Massacre at Powder River

Chapter Ten

Behind Matt, the silence was broken as everyone was engaged in spirited and animated discussion about what they had just seen. The gunsmoke had cleared out but the smell of burnt gunpowder still hung in the air as Marshal Drew, the town marshal, arrived.

“What happened here?” the marshal asked. Drew was in his late fifties or early sixties. He was clean-shaven, bald-headed, and with a pronounced paunch. Before the war he had been a Texas Ranger, but when the Texas Rangers were broken up after the war he wandered from town to town, and eventually from state to state, here working as a sheriff’s deputy, there as a policeman or city marshal. He had come to Sussex because it was a small town and he hoped to close out his career in a place that offered a minimum amount of stress.

“Houston tried to brace this fella,” Moore said.

“Houston started the fight?”

“That’s right. Houston drew first.”

“You’re telling me that Houston drew first, but this man still beat him?”

“That’s right, Marshal,” one of the saloon patrons said. “Harry is tellin’ it like it is.”

Marshal Drew stroked his chin as he looked at Houston. Death had made the young would-be gunman’s face appear slack-jawed and distorted.

“Mister, if you beat Houston fair and square the way these folks are tellin’ it, you must be some kind of a gunfighter,” Drew said. “What’s your name?”

“Jensen,” Matt replied. “Matt Jensen.”

“Matt Jensen? Sumbitch! Did Houston know who he was tanglin’ with?”

“He called me by name,” Matt said.

Marshal Drew looked back toward Houston. “I reckon you run across punks like Houston here more times than you can count, don’t you? Tryin’ to make a name for himself.”

“From time to time,” Matt said. “Most men have more sense than he did. And less guts,” he added in a begrudging acknowledgment of Houston’s misplaced courage. “But I don’t think he was trying to make a name for himself. He had another motive.”

“What do you mean?”

“He told me he was hired to kill me.”

“Hired to kill you? By who?” the marshal asked.

“I’d like to know the answer to that as well.”

“Are you here to meet with Mr. Frewen?” Marshal Drew asked.

“Yes, how did you know that?”

“I’m the one who suggested he get in touch with you.”

“Do we know each other?” Matt asked.

The marshal shook his head. “We’ve never met,” he said. “But I’ve sure heard of you. My name is Drew. And if I can be of any assistance while you’re, uh, doing whatever it is you are going to do for Mr. Frewen, please, just let me know.”

“All right, Marshal Drew,” Matt replied. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

Marshal Drew turned to the bartender. “Harry, I’ll get Welsh down here to pick up the body and get it cleared away for you,” he said.

“No hurry, Marshal,” Moore replied with a broad smile. “Havin’ Houston shot by a man like Matt Jensen is goin’ to bring in the business. Hell, I may get Dysart to come set up his camera. I’ll charge people to have their pictures took with Houston’s body.”

Leaving the saloon, Matt rode down to the end of the street where he had boarded his horse, Spirit, in the livery. Then, trying to stay on the board that crossed the road so as to avoid as much of the mud and liquefied horse apples as he could, he walked back to the mercantile.

There were seven or eight people in the store when he walked in, and from the way they reacted at seeing him, he knew that they had already heard the story of the shooting in the The Lion and The Crown. They moved aside to give him as much room as possible.

The frightened reaction people had to him used to bother Matt. He wanted to yell at them, to ask them if they thought he was going to go berserk and start shooting them all. Now he just turned his mind off to it.

A very overweight man with white muttonchop whiskers came up to talk to him.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen. How may I help you?”

Matt was not surprised that the clerk knew his name. He figured that by now, everyone in town probably knew him. That also meant that Moreton Frewen, the man who had sent for him, knew that he was in town as well.

“I need a pair of trousers and a new shirt,” Matt said.

The clerk, evidently believing that he had a gift for fashion, attempted to pick out the trousers and shirt. He chose a pair of fawn-colored trousers and a bright orange shirt.

“Oh, I think you would look very nice in this,” the clerk said.

“I would feel better in this,” Matt said, picking up a pair of blue denims and a white collarless shirt.

Both Teasdale and Moreton Frewen had telephones in their houses, with direct lines to the switchboard in town. In fact, they were two of only thirty-five private telephones in the entire town; but Teasdale’s foreman, Stan Reed, was in town, and shortly after the gunfight occurred, he went directly to the telephone exchange.

The switchboard was in the living room of Gordon Prouty’s house. Prouty was the operator. Reed pulled on the bell cord, and Prouty, who was eating a piece of fried chicken, answered the door.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want to call Mr. Teasdale.”

“It’ll cost you a nickel,” Prouty said.

Reed gave him a nickel, and Prouty pointed to a telephone mounted on the wall. “Go over there and pick it up,” he said. Prouty connected the line, then turned a crank.

Teasdale was eating his dinner when the telephone rang, and when Margaret started to answer it, Teasdale held up his hand.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “I’m expecting a call.” He hurried over to the phone.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Teasdale, I thought you might like to know that this fella Matt Jensen that ever’one has been talkin’ about got into town today.”

“How do you know?” Teasdale asked.

“How do I know is because almost the first thing he done after he got here was he got into a gunfight with Kyle Houston.”

Teasdale smiled. “Houston kill him, did he? Well, I guess that ...”

“No sir,” Reed said, interrupting him.

“What do you mean, no sir? I thought you said the first thing he did after coming to town was to get into a gunfight with Houston.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what he done, all right. Only he didn’t get killed, he was the one that done the killin’. It’s Kyle Houston who is dead.”

Teasdale hung up with saying another word.

After he’d made his purchases, Matt returned to The Lion and The Crown Saloon. The bartender waved him over.

“It’s Room Four, Mr. Jensen,” Moore said, handing Matt a key. “Second room on your left.”

Matt climbed the stairs then opened the door to the room. There was a zinc bathtub in the room, filled with water. The little wisps of steam that were rising from the water indicated that the water was warm. Matt slipped down into the tub, where he soaked for nearly an hour. Then, with his skin red from the hot water and soapy scrub, he dried off and walked over to lie down on the bed. Still naked from his bath, he crawled between the stiff, clean sheets, and was asleep within moments.

The room was dark when he woke up. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then he remembered that he had taken a room over the saloon. At that same moment, he realized that he was awake because something had awakened him, though he didn’t know what it was.

The doorknob rattled quietly, and all confusion and hesitancy were gone. Matt was out of bed, on his feet instantly. Pulling his pistol from the holster that hung on the head of the bed, he moved as quietly as a stalking cat to the wall next to the door. He cocked his pistol, pulling back the hammer as slowly and quietly as he could to silence the engaging sear. With the pistol cocked and loaded, he held it at the ready.

The night breeze pushing through the window cooled his skin, reminding him that he was naked. Damn! He was about to get into a gunfight, and he was naked! How would the paper write that up if he was killed? He could feel the texture of the boards under his feet. He was intensely alert, ready for anything.

He heard whoever was trying to break into his room breathing on the other side of the door. The hall lanterns were lit, and a sliver of light shot in under the door. From the saloon below, he could hear the nighttime revelry, a playing piano, and someone laughing.

Matt waited.

Whoever was coming into his room wasn’t breaking into it. They had a key! The doorknob turned again and the door began to swing open, spilling an ever-widening arc of light into the room.

Matt watched the door ease open, away from him. As it did, the arc of light turned into a bar of light that splashed all the way across to the foot of the bed. A shadow filled the door, gliding in through the opening, backlit by the lantern on the wall in the hall beyond.

What the hell?” Matt whispered in surprise, letting his breath escape in a rush. The person trying to get into his room was a woman!

Matt grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her inside. He closed the door quickly behind her, the motion pulling her against him. She let out a cry of alarm.

“Who are you?” Matt asked, backing away from her.

“My name is Lily,” the woman answered in a frightened voice. “Lily Langtry.”

“Lily Langtry? I’ve heard of you,” Matt said, lowering his pistol. “The next question is, what are you doing in my room?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” Lily replied. “This is my room. I’ve been staying here for two weeks.”

“What?”

“I’m a friend of Moreton Frewen,” Lily said. She chuckled. “However, I am not a friend of his wife, Clara. So when I come to visit, I have to make other arrangements. This room is my other arrangement, and has been for the last two weeks.”

“I, uh, don’t know what to say,” Matt said. “I rented a room, and this is the room the bartender gave me.”

“Wait a minute, I think I know what must have happened,” Lily said. “I was in Room Three, but I asked to be changed to this room. There is some construction going on down the street, and when they get started in the morning, the hammering and sawing awakens me. I complained about it to Johnny this morning, and he gave me a key to this room. He must not have told Harry. I’ll go back across to Room Three. I really didn’t expect to see you in here.” She paused for a moment, and Matt saw a twinkling of humor in her eyes. “And I especially didn’t expect to see so much of you.”

Matt felt his cheeks burning, and he was glad that it was too dark for her to see that. He stepped back into the shadow to restore some modesty, if not dignity.

“You don’t have to keep looking, you know,” he said.

Lily laughed, a low, throaty laugh. “I see your point,” she said. “I’ll just step back across the hall now. I do apologize for disturbing you. Good night, now.”

A slight morning breeze filled the muslin curtains and lifted them out over the wide-planked floor. Matt, clean from his bath the night before and wearing his new clothes, moved to the window to look out over the town, which was just beginning to awaken. From the laundry, he could hear the chattering of the Chinese employees as they built the fires to heat the water. Boxes were being stacked behind the grocery store as a team of four big horses pulled a fully loaded freight wagon down the main street.

A stagecoach was sitting at the coach depot, and one man was on top of the coach receiving luggage from another man who was passing it up to him. The door of the coach was open, and passengers were just now getting onboard.

From somewhere in town, Matt could smell bacon frying and his stomach growled, reminding him that he was hungry. He splashed some water in the basin, washed his face and hands, then put on his hat and went downstairs. It was too early for the normal clientele, but there were a couple of people already here and they were sitting at separate tables, staring silently into their breakfast beer. Neither of them paid any attention to Matt as he walked through the saloon. The bartender was not the same one who had been on duty the previous night.

The morning sun was bright, but not yet hot. The sky was clear and the air was crisp. As he walked toward the café he heard sounds of commerce: the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer, a carpenter’s saw, and the squeak and rattle of the departing stagecoach. He knew that the hammering and sawing must be the construction that Lily Langtry mentioned last night.

Matt smiled as he thought about his encounter with the famous actress. It had been an embarrassing moment, but he had to admit that it was also funny.

Fifteen minutes later, as Matt was enjoying a breakfast of coffee, bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, biscuits and gravy, Lily Langtry came in. Seeing Matt at one of the tables, she smiled and crossed the room to him. Matt stood up.

“Good morning, Mr. Jensen.”

“You know my name, Miss Langtry?”

“Of course I do,” Lily said. “Would you mind if I joined you?” she asked.

“No, not at all. I would be pleased with the company,” he said, pulling out a chair for her.

“My, that’s quite a breakfast,” Lily said. “How long has it been since you have eaten?”

“It’s been quite a while. Not since supper last night,” Matt said.

Lilly laughed, then, as he held the chair, took her seat. She ordered a cup of hot tea and toast with butter and marmalade.

“You expect something like that to hold you till dinner?” Matt asked.

“No, I’ll probably eat a light lunch.”

Matt smiled. “I forgot that sophisticated people call supper ‘dinner.’”

“Is that what you think I am, Mr. Jensen? Sophisticated?”

“Well, yes, ma’am, being as you are English and famous and all,” Matt said.

“Evidently I’m not the only famous one in this conversation,” Lilly said. “You seemed surprised that I knew your name. But after your—shall we call it deadly encounter? You are the person everyone is talking about this morning.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Matt said.

“You shouldn’t be sorry you killed him. From what everyone is saying, you had no choice. It was either him or you.”

“I’m not sorry I killed him, I’m just sorry that it has become the talk of the town.”

“I’m also told, however, that the name Matt Jensen is not just known here in Sussex but quite well known, not only in the West, but throughout the country. You are that Matt Jensen, are you not?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Mr. Jensen, quit calling me ma’am. You make me feel like an old spinster.”

“Sorry, Ma’—that is, Miss Langtry. I’m just trying to be polite, is all.”

“I think calling me Lily would be very polite.”

“All right, Lily it is, then,” Matt said.

“Matt, if I may ask, what are you doing in Sussex? This seems like a small and very out-of-the-way town, even for the far West.”

“I’m here because I received a letter from Moreton Frewen, asking me to come.”

“My,” Lily said. “I am impressed that Moreton could crook his finger and bring someone like you to do his bidding.”

“He did a bit more than crook his finger,” Matt said.

“What did he do?”

“He included a bank draft for five thousand dollars,” Matt said.

“Oh, dear. Moreton spends so freely, and the bad thing is, the money he spends isn’t his own.”

“Not his own money?”

“Well, I suppose it is, in a way. At least, he has control of it. You see, Moreton is very good about getting others to invest in his ideas. He has long had the idea of coming to America and building a huge cattle ranch, an empire, really. The Powder River Cattle Company is the fruition of that idea, and though ostensibly he is the owner, there are so many people invested in the ranch that I fear he is little more than a figurehead. And since his ranch is losing money so badly, I’m not sure how much longer he will be able to hang on.”

“I understand that the cattle rustling is very bad here. If you lose too many cows to rustlers, it is hard to turn a profit,” Matt said.

“I suppose that is true, but Sir William doesn’t seem to be losing money as badly as poor Moreton. In fact, Sir William has offered to buy Moreton’s ranch.”

“Sir William?”

“That would be William Teasdale,” Lily said.

“Like Moreton, Sir William is a subject of the Crown. And like Moreton, he has the dream of establishing a cattle empire in the American West. Unlike Moreton, however, Sir William seems to be succeeding.”