Massacre at Powder River Page 6

  Leaving the bank, Matt walked down to the telegraph office.

  MORETON FREWEN—SUSSEX, WYOMING

  HAVE THIS DAY CASHED THE DRAFT YOU SENT ME STOP WILL ARRIVE IN SUSSEX WITHIN THE WEEK TO ASSUME MY DUTIES STOP

  MATT JENSEN

  From the telegraph office, Matt went to the gun store. There, he bought three boxes of .44 pistol ammunition and two boxes of .44-40 shells for his Winchester.

  Chapter Seven

  “He is staying in the Western Hotel, in Room 206,” Carl Maynard said. Maynard was a teller at the Stock Growers’ bank, and he was talking to Pogue Cassidy. There couldn’t have been a more unlikely duo than the two men. Maynard was a small man, clean-shaven and nearly bald. He was wearing wire-rim glasses. Cassidy was a big man with red hair and a bushy red beard.

  “How do you know what room he’s stayin’ in?” Cassidy asked. He scratched at his beard.

  He had to fill out a form before Mr. Whipple gave him the money, and that’s what he put for his address.”

  “You say he has the five thousand dollars on him?”

  “Yes. Mr. Whipple offered to open an account for him, but he said he wanted the five thousand dollars in cash. That would be two thousand for you, and three thousand for me,” Maynard said.

  Cassidy chuckled. “Here, now, you bein’ a banker and all, how come is it that you don’t know how to cipher? What do you mean, three thousand dollars for you?”

  “I am the one who brought you this opportunity,” Maynard said. “I should be adequately compensated for it.”

  “Are you plannin’ on goin’ into this feller’s room with me tonight to take the money?”

  “What?” Maynard replied with a gasp. “Certainly not! That’s not the type of thing I would ever do.”

  “I see. You don’t want to rob anyone with a gun, but you got no problem robbin’ with a fountain pen. Is that about it?”

  “No, that’s not it, at all,” Maynard said. “It is just that, in a proposal like this, everyone brings their own contribution to the table. My contribution was in finding the opportunity. Your contribution is in actually doing the deed.”

  “Yeah, well I’m tellin’ you now, I ain’t goin’ to do it by myself. I’m goin’ to have to have someone to help me, and we’re goin’ to have to pay him at least a thousand dollars. So I make it two thousand for you, two thousand for me, and one thousand for whoever I get to help me.”

  “All right,” Maynard acquiesced. “But I heard him tell Mr. Whipple that he would be leaving tomorrow. So if you are going to do anything, you will have to do it tonight.”

  There was nobody else with Cassidy. He had told Maynard that just so he could reverse the split and take the three thousand dollars for himself. But as he stood at the bar that night, drinking whiskey to get up his courage to do what had to be done, he asked himself why there needed to be any split at all. He was the one taking the risk.

  Then, as he continued to think about it, he realized there was something that Maynard hadn’t considered. Once he did the job, Cassidy would have all the money in his hand, and the only way Maynard would ever see a cent of it would be if Cassidy took the money to him.

  Cassidy glanced up at the clock. It was five minutes until midnight. If he was going to do this, now was as good a time as any. He tossed down his last drink, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then started toward the saloon door. He had no intention of splitting the money with Maynard. Once he got the money, he intended to leave town. That would serve Maynard right for trying to cheat him in the first place.

  The night clerk at the hotel was reading a book when Cassidy went into the hotel. The clerk put the book down and smiled up at Cassidy. “Yes, sir,” he said. “You need a room?”

  “I’ve already got a room,” Cassidy said. “A friend of mine said I could stay with him tonight. He’s in Room 206.”

  “Room 206? That would be Mr. Jensen’s room. I would not have thought he would be the type to share his room, but if you say. Go on up and knock. I am sure that he is in.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want to wake ’im up. Why don’t you just give me the key?”

  “Give you the key to an occupied room? Oh, no, sir, I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the clerk said.

  Cassidy pulled his pistol and pointed it at the hotel clerk. “I said give me the key to Room 206, you son of a bitch!”

  With shaking hands, the clerk took the spare key to 206 from the hook and held it out toward Cassidy. Cassidy took the key, then brought the pistol down hard on the clerk’s head. The clerk collapsed on the floor behind the desk.

  With the key in one hand and his pistol in the other, Cassidy hurried up the stairs to the second floor. The hallway was well lit by wall-mounted gas lamps that gave off a quiet hissing sound as they burned.

  Room 206 was at the far end of the hall. There was also a window there. The window was closed for now, but Cassidy opened it, then stuck his head through to have a look around. Two floors below was the back alley. That was a pretty long jump, but if he crawled out of the window, then hung from the ledge and dropped that way, it wouldn’t be so bad. And this would give him a route to get away after he took care of Jensen and stole the money. He left the window up so he wouldn’t have to take the time to raise it afterward.

  Stepping over to the door that had the numerals 206, he put the key into the keyhole, then turned it as quietly as he could.

  It wasn’t quiet enough. Even while asleep, Matt heard the lock tumblers click. Quickly and silently, Matt pulled his pistol from the holster that hung from the headboard just above him, then slid out of bed and moved to the opposite side of the room.

  The door opened, and in the backlight provided by the hall lamps, Matt saw a man standing there. His right arm was crooked and he was holding a pistol. The man stepped over to the bed, then pointed his pistol before he realized the bed was empty.

  “What the hell?” he said in surprise and frustration.

  “Are you looking for me?” Matt asked.

  Swinging toward the sound of the voice, Cassidy fired, the flame pattern of the muzzle flash lighting up the room. The bullet crashed through the window beside Matt, even as Matt fired back.

  The impact of the bullet knocked Cassidy back onto the bed and he lay there with his arms thrown to either side of him, his head back, and his eyes open. His pistol hung by the trigger guard from Cassidy’s finger.

  “You’ve been a busy man, today, Mr. Jensen,” the police officer said a short while later. Matt was talking to the policeman in the lobby of the hotel, along with several of the other hotel guests who had come down to the lobby out of curiosity. The hotel clerk was there as well, holding a towel to the wound on his head. Two men were carrying Cassidy’s body out on a stretcher. “I heard about the incident with Red Plummer.”

  “Yes, it has been a busier day than I would want,” Matt said.

  “Did you know Pogue Cassidy?”

  “I never saw him before he came into my room,” Matt said.

  “Do you have any idea why he broke into your room?”

  “Most likely reason, I suppose, is that he wanted to rob me,” Matt said.

  “I’m sure that’s it. I know Cassidy, we have had him in our jail a few times, mostly for fighting and disturbing the peace. But he did serve two years in the penitentiary down in Rawlins for robbery.”

  “I’d better get a new sheet for your bed,” the clerk said. “Like as not Cassidy bled on the one you have.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said. He looked back at the police officer. “Is there going to be an inquiry on this? The reason I ask is because, if there is going to be one, I wonder if we could combine it with the one I have at ten in the morning. I need to get away as soon as I can after that, because I have to be somewhere else.”

  The policeman chuckled. “Let’s see, you have been involved in two shootings in less than twenty-four hours. I’ll talk to the chief. I don’t see why he couldn’t convince the judge to hold both i
nquiries at the same time.”

  At ten o’clock that morning, Judge William D. Clanton held a rare double inquiry, one into the death by gunshot wound of Ronald (Red) Plummer, and another into the death by gunshot wound of Pogue Cassidy. Witnesses from the saloon testified first, explaining how Plummer had made the first move. Also introduced into evidence was the account of the bank robbery and murder down in Colorado. Grant Peal, the clerk at the Western Hotel, testified that Pogue Cassidy knew which room Matt was occupying and that when he refused to give him a key to the room that Cassidy hit him over the head and took the key anyway.

  When all the testimony was heard, Judge Clanton found no cause for charges to be brought against Matt and he was free to go. Matt thanked the police department and the judge, then he mounted Spirit for the long ride up Sussex.

  When Winnie and his mother debarked in New York, they and the other first-class passengers were escorted through customs by courteous and helpful officials. Winnie saw hundreds of passengers from steerage, holding dearly on to all their worldly possessions, poorly dressed and clinging together in apprehension and wonder as they lined up to be processed through Castle Garden.

  Once they were through customs, Winnie got his first good look at a city that was as big as London, but had a brashness to it that London did not have. He could see the huge sweeping “S” curve of the elevated railroad just off Pier 8. Looking back to the east, he could see the superstructure of the ship he and his mother had just left, as well as the towering masts of the sailing ships that were in port. On the docks, there were many wagons loaded with freight that had been taken from the ships and with freight that would be put on the ships.

  Jennie’s first act was to hail a cab for them, a hansom cab that allowed Winnie and his mother to ride inside while the driver sat on a seat above and behind them. Having exchanged British pounds for American dollars at the customs office, Jennie passed the fare up through the hole in the roof.

  “Disabuse yourself of any idea that I’m a foreigner without knowledge of the city,” Jennie said. “I was born here.”

  “Sure ’n I wouldn’t think of such a thing now, m’lady,” the cab driver replied in a very thick Irish accent.

  Winnie laughed.

  “What is so funny?”

  “You were afraid he would think you were a foreigner when he is,” Winnie said.

  Jennie smiled. “I had almost forgotten that about New York,” she said.

  The cab dropped them off in front of the Jerome Mansion on the corner of Madison Avenue and 26th Street. The five-story edifice, built by Jennie’s father Leonard, had a six-hundred-seat theater, a breakfast room that seated seventy people, a ballroom of white and gold with champagne- and cologne-spouting fountains, and a view of Madison Square Park.

  Leonard Jerome, who was a major stockholder of the New York Times, had defended the newspaper office during the New York draft riots by personally manning a Gatling gun. He was the father of three daughters: Jennie, Clara, and Leonie. The girls were known as the good, the beauty, and the witty. Jennie, who was an exceptionally beautiful woman, was “the beauty.” Clara, whose real name was Clarita, was known as “the good,” and Leonie was “the witty.”

  Jerome’s wife had given him one more daughter, Camille, who had died at the age of eight. It was also said of him that he had fathered the American operatic singer Minnie Hauk, though the rumor was never substantiated.

  “Jennie!” her father said, greeting her with open arms. “How wonderful of you to visit us!”

  Jennie’s mother was just as effusive in her greeting, and smothered Winnie with hugs and kisses.

  That very evening, Jennie sent a cablegram to London.

  LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL

  WINNIE AND I ARRIVED SAFELY IN NEW YORK. AFTER BRIEF VISIT WITH MOTHER AND FATHER WILL PROCEED BY TRAIN TO WYOMING.

  MUCH LOVE JENNIE

  For the week they were in New York, Winnie was most struck by the diversity he encountered. Unlike London, where all spoke English and all faces were white, he found New York to be an exciting kaleidoscope.

  One can stand on a street corner in New York and hear French, Italian, German, Spanish, Hebrew, and even Chinese spoken. There are white faces, black faces, and yellow faces, for New York appears to be the meeting place for all the people of the world.

  On the day they were to leave, Jerome made his coach and driver available to take them to Grand Central Depot. The coach driver took them ahead of the long line of cabs on 42nd Street and stopped in front, where Red Caps recognizing that the coach represented wealth and tips, hurried over to render their assistance. Jennie went inside the terminal to buy train tickets.

  “Sussex?” the ticket clerk repeated after she told him where she wanted to go. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s in Wyoming,” Jennie said. “My sister and brother-in-law live there.”

  “Let me look on the map,” the clerk said. “Do you know the county it is in?”

  “It is in Johnson County,” Jennie said.

  “Johnson County, all right let me—ah, yes here it is. No, we have no train service there. I’m afraid that the closest we will be able to get you is Medicine Bow.”

  “Then that is where we shall go,” Jennie said. “I am sure that there will be some sort of conveyance available once we reach Medicine Bow. Can you tell me when we will arrive there?”

  “When do you plan to leave?”

  “The next available train,” Jennie said. “And, we will want Pullman accommodations.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that would be eleven o’clock this morning. The clerk checked his time schedule. Let’s see, this is Tuesday, if you leave on this morning’s train, you will arrive in Medicine Bow at five o’clock Friday afternoon.”

  “Thank you,” Jennie said.

  Her next stop was the Western Union office in the depot.

  THE HON MORETON FREWEN

  WINNIE AND I WILL ARRIVE IN MEDICINE BOW AT FIVE PM FRIDAY STOP

  JENNIE

  Chapter Eight

  William Teasdale stood at the bar in his parlor at Thistledown and poured two bottles of Scotch.

  “Ah, Moreton, it is good to have a fellow countryman to drink with,” he said. “And to have someone who appreciates good whiskey. These Americans and their awful bourbon, except most of the time it isn’t even bourbon, it is some indescribable, abominable concoction they call, and rightly so, rotgut.”

  Frewen chuckled as he accepted the glass of Scotch. “Their drink may be foul,” he agreed. “But I have found much about the Americans to admire.”

  “Well, of course you would say that, wouldn’t you? After all, you are married to an American.”

  “I am indeed, old boy, but that’s not the only reason. I find most Americans to be loyal and trustworthy,” Frewen said.

  Teasdale raised the glass to his lips and held it there for a moment. “Does that include the members of the Yellow Kerchief Gang?” he asked.

  “It does not. They have killed six of my men, William. Six. They are fiends of the lowest order.”

  Teasdale tossed down his drink.

  “And how many cattle have you lost?” he asked.

  “I told you, I don’t know,” Frewen answered. “Compared to the loss of human life, why should I be concerned about the loss of a few cows?”

  “From what I’ve heard, Moreton, it is many more than a few cows you have lost,” Teasdale suggested.

  “I suppose it is,” Frewen said.

  “I am concerned about every cow I may lose,” Teasdale said. “And unlike you, I have no investors back home. That means that I survive or sink on my own, without bringing others down with me. You, on the other hand, have many investors, all of whom will be very concerned about how many cows you have lost.”

  “It seems to me like we are being singled out for this gang’s activity,” Frewen said.

  “Of course we are going to be targeted,” Teasdale said. “We are the two biggest landowners i
n the county.”

  “I suppose that is right,” Frewen said.

  “Look, Moreton, I know that several of your investors are very upset with you because, despite your promise of returning a profit to them, you are losing money, and you have been losing money for over two years.”

  “I think they know that I am doing my best by them,” Frewen said. “Any investment is a risk. At least they aren’t holding me personally responsible for the losses.”

  “Don’t you think, though, for the sake of your investors, and especially for your sake, that you should consider cutting your losses before they get any higher?”

  “How would I do that?” Frewen asked.

  Perceiving a weakness, Teasdale plunged ahead.

  “Simple,” he said. “You sell your ranch to me, and let me worry about your creditors and investors.”

  “I thank you for your offer,” Frewen said. “But no, I think I’ll hang on to my ranch.”

  “Mark my words, you don’t have enough funds to weather this storm,” Teasdale said.

  “There may not be a storm, if I have my way,” Frewen said. He smiled.

  “What do you mean, if you have your way?”

  “I have hired someone to come to my assistance.”

  “Who?”

  Frewen reached into his jacket pocket and pulled a paperback novel, and held it out toward Teasdale. Teasdale looked at the cover. The cover picture showed a man astride a horse in full gallop. The man had the reins of the horse secured by his teeth and held pistols in both hands. A streak of fire streamed from the barrel of each pistol.

  The title was big and bold.

  MATT JENSEN