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.
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 with 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.
