Taking advantage of the fact that they were focusing on where he wasn’t, Matt managed to dart across the street, unseen by either of his adversaries. Moving between two buildings, Matt was now able to move down the alley on the opposite side of the street from where he had been. Reaching the back of the Chinese laundry, he saw two Chinese men and three women standing out back with terrified expressions on their faces. When they saw him, they became even more frightened, but he held his fingers to his lips, then, by motions, let them know that he was a friend.
Matt started to open the back door, but one of the men shook his head, then signaled that he should enter another way. Following him, Matt was shown a small half-door on the side of the building. Smiling and nodding, the Chinese man pointed, indicating he should go into the building that way.
Matt did as he was directed, though he didn’t know why until he got inside. Then he saw that this way enabled him to be behind a freestanding shelf, out of sight of Hodge. Had he come in through the back door as he had planned, Hodge would have seen him the moment he opened the door.
“Decker!” Hodge called. “Decker! Do you see him?”
“No!” Decker’s voice came back.
Matt stepped out from behind the shelf.
“Drop your gun, Hodge,” Matt said.
“Son of a bitch! How’ d you get in here?” Hodge’s cry fell somewhere between surprise, anger, and fear.
“Drop it!” Matt called again.
“The hell I will!”
Hodge fired at Matt, the bullet flying past Matt’s ear. Matt returned fire and Hodge, now with a bullethole in his chest, was propelled backward through the front door, back out into the street. He fired two more times, almost in reflexive action, both bullets going into the dirt. He fell flat on his back.
“Hodge, what happened?” Decker shouted, rising up from his position behind the water trough.
“I happened,” Matt said, stepping out through the front door of the laundry.
“You!” Decker shouted. Lifting his pistol he began shooting. His shooting was so wild and erratic that Matt wasn’t in any danger, but he knew that innocent people in the town were, so he fired back, once.
One shot was all it took.
With the shooting stopped, and the gunsmoke of the several discharges drifted away, the townspeople gradually began reappearing. Some gathered in front of the apothecary around Carter’s body, which was lying in, and not on, the boardwalk. Others were collected in front of the Chinese laundry, staring down at Hodge. Still more stood congregated at the feed and seed store, looking down at Hodge.
Marshal Drew checked all three bodies, then came over to talk to Matt, who was leaning against a hitching rail with his arms folded across his chest, just looking out at the people. Marshal Drew was unable to discern any expression of excitement, fear, or anger. There was absolutely nothing to indicate that he had just been in peril, or that he had just killed three men. From the expression on Matt’s face, he might have been observing the commerce of a normal day.
“I heard what happened between you and these three men back in The Lion and The Crown,” Marshal Drew said. “You gave them every opportunity to walk away from it, and they didn’t. These are the same three who tried to hold up the stagecoach, aren’t they?”
Matt nodded.
“They must have been pissed that you broke it up.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think revenge had anything to do with it. In fact, I don’t think they were even trying to rob the stagecoach.”
“Really? Then what the hell were they planning?”
“I think they were there to kill me,” Matt said. “And when it didn’t work that day, they came back.”
“For the reward?”
“Yes.”
“There will be more coming after you, won’t there?”
“There will be until I can get to the source of the reward.”
“Sam Logan?”
“I suppose so,” Matt replied.
“What do you mean, you suppose? Everyone says it is Logan.”
“Over the years I’ve learned to trust nothing that I hear and only half of what I see,” Matt said.
Chapter Twenty-three
Over the several days since young Winston Churchill had been given access to a horse, he spent at least four hours a day in the saddle. He gained confidence and poise, but he also learned the meaning of the term saddle sore. However, he neither complained nor even mentioned it, bearing up stoically in order to continue with this, his newfound passion.
By now, Winnie had become not only a familiar sight around the ranch, but a favorite of the cowboys as well. He joined them as they attended to their regular duties, such as seeing that the cattle were moved around the ranch to water and grazing areas, mending the fences, even branding when necessary. He was invited to eat in the cookhouse with the other cowboys, and he became a regular at mealtimes, learning not only to eat but to relish the cowboy fare of biscuits, beans, fried steak, and especially apple pie. And though he was used to drinking tea, he was teaching himself to drink strong, black coffee.
“They call it grub,” he explained to his mother. “And it is quite tasty.”
“Heavens,” Jennie said. “How can anyone eat something that is called grub?”
“You can eat it if you are a cowboy,” Winnie said.
“I see,” Jennie said with a smile. “And you are a cowboy now, are you?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you a cowboy?”
“Mama, I have given blood, toil, tears and sweat on the range. I believe that makes me a cowboy.”
Jennie leaned down and kissed Winnie on the forehead.
“I certainly won’t question that,” she said.
Believing that the time had come to put his plan into operation, Teasdale rode out to Logan’s headquarters at Nine Mile Creek. Following the ritual which would let the lookouts recognize him from some distance, he rode up the coulee until he reached the shack. Word had already reached Logan that Teasdale was on his way in, so he was waiting out front.
“If you’re here to complain that I ain’t brought you no more cows from the Frewen ranch, I already know that I haven’t,” Logan said. “And there ain’t likely to be any more either, till we get rid of that bastard Jensen.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Teasdale said. “I think I know how to get rid of him.”
“Yeah? Well you’re going to have to let me in on it, ’cause I sure as hell ain’t figured out a way, yet. We’ve got a five thousand dollar reward out on him. Six men have tried to kill him and all six are pushin’ up daisies.”
“Mr. Jensen appears to be a man of extraordinary acumen, reflexes, and nerve,” Teasdale said.
“If you mean he’s harder to kill than cockroaches, I agree.”
“I do have a plan in mind, though,” Teasdale said. “It isn’t one that I wanted to use, but I believe it may be our best chance. Indeed, it may be our only chance.”
“What is it?” Logan asked.
“Frewen’s sister-in-law and nephew are here, visiting from England. The nephew is a ten-year-old boy, the son of Lord Randolph Churchill. His name is Winston. If Winston were to be abducted ...”
“To be what?” Logan asked.
“Taken,” Teasdale explained. “We could set up a scenario whereby ...”
“Look, you’re goin’ to have to talk English to me. What the hell is a scenario?”
Teasdale sighed. “What I am trying to say is this. The boy goes riding just about every day, and he is getting bolder and bolder, which means he is going farther and farther from the house. If you would send a couple of men out to abdu—to grab him—and bring him here, we could lure Jensen into a situation that would allow us to take care of him once and for all.”