without doubt, the most dangerous man she had ever met. Despite that, or maybe even because of it, she still found him handsome and exciting and would have enjoyed an innocent dalliance with him. Except that she knew, instinctively, that a dalliance with Matt Jensen would be anything but innocent.
When Matt took his macabre procession into town it generated as much attention as it had when he had arrived back at Frewen Castle. Men and women came out of houses, stores, and saloons to stand on the side of the street and watch as he passed by.
“Them’s Yellow Kerchiefs,” someone said.
“Who’s that leadin’ ’em?”
“Don’t you know? That’s Matt Jensen. He’s the one that kilt Kyle Houston.”
Not content to just watch Matt ride by, most of the town moved out into the street then began walking along behind him, following him to Sikes’ Hardware Store, which was also the location of the Welsh Undertaking Parlor. By the time he got there, Sikes and Welsh were both outside, drawn by curiosity as to what had caught the attention of the whole town.
“Get this one buried,” Matt said, nodding toward Zeke’s body.
“What’s his name?”
Matt looked toward Clem. “I heard you call him Zeke. What’s his last name?”
“I don’t know,” Clem said. “He never told me.”
“It’s Holloway,” a woman’s voice said.
The woman who spoke was wearing the revealing attire of a bargirl. Several looked at her, the expressions on their faces reflecting their curiosity.
“Tell me, Lucy, how come it is you know his last name?” Welsh asked.
“He told me once that his last name was Holloway.”
“You’re doin’ business with one of the Yellow Kerchief men?” someone said accusingly.
“How was I supposed to know he was a Yellow Scarfer?” Lucy replied. “He didn’t have his yellow kerchief on when I seen him. Fact is, he didn’t have nothin’ on a-tall, last time I seen him.”
The entire town laughed.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning in Sussex, a crowd had gathered around Sikes’ Hardware Store to stare at a gruesome display. The object of their attention was Zeke Holloway’s body. He was tied to a board with his arms folded across his chest and a gun in his right hand. His yellow scarf was still in place around his neck, but he wasn’t wearing a hat. His eyes were open and sightless. His face was bluish white, all the blood having drained down from his head; and because of the paleness of his skin, the contrast between the black of his beard, and the white of his face was even more striking. The bullethole between his eyes was black and bloodless. Above the door was a sign.
Zeke Holloway
Yellow Kerchief Rustler
Killed by Matt Jensen
For the moment, Welsh was busily constructing two coffins, one for Zeke and one for Clem, who was about to stand trial. A few pointed out to Welsh that Clem had not been found guilty yet, but Welsh said he was confident that he would be.
“And even if they don’t find him guilty, it ain’t like the coffin is goin’ to go to waste. There is bound to be someone that’s goin’ to be needin’ one sooner or later.”
Zeke Holloway would be buried just as he was now, without embalming, his skin pale and the blood still on his shirt. But it was different for Burt Rawlings, who had already been brought to Welsh to be prepared for burial. He had been embalmed, and cosmetics applied to his face and hands in order to restore some color to the body. He was also dressed in a suit and tie, though no one who knew him had ever actually seen Burt in a suit.
Burt didn’t need one of the wooden coffins Welsh was making, because Moreton Frewen had bought one of the manufactured coffins Welsh kept on hand for the more affluent of his customers. It was called the “Eternal Cloud” and it was a beautiful casket, painted with a shining, black satin finish, and adorned with silver. The ad for the coffin boldly announced:
Nobody ever thought to ask how a disappointed customer would be able to collect on the guarantee.
Rawlings was laid to rest later that morning, borne to the cemetery in a glass-sided hearse. His funeral was attended by half the people from the town and a significant number of people from the county.
From the window of his cell, Clem was able to watch the funeral cortege as it passed by the jail.
“Why have so many turned out for one cowboy’s funeral?” Clem asked the deputy marshal.
“They are all turnin’ out ’cause he was just a boy, only seventeen years old, and ever’body thinks it is a dirty shame that someone who’s never done no evil to anyone gets murdered in cold blood,” the deputy replied. “And seein’ as you’re the one that done it, well, I reckon there’ll be about that many turn out to watch you hang.”
Clem, who was standing on his bed so he could see out the window, stepped down, then sat on his bunk with his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands.
He thought of a fishing hole that was near the house where he had grown up back in Missouri, and he wished with all his heart that he could be there now.
“
