At the moment, Sherman was meeting with Poke Terrell, his second in command. Poke had brought him a proposal for a job down on the Snake River in Owyhee County.
“What do you think, Colonel? Should we take the job?” his first lieutenant asked.
“I don’t know,” Sherman answered. “It’s not the kind of thing we normally do.”
“No, but he’s offerin’ fifteen hunnert dollars, and the job don’t seem all that hard to do. I just don’t think we should walk away from it.”
“Who is it that’s wantin’ to hire us?”
“His name is Marcus Kincaid. He’s a rancher down in Owyhee County.”
Sherman, who had once been an Arizona Ranger, stroked his jaw for a moment as he contemplated the suggestion his second in command had made.
“If you ask me, I think we should do it,” Poke said. “I mean, we don’t need ever’ one. I could prob’ly take care of it myself.”
“All right, I’ll tell you what,” Sherman said. “How about you go down there and meet with this fella? If it looks like something you can handle, go ahead and do it.”
“By myself?”
“Why not? You just said you could probably handle it by yourself.”
“Well, yeah, I think I can. But maybe I should take a few of the men with me?”
“No. Because of the type operation it is, I want to keep as much separation as I can between that job and the posse,” Sherman said. “In fact, I think you should quit the organization.”
“What? No, now wait, I didn’t have nothin’ like that in mind,” Poke said. “I was just suggestin’ that it might be a good way to make some money.”
Sherman held up his hand to halt the protest. “Don’t worry, you won’t really be quitting,” he said. “We’ll just make everyone think you have quit. In fact, we can let it out that I fired you.”
“Oh. All right, whatever you say. As long as you ain’t kickin’ me out, I mean.”
“Now why would I want to kick you out, Poke?” Sherman asked. “You are one of the best I’ve ever ridden with. I told you, you leavin’ us would be just for show, just to keep anyone from tracing your operation back to us.”
“What if I need help?”
“If after you get down there, you decide that you need help, hire some locals. If the job is really worthwhile, you should be able to afford it.”
“Oh, the job will be worthwhile, all right,” Poke said. “I don’t see how it can miss.”
Joel Matthews, president of the Cattleman’s Bank and Loan of King Hill, was sitting behind his desk, reading a newspaper. To some, Matthews’s office might have been considered messy, but because it was the office of a bank president, it was just considered busy. The bank president’s desk was filled with stacks of paper, though he did manage to keep enough room left on his desk for an ink blotter and an inkwell and pen. The walls of his office were festooned with pictures, including one of a 4-4-2 engine with steam gushing from its piston rods as it thundered beneath a plume of smoke, pulling a string of passenger cars across a high trestle that afforded a grandiose mountain vista. There was also a portrait of the bank president, Joel Matthews, as well as a calendar with a picture of a brightly colored array of pumpkins, corn, apples, peppers, and pears. A grandfather’s clock stood against the wall, its pendulum marking each passing second with a loud tick tock.
“Mr. Matthews?”
Matthews looked up from the paper to see someone standing at his desk. The man was medium height, slender and well groomed. His hair was very light, almost blond, and his eyes were such a pale blue that one could almost say they had no color at all. Matthews recognized him at once.
“Ah, Marcus Kincaid,” he said. “It’s so good to see you.”
“I came to talk about that proposal we discussed.”
“Good, good, I’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have about it.” Matthews put the paper down.
“Anything interesting in the paper?” Kincaid asked.
“An interesting story about Kitty Wellington’s ranch,” Matthews said. “But I’m certain, given the circumstances, that you read the story.”
“I read it,” Kincaid said without showing a lot of enthusiasm.
“But did you also read the article about the shootout over in Green River City, Wyoming?” Matthews asked his visitor.
“Yes, I read that as well,” Kincaid answered. “The story makes this Matt Jensen fellow into quite the hero, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. From time to time editorial writers wax on about the spirit of the West. Most of it, I’m sure, is just hyperbole. But I have read about Matt Jensen before, and occasionally, someone like Jensen comes along and you think maybe there is something to it. Clearly, Matt Jensen is a living manifestation of the spirit of the West.”
“Come on, Mr. Matthews, don’t you think it is possible that the person who wrote this story may be engaging in a bit of this same hyperbole?” Kincaid asked.
Matthews chuckled. “I suppose that could be true,” he said. “Still, it is reassuring to believe that there are such men out there, men who are dedicated to fighting evil, and doing what is right and true.”
