That very evening, Jennie sent a cablegram to London.
LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL
WINNIE AND I ARRIVED SAFELY IN NEW YORK. AFTER BRIEF VISIT WITH MOTHER AND FATHER WILL PROCEED BY TRAIN TO WYOMING.
MUCH LOVE JENNIE
For the week they were in New York, Winnie was most struck by the diversity he encountered. Unlike London, where all spoke English and all faces were white, he found New York to be an exciting kaleidoscope.
One can stand on a street corner in New York and hear French, Italian, German, Spanish, Hebrew, and even Chinese spoken. There are white faces, black faces, and yellow faces, for New York appears to be the meeting place for all the people of the world.
On the day they were to leave, Jerome made his coach and driver available to take them to Grand Central Depot. The coach driver took them ahead of the long line of cabs on 42nd Street and stopped in front, where Red Caps recognizing that the coach represented wealth and tips, hurried over to render their assistance. Jennie went inside the terminal to buy train tickets.
“Sussex?” the ticket clerk repeated after she told him where she wanted to go. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s in Wyoming,” Jennie said. “My sister and brother-in-law live there.”
“Let me look on the map,” the clerk said. “Do you know the county it is in?”
“It is in Johnson County,” Jennie said.
“Johnson County, all right let me—ah, yes here it is. No, we have no train service there. I’m afraid that the closest we will be able to get you is Medicine Bow.”
“Then that is where we shall go,” Jennie said. “I am sure that there will be some sort of conveyance available once we reach Medicine Bow. Can you tell me when we will arrive there?”
“When do you plan to leave?”
“The next available train,” Jennie said. “And, we will want Pullman accommodations.”
“Yes, ma’am, that would be eleven o’clock this morning. The clerk checked his time schedule. Let’s see, this is Tuesday, if you leave on this morning’s train, you will arrive in Medicine Bow at five o’clock Friday afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Jennie said.
Her next stop was the Western Union office in the depot.
THE HON MORETON FREWEN
WINNIE AND I WILL ARRIVE IN MEDICINE BOW AT FIVE PM FRIDAY STOP
JENNIE
Chapter Eight
William Teasdale stood at the bar in his parlor at Thistledown and poured two bottles of Scotch.
“Ah, Moreton, it is good to have a fellow countryman to drink with,” he said. “And to have someone who appreciates good whiskey. These Americans and their awful bourbon, except most of the time it isn’t even bourbon, it is some indescribable, abominable concoction they call, and rightly so, rotgut.”
Frewen chuckled as he accepted the glass of Scotch. “Their drink may be foul,” he agreed. “But I have found much about the Americans to admire.”
“Well, of course you would say that, wouldn’t you? After all, you are married to an American.”
“I am indeed, old boy, but that’s not the only reason. I find most Americans to be loyal and trustworthy,” Frewen said.
Teasdale raised the glass to his lips and held it there for a moment. “Does that include the members of the Yellow Kerchief Gang?” he asked.
“It does not. They have killed six of my men, William. Six. They are fiends of the lowest order.”
Teasdale tossed down his drink.
“And how many cattle have you lost?” he asked.
“I told you, I don’t know,” Frewen answered. “Compared to the loss of human life, why should I be concerned about the loss of a few cows?”
“From what I’ve heard, Moreton, it is many more than a few cows you have lost,” Teasdale suggested.
“I suppose it is,” Frewen said.
“I am concerned about every cow I may lose,” Teasdale said. “And unlike you, I have no investors back home. That means that I survive or sink on my own, without bringing others down with me. You, on the other hand, have many investors, all of whom will be very concerned about how many cows you have lost.”
“It seems to me like we are being singled out for this gang’s activity,” Frewen said.
“Of course we are going to be targeted,” Teasdale said. “We are the two biggest landowners in the county.”
“I suppose that is right,” Frewen said.
“Look, Moreton, I know that several of your investors are very upset with you because, despite your promise of returning a profit to them, you are losing money, and you have been losing money for over two years.”
“I think they know that I am doing my best by them,” Frewen said. “Any investment is a risk. At least they aren’t holding me personally responsible for the losses.”
“Don’t you think, though, for the sake of your investors, and especially for your sake, that you should consider cutting your losses before they get any higher?”
“How would I do that?” Frewen asked.
Perceiving a weakness, Teasdale plunged ahead.
“Simple,” he said. “You sell your ranch to me, and let me worry about your creditors and investors.”
“I thank you for your offer,” Frewen said. “But no, I think I’ll hang on to my ranch.”
“Mark my words, you don’t have enough funds to weather this storm,” Teasdale said.
“There may not be a storm, if I have my way,” Frewen said. He smiled.
“What do you mean, if you have your way?”
“I have hired someone to come to my assistance.”
“Who?”
Frewen reached into his jacket pocket and pulled a paperback novel, and held it out toward Teasdale. Teasdale looked at the cover. The cover picture showed a man astride a horse in full gallop. The man had the reins of the horse secured by his teeth and held pistols in both hands. A streak of fire streamed from the barrel of each pistol.
The title was big and bold.
MATT JENSEN
and the
DESERT OUTLAWS
“I have hired this man.”
Teasdale looked at the book, then at Frewen, then at the book again. He laughed out loud.
“Matt Jensen? Have you gone daft, Moreton? Matt Jensen isn’t even real. He is the hero of a series of penny dreadful novels. What on earth would make you do such a thing?”
“Oh, this story in this book isn’t real,” Frewen said. “I know that. But Matt Jensen is real.”
“What makes you think so?”
“This newspaper article,” Frewen said. He showed Teasdale the article he had cut from the Cheyenne Leader, telling how Matt Jensen had tracked down and killed two of the outlaws who had robbed the bank in Livermore, Colorado, and killed the banker and his family. “I have already been in contact with him, and I expect he will be here within the week.”
“Wait a minute, Moreton. So what you are telling me is that you have hired a gunfighter?”
“He isn’t a gunfighter,” Frewen replied. “Well, yes, he is. But it isn’t like you think. He uses his gun for justice, not for evil.”
“I don’t know,” Teasdale said. “I think you are making a big mistake.”
“And I think that I have no other choice,” Frewen replied. Frewen took his watch from his pocket and examined it. “I must get back,” he said. “Clara will be expecting me.”
Shortly after Frewen left Thistledown, Teasdale saddled his horse and rode up to Nine Mile Creek Pass. To anyone who happened to be riding by, this was just another of the many small streams and creeks that were common throughout Johnson County. It was a distance of fifteen miles from Thistledown, and it took Teasdale almost two hours of easy riding to reach it. As he approached the pass, he pulled his rifle from its saddle sheath, tied a piece of yellow cloth to the barrel, then held it up as he continued to ride.