Massacre at Powder River
Page 1
MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN
MASSACRE AT POWDER RIVER
William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Epilogue
MACCALLISTER, THE EAGLES LEGACY: The Killing
Copyright Page
Notes
Prologue
20 Grosvenor Square, London, England
June 23, 1944
Overhead, the distinctive buzzing sound of the approaching V-1 bomb grew silent and the guards around General Eisenhower’s headquarters looked up to the east to watch a small, pulse-jet-powered, square-winged flying bomb tumble from the sky. It was followed by a heavy, stomach-shaking blast as the missile exploded, sending a huge column of smoke roiling into the air.
A few moments later an olive-drab Packard glided to a stop in front of the American Headquarters. The car was festooned with three small flags attached to the hood ornament: a U.S. flag, a British flag, and the four star flag denoting it to be the car of General Dwight D. Eisenhower. Captain Kay Summersby, the general’s female driver, hurried around to open the back door as the general came out of headquarters. Before Eisenhower got into the car his chief of staff stepped outside.
“We just got the all clear, General,” General Walter Bedell Smith said. “No more buzz bombs are headed this way.”
“Thanks, Beetle,” Eisenhower said as he climbed into the backseat.
General Smith and the guards saluted as the car drove away.
Fifteen minutes later the Packard drew to a stop in front of Number 10 Downing Street, and Kay Summersby hurried around to open the door for General Eisenhower.
“Thank you, Kay.”
He was met at the curb by Phyllis Moir, Winston Churchill’s private secretary. “This way, General. The PM is in the cabinet room.”
General Eisenhower followed the secretary through the labyrinthine halls of the residence of the Prime Minister of Britain, and past the two pairs of Corinthian columns that led into the cabinet room. Churchill, with the ever-present cigar protruding from his mouth, was standing at a small bar, pouring whiskey.
“Tennessee mash for you, right, General?” Churchill said. “I prefer Mortlach, which is an excellent single-malt Scotch.”
He handed Eisenhower a glass. The whiskey in the glass caught a beam of light that passed through one of the enormous windows, causing the liquor to glow as if lit from within.
“Please,” Churchill said when he had his own glass. “Have a seat.” He indicated a small seating area which consisted of an ox-blood leather couch and two facing saddle-leather chairs. Eisenhower chose the couch. A coffee table separated the sofa and chairs. Churchill flicked the long white ash from the end of his cigar into the crystal ashtray on the table before he settled his rather large frame into one of the chairs.
“Any word on the buzz bomb attack?” Eisenhower asked.
“Six killed at the Waterloo Station,” Churchill said.
“That’s a shame.”
“Better than last weekend, when we lost two hundred to the attacks. What’s our status with the invasion?”
“We’re advancing toward Cherbourg,” Eisenhower said. “I expect we will have it within a few days.”
“Good, good, that’s wonderful news. Oh, by the way, I want to thank you for that pile of Western novels you sent over last week.”
“I’m glad I had them.”
“You enjoy reading Western novels, do you?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I keep a stack of them on my bedside table, and probably read about three a week.”
“Outstanding,” Churchill said. “I’m a fan of the American Western novel as well. Who is your favorite Western author?”
“I’m fairly eclectic. I like Zane Grey of course, Owen Wister, Max Brand, and Andy Adams.”
“Wonderful,” Churchill replied enthusiastically. “I like them as well.” He held out his glass. “Shall we drink to the American West?”
“It would be an honor.” General Eisenhower held his glass to Churchill’s. The men drank; Eisenhower took but a sip, while Churchill took a large swallow.
“Tell me, General”—Churchill wiped his lips with the back of his hand—“have you ever read anything about a Western hero named Matt Jensen?”
“Yes, of course.” Eisenhower smiled. “In fact, I even know a bit of trivial information about him. His real name wasn’t Jensen, it was ...” Eisenhower paused for a moment, as if trying to recall.
“Cavanaugh,” Churchill said, supplying the name. “Matthew Cavanaugh, but after he was orphaned, he took on the name of his mentor, Smoke Jensen.”
“Whose real name was Kirby Jensen,” Eisenhower said. “And he was quite a hero himself. But, tell me, Mr. Prime Minister, how is it that you know so much about Matt Jensen?”
“I have what you might call a vested interest in that gentleman,” Churchill replied.
“All right, now you have me hooked. Why do you have a vested interest in one of America’s Old West heroes?”
Churchill took another swallow of his scotch. “I have piqued your interest, have I?”
“I must confess that you have,” Eisenhower replied.
“If it had not been for Matt Jensen I would not be the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and I would not be sitting here before you, discussing the greatest invasion in the history of warfare.”
“How is that so?”
“Matt Jensen saved my life.”
Chapter One
Livermore, Colorado
Late March 1884
When Jarvis Winslow returned home from the city council meeting, he wondered why the house was dark. His wife and daughter should be there, and supper should be on the table.
“Julie?” he called. “Julie, are you here?”
Winslow walked over to a nearby table, then lit a lantern. Light filled the room as he turned it up. “Julie?”
“Hello, Mr. Winslow,” a man said, stepping into the living room from the hallway. He was a smallish man, with black hair and a large, hooked nose. He had a big red spot on his cheek and a gun in his hand.
“What?” Winslow gasped. “Who are you? What’s going on here?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter,” the gunman said. “And what is going on is a bank robbery.”
“A bank robbery? Are you insane? I’m the president of the bank, but I don’t keep any money in my house. Wait a minute, I know who you are. You are Red Plummer, aren’t you?”
Two other men came into the room then.
“If you know who I am, then you know I am someone you h
ad better listen to. Let me introduce my associates, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy. You don’t want to get them angry, either.”
“Where is my wife? Where is my daughter?” Winslow asked.
“They are safe. For the time being,” Plummer said. “Would you like to see them?”
“Yes.”
“They are back in the bedroom. Bring your lantern.”
“Julie?” Winslow called, grabbing the lantern and hurrying into the bedroom. When he stepped through the door he saw his wife and his daughter, both stripped absolutely naked and tied to the bed. They had gags in their mouths, and terror in their eyes.
“What the hell have you done to them?” Winslow shouted angrily.
“We ain’t done nothin’ yet.” Plummer looked over at the other two men. “But I have to tell you, I’m havin’ a hard time keepin’ Sullivan and McCoy off of ’em.”
“I want the young one,” Sullivan said, rubbing his crotch.
“You bastard! She is only twelve years old!” Winslow said.
“Maybe so, but she’s comin’ along real good.”
“You see what I’m having to deal with?” Winslow said. “Now, the only way I’m goin’ to be able to keep them away from your women is if you do exactly what I tell you to do.”
“What do you want?” Winslow asked. “I’ll do it.”
“I want you to go to the bank, get every dollar the bank has, then bring it here. Once we have the money, we’ll be on our way.”
“I’ll get the money. Just—just don’t do anything to hurt my wife and daughter.”
Plummer smiled, showing a mouth full of crooked and broken teeth. “I thought we might be able to work something out.”
Winslow took one last look at his wife and daughter, then hurried out of the house and over to the bank, which was just one block away. Inside the bank he emptied the safe, taking out twenty-three thousand dollars, and stuffing the money into a bag. He started to leave, but before he did, he scribbled a quick note.
Red Plummer, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy
When he got back to the house, he hurried into the bedroom. “I got the money. Let them go.”
Then, looking toward the bed, he gasped. Their throats had been cut and blood was all over the bed. His wife and daughter were looking up with glazed, sightless eyes.
“You bastards!” he shouted, throwing the money bag toward Plummer.
“Really now, Winslow, you didn’t think we were going to let you live after you knew our names, did you?”
So shocked by the sight of his wife and daughter, Winslow didn’t realize McCoy was behind him until he felt the knife thrust into his back.
One week later
Matt Jensen walked into the Gold Nugget Saloon in Fort Collins, twenty miles south of Livermore. On the wall was a sign:
Card cheats will not be allowed in this establishment.
Please report any cheating to the Management.
In addition to the sign cautioning gamblers against cheating, the walls were decorated with game-heads and pictures, including one of a reclining nude woman. Three bullet holes strategically placed had augmented the painting, though one shot was slightly off, giving her left breast two nipples. Below the painting was a mirror which reflected back the long glass shelf of whiskey bottles. At each end of the bar was a large jar of pickled eggs as well as pickled pigs’ feet.
The saloon was also a first-class brothel and Matt saw one of the girls taking a cowboy up the stairs at the back of the room.
The upstairs area didn’t extend all the way to the front. The main room, or saloon, was big, with exposed rafters below the high, peaked ceiling. There were a score or more customers present, sitting at tables or standing at the bar talking with the girls, drinking or playing cards.
Matt was one of those standing at the bar when a woman known as Magnificent Maggie went over to him and put her arm through his. She got her name, not from her beauty, but from her size. Weighing over three hundred pounds, she was the owner of the Gold Nugget.
“Welcome, Mr. Jensen. It has been a while since you have graced us with your presence. What brings you to Fort Collins?”
“You know me, Maggie. I follow the tumbleweed.” Matt looked around the saloon. “You seem to be doing a pretty good business today.”
“Some days are better than others. Could I get you something to drink, Mr. Jensen?”
“Yes.”
“Wine, beer, or whiskey?”
“Whiskey.”
At the back of the saloon a piano player with a pipe clenched in his teeth, wearing a round derby hat and garter belts around his shirt sleeves, was playing “The Gal I Left Behind Me,” though few were listening.
“Oh my, still alone? You haven’t found a girl to keep you company?” Maggie asked when she returned with Matt’s whiskey.
Matt put his arm around her shoulders. “Maggie, do you think I could settle for anyone but you?”
Magnificent Maggie laughed out loud. “My, my, Mr. Jensen you do have a gift for the blarney. But what would you do if I thought you were serious and took you up on it?”
“I don’t know. I’d do my best, I guess,” Matt replied.
She laughed again, a loud cackle that rose over the piano music and all the conversation in the room. “Oh, damn! You just made me laugh so hard that I peed in my drawers.”
Matt had just taken a swallow and at her pronouncement he laughed, spewing out some whiskey.
She hurried off to take care of the situation, leaving Matt standing alone at the bar, smiling and drinking his whiskey.
One of the customers got up and walked over to Matt, carrying his beer with him. “Hello, Matt. It’s been a while.”
“Hello, Bart,” Matt replied.
“What are you doing in Fort Collins?”
“A man’s got to be somewhere. You still deputy-ing?”
“No, I’m working as a messenger for Wells Fargo now. It pays some better. Oh, by the way, I suppose you heard what happened in Livermore last week?”
“No, what?”
“Bart, there’s an open chair. You in or not?” someone called from one of the tables.
“Ah, I’ve been waiting to get into the card game.” Bart held up his beer. “It was good seeing you again.”
“What happened in Livermore?” Matt asked.
“Someone killed the bank president and his wife and daughter. There’s a paper down at the end of the bar. You can read all about it.”
Matt moved down to the end of the counter where newspapers were stacked. He put a nickel in the bowl and took one, then found an empty table where he sat down to read.
Gruesome Find!
In what may be the most gruesome event in the history of Livermore, Jarvis Winslow and his wife and daughter were found murdered in their home.
Mr. Winslow was president of the bank and many will tell you there was no finer man for the job, as he always showed a willingness to work with people who needed loans.
Mrs. Winslow and her young daughter were discovered tied to a bed, their throats cut and their clothes removed, giving evidence of ravages being visited upon them. Mr. Winslow was on the floor with a knife wound in his back.
The murder seems to be connected to the bank robbery, for over twenty-three thousand dollars is missing. In what must be considered a clue, a paper was found in the bank bearing the names Red Plummer, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy.
The funeral of the three slain was attended by nearly all residents of the city.
Jarvis Winslow, like Matt Jensen, had been an orphan in the Soda Creek Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. They were there at the same time, and a friendship had developed between them. Though they had not maintained steady contact, Matt considered Winslow a brother of sort, and he took it personally when Jarvis and his family were killed in such a way.
Matt was too late for the funeral, but he went out to the cemetery where he found three fresh mounds of dirt, side by side. There was only one tombstone s
et in the middle of the three graves.
JARVIS WINSLOW
His Wife JULIE
His Daughter CYNTHIA
Plucked from this earthly abode
by a deed so foul as to
defy all understanding
Two years older than Matt, Jarvis had helped him adjust to life in an orphanage. Matt remembered a moment he had shared with Jarvis.
“You don’t have any brothers?” Jarvis asked.
“No. I had a sister, but I don’t anymore.”
“I don’t have any brothers either. You want to be my brother?”
“Sure, why not?”
Jarvis stuck a pin in the end of his thumb bringing up a drop of blood. Matt did the same thing, and they held their thumbs together.
“Now we are blood brothers,” Jarvis said. “And that is as real as real brothers.”
“Jarvis,” Matt said, speaking quietly over the three graves. “I don’t know if your spirit is still hanging around here or not. I reckon that’s a mystery we only find out after we’re dead. But in case your spirit is here, and you can hear me, I’m going to make you this promise. I intend to find the lowlife sons of bitches who did this to you and your wife and daughter, and I am going to send their sorry asses to hell.”
Matt left the cemetery, then rode across town to the sheriff’s office. When he went inside he saw Sheriff Garrison and two of his deputies looking at Wanted posters.
“Matt Jensen,” the sheriff said, smiling broadly as he walked around his desk with his hand extended. “What brings you to Livermore?”
“The murder of Jarvis Winslow.”