“I am wondering, Mr. Morrison, If I have opened Pandora’s box?”
“What do you mean?” Morrison asked.
“This man Matt Jensen,” Frewen said. “I haven’t said anything to anyone about him, but he is here because I sent for him. And what is the first thing he does when he arrives? He gets into a gunfight.”
“Yes, sir, but from what everyone is saying, Houston is the one who provoked the fight. And, from what I understand, he claimed that he had been hired to kill Jensen.”
“Heavens, do you suppose Jensen has made so many enemies that there are actually people who will pay to have him killed?”
“That, or ...” Morrison started, but he let the sentence hang.
“Or what?”
“Or it is somebody local. It could be that someone found out that you hired him and decided to take care of him.”
“You mean somebody like Sam Logan?”
“That would be my guess,” Morrison said. “He is the head of the Yellow Kerchief Gang. I could see how he might not want someone like Matt Jensen poking around out there.”
“But Logan is a desperado himself,” Frewen said. “Why would he hire someone else to oppose Mr. Jensen?”
“Because he runs with a gang,” Morrison said. “And ultimately, people who run with gangs are cowards.”
“That might be so,” Frewen said. He looked up at the clock. “Heavens, it is nearly tea time. I had best join Mrs. Frewen. You will excuse me?”
“Yes, sir,” Morrison said. “I’ve got some things to take care of anyway.” Morrison hastened his withdrawal. So far he had never been invited to “tea time” and he hoped that he never would.
“I’m sorry I’m late, dear,” Frewen said a moment later, when he stepped into the crimson drawing room where Clara Frewen was already waiting. He drew his own tea from a silver tea server, then selected a “biscuit,” though the cowboys would have called it a cookie, and took a seat on the opposite side of the table from Clara.
“What is that woman doing here?” Clara asked.
“What woman would that be, dear?” Frewen asked as he took a sip of tea.
“You know very well what woman,” Clara replied. “I’m talking about Lily Langtry. She is in town. Though, I’m sure that is not a revelation to you.”
“Miss Langtry is a singer, actress, and lecturer of no small renown,” Frewen said. She is performing at theaters all over America.”
“There is no theater in Sussex,” Clara said pointedly.
“My dear, you know that Miss Langtry and I are old friends of long standing,” Frewen said. “It does not seem that unusual to me that she would call upon us if she found herself in the area.”
“In the area? And just what area would that be, Moreton? Clara said. “The closest railroad is in Medicine Bow and that is two hundred miles away. The stagecoach from Medicine Bow only arrives three times per week, and it is a very long and difficult journey.”
Clara was a beautiful woman, dainty, blonde, with her hair worn in the close ringlet fashion of the day. Despite her American heritage, Clara had grown up in Paris, and was often a guest of Napoleon III. Clara and her even more beautiful sister Jennie had been the toast of Paris society. That she would be jealous of Lily Langtry, a much older and not nearly as attractive a woman, seemed ludicrous to all who knew the couple. And indeed, those who knew Clara well knew, also, that she wasn’t really jealous, but used this merely as a means of keeping Moreton Frewen wary of any dalliances.
“I only call on her in town because you seem to find her company so objectionable,” Frewen said. “And I have no wish to upset you.”
“Invite her out for dinner,” Clara suggested.
“What? But I thought you didn’t like her.”
“I don’t like her, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be civil around her. And I would much rather have her come here for a visit than to have you go into town, alone, to visit her. Somehow, that seems so very sordid.”
Frewen smiled. “Very well, I shall invite her,” he said.
Spirit kicked up sheets of silver spray as he splashed through the stream. Matt would have paused to give his horse an opportunity to drink if he wanted to, but Spirit gave no indication that he was thirsty.
Once across the stream, Matt turned back around to pay attention to where he was going. For some time now, he had been aware that two men were dogging him, riding parallel with him, and for the most part staying out of sight.
He was pretty sure they were some of Moreton Frewen’s men, because he had been on Powder River Cattle Company land for some time now. He had picked them up the moment they started shadowing him.
Matt rode on for a couple more miles, all the while keeping his eye on them until finally he decided to do something about it. He waited until the trail led in between two parallel rows of hills. Once into the defile, he cut off the trail and, using the ridge line to conceal his movement, rode ahead about two hundred yards. He went over to the gully his two tails were using, dismounted, then pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard and climbed onto a rocky ledge to wait for them. He jacked a round into the chamber.
Matt watched and waited. He saw them come around a bend in the gully and knew that not only had they not seen him, they hadn’t even missed him. He waited until they were right on him, then he suddenly stood up.
“Hold it!” he shouted.
