Massacre at Powder River

by William W. Johnstone

  “Come on, Clem,” Marshal Drew said, less harshly this time. “Hangin’ is bad enough. I don’t figure you want to turn it into a spectacle, do you?”

  “Seems like it is too late for that,” Clem replied. “Looks to me like we’re already givin’ the folks a show.”

  Clem climbed the temporary steps up onto the buckboard and Marshal Drew went up right behind him. Drew moved Clem until he was positioned under the noose, then he slipped it down over Clem’s head. Clem winced as he felt the rope against his neck.

  From his elevated position, Clem could look down on everyone, and he stared into all the faces of the spectators, glaring at them defiantly.

  The clergyman who had been preaching fire from that very buckboard now stepped up to Clem.

  “Do you want to repent?” he asked.

  “What have I got to repent for?”

  “Why, you have killed, sir.”

  Clem looked out over the faces of the crowd. “Yeah? Well, what do you think you people are about to do?”

  “There is a difference. We have a God-given right to execute murderers,” the preacher said.

  “Do you now? And the folks here? Do they have a God-given right to watch me hang?”

  “I beg of you, sir, if you wish to be saved, think now, of our Lord and Savior, hanging on the cross.”

  “Saved? You mean if I think about Jesus hanging on the cross I won’t be hung?”

  “I am speaking of the salvation of your eternal soul.”

  “I don’t give a damn about my eternal soul. It’s the here and now that I’m thinkin’ about.”

  “You are goin’ to meet God with heresy in your heart and blasphemy on your lips? You’ll spend an eternity in hell for that!”

  “Yeah, well, thanks a lot for the words, preacher,” Clem said sarcastically. “They’ve been just real comfortin’.”

  The preacher, red-faced with anger, turned toward Marshall Drew. “I wash my hands of this lost soul,” he said.

  “Yeah, didn’t Pontius Pilate do the same thing?” someone called up to the preacher.

  “Good Lord in Heaven, what have I just done?” the preacher asked. He walked quickly off the buckboard cum scaffold. Marshal Drew followed him down. Now the only ones left on the buckboard were Clem, who was standing there with the noose around his neck, and the driver, who was sitting in the seat. The driver of the buckboard had not turned around during the entire time, but remained stoically seated, holding the reins of a team of horses.

  “Any last words, Clem?” Marshal Drew called back up from the ground. There was a hushed expectation over crowd.

  “Daggett,” Clem said.

  “What?”

  “That’s my last name. Daggett. Tell the undertaker to put it on my tombstone. I don’t want to spend eternity in that hole, and folks not know who I am.”

  “All right, Mr. Daggett, I’ll do that,” Marshal Drew said.

  “D-A-G-G-E-T-T. That’s how you spell it.”

  “Look, when you’re jerked off the back of the buckboard, don’t hunch up your shoulders,” Marshal Drew said. “If you don’t fight it, it’ll be over quicker.”

  “How am I going to stop myself from hunching up my shoulders?”

  “I don’t know, but if you can keep from doing it, it’ll be better for you.”

  “Don’t I get a hood?”

  “I forgot to have one made. But I can tie a bandanna around your eyes if you want me to. That’ll keep you from seeing what’s going on.”

  “No, that’s all right.” He looked out over the crowd. “I want the ladies and the kiddies to be able to see my eyes pop out.” He cackled an insane laugh, and some of the children cried out and buried their faces in their mothers’ skirts.

  Someone handed Marshal Drew a whip, and he raised it up, then popped it loudly over the heads of the team of horses. They dashed forward, pulling the buckboard out from under Clem. He fell, and the limb sagged under the sudden weight.

  There were oohs and aahs from the crowd as Clem swung back and forth, pendulum-like, in a long, sweeping arc.

  Chapter Eighteen

  On the day following the hanging, William Teasdale and his wife Margaret were dinner guests of Moreton and Clara Frewen. Jennie Churchill and her son Winston were also there, as was Lily Langtry.

  The purpose of the dinner was twofold: one, to welcome Jennie and her son to America, and another, to say good-bye to Lily, who would be leaving the next morning by stagecoach on her way to Medicine Bow, where she would catch a train to San Francisco.

  “It is nice when we all get together like this,” Margaret said. “It is as if we are re-creating a bit of England here, in this desolate and Godforsaken American West.”

  “Oh, Margaret, do you really feel that way?” Clara asked. “Because I love it here.”

  “Of course you do, dear. You and your sister are both Americans, after all.”

  “I’m not an American,” Lily said. “And I like the American West as well.”

  “If you dislike it so, why do you stay here?” Jennie asked.

  “Because my husband has chosen to live here,” Margaret said. “Though God knows why.”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Teasdale said. “Thistledown is larger than the largest estate in England. The opportunity here is limitless.”

  “It would be,” Frewen said, “if it were not for Sam Logan and the Yellow Kerchief Gang. But I am beginning to have hope that Mr. Jensen may take care of that problem for us.”

  “Do you really think that one man, even a hired killer, working alone against fifteen members of the Yellow Kerchief gang can succeed?”

  “I wouldn’t call Mr. Jensen a hired killer,” Frewen said.

  “Oh? And what would you call him? He has been here for a few weeks only, and already three men are dead because of him.”

  “Only two,” Frewen said. “I take full responsibility for hanging Mr. Daggett.”

  “Yes, and I wish I had had the opportunity to have gotten to you before you did that. I fear, Moreton, that you overstepped your authority to declare that a magistrate that you hold in England would give you power to act as a judge here.”

  “Since the deed is done it is, at this point, a mere technicality,” Frewen said. “If I need an American appointment, I can easily get one.”

  “Perhaps so, but that doesn’t change the situation with regard to Matt Jensen. He is a man who lives in that dark world that decent people, such as we, will never know. He is an evil man.”

  “I don’t think he is an evil man at all,” Jennie said. “He met Winnie and me at the depot and escorted us here to Frewen Castle. He was a perfect gentleman, all the way.”

  “And I must say that when I met him the first day he arrived, he was very much a gentlemen,” Lily said.

  “Don’t let that gentlemanly façade fool you,” Teasdale said. “Matt Jensen is very much a killer. I have it on good authority that he killed four men within one month before he came here.”

  “If that is the case, then why is he not in jail?” Frewen asked.

  “Three of the men he killed were wanted murderers. The fourth, I understand, was attempting to rob him.”

  “Then what you are telling me is that all the killings were justifiable.”

  “No, what I’m telling you is, he is a man who dispenses his own justice. Civilized people don’t take the law into their own hands.”

  “As long as the people he is killing are the same people who have been killing my employees, then I can find no fault with him,” Frewen said.

  “What about you, Winnie?” Teasdale asked. “I imagine young boys like you could be easily persuaded by such things as a fast draw and a straight shot.”

  Winnie had been listening to the conversation in rapt attention. “Drawing quickly and shooting accurately are not the most important things,” Winnie said. “The most important thing is to always be on the side of right. So I believe that, no matter how many Mr. Jensen has killed, he has been on the s
ide of right, and fighting against evil. And that makes him a good man.”

  “That is most astute of you, young man,” Frewen said.

  “That’s what Mr. Jensen told me, and I haven’t forgotten it,” Winnie said.

  “Nor should you,” Frewen said. “I am afraid there will always be a struggle of good versus evil. And we must always strive to be on the side of good.”

  “Enough talk about killing,” Clara said. “Let’s do find a more pleasant subject of discussion, shall we? Winnie, what about you? Now that you have been here for a few days, what do you think of America?”

  “Oh, I find it a most delightful place,” Winnie said. “Sometimes it is like being at sea, one can look all the way to the edge of the world. If Papa were American and Mama British, instead of the other way around, why, I might live here and be a cowboy.”

  “Not necessarily so,” Clara said. “Moreton is British and I am American, yet here we are and here we live.”

  “You want to be a cowboy, do you?” Teasdale asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve read about cowboys. They are knights of the range.”

  Teasdale chuckled. “You might not think that after a spring roundup when they have gone for a month or more without a bath, or even a change of clothes. Dirtier creatures you have never seen.”

  “I don’t feel that way,” Frewen said. “I have found the men who work for me to be honorable, loyal, even noble men. Some of them have died defending the ranch. What more could you ask of any man?”

  “More than likely they weren’t defending the ranch as much as they were defending themselves,” Teasdale said. “The cowboys who were killed on the island, those who were killed at the Taney Creek line shack, and the young man who was just killed, Burt Rawlings, were all fighting for their own lives.”

  “Lives that had been put in peril because they were employed by me. I have nothing but admiration for them,” Frewen said.

  “You know, Moreton, that could be your problem,” Teasdale said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You are too easy on your cowboys. You seem to be suffering higher losses to the rustlers than anyone else. How do you know that your cowboys aren’t the ones who are stealing from you?”

  “Because as I mentioned earlier, seven of them have already died defending the ranch. No, we all know who the culprit is here. It is Sam Logan and his band of cutthroats.”

  “Well, I can’t deny that,” Teasdale said. “It certainly seems as if the Yellow Kerchief Gang is having their way with the rest of us. The wonder is that the law has made no effort to stop them, or to bring them to justice.”

  “The law? Hurrumph!” Frewen said, making a scoffing sound deep in his throat. “There is no law in Johnson County except for whatever law we can provide for ourselves. That is why I hired Matt Jensen, and that is why I assumed the role of judge in the recent court case. Only if we show these brigands that we mean business will we ever have peace here.”

  “Well, there is no need for me to reiterate my disagreement with you, so I’ll just let it go at that,” Teasdale said.

  Teasdale looked over at young Winston Churchill, who had been following the conversation with concentrated attention.

  “I’ll just bet this young man would go after Sam Logan and the Yellow Kerchief Gang all by himself, if you would let him,” Teasdale said.

  “Sir, I would like to think that I am not without courage, but neither am I without good sense,” Winnie replied. “I have no wish to encounter these outlaws.”

  “A wise decision,” Teasdale said. “But tell me, what does a young man like you do out here, so far away from your own home and friends?”

  “I like it here,” Winnie said. “But I would like it even more if I had a horse.”

  “A horse?” Jennie said. “Heavens, Winnie, what would you do with a horse?”

  “Why, I would ride him, Mama. I would ride him all over Uncle Moreton’s ranch.”

  “And what would you do, as you rode all over the ranch?” Frewen asked.

  “That is easy. I would punch cattle,” Winnie insisted.

  “Punch cattle?” Jennie said.

  “Yes, don’t you remember, Mama? Mr. Jensen told us that is what cowboys do.”

  “Yes, I do remember. But Winnie, I’m sure your father has a higher and more noble future planned for you than to punch cattle,” Jennie said. “Besides, I would not like to see you on a horse,” Jennie said.

  “Why not?” Winnie asked.

  “Because, dear, you have never even been on the back of a horse, and I’m afraid you might fall off.”

  The others laughed and Winnie, with cheeks burning in embarrassment, looked down at the floor.

  “May I be excused now, Mama?” he asked.

  “Certainly, dear.”

  “What a well-mannered boy,” Lily said. “You must be very proud of him.”

  “I am,” Jennie said.

  “But you don’t have much confidence in him,” Teasdale said.

  “Oh, but I do—within reason. And since he has never ridden a horse before, I do not think it unreasonable for me to be concerned should he suddenly decide to do so.”

  “You might have been a bit too harsh on him,” Lily suggested.

  Jennie looked toward Lily as if to convey her resentment over Lily commenting about her relationship with her son, but she checked any retort, then ameliorated her expression with a smile.

  “Perhaps I was,” she agreed. “But Winnie is such a headstrong boy and almost totally without fear. I feel that I must provide the cautionary restraint that he lacks.”

  “So, Miss Langtry, you will be leaving tomorrow?” Teasdale asked.

  “Yes, I am going to San Francisco.”

  “I would think that you would stay in New York, where there are enough people to make the theater profitable.”

  “My tour through the West has been profitable in more ways than money,” Lily said. “And New York has become so cumbersome for me now. If I go for a stroll in the park and stop for a moment to admire the flowers, people run after me in droves. If I venture out for a little shopping it is particularly hazardous, for the instant I enter an establishment to make a purchase, news spreads that I am there. A crowd then gathers by the front door so as to make a normal exit impossible and the proprietor is forced to escort me out the back door.”

  “Such is the price of fame,” Frewen said. “But tell me, Lily, would you give it up and become a seamstress or a store clerk?”

  “Never in a million years!” Lily replied, and everyone laughed. “I suppose, now that I think about it, there is as much pleasure as there is discomfort in fame.”

  Moreton and Clara Frewen took Lily Langtry to the stage depot the next morning to see her off. Clara waited in the carriage as Frewen walked from the carriage to the stage office with Lily. Their driver took Lily’s suitcase to the waiting coach and stood watching as it was loaded into the boot.

  “Really, Moreton, if you expect anyone to visit you, you must see to it that a railroad is built closer to Sussex than Medicine Bow. That is such a beastly trip by coach,” Lily said.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Frewen replied.

  Lily looked back at the carriage and, with a big smile, waved at Clara. “Of course, Clara might have something to say about that. I’m not sure she enjoys my visits all that much.” She spoke through her smile, hardly moving her lips.

  “You are a beautiful woman, Lily. And all women are threatened by beautiful women.”

  “Nonsense. Clara and Jennie are both for more beautiful than I.”

  “Consider this. I was surrounded by beautiful women this past week. Other men should be so lucky,” Frewen said.

  “Miss Langtry,” Ed, the driver, said. “We’ll be getting underway soon as you get aboard.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Lily said. Lily extended her hand and Frewen took it, shook it briefly, then with a nod toward the driver, returned to the carriage.

&nbs
p; “I enjoyed her visit more than I thought I would,” Clara said.

  “I’m glad,” Frewen replied. “I know that she thinks the world of you.”

  “Hiyaaaah!” Ed shouted, popping his whip over the head of the six-horse team. The horses started forward and with yet a second pop of his whip, Ed started the team into a rapid trot.

  Out at Thistledown Ranch, a rider dismounted, reached into his saddle boot and pulled out his rifle. Neither Winchester nor Henry, this was a Sharps .50 caliber with a thirty-four-inch barrel and a double-set trigger. He carried the rifle in his right hand, hanging low as he started toward the front door of the house.

  “Hold it, Mister, where do you think you are going?” Reed called.

  When the man looked back toward him, Reed gasped. The man had some sort of skin condition that made his face beet red. In addition, the skin was so tightly stretched that it gave one the impression that he was staring at a red skull. He had very thin lips, and his eyes were more yellow than brown. Not since he was a child, and attended church and Sunday school at the insistence of his mother, had Reed ever given any thought to Satan. But if Satan had suddenly appeared in front of him, Reed was sure he would look exactly like this man.

  “Is this the Thistledown ranch?” the man asked.

  “Yeah, that’s what it says on the gate. Who are you?”

  “My name is Silva. Carlos Silva, and I have come to offer my services to Mr. Teasdale,” the man said, his voice a sibilant sigh.

  “What sort of services would that be, Mr. Silva?”

  “Whatever service Mr. Teasdale might want,” Silva said, emphasizing his statement with a slight lift of the rifle he was holding.

  “There is a lady in the house,” Reed said. “Mr. Teasdale never discusses business around her.” He pointed to the stable. “Suppose you wait over there. I’ll go get Mr. Teasdale and bring him to you.”

  Silva nodded, but said nothing. He walked over to the stable and leaned back against the unpainted and sun-bleached wall as he waited. A few minutes later Reed returned with Teasdale.

  “I’m William Teasdale,” Teasdale said. “I understand you wanted to speak with me?”