Snake River Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Matt replied. “In a way the area holds some appeal just in its awesome starkness, and, if not appeal exactly, then it certainly creates interest.”

  Gilmore chuckled. “I’ve never heard it put that way before, but you may have a point.”

  “Tell me about this man, Poke Terrell,” Matt said.

  “He used to be on the right side of the law,” Gilmore said. “Sort of,” he added.

  “What do you mean, sort of?”

  “Poke Terrell used to ride with Clay Sherman and the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse.”

  “The Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse? What is that? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Supposedly, they are sort of a permanent posse, and from time to time they have made their services available to one sheriff or another. But there are some who say they are nothing but a bunch of mercenaries, willing to sell their guns to the highest bidder.”

  “What do you think about them?”

  “If Poke Terrell is any example of the caliber and quality of the men who belong to the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse, then I would say that mercenary is not a strong enough word for them. I would say they are a band of hired assassins.”

  “What about Marcus Kincaid?”

  “Marcus Kincaid? He isn’t a problem. Why do you ask about him?”

  “Katherine mentioned in her letter that he wanted her ranch.”

  “Yes, but he isn’t her problem. Poke Terrill is. Poke is the dregs of the earth, and one wonders how he has avoided prison all these years. But Marcus Kincaid is totally different. If you met him in a social setting, in someone’s home, say, or at a club, or in the lobby of an elegant hotel, you would no doubt think him to be a fine fellow. He is affable, charming, wealthy, well-read, everything one needs to be a first class citizen,” Gilmore replied.

  “That’s the kind of description you would give to someone who is running for governor,” Matt said.

  “Yes, I suppose it is, isn’t it? But Idaho is sure to be a state some day and when it is, I would not be the least bit surprised to see Marcus Kincaid running for governor.”

  “And he is Katherine’s stepson?”

  “Katherine? Oh, you mean Kitty Wellington. No, he was never her stepson.” Gilmore chuckled. “That would have been awkward at any rate, since Marcus Kincaid is two years older than Mrs. Wellington.

  “The way this relationship came about, is that Kitty was married to Sir Thomas Wellington, and prior to his marriage to Kitty, Sir Thomas Wellington was married to a woman named Mary Kincaid. Mary Kincaid came into the marriage a widow, and with a young son, Marcus. Sir Thomas never officially adopted Marcus Kincaid, but he treated him as his own.

  “Mary died four years ago, and shortly thereafter, Sir Thomas married Kitty, but by that time, Marcus Kincaid was on his own, having received a ranch and a rather large sum of money, in the form of an outright gift, from Sir Thomas.

  “Sir Thomas and Kitty were married for only one year before he died. His will left Coventry on the Snake to Kitty, and that is what started the trouble. Marcus Kincaid was convinced that the ranch should have gone to him.”

  “Katherine’s husband was called Sir Thomas?”

  “Yes, he was British, and since he never became an American citizen, he was able to keep his title. I must say though, that he wasn’t vain about it. He never insisted upon being addressed by his title, though his friends and business acquaintances did so out of respect for him. He was a fine man.”

  “What, exactly, did he leave to Katherine?”

  “He left her Coventry on the Snake and Coventry Manor. Unfortunately, as you read in the letter, he left her land rich and liquid asset poor. He had less than five thousand dollars in his American account—he was used to transferring funds here from England, as he needed them. But once his brother learned that Sir Thomas had died, he went to court and got an order preventing any more funds from being transferred.”

  “What is Coventry Manor?”

  “It’s the house where Mrs. Wellington lives. That is, if you can call it a house. It’s bigger than any house, or hotel for that matter, that I’ve ever seen.”

  “If I understood her letter, Katherine didn’t start raising horses until after her husband died.”

  “That is true, and she had to take out a loan in order to do it,” Gilmore said.

  “Is she having trouble meeting the loan?”

  “She is not in default yet. But don’t get me wrong, Mr. Jensen, taking out the loan was not an imprudent thing to do. Mrs. Wellington is a very good business-woman. In fact, she is a much better business person than Sir Thomas ever was. And, of course, that makes Marcus Kincaid’s claim that it should all belong to him, even more untenable. He actually took his claim to court, you know, suing Mrs. Wellington for ownership of the ranch. The court decided in Mrs. Wellington’s favor.”

  “Good job,” Matt said. “I take it you represented her.”

  Gilmore cleared his throat before answering. “Uh, no, I didn’t,” he said. “I—uh—represented Marcus Kincaid in that petition.”

  “And now you represent Katherine?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “It may be even more interesting, once Kincaid learns that I am working for Mrs. Wellington.”

  Matt laughed.

  “What is it?”

  “Even if I didn’t know Katherine from before, I would be tempted to take this job, just for the sheer fascination of it.”

  Coventry Manor

  The ornate and baronial home looked more like a castle than a house, and that was by design. Though smaller than the Coventry Palace, Coventry Manor had the same design as the Palace on the Wey River, back in England. It was complete in every detail, including the towers, lacking only the moat that surrounded the original building.

  As spectacular as the house was though, it was the grounds that attracted the most attention. The lawn spread out over at least five acres, with an artfully designed maze of shrubbery, neatly trimmed, weed-free grass, and flowers, which grew in colorful profusion in several well-tended islands. At the moment almost a dozen groundskeepers were working on the lawn, a few pushing lawn mowers, others sculpturing shrubbery, while still others were digging out a new flower garden.

  Kitty Wellington was in one of the flower gardens, cutting flowers in order to make a bouquet. She was being assisted by the head of her household staff, Frederica Bustamante.

  “Senor Yensen must be a very important man,” Frederica said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You have Maria cook a big meal, you have Manuel find the best wine in the cellar, and now you take the most beautiful flowers for a bouquet. I think you would not do this if he would not be a very important man.”

  “He is an important man,” Kitty said.

  “Have you met him before?”

  “Yes,” Kitty said.

  “Has he been here before? I do not remember him.”

  “No, he has never been here before. I met him, many years ago. I met him when I was a young girl.”

  Frederica chuckled. “You were in love with him then, I think.”

  “Don’t be silly, Frederica. I was only nine years old.”

  “But you were in love with him, I think,” Frederica insisted.

  Kitty laughed, easily. “Well, maybe I was,” she said. “I thought he was the most handsome boy I had ever known. He was brave too.”

  “Brave?”

  “Yes. I told you once that I lived in an orphanage, remember?”

  “Si, Señora, I remember.”

  “We were always hungry then. Pease porridge, that’s all they ever fed us. Pease porridge, except for one time. One day, Matt told us to follow his lead and eat none of our supper.

  “No one asked why we should do such a thing, everyone knew and trusted Matt. So when we went through the line for supper, we accepted our bowls of pease porridge, then went back to ou
r tables. Looking toward Matt, he let it be known by sign and signal that we were not to eat our porridge.

  “There were two other orphans who were different from all the others. Their names were Connor and Simon and, because they worked for Captain Mumford, who was the head of the orphanage, they never had to go through the line. Instead, they were served at their seats.

  “On that night, one of the kitchen workers brought two bowls of pease porridge out to them and set them on the table in front of Simon and Connor.”

  As Kitty told the story, she relived the moment so that it was as real to her, as it had been on the day it actually happened.

  “Here, hold on!” Simon called out as the woman started back toward the kitchen. “Is this a joke? What is this?”

  “It’s your supper,” the woman answered.

  “The hell it is. We’re having ham tonight.”

  The kitchen worker shook her head. “No ham,” she said. “We didn’t cook a ham tonight.”

  “You didn’t have to cook it, it was already cooked. What’s going on here? What happened to our ham?”

  “I haven’t seen any ham,” the woman answered.

  Though none of the other residents laughed out loud, they all repressed giggles and smiles while they watched the frustration of the two oldest of their number as they tried to eat the pease porridge.

  “What is this?” Connor shouted in anger. “Nobody can eat this shit!”

  Again, there were repressed giggles from the other residents. Then, at a nod from Matt, everyone got up from the table and took their untouched bowl of porridge to the garbage can. There, they dumped the porridge, turned the bowls in, then filed out of the dining room.

  “Connor, did you see that?” Simon asked.

  “Did I see what?”

  “None of them ate.”

  “Yeah, well, who can blame them?” he replied, looking at his meal with disgust.

  “No, you don’t understand,” Simon said. “None of them ate so much as one bite. They always eat.”

  “Yeah,” Connor said. “Yeah, you’re right. I wonder why not. Why don’t you follow them, Simon, and see if you can figure out what’s going on?”

  “Yeah,” Simon said. “I will.”

  Simon slipped out of the dining room, then hanging back a little, watched as the others went into the chapel. Curious, he moved up to the door of the chapel, then looked inside. Everyone was sitting quietly in the pews, with their heads bowed and their eyes closed.

  “Simon,” Matt called, seeing Simon standing at the door. “It’s so good to see you here. Come on in.”

  “What?” Simon asked.

  “Why don’t you go get Connor and bring him with you? We would love to have you two join us.”

  “Join you for what? What are you doing? What’s going on, here?”

  “You may have noticed that we ate none of our food tonight.”

  “Yeah, I did notice. Why didn’t you eat?”

  “Because we are having a night of fasting and prayer,” Matt said.

  “What do you mean fasting and prayer? How can you have a prayer service if there ain’t no preacher here.”

  “You don’t need a preacher to have a prayer service,” Matt said. “Remember, the Lord said ‘When two or three are gathered in my name, there I shall be.’ I noticed that you fasted as well tonight. Won’t you please join us?”

  Matt reached out as if to grab Simon and pull him into the chapel.

  Simon held out his hands as if warding off Matt. He shook his head no.

  “No,” he said. “I ain’t doin’ no prayin’.”

  “What about Connor? Won’t you ask him to join us?”

  “You’re crazy,” Simon said. “There ain’t neither one of us goin’ to be comin’ in here and sayin’ a bunch of prayers.”

  “Then we will pray for you,” Matt said.

  “You’re crazy, I tell you. Every last one of you.”

  Matt waited for a moment, then he looked over at Eddie. “Make sure he’s gone.”

  Eddie went to the door, looked through it, then turned back. “He’s gone,” he said.

  “Let’s eat,” Matt said, and with that, everyone crowded up to the altar where, from beneath the pulpit, Matt pulled out a large ham.

  “Oh, this looks so delicious,” Tamara said. “Where did you get it?”

  “The ladies of the Methodist Church cooked it especially for us,” Matt said. “I just happened to be outside Mumford’s office when they brought it in to him. Mumford thanked them for it, then told Connor that he and Simon could both have a little of it before he took it home.”

  “Took it home? He was going to keep a ham that was supposed to be for us?” Katherine asked.

  Matt nodded. “Yeah. You think pease porridge is all we ever get? Churches and the like have been bringing us food ever since I got here, only we don’t ever see any.”

  “That ain’t right,” one of the boys said. He had only been here about six months.

  “I agree, Billy, it isn’t right, so that’s why I decided to do something about it,” Matt said. “I waited until Mumford stepped out of the office, then I took the ham and brought it here.”

  “I wouldn’t have had the nerve to do that,” one of the others said.

  “Sure you would have,” Matt said. “All you would have had to do was smell it when you were hungry.”

  “When is anyone not hungry in here?” Katherine asked, and they all laughed.

  “Oh, that ham was so delicious,” Kitty said. “I have had many fine meals since that time, but never have I had a meal better than that one.”

  “Senor Matt sounds like a very good man,” Frederica said.

  “He is a good man, Frederica,” Kitty said. “That’s why I sent for him. I think he is just the kind of man I need now, to help me through this difficulty.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Mud Hole was a poor second place saloon to the Sand Spur. Whereas the Sand Spur had a real bar, a brass foot rail, a mirror, and lantern sconces, the Mud Hole bar was boards, spread across barrels. There was no mirror, the light was dim, and provided by no more than three or four lanterns that were strategically set around the room.

  No bar girls worked the Mud Hole, because the clientele didn’t believe in buying drinks for anyone but themselves. So different was the clientele that frequented the two saloons that even in a town as small as Mudbury, there were men who were regulars at the Mud Hole, who would not even be recognized if they stepped into the Sand Spur.

  Such was the case with John “Mole” Mueller, and Harold “Cooter” Cotter, habitués of the Mud Hole, who earned their money in the most menial tasks imaginable. Logan had met Mole and Cooter when he spent some time with them in prison.

  Logan, who tended to move back and forth between the saloons, needed a couple of men to help him “take care of” Matt Jensen, so he recruited them in the Mud Hole, calling upon Mole and Cooter.

  “Ten dollars?” Cooter said. “Ten dollars to do what?”

  “To do what I tell you to do, without asking any questions,” Logan said.

  “Hell, what kind of job is that?” Mole asked.

  “It’s a job that will earn you ten dollars,” Logan said. He waited for a moment, then added, “each.”

  “Wait. We each get ten dollars?” Cooter asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s different. I thought you was just talkin’ about ten dollars for the two of us to have to share. When do we get it?”

  “When the job is done,” Logan answered.

  Cooter shook his head. “No, we need it before we do the job.”

  “Why do you need it before you do the job?”

  “I don’t know what the job is, but since you won’t tell us beforehand, it ain’t likely to be all that easy,” Cooter said. “Besides, we may want to buy us a bottle of whiskey.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to have you gettin’ drunk on me,” Logan said.

  “We ain’t goin’ to get d
runk. We just want a couple of drinks.”

  “You got horses and guns?” Logan asked.

  “Yeah, I got me a gun and a horse,” Cooter said proudly.

  “I ain’t got either one. I used to have a gun, only I sold it in order to get enough money to buy some whiskey,” Mole said.

  “All right, I’ve got a gun I’ll lend you, Mole. And we can rent you a horse from the livery.”

  “What about the ten dollars?” Cooter asked.

  Logan stared at them for a long moment, then sighed and pulled out two ten dollar bills. “Here it is,” he said. “But if you two try and run out on me before we do the job, I’ll hunt you both down.”

  “We ain’t goin’ to run out on you,” Cooter said, smiling as he took the money. “Come on, Mole, let’s split the cost of buyin’ a bottle of whiskey.”

  An hour later Logan, Cooter, and Mole were on the top of the Bruneau Canyon Wall. A moment earlier, Logan had ridden out onto the lip of the canyon rim and looked north toward the Snake River. That was when he saw Jensen and Gilmore coming south in a buckboard. There was a horse tied on to the back of the buckboard.

  Smiling, Logan turned his horse and rode back far enough from the edge of the canyon to avoid being silhouetted against the bright, blue, sky. He dismounted and tied his horse off where Cooter and Mole had ground staked their own mounts.

  The two men were sitting cross-legged, passing back and forth the bottle of whiskey they had bought with the money Logan had given them.

  “Cooter, he’s comin’. You two boys get ready.”

  “Put the whiskey away, Mole,” Cooter said.

  “What about it, Logan? Before I put it away, you want a drink?” Mole asked holding up the bottle. He dropped the bottle, and though it didn’t break, it did turn over and some of the whiskey began gurgling out.

  “Sum’ bitch, Mole, you’re pourin’ out all our whiskey,” Cooter said, angrily.

  “Don’t worry about it. There ain’t practically none of it spilt,” Mole said.

  “Hah. If it had’a been spillin’, like as not you would be down on your hands and knees tryin’ to lick it up,” Cooter teased.