“The first thing you want to do is brush your horse’s back and make sure you remove any dirt or grit that might be under the saddle. Also you want to be certain that all the hair is flat. If you don’t, it could cause the horse to chafe under the saddle. And always check for sores or wounds before you put the saddle on. You got that?”
“Yes, sir,” Winnie replied.
“Good. Now, you’ll start with the saddle blanket. You want to put the blanket forward, over the withers, then pull it back into place. That keeps the hair flat beneath the saddle. Oh, and make sure the blanket is even on both sides.”
Morrison demonstrated by putting the saddle blanket on the horse.
“Now, before you put on the saddle, hook the stirrups over the horn. That way, they won’t hit the horse as you put the saddle on him. And when you put the saddle on, lift it high enough that it doesn’t hit the horse or push the saddle blanket out of position. Put it slightly forward, then move it back in to position, and put it on gently.”
Again Morrison showed what he was talking about by actually doing it.
“Now all you have to do is tighten the cinch. You want it tight enough, but not too tight, otherwise the horse will be uncomfortable. Leave enough room that you can get your fingers between the cinch and the horse.”
All the time he was talking, Morrison was demonstrating and now his horse was saddled and ready to go.
With his horse saddled, Morrison walked over to Winnie’s horse and removed the saddle and blanket.
“Now, you do it,” he said.
“I didn’t ask Sir William what this horse was named,” Winnie said as he went about saddling the animal, repeating step by step the procedure Morrison had showed him.
“I doubt that he has a name,” Morrison said. “I’m sure he just came from the remuda.”
“Then I intend to name him,” Winnie said.
“I’m sure he will like that. What are you going to name him?”
“He is such a noble-looking horse that he needs a noble name,” Winnie said. “I think I shall call him Tudor Monarch.”
Morrison laughed. “That’s quite a name,” he said.
When the horse was saddled, Winnie gave the animal a pat on the withers.
“Get mounted, and we’ll take a ride,” Morrison said.
Winnie started to lead the horse back to the porch.
“Where are you going?”
“Over to the step so I can get on the horse.”
“What if you had to dismount while you were out on the trail? How would you get back on then?” Morrison asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Let me show you.”
Morrison pulled the left stirrup down far enough for Winnie to put his foot in it. Putting his left foot in the stirrup, then throwing his right leg over the horse, he was able to get into the saddle.
“Now, reach down and pull up on this adjustment strap until the left stirrup is even with the other one,” Morrison suggested.
Winnie did so, then a huge smile came across his face. “Oh, what a wonderful thing. I am a cowboy,” he said. “I am truly a cowboy.”
Chapter Twenty
Carlos Silva had the perfect spot for his ambush. He was on top of a two-hundred-foot-high butte with a perfect view of the big log house called Frewen Castle. Anyone leaving the house or either one of the bunkhouses to go out onto the range where Frewen’s cattle were would have to pass right under this butte. He had come here before dawn, and now as the rising sun turned the Powder River into a gleaming stream of gold, he was able to observe the activity at the ranch. He saw the cook step out of the cook shack and toss out a pan of water. He watched cowboys going to and coming from the four outhouses that were lined up behind the two bunkhouses. He observed for nearly an hour as the ranch hands went into the cookhouse for their breakfast, then came out and started about their daily duties.
Then he saw Matt Jensen. Jensen stepped out of the cookhouse, still holding a biscuit. He ate the last of it just before he went into the stable, and a few minutes later Jensen led his horse out, mounted, then rode off. He was coming this way, and would pass right under the butte.
The first thing Silva had done when the sun rose this morning was to establish his range and field of fire. He located a boulder that was about waist-high, and he aimed at it to get the range. He figured it at just under five hundred yards, and he set his telescopic sight accordingly.
As Jensen started toward him, Silva picked up some sand and dropped it to measure the windage. Now he waited as Jensen came riding slowly up the road. Then, just before he reached the boulder that Silva had established as his firing point, he raised the rifle to his shoulder. Peering through the scope, he placed the crosshairs so that the center point was just in front of Jensen’s ear; then he moved forward about two inches, all the lead he required at the rate Jensen was moving. He adjusted the set trigger, then moved his finger back to the firing trigger. All he had to do now was just touch it. He felt the rush.
A wasp landed on Spirit’s neck, and Matt leaned forward to brush it away. As he did so he felt the concussion of the bullet taking off his hat. Had he not leaned forward at that exact moment, the bullet would have gone through his head instead of his hat. An instant later he heard the boom, much louder than any ordinary gunshot.
Because the gunshot was so loud, Matt knew that it wasn’t a repeating rifle. It had to be a buffalo gun, which meant that the shooter would have to reload before he could shoot a second time. Matt slapped his legs against Spirit, and the horse burst forth like a cannon shot. As he was galloping away, Matt turned to look back up on the top of the Butte and saw that the shooter, confident that he was out of range of any return fire, was standing upright, leisurely reloading his rifle.
Matt continued to gallop away, opening distance between himself and the shooter.
“Damn!” Silva said out loud. “How did the son of a bitch know exactly when to duck?”
With his rifle reloaded, Silva raised it to his shoulders and sighted a second time. By now the range had opened up to at least half a mile. Silva had made shots this far before, so he was confident he could do it again. He set the trigger, then touched it, the recoil rocking him back.
This bullet passed so close to Matt that for brief second the concussion of its passing made him think he had actually been hit. Again he heard the roar of the rifle, followed by the rolling echo as it bounced off the distant hills. Obviously distance wasn’t enough protection from this shooter, so Matt pulled his rifle out, dismounted, then sent Spirit out of the way. He figured he had about eight seconds before the next shot, and he used the time to run across the road where he was able to squat behind a boulder. He wanted to go all the way over to the edge of the butte, but if he did so, he would be exposed for too long a time, so the rock would have to do for now.
Unfortunately, the boulder wasn’t very large, and it was all he could do to get behind it. A third shot knocked off a chip of rock as large as an apple, and the chip struck Matt in his right shoulder. The impact felt like someone had hit him with a hammer and he felt a tingling all the way down his right arm to the tips of his fingers. But that gave him another eight-second opening, and he improved his position, this time actually making it to a coulee that reached back into the very butte on which he had spotted the shooter. Once there, he started climbing.
Silva saw him running from behind the boulder, and if his rifle had been loaded, he would have gotten him. He had to admit that Jensen was pretty smart, figuring out just how much time he had between the shots. But he also knew that Jensen couldn’t stay there as long as Silva could stay here. Silva had enough water and jerky to stay for two days if he had to. Silva saw that Jensen was carrying a rifle with him. He was too far away to see what kind of rifle it was, but he imagined it was either a Winchester or a Henry. It didn’t matter; neither model could come close to this one in range. He was in the perfect standoff position. Jensen would be in kill range long before he c
ould get close enough to use his own rifle.
Silva pulled out a piece of cloth, opened it up, and selected a piece of jerky. He took a bite of it, then returned it to the cloth and put the cloth back in his pocket. He chewed the jerky for a moment, then he took a swallow of water from his canteen, and wondered where Jensen was.
Matt climbed the butte. Then, staying just below the crest, he worked his way around behind where he thought the shooter was. Carefully, he moved up almost to the top, got down on his hands and knees and crawled the rest of the way up. Once there, he raised up to look over the edge.
He saw Silva about two hundred yards away.
Matt pulled his pistol and shot it in the air, just to get the shooter’s attention. The shooter spun toward Matt, then raised his rifle. The shooter was good, Matt knew that. But he also knew that someone who prided himself on his marksmanship would not hurry his shot. Matt did hurry his shot, firing, cocking the rifle and firing again, the second shot following so quickly on the first that it joined with the echo of the first shot.
Matt saw the shooter react to being hit. He fired, but because he had been hit just as he was pulling the trigger, his shot went wild. He dropped his rifle, then slapped his hand over his wound. He walked forward in a few staggering steps, then fell to his knees. Dropping his own rifle, Matt pulled his pistol and hurried across the flat top of the butte to the man he had just shot.
By the time he got there, the shooter had fallen forward on his stomach. Kneeling beside him, Matt turned him over. He was still alive, but barely so, and he was gasping audibly for breath.
“Who are you?” Matt asked.
“Silva. Carlos Silva.”
“Why were you shooting at me, Silva?”
“It’s what I do for a living,” Silva said. He tried to laugh, a coughing, wheezing kind of laugh, and as he did so, blood bubbled from his mouth. Ironically, his face was so red that the blood wasn’t immediately noticeable.
“You won’t be doing it anymore,” Matt said.
Silva didn’t hear him, because Silva was dead.
“Just before he died, he told me his name was Carlos Silva,” Matt said to Marshal Drew. “Have you ever heard of him?”
“No, I don’t think I have,” the marshal replied. “At least, not before a few days ago. But I understand he has been been hanging out in The Lion and The Crown for a while. You say he started shooting at you for no reason?”
“Yeah, and from a long way off, with a special rifle.”
“What kind of rifle?”
“It’s out there, stuck down his saddle holster,” Matt said, making a motion toward the street with his thumb. “A fifty caliber, with a scope.”
“Fifty caliber?” Marshal Drew whistled. “Now that would do a job on a man.”
“It would,” Matt said.
“Are you going to take him down to Welsh, or shall I?”
“I’ll take him,” Matt said.
Marshal Drew chuckled. “You know, you have given him more business this month than he has had for the previous six months.”
“As long as the business I give him isn’t me,” Matt said with a smile.
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Another one for me, Mr. Jensen?” Welsh asked. He looked at the body. “My word, what did you do to his face? Why is it so red? By now the blood has usually drained out and they are almost white, but his face is still as red as a beet.”
“I don’t know,” Matt said. “Marshal Drew said it was always like that.”
“I suppose I can cover it with powder and paint or ...” Welsh started, then he stopped and shook his head. “No,” he said. He smiled. “I’m going to leave it just as it is.”
Matt left the body with Welsh, then walked down to The Lion and The Crown to have a beer. He started to pay for it, but Harry pushed the money back.
“The ladies are buying your beer,” he said.
“What? Why?”
“Word has already gotten around that you shot Carlos Silva.”
“That was fast. I just brought him in half an hour ago.”
“Yes, but enough people saw him thrown over his horse that they knew what happened. For about a week, he came in here every day, and sat right back there in that corner, scaring the ladies and my customers. I say good riddance.”
“What have you got to eat here?” Matt asked.
“Ham, beans, cornbread,” Harry said.
“Sounds good.”
Matt found a table and began playing solitaire as he waited for his food. A few minutes later, one of the bargirls brought it to him and when he reached into his pocket to pay, she held out her hand.
“No,” she said. “The other girls and I want to pay for your meal.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you,” Matt said. “I thank you.”
“Hey!” someone shouted, stepping into the saloon then. “Wait until you see what Welsh has standing tied to a board in front of his place now.”
“We know,” Harry said. “It’s Carlos Silva.”
“No it ain’t.”
“What do you mean, it isn’t? Who is it, if it isn’t Silva?”
“It’s the devil his ownself,” the man said. “I’m serious, come look!”
Matt knew they were probably talking about Silva’s red skin, so he stayed to eat his meal while nearly everyone else in the saloon hurried down to see for themselves. A few minutes later one of the customers came back and stepped up to the bar. “Give me a whiskey, Harry, a strong one. Mickey is right. Welsh does have the devil standing up down there.”
“Don’t be silly, Carl,” Harry said, pouring the drink and handing it to him. “It’s just Silva.”
“The hell it is. It’s the devil hisself, I tell you.” Carl put a coin down on the bar. “I’ll have another one. Otherwise, I’ll be seeing the devil in my nightmares tonight.”
The three bargirls had left when most of the customers did, and when they came back, two of them were comforting the third.
“What is it?” Harry asked. “What’s wrong with Rose?”
“She fainted when she saw the devil.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Has everyone gone crazy? I’m going to go see for myself,” Harry said, taking the towel down from his shoulder and starting toward the front door.
Finished with his meal now, Matt left with Harry, retracing the steps he had taken earlier when he came straight to the saloon from Welsh’s Undertaking Parlor.
There was a large crowd gathered around in front of the place, more people than Matt would have thought were even in town. He had to admit that Silva was strange-looking, but his looks hardly seemed to justify a crowd this large.
Then, when he got there, he saw what had caught everyone’s attention.
Silva was strapped to a board, just as some of the other outlaws had been. His face was shining red, and his yellow eyes were open. The skin was so tightly drawn across his face that it looked like a red skull, but Welsh had taken the illusion a little further. Although Silva was clean-shaven, Welsh had pasted a small triangular beard to his chin. And, on top of his head, sticking up through his hair, was a pair of red horns.
Matt had to admit that what he was looking at resembled the most bizarre artist’s rendition of Satan that he had ever seen. He could understand why people might think he was the devil.
“Silva’s dead,” Reed said.
“What?” Teasdale replied. “How do you know?”
“Because Welsh has him tied to a board in front of his place,” Reed answered. “Not only that, he’s got the son of a bitch made up to look just like the devil. I tell you the truth, it was enough to give me the willies.”
“Jensen killed him?”
“That’s what they are saying.”
“How many lives does that bloody bastard have, anyway?” Teasdale asked, angrily. “I have hired two men who were supposedly the best in their business to take care of him, and neither one was able to do the job.”
&
nbsp; “And don’t forget the stagecoach holdup that Logan arranged,” Reed said.
“Yeah, that too.”
“Since Jensen came on the scene, Logan has not been able to take one cow from Frewen,” Reed said.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I’m sure you did. I was just commenting, is all.”
“We’ve got to get rid of that bloody bastard before he makes a mess of everything,” Teasdale said.
“I’ve got an idea, if you are willing to go along with it,” Reed said.
“What would that be?”
“I’d say you offer a reward to anyone who takes care of him. That way we won’t have to find anyone—the word will get out and there will be enough people willing to collect on the money that they’ll find us.”
“Hmm,” Teasdale said, stroking his chin. “You know, Reed, that might not be a bad idea.”
“The only thing is—it has to be a high enough reward to get people interested in it,” Reed said.
“I’ve been told that Frewen has paid Matt Jensen five thousand dollars to regulate for him. I think it would be poetic justice if the reward on Jensen’s head would also be five thousand dollars. That is, if you think that would be high enough. And the beauty, of course, is I won’t have to pay it until after the job is done.”
Reed grinned broadly. “Mr. Teasdale, a reward that large will have half the gunmen in the West coming after him. There will be someone after him constantly—and what will make it even better is—he won’t know when someone is going to turn up next, who it will be, or where they will be coming from.”
“How do we announce such a thing?” Teasdale asked. “It isn’t exactly as if we can go to the constabularies and get reward posters circulated.”
“You don’t worry about that,” Reed said. “Once a few people get wind of this, it will spread like wildfire. We’ll have people from Texas to California coming up here to collect.”
Massacre at Powder River Page 17