Massacre at Powder River

William Teasdale stood at the bar in his parlor at Thistledown and poured two bottles of Scotch.

“Ah, Moreton, it is good to have a fellow countryman to drink with,” he said. “And to have someone who appreciates good whiskey. These Americans and their awful bourbon, except most of the time it isn’t even bourbon, it is some indescribable, abominable concoction they call, and rightly so, rotgut.”

Frewen chuckled as he accepted the glass of Scotch. “Their drink may be foul,” he agreed. “But I have found much about the Americans to admire.”

“Well, of course you would say that, wouldn’t you? After all, you are married to an American.”

“I am indeed, old boy, but that’s not the only reason. I find most Americans to be loyal and trustworthy,” Frewen said.

Teasdale raised the glass to his lips and held it there for a moment. “Does that include the members of the Yellow Kerchief Gang?” he asked.

“It does not. They have killed six of my men, William. Six. They are fiends of the lowest order.”

Teasdale tossed down his drink.

“And how many cattle have you lost?” he asked.

“I told you, I don’t know,” Frewen answered. “Compared to the loss of human life, why should I be concerned about the loss of a few cows?”

“From what I’ve heard, Moreton, it is many more than a few cows you have lost,” Teasdale suggested.

“I suppose it is,” Frewen said.

“I am concerned about every cow I may lose,” Teasdale said. “And unlike you, I have no investors back home. That means that I survive or sink on my own, without bringing others down with me. You, on the other hand, have many investors, all of whom will be very concerned about how many cows you have lost.”

“It seems to me like we are being singled out for this gang’s activity,” Frewen said.

“Of course we are going to be targeted,” Teasdale said. “We are the two biggest landowners in the county.”

“I suppose that is right,” Frewen said.

“Look, Moreton, I know that several of your investors are very upset with you because, despite your promise of returning a profit to them, you are losing money, and you have been losing money for over two years.”

“I think they know that I am doing my best by them,” Frewen said. “Any investment is a risk. At least they aren’t holding me personally responsible for the losses.”

“Don’t you think, though, for the sake of your investors, and especially for your sake, that you should consider cutting your losses before they get any higher?”

“How would I do that?” Frewen asked.

Perceiving a weakness, Teasdale plunged ahead.

“Simple,” he said. “You sell your ranch to me, and let me worry about your creditors and investors.”

“I thank you for your offer,” Frewen said. “But no, I think I’ll hang on to my ranch.”

“Mark my words, you don’t have enough funds to weather this storm,” Teasdale said.

“There may not be a storm, if I have my way,” Frewen said. He smiled.

“What do you mean, if you have your way?”

“I have hired someone to come to my assistance.”

“Who?”

Frewen reached into his jacket pocket and pulled a paperback novel, and held it out toward Teasdale. Teasdale looked at the cover. The cover picture showed a man astride a horse in full gallop. The man had the reins of the horse secured by his teeth and held pistols in both hands. A streak of fire streamed from the barrel of each pistol.

The title was big and bold.

MATT JENSEN

and the

DESERT OUTLAWS

“I have hired this man.”

Teasdale looked at the book, then at Frewen, then at the book again. He laughed out loud.

“Matt Jensen? Have you gone daft, Moreton? Matt Jensen isn’t even real. He is the hero of a series of penny dreadful novels. What on earth would make you do such a thing?”

“Oh, this story in this book isn’t real,” Frewen said. “I know that. But Matt Jensen is real.”

“What makes you think so?”

“This newspaper article,” Frewen said. He showed Teasdale the article he had cut from the Cheyenne Leader, telling how Matt Jensen had tracked down and killed two of the outlaws who had robbed the bank in Livermore, Colorado, and killed the banker and his family. “I have already been in contact with him, and I expect he will be here within the week.”

“Wait a minute, Moreton. So what you are telling me is that you have hired a gunfighter?”

“He isn’t a gunfighter,” Frewen replied. “Well, yes, he is. But it isn’t like you think. He uses his gun for justice, not for evil.”

“I don’t know,” Teasdale said. “I think you are making a big mistake.”