“We want you to do something for us,” one of the riders said. “We want you to deliver a note to Moreton Frewen.”
“What kind of note?”
“Why should it matter to you what kind of note?” the rider asked. “The only thing that should matter to you is this. If you deliver it you live, if you don’t you die.”
“Now, tell me, cowboy, what is it to be?” one of the other men asked.
“I’ll deliver the note,” Lewis said.
“Yeah, I thought you might.” The rider handed him a folded piece of paper. “How fast is that horse?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?” Lewis asked.
“How fast is that horse?” the rider repeated. “Do you think he is fast enough to get you out of rifle range in a minute?”
“I—I don’t know.”
The rider pulled his rifle and cocked it. “You better hope he is. ’Cause in one minute I’m going to take a shot at you. So I suggest you get goin’ now.”
Lewis jerked his horse around, then slapped his legs against the side of the horse, urging him into a gallop. He leaned forward, not only to urge the horse to a faster pace, but also to present a smaller target in case the man actually did shoot at him.
A minute passed, and there was no bullet. Either the man didn’t shoot at him, or Lewis was far enough away now that if he did shoot, the bullet was far wide of its mark.
Forty-five minutes later, Lewis showed the note to Myron Morrison, thinking it might be better to go show it to the foreman first. Morrison read the note, then with compressed lips and narrowed eyes, looked back up at Lewis.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“Three men come up on me,” Lewis said. “It was them that give this here note to me, tellin’ me that if I didn’t deliver it, they was goin’ to shoot me. As soon as they let me go, I hightailed it out of there. They said give it to Mr. Frewen, but I figured maybe it would be better if you done it.”
“Thanks a lot,” Morrison said, sarcastically.
“I mean, you don’t mind bein’ the one to show it to ’im, do you? Bein’ as you are foreman and all.”
“All right,” Morrison said. “I’ll take the note to him.”
Morrison walked from the bunkhouse across the yard to the huge log edifice. When he pulled the doorbell chain, Benjamin answered.
“Yes, Mr. Morrison?” Benjamin asked in his stiff, upper tone British voice.
“I have a note here that Mr. Frewen needs to see.”
“Lord Moreton is in the drawing room at the moment; if you would like, I can deliver the note to him,” Benjamin said.
“I’d like nothing more in this world than for you to give this note to him,” Morrison said. “But I don’t think it is something you are going to want to do.”
“Oh, heavens,” Benjamin said. “Very good, sir. If you would come this way?”
Frewen was in the drawing room looking at the latest figures that he was preparing to send to his business partners back in England. The figures were not good. The Powder River Cattle Company was operating at a severe deficit.
“Lord Moreton?” Benjamin called from just outside the door to the drawing room.
“Whatever it is, Benjamin, let it wait, please,” Frewen said. “I need to get this report ready to go. Though God knows I wish I didn’t have to.”
“Mr. Frewen, I expect you had better take time for this,” Morrison called in through the door. “It’s pretty important.”
“All right,” Frewen said. He pushed the book of numbers to one side, then turned toward his foreman. “What is it? What do you have for me?”
Morrison handed the note to Frewen. “Donnie Lewis brought it in a few minutes ago. He said that he ran across three men and they gave it to him.”
With an anxious feeling, Frewen unfolded the note.
Frewen—
We’ve got the boy. If you want to see him alive again, send Jensen to junction of Nine Mile Creek and the Powder River at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. He must be alone. If we see anyone with him, we will kill the boy. If he does not show up we will kill the boy.
“God in Heaven,” Frewen said. “Do you think anyone would actually be so low as to kill a boy?”
“Yeah, I think they would,” Morrison said.
Frewen read the note again, then let out a loud sigh of frustration. “I don’t understand. Why do they want Mr. Jensen to come to Nine Mile Creek?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” Morrison said. “They want him there so they can kill him.”
“Oh, my!” Frewen said. “Then I am being asked to choose between the life of my nephew and the life of Mr. Jensen.”
“Yes, sir, I’d say that’s about it,” Morrison said.
Frewen leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I—I don’t know where to go with this,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-four
When Matt went into the parlor of Frewen Castle, he saw Jennie crying and Carla trying to comfort her. Morrison was standing near the fireplace while Frewen was sitting in a big leather chair with his head leaning forward, his forehead resting on his fist.
“What’s wrong?” Matt asked.
Frewen held the note out toward Matt.
“Read this,” he said.
As Matt took the piece of paper from Frewen, he looked over at the crying women, and wondering what it was about, he read the note.
After he read it, he handed it back.
“What do you make of that?” Frewen asked.
“We don’t have any choice, Mr. Frewen,” Matt said. “I have to go.”
Matt walked over to where Jennie and Clara were sitting together on a leather sofa. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will find Winnie for you.”
“Oh, Matt,” Jennie said. Standing, she embraced him, pulling him hard against her. Matt could feel her tears against his cheeks. “Please, Matt, please bring Winston back safely to me.”
“I will,” Matt said. “I promise you, I will.”
“Matt, you do know that they are using the boy for bait, don’t you? They are setting you up to be killed.” Frewen said.
“It won’t be the first time a trap has ever been set for me,” Matt said.
“I’m sure it isn’t. But this one—I mean, to use young Winnie as they are doing is so—diabolical,” Frewen said.
“I’ll grant you that it is,” Matt said. “But they have made a big mistake.”
“How is that?” Frewen asked.
“They’ve given away their hand.”
“I’m the one that is at fault here,” Frewen said. “I let him, indeed I encouraged him, to feel free to ride anywhere on the ranch. It just never dawned on me that he would be in any danger. I mean, what would they want with him? If something happens to my nephew because of me, I will never forgive myself.”
“I am going to find him, Mr. Frewen. I am going to find him and I am going to bring him home safely.”
“Do you think you can do that?” Frewen asked. “Tell me the truth, now. I don’t want you saying just what you think will make me feel better. I want to know if you really think you can do it.”
“Yes, he can,” Jennie said. “I know Mr. Jensen. And I am convinced that he will be able to find and rescue Winnie.”
When they brought Winnie to the little house, they put him over in the corner next to the fireplace. He had seen some of the line shacks during the last several days of his rides around the ranch, and this was just like a line shack, though perhaps a little larger than most he had seen. It couldn’t actually be a line shack though, because it was at the head of a long, deep ravine, or coulee, as he had heard the cowboys call such things.
There were at least six men in the shack, all wearing yellow kerchiefs. And though the men who had abducted him had not been wearing yellow kerchiefs at the time, they had since put them on. This gave them a sense of camaraderie and belonging, as if they were soldiers in an army. Four of the men were playing cards. One of the four, a man without a beard, but with a long, bushy, dark black mustache, had identified himself as Sam Logan. Logan, Winnie knew from the conversations he had overheard, was the head of the gang of rustlers who had been stealing cattle from his uncle. One of the men was cooking, while the sixth was sitting on a bunk, cleaning his gun.