Massacre at Powder River

Chapter Five

Frewen was in the study of his house reading a letter from London when Clara came into the study.

“Clara, guess what,” Frewen said, looking up from the letter. “Your sister Jennie is coming to visit you.”

“Oh,” Clara said. “What wonderful news that is!”

“I wonder how she will take to the Wild West,” Frewen said.

“I’m sure she will get along splendidly,” Clara said. “After all, we are Americans, you know.”

“Yes, I know, dear,” Frewen replied. “But neither you nor Lady Churchill were exactly raised in a log cabin.”

Clara laughed. “I may not have been raised in one,” she said. “But I am living in one now.”

“You call this a log cabin? You have hurt my feelings,” Frewen said, exaggerating a pout.

“This is a wonderful log cabin, and I love it,” Clara said. “Does Jennie say in the letter that she will be bringing her child?”

“Yes, the little brat will be with her,” Frewen said.

“He is not a little brat,” Clara defended. “Winnie is a wonderful child and smart as a whip. Why, with his intelligence, background, and upbringing, I predict that he will do great things some day.”

“Ha! Winston Churchill doing great things? That will be the day.”

There was a knock at the door to the study and looking toward it, Frewen saw his gentleman’s gentleman.

“Yes, Benjamin?”

“M’Lord, Mr. Morrison would have a word with you.”

Myron Morrison, foreman of the Powder River Cattle Company, was a big man with gray hair and beard. Enlisting in the Union army as a private, he was a major when the war ended, and with no family and no place to call home, he had come West. After a few “adventures” as Morrison called them (he was never specific about his “adventures” and Frewen had never asked), he began working as a cowboy and now was the foreman of one of the biggest ranches in Wyoming.

“Then by all means, show him in.”

Frewen had a smile on his face as he stood to greet his foreman, but when Morrison came in, he had a grim expression on his face.

“Mr. Morrison, what is it?” Frewen asked, his own smile replaced by an expression of concern.

“I have some bad news for you, Mr. Frewen. This morning, Ralph Turner rode out to the Taney Creek line shack to take fresh provisions to the men there. He found the shack burned, and all four of the men dead.”

“What? You mean they couldn’t escape the fire?”

“No, sir, it isn’t that,” Morrison said. “There was a burned-out wagon up against the burned-out shack. It looks like it was purposely set afire. There was only one body inside, and it was too badly burned to identify, but we found Graham, Emmett, and Cooter outside, all shot, so we are sure that the body inside was that of Phil Bates, seeing as he was with them.”

“Oh,” Frewen said. “Oh, those poor men. None of them were married, were they?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank God for that, at least.”

“Yes, sir. It is bad enough that they all have parents, but it would be doubly worse if they had wives and children. And of course, Emmitt wasn’t much more than a child himself. He was only fifteen or sixteen.”

“It was the Yellow Kerchief Gang, wasn’t it?” Frewen said. “They were the ones who killed Coleman and Snead a couple of weeks ago and they left a yellow flag on a post to brag about it, the bloody bastards. I don’t suppose they left a yellow flag this time, did they?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, no matter, I’m sure it was them. There’s no way of telling for certain, of course, but I’ve no doubt but that they also did this.”

“There was no yellow flag, but we know for a fact that Graham, Emmitt, Cooter, and Bates were killed by the Yellow Kerchief bunch.”

“Oh? How do we know?”

“I know you are going to find this hard to believe, Mr. Frewen, but you might recall that the other boys were always teasing Graham about keeping notes on everything that was happening. They all wanted to know if he was writing a book. Well, sir, he had that little tally book with him, and he wrote it all down, everything that happened. They found this lying under him.” Morrison handed a small notebook to Frewen. “Read this.”

Frewen took the notebook, then pulled his finger back quickly. There was a small spot of blood on his index finger.

“I’m sorry about that,” Morrison said. “I thought I got all the blood cleaned away.”

“It’s all right,” Frewen answered. He walked back to the chair and sat down to read.

After Frewen finished reading the journal, he bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was quiet for a long moment.

Clara had left the room when Morrison came in, and she returned now. “Mr. Morrison, would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No, ma’am, thank you,” Morrison said.

Clara started to ask Frewen if he wanted coffee, but she saw him with his head bowed.

“Moreton? Moreton, what is it? What is wrong?” she asked.

Frewen handed the notebook to her. “Paul Graham, Phil Bates, Emmitt Carol, and Cooter Miles—all killed,” he said. “Graham left an account.”

“He left an account?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Morrison said, nodding toward the book. “You’ll find it all written down there in his tally book.”

Clara found a chair and settled down to read Graham’s account.

“Four at the line shack, and two at on the island in William’s Creek,” Frewen said. “That makes six good men that we have had killed by the Yellow Kerchief Gang.”

After that, Frewen and Morrison remained silent until Clara finished reading Bates’s journal. “Oh,” she said, sniffing as tears began to run down her cheeks. “Oh, I can hardly stand to read this. How terrible it must have been for him.”

“Mr. Frewen, do you have any idea why they might be specifically targeting you?” Morrison asked.

“Targeting me? What do you mean, targeting me? They are hitting all the ranches in the county, aren’t they?”

“They are hitting the others, yes, sir; but I’ve been talking to some of the other foremen, and none of the other ranches have been hit nearly as bad as we have. Like you said, we’ve lost six good men. There’s only been two other cowboys killed in the entire county. And all the other ranchers combined haven’t lost as many cattle as we have lost.”

“I didn’t know that,” Frewen said. “I don’t know why we should be the ones suffering the most. And I don’t have any idea of what to do about it.”

“Would you like a suggestion?” Marshal Drew asked Frewen when he went into town to show him the journal. Marshal Drew was not only the city marshal of Sussex, he was also a deputy sheriff, thus giving him some authority beyond the city limits.

“If you have an idea, yes, I would love a suggestion.”

“Have you ever heard of a man named Matt Jensen?” Drew asked.

“Matt Jensen? No, I can’t say that I have. Who is he?”

“Well, I’ve never met him either, you understand, but I have read about him, and I’ve heard a lot about him. He is a lone wolf kind of man who wanders around a lot. And from what I hear, he is the kind of man who puts things right.”

“What do you mean by put things right?”

“Well, sir, he’s a gunman, Mr. Frewen,” Marshal Drew said.

“A gunman? My word, Marshal, are you, a lawman, actually suggesting that I hire a gunman?”

“Yes sir, I am. I think what is happening here now is just the sort of thing where a gunman might be handy to have.”

“Do you really think I should resort to something like this?” Frewen asked.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Frewen. As a deputy, my jurisdiction outside of town is limited, but even so, I wouldn’t be able to handle this situation. And there is no way Sheriff Canton can handle it either.”

Frewen stroked his mustache. “He certainly hasn’t been able to handle it yet, has he?”

“No, sir, he has not.”

“All right, let’s suppose I did want to hire this gunman of yours, this Matt Jensen. Do you have any idea how I can get in touch with him?” Frewen asked.

“Normally, I wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to locate him, but Mr. Murphy said he saw him at the Cheyenne Club in Cheyenne last week. I don’t know if he is still in Cheyenne, but if he is, more than likely we could send a letter to him, care of the Cheyenne Club, and it would get to him.”

“Good idea. All right. I will write him a letter,” Frewen said.

“You had better make it a good letter so you can get his attention,” Marshal Drew suggested. “A man like Matt Jensen probably gets a dozen or so requests for help a week.”

“Don’t worry, Marshal. I will find a way to get his attention,” Frewen said.

At sea, onboard the White Star Line

ship the Baltic

For the first four days of the trans-Atlantic crossing, the seas had been favorable and Jennie had fared well. But this morning, they had run into heavy seas, and for at least twelve hours the ship had been tossed about like a cork. Jennie had become very seasick, though Winnie seemed to be immune to it. The bow was lifted high, and Jennie and Winnie had to hold on because their first-class cabin tilted at about a forty-five-degree angle. It stayed there for a long moment, then the bow plunged back down with such a suddenness that Jennie’s stomach seemed to rise to her throat. At the bottom of the wave trough, the ship rolled hard to the starboard, and everything that was loose in the cabin—Jennie’s bottles of creams and perfumes, her jewelry box, Winnie’s books and journal, shoes, jacket, cap—all slid to the right side of the compartment. Their cabin was on the starboard side, and when it rolled starboard, they could look through the porthole window and actually see the water, not blue as it had been for most of the voyage but a dirty gray, swirling with white caps.

The ship remained in that position for a long, terrifying moment, and Jennie got the impression that they were actually about to capsize.

“Oh, Winnie!” she said, and she put her arms around him, pulling him to her, as much for her own comfort as for his.

Slowly the ship righted itself, then continued on past the upright position, rolling to the port as far as it just had to starboard. Now all the loose objects in the cabin came sliding quickly back to the left, and from the porthole window they could see nothing but sky.

Finally, after another hour of such tossing and pitching about, the seas calmed, and once again the ship was steaming at fifteen knots, stable except for the normal, gentle roll of the waves.

“Are you feeling better, Mama?” young Winston Churchill asked his mother.

“I’ll be all right,” Jennie answered, although her voice was weak and there was a greenish tint to her skin.

“It is nearly time for dinner,” Winnie said. “I hope that the storm didn’t keep the chefs from their work.”

“Oh, Winnie, can you actually think of food now?” Jennie asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Winnie said. “We didn’t eat lunch, remember? You said you didn’t feel like it.”

“You go ahead,” Jennie said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t eat a bite.”

“Do you want me to bring you something?”

“No, I ... wait a minute. Yes, I would love an orange,” Jennie said. “I think I could eat an orange.”

“I shall try to get one for you.”

Normally at this time of day, the first-class dining room was filled with passengers marveling over the fantastic meals provided by the chefs. But this evening the dining room was empty, except for three people who were seated at the captain’s table.

Captain Hewitt, seeing Winnie come alone into the dining room, stood and called out to him.

“Here, lad, are you alone?”

“Yes, sir. Mama is ill.”

There was a smattering of laughter around the table.

“Yes,” Captain Hewitt said. “After the last twelve hours, several are, I’m afraid. Would you like to join us?”

“Yes, sir,” Winnie replied, pleased to have been invited.

The others around the table introduced themselves, and Winnie made a concerted effort to remember the names of each of them so he could call them by name when he left.

“Tell me, young man, what is taking you to America?” Captain Hewitt asked.

“My mother and I are going to visit my aunt and uncle in Wyoming. My uncle owns a cattle ranch, with real cowboys,” Winnie said.

“Well, now, I’m sure that will be a wonderful adventure,” the captain said.

Captain Hewitt and the others returned to their discussion. They were talking about the Sino-French war.

“The French have taken Vietnam from the Chinese,” the American, Congressman Henry Cabot Lodge, said. “But I studied the Vietnamese when I was publishing the International Review and you mark my words, the French have done nothing but grab a tiger by the tail. Vietnam is going to come back to haunt them some day.”

Winnie listened to the conversation with interest; then, at the end of dinner just before he excused himself, he said good-bye to everyone around the table, addressing each of them by name.

All were impressed with him, and they responded generously.

“Captain, before I return to the cabin, I promised Mama I would try and get an orange for her. Do you think that is possible?”

“It had better be,” Captain Hewitt said, and when he raised his hand, a steward appeared instantly.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Get a sack of oranges for young Mr. Churchill, would you please?”

“Yes, sir,” the steward said.

The steward disappeared, and within less than a minute returned with a bag of oranges.

“Thank you, sir,” Winnie said. “Thank you very much.”

When Winnie returned to the room, Jennie was sitting in a chair. Her appearance had improved considerably, though she still looked quite pale.

“Look, Mama, oranges!” Winnie said. “An entire bag of them. Would you like me to peel one for you?”

“Oh, yes,” Jennie said. “Winnie, darling, you are a savior.”

When Winnie’s private tutor learned that he was coming to America, she had given him an assignment.

“I want you to write an essay about America,” she had said.

“Oh, I know all about America. I have read about it.”

“No, not what you get out of books. I want you to record your personal thoughts from your own observations. Don’t even think about what is written in all the history and geography books.”

“All right,” Winnie had said.

Winnie and his mother had taken passage on the Baltic, a steam-powered steel ship that could carry one thousand passengers. Two hundred thirty passengers, like Lady Churchill and her son, made the crossing in luxurious accommodations, including a large stateroom with electricity and an attached private bathroom. Winnie began his notebook by writing of their time onboard the Baltic.

I like to stand on the promenade and look out to sea and think of the days when England’s ships explored the world. What brave men those sailors must have been to sail this mighty ocean in small wooden ships, propelled only by the wind. When I think of them, I cannot but believe that so very much is owed to so few, by so many Englishmen.