For the next several minutes, the sound of gunfire echoed back from the sheer wall of Snowy Peak as Sherman, Poke, and the other men with them fired shot after shot into the cabin. All the windows were shot out, and splinters began flying from the walls of the little clapboard structure. Finally Sherman ordered a cease-fire.
“Lieutenant Terrell, you and Scraggs go down there to have a look,” Sherman ordered.
With a nod of acceptance, Poke and Scraggs left the relative safety of the rocks then climbed down the hill to approach the cabin. Not one shot was fired from the cabin. Finally the two men disappeared around behind the cabin and, a moment later, the front door of the cabin opened and Poke stepped outside, then waved his hand.
“He’s dead!” Poke called up.
“Dead—dead—dead!” the words echoed back from the cliff wall.
“Gentlemen, we’ve done a good day’s work here, today,” Sherman said with a satisfied smile on his face.
Boise City
For a time during the gold rush, Boise had prospered and boomed. After the gold rush, Boise began declining in population, and had shrunk to less than one thousand people in 1870. But now, with both the territorial prison and the territorial capital in Boise (some wags suggested that there was very little difference in character between the prisoners and politicians), there had been a rather substantial rebirth and, once again, Boise was a booming community.
Clay Sherman had an office in Boise, boldly placing it right next door to the Territorial Capitol building. He had no reservations about advertising his location, and a sign, hanging from the front of the office read:
IDAHO AUXILIARY PEACE OFFICERS’ POSSE
Colonel Clay Sherman, Commanding
PRIVATE POLICE SERVICE
At the moment, Sherman was meeting with Poke Terrell, his second in command. Poke had brought him a proposal for a job down on the Snake River in Owyhee County.
“What do you think, Colonel? Should we take the job?” his first lieutenant asked.
“I don’t know,” Sherman answered. “It’s not the kind of thing we normally do.”
“No, but he’s offerin’ fifteen hunnert dollars, and the job don’t seem all that hard to do. I just don’t think we should walk away from it.”
“Who is it that’s wantin’ to hire us?”
“His name is Marcus Kincaid. He’s a rancher down in Owyhee County.”
Sherman, who had once been an Arizona Ranger, stroked his jaw for a moment as he contemplated the suggestion his second in command had made.
“If you ask me, I think we should do it,” Poke said. “I mean, we don’t need ever’ one. I could prob’ly take care of it myself.”
“All right, I’ll tell you what,” Sherman said. “How about you go down there and meet with this fella? If it looks like something you can handle, go ahead and do it.”
“By myself?”
“Why not? You just said you could probably handle it by yourself.”
“Well, yeah, I think I can. But maybe I should take a few of the men with me?”
“No. Because of the type operation it is, I want to keep as much separation as I can between that job and the posse,” Sherman said. “In fact, I think you should quit the organization.”
“What? No, now wait, I didn’t have nothin’ like that in mind,” Poke said. “I was just suggestin’ that it might be a good way to make some money.”
Sherman held up his hand to halt the protest. “Don’t worry, you won’t really be quitting,” he said. “We’ll just make everyone think you have quit. In fact, we can let it out that I fired you.”
“Oh. All right, whatever you say. As long as you ain’t kickin’ me out, I mean.”
“Now why would I want to kick you out, Poke?” Sherman asked. “You are one of the best I’ve ever ridden with. I told you, you leavin’ us would be just for show, just to keep anyone from tracing your operation back to us.”
“What if I need help?”
“If after you get down there, you decide that you need help, hire some locals. If the job is really worthwhile, you should be able to afford it.”
“Oh, the job will be worthwhile, all right,” Poke said. “I don’t see how it can miss.”
King Hill, Idaho Territory
Joel Matthews, president of the Cattleman’s Bank and Loan of King Hill, was sitting behind his desk, reading a newspaper. To some, Matthews’s office might have been considered messy, but because it was the office of a bank president, it was just considered busy. The bank president’s desk was filled with stacks of paper, though he did manage to keep enough room left on his desk for an ink blotter and an inkwell and pen. The walls of his office were festooned with pictures, including one of a 4-4-2 engine with steam gushing from its piston rods as it thundered beneath a plume of smoke, pulling a string of passenger cars across a high trestle that afforded a grandiose mountain vista. There was also a portrait of the bank president, Joel Matthews, as well as a calendar with a picture of a brightly colored array of pumpkins, corn, apples, peppers, and pears. A grandfather’s clock stood against the wall, its pendulum marking each passing second with a loud tick tock.
“Mr. Matthews?”
Matthews looked up from the paper to see someone standing at his desk. The man was medium height, slender and well groomed. His hair was very light, almost blond, and his eyes were such a pale blue that one could almost say they had no color at all. Matthews recognized him at once.
“Ah, Marcus Kincaid,” he said. “It’s so good to see you.”
“I came to talk about that proposal we discussed.”
“Good, good, I’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have about it.” Matthews put the paper down.
“Anything interesting in the paper?” Kincaid asked.
“An interesting story about Kitty Wellington’s ranch,” Matthews said. “But I’m certain, given the circumstances, that you read the story.”
“I read it,” Kincaid said without showing a lot of enthusiasm.
“But did you also read the article about the shootout over in Green River City, Wyoming?” Matthews asked his visitor.
“Yes, I read that as well,” Kincaid answered. “The story makes this Matt Jensen fellow into quite the hero, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. From time to time editorial writers wax on about the spirit of the West. Most of it, I’m sure, is just hyperbole. But I have read about Matt Jensen before, and occasionally, someone like Jensen comes along and you think maybe there is something to it. Clearly, Matt Jensen is a living manifestation of the spirit of the West.”
“Come on, Mr. Matthews, don’t you think it is possible that the person who wrote this story may be engaging in a bit of this same hyperbole?” Kincaid asked.
Matthews chuckled. “I suppose that could be true,” he said. “Still, it is reassuring to believe that there are such men out there, men who are dedicated to fighting evil, and doing what is right and true.”
“I suppose so.”
The bank president leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs into the shoulder openings of his vest. “Well, Mr. Kincaid, you are here, so, am I to take it that you have decided?”
“Yes, I have decided.”
“That’s good to hear. Tell me, what have you decided? Do you want to buy the loan?”
“Yes.”
“You are sure, now, that you want to do this?” Matthews asked. “I don’t want to be in the position of having you pushed into something that, upon further reflection, you regret.”
“I am positive I want to do it,” Kincaid answered. “And don’t worry, there will be no regrets.”
“I don’t have to tell you that we are talking about a lot of money here. The original loan was for twenty-five thousand dollars. With interest, the amount due now is considerably more.”
“I just want you to tell me again what happens if the borrower cannot make payment,” Kincaid said.
“You don’t have to worry about it. Mrs. Wellington
has pledged Coventry on the Snake as collateral. That means there are more than significant assets against the note to cover the loan. If payment cannot be made, those assets will be forfeited to the mortgage holder.”
“Which will be me, if I purchase the loan right now. Is that right?”
“Yes, that would be you.”
“So if I make this investment, I will be protected?”
“Oh, indeed you will.”
“Do you think it is a good investment?” the bank customer asked.
“I think it is an excellent investment,” Matthews said, gushingly. “Why, back East, banks sell off loans all the time. It is perfectly safe—as I told you, if the loan goes into default, the assets will come to you. And of course, if the loan is paid on time, which I have every reason to believe that it will be, you will recoup every cent of your money, plus the interest that will have accrued between the time of your acquisition and the time of the settlement of the loan.”
“If you are sure the loan is going to be repaid, why are you willing to sell it?”
“We are a bank, Mr. Kincaid, and in order to function as a bank is supposed to function, it is necessary that we maintain a significant balance of funds. From time to time we get—well, to be honest—a little over-extended. When that happens, we can’t make any new loans. Selling this note will give us more flexibility in handling customers who require new loans.”
“All right, I want to buy the loan. How long will this transaction take?”
“Not very long at all,” Matthews said. “In fact, we can do it this very day. As soon as you make the payment, we can draw up the papers transferring the mortgage to you.”
“Exactly how much money will it take at this moment, to purchase the loan?”
“The initial loan was for twenty-five thousand dollars, but currently, with accrued interest, the amount due is twenty-eight thousand, five hundred seventeen dollars, and thirty-six cents,” Matthews said with the efficiency of one who was well at home with numbers, especially as it related to money.
“And you say that she has pledged the entire ranch against the loan?”
“Yes. Mrs. Wellington being a woman and all, our board of directors insisted upon more collateral than they would had the borrower been a man. As I am sure you are aware, the assets are easily worth twenty times the face value of the note.”
“Thank you,” Kincaid said. “I will draw a draft for immediate payment. Oh, and Mr. Matthews, if you would, please say nothing of this to anyone else.”
“You needn’t worry about that. Confidentiality is the policy of the Cattlemen’s Bank and Loan.”
“I appreciate that,” Kincaid said as he began filling out the draft.
“As a matter of fact, if you wish,” Matthews added as he watched the draft being written, “for a nominal fee, we will continue to process the loan for you. That way, as far as Mrs. Wellington is concerned, the bank is still the mortgage holder. For your purposes, that might be better.”
“How would it be better?”
“Well, say for example Mrs. Wellington finds out you hold the note instead of the bank. And suppose the borrower is unable to make the payment on time. It is much easier for the bank to turn down any request for extensions on the loan than it would be for you.”
“Yes, I can see what you are talking about. Good, good, let’s do it that way then.”
Finishing the draft, Kincaid held up the document and blew on it to dry the ink. He then passed it across the desk to Matthews. “I guess that makes me a member of the banking business,” he said with a broad smile.
Matthews accepted the check. “I guess it does at that,” he said with a satisfied smile. “I only wish that other businessmen were as astute as you are. If we could sell more of our loans, we would have more money available to service our customers when new loans are needed.”
Chapter Four
When Poke Terrell rode into King Hill a train was sitting at the depot. The engine, painted green and trimmed in red, was glistening in the golden light of the setting sun. The engineer was leaning through the window of the cab and holding a long-stemmed pipe clinched tightly between his teeth. He watched from his lordly position as arriving passengers left the train and departing passengers boarded.
The restaurant Poke was looking for was next door to the depot, an adobe building that had recently been given a fresh coat of whitewash. There was a sign hanging in front of the restaurant that identified it as Delmonico’s and a hitching rail that ran all the way across the front of the building. Poke dismounted, tied his horse to the rail, then climbed the two wooden steps to the porch.
Poke was a relatively short man, but he was powerfully built, with a barrel chest, and muscular arms. His head was bald and round, and because one could almost imagine that Poke had no neck, it looked rather like a cannon ball resting on his shoulders.
He was greeted by an employee of the restaurant as soon as he stepped inside.
“May I help you sir?”
“I’m supposed to meet someone here, only I ain’t never met him so I’m not…”
“Would you be Mr. Terrell?” the restaurant employee asked.
“Yeah.”
“Your party is back here.”
When the waiter took Poke back to the table in the corner of the restaurant, Marcus Kincaid stood to greet him. There could not have been a more dramatic contrast in the appearance of the two men. Terrell was wearing denim trousers and a white stained shirt. Kincaid was wearing a brown tweed suit. Poke was the rough-hewn log on the fireplace hearth; Kincaid was the cut flower in a vase.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Kincaid said, as the two men sat down.
“Do you have the money?” Poke asked.
“Yes, I have the money. Half now, as we agreed,” Kincaid said, taking an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handing it to Poke.
Poke took the money from the envelope and began counting.
“Don’t count it here!” Kincaid snapped.
Poke looked up with a frown on his face, as he continued to count the money.
“All right, it’s all here, seven hundred fifty dollars,” Poke said as he finished counting. He put the money back into the envelope, then put the envelope into his pocket. “What do you want me to do?”
“Have you heard of a ranch called Coventry on the Snake?” Kincaid asked. “It’s near Medbury.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Owned by a foreigner,” Poke said.
“It was owned by an Englishman named Thomas Wellington. Now it’s owned by an American woman. When Wellington died, it became the property of his widow. She has invested heavily into the operation and is badly in debt. She needs, desperately, to sell some horses, and she has to do it soon, or she will lose the ranch.”
“And you want me to help her sell the horses? I don’t know what you thought I could do for her. I’m not a salesman.”
Kincaid shook his head vehemently. “No, no, it’s just the opposite. I don’t want you to help her save the ranch. I want you to make sure she loses the ranch.”
Poke laughed. “I’m glad to hear that. I think that might be easier to do. Do you have an idea as to how I need to do it?”
Kincaid shook his head. “No, use your own initiative. I don’t care how you do it, as long as you do it.”
“You don’t care how I do it?”
“Well, I don’t want you to burn any of the buildings, or anything like that,” Kincaid said. “I don’t want the ranch destroyed. All I want is for it to fail.”
Poke chuckled. “That’s all you want, huh?”
“That’s all I want. Do you think you can handle that without too much difficulty?”
“Yeah,” Poke said. “As long as you stay out of my way and let me handle things.”
Kincaid held up both his hands. “Trust me on this, Mr. Terrell, you shall have free reign. In fact, I would be very pleased if we never even saw each other again.”
“Except for the fi
nal payment,” Poke said.
“Yes, except for the final payment,” Kincaid agreed.
When Poke Terrell stepped inside the Sand Spur Saloon in Medbury for the first time, he looked around the room until he saw the table that he wanted. It was slightly more than halfway back in the room and sitting close, but not uncomfortably close, to the stove. It was also situated so as to give him a good view, both of the front door and the side door, and this was important to him. A person in Poke’s business, and with his reputation, made enough enemies that it was always a good idea to know who was coming and going.
There was a cowboy sitting at the table, and he was joking with one of the bar girls. Poke walked up to the table, then stood there, staring at the cowboy. The cowboy glanced up at him briefly, then turned his attention back to the young woman.
Poke didn’t move, and his presence was obviously making the young woman nervous. She had been laughing and teasing with the cowboy, but now she couldn’t take her attention away from this brooding man who stood inches away from the two of them.
“Can I help you, Mister?” the cowboy finally asked.
“You have my table,” Poke said.
“What are you talking about, your table? I ain’t never even seen you before.”
“I’ve just arrived,” Poke said. “I want this table.”
“What if I don’t want to move?”
“Prew, come on, let’s go to another table,” the young woman said.
“I’m not goin’ to let some son of a bitch just come in and order me away from this table,” Prew said.
“Prew, please,” the young woman said. “If you want me to talk to you, you’ll change tables.”
Prew stared at Poke for a moment longer, then he got up. He pointed at Poke. “All right, I’m movin’,” he said. “But it ain’t none of your doin’. I’m movin’ ’cause of Jenny.”
Poke didn’t answer, but as soon as Prew left, Poke sat down, then took out a deck of cards and dealt himself a game of solitaire.
“Mister, you want anything to drink?” one of the other girls asked.
Snake River Slaughter Page 3