Massacre at Powder River

Chapter Fifteen

For the next week, Matt rode over the land that made up the Powder River Cattle Company. He covered not only the land that Frewen held deed to, but also the land that was considered open range where Frewen’s cattle sometimes roamed in search of fresh graze. A couple of times, he was challenged by some of Frewen’s cowboys. These were the ones who were staying in line shacks rather than the bunkhouse, so they had not met him. When he showed them the paybook Frewen had given him, they accepted him as one of them, so he was able to enjoy free roam of the range.

He came across the line shack that had been burned out, and paused for a moment to have a look around. He had read the account of those last hours as kept by Paul Graham, one of those killed. It was easy to see what happened here because the charred remains of the front part of the wagon were pushed into the burned-out house. The back part of the wagon, including the rear wheels, was still intact. He thought about the young cowboy, forced out of the line shack by the fire, only to be ruthlessly gunned down by the outlaws.

Later that same day, Matt happened upon two of Frewen’s cowboys. One was lying on the ground and the other was sitting beside him. The one on the ground had blood all over the front of his shirt.

“What happened here?” Matt asked, dismounting and hurrying to the side of the wounded cowboy.

“It was the Yellow Kerchief Gang,” the uninjured cowboy said. He was about sixteen, and the cowboy on the ground didn’t look any older. “They shot Burt, and took the cows we was watchin’. Burt’s hurt real bad.”

The young cowboy wiped tears from his eyes.

It only took one glance for Matt to see that Burt was more than badly hurt. Burt was dead. He confirmed it when he was unable to find a pulse.

Matt had seen both cowboys before, but he hadn’t learned everyone’s name yet. “I saw you back at the ranch, but I don’t know your name,” Matt said.

“My name’s Jeff. Jeffery R. Singleton. This here is Burt Rawlings,” he added, pointing to the cowboy on the ground.

“Well, Jeff, I’m sorry,” Matt said. “But your friend Burt is gone.”

Jeff was small, barely over five feet tall, and couldn’t have weighed over 120 pounds. He was young, but Matt was reasonably sure the boy wouldn’t be much bigger when he was full grown.

Jeff wiped away another tear. “Yes, sir, I was sort of afraid of that. I was hopin’ I was wrong, though. Me ’n Burt, we was goin’ to go into town this Friday on our day off. We was goin’ to buy me a French harp and Burt was goin’ to teach me to play it. You should hear him. Burt is just real good at playin’ the French harp. He can play most ...” Jeff stopped, and choked back a sob. “That is, he was just real good at playin’ the French harp. He could play most any song you ever heard tell of.”

“The men who did this,” Matt said. “How many were there, and which way did they go?”

“They was only two of ’em. They was waitin’ over there behind them rocks. When we come up, they shot Burt off his horse afore either one of us even seen ’em. Then they both come out from behind the rocks and they throw’d down on me. I prob’ly should’a fought back, but they had the drop on me. They took mine and Burt’s guns with ’em when they rode off with the cows.”

“They took the cows, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Fifty of ’em, I’d say.”

“Which way did they go?”

“That way,” Jeff said, pointing west. “Of course, that’s about the only way they could go with them. Couldn’t go south ’cause that way is the Injun reservation. They couldn’t go north, ’cause there ain’t no water that way, an’ them cows was already a-gettin’ plenty thirsty when me ’n Burt was herdin’ ’em. And they couldn’t go back east, ’cause that’s back toward the main part of the ranch.”

“I’m going to help you put Burt’s body on his horse. You take him back to Mr. Frewen. Tell him I’m going after his cattle and the two men who took them.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeff said. “You be careful ’round them two, Mr. Jensen. I mean, I know you are a gunfighter an’ all, but them two don’t fight fair. Like I said, they just rose up an’ shot Burt without so much as a fare-thee-well.”

Matt didn’t like the use of the term “gunfighter” but he didn’t challenge Jeff. “I’ll be careful,” is all he said.

It took a few minutes to drape Burt’s body over the back of his horse and to use Burt’s lariat to tie him onto the saddle so he wouldn’t slide off on the ride back to the big house. Matt made certain that the body was very securely tied, because he knew that if it fell off, Jeff probably would not be able to get him back onto the horse.

Then, when Burt was secure, Jeff swung into his saddle and started back.

“Jeff, I’ll find the ones who did this,” Matt promised.

“Yes, sir, I’m sure you will, and I’ll appreciate that,” Jeff said. “Only, it ain’t goin’ to bring Burt back.”

Matt watched Jeff for a moment, then he mounted Spirit and started off in the opposite direction. It wasn’t hard to track the rustlers. The fifty head of cattle left a trail of footprints and cow plops that was even better than a series of painted arrow signs.

Matt caught up with the cattle thieves in less than an hour. There were two of them, both wearing yellow kerchiefs, and both wearing hats that had yellow hatbands. Because they were concentrating on the cows they were herding, neither of them saw Matt. About half a mile ahead was a good, wide, clear stream of water. Matt recalled that Jeff had mentioned that the cattle were already thirsty, so he knew that was where they were going. Detouring around the herd, he rode hard and reached the stream before the two rustlers and their cattle arrived.

He was waiting just out of sight as they rode up.

“Get all of ’em up here, Zeke. Let’s get ’em watered, then get on. The quicker we are out of here, the better I’ll feel,” one of the two men said. The man who called out was average size in height and weight, distinguished by a terrible red scar that streaked down the left side of his face, starting on the forehead, coming through the eyelid which also bore the scar, then down across his cheek before turning back up, like a fishhook at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to worry none about gettin’ ’em up here,” Zeke said. Zeke had a full, very dark beard. “They’ve done got a whiff of the water. They ain’t no way we could stop ’em, even if we wanted to.”

“Ha! You got that right.”

The two rustlers rode up to the stream together, let their horses water, then moved to one side to watch as the fifty cows hurried up, then spread out along the bank to begin drinking.

“Woowee! Look at them bastards drink, Clem. Now I would say that is one thirsty bunch of cows,” Zeke said.

“Have you got a count? How many is there?” Clem asked.

“They’s fifty-three of ’em.”

“Ha! And seein’ as we get a dollar a cow, that’s fifty-three dollars we can split,” Clem said.

“Yeah, and don’t forget the guns we took off them two cowboys. They ought to bring five or ten dollars apiece, anyway.”

“Next time we go into town, I’m goin’ to get me a bottle of whiskey and the best lookin’ whore I can find,” Clem said. “What are you going to do next time you go to town?”

“I’ll tell you what he is going to do next time he goes to town,” Matt said, suddenly appearing from behind a large outgrowth of sagebrush. “He is going to hang. Both of you are.”

“What? Who the hell are you?” Zeke shouted. He started for his gun.

“No, don’t do it!” Matt called, but Zeke continued with his draw.

Matt waited until the last moment, hoping Zeke would come to his senses, but he didn’t. Matt had no choice but to shoot, and his bullet hit Zeke in the forehead. Zeke pitched from the saddle, dead before he hit the ground.

Clem may have had a notion to draw as well, but seeing what happened to Zeke, he threw his hands up.

“No!” he said. “No, don’t shoot! I ain’t drawin’ on you!”

Matt rode toward Clem until he was just a few feet away. He could see the hate and anger in Clem’s eyes.

“Throw his carcass across the back of his horse,” Matt said.

“You’re the one that kilt him. You do it,” Clem said.

“All right, I’ll do it. But if I do, then I may as well take both of you back that way,” Matt said, and he pulled the hammer back on his pistol and aimed it directly at Clem’s head.

“No!” Clem shouted, holding his hands out. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it.”

“Good thinking,” Matt said.

A few minutes later Zeke was belly-down on his horse, and Clem was mounted, with his hands tied to the saddlehorn. Matt looped his rope around Clem’s neck.

“What? Look here! What are you a-doin’? You ain’t a-fixin’ to hang me, are you?”

“Not here. At least, not as long as you do things my way,” Matt said as, holding on to the other end of the rope, he mounted Spirit. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we a-goin’?”

“We are going to meet the man whose cows you were stealing, and some of the men who were friends of the one you killed,” Matt said.

“You don’t plan for me to ride like this, do you? With a rope around my neck? Don’t you understand? Anythin’ could happen. My horse could step into a gopher hole, I could fall off, my horse might even decide to take off runnin’. If anythin’ like that was to happen, why, my neck would get broke.”

“Yeah, it would, wouldn’t it?” Matt replied.

“This ain’t right!” Clem called as Matt gave Clem’s horse a slap on the rear to send him on.

“If I were you, I’d do less talking and pay more attention to your riding,” Matt said easily. “You don’t want to fall off, do you?”

“No!” Clem said, his answer reflecting his concern.

It took Matt and Clem better than an hour to ride back to Frewen Castle. For the entire time back to the ranch, Clem kept clucking soothingly to his horse.

When Matt returned with one man belly-down across a horse and another with his hands tied to the saddlehorn and a rope around his neck, the arrival generated a lot of attention among the Frewen cowboys. They were especially interested in the fact that the dead man and Matt’s prisoner were both wearing yellow kerchiefs.

“I’ll be damn if Jensen ain’t caught hisself a couple of Yellow Kerchiefs,” one of the cowboys said.

“That’s them!” young Jeff said, pointing to the two men. “That’s the two men that jumped us, and kilt Burt!”

“What the hell did Jensen bring one of ’em back alive for?” one of the other cowboys said. “Hell, let’s just shoot the son of a bitch now!”

“Shootin’ is too good for him. Let’s string ’im up. Hell, it won’t be hard to do. He’s done got the rope around his neck.”

Several gathered around then as Matt rode straight to the barn. Once there, he threw his end of the rope over a beam that extended out over the top of the barn door, then pulled it just tight enough to put pressure on Clem’s neck. After that, he tied his end of the rope off then started toward the big house.

“What? What are you going to do? You can’t leave me like this! I could hang!” Clem called out in fear.

Clem was sitting on his horse right in front of the barn door. The rope around his neck went up and over the protruding beam, then was tied off at the other end, so that it formed an inverted “V.”

“You won’t hang, as long as you can keep your horse still,” Matt called back over his shoulder.

“You can’t do this! You can’t leave me here like this!” Clem called out to him. “It ain’t right!”

“Mister, I would quit yelling if I was you,” one of the cowboys said. “You’re liable to spook your horse. Besides which, if you don’t shut up your cat-erwaulin’ I’ll slap your horse on his ass myself.”

The other cowboys laughed.

“Ahh,” Clem said, realizing then that what the cowboys said was true. “Stay here, horse,” he said as calmly as he could. “Don’t you be tryin’ to go nowhere.”

When Matt came back out a few minutes later, Moreton Frewen and his wife Clara, as well as Jennie Churchill and her son Winnie, followed him out of the house and across the yard toward the barn. There, they saw one horse with a body draped across it and another horse, in the saddle of which sat a man with a rope not only around his neck, but looped over a protruding brace, as if he were about to be hanged.

“What do you want to do with him?” Matt asked.

“This is the feller that kilt Burt! I say hang the son of a bitch!” one of the cowboys shouted, then seeing the reaction of the two ladies, he took off his hat. “Sorry ladies,” he said. “I didn’t mean to go cussin’ in front of you.”

“I think we should take him into town, give him a trial, and then hang him,” Frewen said.

“Do we have a judge in this town?” Matt asked.

“I’m a judge,” Frewen offered.

“All right,” Matt said. “I’ll take him into town and turn him over to Marshal Drew.”

As Jennie watched Matt ride off, she felt a strange mix of emotions. She had never met anyone quite like Matt Jensen. He was the perfect gentleman, kind and sensitive, gentle and patient with her son. But he was also, without doubt, the most dangerous man she had ever met. Despite that, or maybe even because of it, she still found him handsome and exciting and would have enjoyed an innocent dalliance with him. Except that she knew, instinctively, that a dalliance with Matt Jensen would be anything but innocent.

When Matt took his macabre procession into town it generated as much attention as it had when he had arrived back at Frewen Castle. Men and women came out of houses, stores, and saloons to stand on the side of the street and watch as he passed by.

“Them’s Yellow Kerchiefs,” someone said.

“Who’s that leadin’ ’em?”

“Don’t you know? That’s Matt Jensen. He’s the one that kilt Kyle Houston.”

Not content to just watch Matt ride by, most of the town moved out into the street then began walking along behind him, following him to Sikes’ Hardware Store, which was also the location of the Welsh Undertaking Parlor. By the time he got there, Sikes and Welsh were both outside, drawn by curiosity as to what had caught the attention of the whole town.

“Get this one buried,” Matt said, nodding toward Zeke’s body.

“What’s his name?”

Matt looked toward Clem. “I heard you call him Zeke. What’s his last name?”

“I don’t know,” Clem said. “He never told me.”

“It’s Holloway,” a woman’s voice said.

The woman who spoke was wearing the revealing attire of a bargirl. Several looked at her, the expressions on their faces reflecting their curiosity.

“Tell me, Lucy, how come it is you know his last name?” Welsh asked.

“He told me once that his last name was Holloway.”

“You’re doin’ business with one of the Yellow Kerchief men?” someone said accusingly.

“How was I supposed to know he was a Yellow Scarfer?” Lucy replied. “He didn’t have his yellow kerchief on when I seen him. Fact is, he didn’t have nothin’ on a-tall, last time I seen him.”

The entire town laughed.