“Matt Jensen,” the sheriff said, smiling broadly as he walked around his desk with his hand extended. “What brings you to Livermore?”
“The murder of Jarvis Winslow.”
The smile left the sheriff’s face. “Yes. That was a terrible thing. The woman and the girl.” He shook his head. “I’ve been in the law business for a long time and I’ve seen some grizzly things, but I tell you the truth, Matt, that is about the worst I have ever seen. I don’t know what kind of animal could do such a thing. They had both been raped, Matt. Then their throats were cut and they bled to death. Not only that, we found ’em both naked. The sons of bitches didn’t even have the decency to cover ’em up.”
“Jarvis Winslow was a personal friend of mine,” Matt said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the sheriff replied.
“Sheriff, I intend to hunt down the men who did this, if you don’t mind the help.”
“Of course I’m glad to have your help. I can even deputize you if you’ d like. That would make it legal, as long as you catch up with them in Larimer County. Once they get out of the county, your badge wouldn’t do you much good.”
“That’s all right,” Matt said. “I’ve got my own badge.”
Over the years, he had done investigative work for the railroad, for which he had a railroad detective’s badge. Even though the badge had no actual legal authority, a detective for one railroad was recognized on a reciprocal arrangement by all other railroads. It was also given a courtesy recognition by the states served by the railroads. He showed the badge to Sheriff Garrison.
“I don’t see how that is going to help. This crime had nothing to do with the railroad.”
“I read in the paper that Plummer, Sullivan, and McCoy got away with twenty-three thousand dollars. Is that right?”
“I’m afraid it is right,” Sheriff Garrison said.
“Sheriff, are you going to try and tell me that not one single dollar of that money was ever on a train?”
Sheriff Garrison chuckled. “That’s sort of stretching the intent, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Matt replied, his answer almost a challenge.
Garrison threw up his hands. “Well, you’ll get no argument from me. Go after them.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
Chapter 2
Moreton Frewen was an unquenchable optimist, prolific in ideas, and skilled in persuading his friends to invest in his schemes. Although he owned the Powder River Cattle Company, his personal field of operations covered America, England, India, Australia, Kenya, and Canada. He had crossed the Atlantic almost one hundred times.
A brilliant man who urged the building of a canal across the Isthmus of Panama, as well as a means of connecting the Great Lakes to the sea, he was, despite his intellect and creativity, a man who had failed in nearly every business enterprise he undertook. Frewen had the build of an athlete with long legs, a flat abdomen, a high forehead, bright blue eyes, and a baroque mustache. An avid hunter and sportsman, he had attended Cambridge University in England as a gentlemen, spending his days betting on horse races and his evenings in the university drinking club.
After graduation he continued the life of a country gentleman, fox hunting and wenching in the shires through the winter, and horse racing and wenching in London during the summer. Living in such a way as to show no interest in a career, he ran through his rather sizeable inheritance within three years. Shortly thereafter, he came to America, married Clara Jerome, daughter of the very wealthy Leonard Jerome and sister of Lady Randolph Churchill, and set himself up as a rancher in northern Wyoming.
Along the Powder River was a stretch of prairie with grasslands watered by summer rains and winter snows. A large open area, it was impressive in its very loneliness, but it was good cattle country, and it was there that Moreton Frewen built his ranch.
Two of the Powder River Cattle Company cowboys, Max Coleman and Lonnie Snead, were at the north end of the twenty-thousand-acre spread, just south of where William’s Creek branched off the Powder River. They were keeping watch over the fifteen hundred cattle gathered at a place providing them with shade and water, and were engaged in a discussion about Lily Langtry.
“They say she is the most beautiful woman in the world,” Snead said.
“That’s a load of bull. I’ve seen pictures of her, and she ain’t half as good lookin’ as Mrs. Frewen is.”
“Yeah, well, Mrs. Frewen is the wife of our boss. We can’t really talk about her like that.”
“Hell, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about her that ever’body else don’t say,” Coleman said. “All I’m talkin’ about is that she is a real good lookin’ woman. You ain’t a’ doubtin’ that, are you?”
“No, I ain’ doubtin’ that. But she’s our boss’s wife, so I don’t think about her like that. But now, Miss Langtry, why I can think any way about her that I want to, ’cause she’s a single woman, and besides which, she goes around the country singin’ up on the stage, so she’s used to people lookin’ at her.”
“Yeah, but with her, lookin’ is all you can do,” Coleman said.
“And daydreamin’,” Snead said. “Sometimes I get to day dreamin’ about her and I think maybe she’s been captured by Injuns, or maybe the Yellow Kerchief Gang or someone like that, and I come along and save her.”
Coleman laughed. “Snead, you’re fuller of shit than a Christmas goose. Ha, as if you would—” He interrupted his own comment midsentence, then pointed. “Hey, wait a minute. Look over there. Do you see that?”
Looking in the direction Coleman pointed, Snead saw someone cutting cattle from the herd.
“Who the hell is that over there?” Coleman asked. “We ain’t got anyone out here but us, have we?”
“No, we ain’t got anybody over there. So whoever it is, he must be rustlin’ cows,” Snead said.
“He’s got some nerve, comin’ out here all by his lonesome to steal cows.”
“Maybe he thought there wouldn’t be anybody out here.”
“Let’s run him off,” Coleman proposed.
The two started riding toward the rustler. Pulling their pistols, they shot into the air, hoping to scare away the rustler.
“You!” Coleman shouted. “What are you doing here?”
Coleman and Snead continued to ride hard toward the rustler. A single rustler, being accosted by two armed men, should be running but he wasn’t. Coleman began to get an uneasy feeling about it when the rustler stood his ground.
“Snead, hold up!” Coleman called. “There’s somethin’ ain’t right about this!”
Suddenly Coleman and Snead saw why the rustler they were advancing toward was so brazen. He wasn’t alone. At least six others were wearing a patch of yellow at their necks.
“Damn!” The challenge in Snead’s voice was replaced by a tone of apprehension. “It’s the Yellow Kerchief Gang!”
“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Coleman shouted.
The two cowboys wheeled their horses about, and the hunters became the hunted. The seven outlaws started after them, firing as they rode hard across the open distance separating Coleman and Snead from the rustlers.
The two men galloped away, pursued by the rustlers. Hitting William’s Creek in full stride, sand and silver bubbles flew up in a sheet of spray sustained by the churning action of the horses’ hooves until huge drops began falling back like rain.
Coleman pointed to an island in the middle of the stream. “Snead, they’re goin’ to run us down! Let’s try and make a stand there. It’s our only chance!” Fear gave enough volume to his voice so he was easily heard.
The two cowboys brought their steeds to a halt. Dismounting, they took what shelter they could find behind the large rock that dominated the island. The rustlers held up at the edge of the creek.
“How many bullets you got?” Coleman asked.
“Four,” Snead said.
“Just four? You got ’ny in your belt?”
“No, just these four is all I got. How many you got?”
“Five.”
“That ain’t very many,” Snead said.
