Miss McMurty had no relatives in Medbury, nor in Idaho, nor in any of the surrounding territories. She was an indigent, and like the three other indigents who were buried within the last two weeks, would have been buried in Potter’s Corner as well, had events run their normal course. But she was not buried in Potter’s Field, she was buried in the main garden of the cemetery. There are those who have questioned why the town of Medbury would go to such expense for a harlot.
The answer is, she was not buried at the expense of the town. Mrs. Kitty Wellington, widow of Sir Thomas Wellington, paid all the expenses incurred by the funeral, from the finest coffin, to the use of the special hearse, to the purchase of a burial plot in the main part of the cemetery.
One may ask why Mrs. Wellington went to such personal expense. This newspaper thought to make an inquiry as to her reasons, but decided not to. Harlot or no, Millicent McMurtry was, as the reverend Father Walt Pyron said during the funeral rites, a child of God. And that, this newspaper believes, is reason enough.
Boise
There was no railroad service directly to Boise, so Marcus Kincaid left the train at Thurman City and took a stagecoach for the ten-mile ride up to the territorial capitol. For all that it was the capitol, it was not a very large town, and it was but a short walk from the stage depot to the headquarters building of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse. It wasn’t hard to find the building; there was a sign suspended from the overhanging porch in front of the building; and another sign painted on the window itself, identifying this as the headquarters of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse.
There were two men standing in front of the building. One was tall and broad shouldered, with a neatly cropped moustache. He was wearing denim trousers, a light gray shirt, and a star-shaped badge on his left pocket. The other man was wearing a three-piece suit. The man in the suit was obviously just leaving, so Kincaid stopped short of going up to them and waited. After a few more minutes of conversation, the two men laughed, shook hands, then the man in the suit left, heading toward the capitol building.
The tall man with the moustache and star looked over at Kincaid.
“Have you come to see me?” he asked.
“Are you Clay Sherman?”
“I am Colonel Sherman, yes.”
“Then, yes, I have come to see you.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Marcus Kincaid, Colonel Sherman. I’m from—”
“Ah, yes, I know who you are, and I know where you are from,” Sherman said. Sherman pointed toward the man who had just left. “Do you know who that is?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“That is Nathaniel Patterson, the assistant deputy attorney general for the territory of Idaho,” Sherman said. “I am in good standing with the territorial government. And why shouldn’t I be? My posse provides services that the territory is simply unable to provide.”
“But you provide those services for private individuals too, do you not?”
“I do.”
“I require just such a service.”
“Come in, Mr. Kincaid. We’ll talk,” Sherman said.
The office could have been any sheriff’s office, though without a jail cell. There were wanted posters on the walls, a rifle rack, and a heroically posed photograph of Clay Sherman, with a brass plaque beneath the photo that read COLONEL CLAY SHERMAN, COMMANDING OFFICER.
Sherman opened a silver humidor on his desk, took out two cigars, and gave one to Kincaid. Kincaid accepted, and, after biting off the end, waited for Sherman to provide the match. Sherman lit Kincaid’s cigar first, then his own, and took several puffs before speaking.
“Have a seat,” Sherman offered, pointing to a chair that was drawn up in front of his desk. Sherman sat behind the desk as Kincaid sat down across from him.
“What happened to Poke Terrell?”
“He was killed by Matt Jensen.”
“But Matt Jensen isn’t in jail, is he?”
“No. There were too many witnesses to the event. They all say that Terrell drew and fired first. In fact, Terrell killed one of the whores while he was trying to kill Jensen.”
Sherman moved some papers around on his desk, then picked up a newspaper and showed it to Kincaid. “Then what you are saying is that the article in this newspaper is correct?”
“Yes.”
“Poke was not only my second in command, he was my friend,” Sherman said.
“I thought you fired him.”
“That’s what we wanted you and everyone else to think,” Sherman said. “We felt that was the best way he could help you.”
“Then you were aware of his activity on my behalf?”
“Yes, of course I was. In fact, he was keeping me informed by frequent telegrams.”
“I’m sorry your friend was killed.”
“It says in the paper that Poke is buried in Potter’s Corner? Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“You are a wealthy and influential man in Owyhee County, are you not, Mr. Kincaid?”
“You might say that.”
“You are a wealthy and influential man, and Poke Terrell was working for you, yet you couldn’t give him a proper burial?”
“How could I?” Kincaid asked. “Nobody knew that Poke Terrell was working for me.”
“I see,” Sherman said. “Now tell me, Mr. Kincaid, why have you come to see me?”
“Because the problem I had, the one that Terrell was working on, still exists. And evidently it is a much bigger problem than I anticipated. It’s a much bigger problem than Poke Terrell anticipated.”
“You are talking about Matt Jensen,” Sherman said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I can understand how he would be a problem. From what I know of Matt Jensen, he can be quite formidable.”
“Do you know him?”
Sherman took several puffs of his cigar, wreathing his head in the smoke, then he pulled it out and examined the glowing tip, before he answered.
“I’ve never met the man, so I don’t know him personally,” Sherman said. “But a man in my position must make it a policy to know as much as one can about people like Matt Jensen.”
“You say he is formidable. How formidable?”
“Quite formidable.”
“But, not too much for you to handle,” Kincaid said. “I mean, you have a reputation of dealing with people like Jensen, right?”
“I will concede that I have run across people like Jensen a few times, yes,” Sherman said.
Kincaid smiled. “And it is my understanding that, when you do encounter such people, you generally leave them dead.”
“I’ve left my share of them dead,” Sherman said.
“Good. Because I want you to kill Jensen.”
Sherman glared at Kincaid through the tobacco smoke.
“Mr. Kincaid, I am commanding officer of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse, duly deputized and authorized by the territory of Idaho to enforce the peace and uphold the law. Now, I admit that the law is often as I interpret it to be, and I also admit that in the performance of this duty, people are sometimes killed,” Sherman said, “but I want it well understood that I don’t kill on command, and I am not a professional executioner.”
“I’m sorry,” Kincaid said. “I guess I just didn’t realize you were so particular about killing.”
“I’m not particular about killing. In my business, it is sometimes necessary to kill. But I will choose the time, the place, and most importantly, I will choose who I am to kill. If you want someone killed, hire an assassin.”
“I thought I had hired one when I hired Poke Terrell.”
“Really? It was my understanding that what you really wanted was for Poke to help you take possession of Coventry Ranch. Am I wrong?”
“No, you are right. That is what I wanted. It is what I still want.”
“Do you have a plan in mind?”
“Not a plan
, exactly. But I do have the means of bringing it about. I hold the mortgage on the ranch,” Kincaid said. “Kitty Wellington doesn’t know this. She thinks the bank still has the mortgage. She believes that, even if she defaults on the loan, she will still have the opportunity to save the ranch by negotiating an extension. But her loan is due on July fourth, and if she defaults on repayment, even by so much as one day, the ranch comes to me. There will be no auction. I will simply take possession of it.”
“Then the objective is to make her default on the loan.”
“Yes.”
“What does Matt Jensen have to do with that?”
“Kitty has a contract to supply horses to the U.S. Army. This contract will give her enough money to pay off the loan, but in order to fulfill the contract, she must deliver the horses to the army depot in Chicago. She has hired Matt Jensen to see to it that she gets her horses through to Chicago in time to pay off the loan.”
“So as I understand it, Mr. Kincaid, you want us to see to it that her horses don’t get to Chicago in time to pay off the loan,” Sherman said.
“Yes,” Sherman replied. “That’s it exactly.”
“I see,” Sherman said. “But tell me this. What is the legal basis for using the posse?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There are those who consider the posse a ‘court of last resort’ if you will. But if we are a court of last resort, that means you must have a case that could be argued in court. Now, if you were to take your case to court, what would be your argument.”
“I took my case to court and I lost,” Kincaid said.
“What was your argument?”
“My argument was that I had a greater right to inherit the land than did a widow of but a year.”
“No, that won’t do. What other legal basis do you have for using the court of last resort?”
“I don’t know,” Kincaid admitted. “I mean, I am willing to pay you, whatever you ask. But I don’t know any legal basis for using you.”
“You do know, don’t you, that I don’t do anything unless I have some legal coverage?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t know that. Poke was working for me, I didn’t think it mattered whether it was legal or not.”
Sherman chuckled. “You are right. You didn’t think,” he said. “But it did matter for Poke, and it matters for me. I don’t commit the posse to anything, unless there is a legal basis for the commitment.”
“I see,” Kincaid said, crestfallen. “I thought maybe if I paid enough that maybe—”
Inexplicably, Sherman laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Kincaid,” he said. “Fortunately for you, I have found what we need. I have found a law that will cover any participation by the Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse.”
“What? Do you mean to say there is a law that will help me get control of Coventry?”
“Well, the law is not specifically drawn to give you control of Conventry,” Sherman said. “But it is drawn in such a way as to prevent Mrs. Wellington from selling her horses to the army, or to anyone else. And that would accomplish the same thing, would it not?”
“Yes, of course it would,” Kincaid said excitedly. “But I must confess that I am curious. What law would that be?”
“Have you ever heard of herd management law?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Let me read this to you,” Sherman said, pulling a book down from a shelf behind him and opening it. It was obvious that he had given this particular law a lot of thought, because he was able to open it to a pre-marked page.
“This is from the Idaho Territorial Livestock Law, paragraph twenty-five, subparagraph three, stroke two. It is called the Herd Management Law.”
Sherman cleared his throat, then began to read.
“The Livestock Commission of the territory of Idaho shall have power to create, modify, or eliminate herd management districts within such counties as hereinafter provided; and when such district is so created, modified, or eliminated, the provisions of this chapter shall apply and be enforceable therein. In a district that is set aside for cattle, no one shall run horses, mules, asses, sheep, or goats in excess of what is needed for the immediate operation of the ranch without specific authorization from the Livestock Commission. Such regulation or control is provided by the creation of a herd management district pursuant to the provisions of this chapter. The provisions of this chapter shall apply with immediate effect, subject to any modification as may hereinafter be enacted.”
Sherman closed the book and smiled at Kincaid. “There is your legal basis,” he said.
Kincaid shook his head in confusion. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you just said to me.”
“Is Kitty Wellington raising horses?” Sherman asked.
“Yes.”
“Would you say she is raising more horses than are required to run her ranch?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“I have checked all the filings in the herd district that apply to Coventry on the Snake, and there has been no authorization specifically granted for her to run horses.” Sherman thumped on the book he had just read. “Therefore, according to this, she is in violation of the law.”
“She is? Then I don’t know why the territorial government hasn’t stopped her. Everyone knows she is raising horses, there was even an article about it in The Boise Statesman.”
“The territorial government hasn’t done anything about it, because they probably don’t even realize she is in violation. This law was written primarily to prevent trouble by keeping the sheep herders and cattle ranchers separated.”
“Then we should tell the government about her,” Kincaid suggested.
Sherman shook his head. “No, that is the last thing you want to do,” he said.
“No?”
“Not if you really want to stop her,” Sherman explained.
“I don’t understand.”
“Look. If the agriculture commission realized that this law, which as I said was primarily designed to keep cattle and sheep apart, was stopping a productive horse ranching operation, they would simply grant her an exception to the law, and the posse would have no legal basis for involvement. But”—he said, holding up his finger to emphasize a point—“as it stands now, minus that exception, she is in violation of the law, and that is all the cover we need.”
With that explanation, Kincaid understood, and he nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
“Now, Mr. Kincaid,” Sherman said. “As a cattle rancher, if you wish to file a complaint because someone in your country is violating the herd management law, that will give the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse a legal basis for getting involved. Do you wish to hire the posse to enforce that law?”
“Yes, I do,” Kincaid said.
“Good, good,” Sherman said. “May I suggest that we go next door to the Palace Café and have our lunch? Afterward, we will come back to my office, reach some agreeable settlement as to terms, then sign a contract that authorizes us to come to your aid in seeking a just prosecution of the law.”
Chapter Twenty
For the ranchers and farmers who lived within a ten-mile radius of Medbury, Saturday was a big day. It was the day they came into town to get their business and shopping done, and just to visit with friends and neighbors. By mid-morning the town was crowded with people, horses, and conveyances. There was a parking yard near the livery, and it was filled with buckboards and wagons of all sizes and descriptions. The men tended to congregate in the feed and seed store or the leather goods store, while the women did their shopping at the mercantile and general stores. Children, excited over the prospect of getting their weekly prize of a piece of stick candy, ran up and down the boardwalks, laughing and playing.
It was into this atmosphere of happy commerce that Colonel Clay Sherman led his posse of Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers. They rode in, in military precision, a column of twos, eight rows deep, with Clay Sherman in the
lead.
Their arrival captured the attention of nearly everyone, and people interrupted their weekly commerce in order to wonder at this strange parade through the center of their town.
“That’s Clay Sherman,” someone said, speaking quietly lest Sherman actually hear him.
“I know who it is,” another answered. “The question I got is, what in Sam Hill is he doin’ here?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. From all I’ve heard of him and his men, it means trouble of some sort.”
It was a magnificent looking body of men. All were wearing dark blue denim trousers and light gray shirts. All had shining brass stars pinned to their shirts. Sherman was dressed exactly as the other men, except that, on his collar, in metallic thread, was embroidered an eagle, the symbol of his rank as colonel.
One young boy was so excited by the sight that he dashed out into the street and ran alongside, shouting “Bang, bang, bang!” So disciplined were the riders that not one of the men looked at the boy, nor did they glance around when his mother ran out into the street after him.
“Joey! Joey! Come back here!”
Several of the men of the town, who standing alongside watching, laughed when the mother caught up with the boy and, grabbing him by the ear, pulled him back out of the street.
“That’ll teach you, Joey!” one man yelled.
“You better listen to your mama, boy!” another added.
When Clay Sherman and his riders reached the sheriff’s office, Sherman held up his hand and the men stopped.
“Dismount and stand by your horses,” Sherman ordered and, as one, the sixteen men swung down from the saddle. They stepped up to the front of their horse and held it by the halter. As Sherman went inside the sheriff’s office, several of the townspeople moved closer to the body of men.
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