this large.
Then, when he got there, he saw what had caught everyone’s attention.
Silva was strapped to a board, just as some of the other outlaws had been. His face was shining red, and his yellow eyes were open. The skin was so tightly drawn across his face that it looked like a red skull, but Welsh had taken the illusion a little further. Although Silva was clean-shaven, Welsh had pasted a small triangular beard to his chin. And, on top of his head, sticking up through his hair, was a pair of red horns.
Matt had to admit that what he was looking at resembled the most bizarre artist’s rendition of Satan that he had ever seen. He could understand why people might think he was the devil.
“Silva’s dead,” Reed said.
“What?” Teasdale replied. “How do you know?”
“Because Welsh has him tied to a board in front of his place,” Reed answered. “Not only that, he’s got the son of a bitch made up to look just like the devil. I tell you the truth, it was enough to give me the willies.”
“Jensen killed him?”
“That’s what they are saying.”
“How many lives does that bloody bastard have, anyway?” Teasdale asked, angrily. “I have hired two men who were supposedly the best in their business to take care of him, and neither one was able to do the job.”
“And don’t forget the stagecoach holdup that Logan arranged,” Reed said.
“Yeah, that too.”
“Since Jensen came on the scene, Logan has not been able to take one cow from Frewen,” Reed said.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I’m sure you did. I was just commenting, is all.”
“We’ve got to get rid of that bloody bastard before he makes a mess of everything,” Teasdale said.
“I’ve got an idea, if you are willing to go along with it,” Reed said.
“What would that be?”
“I’d say you offer a reward to anyone who takes care of him. That way we won’t have to find anyone—the word will get out and there will be enough people willing to collect on the money that they’ll find us.”
“Hmm,” Teasdale said, stroking his chin. “You know, Reed, that might not be a bad idea.”
“The only thing is—it has to be a high enough reward to get people interested in it,” Reed said.
“I’ve been told that Frewen has paid Matt Jensen five thousand dollars to regulate for him. I think it would be poetic justice if the reward on Jensen’s head would also be five thousand dollars. That is, if you think that would be high enough. And the beauty, of course, is I won’t have to pay it until after the job is done.”
Reed grinned broadly. “Mr. Teasdale, a reward that large will have half the gunmen in the West coming after him. There will be someone after him constantly—and what will make it even better is—he won’t know when someone is going to turn up next, who it will be, or where they will be coming from.”
“How do we announce such a thing?” Teasdale asked. “It isn’t exactly as if we can go to the constabularies and get reward posters circulated.”
“You don’t worry about that,” Reed said. “Once a few people get wind of this, it will spread like wildfire. We’ll have people from Texas to California coming up here to collect.”
“One more thing,” Teasdale said. “It can’t be known that I am the one putting out the reward. This can’t be traced back to me. If it is, it would ruin everything.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
“No, you can’t put out the reward either. You are working for me. If it is traced back to you, that would be the same thing as tracing it to me.”
“I didn’t mean I would take care of it by being the one to post the reward. All we have to do is have Sam Logan post the reward for us. That will not only keep it from coming back to you—Logan also knows people who know people, and that will get the word out.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Teasdale said. “Go see him, tell him what we need.”
Chapter Twenty-one
From the
For the last month there has been a war conducted of good versus evil. The good resides in the person of Matt Jensen, a regulator hired by Mr. Moreton Frewen. The representative of evil is Sam Logan and the group of cattle rustlers who call themselves the Yellow Kerchief Gang.
This paper is pleased to report that good seems to be triumphant over evil, for no less than six cattle rustlers have thus far been dispatched to the nether world that awaits those who ply their reprehensible occupation at the cost of lives and property of decent folk.
That Matt Jensen’s one man war against the malevolent forces arrayed against our cattlemen and their brave young cowboys has been successful is evidenced by the reduced number of cows rustled since his arrival. Not one cow has been stolen. This newspaper says hurrah for the likes of Matt Jensen, and warns the evildoers that their days of iniquity in Johnson County are numbered.
Sam Logan read the article, then handed it back to Reed. “All right, I read it,” he said with a growl. “Why did you show it to me? Do you think I have to read in the newspaper what a pain in the ass Jensen has been?”
“I showed it to you because I want you to see how important it is that we get rid of the son of a bitch,” Reed
