was to convert the capital letter F, for Frewen, to his own brand, which was the letter T with two crossbars. That double-bar T, that stood for Teasdale – Thistledown, was not only branded on the cattle but was painted on the side of his coach, as well as on the sign at the entrance to his ranch.

THISTLEDOWN RANCH

William Teasdale, Esquire

Of course there was a double advantage to the rustled cattle: it not only increased his herd and profit, but it also decreased Frewen’s herd, and increased his debt. Teasdale was certain that Frewen had not the slightest suspicion that Teasdale himself was behind all his troubles. The only fly in the ointment now was Matt Jensen. But Logan had told Teasdale this morning that Kyle Houston was already in Sussex, just waiting for Jensen to show up.

Sussex was a town with a single road that ran perpendicular to the Powder River. The road, which was appropriately enough called Sussex Road, was flanked on both sides by hitching rails and as many saloons as there were legitimate businesses. There were several horses tied to the hitching rails, most of them within a few feet of one of the eight saloons. The horses nodded and shuddered, swished their tails and stamped their hooves in a vain attempt to get rid of the annoying flies.

Matt Jensen surveyed the town as he rode in. Matt had never settled down in any one place, so in his lifetime there had been hundreds of towns like this, the streets faced by houses of rip-sawed lumber, false-fronted businesses, a few sod buildings, and even a tent or two.

It had rained earlier in the day, and the street was a quagmire. The hooves of the horses had worked the mud and horse droppings into one long, stinking, sucking pool of ooze. When the rain stopped, the sun, high and hot, began the process of evaporation. The result was a foul miasma rising from the street.

It wasn’t a matter of finding a saloon, but a matter of choosing which saloon he wanted to patronize. The one he chose was The Lion and The Crown, the biggest and grandest building in the entire town. It was only marginally cooler inside, and the dozen and a half customers who were drinking held bandannas at the ready to wipe away the sweat.

Matt surveyed the place, doing so with such calmness that the average person would think it no more than a glance of idle curiosity. In reality, it was a very thorough appraisal of the room. He was interested to see who was carrying and who wasn’t, and how they were armed, what type of weapons they were carrying, and whether or not those who were armed were wearing their guns in such a way as to indicate that they knew how to use them.

There was one man standing at the far end of the bar who did bear a second look. He was a small man, no taller than five feet, five inches, Matt guessed. He was dressed all in black, including a low-crown hat that was ringed by a silver band. What caused Matt to pay a little more attention to him than anyone else in the room was the fact that, while everyone else in the saloon had given him at least a cursory glance, this man stood at the bar staring pointedly into his drink. It was as if he was purposely avoiding any eye contact.

The heat was making everyone listless and slow-moving. There was nobody at the piano, and even the two bargirls seemed disinterested in working the room. For the moment, they were sitting as far away from the customers as they could, engaged in some private conversation.

The bartender stood behind the bar, wiping the used glasses with his stained apron before he stacked them among the unused glasses. When he saw Matt step up to the bar, he put a glass into place, then moved down toward him.

“What’ll it be?” he asked.

“I’ll have a beer,” Matt said.

The bartender reached for one of the glasses he had just “cleaned” with the stained apron, but Matt pointed to a different glass. It also might have been wiped with the dirty apron, but at least Matt hadn’t seen him do it.

“I’ll take that glass,” he said.

The bartender shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment as he held the new glass under the spigot.

Matt finished his beer, then put the glass down.

“Want another?”

“Not yet,” Matt said. “I’ve got four days of trail stink on me and I need to take a bath somewhere. I didn’t see a bathhouse on the way in.”

“That’s ’cause this town ain’t got a bathhouse,” the bartender said. “But if you’re wantin’ a bath, you can take one here. We got a bathing room upstairs. It’ll cost you two dollars.”

“Two dollars? For a bath? Most of the time it’s no more than a quarter,” Matt protested.

“Yeah, but since this is the only place in town you can get a bath, that is unless you’re planning on bathin’ in the Powder River, the boss charges what he can get.”

“How many people are willing to pay that?”

“No more’n one or two a week,” the bartender admitted.

Matt knew he was being taken advantage of, but he really needed a bath and had been thinking about it for the last twenty-four hours. He put two dollars on the bar.

“The water had better be hot, there had better be soap, and the towel had damn well better be clean,” he said.

“Don’t worry, it will be,” the bartender said as he took the money. “You can’t very well take a bath without hot water, soap, and a clean towel, now, can you?”

“I didn’t see a hotel, either.”

“Not likely you would, seein’ as we ain’t got one,” the bartender said. “We got rooms here, if you want one.”

“How much?”

“That’ll be two dollars.”

“Do you know where I can find a man named Moreton Frewen?” Matt asked.

“You lookin’ for him, are you?”

“I am.”

“If you’re thinkin’ you might get hired on out at the Powder River Cattle Company Ranch, I don’t think he’s hirin’ anyone new.”

“I’m not looking to be hired. I’m just looking for him.”

“Well, if you come in to town from the north, you more’n likely seen his castle.”

“His castle?”

“That’s what folks around here call it. It’s made of logs, but it ain’t nothin’ like any log cabin you’ve ever seen. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t the biggest house in all Wyoming.”

“How long will it take to get the bath ready?” Matt asked.

“Not long. Fifteen minutes or so. Are you goin’ to be takin’ a room here? ’Cause if you are, I’ll have the bathtub brought up to your room and filled with hot water.”

Matt took out another two dollars. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll take a room. But for now, I saw a mercantile across the street. I’m going to go buy a new pair of trousers and a shirt. That is, if the same man that owns this place doesn’t own that store. If he does, I probably can’t afford it.”

“Mr. Oliver don’t own it ... yet,” the bartender said. “But he’s been tryin’ to buy it, and like as not, he will some day.”

“Would your name be Matt Jensen?”

The question came from the man at the far end of the bar, the small man dressed in black. Hanging low in a quick-draw holster on the right side of a bullet-studded pistol belt was a silver-plated Colt .44, its grip inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The man’s eyes were so pale a blue that they looked like chips of ice.

He had not turned toward Matt yet, but was watching him in the mirror. He tossed the rest of his drink down, then took a towel from one of the bar rings and, very carefully, dabbed at his mouth. That done, he replaced the towel, then turned to look at Matt.

“Hey, you.”

Matt did not turn.

“I’m talkin’ to you, Mister.”

“Are you, now?” Matt said. He knew from the tone of the man’s voice, though, that he wasn’t being offered a simple greeting.

“You’re Matt Jensen, are you?”

Matt didn’t answer.

“I seen you once down in Laramie. Matt Jensen. That is you, ain’t it?”

“I’m Matt Jensen.”

“You’re the famous gunfighter, are you?”

“Mister, seems to me like you’ve got something sticking in your craw. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, then we’ll each just go our own way?” Matt said.

“Huh, uh,” the man said. “It don’t happen like that.”

Matt finally turned to face the belligerent little man. “I think I see where you are going with this,” he said. “And if you’d take a little friendly advice, I’d say, don’t go there.”

“Don’t go there? Don’t go there?” the little man replied. He turned to address the others. The saloon had grown deathly still now, as the patrons sat quietly, nervously, and yet drawn by morbid curiosity to the drama that was playing out before them. “Is that what you said?”

“That’s what I said,” Matt said. “Don’t go there.”

“Is that how you’ve built your reputation, Mr. Matt Jensen? By frightening people into not drawing against you? Am I supposed to be afraid now, just because I am in the presence of the great Matt Jensen?”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Matt asked.

“No, I ain’t goin’ to let it go,” the little man answered. “You see, I make my livin’ with my gun, and I’ve been hired to kill you. Well, sir, I don’t want to be hung for murder, so the only way I can justify killin’ you is if it is a fair fight. So, that’s what I’m wantin’ to do now. I want to goad you into drawin’ on me.”

“What is your name?” Matt asked.

“The name is Houston. Kyle Houston,” the man replied. A slow, confident smile spread across his face. “I reckon you’ve heard of me.”

“Yeah, I have,” Matt replied.

Houston’s smile broadened. “Really? What have you heard?”

“I’ve heard that you are a bully and a coward, trying to make a reputation by back-shooting old men and young boys. I heard you’ve never faced a man down in your life.”

Matt hadn’t heard any of that, nor had he even heard of Kyle Houston, but he knew that it would make the man blind with rage, and so it did.

Houston’s smile quickly turned to an angry snarl. “Draw, Jensen!” he shouted, going for his own gun even before he issued the challenge.

Houston was quick, quicker than anyone else in this town had ever seen. And as he started his draw, a broad, triumphant smile spread across his face. He had caught Matt by surprise, and Matt was going to have to react to the draw.

Then, even before Houston could bring his pistol to bear, he realized that he wasn’t quick enough. The arrogant smile left, and one could see in the man’s eyes the knowledge, then the acceptance of reality. And the reality was that Kyle Houston was about to be killed.

The two pistols discharged almost simultaneously, but Matt was first and accurate. His bullet plunged into Houston’s chest, while the bullet from Houston’s gun smashed through the front window of the building.

Looking down at himself, Houston put his hand over his wound, then pulled it away and examined the blood that had pooled in his palm. When he looked back at Matt, there was an almost whimsical smile on his face.

“I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ve been kilt.”

“Yeah, you have,” Matt replied, still holding the gun.

Houston slid down into a sitting position, his position supported by the bar itself. His right arm stretched out beside him, the pistol free of his hand except for the trigger finger that was curled through the trigger guard. The eye-burning, acrid smoke of two discharges hung in a gray-blue cloud just below the ceiling.

Matt turned back to the bar, then slid his beer toward the bartender.

“I believe I’m going to need something a little stronger than beer,” he said.

The bartender drew a whiskey and handed it to him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, Mr. Jensen. If you want anything, just ask,” the bartender said.

Matt tossed the whiskey down.

“What’s your name, barkeep?” he asked.

“It’s Moore, Mr. Jensen. Harry Moore.”

“Did you know that gentlemen, Mr. Moore?”

“Only by his reputation,” Moore said.

“What kind of reputation was that?”

“He was fast with a gun,” Moore said. “Folks said he was the fastest.”

“That’s what folks said, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Moore said.

“And what do you say?”

“I say folks was wrong.”