“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 biggest 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.
