Dakota Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  E.B. chuckled. “Yes, so Ian has told me, more than once.”

  “Well if he is proud of it, I don’t blame him.”

  Yesterday, Ian McCann had sent his son Leo, and his two riders, Dobbins and Toomey, to all the neighboring ranches inviting them to his house today for a meal and a discussion.

  “Discuss what?” E.B. had asked Toomey.

  “Mr. McCann didn’t tell us that,” Toomey replied. “All he said was to ask if you would come for a discussion and a meal.” Toomey smiled. “And I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Fowler, when Mrs. McCann cooks up a big meal for company and all, it ain’t somethin’ you want to miss.”

  Cora McCann came out onto the front porch to welcome them, inviting Sue to join her and the other women in the kitchen, while E.B. was directed to the parlor.

  “So, what are we going to do about Denbigh?” Curt Jennings was asking, just as E.B. stepped in through the door.

  “Nothin’, if you ask me,” Louis Killian answered. “I mean, do you have any idea how many men he’s got workin’ for him? The best thing to do, I believe, is let Sheriff Hightower or Marshal Tipton handle it.”

  “Sheriff Hightower never comes up here, and you know it. You also know that neither Marshal Tipton nor any of the folks in Fullerton are goin’ to do anythin’ about it,” McCann said. “Denbigh has them all buffaloed.”

  “Maybe the Petersons have the right idea,” Donovan suggested.

  “Peterson sold out to Denbigh,” McCann said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “So did Thompson and Pratt,” Putnam added.

  “I talked to Don Peterson just before he and Marian left,” Donovan said. “He went two years without making a crop. He said he couldn’t hang on anymore, so he went back to Kentucky.”

  “Don’t you see? That’s what Denbigh wants,” McCann said. “He wants us all to sell out to him.”

  “That would be better than just leaving,” Donovan said. “And if we get squeezed down so much that we can’t make it, the only thing we can do is leave our property for Denbigh to grab.”

  “If you ask me, this whole business about collecting a toll on the road is just a way of forcing us to leave,” Byrd said.

  “Which is why we’re holding this meeting now, to figure out what is the best way to handle it,” McCann said.

  McCann was the one who had called all of his neighbors together to discuss the “Denbigh” problem. And though it was a serious meeting, it had turned into a social event as well, as evidenced by the gathering of wives in the kitchen putting together a meal that everyone would enjoy later in the day.

  “Ian, is it true that the son of a bitch actually killed two of your cows for no reason?” Frank Tanner asked.

  “Yes,” McCann answered. “Well, it wasn’t actually Denbigh that done it. It was a fella by the name of Bleeker.”

  “That don’t matter none whether it was Bleeker that killed your cows, or Butrum that killed them two strangers that come to town,” Tanner said. “Both Butrum and Bleeker work for Denbigh, which means he was behind it, so as far as I’m concerned, he is as guilty as they are.”

  “Butrum isn’t guilty,” E.B. said.

  “What do you mean he isn’t guilty? You said yourself you seen him kill those two men,” Jennings said.

  “I didn’t say he didn’t kill them. I said he wasn’t guilty. At least that’s what it says in the paper.” E.B. began to read from the latest copy of the Fullerton Defender.

  “Displaying a total lack of moral courage, Marshal Tipton has refused to even hold a hearing on the terrible events so recently transpired.

  “Ollie Butrum, a man who is known not only for his prowess with a firearm, but a willingness to use it, demonstrated his skill and callousness when, with but little provocation, he shot down Billy Gilbert and Jeff Hodges, the two cowboys who now lie buried in the Fullerton Cemetery, many miles from their home.”

  Putting the paper down, Fowler looked at the others. “Gentlemen, like it or not, this is what we are going to have to deal with, and we are going to be on our own. I’m afraid that it is exactly as Ian said. We aren’t going to be able to count on either Sheriff Hightower or Marshal Tipton for help.”

  “Sounds to me like that newspaper fella—what’s his name?” Killian asked.

  “Bryce. John Bryce,” Fowler replied.

  “Yes. John Bryce. Sounds to me like he’s the only fella in town who has any gumption in him at all,” Killian said.

  “Maybe so, but just talkin’ about all this ain’t gettin’ us nowhere,” Jennings said. “What we need to do is, we need to put our heads together and come up with an idea of what to do. We need some sort of a plan.”

  “Well, ain’t that why we’re here?” Killian asked.

  “Yeah, McCann, you called this meeting,” Tanner said. “Just what is it you have in mind? Or do you have any idee a’ tall?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” McCann said, “and yes, I think I do have an idea. I believe we should all go into town at the same time, and when we come to the toll gate, refuse to pay the toll. If all of us stick together, they won’t be able to do anything about it,” McCann said.

  “Now you’re talkin’,” Tanner said. “I’ve been sayin’ all along that if we was to all go together, there wouldn’t be nothin’ Denbigh could do to us.”

  “I don’t know,” E.B. Fowler said. “I’ve been through the toll gate and the one thing I’ve noticed is, all the guards there have guns. I don’t have to tell you that, Ian, seeing as they killed two of your cows.”

  “That’s not a problem. We’ll carry guns as well,” Frank Tanner said. He smiled, and rubbed his hands together

  “No, Frank, no guns,” Ian said.

  “No guns? What do you mean no guns? If they are armed, how are we going to fight them if we don’t have guns?” Frank asked. Frank Tanner pulled his pistol out and showed it to the others. “They don’t call the Colt an equalizer for nothin’, you know.”

  “McCann is right. If we carry guns, there is sure to be shooting,” E.B. Fowler said. “And if there is shooting, someone is goin’ to get killed.”

  “Yes, well, that’s generally what happens when you have a war,” Frank said. “And this is a war as sure as the one we just come through. I was at Antietam, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg, and by God, we showed those Rebels a thing or two. If I wasn’t afeared of the Rebels, I ain’t about to be afeared of some Englishman and the polecats he’s got workin’ for him.”

  “You forget, Frank, some of us were in those same battles,” Killian said.

  “Then you know what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Only we was on the other side,” Killian added.

  Tanner was quiet for a moment, then he nodded. “Yeah, well, we’re all on the same side now, ain’t we? All I’m tryin’ to say is, when the killin’ starts, we just need to make certain that nearly all the ones getting’ kilt are the ones on the other side.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a war,” McCann said.

  “Then you tell me what you’re talkin’ about, Ian,” Frank said. “Did you or did you not call this meeting after what happened to you when you tried to take your cows into the Indian agency?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you not just say that we should all go together?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what, exactly, are we supposed to do when we get to the tollgate? Get down on our knees and say, ‘Please, sir, can we pass?’”

  “Not quite like that,” McCann said. “But I do think that if we present a united front, a group this large all refusing to pay the toll, there won’t be anything they can do about it. I don’t believe they would just start shooting us in cold blood.”

  “What makes you think that?” Tanner asked. “They kilt them two cowboys for purt near no reason a’ tall. And don’t forget they kilt your two cows, and while it’s not the same thing as killin’ a person, it sure shows what kind of people the
y are.”

  “Frank may have a point, Ian,” Jennings said. “I mean, more than likely Denbigh’s men wouldn’t start shootin’ us down in cold blood, but if they did take a mind to do it, oughten we to have some guns to defend ourselves?”

  “If we have guns, it wouldn’t be in cold blood, would it?” McCann replied. “I know it takes some courage for you to do what I’m askin’ you to do, but I do believe our best chance is just to call their bluff.”

  “Ian, let me ask you this,” Tanner said. “Did you think they would shoot your cows?”

  “No, I didn’t have no idea a’ tall they would do somethin’ like that,” McCann admitted. “But cows aren’t people. I don’t think they would shoot a person down in cold blood.”

  “Oh, no? What about what happened in town?” Killian asked. “Didn’t Butrum shoot those two strangers down in cold blood?”

  “It wasn’t exactly cold blood,” E.B. said. “I was there, I saw it. The two strangers were armed. They were not only armed, they went for their guns first. I’m not saying Butrum didn’t prod them into drawing, but they did draw first. And if they had not gone for their guns, I don’t think Butrum would have shot them. Not in front of the whole town.”

  “The newspaper said Butrum drew with no provocation,” Jennings said.

  “No, it says that he had little provocation,” E.B. corrected. “We don’t know what kind of provocation they might have had. And, like I said, the two men were armed, and they did draw first. Or at least, they tried to draw first.”

  “That is exactly why I don’t want us to go armed,” McCann said.

  “Who put you in charge?” Frank demanded.

  “I put myself in charge,” McCann said. “I’m the one that called this meeting, and I’m the one who suggested that we all go together next time we go to town. So if you are going to be a part of this, then I am in charge.”

  “I have no problem with Ian being in charge, whether self appointed or not,” E.B. said. “But just to make it official, I say we vote on it. I nominate Ian McCann as head of our group.”

  “I second that,” another said.

  The vote was unanimous, including even a belated vote from Frank Tanner.

  “Yeah, all right, I figure when you come right down to it, especially since you got the biggest ranch of all of us, that you are the one should be in charge,” Tanner said.

  “Good. If that’s all settled, then I think we should go in next Saturday morning,” McCann said.

  After that, the meeting broke into several conversations, some about what was going to happen on Saturday, but several others of a more personal nature.

  “Ian,” Cora McCann said, sticking her head into the parlor. “I don’t want to break up your meeting, but we can eat anytime you are ready.”

  “I was born ready to eat,” Dennis Donovan said and the others, looking at his rather corpulent frame, laughed as they all started toward the dining room.

  Of all the ranchers present, Ian McCann was the only one who could host such a meeting, because he was the only one who had a house large enough to accommodate so many people. Though there were too many people to sit at the table and eat, the table did serve a useful purpose by being filled with dozens of dishes of meats, vegetables, and bread, along with cakes, pies, and cobblers.

  As the guests filed by the table, even the shiest among them had no trouble in filling their plates. Ralph and Amanda Putnam, who were the Fowlers’ nearest neighbors, found a place near them to sit and eat.

  “Tell me, E.B.,” Ralph said. “Do you really think we will be able to force Denbigh to take down that tollgate by doing this?”

  “I don’t know,” E.B. answered truthfully. “But we’ve got to start somewhere. We can’t just sit back and let him run roughshod over us like this.”

  “Maybe Frank is right,” Ralph suggested. “Maybe we should all go armed.”

  E.B. shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not yet anyway.”

  “Not yet?”

  “Let’s face it, Ralph. There may come a time when this develops into a shooting war. I hope it does not, but I will fight before I completely surrender to him.”

  “Yeah,” Ralph said. “Yeah, I guess I will too.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fullerton, Dakota Territory

  As a newspaperman, John Bryce spent a lot of time visiting with the good citizens of the town of Fullerton, not only to sell advertising and subscriptions to his paper, but also to gather news and run down rumors. Following up on a few leads, John learned that the small ranchers and farmers of the valley were planning to gather into one large group to come into town on Saturday, hoping by sheer numbers to force their way through the gate. He decided that he would ride out to the gate to witness the confrontation.

  “John, no,” Millie said. “There’s no telling what might happen out there. It’s too dangerous.”

  John chuckled. “Darlin’, Shiloh was dangerous, I was there. Fredericksburg was dangerous, and I was there too. What happens today will be newsworthy, but it won’t be dangerous. And I wouldn’t be much of a newspaperman if I let a little danger keep me from going out there to cover the story.”

  “All right, but please be careful,” Millie said.

  Realizing that the tollgate across the Ellendale Road would be the point of confrontation between the small ranchers, farmers, and Denbigh’s men, John approached from Fullerton, which put him on the north side of the tollgate. He came to within sixty feet of the gate, then stopped. One of the gate guards, a man that John knew only as Bleeker, called out to him.

  “You comin’ through the gate, newspaperman?”

  “I don’t think so,” John replied.

  “Then what are you doing out here?”

  John dismounted, tied off his horse, then climbed halfway up the side of a small hill and sat down. “I’m just taking the air,” he said.

  “Taking the air, you say? Well, my advice to you is, not to get in the way.”

  “Get in the way of what?”

  “A bunch of pig farmers are going to try and surprise us, only we ain’t the ones goin’ to get surprised, if you get my meanin’. So, like I said, just don’t get in the way,” Bleeker repeated.

  John wasn’t all that surprised that Bleeker knew about what the farmers and small ranchers had planned. After all, he knew about it, so it wasn’t that much of a secret. But exactly what that would portend, he had no idea.

  The elevated area where John chose to wait did give him an excellent view of the tollgate, as well as the road on the other side, so he settled in to watch, not having any idea as to what might transpire. Shortly after he sat down, he saw someone else come up to join the two gate guards. He felt a start when he recognized that the new man was Ollie Butrum. Butrum was easy to recognize, because he was head and shoulders shorter than the other two men.

  Although Butrum had killed the two young men in town a few days earlier, he was a fairly recent addition to Denbigh’s company. But even before the shootout the other day, Butrum’s reputation with a gun had become well known throughout the Dakota Territory.

  For a moment, John wondered what Butrum was doing here; then he realized that Denbigh had probably decided to send Butrum to the tollgate to deal with the farmers and ranchers, rather than let Bleeker and Carver deal with them. That wasn’t good. Bleeker and Carver were bad enough by themselves, but the addition of Butrum could only make the situation much more volatile.

  Even as John was contemplating Butrum’s presence, he saw, approaching from the south, a rather substantial body of men. The ranchers and farmers were coming, and John felt a sense of foreboding. He had come out here thinking the challenge to Denbigh’s right to charge a toll might be newsworthy. But now, with Butrum standing alongside the gate guards, he feared it could turn into something much worse.

  John wanted to yell at them, to tell them to go back, and he actually stood up, preparatory to doing just that, when Bleeker called out to the approaching riders.


  “Hold up there!” Bleeker shouted, stepping out into the middle of the road in front of the gate.

  The natural formation of the terrain amplified the voices so that from John’s viewpoint he could hear, as well as see, everything that was going on.

  “Where do you think you are going?” Bleeker’s voice was challenging, almost taunting.

  “We are going into town,” McCann replied, his voice coming to him, a little more subdued by distance than was Bleeker’s, but clearly defiant. The farmers and ranchers continued to approach the gate. That they were able to do so without further challenge emboldened them, and they came all the way up until stopped by the gate itself.

  “Open the tollgate, Bleeker,” McCann demanded.

  “Are you in charge of this group?” Bleeker asked.

  “I am.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “There are twenty-three of us.”

  “Then the toll will be twenty-three dollars.”

  “Bleeker, you can tell your boss that we don’t intend to pay the toll,” McCann said. “Not now, not ever again. And as you can see, we got no cows with us for you to kill. Now, kindly step aside and open that gate.”

  “I’ll open the gate when you give me twenty-three dollars.”

  “And if we don’t give you twenty-three dollars, what are you going to do? Do you plan on shooting two or three of us like you did my cattle?” McCann asked. “I don’t think even you would shoot a man in cold blood, so I’m asking—no, I’m demanding, that you open that tollgate.”

  “Mister, you ain’t in position to demand nothing. And you ain’t goin’ through the gate without paying the twenty-three dollars,” Bleeker said.

  “Yes we are, and by God you ain’t stoppin’ us,” Frank Tanner said, moving away from the rest of them. That was when John saw that Tanner was holding a gun in his hand, and he was pointing it at Bleeker, who, so far, had not drawn his own pistol.

  “Frank! I said no guns!” McCann shouted.