Читать книгу Snake River Slaughter - William W. Johnstone - Страница 10

Coventry Manor

George Gilmore was a small man, five feet three inches tall, and weighing but 120 pounds. What he lacked in size, though, he made up for in intelligence, having graduated from Washington University in St. Louis with full academic honors. After graduation he read for the law, and was now a practicing attorney in Medbury, Idaho.

At the moment he was standing in the entry hall at Coventry Manor, having been summoned by Kitty Wellington. As he waited there, he studied the colorful banners that hung over the hall, including the Union Jack of Great Britain, the Stars and Stripes of the United States, and the Wellington family crest.

Gilmore was a little nervous about the visit because he had recently represented the plaintiff in a lawsuit against Mrs. Wellington. Mrs. Wellington won the lawsuit, so he hoped she hadn’t sent for him to give vent to her anger. Mrs. Wellington was a very important woman in Owyhee County, and someone in his position could not afford to make such a powerful enemy.

“Mr. Gilmore,” Mrs. Wellington said, smiling sweetly when she came to greet him. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Gilmore was a little taken aback by the smile. It seemed genuine. He relaxed a little.

“Yes, well, you said you had need of my services. I must confess to being a little surprised.”

“Why surprised?”

“I thought you might be angry with me.”

“Because you represented the other party in a lawsuit against me? Don’t be silly. I know that’s what lawyers do. I also know that you are an honest and trustworthy man. You could have bent the facts in the case, but you did not.”

“That wouldn’t have been ethical,” Gilmore said.

“Exactly,” Kitty said. “And right now I need someone who is both ethical and discrete. Can you be both?”

“As long as the two requirements aren’t contradictory,” Gilmore replied.

Kitty laughed. “Good, good, that is exactly the answer an honest man would give. Now I know I have the right man.”

“What is the task, Mrs. Wellington?”

Kitty picked up a folded copy of The Boise Statesman from the hall table. “Have you read this paper?”

Gilmore glanced at it, then he looked up. “Yes, it has a very nice article about you.”

“It also has an article about Matt Jensen,” Kitty said. “The task I am assigning you, Mr. Gilmore, is to find Matt Jensen. Once you learn where he is, I want you to contact him and tell him that an old friend needs help, and ask him to meet you in American Falls. Once you meet him, bring him to me.”

“You tell me to bring him to you, but I can only bring him if he is willing to come,” Gilmore said. “I have heard of Matt Jensen. I get the feeling that he is not a man who can be coerced into doing something he doesn’t want to do.”

“I will give you a personal letter to carry from me to him. Once you show him the letter, he will come,” Kitty said, confidently.

“All right, I’ll contact him, and I’ll carry your letter to him,” Gilmore replied. “But I’m curious. Why do you want me to meet him in American Falls? Why not meet him in Medbury?”

“I want to keep the meeting secret,” Kitty replied. “I think we can better do that in American Falls. Besides if, after you meet him, he doesn’t want to get involved, he won’t have come so far. That is, assuming he is still in Green River.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Mr. Gilmore, I especially do not want Poke Terrell to find out about this. If Prew is right, if Mr. Terrell is the one behind the rustling of my horses, he might try and stop Matt from coming.”

“Matt? You are on a first name basis with Matt Jensen?”

“I was once,” Kitty said.

“Well, in that case, maybe he will come,” Gilmore said. “And don’t worry, I will be extremely guarded in my mission.”

Cattleman’s Bank and Loan, two days later

“You sent for me, Joel?” Marcus Kincaid asked.

“Yes,” Matthews said. He slid a letter across the desk, and Marcus picked it up.

“What is this?”

“This is a letter from Kitty Wellington. I thought it might give you comfort to know that the loan will be repaid and you will recoup your investment, as well as the interest due. It’s addressed to me but, under the circumstances, you being the one who now owns the loan, it is really your letter.”

Dear Mr. Matthews:

As you know, within the last two weeks, Coventry on the Snake has been the victim of the foulest rustling, resulting in the loss of more than one hundred and fifty head of fine horses, worth a total of fifteen thousand dollars.

I fear that you may be worrying about whether I will be able to retire the loan your bank so generously advanced, so I undertake the writing of this letter to ease any worries you may have on that score. I have recently signed a contract to deliver enough horses to the U.S. Army to allow me to easily discharge the debt I owe the bank. In order to help me accomplish this, I am calling upon Matt Jensen, an old friend, to help me, and I am sending my agent to American Falls to meet with him.

I’m sure you can understand that, for the time being, I would prefer that the details of my contact with Mr. Jensen be kept in the strictest confidence.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Katherine Wellington

Coventry on the Snake

“Yes, I heard she had signed a contract to sell enough horses to pay off the loan,” Marcus said. “That’s good. That’s very good.”

“I thought you might appreciate that, knowing that the money will be repaid, in full, and with interest.”

“Yes, that’s very—comforting.” He set the word comforting apart from the rest of the sentence.

“As the bullfighters say, it is the moment of truth for all bankers, when the loans are repaid in full,” Matthews said. “Perhaps after the successful conclusion of this project, you would be interested in purchasing more loans.”

“Perhaps.”

Mountain Home, Idaho

When Sam Logan, Al Madison, and Ken Jernigan first stepped into the Cow Palace Saloon, they didn’t see the person they were looking for.

“You sure this is the place?” Madison asked.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Logan answered.

“What makes you so sure?”

“How many saloons are there in Mountain Home named Cow Palace?” Logan asked.

“There’s only one saloon in Mountain Home,” Jernigan said.

“And it is named Cow Palace,” Logan said.

“So, if this is the right place, how come Poke ain’t here?”

“There he is,” Logan said.

“Where?”

“Back there in the corner, sitting with his back to us.”

“Why is sittin’ like that? We damn near didn’t see him,” Jernigan said.

“Maybe that’s why he’s sittin’ like that,” Logan answered. “Maybe he don’t want to be seen.”

Logan led them to the back of the saloon to the table where the man they were to meet was sitting.

“Did you see anyone else from Medbury outside?” Poke asked.

“No,” Logan answered. “Poke, why we meetin’ here, ’stead of in the Sand Spur?”

“It’s better to meet here,” Poke said without further explanation.

Matt Jensen was in Southeastern Idaho, riding north and sloping down a long slant from the Sublett Mountain range. The green covered mountains loomed up behind him, a long impressive range that ran south, all the way down to the Utah border. The Subletts were interspersed here and there with canyons and draws which made the mountain range look much larger than it actually was.

Matt was following a little dry wash that was, appropriately called Rock Creek, because only during the spring run offs did it have water. Now, as in most of the year, Rock Creek had only rocks. He had not been worried though, because he knew that soon he would come upon the Snake River, and now that confidence was rewarded. Ahead of him he spotted a narrow, snaking band of green, cutting across the amber desert floor. This, he knew, was the Snake River.

“You thirsty, Spirit?” he asked. He reached down to pat the second horse to bear the name. “Well, I am too, but to tell you the truth, I’m thirstier for something that tastes a little better than water.”

Spirit whickered.

“I know, I know, after the ride we’ve put in today, water will taste awfully good.”

As Matt rode on across the stretch of desert, Spirit’s hoof falls raised clouds of dust to hang in the air behind him. Those little puffs of dust marked his trail to the patch of green. There, in the middle of the patch of green, the river, some one hundred feet wide at this point, moved in a surprisingly swift flow, the surface showing white water here and there as it passed over the rocky bottom.

Matt dismounted, then got down on his stomach and stuck his mouth into the water. It was cool, almost too cold, and as he sucked in great draughts of water he felt a stab of pain behind his eyes from drinking something too cold, too fast.

Raising his head from the water he saw Spirit drinking as well, but Spirit seemed to be approaching it more cautiously.

Matt laughed. “Looks like you knew better than to drink too fast,” he said. “I guess that’s where they come by the term horse sense.”

Matt filled his canteen, then looked across the river. About a mile on the other side he espied a cluster of buildings, gleaming crimson now in the sun that was slowly sinking in the west. To the east, the sky was already growing darker, whereas a band of clouds, belly lit and glowing brightly in vivid golds and reds, still illuminated the sky to the west.

“Spirit, if you’ve had your fill, what you say we go on into town, and see what this letter is about?” Matt asked, swinging back into the saddle.

Because the bottom of the creek was clearly visible, Matt had no difficulty finding a place to ford. The water was about twelve inches deep, and Spirit pranced through quickly and easily, his hooves making but little splash in a stream that was already running rapidly.

As Matt approached the town from the south, he saw a train coming from the east, a long, rumbling, string of cars following behind the powerful locomotive, the puffs of which could be heard even from this far away.

American Falls, Idaho Territory

Because George Gilmore was a lawyer, he felt that he owed a certain degree of decorum to the profession he had chosen. Therefore, even when he wasn’t arguing a case in the courtroom, or dealing directly with one of his clients, he believed that he should still dress the part. For that reason, as he stood here in the Red Horse Saloon, dressed in a three piece suit, but surrounded by denim and homespun, he stood out like a flower among cabbages.

Gilmore was in American Falls to meet Matt Jensen, though Jensen didn’t know he was coming here to meet Gilmore. Gilmore had written a letter to Jensen, offering to hire him to “provide security for an old friend.” Responding to Kitty Wellington’s request, he did not tell Jensen who the old friend was, nor did he tell him how much the job would pay. He was depending entirely upon Matt Jensen’s curiosity and known appreciation of adventure to provide the catalyst needed to get him here.

Gilmore ordered a mug of beer, then found a table back in the far corner under the balcony. He had just taken his first swallow when he saw Al Madison, Ken Jernigan, and Sam Logan come in. He knew all three of them because he was an officer of the court over in Owyhee Count, and the three of them were often in trouble. Also, of late, he heard that the trio had allied themselves with Poke Terrell. Jason Prewitt was certain that Poke Terrell was the one behind the rustling of Coventry’s horse, and Gilmore believed him. However, Gilmore did not blame Marshal Sparks for not doing anything about it because, as a lawyer, he knew that there wasn’t enough evidence to support Prew’s accusation and thus, make the case in court.

Gilmore had never actually met Poke Terrell, but he had seen him, and he could recognize him on sight. He was aware of Terrell’s background and of his former connection with the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse. He knew, also, that because of that connection, and because Terrell seemed to be a brooding and unpleasant man, the majority of the residents of Medbury tended to keep their distance from him. The exceptions were Logan, Madison, and Jernigan, who were now here in American Falls. Gilmore wondered what they were doing here.

At this precise moment, they appeared to be in the midst of an argument, though Gilmore was too far away to be able to ascertain the cause of their argument. Finally, Logan shook his head as if in disgust and left the saloon. Madison and Jernigan stepped up to the bar and ordered a drink.

As Matt approached the town, he saw a crudely painted sign on a narrow board that was just wide enough to display the name of the town:

AMERICAN FALLS

Passing the sign, Matt encountered a cluster of white painted clapboard houses, some with well-tended lawns and colorful flowers, others with dirt yards. It was getting close to supper time, and he could smell the aromas of meals being cooked.

“Johnny, wash your hands and come to supper,” a woman called through the door.

“Yes, Mama,” a young boy’s voice replied.

For a moment—just a moment, Matt could remember a time when his own mother would call him in to supper. That was before she, his father, and his sister were murdered as they were going out West to seek a new life after the war. Matt was just a boy when that happened, and one of the reasons he was a wanderer today was that wondering what lay just beyond the horizon in front of him tended to blur memories of what was behind him. That helped to prevent periods of painful and nostalgic recollection, such as the one he just had.

Matt continued on into town, and as he rode down Idaho Street, the hollow clopping sound of his horse’s hooves echoed back from the buildings that crowded down to the boardwalks that lined each side of the road.

Most of the business establishments were closed now, the only exceptions being a couple of restaurants, a hotel, and the saloon. The restaurants and saloon were all brightly lit and, through the windows, he could see people inside.

He pulled up in front of the saloon, a false fronted building that bore a painting of a prancing red horse. The name of the saloon, in gilt edged, bright red letters, was the Red Horse Saloon.

Matt swung down from his saddle, then looped the reins around the hitching rail. He patted Spirit on the neck.

“You be a good horse, now,” he said.

A woman’s high-pitched squeal of laughter spilled through the bat wing doors, followed by a man’s loud guffaw. There had been no piano playing when he dismounted, but as he started up the two wooden steps that led to the boardwalk in front of the saloon, the music began again, a loud, bright tune that was more to provide ambience than to entertain. Matt wasn’t a musician, but even he could tell that the piano was badly out of tune.

The saloon was well lit with two dozen or more lanterns, in addition to a wagon wheel chandelier that had a dozen or more candles set around the rim. The smell was a familiar one—burning kerosene, stale beer and whiskey, cigar and pipe smoke, and the odor of dozens of bodies, too long between baths.

A few looked toward him, but most paid him no attention. The bar was to his left, long, polished, with a brass foot rail and silver hooks every five feet or so, from each of which hung a towel, all of them soiled. Just in front of the bar, at approximately the same intervals as the towels, were spittoons. A spattering of tobacco quids on and around the spittoons indicated that the customers weren’t particularly careful with their expectorations.

A young woman, heavily made up and wearing a low-cut dress, was standing by the piano. She might have pretty before the too many years on the line took its toll on her. She started toward Matt with an inviting smile and, while Matt responded with a polite nod of his head, he made it obvious by his action that he wasn’t particularly interested in her company tonight, so she turned and walked back to the piano.

A mirror, almost half as long as the bar itself, was on the wall behind the bar. There was a flaw in the mirror so that the reflections were somewhat distorted. A man was wiping the bar as Matt approached. He wore a low crown black hat, with so many red and yellow feathers sticking up from the hat band that they almost formed a crown.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “What can I do you for?”

“I’ll have a beer,” Matt said, putting a nickel on the bar.

The bartender pulled a clean glass from under the bar, then held it under the spigot of a beer barrel. He cut it off when the head reached the top of the glass.

“Interesting hat,” Matt said, pointing to the feather festooned chapeau. “Couldn’t make up your mind what color feather you wanted?”

The bartender chuckled, then removed his hat and held it out for Matt’s closer appraisal.

“I’ll have you know, sir, that these feathers come from the little known, golden beak twitter, a bird that is adorned with beautiful red and yellow feathers. It is said that, many years ago, the golden beak twitters were as thick as flies, but the Zapmonog Indians treasured their feathers so much that the noble creature was made extinct.”

“Or maybe they are just dyed chicken feathers,” Matt suggested.

The bartender laughed. “I can’t get one over on you, can I, friend?” He put the hat back on his head. “Stranger in town, are you? I haven’t seen you in here before.”

“I just got here.” Matt blew some of the foam away, then turned the mug up and took several deep swallows.”

“You must’ve been ridin’ some,” the bartender said. “You’ve worked yourself up a real beer thirst there.”

Matt finished the beer, set the mug down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You’re right,” he said. “That one was for thirst. Now I’ll have one for taste.” He put another nickel on the bar.

The bartender chuckled. “Yes, sir, I hear you,” he said, taking the mug, then turning around to refill it.

Gilmore had never met Matt Jensen before, so he didn’t know if this was Jensen or not. But it could be. There was a rather heroic aura about his appearance, and he did say he had been riding.

Gilmore got up from his chair and started to approach the stranger, but he saw Madison say something to Jernigan. Jernigan nodded, then went upstairs to the balcony. Going back to his chair, Gilmore looked up toward the balcony and, from his position, was able to see Jernigan step around a corner in the hall, then pull his gun. While he was wondering what that was about, he heard Madison address the man who had just come in.

“Mister, would your name be Matt Jensen?”

Matt looked around and saw that the question had come from a man who was standing at the opposite end of the bar.

The man who asked the question had a pock-marked face, beady eyes, and a drooping moustache. And from the tone of the man’s voice, Matt perceived the question to be more confrontational than a mere request for information. Is this the man who sent him the letter? He decided to give the man the next move, so, saying nothing, he turned his attention back to his beer.

“I asked you a question, Mister!” the man at the other end of the bar said. “Is your name Matt Jensen?”

“Have we met?” Matt asked, without looking back toward the man.

“No, we ain’t never met.”

“Do you have business with me?” This time, Matt did look at him.

“Yeah,” the man answered with what might have been a smile. “Yeah, I got business with you.”

“What business would that be?”

“I aim to kill you,” the man said. “That’s what my business is.”

Those who were close enough to hear the challenge in the man’s voice had already grown quiet in order to better hear where this conversation was going. Now, with the man’s declaration of his intent to kill Matt Jensen, they moved quickly to get out of the line of fire, should shooting begin.

Matt turned to face his challenger. Maybe this was the man who had sent him the letter. Maybe the letter was just a ruse to get him up here, just for this purpose.

“Mister, this ain’t the place for somethin’ like that,” the bartender said. “Why don’t you have another beer, on the house?”

“And why don’t you mind your own business?”

The bartender started to say something else, but as he looked at Matt Jensen, he saw that, despite the tension of the moment, Matt was exhibiting no nervousness.

“You don’t really want to do this,” Matt said.

“Oh yeah, I do want to do it. I very much want to do it.”

“I don’t want to sound like a braggart, mister, but there have been a lot of men who tried to kill me, and a lot of men who died trying.”

“I ain’t a lot of men. I’m just me.”

“What is your name?”

“My name is Al Madison. I reckon you’ve heard of me.”

Matt shook his head. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, after this little fracas, I expect ever’ one will know the name Al Madison. They will all know that Al Madison is the man who kilt Matt Jensen.”

“Or they will know that you were the man who was killed by Matt Jensen,” Matt replied, easily. “We don’t have to take this any further, Madison. You don’t need to die tonight. You can stop now, and live to see the sun rise tomorrow.”

“Oh, I ain’t the one that’s goin’ to die, Mister,” Madison said confidently. “You are.”

In the corner of the saloon, Matt saw another man sitting all alone at a table back under the balcony. He was a rather smallish man, and he was wearing, not the denims and shirts most of the other patrons were wearing, but a suit with a vest and a tie. Matt had noticed this man when he first stepped into the saloon, not only because he was dressed differently from the others, but also because he had been one of the few who had paid particular attention to him.

But as Matt glanced toward him now, the well-dressed man pointed up toward the balcony, doing so with a movement of his hand that was almost imperceptible. Matt wasn’t sure he would have even caught the signal at all had the man not also glanced up.

Responding to what he perceived as a warning of some sort, Matt took a quick peek toward the upstairs balcony where he saw someone kneeling behind the railing. He also saw that the man behind the railing upstairs had drawn his pistol.

“Is there any way I might be able to talk you out of this?” Matt asked, continuing the effort to diffuse the situation.

Madison stretched his mouth into what might have been a smile, though it was a smile without mirth or pleasantness. “No, I don’t think so,” Madison said. “I’ve come to the ball—I reckon it’s time we danced.” Without further discussion, Madison’s hand dipped toward his holster.

At the same time Madison made a ragged grab for his pistol, Matt saw the man on the balcony stand up with his pistol raised and pointed directly at him. Considering the man aloft to be the greater danger, Matt drew and fired. The man on the balcony pulled the trigger, but it was too late. Matt’s bullet had already plowed into his heart and the would-be assailant’s pistol shot shattered Matt’s beer mug but missed him. The man fell through the railing, doing a half somersault on his way down and landing on his back on the piano below. The impact caused a discordant ring of the piano strings. The piano player, as well as the soiled dove who had been standing beside the piano, were in no danger because, like the others, they had moved to get out of the way as soon as Madison made his declaration known.

Realizing that his backup had not only been discovered, but killed, the expression on Madison’s face changed quickly from one of easy confidence to shock and fear over the fact that he no longer had an edge. Frightened now, he pulled the trigger on his pistol, even before he could bring it all the way up to bear. The bullet from Madison’s gun hit a spittoon that was sitting on the floor halfway between him and Matt, causing a fountain of noxious brown liquid to erupt from the container.

Matt’s second shot hit Madison in the forehead, and he fell back.

Matt continued to hold his pistol at the ready as the smoke from the four gun discharges drifted toward the ceiling, then spread out to collect in a bluish gray, nostril-burning cloud that hovered just above the wagon wheel chandelier. He looked around quickly to make certain there were no other challengers.

Seeing none, he holstered his pistol, then looked over at the bartender who had ducked down behind the bar when the shooting started.

“You can stand up now,” Matt said, easily.

“Is it all over?” the bartender asked in a nervous voice.

“It’s all over, and it looks like I’ll be needing another beer,” Matt said.

Like everyone else, Gilmore had been shocked by the sudden drama that had erupted in here. Unlike everyone else, Gilmore knew Madison and Jernigan, and he knew they were unpleasant characters, but he did not realize they would actually commit, or at least attempt to commit, murder.

Logan, the third man of the group, had watched the whole thing from just on the other side of the batwing doors. He came back into the saloon now, to have a closer look at his two dead friends. Gilmore held his breath while he waited to see what Logan was going to do. To his surprised relief, Logan did nothing but look around for a moment, then, turning, he left the saloon.