away. Turning back toward Kitty, he saw a very strange look on her face.
“Katherine, are you all right?” he asked, reverting back to the name by which he had known her.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Kitty said.
“What did he want?”
“Nothing in particular.”
Matt knew that Kitty’s response was disingenuous, but he didn’t press the matter.
“You said I could speak with Prewitt?”
“Oh, yes. See Tyrone Canfield. He is the ranch foreman and his office is at the end of the bunkhouse. Tell him I said to take you to see Prew. I never go into the bunkhouse myself. I consider that to be the private quarters of the men who work for me.”
“And I’m sure they appreciate that,” Matt said.
Matt walked across the lawn and down to the bunkhouse. He had seen a lot of bunkhouses in his life, had even spent about eight months in one when he worked as a cowboy, but he had never seen one like this. It was much larger than any he had ever seen before, painted white, with a red roof. A porch stretched down the length of it, onto which opened at least ten doors and twice as many windows. The porch had a roof, supported by a series of pillars that were set every ten feet. There were also benches and rocking chairs on the porch, many of them with cushions. It was obvious that Kitty, and probably her husband before her, treated the ranch hands with kindness and respect.
Matt tapped on the door to the office and it was opened by a white-haired man with steel blue eyes. He was weathered and bowlegged and he held the stump of a pipe clenched between his teeth. “I take it you are Mr. Jensen,” the man said.
“Mr. Canfield,” Matt said, extending his hand.
“Call me Tyrone,” the man replied.
“Only if you reply in kind.”
“What can I do for you, Matt?”
“Katherine said you would take me to Prewitt.”
“Sure, right this way,” Tyrone said, stepping out onto the porch and walking down to the next door. He pushed it open, then stepped inside.
“Prew, you awake?” he called.
“Yeah, I’m down here,” a voice answered.
The inside of the bunkhouse was as nice as it was outside. There were at least ten potbellied stoves down the center aisle of the dormitory, all of them sitting in sandboxes. Because it was summer, none of the stoves were lit, but the smell of last winter’s fires still lingered, not strong enough to be unpleasant, but just enough to suggest the warmth the stoves provided.
Now, gourds of water hung from the rafters, the evaporation of the water helping to cool the interior. Every bed had a foot locker and wall locker, and there were decorations on the walls.
“How is your shoulder,” Tyrone asked as he and Matt approached.
“Still a little sore,” Prew answered. “I can’t complain though, seein’ as what happened to Timmy and Hank.”
“Prew, this is Matt Jensen. He’s a friend of—”
“Matt Jensen!” Prew said. “I know’d Miz Wellington was goin’ to ask you to come out here. I’m sure glad you did, and I’m real pleased to meet you.”
Prew stuck his arm out to shake hands with Matt, but he jerked it back with a quick spasm of pain.
“Ouch,” he said, reaching up to grab his shoulder.
“Let me do the reaching,” Matt offered, sticking his own hand out. Prew smiled broadly as they shook hands.
“I’ve read about you,” Prew said. “You’re the first famous person I’ve ever met.”
“Fame is relative, Prew. There are a lot more people who have never heard of me than there are people who have.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s probably right,” Prew said.
“Prew, I want you to tell me all you can remember about the night you were shot.”
Prew told how he, Hank, and Timmy were riding nighthawk, when Hank rode off to check on a colt. He told of hearing a gunshot in the night, then getting no response when they called after Hank.
“Me and Timmy rode right into it, Mr. Jensen,” Prew said. “One minute we was lookin’ for Hank, and the next minute there was bullets flyin’ all around. I don’t remember actually gettin’ hit. I just remember lyin’ on the ground with my shoulder hurtin’.”
“But you saw the rustlers?” Matt asked.
“Yes, sir, I seen ’em all right. Only thing is it was dark, so I couldn’t say for sure. But I’ve seen Poke Terrell a lot of times in the Sand Spur, and, in the dark, this feller looked a lot like him.”
“Did you recognize any of the others?”
“I thought one of them might have been Sam Logan,” Prew said. “But then since Logan works for Poke, it might be I was just thinkin’ it might be him.”
