Snake River Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Let me check something,” Gilmore said. He walked over to his book shelf and took down a book called Codes for the Territory of Idaho.

  After looking through it for a moment, he shook his head. “There is no judge in the territory who would grant a court order to allow that. For all intent and purposes, this is absolutely meaningless.”

  “What do you mean, meaningless?”

  “I mean it would no effect on Mrs. Wellington. Listen to this. This is the next paragraph, paragraph twenty five, subparagraph three, stroke three.

  “Any land owner, owning more than twenty percent of the land in said proposed herd district and who has a herd that is separated by more than two miles from a herd of dissimilar stock, who is a resident in, and qualified elector of, the territory of Idaho is not subject to the herd law, unless special petition is made and filed by land owners whose aggregate holdings total more than fifty percent of the land in said district. Such petition, if granted, shall be served upon the land owner by the county sheriff or his deputy.”

  “I haven’t served any such notice,” Marshal Sparks said.

  “Then if notice has not been served, and Sherman really did take the horses, he stole them,” Gilmore said. “That means you can arrest him and the entire posse.”

  “Yeah, I guess I could, couldn’t I?” Marshal Sparks replied without enthusiasm. “Or, maybe I can just show him the error of his ways. Mr. Gilmore, would you copy that law out on a piece of paper for me so I can show it to Sherman.”

  “I’ll be glad to do it for you, Marshal, but what will that accomplish?” Gilmore asked. “If Sherman knows about the part of the law that he showed you, the part he used as justification to steal Mrs. Wellington’s horses, then you can bet that he knows about this part of the law.”

  “Yes,” Sparks said. “But at least this way, he will realize that I know about this part of the law as well.”

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Matt and the other riders from Coventry on the Snake managed to retrieve the horses and put them back in the field where they were being held, pending the shipment to Chicago. As soon as all the horses were recovered, Tyrone detailed some of the men to repair the fence the Auxiliary Peace Officers had destroyed when they took the horses.

  “I don’t understand,” Kitty said. “I thought Poke Terrell was behind all this. But he’s dead and the rustling continues.”

  “Do you remember in the café yesterday, when I pointed out the head of the Auxiliary Peace Officers to you? I told you he was going to be trouble.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “The four men I killed were wearing the uniforms and badges of the Auxiliary Peace Officers.”

  Kitty gasped. “Oh, Matt. Have I gotten you in trouble with the law?” She asked. “If I have, I will never be able to forgive myself.”

  “If so, it won’t be the first time I’ve come close to the line,” Matt said. “But don’t worry about it. Whether they are wearing badges or not, I don’t believe, for a minute, that they are actually law officers. They may be some sort of posse with deputies’ badges, but they are not legitimate law officers.”

  “Where are they now?” Kitty asked. “The men who stole the horses, I mean.”

  “Tyrone sent Prew back out with a wagon to pick up the bodies. I’ll take them into town tonight.”

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  “I’ll figure something out,” Matt said.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It was mid-afternoon when Hodge Deckert stepped down from the 4:20 west-bound train at the Medbury Depot. He checked his sample case to make certain nothing had been broken during the trip.

  A traveling salesman from Denver, Deckert had been on the road for just over a week, having served clients in Greely, Colorado, Cheyenne, Rawlins, and Green River, Wyoming, Squaw Creek, American Falls, and King Hill, Idaho, before arriving here in Medbury. So far his trip had been successful, and he had taken orders for almost a thousand dollars worth of goods, which meant he had earned one hundred dollars in commission. Medbury was the end of his sales territory. He would spend the night here at the Del Rey Hotel, then call on the mercantile and general stores tomorrow in time to take the noon train back.

  Satisfied that his samples were undamaged, he closed the case then started across the street to the hotel. As he started through the door, though, two large men blocked his way.

  “Where do you think you are going?” one of them asked. Both were dressed just alike, and both were wearing star badges on their shirt.

  “I’m going to check into the hotel,” Deckert said.

  “No, you ain’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “There ain’t no rooms left.”

  “Of course there are. Elmer always keeps a couple of rooms open for travelers. I stay here every time I come to Medbury.”

  “You ain’t stayin’ here tonight.”

  “I’d rather hear that from Elmer,” Deckert said.

  The two burly men looked at each other for a moment, then one of them laughed. “Let him talk to Elmer,” he said.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  The two men stepped aside and Deckert, a bit apprehensive now, crossed the lobby to the front desk. Elmer was standing behind the desk.

  “Hello, Elmer. Is my room ready? I’d like the same one I always have, on the font, overlooking the street.”

  “There is only one room left, Hodge, and I don’t think you will want it,” Elmer said.

  “What do you mean I don’t want it? Of course I do.”

  “No, you don’t,” one of the men with the star on his chest said.

  “What’s going on here, Elmer?”

  “Pearl and I have a spare room. You can stay with us tonight,” Elmer said. “In fact, you can join us for supper, and it won’t cost you a cent.”

  “Well, then, if you are willing to do that for me, of course I will accept your offer. But I would like to know what’s going on.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it, later,” Elmer said. “Come on, I’ll walk down to the house with you and tell Pearl we’re having company tonight.”

  “Does your wife like perfume?” Deckert asked.

  “Oh, heavens, we can’t afford to be buying something like perfume.”

  “You won’t be buying it, I’m giving it to you. I have a spare bottle in my samples kit. I would be pleased if Mrs. Reinhardt would accept it.”

  Crack Kingsley was riding into town just as Elmer and Deckert were walking up the street toward the little cluster of houses that made up the residential area of Medbury. He touched his hat and nodded at them, and they returned the gesture.

  Crack rode past the Sand Spur and wanted, very much, to stop and have a beer and maybe visit a little with one of the women. But he had told Matt that he would come straight to town, make his purchase, then return immediately.

  Crack could understand the need to get back to the ranch, especially if the rustlers hit them again tonight. What he couldn’t understand was why Matt had sent him in town to make such a frivolous purchase.

  Dismounting in front of the Medbury Mercantile, Crack stepped up on the porch, then went inside. He passed by the candy shelf and saw a large jar of horehound candy. He thought of Hank, who always bought himself a stick anytime he came to town, and asked one of the others to buy it for him if they came to town and he didn’t.

  The thought caused Crack to experience a moment of melancholy, and, in memory of Hank, he reached down into the jar and pulled out a penny stick. He walked up to the counter holding the stick of candy.

  “Hello, Crack,” the store keeper asked. “How is Mrs. Wellington getting along?”

  “She’s doin’ just fine, Mr. Dunnigan, I’ll be sure and tell her you was askin’ about her.”

  “You do that,” Dunnigan said. He pointed to the stick of candy and chuckled. “You didn’t ride all the way into town just to spend a penny, did you?”

  “What?” Crack held up the stick of cand
y and looked at it. “Oh, no sir, I just picked this up on account of Hank.”

  “Hank? Isn’t he…?” Dunnigan let the question hang.

  “Dead, yes sir, Hank’s dead all right. But you mind how much he loved horehound?”

  “I sure do. That boy bought him a piece ever’ time he come in here,” Dunnigan said.

  “Well, sir, this here candy is for him, sort of a way I’ve got of rememberin’ him.”

  “Yes, and a very good way that is too,” Dunnigan said. “Now, what else can I do for you?”

  “It’s comin’ up on the Fourth of July,” Crack said. “I was just wonderin’ if you had any of them fireworks in yet?”

  “I sure do. Out here, you got to order them things early if you want to make sure you get ’em in time for the Fourth. What do you need?”

  “I need me a sky rocket,” Crack said.

  “A sky rocket? Just one?”

  “Yes, sir, just one will do me.”

  “All right,” Dunnigan said, walking down behind the counter until he came to the fireworks’ shelf. He picked up one rocket, then brought it back and showed it to Crack.

  “Will this leave a trail when it goes up?” Crack asked.

  “Indeed it will,” Dunnigan replied. “If you send this thing up in the night it will leave a shower of sparks behind it, then, when it gets to the top, it will burst open into a whole bunch of little balls of different colored lights.”

  “I’ll take it,” Crack said.

  “Is this all you want? I got me a lot of firecrackers too. You can’t hardly celebrate the Fourth of July without you set off a bunch of firecrackers.”

  “Mayhaps I’ll come back a’fore the Fourth and get some of them,” Crack said. “But for right now, this here rocket is all I want.”

  “All right. The rocket and the piece of horehound candy come to eleven cents,” Dunnigan said.

  Crack paid for his purchase, put the rocket and half a piece of the candy in a sack, stuck the other half piece in his mouth, then went back outside. He saw a couple of cowboys he knew from a neighboring ranch. They were standing near the watering trough.

  “Hey, fellas,” he said. “What you doin’ out here? Anytime you boys come into town, you near ’bout always go to the Sand Spur.”

  “Ain’t no fun at the Sand Spur right now,” one of the two cowboys said.

  “Yeah, not as long as them deputies are here,” the other one said. “They go into the Sand Spur and all the fun comes out of it.”

  “I don’t know what they are after, but I’ll sure as hell be happy when they leave.”

  “What are you doin’ in town, Crack?”

  “I just come into town to buy somethin’,” Crack said.

  “Horehound candy,” one of the cowboys said with a chuckle. “You come into town to buy horehound candy.”

  “Yeah, well, I like it,” Crack said. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it. I like it too, but I don’t think I’d ride five miles just to get me some.”

  “Maybe you just don’t like it as much as I do,” Crack said. He untied his horse, mounted, then looked back down at his two friends. “You boys take it easy now, you hear?” he said as he rode away.

  “Good job,” Matt said. He looked down at the rifle pit which was deep enough to stand in, and wide enough for three men to occupy.

  “We dug one here, and another one over there,” Tyrone said. “This way we’ve got the entrance covered, no matter which side the rustlers might come in on.”

  “Move some brush over in front of them,” Matt said.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea. That way they won’t be as likely to see us, even if we are shooting at them.”

  “I’m going back to the house,” Matt said. “When Prew gets back with the bodies, have him come up.”

  “Here comes Crack,” Jake said.

  Matt waited until Crack got there before he left for the house.

  “Did you get the rocket?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Good. Now, go back to the cookhouse, have the cook fix you a lunch to take with you.”

  “Take where?”

  “Do you see that bluff there?” Matt said, pointing to a rather prominent feature about two miles away. “I want you to go up onto that bluff and stay. And stay awake. If you have to, get yourself a handful of coffee beans and chew on them tonight. From there, you will have a good view of anyone who approaches the ranch. If you see anyone coming, shoot the rocket off.”

  “Ahh, it’s a signal,” Crack said. “I was wonderin’ what you were wantin’ this rocket for.”

  “Don’t shoot it until they pass you though,” Matt said. “We don’t want them to know they’ve been seen.”

  “How do you know they’ll be coming tonight?” Jake asked.

  “I plan to leave them a message tonight,” Matt said. “Once they get the message, they’ll come.”

  Matt was sitting at the dining room table with Kitty when Prew came in. “Excuse me, but Tyrone said you wanted to see me.”

  “Did you recover the bodies?” Matt asked.

  “All four of them. With their hats, just like you said.”

  “Are they still in the buckboard?”

  “Yeah. I tell you the truth, Matt, I don’t know why we’re goin’ to all the trouble. If it was up to me, I’d let ’em just lie out there and rot.”

  “Have you had your supper?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have the cook make you a sandwich, then bring it with you. You can eat it on the way into town.”

  “We’re actually going to do it, aren’t we? We’re takin’ these bastards into to town to the undertaker.”

  “Something like that,” Matt said.

  Clay Sherman was staying in the room that had belonged to Mr. Pemberton, taking it because it was better furnished than any of the other hotel rooms. This room had, in addition to the bed and a comfortable chair, a small kitchen table and kitchen chair. At the moment, Sherman was sitting at the kitchen table in the soft, golden glow of the lantern, figuring his profit on the back of an envelope.

  Marcus Kincaid had paid him ten thousand dollars to make certain Kitty Wellington did not get her horses to market in time to save her ranch. But Kincaid had made no reference of any kind as to the disposition of the horses. He hadn’t mentioned them because he was certain that once the ranch came into his possession, then everything on the ranch would also be his, including all the horses.

  Sherman hadn’t mentioned the horses either, because he had his own plans for them. Poke had already made an arrangement to move the horses at fifty dollars a head, though he had told everyone but Sherman that he was only getting twenty-five dollars a head.

  Fifty dollars a head for five hundred horses was twenty-five thousand dollars. That twenty-five thousand dollars, plus the ten thousand he was getting from Kincaid, would make this, by far, the most profitable business arrangement he had ever entered in to.

  Smiling, Sherman drew a circle around the figure, thirty-five thousand dollars, then he folded the envelope and stuck it down in his pocket. Glancing toward the window, he saw that it had grown very dark outside and, since he had not yet had his supper, he decided he would have it now. Sherman extinguished the lantern, then stepped out into the hallway and started down the stairs.

  The wall sconces in the lobby had not yet been lit, so it seemed darker than usual. The only lantern providing any light was sitting on the front desk.

  “Hey, hotel clerk,” he called as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Why ain’t you lit the wall sconces yet?”

  Sherman did not get a reply.”

  “Reinhardt, where the hell are you?” Sherman called again.

  Of course, when one thought about it, there was really no reason for the clerk to be at his desk at all. The Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse occupied every room but one, and nobody was likely to occupy that one, remaining room.

  Sherman
stepped up to the front desk, and banged his hand down on the call bell.

  “Reinhardt?”

  He didn’t care whether the hotel had any new guests or not. As far as he was concerned, the clerk should still be at work, if for no other reason than to provide services for Sherman and his men. And one of the things he should do, was light the sconce lights in the lobby. A man in Sherman’s position couldn’t help but make enemies, and dark lobbies were places that a man with enemies should avoid, when possible.

  “Never mind,” Sherman grumbled. “I’ll light the lanterns myself.”

  Reaching over the desk, Sherman found a box of matches, then he turned and started out into the lobby.

  That was when he saw them.

  Four of his men were sitting in chairs in the lobby. Their chairs were arranged in a square, as if the four were engaged in a friendly game of cards. But there were no cards, and there was no card table. There were just the four men, setting in a square, looking at each other.

  “What are you men doing here, just sitting in the dark?” he asked with a little chuckle. “Did they run you out of the saloon?”

  When not one of the four answered, he started over toward them. “You men aren’t very—uhnn!” he shouted, and he jumped back as the hair suddenly stood up on the back of his neck. All four men were dead!

  After he caught his breath, he moved close enough to identify them. The four men were Garrison, Edwards, Reid, and Kennison. These were the same four men he had left to guard the horses.

  “Scraggs!” Sherman yelled at the top of his lungs. He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  “Scraggs!” he yelled again. “Grimes! Schneider! Anderson? Anybody?”

  Nobody answered his calls, and he moved down the hallway, opening every door and looking inside. Then, deciding they must all be over at the saloon, he ran back downstairs and trotted up the street to the saloon.

  Celebrating the fact that they had taken the five hundred horses without any problems, the posse members were quite animated tonight. As a result, the saloon was more lively, the piano was playing, and the men of the posse were laughing and engaging in loud conversation. However, their presence still seemed to intimidate the rest of the town though, because there were very few in the saloon, other than his men.