Massacre at Powder River

by William W. Johnstone

  Captain Hewitt, seeing Winnie come alone into the dining room, stood and called out to him.

  “Here, lad, are you alone?”

  “Yes, sir. Mama is ill.”

  There was a smattering of laughter around the table.

  “Yes,” Captain Hewitt said. “After the last twelve hours, several are, I’m afraid. Would you like to join us?”

  “Yes, sir,” Winnie replied, pleased to have been invited.

  The others around the table introduced themselves, and Winnie made a concerted effort to remember the names of each of them so he could call them by name when he left.

  “Tell me, young man, what is taking you to America?” Captain Hewitt asked.

  “My mother and I are going to visit my aunt and uncle in Wyoming. My uncle owns a cattle ranch, with real cowboys,” Winnie said.

  “Well, now, I’m sure that will be a wonderful adventure,” the captain said.

  Captain Hewitt and the others returned to their discussion. They were talking about the Sino-French war.

  “The French have taken Vietnam from the Chinese,” the American, Congressman Henry Cabot Lodge, said. “But I studied the Vietnamese when I was publishing the International Review and you mark my words, the French have done nothing but grab a tiger by the tail. Vietnam is going to come back to haunt them some day.”

  Winnie listened to the conversation with interest; then, at the end of dinner just before he excused himself, he said good-bye to everyone around the table, addressing each of them by name.

  All were impressed with him, and they responded generously.

  “Captain, before I return to the cabin, I promised Mama I would try and get an orange for her. Do you think that is possible?”

  “It had better be,” Captain Hewitt said, and when he raised his hand, a steward appeared instantly.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Get a sack of oranges for young Mr. Churchill, would you please?”

  “Yes, sir,” the steward said.

  The steward disappeared, and within less than a minute returned with a bag of oranges.

  “Thank you, sir,” Winnie said. “Thank you very much.”

  When Winnie returned to the room, Jennie was sitting in a chair. Her appearance had improved considerably, though she still looked quite pale.

  “Look, Mama, oranges!” Winnie said. “An entire bag of them. Would you like me to peel one for you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Jennie said. “Winnie, darling, you are a savior.”

  When Winnie’s private tutor learned that he was coming to America, she had given him an assignment.

  “I want you to write an essay about America,” she had said.

  “Oh, I know all about America. I have read about it.”

  “No, not what you get out of books. I want you to record your personal thoughts from your own observations. Don’t even think about what is written in all the history and geography books.”

  “All right,” Winnie had said.

  Winnie and his mother had taken passage on the Baltic, a steam-powered steel ship that could carry one thousand passengers. Two hundred thirty passengers, like Lady Churchill and her son, made the crossing in luxurious accommodations, including a large stateroom with electricity and an attached private bathroom. Winnie began his notebook by writing of their time onboard the Baltic.

  I like to stand on the promenade and look out to sea and think of the days when England’s ships explored the world. What brave men those sailors must have been to sail this mighty ocean in small wooden ships, propelled only by the wind. When I think of them, I cannot but believe that so very much is owed to so few, by so many Englishmen.

  Chapter Six

  From the Cheyenne Leader:

  Justice Dispensed

  Word has reached this paper that Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy have paid for their heinous crime with their own lives. Readers of this paper may recall reading about these two outlaws in a previous edition. The two outlaws brutally murdered and ravaged the wife and young daughter of Jarvis Winslow, then killed Mr. Winslow as part of their nefarious scheme to rob the bank of Livermore, Colorado.

  These contemptible cretins were subsequently located by the dogged determination and excellent tracking of Matt Jensen. Mr. Jensen extended to the outlaws an opportunity to surrender themselves and be brought before the court to answer for their evil deeds. Alas, they did not avail themselves of that generous offer, but chose instead to respond with gunfire. Mr. Jensen answered in kind, and whereas the outlaws missed their mark, the balls energized by Jensen’s pistol struck home with devastating effect. Many readers will recognize the name Matt Jensen, as he has achieved no little fame for his many deeds of heroism in serving his fellow man.

  Mr. Jensen was not available for an interview, but it is believed that he has continued his quest for justice by going after Red Plummer, the third member of the murdering lot.

  The Boar’s Head Saloon was on 18th Street just across from the Western Hotel. It was one of the many saloons along Cheyenne’s 18th Street that appealed to the lowest-caliber customer. Matt was looking for Red Plummer, and he knew that the Boar’s Head was exactly the kind of saloon Red Plummer would frequent.

  After Matt reached Cheyenne, he became a semi-regular habitué of the 18th Street saloons, nursing a beer in one, playing cards in another, engaged in conversation in yet another, all the while listening to the conversations of others. Not once did he mention Red Plummer’s name, but his quiet observation provided him with all the information that he needed. He learned that, while Plummer was not in town now, he was a frequent visitor. Matt decided to wait for him. He waited for two weeks until, finally, Plummer showed up.

  Inside the Boar’s Head Saloon, Red Plummer was sitting in the back, drinking whiskey and playing solitaire. Red Plummer was a thin man, with dark, unruly hair, a nose like a hawk’s beak, and a large red birthmark on his face. He was also missing the lower lobe of his left ear, having had it bitten off during a fight while he was in prison.

  When Matt Jensen came into the saloon, Plummer heard several of the other saloon patrons call out to him.

  “Hello, Jensen, you still around?”

  “Matt,” the bartender called. “We made some fresh cracklins today. They go real good with beer.”

  Plummer had never seen Jensen up close, but when the others called him by name, he looked over at him. He was a big son of a bitch, with broad shoulders and hard eyes. It was him, all right.

  For a moment, Plummer panicked. He had already read in the paper what Jensen did to his two pards, and he knew that Jensen was looking for him. It was all he could do to keep from getting up and bolting through the back door. His hands began to shake so badly that he dropped the deck of cards, causing several of them to scatter across the floor.

  “Just beer,” he heard Matt Jensen say to the bartender. “Hold the cracklins.”

  “All right, but you’re missin’ out on a good thing,” The bartender said as he drew a beer and handed it to Matt. Matt blew some of the foam off the head, then took a swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned his back to the bar to look out over the patrons.

  Damn! He’s looking right at me! Plummer thought. He grew tense, waiting for Jensen to pull his gun, waiting for the bullet to come slamming into his chest. But nothing happened. Matt Jensen looked right toward Plummer, then passed his eyes around the rest of the room, showing no recognition whatever.

  Plummer felt a sense of relief. Jensen hadn’t even recognized him.

  Matt saw him; he fit Plummer’s description perfectly. But he didn’t want to make a scene here in the bar, deciding it would be better to just wait Plummer out until he left the saloon. Then Matt would confront him on the street. The question was, had Plummer recognized him?

  Matt had just turned back toward the bar when suddenly a knife flashed by beside him. The blade buried itself about half an inch into the bar.

  Drawing his pistol and turning toward
the direction from which the knife had come, he saw Plummer getting up from a table with a gun in his hand. Plummer fired, just as Matt, instinctively, moved to his left. The bullet from Plummer’s pistol put a hole in the bar exactly where Matt had been but a second before. Matt returned fire, and the impact of the bullet knocked Plummer back into the stove with such impact that that the stove piping was pulled loose. It came tumbling down with a clanging crash as soot and black dust poured forth to mingle with the billowing cloud of gun smoke from the two shots fired.

  Matt stood there, holding the smoking pistol in his hand as he looked at Plummer to see if the outlaw represented any further danger.

  For a long moment there was absolute quiet in the saloon, as everyone had been shocked into silence by the sudden and unexpected gunplay. Finally, one brave soul wandered over to look down at Plummer. There was a dark red hole in Plummer’s shirt, just over his heart. His right hand was still clutching the grip of his pistol, and his eyes were open and staring sightlessly toward the ceiling.

  “Is he dead, Paul?” someone asked.

  “Deader than a doornail,” Paul replied.

  “Sum’bitch, did you see that? He threw a knife and took a shot with his pistol, but still got hisself kilt.”

  Conversation broke out all over the saloon then, and it was still going on when a police officer came hurrying in.

  “Someone want to tell me what happened here?” the policeman asked.

  Everyone began talking at the same time, but eventually the policeman got the story. In the meantime, Matt stood against the bar, slowly sipping his beer and watching the policeman work. Finally, realizing that Matt was the one who did the shooting, the policeman came over to talk to Matt.

  “I’m not arrestin’ you or anything,” he said. “’Cause from what ever’one is tellin’ me, this fella started it, first by throwing a knife at your back, then by shooting at you. Is that true?”

  “You heard it right,” Matt replied.

  “Do you have any idea why he attacked you from behind like that?”

  “Because he knew I was going to kill him,” Matt replied.

  “What?” the policeman responded, surprised by Matt’s answer.

  “This is Red Plummer,” Matt said.

  “It is?”

  “Damn, Marcus, didn’t you even look at him?” one of the other saloon patrons asked. “It was all writ up about Plummer in the paper, how him and two others robbed a bank and kilt the banker and his whole family.”

  “Yeah, I know about that,” the policeman answered. “I guess I just didn’t look that close at the body. But if it is Plummer, then as far as I’m concerned, Mr. Jensen, you have done society a service.”

  “Did anybody see the horse Plummer rode up on?” Matt asked.

  “Yeah, I did. It’s the dun out there, tied off at the end of the hitchin’ rack.”

  “Officer, would you come with me, please?” Matt said. “I need a witness.”

  The police officer, and several others from the saloon out of curiosity, followed Matt out to the horse with the black dorsal stripe. Matt looked through the saddlebags, then pulled out a little sack. Reaching down into the sack he withdrew a thick packet of greenbacks.

  “I’ll be damned!” someone said.

  “If you don’t mind, we’ll go down to the police station together and count this money out,” Matt said. “I’m going to want a receipt, then I’m going to ask you to send the money back to the bank in Livermore.”

  “I’d be glad to,” the policeman said.

  Half an hour later, with the money duly counted and secured, and with a receipt in his hand for $9,276, Matt’s task was completed, except for the shooting inquiry that the municipal court had scheduled for ten o’clock the next morning. After the inquiry, Matt would have no reason to hang around Cheyenne any longer. It was too late in the day to leave now, so he was going to have to spend at least one more night here. He had been staying at the Western Hotel because of its convenience to all the saloons on 18th Street, and he saw no reason to move out for just one more night. But he did decide that he would like to have a good dinner for this last night, so leaving everything at the Western, he walked down to the Cheyenne Club.

  “Mr. Jensen,” the manager called out to him, when Matt stepped into the Club. “A letter came for you today.”

  “A letter for me? And it was delivered here?” Matt replied. “That’s strange.”

  “Yes, sir, I thought so as well. I wasn’t sure you were still in town, so I was going to send it back tomorrow. But if you will wait here for just a moment, I’ll get it for you.”

  Matt waited until the manager returned, holding the letter in his hand. “It is from Mr. Moreton Frewen,” the club manager said. “Do you know him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “He’s one of the high-toned Brits, you know, a Lord or a Sir or something like that. I never can keep it straight. He’s also a member of our club. It could be that he saw you one of the times you were here, and just decided this would be the best place to reach you.”

  “Could be,” Matt agreed, taking the letter. “But I have no idea why he would want to get in touch with me.”

  Matt walked into the big, spacious parlor room, exchanging greeting nods with some of the other members; then he settled into one of the oversized, leather chairs. Before he opened the envelope, the manager called over to him.

  “Would you like a beer? I can get someone to bring it over to you?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” Matt said. He pulled out the letter, and began to read.

  June 18, 1884

  My Dear Mr. Jensen:

  Your name has been put forth to me by loyal and true friends as someone who can help me deal with a crisis that is striking, not only my ranch, but many ranches here in Johnson County, Wyoming. There is a group of rustlers working the ranges here, stealing cattle with ruthless impunity. Led by a man named Sam Logan, they are organized as well as any military unit and they identify themselves by wearing a yellow kerchief at their throat and a yellow band around their hat. It is this appurtenance to their apparel that provides the sobriquet, the “Yellow Kerchief,” by which these scoundrels are known.

  Although I am losing cattle at a rate that is unsustainable, it isn’t just the loss of cattle that has me concerned. In the last month I have had six of my men murdered by this gang. I, and some of my neighbors, have approached the local constabularies in a plea that something be done, but the problem is clearly bigger than anything the law can handle.

  It is my hope that the enclosed draft will be sufficient to hire you to investigate the cause of my cattle loss, and if possible to put a stop to it, and to bring justice to these murderers.

  Sincerely,

  Moreton Frewen

  Matt looked back into the envelope and saw a second piece of paper. When he removed the paper, he saw that it was, indeed, a bank draft, drawn on the Stock Growers’ National Bank in Cheyenne. When he looked at the amount the draft was drawn for, he blinked in surprise. It was for five thousand dollars.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen,” I.C. Whipple said, as he examined the draft. Whipple was the founder and president of the Stock Growers’ National Bank. “We will indeed honor the draft. However ...”

  “However?” Matt asked.

  “I have received a telegram from Mr. Frewen. He asks that I have you sign a certificate of acceptance before I release the funds.”

  “Do you have the certificate?”

  “We do. I had it made up as soon as we received the telegram.”

  “Let me see it,” Matt said.

  Whipple pulled open the middle drawer on his desk, and took out a document, then he slid it across the desk for Matt to read.

  Know all men by these presents, and with my signature here unto affixed, I give oath that I will, to the best of my ability, and within the parameters of law and morality, perform the services requested by Moreton Frewen, and secured by these funds.

&nbs
p; “Do you know this man, Moreton Frewen?” Matt asked.

  “I do.”

  “In your opinion, is this document on the up and up?”

  “It would be my belief that it is, sir,” Whipple said.

  Matt nodded, then signed the document. After that, he endorsed the bank draft, and Whipple personally counted out the money.

  “That is a great deal of money for one man to be carrying, Mr. Jensen,” Whipple said. “If you would like, I would be glad to open an account for you in our bank.”

  “Thank you,” Matt said. “But I’ll keep the money with me.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “You could give me one more bit of information if you would,” Matt said.

  “Certainly, if I can.”

  “Where will I find Moreton Frewen?”

  “His ranch is very near the town of Sussex,” Whipple said. “That is right in the middle of Johnson County. It is quite some distance from here, two hundred and fifty miles or so. And as there is no railroad that goes in that direction, you will have to go by stagecoach.”

  “I have a horse,” Matt said. “I can make it up in about three days. You wouldn’t have a map, would you?”

  “There’s one in my office,” Whipple said. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  Matt followed Whipple into his office, where the banker pointed out the town of Sussex.

  “It is a very small town,” he said. “But if you follow the stagecoach road north until you reach the Powder River, you can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said.