and the
DESERT OUTLAWS
“I have hired this man.”
Teasdale looked at the book, then at Frewen, then at the book again. He laughed out loud.
“Matt Jensen? Have you gone daft, Moreton? Matt Jensen isn’t even real. He is the hero of a series of penny dreadful novels. What on earth would make you do such a thing?”
“Oh, this story in this book isn’t real,” Frewen said. “I know that. But Matt Jensen is real.”
“What makes you think so?”
“This newspaper article,” Frewen said. He showed Teasdale the article he had cut from the Cheyenne Leader, telling how Matt Jensen had tracked down and killed two of the outlaws who had robbed the bank in Livermore, Colorado, and killed the banker and his family. “I have already been in contact with him, and I expect he will be here within the week.”
“Wait a minute, Moreton. So what you are telling me is that you have hired a gunfighter?”
“He isn’t a gunfighter,” Frewen replied. “Well, yes, he is. But it isn’t like you think. He uses his gun for justice, not for evil.”
“I don’t know,” Teasdale said. “I think you are making a big mistake.”
“And I think that I have no other choice,” Frewen replied. Frewen took his watch from his pocket and examined it. “I must get back,” he said. “Clara will be expecting me.”
Shortly after Frewen left Thistledown, Teasdale saddled his horse and rode up to Nine Mile Creek Pass. To anyone who happened to be riding by, this was just another of the many small streams and creeks that were common throughout Johnson County. It was a distance of fifteen miles from Thistledown, and it took Teasdale almost two hours of easy riding to reach it. As he approached the pass, he pulled his rifle from its saddle sheath, tied a piece of yellow cloth to the barrel, then held it up as he continued to ride.
Looking toward the notch at the left side of the pass, he saw the flash of a mirror, signaling that he had been seen, and that he would be allowed to come in. Returning the rifle to its holster, he slapped his legs against the side of his horse, urging it into a trot.
Riding up through the notch, he knew that he was being watched. Although he couldn’t see anyone, he could feel several eyes on him. Not until he reached the place where a trail turned hard left did he see anyone. This was the entry guard, and he stood there with his right leg on a stone, the butt of his rifle resting on his leg as he watched Teasdale ride up the trail. At the end of the trail was a small cabin. The cabin had actually once been a line shack on Teasdale’s ranch, but was moved from the ranch to this place.
When Teasdale dismounted in front of the cabin, he was met by Sam Logan. Sam Logan was wiry, just under six feet tall, with a pockmarked complexion and a sweeping, very dark handlebar mustache that seemed to hang on to a hooked nose. His dark eyes were set deep in their sockets. His hair was as dark as his mustache.
“Well, now, Mr. Teasdale. Come to pay us a visit, have you?” Logan asked.
Teasdale dismounted, then rubbed his behind. He didn’t like riding horses. Normally, he went everywhere by buckboard, carriage, or coach. But a wheeled vehicle was useless here.
“What brings you here?”
“Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Matt Jensen?” Teasdale asked.
“Yeah, sure. Who hasn’t heard of him?” Logan asked.
“Then you mean he is real?”
“You damn right he is real.”
“You are sure now,” Teasdale said. “You aren’t talking about some dime-novel cowboy, are you? Because that is the only place I’ve ever heard of him.”
“Well, the books they write about him are all full of shit,” Logan said, “But Matt Jensen is real. Why are you askin’?”
“Moreton Frewen says that he has hired Matt Jensen to come to his assistance.”
“Yeah? Well, if Frewen really has hired him, that ain’t goin’ to be no good for us. A man like Matt Jensen is nothing but trouble. My advice to you is to get someone to take care of him, and do it quick.”
“Get someone to take care of him? What do you mean by get someone? I thought it was your job to take care of the seamier side of our partnership.”
Logan shook his head. “Yeah, well, I ain’t goin’ to go up against Matt Jensen, that’s for sure. Not unless I get forced into it. I’ve got too good a thing goin’ here, and I ain’t goin’ to risk it by gettin’ tangled up with Matt Jensen. Leastwise, not unless I have at least half of my men with me. If I was you, I would hire someone to take care of him, and I would do it pronto.”
“Do you have any suggestions as to who I might get to take care of him?”
“I don’t know, Jensen is ... wait, yeah, maybe I do have an idea. I know a man who just might be able to do it. He’s faster ’n greased lightning, and I know for a fact he has been wanting to face Jensen down. I expect if you paid him enough, he would do it.”
“Who is this man, and how do I get in contact with him?”
“His name is Kyle Houston. And he is my cousin. I’ll get in touch with him for you.”
“You may be good, but I’m pretty damn good myself,” Andy Masters said.
“And I’m even better than he is,” Andy’s brother Aaron added.
“So my advice to you is, clear on out of Trabling now, while you’re still breathing,” Andy said.
The two brothers owned the Ace High Saloon in the little town of Braggadocio, Wyoming, which was about thirty miles east of Sussex. They had just ordered Kyle Houston out of town.
“I’m not sure you boys want to do that,” Houston replied. Houston was a small man, with small, almost delicate hands. In a world without guns, he would be so insignificant as to be overlooked. But there was a reason that the word “equalizer” had been applied to Sam Colt’s products. The small man who would be unable to stand up to any challenge in physical match was more than adequate to the task when it came to the use of pistols.
Kyle Houston was not only exceptionally proficient with a pistol, he enjoyed using it and had developed a very thin skin. That was a deadly combination, and had Houston been one to carve notches on the handle of his gun, it would be filled with them.
Earlier this morning, in a dispute in a card game, Houston had run three cowboys out of the saloon, telling them that if they came back, they had better come back armed. The Masters brothers, upon hearing about it, made the same demand of Kyle Houston.
“As far as I’m concerned, you are nothing but a visitor here,” Andy said. “And a not very welcome visitor at that. Those boys you ran away are good customers of ours. We can’t have someone like you saying who and who cannot come into our saloon. That means you have to leave.”
During the entire challenge, Houston had stood still, with a half-smile on his face as he looked at the two brothers. The physical contrast between them was dramatic. Andy and Aaron Masters were both big men, with broad shoulders and powerful arms. Either of them could have brushed Houston aside as one would a fly.
And yet here was Kyle Houston, not only standing up to the two men, but actually relishing the challenge.
“Boys, before we go any futher,” Houston said, “I want to hear you say aloud, in front of these witnesses, that I ain’t the one that’s provoking this fight.”
“Why do you need us to say that?” Aaron asked.
“Because I’m going to kill both of you,” Houston said, speaking the words as calmly as if he had just ordered a beer. “And I want these witnesses to tell the law that I tried to avoid this fight.”
“You don’t have to worry about tellin’ the law nothin’,” Andy said. “Because unless you walk through that door, right now, you are going to be dead.”
Houston sighed. “I tried,” he said. He held his hands out in front of him, turning his palms up. “I guess it’s all up to you, now.”
“Draw!” Andy shouted, his hand darting toward his pistol. Aaron started his draw as well.
Although the action seemed instantaneous to those who were watc
hing, and even to Andy and Aaron, Kyle Houston had the unique ability to slow everything down in his mind. He analyzed the situation before him. Andy was the one who had called draw, which meant he had already started his draw when he shouted. Aaron, who didn’t start his draw until Andy initiated the sequence of events, was a fraction of a second behind.
That enabled Houston to make his target selection: Andy first, then Aaron. And though Houston fired two times, the shots were so close together that they sounded like one shot.
Andy pulled the trigger on his gun, but by the time he pulled the trigger, he had already been fatally wounded by a bullet to his heart. And though Aaron managed to clear the holster with his pistol, he went down before he was able to get off a shot.
With the two owners of the saloon now lying on the floor, both dead, a stunned silence fell over the saloon patrons. They were awed by the demonstration they had just seen, and spoke, when they did speak, in whispers, lest they say something to anger the little man who was dressed all in black.
Houston looked around the saloon to make certain there were no further challenges, then he put his pistol, which was literally still smoking, back into its holster.
“I think I’ll have a whiskey,” he said to the bartender.
“I—I don’t know,” the bartender said.
“What is it you don’t know?”
“You just killed the two men who owned this saloon. What happens now?”
“How long have you been working here?” Houston asked.
“Four years, ever since they opened it.”
“They got ’ny wives, kids, anything like that?”
“No, neither one of them was married.”
“Then it looks to me like you just inherited a saloon.”
At first the bartender was surprised by the comment, then its possibility sank in, and a broad smile spread across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it does look like that, doesn’t it?” He poured the whiskey, slid it in front of Houston, then addressed the others in the saloon, calling out loudly.
“Step up to the bar, boys! Drinks are on the house, compliments of the new owner!”
As everyone was hurrying to the bar they avoided any contact with Houston, not wanting to do anything that might irritate him. However, one man did step up to him.
“Mr. Houston, my name is Clem Daggett. Sam Logan sent me to fetch you.”
“Yeah?” Houston said. “What does my cousin want?”
“He wants you to do a job for him.”
Chapter Nine
Onboard the Western Eagle, on the Union Pacific Line
Ten-year-old Winnie Churchill sat between his mother and the window as the train hurtled across the long, empty spaces.
“Mama, have you ever seen a place so large as America?” Winnie asked.
“Of course I have, dear. I was born here, remember?”
“Does that make me half American?”
“It does, indeed.”
“Then if I wanted to be an American cowboy when I grow up, I could be?”
Lady Churchill laughed, and patted her son on the shoulder. “Oh, heavens, darling, I certainly don’t think your father would like for you to be running around out here in the American West as a cowboy,” she said.
“But Uncle Moreton is a cowboy, is he not? And he isn’t even American. I could be an even better cowboy because I am half American.”
“I suppose if you put it that way, you could,” Jennie said. “Although I’m not sure that Moreton considers himself a cowboy. I think he considers himself a rancher.”
She chuckled. “From what I have heard, though, he is not a particularly good one, but please don’t tell him I said so.”
“Well, I am definitely going to be a cowboy when I grow up,” Winnie said. “I am going to ride a horse and carry a gun and fight wild Indians.”
“You are still young. I’m sure that by the time you grow up, some occupation other than being a cowboy will strike your fancy.”
While on the train, Winnie continued to write in his journal. He wrote about the Great Lakes and the city of Chicago. But it wasn’t until they started across the great western plains that his writing really came alive.
The American plains are a grand and impressive sight, vast, and seemingly lifeless but that isn’t so, because all manner of creatures reside here from the mighty buffalo to the small prairie dogs. The prairie dogs are most interesting and do not live alone, but construct entire villages as do people. I believe that as the train passes them by they observe us with as much curiosity as we observe them.
When nighttime comes the porter makes up a berth for my mother and me, and provides us with blankets so that we can be snug and warm. It is good to lie in the berth and look through the windows at the darkness which is so well lighted by the moon that one might think it is all a painting done in black and silver.
I would like to see a village of wild Indians, but have not been so fortunate.
At one of the train stops, a man got on who was obviously drunk. He staggered down the aisle, then settled in a seat across the aisle from the seat that Winnie and his mother were occupying. Jennie Churchill was an exceptionally pretty woman, Winnie knew that. He also knew that there were disquieting rumors about her, rumors that, though unsubstantiated, were nonetheless believable because Jennie was not only pretty, she was flirtatious.
But she liked to be in control of her flirting episodes, and always made certain that they were most discreet. She certainly had no interest in interacting with a drunken train passenger. He had no such reservations, however.
“Well now, ain’t you a purty thang, though?”
Jennie showed no reaction.
“I’m talkin’ to you, sweet thang. You’re ’bout the purtiest woman I ever seen.”
Jennie continued to stare straight ahead.
“What’s the matter, Missy? Do you think you’re too good for the likes of Dewey Butrum?”
Winnie got up from his seat and stood in the aisle between his mother and Dewey Butrum.
“Mr. Butrum, to answer your question, my mother is much too good for the likes of you.”
“Get out of the way, kid. I’m talkin’ to your mama.”
“I have no intention of getting out of the way.”
“Then I’ll just get you out of the way,” Butrum said. Standing up, he started toward Winnie, but Winnie kicked him hard in his shin.
Butrum lifted his leg and grabbed his shin, then began hopping around on one leg.
“Ow! You little shit, I’m going to teach you how to respect your elders.”
“No, you’re not,” another man said, and, looking up, Winnie saw that at least three more men had gotten up from their own seats. “If that little fella has the courage to stand up for his mama, we intend to see that nothing happens to him or her. There’s an empty seat at the back of the car. You go sit there.”
“The hell I will. I like where I’m sittin’,” Butrum said.
“Mister, you’ll either go back there peacefully, or we will throw you off this train,” the man said.
Grumbling, Butrum walked back to the last seat in the car and sat down.
“I thank you gentlemen for coming to our rescue,” Winnie said.
The spokesman for the group touched the brim of his hat, and smiled. “I’m not sure we did rescue you, son,” he said. “It looked to me like you were doing pretty good on your own.”
The three men returned to their seats, and Winnie returned to his.
“You know who those three men were, Mama?” he asked.
“No.”
“They were knights.”
Winnie’s mother reached over, took his hand, then squeezed it. “No,” she said. “You are my knight in shining armor.”
“Ha! I’m not wearing any armor.”
“Oh but you are, dear. You are girded with the armor of courage and righteousness.”
Thistledown
William Teasdale was sitting at his desk in
the office of his house, examining the figures on the paper before him. So far, he had bought almost two thousand head of cattle from Sam Logan and the Yellow Kerchief Gang, paying them five dollars a head for cattle that would bring him forty dollars a head at the market. For now, all the rustled cattle were being kept away from his main herd in a part of his ranch that was the most remote from what people normally regarded as Thistledown. They would be kept there until the brands could be changed. Once that was accomplished, the stolen cattle would be integrated into his herd.
Teasdale chuckled at how easy it was to convert the capital letter F, for Frewen, to his own brand, which was the letter T with two crossbars. That double-bar T, that stood for Teasdale – Thistledown, was not only branded on the cattle but was painted on the side of his coach, as well as on the sign at the entrance to his ranch.
THISTLEDOWN RANCH
William Teasdale, Esquire
Of course there was a double advantage to the rustled cattle: it not only increased his herd and profit, but it also decreased Frewen’s herd, and increased his debt. Teasdale was certain that Frewen had not the slightest suspicion that Teasdale himself was behind all his troubles. The only fly in the ointment now was Matt Jensen. But Logan had told Teasdale this morning that Kyle Houston was already in Sussex, just waiting for Jensen to show up.
Sussex was a town with a single road that ran perpendicular to the Powder River. The road, which was appropriately enough called Sussex Road, was flanked on both sides by hitching rails and as many saloons as there were legitimate businesses. There were several horses tied to the hitching rails, most of them within a few feet of one of the eight saloons. The horses nodded and shuddered, swished their tails and stamped their hooves in a vain attempt to get rid of the annoying flies.
Matt Jensen surveyed the town as he rode in. Matt had never settled down in any one place, so in his lifetime there had been hundreds of towns like this, the streets faced by houses of rip-sawed lumber, false-fronted businesses, a few sod buildings, and even a tent or two.
Massacre at Powder River Page 7