Kitty said.
“Well, in that case, maybe he will come,” Gilmore said. “And don’t worry, I will be extremely guarded in my mission.”
Cattleman’s Bank and Loan, two days later
“You sent for me, Joel?” Marcus Kincaid asked.
“Yes,” Matthews said. He slid a letter across the desk, and Marcus picked it up.
“What is this?”
“This is a letter from Kitty Wellington. I thought it might give you comfort to know that the loan will be repaid and you will recoup your investment, as well as the interest due. It’s addressed to me but, under the circumstances, you being the one who now owns the loan, it is really your letter.”
Dear Mr. Matthews:
As you know, within the last two weeks, Coventry on the Snake has been the victim of the foulest rustling, resulting in the loss of more than one hundred and fifty head of fine horses, worth a total of fifteen thousand dollars.
I fear that you may be worrying about whether I will be able to retire the loan your bank so generously advanced, so I undertake the writing of this letter to ease any worries you may have on that score. I have recently signed a contract to deliver enough horses to the U.S. Army to allow me to easily discharge the debt I owe the bank. In order to help me accomplish this, I am calling upon Matt Jensen, an old friend, to help me, and I am sending my agent to American Falls to meet with him.
I’m sure you can understand that, for the time being, I would prefer that the details of my contact with Mr. Jensen be kept in the strictest confidence.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Katherine Wellington
Coventry on the Snake
“Yes, I heard she had signed a contract to sell enough horses to pay off the loan,” Marcus said. “That’s good. That’s very good.”
“I thought you might appreciate that, knowing that the money will be repaid, in full, and with interest.”
“Yes, that’s very—comforting.” He set the word comforting apart from the rest of the sentence.
“As the bullfighters say, it is the moment of truth for all bankers, when the loans are repaid in full,” Matthews said. “Perhaps after the successful conclusion of this project, you would be interested in purchasing more loans.”
“Perhaps.”
Mountain Home, Idaho
When Sam Logan, Al Madison, and Ken Jernigan first stepped into the Cow Palace Saloon, they didn’t see the person they were looking for.
“You sure this is the place?” Madison asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Logan answered.
“What makes you so sure?”
“How many saloons are there in Mountain Home named Cow Palace?” Logan asked.
“There’s only one saloon in Mountain Home,” Jernigan said.
“And it is named Cow Palace,” Logan said.
“So, if this is the right place, how come Poke ain’t here?”
“There he is,” Logan said.
“Where?”
“Back there in the corner, sitting with his back to us.”
“Why is sittin’ like that? We damn near didn’t see him,” Jernigan said.
“Maybe that’s why he’s sittin’ like that,” Logan answered. “Maybe he don’t want to be seen.”
Logan led them to the back of the saloon to the table where the man they were to meet was sitting.
“Did you see anyone else from Medbury outside?” Poke asked.
“No,” Logan answered. “Poke, why we meetin’ here, ’stead of in the Sand Spur?”
“It’s better to meet here,” Poke said without further explanation.
Matt Jensen was in Southeastern Idaho, riding north and sloping down a long slant from the Sublett Mountain range. The green covered mountains loomed up behind him, a long impressive range that ran south, all the way down to the Utah 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
