Massacre at Powder River

Chapter Nineteen

Matt was with a group of cowboys who had been rounding up cattle, and though he hadn’t been hired as a cowboy, he did lend a hand here and there when it was required. He awakened just before dawn, rolled out of his blankets, pulled on his boots, then sat staring into the fire. Although he was an early riser, he was not the first one up. Tibby Ware, the black cook, had been up for an hour, and now he stood in the light of his lantern at the lowered tailgate of his wagon, rolling out biscuits for breakfast. He had already made coffee, and the aroma permeated the encampment area.

Just beyond the bubble of light created by the cook’s lantern and the campfire, the cows that had already been rounded up stood in the quiet darkness, watched over by a single night rider. Matt walked over to the large blue coffeepot which was suspended over an open fire.

“Mr. Ware, may I have a cup of coffee?” he asked, knowing that the cook was supreme when it came to the allocation of food.

“Indeed you may, sir, indeed you may,” Ware answered. “I’ve already taken off the first batch of biscuits, if you would like one. And there’s butter and honey here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ware,” Matt answered. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then held it out in a salute toward the cook. “This will do me for now.”

“All right. I’ll get back to my cookin’ then,” Ware said. “But if you need ’nything, just ask.”

“I appreciate it.”

Matt took a swallow of his coffee as he stared down into the fire, watching the flames curl around a piece of glowing wood. That was when he heard three shots being fired—the signal that had been arranged in the event cattle rustlers were spotted.

Tossing his coffee aside, Matt hurried toward the rope corral where he saddled Spirit as quickly as he could. Then, mounting, he galloped away from the small encampment even as the others were just beginning to stir in their bedrolls.

“Where’s he goin’ so fast?” one of the cowboys asked.

“Didn’t you hear them three shots bein’ fired? Poke must be in trouble,” another said.

Matt heard the shooting then, not a signal this time, but several rounds being fired in a pattern that suggested trouble. He rode hard toward the sound of the guns, in the direction of the muzzle flashes which were lighting up the predawn darkness.

When he arrived, he saw Poke lying on the ground behind his dead horse, being assailed by at least four men. Snaking his rifle from its saddle sheath, Matt raised it to his shoulder and fired, knocking one of the riders from his saddle. Jacking another round into the rifle, he fired again, taking down a second man. The remaining two rustlers turned and galloped away.

Putting his rifle back in the saddle sheath, Matt pulled his pistol and walked out into the gray shadows of early dawn to check on the men he had shot. He found them both dead.

By now the rest of the outfit arrived, carrying weapons and ready to do battle.

“We don’t need you,” Poke said. “Me ’n Mr. Jensen done took care of ’em all by ourselves.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you were a big help,” one of the cowboys said, and the others laughed.

“Yeah? Well the sons of bitches kilt my horse, is what they done.”

“It wasn’t your horse, it was Mr. Frewen’s horse.”

“Maybe, but he’s the one I’d been usin’. He was a good horse, too.”

“And Poke kept them from getting any of the cattle,” Matt said.

“Yeah,” Poke replied with a big grin on his face. “I kept ’em from taking any of the cows.”

“We’re just teasing you, Poke. I think you done real good out here,” another cowboy said.

Carlos Silva was sitting in a back corner table at The Lion and The Crown Saloon. The first day he came into the saloon, Lucy started toward him, but stopped when she saw his face. For a moment she felt as if the devil himself had come for her because of the life she was living, and, terrified, she turned and moved as far away from him as she could. And though she no longer believed he was the devil, she still avoided him.

Lucy was not the only one who avoided any contact with Silva. Neither Rose nor any of the other girls would have anything to do with him. But it wasn’t just the women who avoided him. The men who were regular customers also tended to give him a wide berth. There was about him a “scent of sulfur,” the bartender, Harry Moore, suggested when he talked about the strange and silent red-faced man who had come every night now, for a week.

He ordered the same thing every night. Two mugs of beer, a plate of pickled pigs’ feet, and a boiled egg. Almost immediately there was speculation about who he was, and what he was doing here. He didn’t wear a gun, so nobody thought he was particularly dangerous—though his looks were enough to frighten all but the most confident person.

Silva had come to The Lion and The Crown every day waiting for his “subject” to show up. He had no intention of confronting Matt Jensen, so there would not be a shoot-out in the way of Kyle Houston. Carlos Silva had killed seventeen men, though not one of the killings had been the result of a face-to-face confrontation. That wasn’t the way Silva worked. He operated from afar, killing every one of his victims from a distance of from five hundred to one thousand yards.

But despite his long-distance killing, before he shot anyone, he wanted to—no, he had a compulsion to—see them up close. He wanted to see them breathing, eating, drinking, laughing, and talking with others. He wanted to experience some of their life before he took it from them. He intended to kill Matt Jensen, just as he had promised. But he wanted to get a close look at him first, and Reed had told him that from time to time Jensen frequented this particular saloon.

Silva had heard stories about Matt Jensen, he had even seen dime novels that were written about him. Matt Jensen was a famous man, certainly far more noted than anyone Silva had ever killed before. Because of the way Silva worked, most people had never even heard of him. But after this job, after killing Matt Jensen, Silva had an idea that he would be well known. He would become famous for killing a famous man.

On his fifth consecutive day of coming to The Lion and The Crown Saloon, four men came into the saloon, laughing and talking. Silva listened.

“Harry, four beers.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Morrison,” the bartender replied. “What brings you to town? We don’t often see you in the middle of the week like this.”

“We brought two more Yellow Kerchiefs into the undertaker,” Morrison said. “That’s four of them gone now. I’m telling you the truth, Matt Jensen is like a one-man army.”

Upon hearing Matt Jensen’s name, Silva began to pay very close attention to the four men. Was Jensen among them?

His question was answered a moment later when Marshal Drew stepped into the saloon.

“Mr. Jensen?” the marshal called.

One of the four men turned toward the marshal. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. There was a holstered pistol on his right hip, and they way he wore it told Silva that the stories he had heard about Jensen were probably not exaggerated.

“Yes, Marshal?”

“One of the men you brought in was Clyde Beamer. There’s a two hundred fifty dollar reward out on him, so if you’ll stop by my office I’ll issue a voucher that you can cash at the bank.”

“All right, thanks,” Matt said.

“And here I was about to buy the first round,” Morrison said. “Drink up, boys, this round will be on Matt Jensen. With the reward he’s got comin’, he can buy all the drinks for the rest of the night.”

Matt chuckled, then pulled out the money. “All right,” he said. “I wouldn’t want it to get around that I’m cheap.”

Silva studied Jensen over the next several minutes, observing how the others around him seemed to defer to him. He was obviously very popular and well respected. He was a handsome man who appealed to the women, Silva could tell that by the way the bargirls reacted to him and the way he reacted to them, laughing and joking with them, and treating them with respect, despite their occupation. It was clear that Matt Jensen was everything that Silva was not. And soon he would be dead.

As Silva anticipated killing him, he felt a charge of excitement course through his body. He had never been with a woman, had no interest in women, but he had heard it described what a man felt like when he was with one.

Silva was feeling that now.

It was always like this—he would see his subject up close, see him talking, laughing, living, knowing what his subject did not know, that soon he would be dead. Silva’s heart began beating faster, and he closed his eyes and clenched his fist to bring himself under control.

Two days after Matt had killed the two would-be rustlers, William Teasdale arrived at Frewen Castle, driving a carriage to which was tied a horse.

“What is this?” Frewen asked, coming down off the porch to meet him.

“It’s a horse for the boy,” Teasdale said. “You can’t have a boy out here without a horse.”

“You didn’t have to do that, William,” Frewen said.

“I know I didn’t have to,” Teasdale said. “But it is something I wanted to do. He can ride it as long as he is here. When he goes back to England, I’ll send someone over for the horse.”

“Yes, but you heard his mother. She doesn’t want him riding.”

“Moreton, the boy needs a mediator and advocate. I am sure that if Lord Randolph were here, he would be on the boy’s side. You are just going to have to be his surrogate father while he is here. Be strong. Stand up to Lady Churchill.”

“By damn you are right,” Frewen agreed. “And what a wonderful thing for you to do, William, to bring a horse for Winnie to ride. Just a minute, I’ll get him out here.”

A few minutes later, Winnie, with a broad smile spreading across his face, was standing on the front porch looking at the bay Arabian horse.

“That has to be the most magnificent horse in the entire world,” Winnie said.

“Well, young man, he is yours for as long as you are here.”

“Can I ride him right now?”

“Of course you can ride him. That’s why I brought him to you,” Teasdale said.

Winnie walked out to the horse, then, seeing how high the stirrup was from the ground, was a bit confused as how best to mount him.

“Lead the horse over to the steps,” Frewen suggested. “That will be the easiest way to get on, until you learn how.”

Winnie led the horse over the steps, then using the steps, climbed into the saddle. Frewen handed him the reins.

“Winnie! What are you doing?” Jennie asked, coming out onto the front porch at that moment.

“I am going horseback riding,” Winnie replied.

“To what end?”

“Just to be riding.”

“What a waste of time.”

“Mama, no hour of life spent in a saddle is a waste of time,” Winnie said.

“You say that as if you have hours in the saddle.”

“I admit that this will be my first hour, but some day I will have many hours on the back of a horse. And, years from now, when I am old and gray, I can look back on this and say, ‘This was my finest hour.’ ”

“No, I don’t think you should go riding. Please, get down now,” Jennie said.

“Jennie, let the boy ride. I promise you, there is not one American boy in the entire West who is Winnie’s age who is not riding with proficiency,” Frewen said.

“Proficiency,” Jennie said. “You have just made my point, Moreton. How can Winnie ride with knowledge and skill when he has no experience?”

“And how does one gain experience, Jennie? One gains experience by involving themselves in an activity that leads to proficiency. Let the boy ride, I beg of you,” Frewen pleaded.

“Please, Mama?” Churchill added.

The expression on Jennie’s face indicated clearly that this was not something she favored, but her objections were overcome by the combined efforts of Winnie and Frewen.

“All right,” she said reluctantly, finally giving in.

“Thank you, Mama!” Winnie said. “Thank you so much!”

“Please, Winston, do be careful,” Jennie said. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

“Don’t worry, Lady Churchill,” Teasdale said. “I had my foreman pick out the most gentle horse in our stable.”

“That was very nice of you, Sir William,” Jennie said, though the tone of her voice and the expression on her face indicated that she wished he had not made a horse available for her son.

“Mr. Morrison, suppose you ride out with him this first time,” Frewen suggested.

“All right,” Morrison said. “Tell you what, young man, come along with me and watch me saddle my horse. If you are going to ride, that’s something you’ll need to know.”

Winnie followed Morrison into the stable, where the foreman picked up a saddle and took it over to the stall where he kept his own horse. He put the saddle over the wall of the stall, then picked up a brush and stepped up to the horse and began brushing its back.

“The first thing you want to do is brush your horse’s back and make sure you remove any dirt or grit that might be under the saddle. Also you want to be certain that all the hair is flat. If you don’t, it could cause the horse to chafe under the saddle. And always check for sores or wounds before you put the saddle on. You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” Winnie replied.

“Good. Now, you’ll start with the saddle blanket. You want to put the blanket forward, over the withers, then pull it back into place. That keeps the hair flat beneath the saddle. Oh, and make sure the blanket is even on both sides.”

Morrison demonstrated by putting the saddle blanket on the horse.

“Now, before you put on the saddle, hook the stirrups over the horn. That way, they won’t hit the horse as you put the saddle on him. And when you put the saddle on, lift it high enough that it doesn’t hit the horse or push the saddle blanket out of position. Put it slightly forward, then move it back in to position, and put it on gently.”

Again Morrison showed what he was talking about by actually doing it.

“Now all you have to do is tighten the cinch. You want it tight enough, but not too tight, otherwise the horse will be uncomfortable. Leave enough room that you can get your fingers between the cinch and the horse.”

All the time he was talking, Morrison was demonstrating and now his horse was saddled and ready to go.

With his horse saddled, Morrison walked over to Winnie’s horse and removed the saddle and blanket.

“Now, you do it,” he said.

“I didn’t ask Sir William what this horse was named,” Winnie said as he went about saddling the animal, repeating step by step the procedure Morrison had showed him.

“I doubt that he has a name,” Morrison said. “I’m sure he just came from the remuda.”

“Then I intend to name him,” Winnie said.

“I’m sure he will like that. What are you going to name him?”

“He is such a noble-looking horse that he needs a noble name,” Winnie said. “I think I shall call him Tudor Monarch.”

Morrison laughed. “That’s quite a name,” he said.

When the horse was saddled, Winnie gave the animal a pat on the withers.

“Get mounted, and we’ll take a ride,” Morrison said.

Winnie started to lead the horse back to the porch.

“Where are you going?”

“Over to the step so I can get on the horse.”

“What if you had to dismount while you were out on the trail? How would you get back on then?” Morrison asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Let me show you.”

Morrison pulled the left stirrup down far enough for Winnie to put his foot in it. Putting his left foot in the stirrup, then throwing his right leg over the horse, he was able to get into the saddle.

“Now, reach down and pull up on this adjustment strap until the left stirrup is even with the other one,” Morrison suggested.

Winnie did so, then a huge smile came across his face. “Oh, what a wonderful thing. I am a cowboy,” he said. “I am truly a cowboy.”