Massacre at Powder River

“If you’re here to complain that I ain’t brought you no more cows from the Frewen ranch, I already know that I haven’t,” Logan said. “And there ain’t likely to be any more either, till we get rid of that bastard Jensen.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Teasdale said. “I think I know how to get rid of him.”

“Yeah? Well you’re going to have to let me in on it, ’cause I sure as hell ain’t figured out a way, yet. We’ve got a five thousand dollar reward out on him. Six men have tried to kill him and all six are pushin’ up daisies.”

“Mr. Jensen appears to be a man of extraordinary acumen, reflexes, and nerve,” Teasdale said.

“If you mean he’s harder to kill than cockroaches, I agree.”

“I do have a plan in mind, though,” Teasdale said. “It isn’t one that I wanted to use, but I believe it may be our best chance. Indeed, it may be our only chance.”

“What is it?” Logan asked.

“Frewen’s sister-in-law and nephew are here, visiting from England. The nephew is a ten-year-old boy, the son of Lord Randolph Churchill. His name is Winston. If Winston were to be abducted ...”

“To be what?” Logan asked.

“Taken,” Teasdale explained. “We could set up a scenario whereby ...”

“Look, you’re goin’ to have to talk English to me. What the hell is a scenario?”

Teasdale sighed. “What I am trying to say is this. The boy goes riding just about every day, and he is getting bolder and bolder, which means he is going farther and farther from the house. If you would send a couple of men out to abdu—to grab him—and bring him here, we could lure Jensen into a situation that would allow us to take care of him once and for all.”

“What you are saying is, you want us to use the boy as bait, and set a trap for Jensen,” Logan said. “Is that it?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying.”

“Then why didn’t you say so in the first place, instead of all this other blather—scenarios and that sort of thing?”

“Never mind,” Teasdale said. “The point is, you know exactly what I am talking about.”

“All right, where will the boy be?”

“I can’t tell you that, because I don’t know, exactly. All I know is that he is doing a lot of riding, all over the ranch. I think there will be several opportunities to find him out on his own, and when you do, all you have to do is take him.”

“What if he don’t want to be took?”

“It is obvious that he will not want to be taken,” Teasdale said. “But he is a ten-year-old boy, so I expect you to be able to deal with it. But, and this is very important,” he said, holding up a finger to emphasize his point. “I don’t want the boy hurt. If he is hurt, he will be useless to us as bait.”

“All right,” Logan said. “If he is wandering around out there on his own, like you say he is, we ought not to have no trouble in snatching him. But what do we do after we get him?”

“Get a message to Moreton Frewen, telling him that you have the boy, and that you will only release him to Matt Jensen.”

Over the last several days of riding on his uncle’s ranch, Winnie was beginning to be able to find his way around. He discovered that it was very easy to navigate by positioning particular peaks and rock formations. But as a final fallback, he knew that the Powder River ran right behind Frewen Castle, so he could never get lost as long as he followed the water ways. Going out, he would keep the Powder River to his right. If he rode off on an exploration, he knew that he only had to reverse his course and return to the river, then he could follow it back. Today, he planned to be out for most of the day, and he had prepared for it by bringing a lunch prepared for him by the ranch cook. It consisted of a biscuit, fried chicken, and a piece of cake. Reaching the junction of the Powder River and William’s Creek, he turned northwest to follow the creek for a little way before he dismounted to eat his lunch. From there, he had a magnificent view of the Big Horn Mountains to the west and the Black Hills to the east. To the south lay the Powder River Basin, several hundred thousand acres of rich and well-watered grassland that made Johnson County ideal for raising cattle.

The thing that made this area good for cattle also made it good for game, and he could see deer, bighorn sheep, elk and antelope wandering around the area. Finishing his biscuit and chicken, he picked up the cake. The cook had wrapped it in a piece of cloth to keep it moist.

While sitting there eating his cake, Winnie listened to the babbling of William’s Creek as it made its way another quarter of a mile to empty into the Powder River. He had never been anywhere that he considered more exciting or beautiful than this ranch. He thought about the journal his teacher had asked him to keep and realized that it had been a long time since he had posted anything in it. It was just that there had been so much going on that he had not taken the time to get around to it, but he had brought it with him today, and he took his journal and a pencil from his saddlebag and began to write.

When one thinks of the American cowboy one might think it to be a romantic thing, a man on horseback in the open plains, surrounded by purple mountains highlighted by a golden sunset. I know that was my idea when first we arrived here. But in the time I have been here, I have learned that it is not as I thought it was.

I still consider the American cowboy to be a noble person, but now I realize that the nobility is in the work that he is required to do. The work is most arduous and the cowboys who come back to eat their “grub” in the cookhouse in the evening are tired from a long day of moving cattle from one spot to another, mending fences, pulling cows from quicksand, and chasing down the calves that wander off. They do this sometimes with a kerchief tied over their noses to combat the dust, or with their hats pulled down low to stop the rain, and while freezing in the cold winter blasts, or sweating in the almost unbearable heat of summer.

I don’t say that they do this without complaint, for the cookhouse is filled with complaints of the day, but they are complaints without rancor. In fact, complaining is the cowboy’s way of communicating, for they are delivered in a manner that is designed to elicit more laughter than sympathy.

I have come to believe ...

That was as far he got when he