Snake River Slaughter. William W. Johnstone
border. The Subletts were interspersed here and there with canyons and draws which made the mountain range look much larger than it actually was.
Matt was following a little dry wash that was, appropriately called Rock Creek, because only during the spring run offs did it have water. Now, as in most of the year, Rock Creek had only rocks. He had not been worried though, because he knew that soon he would come upon the Snake River, and now that confidence was rewarded. Ahead of him he spotted a narrow, snaking band of green, cutting across the amber desert floor. This, he knew, was the Snake River.
“You thirsty, Spirit?” he asked. He reached down to pat the second horse to bear the name. “Well, I am too, but to tell you the truth, I’m thirstier for something that tastes a little better than water.”
Spirit whickered.
“I know, I know, after the ride we’ve put in today, water will taste awfully good.”
As Matt rode on across the stretch of desert, Spirit’s hoof falls raised clouds of dust to hang in the air behind him. Those little puffs of dust marked his trail to the patch of green. There, in the middle of the patch of green, the river, some one hundred feet wide at this point, moved in a surprisingly swift flow, the surface showing white water here and there as it passed over the rocky bottom.
Matt dismounted, then got down on his stomach and stuck his mouth into the water. It was cool, almost too cold, and as he sucked in great draughts of water he felt a stab of pain behind his eyes from drinking something too cold, too fast.
Raising his head from the water he saw Spirit drinking as well, but Spirit seemed to be approaching it more cautiously.
Matt laughed. “Looks like you knew better than to drink too fast,” he said. “I guess that’s where they come by the term horse sense.”
Matt filled his canteen, then looked across the river. About a mile on the other side he espied a cluster of buildings, gleaming crimson now in the sun that was slowly sinking in the west. To the east, the sky was already growing darker, whereas a band of clouds, belly lit and glowing brightly in vivid golds and reds, still illuminated the sky to the west.
“Spirit, if you’ve had your fill, what you say we go on into town, and see what this letter is about?” Matt asked, swinging back into the saddle.
Because the bottom of the creek was clearly visible, Matt had no difficulty finding a place to ford. The water was about twelve inches deep, and Spirit pranced through quickly and easily, his hooves making but little splash in a stream that was already running rapidly.
As Matt approached the town from the south, he saw a train coming from the east, a long, rumbling, string of cars following behind the powerful locomotive, the puffs of which could be heard even from this far away.
American Falls, Idaho Territory
Because George Gilmore was a lawyer, he felt that he owed a certain degree of decorum to the profession he had chosen. Therefore, even when he wasn’t arguing a case in the courtroom, or dealing directly with one of his clients, he believed that he should still dress the part. For that reason, as he stood here in the Red Horse Saloon, dressed in a three piece suit, but surrounded by denim and homespun, he stood out like a flower among cabbages.
Gilmore was in American Falls to meet Matt Jensen, though Jensen didn’t know he was coming here to meet Gilmore. Gilmore had written a letter to Jensen, offering to hire him to “provide security for an old friend.” Responding to Kitty Wellington’s request, he did not tell Jensen who the old friend was, nor did he tell him how much the job would pay. He was depending entirely upon Matt Jensen’s curiosity and known appreciation of adventure to provide the catalyst needed to get him here.
Gilmore ordered a mug of beer, then found a table back in the far corner under the balcony. He had just taken his first swallow when he saw Al Madison, Ken Jernigan, and Sam Logan come in. He knew all three of them because he was an officer of the court over in Owyhee Count, and the three of them were often in trouble. Also, of late, he heard that the trio had allied themselves with Poke Terrell. Jason Prewitt was certain that Poke Terrell was the one behind the rustling of Coventry’s horse, and Gilmore believed him. However, Gilmore did not blame Marshal Sparks for not doing anything about it because, as a lawyer, he knew that there wasn’t enough evidence to support Prew’s accusation and thus, make the case in court.
Gilmore had never actually met Poke Terrell, but he had seen him, and he could recognize him on sight. He was aware of Terrell’s background and of his former connection with the Idaho Auxiliary Peace Officers’ Posse. He knew, also, that because of that connection, and because Terrell seemed to be a brooding and unpleasant man, the majority of the residents of Medbury tended to keep their distance from him. The exceptions were Logan, Madison, and Jernigan, who were now here in American Falls. Gilmore wondered what they were doing here.
At this precise moment, they appeared to be in the midst of an argument, though Gilmore was too far away to be able to ascertain the cause of their argument. Finally, Logan shook his head as if in disgust and left the saloon. Madison and Jernigan stepped up to the bar and ordered a drink.
As Matt approached the town, he saw a crudely painted sign on a narrow board that was just wide enough to display the name of the town:
AMERICAN FALLS
Passing the sign, Matt encountered a cluster of white painted clapboard houses, some with well-tended lawns and colorful flowers, others with dirt yards. It was getting close to supper time, and he could smell the aromas of meals being cooked.
“Johnny, wash your hands and come to supper,” a woman called through the door.
“Yes, Mama,” a young boy’s voice replied.
For a moment—just a moment, Matt could remember a time when his own mother would call him in to supper. That was before she, his father, and his sister were murdered as they were going out West to seek a new life after the war. Matt was just a boy when that happened, and one of the reasons he was a wanderer today was that wondering what lay just beyond the horizon in front of him tended to blur memories of what was behind him. That helped to prevent periods of painful and nostalgic recollection, such as the one he just had.
Matt continued on into town, and as he rode down Idaho Street, the hollow clopping sound of his horse’s hooves echoed back from the buildings that crowded down to the boardwalks that lined each side of the road.
Most of the business establishments were closed now, the only exceptions being a couple of restaurants, a hotel, and the saloon. The restaurants and saloon were all brightly lit and, through the windows, he could see people inside.
He pulled up in front of the saloon, a false fronted building that bore a painting of a prancing red horse. The name of the saloon, in gilt edged, bright red letters, was the Red Horse Saloon.
Matt swung down from his saddle, then looped the reins around the hitching rail. He patted Spirit on the neck.
“You be a good horse, now,” he said.
A woman’s high-pitched squeal of laughter spilled through the bat wing doors, followed by a man’s loud guffaw. There had been no piano playing when he dismounted, but as he started up the two wooden steps that led to the boardwalk in front of the saloon, the music began again, a loud, bright tune that was more to provide ambience than to entertain. Matt wasn’t a musician, but even he could tell that the piano was badly out of tune.
The saloon was well lit with two dozen or more lanterns, in addition to a wagon wheel chandelier that had a dozen or more candles set around the rim. The smell was a familiar one—burning kerosene, stale beer and whiskey, cigar and pipe smoke, and the odor of dozens of bodies, too long between baths.
A few looked toward him, but most paid him no attention. The bar was to his left, long, polished, with a brass foot rail and silver hooks every five feet or so, from each of which hung a towel, all of them soiled. Just in front of the bar, at approximately the same intervals as the towels, were spittoons. A spattering of tobacco quids on and around the spittoons indicated that the customers weren’t