Snake River Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hey!” someone called out to them. “What are you fellas doing here?”

  Not one man answered.

  “Are you chasin’ somebody?”

  Like the first question, this one went unacknowledged.

  “How come there won’t none of you answer?”

  “They are like the army, George,” on of the other townspeople explained. “They are standin’ in formation, and that means they can’t talk or look around.”

  “That don’t make no sense,” George said.

  “That’s because you have never been in the army. I have, and I know what it’s like when you are standin’ in formation.”

  “I just want to know what they are doin’ here,” George said. “I mean, ever’ one knows what these fellas are like. Whenever they get on somebody’s trail, there is most always shootin’.”

  Like the others in town, Marshal Sparks had seen the posse arrive and he was now standing just inside his office, drinking coffee and looking through his front window as the riders halted in front of the building. He knew about the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse, and he knew about its leader. He watched Clay Sherman dismount, order his men to stand by their horses, then come in. One of the other men came in with him.

  Sherman pushed the door open and looked around. Because Marshal Sparks was standing over to one side by the window, and because the door opened toward him, temporarily blocking him from view, Sherman didn’t see him when he first came in.

  “Anyone in here?” Sherman called loudly.

  “I’m over here,” Marshal Sparks said from the front window. In contrast to Sherman’s shout, Marshal Sparks response was so quiet as to be conversational.

  “Marshal, I’m—”

  “Clay Sherman,” Sparks interrupted. “I know who you are, Mr. Sherman.”

  “If you know who I am, then you know that I am more properly addressed as Colonel Sherman.”

  “What can I do for you, Colonel Sherman?” Sparks asked, emphasizing the word colonel to show a little irritation at being told how to address his arrogant visitor.

  “Yes, well, it isn’t what you can do for me, Marshal. It is what I, and my men, are going to do for you.”

  “You are going to do something for me? I don’t recall asking for any outside support in running my town.”

  “We don’t always have to be asked. Often when there is a clear and unaddressed violation of the law, we will respond for the good of the whole,” Sherman replied.

  “So, what brings you here?”

  “Marshal Sparks, it has come to the attention of Governor Neil that you have been—let us say, lax—in your enforcement of a very important territorial law. We have been sent here to Owyhee County to enforce that law.”

  “I don’t know of any law I’m not enforcing. What law would that be?” Marshal Sparks asked, surprised by the announcement.

  “What law it is, is no longer of your concern,” Sherman said. “As you have not worried about it before, there is no need for you to worry about it now. Like I said, we will take care of it for you. But you need not worry too much about it. The fact that we will be enforcing this law will not reflect adversely on you. Also, we will not interfere with your normal performance of duty. You just go on about your normal business and pay no mind to us.”

  “I should at least know what law you are talking about.”

  “How many rooms does the hotel have?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sparks asked, unable to follow the abrupt change of subject.

  “The hotel, Marshal. How many rooms does it have? I must find quarters for my men. I shall require nine rooms, eight for my men, they can double up, and one for myself.”

  “Oh, that won’t be possible. The hotel only has ten rooms and at least four of them are permanently occupied.”

  “Thank you,” Sherman replied.

  “Marshal, I got a question I want to ask you,” the man who had come in with Sherman said. He had been silent until this moment.

  “What is the question?” Marshal Sparks replied.

  “How come it is, that you didn’t do anything about the man who murdered Poke Terrell?”

  “Who are you?” Marshal Sparks asked.

  “Marshal, this Lieutenant Luke Scraggs. He is my second in command,” Sherman said.

  “Why didn’t anyone do anything about the man who murdered Poke Terrell?” Scraggs asked a second time.

  “Mr. Scraggs,” Marshal Sparks started.

  “It’s Lieutenant Scraggs,” Scraggs replied.

  “We did do something about it, Scraggs,” Marshal Sparks said, purposely omitting the use of the word lieutenant. “The judge conducted a hearing and determined that the shooting that took Terrell’s life was justifiable. Matt Jensen was cleared of any wrongdoing. Everyone who was in the saloon at the time testified that Poke Terrell drew first. In fact, Terrell killed a young woman, and if he had not been killed himself, I have no doubt but that he would have been indicted by the hearing, tried, found guilty, and hung. Does that answer your question?”

  “I heard it was a whore he kilt,” Scraggs said.

  “Like I said, he killed a young woman.”

  “If you see this man, Matt Jensen, you might tell him that he is going to have to answer to me for killing my friend,” Scraggs said.

  “You aren’t making a threat, are you, Scraggs?” Marshal Sparks asked.

  “You must excuse Lieutenant Scraggs, Marshal,” Sherman said. “He and Poke Terrell were particularly good friends.”

  “Yeah,” Marshal Sparks said. “I can see how he must be just all broken up inside, what with Terrell being such a nice fellow and all.”

  “Marshal, I get the impression that you don’t much approve of us,” Sherman said.

  “That’s pretty observant of you, Colonel Sherman.” Again, Marshal Sparks emphasized the word colonel.

  “I must say, that’s rather disappointing. Don’t you have respect for your fellow lawmen?”

  “For fellow lawmen? Yes, I respect other lawmen. But I don’t consider you and your group to be lawmen,” Marshal Sparks said. “You are in this for yourselves.”

  “You don’t understand, Marshal. Unlike you, we do not have our salary paid by the federal, territorial, or local government. That means that every case we undertake must pay for itself,” Sherman said. “You call that self-serving, I call it practical. At any rate we are both doing the same thing, and that is enforcing the law. So, if we can’t respect each other while we are here, we can at least stay out of each other’s way.”

  “As long as you don’t break any law while enforcing the law, you’ll have no problem with me,” Marshal Sparks said. “But break any of my laws, and I’ll be down on you like a duck on a June bug.”

  “Break any of your laws, Marshal? Interesting. I would have thought they would be town or county laws.”

  “Town and county laws are my laws,” Marshal Sparks said.

  “I see.” Sherman stared at Marshal Sparks for a few seconds, then he turned to Scraggs. “Come, Lieutenant,” he said. “We need to get quarters for our men.”

  Sherman and Scraggs left the sheriff’s office, and once again the town was treated to the sight of a well-disciplined body of men riding as one as they moved down the street from the sheriff’s office to the Del Rey Hotel.

  “Dismount. Horse holders, post,” he said. “The rest, with me.”

  Sherman and every one of his men except for four who remained outside to hold the horses tramped into the hotel lobby.

  “Yes, sir what can I—oh my,” the hotel clerk said, looking up and seeing so many armed men, all of whom were dressed just alike. “What is going on?”

  “Innkeeper, I am Colonel Clay Sherman, and we are the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse. We are here on official business, and I shall need nine rooms.”

  “Nine rooms?” The clerk shook his head. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that is impossible. I don’t have nine rooms available.”
<
br />   “How many rooms do you have?”

  “I only have six rooms available, but the Union Pacific asks me to keep at least two open until the late train arrives. That’s for any passenger who might need one.”

  “You are telling me how many rooms you have available. But the question I am asking you is this. How many rooms does this hotel have?”

  “Well of course the hotel has ten rooms, but four are…”

  “You have ten rooms? That’s perfect. Like I told you, I only need nine.”

  “And I am trying to tell you that four are permanently occupied,” the clerk said, speaking slowly as if explaining something to someone who clearly didn’t understand what he was trying to say.

  “Move them out.”

  “I beg your pardon?” the clerk replied, blinking his eyes in surprise, not sure he had heard what he clearly heard.

  “I said move them out.”

  “Move them out? Sir, I can’t do that.”

  “My men and I are here to enforce a territorial law,” Sherman said. “I am exercising eminent domain. Move them out.”

  “Eminent domain? I don’t understand. I don’t know what that means.”

  “That means you have to give me the nine rooms I asked for, even if you have to move someone else out. Otherwise, you are in violation of the law, and I would be within my rights to enforce that law.” He pulled his pistol. “By any means necessary,” he added, ominously.

  “Take the rooms, take the rooms! You can have them!” the clerk said, his voice on the edge of panic.

  “A very wise decision,” Sherman said. He put his pistol back into his holster. “Lieutenant Scraggs, go upstairs. Take Grimes with you,” Sherman ordered. “If you find anyone in any of the rooms, turn them out.”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel,” Scraggs answered. “Come along, Grimes.”

  Scraggs and Grimes went upstairs to carry out Sherman’s orders.

  Up on the second floor, there was a long hallway that ran from front to back. Ten doors opened onto the hall way, five doors from either side. Scraggs started down one side, and Grimes the other. The first four doors they opened were empty. Then Scraggs tried a door that was locked. He banged on it loudly.

  “Who is it?” a muffled voice answered. The voice was obviously that of a woman, thin with age, and hesitant with fear.

  “Open the door.” Scraggs called out in a gruff voice.

  “Go away,” the woman’s thin voice replied.

  Scraggs stepped back from the door, raised his foot, and kicked hard just beside the doorknob. The door popped open and the woman inside screamed.

  Scraggs stepped into the door way, filling it with his presence. The occupant of the room, a woman who appeared to be in her seventies, cowered on the other side of the bed.

  “Get out,” Scraggs ordered.

  “What?” the woman asked.

  “I said get out,” Scraggs said. “We need this room.”

  “I won’t get out. This is my room,” the woman insisted.

  Scraggs stepped quickly into the room, crossed to the other side of the bed, grabbed her roughly by the arm, then pulled her out into the hallway. “Get out,” he said shoving her so hard that she hit the wall on the opposite side of the hallway and fell to the floor. She cried out in pain.

  “Get up,” Scraggs ordered, again grabbing her by the arm and lifting her from the floor. “Downstairs with you, you old hag. Get out of here.”

  By now Grimes had also dragged a woman out of the room. The two women moved quickly away from the men and, clutching each other in fear, watched as a third woman and an elderly man were pulled from their rooms. Like the first two women, they stood in the hall, terrified and confused.

  “Who the hell are you? What are you doing?” the man shouted angrily. When Grimes reached for him, he pushed his hand away. “Get your hands off me, you son of a bitch!”

  Scraggs laughed. “He’s a scrappy old shit, ain’t he?”

  “Down the stairs,” Grimes ordered. “Go downstairs now before I kick you downstairs.”

  More than anxious to get away from the frightening men, the four occupants of the hotel hurried down the stairs to the hotel lobby. They halted when they reached the bottom step and saw that there were several other men in the lobby, all of whom were dressed exactly as the men who had rousted them were dressed.

  “Elmer,” the first old lady said to the hotel clerk. “Elmer, who are these terrible men? Why did they come into our rooms and tell us we had to leave!” she complained.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Rittenhouse, I had nothing to do with it,” the clerk replied.

  “Who are these men?” Mrs. Rittenhouse asked, looking at all the men in the lobby.

  “I apologize, ma’am,” Sherman said, dipping his head slightly. “I am Colonel Sherman of the Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse. We are here on a matter of the law and I require quarters for my men. By the law of the United States Government, as well as the law of the territory of Idaho, I have the right of eminent domain. I have exercised that right to take your room, and all the other rooms in the hotel. I’m sorry if this has inconvenienced you, but it is a matter of necessity.”

  “But, where will I go? What will I do?” the woman asked. “I have no place to go!”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that isn’t my problem,” Sherman said.

  “All the rooms are clear, Colonel,” Scraggs said.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Sherman said. “Burnett?”

  “Yes sir, Colonel?”

  “See to my horse. The rest of you men, get your horses boarded, then come back and find your rooms. We’ll meet here in the lobby in thirty minutes.”

  All those who had come into the hotel with Sherman now hurried outside in response to Sherman’s orders.

  “Elmer, I’m holding you responsible for this,” the old man said.

  “I’ll find a place for you, Mr. Pemberton.” Elmer promised. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a place for all of you.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The arrival of Clay Sherman and his Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse was the subject of conversation all over town for the rest of the day. It was discussed in stores and shops, talked about at the barbershop and in the meat market, at the train station and the stage depot, and by housewives over the back fence.

  “They say they put poor old Mr. Pemberton out of his room at the hotel. Where will he go?”

  “I heard he has a room upstairs at the Sand Spur. But the women are still lookin’ for a place.”

  “Father Pyron is putting up one of ’em.”

  “I’ve got a room where one of ’em can stay.”

  “Me too.”

  “That will take care of all of ’em.”

  “Yeah, but it still don’t say why Sherman and that bunch of his has come to Medbury.”

  “You want to know what I think? I think they come here to get even for Poke gettin’ hisself kilt.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Terrell used to ride for ’em.”

  “Yeah, but he war’nt ridin’ with ‘em when he was here. I heard he had been fired.”

  “Maybe, but he prob’ly still has a lot of friends among ’em. Wouldn’t surprise me none at all if they war’nt here to settle scores with Matt Jensen.”

  “Yeah? Well from what I’ve heard of Matt Jensen, he can pretty much take care of his ownself.”

  “But they’s seventeen of ’em, countin’ Sherman. There can’t no one man go up ag’in seventeen men. Not even Matt Jensen.”

  “I don’t know, I wouldn’t sell Matt Jensen short if I was you.”

  “I ain’t sellin’ him short. But I’ve heard a lot about Posse folks, and there ain’t nothin’ I’ve heard about ’em that’s good.”

  That night Sherman and his men took their dinner in the Sand Spur. There were so many of them that they took up four tables and, by their very presence, dominated the saloon. Also, because so many were frightened of them, they had a
tendency to run others away so that business was way down from normal. The Sand Spur was losing money.

  The girls had approached the Auxiliary Peace Officers when they came into the saloon, smiling and flirting with them as they did with all customers who frequented the Sand Spur. The posse men wanted the girls’ company, but they didn’t want to pay for it, so there were no tips, so the girls, like the saloon, were losing money.

  At eleven o’clock that night, the posse left the saloon, but by then it was too late for any of the regular customers to come.

  “I tell you the truth, Jenny, I wish those fellas would take their business to the Mud Hole, and leave us alone,” Charley said as he wiped down the bar. “I hardly made enough to keep the bar open.”

  “You certainly got that right,” Jenny said. “I’ll have a drink, Charley. Only this time, make it a real one.”

  Charley poured a drink of whiskey and slid the glass across to her, then poured one for himself. They held their glasses toward each other in an unstated salute.

  “I wonder what they are doin’ here?” Charley asked.

  “I’ve heard some say they came here to settle the score with Matt Jensen for Poke Terrell,” Jenny replied as she tossed the drink down.

  When Matt and Kitty rode into Medbury the next morning, they rode by an empty lot just south of town. On that lot were gathered several young boys, playing the game of baseball.

  “Throw it to him, Jimmy, throw it to him! He ain’t no hitter!” someone was chanting.

  “Come on Carl, you can do it. All we need is a hit!”

  Matt looked over toward the game just in time to see the batter swing and miss.

  “Ha! I told you he ain’t no hitter. What’s a’ matter, Carl? You got a hole in your bat? What was you swingin’ at?”

  “You can do it Carl, you can do it.”

  Matt watched the next pitch, then he saw Carl swing and connect. He heard the cracking sound of the bat hitting the ball, and saw the ball flying high over the outfielder’s head, who turned and chased after it. With his efforts cheered by the other members of his team, Carl started running toward first base.

  The circumstances of Matt’s childhood had caused him to miss out on many childhood activities, including baseball. Sometimes he felt as if he had been cheated. Then he realized that he had been given personal tutoring by Smoke Jensen—and he wouldn’t have traded that for all the baseball games in the world.