When Matt Jensen came into the saloon, Plummer heard several of the other saloon patrons call out to him.
“Hello, Jensen, you still around?”
“Matt,” the bartender called. “We made some fresh cracklins today. They go real good with beer.”
Plummer had never seen Jensen up close, but when the others called him by name, he looked over at him. He was a big son of a bitch, with broad shoulders and hard eyes. It was him, all right.
For a moment, Plummer panicked. He had already read in the paper what Jensen did to his two pards, and he knew that Jensen was looking for him. It was all he could do to keep from getting up and bolting through the back door. His hands began to shake so badly that he dropped the deck of cards, causing several of them to scatter across the floor.
“Just beer,” he heard Matt Jensen say to the bartender. “Hold the cracklins.”
“All right, but you’re missin’ out on a good thing,” The bartender said as he drew a beer and handed it to Matt. Matt blew some of the foam off the head, then took a swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned his back to the bar to look out over the patrons.
Damn! He’s looking right at me! Plummer thought. He grew tense, waiting for Jensen to pull his gun, waiting for the bullet to come slamming into his chest. But nothing happened. Matt Jensen looked right toward Plummer, then passed his eyes around the rest of the room, showing no recognition whatever.
Plummer felt a sense of relief. Jensen hadn’t even recognized him.
Matt saw him; he fit Plummer’s description perfectly. But he didn’t want to make a scene here in the bar, deciding it would be better to just wait Plummer out until he left the saloon. Then Matt would confront him on the street. The question was, had Plummer recognized him?
Matt had just turned back toward the bar when suddenly a knife flashed by beside him. The blade buried itself about half an inch into the bar.
Drawing his pistol and turning toward the direction from which the knife had come, he saw Plummer getting up from a table with a gun in his hand. Plummer fired, just as Matt, instinctively, moved to his left. The bullet from Plummer’s pistol put a hole in the bar exactly where Matt had been but a second before. Matt returned fire, and the impact of the bullet knocked Plummer back into the stove with such impact that that the stove piping was pulled loose. It came tumbling down with a clanging crash as soot and black dust poured forth to mingle with the billowing cloud of gun smoke from the two shots fired.
Matt stood there, holding the smoking pistol in his hand as he looked at Plummer to see if the outlaw represented any further danger.
For a long moment there was absolute quiet in the saloon, as everyone had been shocked into silence by the sudden and unexpected gunplay. Finally, one brave soul wandered over to look down at Plummer. There was a dark red hole in Plummer’s shirt, just over his heart. His right hand was still clutching the grip of his pistol, and his eyes were open and staring sightlessly toward the ceiling.
“Is he dead, Paul?” someone asked.
“Deader than a doornail,” Paul replied.
“Sum’bitch, did you see that? He threw a knife and took a shot with his pistol, but still got hisself kilt.”
Conversation broke out all over the saloon then, and it was still going on when a police officer came hurrying in.
“Someone want to tell me what happened here?” the policeman asked.
Everyone began talking at the same time, but eventually the policeman got the story. In the meantime, Matt stood against the bar, slowly sipping his beer and watching the policeman work. Finally, realizing that Matt was the one who did the shooting, the policeman came over to talk to Matt.
“I’m not arrestin’ you or anything,” he said. “’Cause from what ever’one is tellin’ me, this fella started it, first by throwing a knife at your back, then by shooting at you. Is that true?”
“You heard it right,” Matt replied.
“Do you have any idea why he attacked you from behind like that?”
“Because he knew I was going to kill him,” Matt replied.
“What?” the policeman responded, surprised by Matt’s answer.
“This is Red Plummer,” Matt said.
“It is?”
“Damn, Marcus, didn’t you even look at him?” one of the other saloon patrons asked. “It was all writ up about Plummer in the paper, how him and two others robbed a bank and kilt the banker and his whole family.”
“Yeah, I know about that,” the policeman answered. “I guess I just didn’t look that close at the body. But if it is Plummer, then as far as I’m concerned, Mr. Jensen, you have done society a service.”
“Did anybody see the horse Plummer rode up on?” Matt asked.
“Yeah, I did. It’s the dun out there, tied off at the end of the hitchin’ rack.”
“Officer, would you come with me, please?” Matt said. “I need a witness.”
The police officer, and several others from the saloon out of curiosity, followed Matt out to the horse with the black dorsal stripe. Matt looked through the saddlebags, then pulled out a little sack. Reaching down into the sack he withdrew a thick packet of greenbacks.
“I’ll be damned!” someone said.
“If you don’t mind, we’ll go down to the police station together and count this money out,” Matt said. “I’m going to want a receipt, then I’m going to ask you to send the money back to the bank in Livermore.”
“I’d be glad to,” the policeman said.
Half an hour later, with the money duly counted and secured, and with a receipt in his hand for $9,276, Matt’s task was completed, except for the shooting inquiry that the municipal court had scheduled for ten o’clock the next morning. After the inquiry, Matt would have no reason to hang around Cheyenne any longer. It was too late in the day to leave now, so he was going to have to spend at least one more night here. He had been staying at the Western Hotel because of its convenience to all the saloons on 18th Street, and he saw no reason to move out for just one more night. But he did decide that he would like to have a good dinner for this last night, so leaving everything at the Western, he walked down to the Cheyenne Club.
“Mr. Jensen,” the manager called out to him, when Matt stepped into the Club. “A letter came for you today.”
“A letter for me? And it was delivered here?” Matt replied. “That’s strange.”
“Yes, sir, I thought so as well. I wasn’t sure you were still in town, so I was going to send it back tomorrow. But if you will wait here for just a moment, I’ll get it for you.”
Matt waited until the manager returned, holding the letter in his hand. “It is from Mr. Moreton Frewen,” the club manager said. “Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“He’s one of the high-toned Brits, you know, a Lord or a Sir or something like that. I never can keep it straight. He’s also a member of our club. It could be that he saw you one of the times you were here, and just decided this would be the best place to reach you.”
“Could be,” Matt agreed, taking the letter. “But I have no idea why he would want to get in touch with me.”
Matt walked into the big, spacious parlor room, exchanging greeting nods with some of the other members; then he settled into one of the oversized, leather chairs. Before he opened the envelope, the manager called over to him.
“Would you like a beer? I can get someone to bring it over to you?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Matt said. He pulled out the letter, and began to read.
June 18, 1884
My Dear Mr. Jensen:
Your name has been put forth to me by loyal and true friends as someone who can help me deal with a crisis that is striking, not only my ranch, but many ranches here in Johnson County, Wyoming. There is a group of rustlers working the ranges here, stealing cattle with ruthless impunity. Led by a man named Sam Logan, they are organized as well as any military unit and they identify themselves by wearing a yellow kerchief at their throat and a yellow band around their hat. It is this appurtenance to their apparel that provides the sobriquet, the “Yellow Kerchief,” by which these scoundrels are known.