Snake River Slaughter

Chapter Seventeen

When Matt came riding into Medbury, he was leading Cooter’s horse behind him. Cooter was draped, belly down, across his saddle, and Matt’s entry into town aroused immediate attention. Those who were riding or driving in the street, as well as those who were merely pedestrians, saw the body draped over a horse. Many of them interrupted their transit to their original destination in order to follow Matt. There were other townspeople engaged in commerce inside the stores and buildings, both as customers and merchants, who saw the macabre parade through the windows, and they came pouring out of the stores and buildings, including one man who ran out from the barber shop still draped in the barber’s cape, with the barber, brandishing his razor, chasing after him. They joined the growing throngs of people who were now walking alongside Matt, keeping pace with the two horses as they moved down the street, the hoofbeats making loud, clopping sounds.

“Ain’t that Cooter’s horse?”

“Yeah, it’s Cooter’s horse. That’s Cooter lyin’ across the saddle.”

“He looks dead.”

“Hell yes, he’s dead. You think he’d be lyin’ belly down on his horse that way iffen he war’nt dead?”

“That’s Matt Jensen leadin’ him. I reckon you’ve heard of Matt Jensen.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t figure he’d ever come back into town after he kilt the Mexican the other night.”

The curiosity of the crowd grew even greater when Matt stopped in front of the Sand Spur. The crowd followed, but kept a reasonable distance, because no one wanted to incur Matt Jensen’s anger.

“What you reckon he stopped here for? How come he didn’t go on down to the undertaker? I mean, what else for would he be bringin’ in Cooter’s body, iffen he wasn’t bringin’ him in to the undertaker?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“No sir, not me. I ain’t goin’ to ask him nothin’.”

Tying, first his own horse off, then Cooter’s horse, Matt slid Cooter’s body off the saddle, draped it across his shoulders, stepped up onto the porch, then pushed his way through the bat wing doors.

“Here! What are you doin’ there?” one of the saloon patrons shouted. “You can’t be bringin’ no dead body into a saloon like that! They’s folks drinkin’ in here.”

Matt looked at the man who had complained, fixing him with such a steely glare that the man blanched, then took a couple of steps backward.

“Of course, I reckon if you wanted to bring him in here, that would be your business,” the man said, clearing his throat.

Upon seeing Matt come into the saloon with a body draped over his shoulder, most of the patrons jumped up from the tables and moved back out of the way. One man, however, was conspicuous in that, unlike the other patrons of the saloon, he remained seated. He was playing a game of solitaire, and he gave the impression that he was so engrossed in his game that he didn’t even notice Matt.

Matt had never seen Poke Terrell, but the man sitting at the table was short and stocky, baldheaded, and with no neck, which was exactly the way Poke had been describe to him. Matt also saw Mole, and it was obvious that Mole had been talking to Poke because, though he had moved away from the table, he was still in close proximity to it.

Matt walked back to the table. Not until then, did Poke look up.

“I’ve got a play for you, Poke,” Matt said.

“What would that be?”

Without ceremony, Matt dumped Cooter’s body onto the cards that were spread out for the game.

“Dead man on the black queen,” he said.

Poke sighed, but made no abrupt movement.

“I was winning this game,” he said. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to win at Ole’ Sol?”

“This is number five for you,” Matt said.

“Number five? I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Al Madison, Ken Jernigan, Sam Logan, Carlos Garcia, and now Cooter. I don’t know Cooter’s real name,” Matt said.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you are the son of a bitch who keeps sending them after me.”

“Here, you got no call to be talkin’ to Mr. Terrell that way,” Mole said.

Matt jerked his pistol from his holster, pointed it at Mole, and cocked it. “You were there with Cooter, both times,” Matt said. “You were on the canyon wall, and you were with Cooter this morning.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Mole said.

“You don’t?”

“I swear, I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“Then you are going to die dumb,” Matt said. “I don’t plan to give you any more chances to ambush me, so I’m going to kill you right now.”

Several in the saloon gasped.

“No, no!” Mole said, throwing his arms up. “I ain’t even carryin’ a gun. You can see my holster is empty! I think Cooter stole it.”

“Did he, now? Well, you can take that up with him when you see him in hell.”

“No, no!” Mole said. “Please, Mister, don’t kill me. Don’t kill me!” Mole dropped down onto his knees, weeping.

“Get out,” Matt said, making a motion toward the batwing doors. “Get all the way out of town. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Mole shouted. Getting back on his feet, he ran toward the door, pushing through those who had gathered just outside. A moment later, everyone could hear the clatter of hooves as Mole galloped out of town.

“Mister, I don’t know who you are,” Poke said. “But you don’t come in here and threaten me or my friends. I won’t put up with—unh!”

The grunt came from a blow, struck by Matt. Matt was still holding the pistol in his hand, and he brought it around in a vicious backhand, hitting Poke in the side of the head and knocking his chair over. Poke wound up on his back, on the floor.

“You son of a bitch!” Poke shouted in rage, pulling his pistol from his holster.

Matt closed in on him in one step, and as Poke got the pistol out, Matt sent a swift kick against it, knocking the pistol out of Poke’s hand.

Poke rolled over onto his hands and knees and stayed that way for a moment.

“Arrghhh!!” Poke yelled at the top of his voice. Coming up off his hands and knees, Poke launched himself in a bull-like charge toward Matt. The sudden charge caught Matt off guard and he dropped his pistol as Poke drove him across the room before slamming him into the bar.

The ferocity of the attack momentarily stunned Matt and he was unable to respond. Poke took advantage of Matt’s immobility, then pulled back away from him just far enough to send a hammerlike blow into Matt’s side.

Poke was an incredibly strong man, and Matt felt as if he had been kicked in the side by a mule. The pain was excruciating, and he knew that the wound had been opened up. In fact, he could feel a dampness under his shirt, and he knew it was blood.

Thinking he had the advantage now, Poke threw a powerful right cross, hoping to connect and take Matt out. But Matt managed to jerk his head back just far enough to avoid the blow. Matt countered with a hard, straight left, landing it on Poke’s nose. He felt the nose go under the blow, and had the satisfaction of hearing Poke grunt in pain.

By now the citizens of the town who had gathered just outside the saloon began to come inside, joining the saloon patrons who were already inside, in order to witness this fight. For a few of the townspeople, this was the first time they had ever been inside the saloon, and though under normal circumstances, they would avoid such a place with all that was in them, this was different.

This was a fight between two powerful men. And since neither of the men were from Medbury, it didn’t really matter to the crowd who won, as long as the fight was entertaining.

Poke made another wild swing, and Matt managed to dance back away from it, shooting a right jab to Poke’s chin as he did so. Poke shook off the blow, then saw that Matt was bleeding through his shirt on his left side. Poke smiled at him.

“Oh, now, did I do that?” Poke asked. “That must really hurt.”

Poke picked up a chair, then swung it like a baseball bat at Matt. Matt ducked under it, and the swing caused Poke to be off balance. Taking advantage of that, Matt gave Poke a shove, causing him to stumble into the potbellied stove, knocking it over. When he did so, all the sections of the stove pipe came loose, and black soot poured out onto Poke, blackening his face.

Just as Poke regained his feet, Matt charged, putting his shoulder into Poke’s stomach and driving him back against the stair railing. Poke went through the railing.

Matt stepped away again. Poke lay halfway through the railing onto the stairs. He shook his head, then got up but, as he did so, he grabbed one of the rungs from the railing. Lifting it over his head, he charged Matt, once again, bellowing in anger.

Matt picked up a section of the stove pipe and held it crosswise in front of him to take the blow from the club. The stove pipe was bent double by the force of the blow, but it prevented the club from actually hitting Matt. Poke threw away the club and made another roundhouse swing at Matt. This time, because Matt had been put slightly off balance by the club attack against him, Poke connected.

The blow knocked Matt back, and he fell onto one of the tables, smashing it into two pieces. Poke ran over to him and raised his foot with the intention of bringing it down hard on Matt’s head. Matt grabbed Poke’s leg and twisted it, causing Poke to go down. Matt rolled over to him then knocked him out with a blow to the chin.

Now, breathing hard, and bleeding from the reopened wound in his side, Matt got up from the floor and stumbled over to the bar.

“Whiskey,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” the bartender replied. “And this one will be on the house, Mr. Jensen. I reckon you’ve earned it.”

“You dropped this,” Millie said, handing Matt his pistol.

“Thanks,” Matt said. “And thanks for the other night, not only the warning, but for taking care of me. Katherine told me what you did.”

“It wasn’t anything that anybody else wouldn’t have done,” Millie said.

“But that’s the point, Millie. Nobody else did it.”

By now everyone had crowded back onto the floor of the saloon. Many were repositioning tables and chairs, and a couple of men set the stove back up. They were unable to reconnect it to the flue though, because one of the stove pipes had been too badly damaged.

Poke was sitting up on the floor now, with his head hanging down. Nobody would dare approach him.

“Oh, honey, you are bleeding just real bad,” Millie said, putting her fingers on Matt’s shirt. “Come on up to my room, let me take care of that for you.”

“Mister, look out!” someone shouted and Matt turned to look toward Poke, just as Poke shot at him.

“Uhn!” Millie grunted, going down beside Matt. Matt drew and fired back at Poke, hitting Poke in the middle of his chest.

“Millie!” Matt said, dropping down beside her.

Millie smiled at him. “Kitty told me what a good man you are. I said she didn’t have to tell me that…I already knew.”

Millie took two more gasping breaths, then she stopped breathing.

Matt stood up, then looked over at Poke. He walked over and stood over him, then pointed his gun at Poke’s head and cocked it.

“Mister, you’ll just be wasting a good bullet on that worthless son of a bitch,” someone said. “He’s already dead.”

By coincidence, the circuit judge was in town, so they were able to hold an inquiry as to the cause and circumstances of the deaths of Poke Terrell, Cooter, and Millie that very afternoon. After all the testimony was taken, Judge Marshall Craig issued his ruling.

“As to the death of Harold Cotter, there being no eyewitnesses to dispute Matt Jensen’s claim that it was in self-defense, this court rules that there be no indictment.

“As to the death of Poke Terrell, all testimony being heard, this court rules that it was death by gunshot, said gunshot discharged in the defense of his own life. This court rules that the homicide be justifiable, and there will be no indictment.

“As to the death of the young woman known as Millie, all testimony being heard, this court rules that her death was the result of an act of murder committed by Poke Terrell, and only his own death prevents an indictment from being issued.

“This hearing is concluded.”

Several came to congratulate Matt, and he accepted their congratulations and best wishes graciously.

When he rode back out to Conventry on the Snake that evening, he realized that not only had he not had lunch with Marcus Kincaid, he didn’t even see him while he was in town.

He had also made no arrangements for the livestock cars, and that had actually been the sole purpose of his visit.

His day had become unexpectedly busy. He was sure that Kitty would understand that.

What he didn’t realize was that it was about to get busier.

He felt the bullet, before he heard the sound. Actually, he didn’t feel the bullet as much as he felt the effects of the bullet, because his hat flew off his head and he felt his hair fluff. Had the bullet been but one inch lower, it would have slammed into the back of his head.

Matt jerked the reins of his horse hard to the right, toward a large rock that would give him protection from whoever was shooting at him. Spirit needed no urging, the horse answered so quickly that Matt wasn’t sure whether the horse was responding to his direction or reacting on his own.

Once he was behind the rock he jumped from the saddle, then climbed up onto the rock to see who had taken the shot at him. When he saw Mole, he wasn’t surprised.

Mole took a second shot at him, and Matt shot back. One shot was all it took.

Matt walked back to look down at Mole’s body, then he sighed.

“You just got yourself killed for nothing, Mole,” he said. “With Poke dead, just who did you think was going to pay you?”

The next day, two grave diggers drove the undertaker’s wagon out to the edge of town to Boot Hill, then back into the part of the cemetery known as Potter’s Corner. There, the two men dug three graves, alongside the recent grave of Carlos Garcia, Mole having been brought in last evening. There was another recent grave in the cemetery, that of Sam Logan, but as Logan had not been without standing or funds when he died, he was spared Potter’s Corner and was buried in the main part of the cemetery.

But, just as the town of Medbury had paid to bury Carlos Garcia, they were also footing the bill for Andrew “Poke” Terrell, John “Mole” Mueller, and Harold “Cooter” Cotter. The three men had been put into plain pine boxes and, once the graves were opened, they were lowered by a rope into the ground. Not one person, other than the grave diggers themselves, was there for the interment.

Gene Welch, the undertaker and proprietor of the Eternal Rest Mortuary, had thought Millie would be buried in the same way. After all, she was a whore with no known relatives and the only thing that was known about her was that she had told one of the other soiled doves who worked at the Sand Spur that she was originally from Springfield, Illinois. All that changed, though, when Kitty came to town.

“You will not put her in a pine box,” Kitty said, when she learned of Welch’s plans.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Wellington, but the city is paying for her funeral, same as they done for Mr. Poke and Mr. Cooter. And with what the city pays, a pine box is all she gets,” Welch said.

“I am paying for her funeral,” Kitty said. “I want to see the finest coffin you have.”

A big smile spread across Welch’s face. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I got one here for you to look at that is as fine a coffin as you’ll find anywhere in the country. Why, you could bury the president of the United States in this coffin. It’s called the Heaven’s Cloud, and it’s all lined with silk, don’t you know. Why, I promise you, the young lady will be as comfortable lyin’ in that coffin as she would be sleepin’ in her own bed.”

“Good. I want her in that coffin, and I want you to use all the artifice and skill at your command to see to it that she looks beautiful,” Kitty said. “Also when she is taken to the cemetery, you take her in the glass-sided hearse. I will provide a team of horses to pull the hearse.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Welch said. “Mrs. Wellington, if you don’t mind my askin’, why are you willin’ to go all out for this woman? She wasn’t anything but a whore.”

“I do mind your asking,” Kitty replied. “You just do what you are paid to do, without asking questions. Otherwise I can hire Mr. Stallings from King Hill to conduct the funeral.”

“No, no, you don’t have to go be doing that, now,” Welch said quickly. “There’s no need for you to go over to King Hill. I assure you, Mrs. Wellington, I can give the young lady as nice, if not a nicer, funeral than anything Paul Stallings can do.”

“Have her ready tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be back with the team of horses then.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I have a fine team of draft horses.”

“I will bring carriage horses,” Kitty said. “That is what you will use to draw the hearse.”

“Yes, ma’am, if you say so. I’ll have her all ready, looking as pretty as a picture. What about a marker? Will you be wantin’ a marker?”

“Yes, of course I want a marker.”

“The problem is, as far I know there don’t nobody in town know her whole name. The only name anyone knows is Millie. And we don’t even know if that’s her real name or not, seein’ as whores often takes other names that aren’t their own. They do that to keep their family from findin’ out what they are doin’, don’t you know.”

“I know her real name.”

“You do? You know her real name, do you? Well that’s good. What is it?”

“Her real name is Millicent McMurtry,” Kitty said. “I’ll write it down for you.”

“Yes, ma’am. Millicent McMurtry. I’ll have that carved on her marker, along with a flower, or somethin’ real pretty.”

“You do that,” Kitty said as she left the morturary.

“Mrs. Wellington?” Welch called.

At the call, Kitty stopped and turned around.

“About callin’ Miss McMurtry a whore and all. I hope you didn’t take that personal.”

“Oh? And tell me, Mr. Welch, why should I take it personal?”

“You know, you bein’, uh, I mean what some folks say ’bout you one time, uh…”

“Yes, Mr. Welch?” Kitty said, pointedly.

“Uh, nothin’, I just, uh, like I say, I’ll have the—young lady—all ready in time for the funeral tomorrow.”

“You do that,” Kitty said, as she walked out the front door of Welch’s funeral establishment.