William Johnstone: Snake River Slaughter

“I appreciate that,” Kincaid said as he began filling out the draft.

“As a matter of fact, if you wish,” Matthews added as he watched the draft being written, “for a nominal fee, we will continue to process the loan for you. That way, as far as Mrs. Wellington is concerned, the bank is still the mortgage holder. For your purposes, that might be better.”

“How would it be better?”

“Well, say for example Mrs. Wellington finds out you hold the note instead of the bank. And suppose the borrower is unable to make the payment on time. It is much easier for the bank to turn down any request for extensions on the loan than it would be for you.”

“Yes, I can see what you are talking about. Good, good, let’s do it that way then.”

Finishing the draft, Kincaid held up the document and blew on it to dry the ink. He then passed it across the desk to Matthews. “I guess that makes me a member of the banking business,” he said with a broad smile.

Matthews accepted the check. “I guess it does at that,” he said with a satisfied smile. “I only wish that other businessmen were as astute as you are. If we could sell more of our loans, we would have more money available to service our customers when new loans are needed.”

Chapter Four

When Poke Terrell rode into King Hill a train was sitting at the depot. The engine, painted green and trimmed in red, was glistening in the golden light of the setting sun. The engineer was leaning through the window of the cab and holding a long-stemmed pipe clinched tightly between his teeth. He watched from his lordly position as arriving passengers left the train and departing passengers boarded.

The restaurant Poke was looking for was next door to the depot, an adobe building that had recently been given a fresh coat of whitewash. There was a sign hanging in front of the restaurant that identified it as Delmonico’s and a hitching rail that ran all the way across the front of the building. Poke dismounted, tied his horse to the rail, then climbed the two wooden steps to the porch.

Poke was a relatively short man, but he was powerfully built, with a barrel chest, and muscular arms. His head was bald and round, and because one could almost imagine that Poke had no neck, it looked rather like a cannon ball resting on his shoulders.

He was greeted by an employee of the restaurant as soon as he stepped inside.

“May I help you sir?”

“I’m supposed to meet someone here, only I ain’t never met him so I’m not…”

“Would you be Mr. Terrell?” the restaurant employee asked.

“Yeah.”

“Your party is back here.”

When the waiter took Poke back to the table in the corner of the restaurant, Marcus Kincaid stood to greet him. There could not have been a more dramatic contrast in the appearance of the two men. Terrell was wearing denim trousers and a white stained shirt. Kincaid was wearing a brown tweed suit. Poke was the rough-hewn log on the fireplace hearth; Kincaid was the cut flower in a vase.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Kincaid said, as the two men sat down.

“Do you have the money?” Poke asked.

“Yes, I have the money. Half now, as we agreed,” Kincaid said, taking an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handing it to Poke.

Poke took the money from the envelope and began counting.

“Don’t count it here!” Kincaid snapped.

Poke looked up with a frown on his face, as he continued to count the money.

“All right, it’s all here, seven hundred fifty dollars,” Poke said as he finished counting. He put the money back into the envelope, then put the envelope into his pocket. “What do you want me to do?”

“Have you heard of a ranch called Coventry on the Snake?” Kincaid asked. “It’s near Medbury.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Owned by a foreigner,” Poke said.

“It was owned by an Englishman named Thomas Wellington. Now it’s owned by an American woman. When Wellington died, it became the property of his widow. She has invested heavily into the operation and is badly in debt. She needs, desperately, to sell some horses, and she has to do it soon, or she will lose the ranch.”

“And you want me to help her sell the horses? I don’t know what you thought I could do for her. I’m not a salesman.”

Kincaid shook his head vehemently. “No, no, it’s just the opposite. I don’t want you to help her save the ranch. I want you to make sure she loses the ranch.”

Poke laughed. “I’m glad to hear that. I think that might be easier to do. Do you have an idea as to how I need to do it?”

Kincaid shook his head. “No, use your own initiative. I don’t care how you do it, as long as you do it.”

“You don’t care how I do it?”

“Well, I don’t want you to burn any of the buildings, or anything like that,” Kincaid said. “I don’t want the ranch destroyed. All I want is for it to fail.”

Poke chuckled. “That’s all you want, huh?”

“That’s all I want. Do you think you can handle that without too much difficulty?”

“Yeah,” Poke said. “As long as you stay out of my way and let me handle things.”

Kincaid held up both his hands. “Trust me on this, Mr. Terrell, you shall have free reign. In fact, I would be very pleased if we never even saw each other again.”

“Except for the final payment,” Poke said.

“Yes, except for the final payment,” Kincaid agreed.

When Poke Terrell stepped inside the Sand Spur Saloon in Medbury for the first time, he looked around the room until he saw the table that he wanted. It was slightly more than halfway back in the room and sitting close, but not uncomfortably close, to the stove. It was also situated so as to give him a good view, both of the front door and the side door, and this was important to him. A person in Poke’s business, and with his reputation, made enough enemies that it was always a good idea to know who was coming and going.

There was a cowboy sitting at the table, and he was joking with one of the bar girls. Poke walked up to the table, then stood there, staring at the cowboy. The cowboy glanced up at him briefly, then turned his attention back to the young woman.

Poke didn’t move, and his presence was obviously making the young woman nervous. She had been laughing and teasing with the cowboy, but now she couldn’t take her attention away from this brooding man who stood inches away from the two of them.

“Can I help you, Mister?” the cowboy finally asked.

“You have my table,” Poke said.

“What are you talking about, your table? I ain’t never even seen you before.”

“I’ve just arrived,” Poke said. “I want this table.”

“What if I don’t want to move?”

“Prew, come on, let’s go to another table,” the young woman said.

“I’m not goin’ to let some son of a bitch just come in and order me away from this table,” Prew said.

“Prew, please,” the young woman said. “If you want me to talk to you, you’ll change tables.”

Prew stared at Poke for a moment longer, then he got up. He pointed at Poke. “All right, I’m movin’,” he said. “But it ain’t none of your doin’. I’m movin’ ’cause of Jenny.”

Poke didn’t answer, but as soon as Prew left, Poke sat down, then took out a deck of cards and dealt himself a game of solitaire.

“Mister, you want anything to drink?” one of the other girls asked.

“Beer,” Poke said, as he began playing.

Poke stayed at the saloon until it closed that night, drinking beer and playing solitaire. Except for his initial confrontation with the cowboy, and occasionally ordering a beer, Poke spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. When he left, everyone breathed a sigh of relief and offered up a quick prayer that the strange, brooding, and frightening man not return.