J. Johnstone: The Loner: Inferno #12

One of the customers got up and walked over to Matt, carrying his beer with him. “Hello, Matt. It’s been a while.”

“Hello, Bart,” Matt replied.

“What are you doing in Fort Collins?”

“A man’s got to be somewhere. You still deputying?”

“No, I’m working as a messenger for Wells Fargo now. It pays some better. Oh, by the way, I suppose you heard what happened in Livermore last week?”

“No, what?”

“Bart, there’s an open chair. You in or not?” someone called from one of the tables.

“Ah, I’ve been waiting to get into the card game.” Bart held up his beer. “It was good seeing you again.”

“What happened in Livermore?” Matt asked.

“Someone killed the bank president and his wife and daughter. There’s a paper down at the end of the bar. You can read all about it.”

Matt moved down to the end of the counter where newspapers were stacked. He put a nickel in the bowl and took one, then found an empty table where he sat down to read.

Gruesome Find!

In what may be the most gruesome event in the history of Livermore, Jarvis Winslow and wife and daughter were found murdered in their home.

Mr. Winslow was president of the bank and many will tell you there was no finer man for the job, as he always showed a willingness to work with people who needed loans.

Mrs. Winslow and her young daughter were discovered tied to a bed, their throats cut and their clothes removed, giving evidence of ravages being visited upon them. Mr. Winslow was on the floor with a knife wound in his back.

The murder seems to be connected to the bank robbery, for over twenty-three thousand dollars is missing. In what must be considered a clue, a paper was found in the bank bearing the names Red Plummer, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy.

The funeral of the three slain was attended by nearly all residents of the city.

Jarvis Winslow, like Matt Jensen, had been an orphan in the Soda Creek Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. They were there at the same time, and a friendship had developed between them. Though they had not maintained steady contact, Matt considered Winslow a brother of sorts, and he took it personally when Jarvis and his family were killed in such a way.

Matt was too late for the funeral, but he went out to the cemetery where he found three fresh mounds of dirt, side by side. There was only one tombstone set in the middle of the three graves.

JARVIS WINSLOW

His Wife JULIE

His Daughter CYNTHIA

Plucked from this earthly abode by a deed so foul as to defy all understanding

Two years older than Matt, Jarvis had helped him adjust to life in an orphanage. Matt remembered a moment he had shared with Jarvis.

“You don’t have any brothers?” Jarvis asked.

“No. I had a sister, but I don’t anymore.”

“I don’t have any brothers either. You want to be my brother?”

“Sure, why not?”

Jarvis stuck a pin in the end of his thumb bringing up a drop of blood. Matt did the same thing, and they held their thumbs together.

“Now we are blood brothers,” Jarvis said. “And that is as real as real brothers.”

“Jarvis,” Matt said, speaking quietly over the three graves. “I don’t know if your spirit is still hanging around here or not. I reckon that’s a mystery we only find out after we’re dead. But in case your spirit is here, and you can hear me, I’m going to make you this promise. I intend to find the low-life sons of bitches who did this to you and your wife and daughter, and I am going to send their sorry asses to hell.”

Matt left the cemetery, then rode across town to the sheriff’s office. When he went inside he saw Sheriff Garrison and two of his deputies looking at wanted posters.

“Matt Jensen,” the sheriff said, smiling broadly as he walked around his desk with his hand extended. “What brings you to Livermore?”

“The murder of Jarvis Winslow.”

The smile left the sheriff’s face. “Yes. That was a terrible thing. The woman and the girl.” He shook his head. “I’ve been in the law business for a long time and I’ve seen some grizzly things, but I tell you the truth, Matt, that is about the worst I have ever seen. I don’t know what kind of animal could do such a thing. They had both been raped, Matt. Then their throats were cut and they bled to death. Not only that, we found ’em both naked. The sons of bitches didn’t even have the decency to cover ’em up.”

“Jarvis Winslow was a personal friend of mine,” Matt said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the sheriff replied.

“Sheriff, I intend to hunt down the men who did this, if you don’t mind the help.”

“Of course I’m glad to have your help. I can even deputize you if you’ d like. That would make it legal, as long as you catch up with them in Larimer County. Once they get out of the county, your badge wouldn’t do you much good.”

“That’s all right,” Matt said. “I’ve got my own badge.”

Over the years, he had done investigative work for the railroad, for which he had a railroad detective’s badge. Even though the badge had no actual legal authority, a detective for one railroad was recognized on a reciprocal arrangement by all other railroads. It was also given a courtesy recognition by the states served by the railroads. He showed the badge to Sheriff Garrison.

“I don’t see how that is going to help. This crime had nothing to do with the railroad.”

“I read in the paper that Plummer, Sullivan, and McCoy got away with twenty-three thousand dollars. Is that right?”

“I’m afraid it is right,” Sheriff Garrison said.

“Sheriff, are you going to try and tell me that not one single dollar of that money was ever on a train?”

Sheriff Garrison chuckled. “That’s sort of stretching the intent, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Matt replied, his answer almost a challenge.

Garrison threw up his hands. “Well, you’ll get no argument from me. Go after them.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

Chapter 2

Moreton Frewen was an unquenchable optimist, prolific in ideas, and skilled in persuading his friends to invest in his schemes. Although he owned the Powder River Cattle Company, his personal field of operations covered America, England, India, Australia, Kenya, and Canada. He had crossed the Atlantic almost one hundred times.

A brilliant man who urged the building of a canal across the Isthmus of Panama, as well as a means of connecting the Great Lakes to the sea, he was, despite his intellect and creativity, a man who had failed in nearly every business enterprise he undertook. Frewen had the build of an athlete with long legs, a flat abdomen, a high forehead, bright blue eyes, and a baroque mustache. An avid hunter and sportsman, he had attended Cambridge University in England as a gentlemen, spending his days betting on horse races and his evenings in the university drinking club.

After graduation he continued the life of a country gentleman, fox hunting and wenching in the shires through the winter, and horse racing and wenching in London during the summer. Living in such a way as to show no interest in a career, he ran through his rather sizeable inheritance within three years. Shortly thereafter, he came to America, married Clara Jerome, daughter of the very wealthy Leonard Jerome and sister of Lady Randolph Churchill, and set himself up as a rancher in northern Wyoming.

Along the Powder River was a stretch of prairie with grasslands watered by summer rains and winter snows. A large open area, it was impressive in its very loneliness, but it was good cattle country, and it was there that Moreton Frewen built his ranch.