William Johnstone - Snake River Slaughter

It is said by those who bore witness to the events described herein, that it was a fight to behold. Two powerful men engaged in a desperate struggle for supremacy. Jensen, according to all eyewitness accounts, got the better of Terrell, then he retired to the bar to have a drink. Miss McMurtry, as per her profession, stepped up to Mr. Jensen in order to provide a calming effect. It was then that Terrell raised up from the floor and shot at Jensen. Unfortunately, he missed and hit Miss McMurtry, killing her almost instantly.

At the same time Terrell was shooting at Jensen, Jensen, with a dexterity and quickness that is rarely seen, pulled his own revolver and discharged it, his ball striking Terrell with devastating effect. All who bore witness testified in the hearing that followed, that Matt Jensen was completely blameless in the incident. The fault lay with Poke Terrell who, had he not been dispatched at the scene, would no doubt have been tried, convicted, and hung for the murder of Miss McMurtry.

Miss McMurty had no relatives in Medbury, nor in Idaho, nor in any of the surrounding territories. She was an indigent, and like the three other indigents who were buried within the last two weeks, would have been buried in Potter’s Corner as well, had events run their normal course. But she was not buried in Potter’s Field, she was buried in the main garden of the cemetery. There are those who have questioned why the town of Medbury would go to such expense for a harlot.

The answer is, she was not buried at the expense of the town. Mrs. Kitty Wellington, widow of Sir Thomas Wellington, paid all the expenses incurred by the funeral, from the finest coffin, to the use of the special hearse, to the purchase of a burial plot in the main part of the cemetery.

One may ask why Mrs. Wellington went to such personal expense. This newspaper thought to make an inquiry as to her reasons, but decided not to. Harlot or no, Millicent McMurtry was, as the reverend Father Walt Pyron said during the funeral rites, a child of God. And that, this newspaper believes, is reason enough.

Boise

There was no railroad service directly to Boise, so Marcus Kincaid left the train at Thurman City and took a stagecoach for the ten-mile ride up to the territorial capitol. For all that it was the capitol, it was not a very large town, and it was but a short walk from the stage depot to the headquarters building of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse. It wasn’t hard to find the building; there was a sign suspended from the overhanging porch in front of the building; and another sign painted on the window itself, identifying this as the headquarters of the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse.

There were two men standing in front of the building. One was tall and broad shouldered, with a neatly cropped moustache. He was wearing denim trousers, a light gray shirt, and a star-shaped badge on his left pocket. The other man was wearing a three-piece suit. The man in the suit was obviously just leaving, so Kincaid stopped short of going up to them and waited. After a few more minutes of conversation, the two men laughed, shook hands, then the man in the suit left, heading toward the capitol building.

The tall man with the moustache and star looked over at Kincaid.

“Have you come to see me?” he asked.

“Are you Clay Sherman?”

“I am Colonel Sherman, yes.”

“Then, yes, I have come to see you.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Marcus Kincaid, Colonel Sherman. I’m from—”

“Ah, yes, I know who you are, and I know where you are from,” Sherman said. Sherman pointed toward the man who had just left. “Do you know who that is?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“That is Nathaniel Patterson, the assistant deputy attorney general for the territory of Idaho,” Sherman said. “I am in good standing with the territorial government. And why shouldn’t I be? My posse provides services that the territory is simply unable to provide.”

“But you provide those services for private individuals too, do you not?”

“I do.”

“I require just such a service.”

“Come in, Mr. Kincaid. We’ll talk,” Sherman said.

The office could have been any sheriff’s office, though without a jail cell. There were wanted posters on the walls, a rifle rack, and a heroically posed photograph of Clay Sherman, with a brass plaque beneath the photo that read COLONEL CLAY SHERMAN, COMMANDING OFFICER.

Sherman opened a silver humidor on his desk, took out two cigars, and gave one to Kincaid. Kincaid accepted, and, after biting off the end, waited for Sherman to provide the match. Sherman lit Kincaid’s cigar first, then his own, and took several puffs before speaking.

“Have a seat,” Sherman offered, pointing to a chair that was drawn up in front of his desk. Sherman sat behind the desk as Kincaid sat down across from him.

“What happened to Poke Terrell?”

“He was killed by Matt Jensen.”

“But Matt Jensen isn’t in jail, is he?”

“No. There were too many witnesses to the event. They all say that Terrell drew and fired first. In fact, Terrell killed one of the whores while he was trying to kill Jensen.”

Sherman moved some papers around on his desk, then picked up a newspaper and showed it to Kincaid. “Then what you are saying is that the article in this newspaper is correct?”

“Yes.”

“Poke was not only my second in command, he was my friend,” Sherman said.

“I thought you fired him.”

“That’s what we wanted you and everyone else to think,” Sherman said. “We felt that was the best way he could help you.”

“Then you were aware of his activity on my behalf?”

“Yes, of course I was. In fact, he was keeping me informed by frequent telegrams.”

“I’m sorry your friend was killed.”

“It says in the paper that Poke is buried in Potter’s Corner? Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“You are a wealthy and influential man in Owyhee County, are you not, Mr. Kincaid?”

“You might say that.”

“You are a wealthy and influential man, and Poke Terrell was working for you, yet you couldn’t give him a proper burial?”

“How could I?” Kincaid asked. “Nobody knew that Poke Terrell was working for me.”

“I see,” Sherman said. “Now tell me, Mr. Kincaid, why have you come to see me?”

“Because the problem I had, the one that Terrell was working on, still exists. And evidently it is a much bigger problem than I anticipated. It’s a much bigger problem than Poke Terrell anticipated.”

“You are talking about Matt Jensen,” Sherman said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“I can understand how he would be a problem. From what I know of Matt Jensen, he can be quite formidable.”

“Do you know him?”

Sherman took several puffs of his cigar, wreathing his head in the smoke, then he pulled it out and examined the glowing tip, before he answered.

“I’ve never met the man, so I don’t know him personally,” Sherman said. “But a man in my position must make it a policy to know as much as one can about people like Matt Jensen.”

“You say he is formidable. How formidable?”

“Quite formidable.”

“But, not too much for you to handle,” Kincaid said. “I mean, you have a reputation of dealing with people like Jensen, right?”

“I will concede that I have run across people like Jensen a few times, yes,” Sherman said.

Kincaid smiled. “And it is my understanding that, when you do encounter such people, you generally leave them dead.”

“I’ve left my share of them dead,” Sherman said.

“Good. Because I want you to kill Jensen.”

Sherman glared at Kincaid through the tobacco smoke.