“That’s really none of your concern, Marshal,” Sherman said. “Let’s just say that the horses are somewhere safe.”
“Sherman…”
“Colonel Sherman,” Sherman said.
Marshal Sparks glared at Sherman for a moment. “Sherman,” he repeated. “I may not have known about the herd law, but I do know that before you can confiscate anything, you have to have a court order, and you have to serve it. I’m just guessing, mind you, but I don’t believe you served Kitty Wellington a court order. Not in the middle of the night, you didn’t.”
“Yes, well, here is the thing, Marshal,” Sherman said. “My authority differs from yours. Your jurisdiction is limited to Medbury. Mine, on the other hand, extends throughout the entire territory of Idaho. I can issue my own court order and warrants.”
“As city marshal of Medbury, I am also a deputy sheriff for the county of Owyhee, which means I have jurisdiction throughout the county,” Sparks said. “And I don’t believe, for one moment, that you have the authority to serve a court order in this county, much less issue such an order.”
“It doesn’t make any difference whether you believe it or not, Marshal. I have already exercised my authority and I came here to tell you about it, only as a matter of courtesy. If Kitty Wellington, or her hired gun, Matt Jensen, comes to report that their horses are stolen, you might tell them that. Oh, and tell Matt Jensen that if he tries to recover the horses, or opposes me, or any of my men, we will be within our legal right to kill him.”
Matt had learned his tracking skills from the legendry Smoke Jensen, and had learned so well that it was said of him that he could track a fish through water. However, it required no particular skill to track the herd of horses the rustlers had taken. Even a novice could have followed the wide band they left, not only tracks, but also their droppings.
But it was the latter, the horse droppings that provided additional, vital information. This information was something that only someone with Matt’s remarkable skills and specialized education would be able to ascertain. The droppings of the range horses were filled with the Kentucky Blue Grass that Kitty had imported for her pasture land. But here and there could be found droppings that contained only Fescue hay. The hay droppings stood out from the others as if they had little signs attached to them, and those horses, Matt knew, belonged to the rustlers.
It was difficult to ascertain just how many rustlers there were, though Matt was sure there were fourteen or fifteen of them, and maybe more. Then, when they crossed Mill Creek, many of the rustlers turned away, leaving only four that he could still account for. He was glad to see that none of the range horses had turned away, because if the herd had been split, it would make the recovery a lot more difficult.
As he continued to trail the rustlers and the herd, he could tell by a close observation of the droppings that he had nearly caught up with them. The droppings he was seeing now were less than half an hour old.
When he approached a long, low lying ridge, he dismounted before he reached the top. Then, with a word for Spirit to remain in place, he crawled to the top to look over to the other side. There, in a natural bowl, he saw the horses. The herd was contained on one side by Blue Creek, and on the other three sides by the natural walls of a dead end canyon. Four mounted men were keeping watch over the horses.
Matt returned to Spirit, mounted, then pulled his pistol. Slapping his legs against the side of his horse, he rode up the ridge, then down the other side, his cocked his pistol raised.
“Hold it right there!” he shouted at the four riders.
“What the hell?” one of the men shouted. “Who is it?”
“It’s Matt Jensen! Shoot ’im down!” another called. Matt recognized the one who identified him as being one of the four he had confronted in the Sand Spur.
The four riders pulled their pistols then and opened fire. Matt returned fire and one of the men dropped from his saddle and skidded across hard ground. All hell broke loose as muzzle flashes and drifting gun smoke filled the air, while the crashes of gun fire rolled back from the canyon walls.
Matt was in command of the situation as he rode down the hill, well positioned to pick out his targets. The rustlers, having been surprised by his sudden and unexpected appearance were mounted on horses that were rearing and caracoling about nervously as flying lead whistled through the air and whined off stone.
Matt picked out another rider and shot him from the saddle.
“Shoot him! Shoot the son of a bitch!” one of the two remaining outlaws shouted in panic.
Matt fired two more times, and the last two riders fell. Then it was quiet, with the final round of shooting but faint echoes returning distant hills. A little cloud of acrid bitter gun smoke assailed his nostrils as Matt dismounted, then walked out among the fallen rustlers, moving cautiously, his pistol at the ready. He need not have been cautious in his approach. None of the rustlers were left alive.
The entire battle had taken less than a minute.
George Gilmore was bent over some papers on his desk when Marshal Sparks stepped into his office. He looked up in surprise.
“Marshal, Sparks,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Marshal Sparks said. “Maybe nothing. But something is going on that I don’t feel right about.”
“What is it?”
“Are you aware that the Clay Sherman and his so-called Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse are in town?”
“Who isn’t aware?” Gilmore replied. “That’s all anyone in town has been talking about ever since they arrived, wondering why they are here.”
“I think I know why. Have you ever heard of something called the herd management law?” Marshal Sparks asked.
Gilmore shook his head. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
