Massacre at Powder River Read online

  “I been shot! Graham, I been shot!” Bates said.

  Bates went down and Graham went over to check on him. Bates had been hit in the stomach and in the side. He was groaning softly.

  “Bates? Bates?”

  Bates tried to get up.

  “No, I think you’d be better off if you don’t move. Wait, I’ll see what I can do about stoppin’ the bleedin’.”

  Staying low on the floor, Graham crawled over to the bunk and pulled off a blanket. Returning to Bates, he tore the blanket into a couple of strips and wrapped them around Bates, covering the wounds.

  “Thanks,” Bates said.

  Graham raised up to look outside, and he could see a few people moving around. He took a couple of shots at them, but didn’t hit anyone. He took another look at Bates. Bates’s eyes were closed and he was breathing in shallow, gasping breaths.

  Graham moved over to another part of the cabin and began writing.

  Me and Bates was fixin breakfast when the attack come. Emmitt had already went down to the crick after water and when he did not come back Cooter went to see what the matter was and he didn’t come back neither. Bates started to go see what was keepin the two of them but I told him I think there might be someone out there that wasn’t lettin the other two come back. Then suddenly shootin started and Bates looked out the winder and said, “Damn it’s the yeller kerchief rustlers.” Then Bates got shot but he didn’t get kilt yet.

  Over the next two hours, the shooting continued, heavier sometimes than others, but never so light as to give Graham the idea that if he tried to leave he could make it. But he wouldn’t leave anyway, not with Bates too badly hurt to leave with him.

  “Bates?” Graham called. “Bates, how are you doin’?”

  “I ain’t doin’ all that well,” Bates replied, the pain evident in his voice.

  “Don’t you be dyin’ on me now, pard, you hear me? I don’t want to be left all alone here.”

  There were several more shots and the bullets sounded like pebbles rattling off the thick-sided line shack.

  “You reckon Emmitt an’ Cooter is dead already?” Bates asked.

  “I reckon so.”

  “I’m goin’ to die too, ain’t I?”

  “Pard, I reckon both of us are goin’ to die,” Graham replied.

  “Yeah. Well, at least me ’n you had us a woman. Emmitt never had him one a-tall. Wish we could’a got him to town and done what we was goin’ to do.”

  Bates grew quiet after that, and Graham went back to his writing.

  It is now about two hours since the first shot. Bates is still alive, but he is in awful bad shape. They are still shootin and are all around the house. Boy’s, there are bullets coming in like hail. Them fellows is all hid behind rocks and such so good that I can’t get at them. They are shootin from the crick and from the back of the house.

  “Bates, I know you’re bad hit, but if you could look out the back and just tell me if they are comin’. It’s kind of hard me tryin’ to hold ’em off all alone like this. Bates?”

  Graham went over and put his ear on Bates’s chest to listen for a heartbeat, but he got none.

  “You sons of bitches!” Graham shouted through the broken window. He raised up and fired several rounds, but they were fired in frustration only. He knew he didn’t hit anything. Nor could he. Then he saw them pull up a wagon and start loading it with brush and weed. That didn’t look good to him.

  He sat back down and started writing again. He was writing now just out of a sense of need to keep himself from going mad with fear.

  Bates is dead. He died at about 9 o:clock. And now I can see them loadin brush and wood and such onto a wagon. They got the tongue drawed up and the wagon is pointed toward the shack. I think maybe they might be fixin to set fire to the wagon and push it down the hill toward the line shack. I don’t think they intend to let me get away.

  Emmitt and Cooter never did come back. I don’t know if they was kilt or not, but I reckon they was. What with them gone and Bates dead, I’m feelin pretty lonesome just now, and I don’t mind tellin you I’m pretty dam scairt too. I wish there was someone here with me so we could watch all sides at oncet. They may fool around until I get a good shot before they roll the wagon down at me. I’d love to get at least one of the bastards. I tell you this. I ain’t goin to let myself get all burnt up in here. Before they roll that wagon down here, I’m goin to run out of the house, and when I do, I’m goin to come out shootin.

  For the time being, the shooting had stopped, except for one or two shots thrown toward the cabin every minute or so just to keep Graham trapped inside. Raising up, he could see them quite clearly now. He thought he recognized one of them.

  I see twelve or fifteen men. One looks like Sam Logan, but I don’t know if it is or not. If I had me a pair of glasses I might know some of these men.

  I’ve got to look out.

  Well, they have just got through shelling the house again like hail. And they got the fire goin good on the wagon and are fixin to push it down on me. Its time for me to go. Goodbye boys, if I don’t never see you again.

  The wagon came rolling down toward the line shack, hopped up over the low front porch, then crashed into the side. Within moments the line shack was on fire, and though there were no flames inside yet, the smoke was so thick that Graham could scarcely breathe. Coughing and with his eyes watering and burning, Graham picked up Bates’s pistol so that he had two guns. He entertained the hope that because there was so much smoke, it might cover his escape. Holding on to that thought, Graham cocked both pistols, then kicked the door open and dashed outside, firing both pistols.

  There was very little smoke outside, most of it being whipped in through the little cabin by the wind. As a result, Graham found himself standing in the open, looking at a ring of men, all wearing yellow kerchiefs. With a shout of rage and fear, Graham continued to blaze away as at least six of the rustlers fired at him. He felt the first two bullets plunge into his body, but the third hit him in the forehead and his world went black.

  Chapter Five

  Frewen was in the study of his house reading a letter from London when Clara came into the study.

  “Clara, guess what,” Frewen said, looking up from the letter. “Your sister Jennie is coming to visit you.”

  “Oh,” Clara said. “What wonderful news that is!”

  “I wonder how she will take to the Wild West,” Frewen said.

  “I’m sure she will get along splendidly,” Clara said. “After all, we are Americans, you know.”

  “Yes, I know, dear,” Frewen replied. “But neither you nor Lady Churchill were exactly raised in a log cabin.”

  Clara laughed. “I may not have been raised in one,” she said. “But I am living in one now.”

  “You call this a log cabin? You have hurt my feelings,” Frewen said, exaggerating a pout.

  “This is a wonderful log cabin, and I love it,” Clara said. “Does Jennie say in the letter that she will be bringing her child?”

  “Yes, the little brat will be with her,” Frewen said.

  “He is not a little brat,” Clara defended. “Winnie is a wonderful child and smart as a whip. Why, with his intelligence, background, and upbringing, I predict that he will do great things some day.”

  “Ha! Winston Churchill doing great things? That will be the day.”

  There was a knock at the door to the study and looking toward it, Frewen saw his gentleman’s gentleman.

  “Yes, Benjamin?”

  “M’Lord, Mr. Morrison would have a word with you.”

  Myron Morrison, foreman of the Powder River Cattle Company, was a big man with gray hair and beard. Enlisting in the Union army as a private, he was a major when the war ended, and with no family and no place to call home, he had come West. After a few “adventures” as Morrison called them (he was never specific about his “adventures” and Frewen had never asked), he began working as a cowboy and now was the foreman of one of the bigges
t ranches in Wyoming.

  “Then by all means, show him in.”

  Frewen had a smile on his face as he stood to greet his foreman, but when Morrison came in, he had a grim expression on his face.

  “Mr. Morrison, what is it?” Frewen asked, his own smile replaced by an expression of concern.

  “I have some bad news for you, Mr. Frewen. This morning, Ralph Turner rode out to the Taney Creek line shack to take fresh provisions to the men there. He found the shack burned, and all four of the men dead.”

  “What? You mean they couldn’t escape the fire?”

  “No, sir, it isn’t that,” Morrison said. “There was a burned-out wagon up against the burned-out shack. It looks like it was purposely set afire. There was only one body inside, and it was too badly burned to identify, but we found Graham, Emmett, and Cooter outside, all shot, so we are sure that the body inside was that of Phil Bates, seeing as he was with them.”

  “Oh,” Frewen said. “Oh, those poor men. None of them were married, were they?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thank God for that, at least.”

  “Yes, sir. It is bad enough that they all have parents, but it would be doubly worse if they had wives and children. And of course, Emmitt wasn’t much more than a child himself. He was only fifteen or sixteen.”

  “It was the Yellow Kerchief Gang, wasn’t it?” Frewen said. “They were the ones who killed Coleman and Snead a couple of weeks ago and they left a yellow flag on a post to brag about it, the bloody bastards. I don’t suppose they left a yellow flag this time, did they?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, no matter, I’m sure it was them. There’s no way of telling for certain, of course, but I’ve no doubt but that they also did this.”

  “There was no yellow flag, but we know for a fact that Graham, Emmitt, Cooter, and Bates were killed by the Yellow Kerchief bunch.”

  “Oh? How do we know?”

  “I know you are going to find this hard to believe, Mr. Frewen, but you might recall that the other boys were always teasing Graham about keeping notes on everything that was happening. They all wanted to know if he was writing a book. Well, sir, he had that little tally book with him, and he wrote it all down, everything that happened. They found this lying under him.” Morrison handed a small notebook to Frewen. “Read this.”

  Frewen took the notebook, then pulled his finger back quickly. There was a small spot of blood on his index finger.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Morrison said. “I thought I got all the blood cleaned away.”

  “It’s all right,” Frewen answered. He walked back to the chair and sat down to read.

  After Frewen finished reading the journal, he bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was quiet for a long moment.

  Clara had left the room when Morrison came in, and she returned now. “Mr. Morrison, would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No, ma’am, thank you,” Morrison said.

  Clara started to ask Frewen if he wanted coffee, but she saw him with his head bowed.

  “Moreton? Moreton, what is it? What is wrong?” she asked.

  Frewen handed the notebook to her. “Paul Graham, Phil Bates, Emmitt Carol, and Cooter Miles—all killed,” he said. “Graham left an account.”

  “He left an account?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Morrison said, nodding toward the book. “You’ll find it all written down there in his tally book.”

  Clara found a chair and settled down to read Graham’s account.

  “Four at the line shack, and two at on the island in William’s Creek,” Frewen said. “That makes six good men that we have had killed by the Yellow Kerchief Gang.”

  After that, Frewen and Morrison remained silent until Clara finished reading Bates’s journal. “Oh,” she said, sniffing as tears began to run down her cheeks. “Oh, I can hardly stand to read this. How terrible it must have been for him.”

  “Mr. Frewen, do you have any idea why they might be specifically targeting you?” Morrison asked.

  “Targeting me? What do you mean, targeting me? They are hitting all the ranches in the county, aren’t they?”

  “They are hitting the others, yes, sir; but I’ve been talking to some of the other foremen, and none of the other ranches have been hit nearly as bad as we have. Like you said, we’ve lost six good men. There’s only been two other cowboys killed in the entire county. And all the other ranchers combined haven’t lost as many cattle as we have lost.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Frewen said. “I don’t know why we should be the ones suffering the most. And I don’t have any idea of what to do about it.”

  “Would you like a suggestion?” Marshal Drew asked Frewen when he went into town to show him the journal. Marshal Drew was not only the city marshal of Sussex, he was also a deputy sheriff, thus giving him some authority beyond the city limits.

  “If you have an idea, yes, I would love a suggestion.”

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Matt Jensen?” Drew asked.

  “Matt Jensen? No, I can’t say that I have. Who is he?”

  “Well, I’ve never met him either, you understand, but I have read about him, and I’ve heard a lot about him. He is a lone wolf kind of man who wanders around a lot. And from what I hear, he is the kind of man who puts things right.”

  “What do you mean by put things right?”

  “Well, sir, he’s a gunman, Mr. Frewen,” Marshal Drew said.

  “A gunman? My word, Marshal, are you, a lawman, actually suggesting that I hire a gunman?”

  “Yes sir, I am. I think what is happening here now is just the sort of thing where a gunman might be handy to have.”

  “Do you really think I should resort to something like this?” Frewen asked.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Frewen. As a deputy, my jurisdiction outside of town is limited, but even so, I wouldn’t be able to handle this situation. And there is no way Sheriff Canton can handle it either.”

  Frewen stroked his mustache. “He certainly hasn’t been able to handle it yet, has he?”

  “No, sir, he has not.”

  “All right, let’s suppose I did want to hire this gunman of yours, this Matt Jensen. Do you have any idea how I can get in touch with him?” Frewen asked.

  “Normally, I wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to locate him, but Mr. Murphy said he saw him at the Cheyenne Club in Cheyenne last week. I don’t know if he is still in Cheyenne, but if he is, more than likely we could send a letter to him, care of the Cheyenne Club, and it would get to him.”

  “Good idea. All right. I will write him a letter,” Frewen said.

  “You had better make it a good letter so you can get his attention,” Marshal Drew suggested. “A man like Matt Jensen probably gets a dozen or so requests for help a week.”

  “Don’t worry, Marshal. I will find a way to get his attention,” Frewen said.

  At sea, onboard the White Star Line

  ship the Baltic

  For the first four days of the trans-Atlantic crossing, the seas had been favorable and Jennie had fared well. But this morning, they had run into heavy seas, and for at least twelve hours the ship had been tossed about like a cork. Jennie had become very seasick, though Winnie seemed to be immune to it. The bow was lifted high, and Jennie and Winnie had to hold on because their first-class cabin tilted at about a forty-five-degree angle. It stayed there for a long moment, then the bow plunged back down with such a suddenness that Jennie’s stomach seemed to rise to her throat. At the bottom of the wave trough, the ship rolled hard to the starboard, and everything that was loose in the cabin—Jennie’s bottles of creams and perfumes, her jewelry box, Winnie’s books and journal, shoes, jacket, cap—all slid to the right side of the compartment. Their cabin was on the starboard side, and when it rolled starboard, they could look through the porthole window and actually see the water, not blue as it had been for most of the voyage but a dirty gray, swirling w
ith white caps.

  The ship remained in that position for a long, terrifying moment, and Jennie got the impression that they were actually about to capsize.

  “Oh, Winnie!” she said, and she put her arms around him, pulling him to her, as much for her own comfort as for his.

  Slowly the ship righted itself, then continued on past the upright position, rolling to the port as far as it just had to starboard. Now all the loose objects in the cabin came sliding quickly back to the left, and from the porthole window they could see nothing but sky.

  Finally, after another hour of such tossing and pitching about, the seas calmed, and once again the ship was steaming at fifteen knots, stable except for the normal, gentle roll of the waves.

  “Are you feeling better, Mama?” young Winston Churchill asked his mother.

  “I’ll be all right,” Jennie answered, although her voice was weak and there was a greenish tint to her skin.

  “It is nearly time for dinner,” Winnie said. “I hope that the storm didn’t keep the chefs from their work.”

  “Oh, Winnie, can you actually think of food now?” Jennie asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Winnie said. “We didn’t eat lunch, remember? You said you didn’t feel like it.”

  “You go ahead,” Jennie said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t eat a bite.”

  “Do you want me to bring you something?”

  “No, I ... wait a minute. Yes, I would love an orange,” Jennie said. “I think I could eat an orange.”

  “I shall try to get one for you.”

  Normally at this time of day, the first-class dining room was filled with passengers marveling over the fantastic meals provided by the chefs. But this evening the dining room was empty, except for three people who were seated at the captain’s table.