Massacre at Powder River

“I’m not arrestin’ you or anything,” he said. “’Cause from what ever’one is tellin’ me, this fella started it, first by throwing a knife at your back, then by shooting at you. Is that true?”

“You heard it right,” Matt replied.

“Do you have any idea why he attacked you from behind like that?”

“Because he knew I was going to kill him,” Matt replied.

“What?” the policeman responded, surprised by Matt’s answer.

“This is Red Plummer,” Matt said.

“It is?”

“Damn, Marcus, didn’t you even look at him?” one of the other saloon patrons asked. “It was all writ up about Plummer in the paper, how him and two others robbed a bank and kilt the banker and his whole family.”

“Yeah, I know about that,” the policeman answered. “I guess I just didn’t look that close at the body. But if it is Plummer, then as far as I’m concerned, Mr. Jensen, you have done society a service.”

“Did anybody see the horse Plummer rode up on?” Matt asked.

“Yeah, I did. It’s the dun out there, tied off at the end of the hitchin’ rack.”

“Officer, would you come with me, please?” Matt said. “I need a witness.”

The police officer, and several others from the saloon out of curiosity, followed Matt out to the horse with the black dorsal stripe. Matt looked through the saddlebags, then pulled out a little sack. Reaching down into the sack he withdrew a thick packet of greenbacks.

“I’ll be damned!” someone said.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll go down to the police station together and count this money out,” Matt said. “I’m going to want a receipt, then I’m going to ask you to send the money back to the bank in Livermore.”

“I’d be glad to,” the policeman said.

Half an hour later, with the money duly counted and secured, and with a receipt in his hand for $9,276, Matt’s task was completed, except for the shooting inquiry that the municipal court had scheduled for ten o’clock the next morning. After the inquiry, Matt would have no reason to hang around Cheyenne any longer. It was too late in the day to leave now, so he was going to have to spend at least one more night here. He had been staying at the Western Hotel because of its convenience to all the saloons on 18th Street, and he saw no reason to move out for just one more night. But he did decide that he would like to have a good dinner for this last night, so leaving everything at the Western, he walked down to the Cheyenne Club.

“Mr. Jensen,” the manager called out to him, when Matt stepped into the Club. “A letter came for you today.”

“A letter for me? And it was delivered here?” Matt replied. “That’s strange.”

“Yes, sir, I thought so as well. I wasn’t sure you were still in town, so I was going to send it back tomorrow. But if you will wait here for just a moment, I’ll get it for you.”

Matt waited until the manager returned, holding the letter in his hand. “It is from Mr. Moreton Frewen,” the club manager said. “Do you know him?”

“No, I don’t.”

“He’s one of the high-toned Brits, you know, a Lord or a Sir or something like that. I never can keep it straight. He’s also a member of our club. It could be that he saw you one of the times you were here, and just decided this would be the best place to reach you.”

“Could be,” Matt agreed, taking the letter. “But I have no idea why he would want to get in touch with me.”

Matt walked into the big, spacious parlor room, exchanging greeting nods with some of the other members; then he settled into one of the oversized, leather chairs. Before he opened the envelope, the manager called over to him.

“Would you like a beer? I can get someone to bring it over to you?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Matt said. He pulled out the letter, and began to read.

June 18, 1884

My Dear Mr. Jensen:

Your name has been put forth to me by loyal and true friends as someone who can help me deal with a crisis that is striking, not only my ranch, but many ranches here in Johnson County, Wyoming. There is a group of rustlers working the ranges here, stealing cattle with ruthless impunity. Led by a man named Sam Logan, they are organized as well as any military unit and they identify themselves by wearing a yellow kerchief at their throat and a yellow band around their hat. It is this appurtenance to their apparel that provides the sobriquet, the “Yellow Kerchief,” by which these scoundrels are known.

Although I am losing cattle at a rate that is unsustainable, it isn’t just the loss of cattle that has me concerned. In the last month I have had six of my men murdered by this gang. I, and some of my neighbors, have approached the local constabularies in a plea that something be done, but the problem is clearly bigger than anything the law can handle.

It is my hope that the enclosed draft will be sufficient to hire you to investigate the cause of my cattle loss, and if possible to put a stop to it, and to bring justice to these murderers.

Sincerely,

Moreton Frewen

Matt looked back into the envelope and saw a second piece of paper. When he removed the paper, he saw that it was, indeed, a bank draft, drawn on the Stock Growers’ National Bank in Cheyenne. When he looked at the amount the draft was drawn for, he blinked in surprise. It was for five thousand dollars.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen,” I.C. Whipple said, as he examined the draft. Whipple was the founder and president of the Stock Growers’ National Bank. “We will indeed honor the draft. However ...”