Matt fired two more times, and the last two riders fell. Then it was quiet, with the final round of shooting but faint echoes returning distant hills. A little cloud of acrid bitter gun smoke assailed his nostrils as Matt dismounted, then walked out among the fallen rustlers, moving cautiously, his pistol at the ready. He need not have been cautious in his approach. None of the rustlers were left alive.
The entire battle had taken less than a minute.
George Gilmore was bent over some papers on his desk when Marshal Sparks stepped into his office. He looked up in surprise.
“Marshal, Sparks,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Marshal Sparks said. “Maybe nothing. But something is going on that I don’t feel right about.”
“What is it?”
“Are you aware that the Clay Sherman and his so-called Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse are in town?”
“Who isn’t aware?” Gilmore replied. “That’s all anyone in town has been talking about ever since they arrived, wondering why they are here.”
“I think I know why. Have you ever heard of something called the herd management law?” Marshal Sparks asked.
Gilmore shook his head. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
“This is why they are here,” Sparks said, showing Gilmore the paper Sherman had given him. “According to Sherman, they are here to enforce the herd management law.”
Gilmore perused the document for a moment, then handed it back to the sheriff. “Enforce it in what way?” he asked.
“Last night Sherman and his men visited Kitty Wellington’s ranch and took five hundred head of her horses. Confiscated the horses is how Sherman put it. He confiscated the horses on behalf of the territory of Idaho, because, he claims, by running horses, she was in violation of the herd management law. Though why he confiscated exactly five hundred, rather than serving a notice that he was confiscating the entire herd, I don’t know.”
“I know,” Gilmore said.
“Then I wish you would tell me.”
“Five hundred head is the number of horses Mrs. Wellington is contracted to furnish the army. He took those horses to prevent her from fulfilling that contract.”
“Damn! You’re right,” Sparks said. “That is exactly why they took five hundred head.”
“Did Sherman have a court order to confiscate the horses?”
“I asked him that same question,” Sheriff Sparks replied. “He says that he doesn’t need a court order. He said he has the authority to issue his own court order.”
Gilmore shook his head. “He’s lying,” he said. “Not even a federal marshal could confiscate an entire herd of horses on his own initiative.”
“What about this herd management law? Would he be able to use it to get a court order that would allow him to confiscate Kitty Wellington’s horses?”
“Let me check something,” Gilmore said. He walked over to his book shelf and took down a book called Codes for the Territory of Idaho.
After looking through it for a moment, he shook his head. “There is no judge in the territory who would grant a court order to allow that. For all intent and purposes, this is absolutely meaningless.”
“What do you mean, meaningless?”
“I mean it would no effect on Mrs. Wellington. Listen to this. This is the next paragraph, paragraph twenty five, subparagraph three, stroke three.
“Any land owner, owning more than twenty percent of the land in said proposed herd district and who has a herd that is separated by more than two miles from a herd of dissimilar stock, who is a resident in, and qualified elector of, the territory of Idaho is not subject to the herd law, unless special petition is made and filed by land owners whose aggregate holdings total more than fifty percent of the land in said district. Such petition, if granted, shall be served upon the land owner by the county sheriff or his deputy.”
“I haven’t served any such notice,” Marshal Sparks said.
“Then if notice has not been served, and Sherman really did take the horses, he stole them,” Gilmore said. “That means you can arrest him and the entire posse.”
“Yeah, I guess I could, couldn’t I?” Marshal Sparks replied without enthusiasm. “Or, maybe I can just show him the error of his ways. Mr. Gilmore, would you copy that law out on a piece of paper for me so I can show it to Sherman.”
“I’ll be glad to do it for you, Marshal, but what will that accomplish?” Gilmore asked. “If Sherman knows about the part of the law that he showed you, the part he used as justification to steal Mrs. Wellington’s horses, then you can bet that he knows about this part of the law.”
“Yes,” Sparks said. “But at least this way, he will realize that I know about this part of the law as well.”
It was mid-afternoon by the time Matt and the other riders from Coventry on the Snake managed to retrieve the horses and put them back in the field where they were being held, pending the shipment to Chicago. As soon as all the horses were recovered, Tyrone detailed some of the men to repair the fence the Auxiliary Peace Officers had destroyed when they took the horses.
“I don’t understand,” Kitty said. “I thought Poke Terrell was behind all this. But he’s dead and the rustling continues.”
“Do you remember in the café yesterday, when I pointed out the head of the Auxiliary Peace Officers to you? I told you he was going to be trouble.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“The four men I killed were wearing the uniforms and badges of the Auxiliary Peace Officers.”
Kitty gasped. “Oh, Matt. Have I gotten you in trouble with the law?” She asked. “If I have, I will never be able to forgive myself.”
“If so, it won’t be the first time I’ve come close to the line,” Matt said. “But don’t worry about it. Whether they are wearing badges or not, I don’t believe, for a minute, that they are actually law officers. They may be some sort of posse with deputies’ badges, but they are not legitimate law officers.”
“Where are they now?” Kitty asked. “The men who stole the horses, I mean.”
“Tyrone sent Prew back out with a wagon to pick up the bodies. I’ll take them into town tonight.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“I’ll figure something out,” Matt said.
Chapter Twenty-seven
It was mid-afternoon when Hodge Deckert stepped down from the 4:20 west-bound train at the Medbury Depot. He checked his sample case to make certain nothing had been broken during the trip.
A traveling salesman from Denver, Deckert had been on the road for just over a week, having served clients in Greely, Colorado, Cheyenne, Rawlins, and Green River, Wyoming, Squaw Creek, American Falls, and King Hill, Idaho, before arriving here in Medbury. So far his trip had been successful, and he had taken orders for almost a thousand dollars worth of goods, which meant he had earned one hundred dollars in commission. Medbury was the end of his sales territory. He would spend the night here at the Del Rey Hotel, then call on the mercantile and general stores tomorrow in time to take the noon train back.
Satisfied that his samples were undamaged, he closed the case then started across the street to the hotel. As he started through the door, though, two large men blocked his way.
“Where do you think you are going?” one of them asked. Both were dressed just alike, and both were wearing star badges on their shirt.
“I’m going to check into the hotel,” Deckert said.
“No, you ain’t.”
“Why not?”
“There ain’t no rooms left.”
“Of course there are. Elmer always keeps a couple of rooms open for travelers. I stay here every time I come to Medbury.”
“You ain’t stayin’ here tonight.”
“I’d rather hear that from Elmer,” Deckert said.
The two burly men looked at each other for a moment, then one of them laughed. “Let him talk to Elmer,” he said.