The morning sun was bright, but not yet hot. The sky was clear and the air was crisp. As he walked toward the café he heard sounds of commerce: the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer, a carpenter’s saw, and the squeak and rattle of the departing stagecoach. He knew that the hammering and sawing must be the construction that Lily Langtry mentioned last night.
Matt smiled as he thought about his encounter with the famous actress. It had been an embarrassing moment, but he had to admit that it was also funny.
Fifteen minutes later, as Matt was enjoying a breakfast of coffee, bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, biscuits and gravy, Lily Langtry came in. Seeing Matt at one of the tables, she smiled and crossed the room to him. Matt stood up.
“Good morning, Mr. Jensen.”
“You know my name, Miss Langtry?”
“Of course I do,” Lily said. “Would you mind if I joined you?” she asked.
“No, not at all. I would be pleased with the company,” he said, pulling out a chair for her.
“My, that’s quite a breakfast,” Lily said. “How long has it been since you have eaten?”
“It’s been quite a while. Not since supper last night,” Matt said.
Lilly laughed, then, as he held the chair, took her seat. She ordered a cup of hot tea and toast with butter and marmalade.
“You expect something like that to hold you till dinner?” Matt asked.
“No, I’ll probably eat a light lunch.”
Matt smiled. “I forgot that sophisticated people call supper ‘dinner.’”
“Is that what you think I am, Mr. Jensen? Sophisticated?”
“Well, yes, ma’am, being as you are English and famous and all,” Matt said.
“Evidently I’m not the only famous one in this conversation,” Lilly said. “You seemed surprised that I knew your name. But after your—shall we call it deadly encounter? You are the person everyone is talking about this morning.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Matt said.
“You shouldn’t be sorry you killed him. From what everyone is saying, you had no choice. It was either him or you.”
“I’m not sorry I killed him, I’m just sorry that it has become the talk of the town.”
“I’m also told, however, that the name Matt Jensen is not just known here in Sussex but quite well known, not only in the West, but throughout the country. You are that Matt Jensen, are you not?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Mr. Jensen, quit calling me ma’am. You make me feel like an old spinster.”
“Sorry, Ma’—that is, Miss Langtry. I’m just trying to be polite, is all.”
“I think calling me Lily would be very polite.”
“All right, Lily it is, then,” Matt said.
“Matt, if I may ask, what are you doing in Sussex? This seems like a small and very out-of-the-way town, even for the far West.”
“I’m here because I received a letter from Moreton Frewen, asking me to come.”
“My,” Lily said. “I am impressed that Moreton could crook his finger and bring someone like you to do his bidding.”
“He did a bit more than crook his finger,” Matt said.
“What did he do?”
“He included a bank draft for five thousand dollars,” Matt said.
“Oh, dear. Moreton spends so freely, and the bad thing is, the money he spends isn’t his own.”
“Not his own money?”
“Well, I suppose it is, in a way. At least, he has control of it. You see, Moreton is very good about getting others to invest in his ideas. He has long had the idea of coming to America and building a huge cattle ranch, an empire, really. The Powder River Cattle Company is the fruition of that idea, and though ostensibly he is the owner, there are so many people invested in the ranch that I fear he is little more than a figurehead. And since his ranch is losing money so badly, I’m not sure how much longer he will be able to hang on.”
“I understand that the cattle rustling is very bad here. If you lose too many cows to rustlers, it is hard to turn a profit,” Matt said.
“I suppose that is true, but Sir William doesn’t seem to be losing money as badly as poor Moreton. In fact, Sir William has offered to buy Moreton’s ranch.”
“Sir William?”
“That would be William Teasdale,” Lily said.
“Like Moreton, Sir William is a subject of the Crown. And like Moreton, he has the dream of establishing a cattle empire in the American West. Unlike Moreton, however, Sir William seems to be succeeding.”
Chapter Eleven
Out at Thistledown Ranch, William Teasdale, the subject of Lily Langtry’s discussion, was in the ranch office, talking to Reed.
“I thought Kyle Houston was supposed to be the best money could buy,” Teasdale said.
“He is damn good,” Reed said. “The best I ever saw.” Reed scratched at his brown beard, pulled something out, examined it on the end of his finger, then flicked it away.
“You mean he was damn good, don’t you?” Teasdale asked. “Now he is damn dead.”
“Yes, sir, I reckon he is. So, what are we goin’ to do about this Jensen fella now?”
Teasdale knew that he wouldn’t be able to carry off his cattle rustling—though he preferred to call it his ranch enlargement—scheme unless he had the support of his foreman. He had left it up to Reed to hire the cowboys, men he could trust, men who knew of the arrangement Teasdale had with Sam Logan and the Yellow Kerchief Gang.
“For the time being, we will just play defensive chess.”
“Say what?”
“We will monitor, closely, the moves made by Frewen and Mr. Jensen,” Teasdale said.
News of the gunfight between Matt Jensen and Kyle Houston had reached Frewen Castle almost as quickly as it reached Thistledown.
“I am wondering, Mr. Morrison, If I have opened Pandora’s box?”
“What do you mean?” Morrison asked.
“This man Matt Jensen,” Frewen said. “I haven’t said anything to anyone about him, but he is here because I sent for him. And what is the first thing he does when he arrives? He gets into a gunfight.”
“Yes, sir, but from what everyone is saying, Houston is the one who provoked the fight. And, from what I understand, he claimed that he had been hired to kill Jensen.”
“Heavens, do you suppose Jensen has made so many enemies that there are actually people who will pay to have him killed?”
“That, or ...” Morrison started, but he let the sentence hang.
“Or what?”
“Or it is somebody local. It could be that someone found out that you hired him and decided to take care of him.”
“You mean somebody like Sam Logan?”
“That would be my guess,” Morrison said. “He is the head of the Yellow Kerchief Gang. I could see how he might not want someone like Matt Jensen poking around out there.”
“But Logan is a desperado himself,” Frewen said. “Why would he hire someone else to oppose Mr. Jensen?”
“Because he runs with a gang,” Morrison said. “And ultimately, people who run with gangs are cowards.”
“That might be so,” Frewen said. He looked up at the clock. “Heavens, it is nearly tea time. I had best join Mrs. Frewen. You will excuse me?”
“Yes, sir,” Morrison said. “I’ve got some things to take care of anyway.” Morrison hastened his withdrawal. So far he had never been invited to “tea time” and he hoped that he never would.
“I’m sorry I’m late, dear,” Frewen said a moment later, when he stepped into the crimson drawing room where Clara Frewen was already waiting. He drew his own tea from a silver tea server, then selected a “biscuit,” though the cowboys would have called it a cookie, and took a seat on the opposite side of the table from Clara.
“What is that woman doing here?” Clara asked.
“What woman would that be, dear?” Frewen asked as he took a sip of tea.
“You know very well what woman,” Clara replied. “I’m talking about Lily Langtry. She is in town. Though, I’m sure that is not a revelation to you.”