“I have some bad news for you, Mr. Frewen. This morning, Ralph Turner rode out to the Taney Creek line shack to take fresh provisions to the men there. He found the shack burned, and all four of the men dead.”
“What? You mean they couldn’t escape the fire?”
“No, sir, it isn’t that,” Morrison said. “There was a burned-out wagon up against the burned-out shack. It looks like it was purposely set afire. There was only one body inside, and it was too badly burned to identify, but we found Graham, Emmett, and Cooter outside, all shot, so we are sure that the body inside was that of Phil Bates, seeing as he was with them.”
“Oh,” Frewen said. “Oh, those poor men. None of them were married, were they?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank God for that, at least.”
“Yes, sir. It is bad enough that they all have parents, but it would be doubly worse if they had wives and children. And of course, Emmitt wasn’t much more than a child himself. He was only fifteen or sixteen.”
“It was the Yellow Kerchief Gang, wasn’t it?” Frewen said. “They were the ones who killed Coleman and Snead a couple of weeks ago and they left a yellow flag on a post to brag about it, the bloody bastards. I don’t suppose they left a yellow flag this time, did they?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, no matter, I’m sure it was them. There’s no way of telling for certain, of course, but I’ve no doubt but that they also did this.”
“There was no yellow flag, but we know for a fact that Graham, Emmitt, Cooter, and Bates were killed by the Yellow Kerchief bunch.”
“Oh? How do we know?”
“I know you are going to find this hard to believe, Mr. Frewen, but you might recall that the other boys were always teasing Graham about keeping notes on everything that was happening. They all wanted to know if he was writing a book. Well, sir, he had that little tally book with him, and he wrote it all down, everything that happened. They found this lying under him.” Morrison handed a small notebook to Frewen. “Read this.”
Frewen took the notebook, then pulled his finger back quickly. There was a small spot of blood on his index finger.
“I’m sorry about that,” Morrison said. “I thought I got all the blood cleaned away.”
“It’s all right,” Frewen answered. He walked back to the chair and sat down to read.
After Frewen finished reading the journal, he bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was quiet for a long moment.
Clara had left the room when Morrison came in, and she returned now. “Mr. Morrison, would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, ma’am, thank you,” Morrison said.
Clara started to ask Frewen if he wanted coffee, but she saw him with his head bowed.
“Moreton? Moreton, what is it? What is wrong?” she asked.
Frewen handed the notebook to her. “Paul Graham, Phil Bates, Emmitt Carol, and Cooter Miles—all killed,” he said. “Graham left an account.”
“He left an account?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Morrison said, nodding toward the book. “You’ll find it all written down there in his tally book.”
Clara found a chair and settled down to read Graham’s account.
“Four at the line shack, and two at on the island in William’s Creek,” Frewen said. “That makes six good men that we have had killed by the Yellow Kerchief Gang.”
After that, Frewen and Morrison remained silent until Clara finished reading Bates’s journal. “Oh,” she said, sniffing as tears began to run down her cheeks. “Oh, I can hardly stand to read this. How terrible it must have been for him.”
“Mr. Frewen, do you have any idea why they might be specifically targeting you?” Morrison asked.
“Targeting me? What do you mean, targeting me? They are hitting all the ranches in the county, aren’t they?”
“They are hitting the others, yes, sir; but I’ve been talking to some of the other foremen, and none of the other ranches have been hit nearly as bad as we have. Like you said, we’ve lost six good men. There’s only been two other cowboys killed in the entire county. And all the other ranchers combined haven’t lost as many cattle as we have lost.”
“I didn’t know that,” Frewen said. “I don’t know why we should be the ones suffering the most. And I don’t have any idea of what to do about it.”
“Would you like a suggestion?” Marshal Drew asked Frewen when he went into town to show him the journal. Marshal Drew was not only the city marshal of Sussex, he was also a deputy sheriff, thus giving him some authority beyond the city limits.
“If you have an idea, yes, I would love a suggestion.”
“Have you ever heard of a man named Matt Jensen?” Drew asked.
“Matt Jensen? No, I can’t say that I have. Who is he?”
“Well, I’ve never met him either, you understand, but I have read about him, and I’ve heard a lot about him. He is a lone wolf kind of man who wanders around a lot. And from what I hear, he is the kind of man who puts things right.”
“What do you mean by put things right?”
“Well, sir, he’s a gunman, Mr. Frewen,” Marshal Drew said.
“A gunman? My word, Marshal, are you, a lawman, actually suggesting that I hire a gunman?”
“Yes sir, I am. I think what is happening here now is just the sort of thing where a gunman might be handy to have.”
“Do you really think I should resort to something like this?” Frewen asked.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Frewen. As a deputy, my jurisdiction outside of town is limited, but even so, I wouldn’t be able to handle this situation. And there is no way Sheriff Canton can handle it either.”
Frewen stroked his mustache. “He certainly hasn’t been able to handle it yet, has he?”
“No, sir, he has not.”
“All right, let’s suppose I did want to hire this gunman of yours, this Matt Jensen. Do you have any idea how I can get in touch with him?” Frewen asked.
“Normally, I wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to locate him, but Mr. Murphy said he saw him at the Cheyenne Club in Cheyenne last week. I don’t know if he is still in Cheyenne, but if he is, more than likely we could send a letter to him, care of the Cheyenne Club, and it would get to him.”
“Good idea. All right. I will write him a letter,” Frewen said.
“You had better make it a good letter so you can get his attention,” Marshal Drew suggested. “A man like Matt Jensen probably gets a dozen or so requests for help a week.”
“Don’t worry, Marshal. I will find a way to get his attention,” Frewen said.
At sea, onboard the White Star Line
ship the Baltic
For the first four days of the trans-Atlantic crossing, the seas had been favorable and Jennie had fared well. But this morning, they had run into heavy seas, and for at least twelve hours the ship had been tossed about like a cork. Jennie had become very seasick, though Winnie seemed to be immune to it. The bow was lifted high, and Jennie and Winnie had to hold on because their first-class cabin tilted at about a forty-five-degree angle. It stayed there for a long moment, then the bow plunged back down with such a suddenness that Jennie’s stomach seemed to rise to her throat. At the bottom of the wave trough, the ship rolled hard to the starboard, and everything that was loose in the cabin—Jennie’s bottles of creams and perfumes, her jewelry box, Winnie’s books and journal, shoes, jacket, cap—all slid to the right side of the compartment. Their cabin was on the starboard side, and when it rolled starboard, they could look through the porthole window and actually see the water, not blue as it had been for most of the voyage but a dirty gray, swirling with white caps.
The ship remained in that position for a long, terrifying moment, and Jennie got the impression that they were actually about to capsize.