Massacre at Powder River

by William W. Johnstone

  It had rained earlier in the day, and the street was a quagmire. The hooves of the horses had worked the mud and horse droppings into one long, stinking, sucking pool of ooze. When the rain stopped, the sun, high and hot, began the process of evaporation. The result was a foul miasma rising from the street.

  It wasn’t a matter of finding a saloon, but a matter of choosing which saloon he wanted to patronize. The one he chose was The Lion and The Crown, the biggest and grandest building in the entire town. It was only marginally cooler inside, and the dozen and a half customers who were drinking held bandannas at the ready to wipe away the sweat.

  Matt surveyed the place, doing so with such calmness that the average person would think it no more than a glance of idle curiosity. In reality, it was a very thorough appraisal of the room. He was interested to see who was carrying and who wasn’t, and how they were armed, what type of weapons they were carrying, and whether or not those who were armed were wearing their guns in such a way as to indicate that they knew how to use them.

  There was one man standing at the far end of the bar who did bear a second look. He was a small man, no taller than five feet, five inches, Matt guessed. He was dressed all in black, including a low-crown hat that was ringed by a silver band. What caused Matt to pay a little more attention to him than anyone else in the room was the fact that, while everyone else in the saloon had given him at least a cursory glance, this man stood at the bar staring pointedly into his drink. It was as if he was purposely avoiding any eye contact.

  The heat was making everyone listless and slow-moving. There was nobody at the piano, and even the two bargirls seemed disinterested in working the room. For the moment, they were sitting as far away from the customers as they could, engaged in some private conversation.

  The bartender stood behind the bar, wiping the used glasses with his stained apron before he stacked them among the unused glasses. When he saw Matt step up to the bar, he put a glass into place, then moved down toward him.

  “What’ll it be?” he asked.

  “I’ll have a beer,” Matt said.

  The bartender reached for one of the glasses he had just “cleaned” with the stained apron, but Matt pointed to a different glass. It also might have been wiped with the dirty apron, but at least Matt hadn’t seen him do it.

  “I’ll take that glass,” he said.

  The bartender shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment as he held the new glass under the spigot.

  Matt finished his beer, then put the glass down.

  “Want another?”

  “Not yet,” Matt said. “I’ve got four days of trail stink on me and I need to take a bath somewhere. I didn’t see a bathhouse on the way in.”

  “That’s ’cause this town ain’t got a bathhouse,” the bartender said. “But if you’re wantin’ a bath, you can take one here. We got a bathing room upstairs. It’ll cost you two dollars.”

  “Two dollars? For a bath? Most of the time it’s no more than a quarter,” Matt protested.

  “Yeah, but since this is the only place in town you can get a bath, that is unless you’re planning on bathin’ in the Powder River, the boss charges what he can get.”

  “How many people are willing to pay that?”

  “No more’n one or two a week,” the bartender admitted.

  Matt knew he was being taken advantage of, but he really needed a bath and had been thinking about it for the last twenty-four hours. He put two dollars on the bar.

  “The water had better be hot, there had better be soap, and the towel had damn well better be clean,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, it will be,” the bartender said as he took the money. “You can’t very well take a bath without hot water, soap, and a clean towel, now, can you?”

  “I didn’t see a hotel, either.”

  “Not likely you would, seein’ as we ain’t got one,” the bartender said. “We got rooms here, if you want one.”

  “How much?”

  “That’ll be two dollars.”

  “Do you know where I can find a man named Moreton Frewen?” Matt asked.

  “You lookin’ for him, are you?”

  “I am.”

  “If you’re thinkin’ you might get hired on out at the Powder River Cattle Company Ranch, I don’t think he’s hirin’ anyone new.”

  “I’m not looking to be hired. I’m just looking for him.”

  “Well, if you come in to town from the north, you more’n likely seen his castle.”

  “His castle?”

  “That’s what folks around here call it. It’s made of logs, but it ain’t nothin’ like any log cabin you’ve ever seen. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t the biggest house in all Wyoming.”

  “How long will it take to get the bath ready?” Matt asked.

  “Not long. Fifteen minutes or so. Are you goin’ to be takin’ a room here? ’Cause if you are, I’ll have the bathtub brought up to your room and filled with hot water.”

  Matt took out another two dollars. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll take a room. But for now, I saw a mercantile across the street. I’m going to go buy a new pair of trousers and a shirt. That is, if the same man that owns this place doesn’t own that store. If he does, I probably can’t afford it.”

  “Mr. Oliver don’t own it ... yet,” the bartender said. “But he’s been tryin’ to buy it, and like as not, he will some day.”

  “Would your name be Matt Jensen?”

  The question came from the man at the far end of the bar, the small man dressed in black. Hanging low in a quick-draw holster on the right side of a bullet-studded pistol belt was a silver-plated Colt .44, its grip inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The man’s eyes were so pale a blue that they looked like chips of ice.

  He had not turned toward Matt yet, but was watching him in the mirror. He tossed the rest of his drink down, then took a towel from one of the bar rings and, very carefully, dabbed at his mouth. That done, he replaced the towel, then turned to look at Matt.

  “Hey, you.”

  Matt did not turn.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, Mister.”

  “Are you, now?” Matt said. He knew from the tone of the man’s voice, though, that he wasn’t being offered a simple greeting.

  “You’re Matt Jensen, are you?”

  Matt didn’t answer.

  “I seen you once down in Laramie. Matt Jensen. That is you, ain’t it?”

  “I’m Matt Jensen.”

  “You’re the famous gunfighter, are you?”

  “Mister, seems to me like you’ve got something sticking in your craw. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, then we’ll each just go our own way?” Matt said.

  “Huh, uh,” the man said. “It don’t happen like that.”

  Matt finally turned to face the belligerent little man. “I think I see where you are going with this,” he said. “And if you’d take a little friendly advice, I’d say, don’t go there.”

  “Don’t go there? Don’t go there?” the little man replied. He turned to address the others. The saloon had grown deathly still now, as the patrons sat quietly, nervously, and yet drawn by morbid curiosity to the drama that was playing out before them. “Is that what you said?”

  “That’s what I said,” Matt said. “Don’t go there.”

  “Is that how you’ve built your reputation, Mr. Matt Jensen? By frightening people into not drawing against you? Am I supposed to be afraid now, just because I am in the presence of the great Matt Jensen?”

  “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Matt asked.

  “No, I ain’t goin’ to let it go,” the little man answered. “You see, I make my livin’ with my gun, and I’ve been hired to kill you. Well, sir, I don’t want to be hung for murder, so the only way I can justify killin’ you is if it is a fair fight. So, that’s what I’m wantin’ to do now. I want to goad you into drawin’ on me.”

  “What is your name?” Matt asked.

  “The name is Houston
. Kyle Houston,” the man replied. A slow, confident smile spread across his face. “I reckon you’ve heard of me.”

  “Yeah, I have,” Matt replied.

  Houston’s smile broadened. “Really? What have you heard?”

  “I’ve heard that you are a bully and a coward, trying to make a reputation by back-shooting old men and young boys. I heard you’ve never faced a man down in your life.”

  Matt hadn’t heard any of that, nor had he even heard of Kyle Houston, but he knew that it would make the man blind with rage, and so it did.

  Houston’s smile quickly turned to an angry snarl. “Draw, Jensen!” he shouted, going for his own gun even before he issued the challenge.

  Houston was quick, quicker than anyone else in this town had ever seen. And as he started his draw, a broad, triumphant smile spread across his face. He had caught Matt by surprise, and Matt was going to have to react to the draw.

  Then, even before Houston could bring his pistol to bear, he realized that he wasn’t quick enough. The arrogant smile left, and one could see in the man’s eyes the knowledge, then the acceptance of reality. And the reality was that Kyle Houston was about to be killed.

  The two pistols discharged almost simultaneously, but Matt was first and accurate. His bullet plunged into Houston’s chest, while the bullet from Houston’s gun smashed through the front window of the building.

  Looking down at himself, Houston put his hand over his wound, then pulled it away and examined the blood that had pooled in his palm. When he looked back at Matt, there was an almost whimsical smile on his face.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ve been kilt.”

  “Yeah, you have,” Matt replied, still holding the gun.

  Houston slid down into a sitting position, his position supported by the bar itself. His right arm stretched out beside him, the pistol free of his hand except for the trigger finger that was curled through the trigger guard. The eye-burning, acrid smoke of two discharges hung in a gray-blue cloud just below the ceiling.

  Matt turned back to the bar, then slid his beer toward the bartender.

  “I believe I’m going to need something a little stronger than beer,” he said.

  The bartender drew a whiskey and handed it to him.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem, Mr. Jensen. If you want anything, just ask,” the bartender said.

  Matt tossed the whiskey down.

  “What’s your name, barkeep?” he asked.

  “It’s Moore, Mr. Jensen. Harry Moore.”

  “Did you know that gentlemen, Mr. Moore?”

  “Only by his reputation,” Moore said.

  “What kind of reputation was that?”

  “He was fast with a gun,” Moore said. “Folks said he was the fastest.”

  “That’s what folks said, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Moore said.

  “And what do you say?”

  “I say folks was wrong.”

  Chapter Ten

  Behind Matt, the silence was broken as everyone was engaged in spirited and animated discussion about what they had just seen. The gunsmoke had cleared out but the smell of burnt gunpowder still hung in the air as Marshal Drew, the town marshal, arrived.

  “What happened here?” the marshal asked. Drew was in his late fifties or early sixties. He was clean-shaven, bald-headed, and with a pronounced paunch. Before the war he had been a Texas Ranger, but when the Texas Rangers were broken up after the war he wandered from town to town, and eventually from state to state, here working as a sheriff’s deputy, there as a policeman or city marshal. He had come to Sussex because it was a small town and he hoped to close out his career in a place that offered a minimum amount of stress.

  “Houston tried to brace this fella,” Moore said.

  “Houston started the fight?”

  “That’s right. Houston drew first.”

  “You’re telling me that Houston drew first, but this man still beat him?”

  “That’s right, Marshal,” one of the saloon patrons said. “Harry is tellin’ it like it is.”

  Marshal Drew stroked his chin as he looked at Houston. Death had made the young would-be gunman’s face appear slack-jawed and distorted.

  “Mister, if you beat Houston fair and square the way these folks are tellin’ it, you must be some kind of a gunfighter,” Drew said. “What’s your name?”

  “Jensen,” Matt replied. “Matt Jensen.”

  “Matt Jensen? Sumbitch! Did Houston know who he was tanglin’ with?”

  “He called me by name,” Matt said.

  Marshal Drew looked back toward Houston. “I reckon you run across punks like Houston here more times than you can count, don’t you? Tryin’ to make a name for himself.”

  “From time to time,” Matt said. “Most men have more sense than he did. And less guts,” he added in a begrudging acknowledgment of Houston’s misplaced courage. “But I don’t think he was trying to make a name for himself. He had another motive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He told me he was hired to kill me.”

  “Hired to kill you? By who?” the marshal asked.

  “I’d like to know the answer to that as well.”

  “Are you here to meet with Mr. Frewen?” Marshal Drew asked.

  “Yes, how did you know that?”

  “I’m the one who suggested he get in touch with you.”

  “Do we know each other?” Matt asked.

  The marshal shook his head. “We’ve never met,” he said. “But I’ve sure heard of you. My name is Drew. And if I can be of any assistance while you’re, uh, doing whatever it is you are going to do for Mr. Frewen, please, just let me know.”

  “All right, Marshal Drew,” Matt replied. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

  Marshal Drew turned to the bartender. “Harry, I’ll get Welsh down here to pick up the body and get it cleared away for you,” he said.

  “No hurry, Marshal,” Moore replied with a broad smile. “Havin’ Houston shot by a man like Matt Jensen is goin’ to bring in the business. Hell, I may get Dysart to come set up his camera. I’ll charge people to have their pictures took with Houston’s body.”

  Leaving the saloon, Matt rode down to the end of the street where he had boarded his horse, Spirit, in the livery. Then, trying to stay on the board that crossed the road so as to avoid as much of the mud and liquefied horse apples as he could, he walked back to the mercantile.

  There were seven or eight people in the store when he walked in, and from the way they reacted at seeing him, he knew that they had already heard the story of the shooting in the The Lion and The Crown. They moved aside to give him as much room as possible.

  The frightened reaction people had to him used to bother Matt. He wanted to yell at them, to ask them if they thought he was going to go berserk and start shooting them all. Now he just turned his mind off to it.

  A very overweight man with white muttonchop whiskers came up to talk to him.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen. How may I help you?”

  Matt was not surprised that the clerk knew his name. He figured that by now, everyone in town probably knew him. That also meant that Moreton Frewen, the man who had sent for him, knew that he was in town as well.

  “I need a pair of trousers and a new shirt,” Matt said.

  The clerk, evidently believing that he had a gift for fashion, attempted to pick out the trousers and shirt. He chose a pair of fawn-colored trousers and a bright orange shirt.

  “Oh, I think you would look very nice in this,” the clerk said.

  “I would feel better in this,” Matt said, picking up a pair of blue denims and a white collarless shirt.

  Both Teasdale and Moreton Frewen had telephones in their houses, with direct lines to the switchboard in town. In fact, they were two of only thirty-five private telephones in the entire town; but Teasdale’s foreman, Stan Reed, was in town, and shortly after the gunfight occurred, he went directly to the tele
phone exchange.

  The switchboard was in the living room of Gordon Prouty’s house. Prouty was the operator. Reed pulled on the bell cord, and Prouty, who was eating a piece of fried chicken, answered the door.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I want to call Mr. Teasdale.”

  “It’ll cost you a nickel,” Prouty said.

  Reed gave him a nickel, and Prouty pointed to a telephone mounted on the wall. “Go over there and pick it up,” he said. Prouty connected the line, then turned a crank.

  Teasdale was eating his dinner when the telephone rang, and when Margaret started to answer it, Teasdale held up his hand.

  “I’ll get it,” he said. “I’m expecting a call.” He hurried over to the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Teasdale, I thought you might like to know that this fella Matt Jensen that ever’one has been talkin’ about got into town today.”

  “How do you know?” Teasdale asked.

  “How do I know is because almost the first thing he done after he got here was he got into a gunfight with Kyle Houston.”

  Teasdale smiled. “Houston kill him, did he? Well, I guess that ...”

  “No sir,” Reed said, interrupting him.

  “What do you mean, no sir? I thought you said the first thing he did after coming to town was to get into a gunfight with Houston.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what he done, all right. Only he didn’t get killed, he was the one that done the killin’. It’s Kyle Houston who is dead.”

  Teasdale hung up with saying another word.

  After he’d made his purchases, Matt returned to The Lion and The Crown Saloon. The bartender waved him over.

  “It’s Room Four, Mr. Jensen,” Moore said, handing Matt a key. “Second room on your left.”

  Matt climbed the stairs then opened the door to the room. There was a zinc bathtub in the room, filled with water. The little wisps of steam that were rising from the water indicated that the water was warm. Matt slipped down into the tub, where he soaked for nearly an hour. Then, with his skin red from the hot water and soapy scrub, he dried off and walked over to lie down on the bed. Still naked from his bath, he crawled between the stiff, clean sheets, and was asleep within moments.