Snake River Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  It may be added that Miss Wellington has quickly established the reputation of being a perfect judge of horses There is no man in Idaho who is her equal and few anywhere who are as good as she. Moreover she is an ideal horsewoman; there is probably no woman in the world who can excel her in the saddle.

  “She sounds like quite a lady,” Matt said, handing the article back to Gilmore. “But it still doesn’t ring any bells as to why I should know her.”

  “Read this letter, then we’ll talk,” Gilmore said.

  Dear Matt:

  Please forgive me for addressing you by your Christian name, but it is the way I remember you. You will remember me, if you remember me at all, as Katherine. I slept in the bunk next to Tamara when she and I, and you, were residents of the Soda Creek Home for Wayward Boys and Girls.

  Of course, you may not remember me at all. I was younger than you, and not nearly as courageous. But then, nobody at the home was as courageous as you were. You had no way of knowing, but I was so in love with you then. Well, I was as in love as a nine-year-old girl can be.

  It took me a while to find you, and if you are reading this letter, then the first part of my quest has been accomplished. The second, and most difficult part of my quest, will be in getting you to agree to come work for me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean work for me in a permanent position. I would love that, but from what I have learned about you, you are a man who moves about in a restless drift that neither proposes a particular destination nor has a sense of purpose.

  Perhaps, for a short time, I can provide you with both a destination and a sense of purpose.

  I believe Mr. Gilmore, who is the bearer of this letter, also showed you a newspaper article that will provide you with some information about me. If so, then you know that I am undertaking to fulfill a dream that I shared with my late husband.

  Although my husband owned the land, he did not have any livestock, and when he died, I was denied access to his funds by the English courts. As a result, I have had to borrow money against the land and the house in order to build the ranch. I am about to make a shipment of horses which will make enough money to pay off the loan, but recent events have caused me to worry as to whether or not I will be able to do this. Rustlers have twice struck the ranch, and I have been losing stock at an alarming rate. I have asked the city marshal, who is also the deputy sheriff of the county, for help, but there is only so much he can do.

  Marcus Kincaid has suggested strongly that I sell the ranch to him. Kincaid was the son of my husband’s first wife and inherited half of Thomas’s holdings. I believe he was hurt that he did not inherit Coventry, so I think his offer to buy the ranch is made as much out of his desire to own the ranch, as it is out of genuine concern over my welfare.

  Despite his offer, I intend to keep the ranch. That is, I shall keep it if I am successful in fighting the rustlers. And that is why I am contacting you, now. From what I have learned about you, Matt, the courage and resourcefulness you showed as a youth in the orphanage has now manifested itself in your adulthood. I have read about you. You are a fearless defender of what is right and a brave foe of all that is evil.

  I am calling upon you for help, believing that the aforementioned virtues, as well as any residual feeling you might have for one who shared with you those terrible days in the orphanage, will lead you to respond favorably.

  Should you decide in the affirmative, Mr. Gilmore will provide you with rail passage to Medbury, the nearest railhead to Coventry. From there, it is but a short ride to my home.

  Sincerely,

  Your Friend, Katherine

  Matt smiled as he finished the letter. “I do remember her,” he said.

  “Oh, thank Heavens,” Gilmore said. “If you had not remembered her, I fear it would have been impossible to talk you into coming to her aid. Though I am prepared to tell you what a wonderful woman she is, and how…”

  “I’ll do it,” Matt said, interrupting Gilmore in midsentence.

  “Oh, my, this is a little unusual,” Gilmore said. “Is there to be no negotiation? Don’t you want to know how much Mrs. Wellington is willing to pay for your services?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Gilmore smiled. “Mrs. Wellington said this would be your reaction. I didn’t believe her—I thought you, well, that is, I thought any man would want to know what was in this for them before they made a commitment.”

  “When do we leave?” Matt asked.

  “We will leave on the morning train,” Gilmore replied.

  “My horse?”

  “I have rooms for us at the hotel. The hotel also provides a stable. You can put your horse there for tonight, and I will secure passage for him on the train tomorrow.”

  “Mr. Gilmore, you are a very efficient lawyer,” Matt said.

  “Thank you, sir. I try to be,” Gilmore replied.

  That night, Matt dreamed. It had been a long time since he had actually thought of the orphanage, and even longer since he had dreamed about it. But the contact with Katherine had brought back the memories that caused the dream. And in the dream the years rolled away so that it was a real as if he were reliving the first day he became a resident of the Soda Creek Home for Wayward Boys and Girls.

  “I thought this was the orphanage,” Matt said. “Maybe I’m in the wrong place. I’m sorry.” He turned and started to leave.

  “Did you come with Landers?” the man asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I already paid for you. You are in the right place.”

  “You paid for me?”

  “Twelve and a half good dollars,” the man said. “You’ll be workin’ that off.”

  “But he took my rifle.”

  “Who took your rifle?”

  “Brother Landers. He said he paid you so I could stay here, and he took my rifle to pay him back.”

  The man chuckled. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he said. “Don’t trust somebody, just because they tell you they are a preacher.”

  “Isn’t he a preacher?”

  “He is sometimes, I reckon. What’s your name?”

  “Matthew Cava…”

  The man held up his hand. “Your ma and pa alive?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you don’t have a last name.”

  “But my last name is…”

  “You don’t have a last name,” the man said again. “Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, Captain Mumford.”

  “What?”

  “When you talk to me, you will always address me as Captain Mumford.”

  “Yes, Captain Mumford,” Matt said.

  “You’re awfully small for twelve years old.”

  “I’m not twelve,” Matt said.

  Mumford slapped Matt in the face, not hard enough to knock him down, or even bring blood, but hard enough that it stung.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m not twelve,” Matt repeated.

  Mumford slapped him again. “You don’t learn very well,” he said. “Now, I’m going to ask you again. What did you say?”

  “I said I’m not twelve—Captain Mumford,” Matt said, getting the last part out just before Mumford slapped him again.

  Mumford smiled. “Well, maybe you aren’t so dumb after all. Not twelve, huh? How old are you?”

  “I’m ten, Captain Mumford.”

  “Ten, huh? Well, you are a big enough boy for ten. I’m sure I can find something for you to do. Connor!” he called loudly.

  An older boy came into the office from the back of the house.

  “Yes, Captain Mumford?”

  “Here is a new boy,” Mumford said. “His name is Matthew. Take him into the back and,” Mumford paused, “break him in.”

  Matt awakened in the middle of the night and for just a second or two, he could almost imagine that he was back in the Wayward Home for Boys and Girls.

  Despite what Captain Mumford had told him, he di
d have a last name. At that time, his last name was Cavanaugh. He was ten years old, and he had already killed the first man—killing one of the outlaws who had killed his parents and his sister.

  He escaped from the Home a few years later, and was found in the mountains, half frozen to death. The man who found him was Smoke Jensen, and the legendary mountain man not only saved Matt’s life, he raised him, and taught him how to ride, shoot, and track. But mostly, he taught Matt how to be a man and a grateful Matt took Smoke Jensen’s last name to honor his friend and mentor.

  Then he used every skill Smoke taught him to track down, and bring to justice, the men who had killed his entire family.

  Now, several years later, he lay in bed, in the hotel room in American Falls, Idaho, separated from the reality of his dream by both time and distance, until finally sleep overtook him.

  The rest of the night was deep and dreamless.

  Chapter Nine

  Medbury, Idaho

  Poke Terrell woke up with a ravenous hunger and a raging need to urinate. The whore still asleep beside him had the bedcover askew, exposing one of her breasts. One leg dangled over the edge of the bed and she was snoring loudly as a bit of spittle drooled from her vibrating lips. She didn’t wake up when Poke crawled over her to get out of bed and get dressed.

  The whore was not one of the women who worked at the Sand Spur, nor even at Flat Nose Sue’s. She did business out of a very small, one-room house called a crib. Poke walked through the alley to the Sand Spur, which was about two blocks from the whore’s crib.

  He used the toilet behind the Sand Spur, holding his breath against the terrible odor. As he started into the saloon, he saw someone lying in the alley behind the building. At first he thought he might be dead, then he saw him move, and knew that it was just a saloon patron sleeping off last night’s drunk.

  Once inside, Poke took a seat at his table. The main room of the Sand Spur saloon was big, with exposed rafters below the high, peaked ceiling. Although there were several tables in the saloon, most of them were empty as it was still fairly early in the morning and there were only a few patrons at this hour. A couple of all-night customers for the whores came down the stairs, looking a little sheepish at being seen by the few who were in the saloon. A few minutes later the two girls came downstairs, laughing uninhibitedly. There were several large jars of pickled eggs and pig’s feet on the bar, and the two women walked over to the bar, then stuck their hands down inside the jars to pull out a couple of pickled eggs each for their breakfast.

  The Sand Spur was one of two saloons in town. The other saloon was called the Mud Hole, and it catered to a lower class clientele, serving cheaper whiskey and beer in an establishment that no amenities of any kind. It was behind the livery, whereas the Sand Spur had the more choice location, at the end of Meridian Street, right next to the Union Pacific track.

  Poke had ordered breakfast and it was just being brought to his table as the morning train rolled in. With its whistle blowing and its bell clanging, the heavy engine caused the saloon to shake. As a result of the shaking, the bottles of whiskey that were lined up behind the bar began to rattle when they banged together. It sounded, and felt, as if the train was about to come right through the building, but the arrival and departure of the daily trains, both freight and passenger, was such a routine event that no one in the saloon paid any attention to them.

  After a few minutes of sitting in the station, the train blew its whistle then moved on. Shortly after the train left the station, Sam Logan stepped into the saloon. Seeing Poke, he walked back to his table. Yesterday, Poke had sent Logan, Madison, and Jernigan to American Falls to deal with the Matt Jensen issue.

  Poke didn’t interrupt his breakfast and he took a bite of biscuit as Logan approached his table.

  “Well, you are back I see. Any trouble?”

  “Yeah, we had trouble. We had a lot of trouble,” Logan said.

  “What kind of trouble?” Poke looked toward the door, expecting to see someone else. “Where are the others? Where are Madison and Jernigan?”

  “That’s the trouble. Madison and Jernigan? They’re dead, Poke.”

  “Dead? Are you sure?”

  “Damn right, I’m sure. I seen both of ’em lyin’ out on the floor of the Red Horse Saloon back in American Falls. And they was both of ’em deader ’n a door nail.”

  “How did that happen? There were three of you. Matt Jensen is only one man. How hard could it be for three of you to take care of one man?”

  “Yeah, well, Madison had his own way of doing things, only it didn’t work out quite like he planned.”

  “What happened?”

  “Matt Jensen is what happened. You ever run into him, Poke? Or heard tale of him?”

  “I’ve heard of him, I’ve never run into him,” Poke replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well let me tell you somethin’ about him that maybe you don’t know. Matt Jensen is faster’n greased lightnin’ I believe he’s got to be about the fastest man with a gun there is—I mean the way he shot ’em both.”

  “So, you did see it?” Kincaid asked. “By that, I mean you were a witness to it?”

  “Yeah, I seen it. I had left the saloon a minute earlier but I come back and was standin’ just outside the door, watchin’ it when it happened, so yeah, I seen it all right.”

  “What do you mean you were standing just outside the door watchin’? I sent all three of you over to take care of him. If you were there with them, and they are both dead, how is it that you are not?”

  “I ain’t dead, ’cause I ain’t a fool, that’s why. You can’t blame me. Like I told you, it’s all Madison’s fault,” Logan said. “Madison, what he wanted to do, was brace Jensen head on. He figured, what with Jernigan up in the balcony and all, that he’d have an edge.”

  “Why did Madison want to do such a fool thing as that?”

  “Why? Because he wanted to become a big shot, that’s why,” Logan answered.

  “Even so, that sounds like a pretty good plan, what with Jernigan bein’ up in the balcony and all. So, what happened?”

  “Somehow or the other, and I don’t know how, Jensen figured out what was goin’ on. And once he figured it out Madison didn’t have the edge no more. Jensen shot Jernigan first, then after that, he still had time to shoot Madison before he could even get his gun out. The next thing you know, Jensen was standin’ there holdin’ a smokin’ gun, and Madison and Jernigan was both of ’em layin’ dead on the floor. It was all over before you could even blink your eyes.”

  “Where were you during all this time?”

  “Like I told you, I was standin’ just outside the door, watchin’.”

  “Why didn’t you help?”

  “I tell you true, Poke, if I had stuck my nose into it, I’d be dead too. Jensen is that fast. Besides, I didn’t figure you sent us over there for no duel.”

  “I sent you over there to take care of Jensen, and I didn’t care how you did it.”

  “Your complaint is with Madison, it ain’t with me.”

  “Really,” Poke said sarcastically. “How am I going to complain to Madison if he is dead?”

  “You can’t, I guess,” Logan admitted.

  “That leaves only you.”

  “But think about this. Iffen I had got myself kilt as well, then how else would you know that Jensen and Gilmore will be takin’ the train to Medbury this mornin’?”

  “How do you know they will be taking this morning’s train?”

  “What I actual know is just what I found out from the station agent. And that is, that Gilmore bought hisself two tickets for this mornin’s train. I’m just figurin’ that the other ticket is for Jensen.”

  “I think you are right. Good job, Logan.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I just imagine that if you were on the train most of the night, then you probably haven’t eaten, have you?”

  “No, I ain’t. I ain’t et nothin’ since lunch time yesterday.�
��

  “Would you like breakfast?”

  “Yeah, I believe I would.”

  Poke spread some butter on his biscuit but as Logan reached for it, Poke took a bite of it himself. “Go over to the bar and grab yourself a pickled egg and pig’s foot,” he said. “Then after you eat, come back and see me. I’ve got another job I want you to do.”

  “If it has to do with Matt Jensen, there ain’t no way I’m goin’ to do it by myself,” Logan said.

  “You won’t have to be by yourself.”

  Although the tracks of the Union Pacific generally follow the Snake River west across Idaho, when they reach a point twenty miles west of American Falls, the railroad is at the farthest distance from the river and the Snake can no longer be seen. On the north side of the tracks is a lava desert that is black and craggy, leading northward toward a barren and ugly escarpment that thrust upward as if in some way the land had formed waves, like the sea.

  Matt sat next to the window, looking out at the barren land. He had read, somewhere, that this desert was what the surface of the moon might look like if one could take a balloon high enough to ever reach that heavenly body. But as he continued to study the denuded and uninviting terrain, he wondered how anyone could ever suggest that this was similar to the moon. The moon was bright and shiny, sometimes silver and sometimes gold. This was dark as coal.

  “When you see land like this, it makes you wonder what would ever have attracted someone to settle out here, doesn’t it?” Gilmore asked, noticing the intensity with which Matt was studying the terrain outside the train.