Dakota Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  “Nor should you be,” Matt said.

  “Truth to tell, mister, my last name ain’t really Smith, it’s just one my ma took. She died two years ago when I was twelve.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Mr. Tobin lets me stay in a nice room over at the stable and charges me nothing because I muck out the stalls for him. And Mr. Coker, he gives me three meals a day because I sweep the floors for him. I have a good life.”

  Matt thought of his own orphaned boyhood and how he had been little more than a slave to the Soda Springs Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. It would have been much better had he been on his own, like this boy. Others might feel sorry for Jimmy, but Matt knew that the boy was serious when he said he had a good life.

  Matt smiled. “I guess you do at that,” he said.

  “Do you want me to go over there and start spyin’ on him now?” Jimmy asked.

  “No. He has seen us talking, so if you get too close to him now, he might get suspicious,” Matt said.

  “Oh, yes, I see what you mean,” Jimmy replied. “I guess you have to pay attention to things like this when you are first learnin’.”

  “And be careful,” Matt cautioned.

  “Yes, sir, I will be,” Jimmy promised. “Oh, oh,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Them three men that just come in? They ride for Denbigh. That’s the same man Butrum worked for. I don’t reckon they’re goin’ to be any too happy over Butrum getting’ hisself kilt like he done.”

  “Hey, bartender,” one of the three men called. “Where at is Butrum? How come he ain’t standin’ out on the front porch like he nearly always is?”

  “Ha! I’ll bet he’s upstairs with a whore,” one of the others said.

  “Are you kiddin’? He’s so ugly, not even a whore will have anything to do with him,” the third said, and all three laughed.

  “What’ll it be, gents?” Paul, the bartender, asked.

  “Whiskey,” the first said. “And you ain’t answered my question. Where at is Butrum?”

  “He’s down at Lisenby’s,” Paul replied.

  “Lisenby’s. What’s that? Another saloon?”

  “Maybe it’s a whorehouse for ugly people,” the third said, and again all three men laughed.

  “It is a mortuary,” Paul said.

  “A what?”

  “It is an undertaker’s parlor.”

  “Well, what the hell is he doing down there?”

  “He’s dead, cowboy,” Stan said from the opposite end of the bar. “When someone is dead, they generally wind up in a mortuary.”

  “Dead? What the hell do you mean, dead? Who killed him?”

  Neither Stan nor Paul answered the question.

  “You heard me. Who killed him? Whoever it was had to have shot him in the back, ’cause there ain’t no man alive faster.”

  “Jimmy, you’d better move away from the table,” Matt said quietly.

  The cowboy pulled his gun and pointed it at the bartender. “I expect you had better tell me right now who killed him, else I’ll put a ball in your brain.”

  “I killed him,” Matt said, his words loud and clear.

  The cowboy turned toward Matt. “You killed him?”

  Matt stood up. “I did,” he said.

  “What did you do, mister? Shoot him in the back?”

  “You’re name is Logan, ain’t it?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah, Logan, what of it?” Logan replied. He was still glaring at Matt.

  “Logan, he didn’t shoot Butrum in the back. He took him on, face-to-face. And not only that, Butrum already had his gun in his hand.”

  “What? You expect me to believe that?” Logan replied.

  “Believe it, Logan, because it’s true,” Stan said.

  “I seen it my ownself. Wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it,” one of the other saloon patrons said. “But what they are tellin’ you is true. Butrum come chargin’ in here with his gun in his hand. This fella was standin’ at the bar drinkin’ a beer, but he dropped his beer, drew his gun, and killed Butrum.”

  “What did you shoot him for?” Logan asked.

  “He was pointing a gun at me,” Matt said. “I don’t like it when people point their gun at me. I don’t even like it when someone is holding a gun in front of me, whether they are pointing it at me or not.”

  Logan looked down at the gun he was holding.

  “Like you,” Matt continued. “I would feel much better if you would put that gun away.”

  “Ha! Would you now?” Logan replied.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “What if I decide I don’t want to put it away?”

  “Then I will kill you,” Matt answered easily.

  “Are you daft, mister? I’m holding a gun in my hand.”

  “So was Butrum,” Matt answered easily.

  “Logan, put the gun away,” one of the other two said.

  “I ain’t puttin’ my gun away.”

  “What if he starts shootin’, and winds up shootin’ all of us?”

  “That’s it! Caleb, you and Ben pull your guns too. I don’t care how fast he is, he can’t kill all three of us.”

  “What if he kills just one of us?” Caleb asked.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. He probably can’t get more’n one of us before we get him.”

  “Which one?” Ben asked. “Which one of us is willin’ to be the one that gets hisself kilt for the other two?”

  “Put your gun away now,” Matt said. Although he was standing, facing Logan, he had not drawn his gun, nor had he made any move toward it.

  Logan hesitated for another moment, then slipped his gun back into its holster.

  “Yeah, well, all right, I can’t see gettin’ into a fight over Butrum,” Logan said. “There didn’t none of us like that little son of a bitch away. Come on,” he said to the others. “Let’s go over to the Mex place. Hell, I like tequila better anyway.”

  “We just got here,” Ben said.

  “I’m goin’ with Logan,” Caleb said. “If you want to stay in here all by yourself, you go ahead.”

  “No,” Ben said. “I’m comin’ too.”

  Without another word, the three men turned and left the saloon. There had been a collective holding of breath by everyone in the saloon, and now, as one, they let it out, followed by several loud exclamations.

  “Damn! If that don’t beat all I ever seen! He was standin’ there without a gun in his hand, and bluffed down three armed men.”

  “I don’t think it was a bluff,” Stan said. “I think he would have killed them if they had tried anything.”

  “What are you talking about? Logan already had his gun in hand. And maybe Logan ain’t as fast as Butrum was, but he is pretty damn fast. I’ve seen him shoot.”

  “He wasn’t bluffing,” Stan said again resolutely.

  All the other patrons turned to look at Matt, but he had already retaken his seat at the table, and he was just sitting there, staring into his beer.

  “Damn. He wasn’t bluffing, was he?” someone said.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Matt met the other residents of Ma Perkins’ Boarding House at breakfast the next morning. Mr. Proffer was the only other male resident. Miss Grimes was a schoolteacher, Mrs. Mouser and Mrs. Gibson were, like Lucy Perkins, widows, though they were much older.

  Kenny had already heard the news of Matt shooting Butrum, and he kept looking at Matt across the breakfast table.

  “Is it true?” Kenny asked. “Did you really do it?”

  “Is what true?” Lucy asked. “Kenny, don’t be rude to our guests.”

  “I’m not bein’ rude, Ma,” Kenny said. “I think it’s great, if it’s true.”

  “If what is true?”

  “When I went down to help Jimmy put out the feed in the livery stable this morning, he said that Mr. Jensen shot Butrum last night.”

  “Kenny, what a thing to say!” Lucy said.

 
; “It’s true, Ma. Jimmy seen it.”

  “Jimmy saw it,” Miss Grimes corrected.

  “He told you too?”

  “I was correcting your grammar,” the schoolteacher said.

  “To hear Jimmy tell it, it must have been somethin’ to see,” Kenny said. “According to Jimmy, Butrum come into, uh, I mean came into the saloon with his gun in his hand, blazing away. His first shot missed Mr. Jensen, but Mr. Jensen drew his gun and shot back and didn’t miss. Jimmy said he had never seen anyone draw his gun as fast as Mr. Jensen drew his.”

  Throughout Kenny’s dissertation, Matt said not a word. Instead, he just picked up his cup of coffee and took a swallow.

  “Very good coffee, Mrs. Perkins,” Matt said, aware that she and everyone else at the table were now staring at him. He put the coffee cup down.

  “Is the boy telling the truth?” Proffer asked. “Did you kill Butrum last night?”

  “Yes,” Matt said. “Mrs. Perkins, I’m sorry if this distresses you. I’ll move out as quickly as I can.”

  “If you make him move out, I will move out as well,” Proffer said quickly.

  “Nonsense,” Lucy said. “Neither of you need move out. If Mr. Butrum was shooting at you, of course you had no choice but to defend yourself. And though I never met Mr. Butrum, I did read about him in the newspaper. I know that he has killed at least three men within the last month. I am not normally given to such sentiments, but in his case, I would say good riddance.”

  “Will there be a hearing?” Proffer asked.

  “Yes, I am to present myself to the marshal’s office at ten this morning.”

  “You may not know this, Mr. Jensen, but I am a retired lawyer,” Proffer said. “I would be glad to accompany you to the hearing, just to make certain that you are treated fairly. And I will do sopro bono.”

  “Pro bono?” Kenny asked.

  “It means he would do it for free,” Matt explained. He looked over at Proffer. “I would love to have you accompany me,” he said. “But I intend to pay for your services.”

  There was no courtroom as such, so the hearing was held in the marshal’s office, presided over by James Cornett, the city magistrate. Because of the lack of room, the only ones allowed in were those whose testimony would have direct bearing on the outcome of the case. That included those saloon patrons who were eyewitnesses. Matt asked for, and received permission for, Julius Proffer, duly licensed and a member of the bar, to be present as his counselor. Cornett agreed.

  The hearing took less than half an hour, and the magistrate ruled that the shooting was justifiable.

  “I got no reason to hold you, Jensen,” Marshal Tipton said, “so I ain’t goin’ to.” He raised his finger to make a point. “But I am goin’ to be keepin’ an eye on you. You say you’re workin’ for the newspaper, but I’ve got the idea in my mind that you ain’t just a handyman. I figure if you’re workin’ for John Bryce, he has somethin’ else in mind. So I’m tellin’ you right now, don’t you be makin’ no trouble for Nigel Denbigh. I don’t need it, and this town can’t afford it.”.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Matt said.

  When Matt returned to the newspaper office, John showed him a broadsheet.

  “I’ve put out another extra,” John said. “What do think?”

  “We have been doing a newspaper in this town for over two years,” Millie said. “In all that time, not one extra, but this is the second extra this month.”

  “Do you think this story doesn’t deserve an extra?” John asked.

  Millie smiled, then walked over to her husband and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek.

  “I think it absolutely deserves an extra,” she said. “I was just making an observation.”

  Matt took the broadsheet from John.

  EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA Deadly Encounter

  SHOOTOUT AT NEW YORK SALOON

  Butrum Killed

  Olliver Butrum, a killer employed by Nigel Denbigh and, in the opinion of this editor, Satan’s surrogate, was himself killed yesterday when he attempted, yet again, to ply his deadly avocation. Witnesses stated that Butrum rushed into the New York Saloon with wild and flashing eyes, his mouth contorted with anger, and with a blazing pistol in his hand.

  His target was Matt Jensen, a man who was standing at the bar enjoying a beer. What happened next sent Butrum to his Maker with what had to be the biggest surprise of his life. Confident in his own ability to dispense death by the adroit use of his pistol, Butrum encountered a man who was more than his equal. Matt Jensen, witnesses report, stood calmly as the bullets flew, drawing his own revolver in the blink of an eye and discharging it with deadly effect. Butrum went down with a .44-caliber ball lodged in his heart.

  As Nigel Denbigh’s employee, Butrum’s only job was to intimidate and, if necessary, kill in the enforcement of Denbigh’s illegal collection of tolls on the Ellendale Road. Butrum was quite good at his job and, within the month instant, sent three innocent men to their graves.

  Although the death of anyone should not be applauded, there are times when it is difficult not to be grateful for the demise of evil, even if that evil is incarnate in the form of a human being. Ollie Butrum was just such an incarnation and this is such a time.

  Matt read the story, then handed the paper back to John. “Denbigh is not going to like the story much,” he said. He chuckled. “Which is why I like it.”

  “Yes, well, it never hurts to tweak the beard of the giant when you can,” John replied.

  “Denbigh ain’t got no beard.”

  Both Matt and John turned toward the front door of the newspaper office, where they saw Jimmy Smith, the young man who worked both in the saloon and at the corral.

  “I know he has no beard. It’s a metaphor,” John said.

  “I know what a metaphor is. Miss Grimes taught us. It’s like calling someone a snake, when he ain’t really a snake,” Jimmy said.

  “Very good, Jimmy, very good,” John said. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I need to talk to Mr. Jensen,” Jimmy said. “Only, it has to be a secret.”

  “Does it have to do with the arrangement we have?” Matt asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s all right. You can talk in front of Mr. Bryce.”

  “The fella you was askin’ about? The one sittin’ at the table last night?”

  “Yes, what about him?”

  “His name is Lucas Meacham,” Jimmy said.

  “So that’s Lucas Meacham,” Matt said.

  “You mean you know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Matt said. “I’ve heard nothing good about him, but I have heard of him. He is what they call a regulator, someone who hunts wanted men for the reward. He seems to have followed me here,” Matt said. “Though I have no idea why. There is no paper out on me.”

  “Is this Meacham fellow going to be trouble?” John asked.

  “Let’s just say that he might be the joker in the deck.”

  Matt pulled a quarter from his pocket and handed it to Jimmy. “Thank you, Jimmy, that was good work.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jimmy replied, smiling happily as he pocketed the coin. “Oh, I know something else too,” he said.

  “About Meacham?”

  “No, sir, this ain’t nothin’ to do with what we was talkin’ about. This is about somethin’ else, some-thin’ Kenny Perkins told me.”

  “What would that be?” Matt asked.

  “Kenny’s ma is hopin’ you’ll go to the firemen’s ball come this Saturday.”

  John laughed out loud.

  “Are you?” Jimmy asked.

  “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Matt replied.

  “You didn’t tell Jimmy that, did you?” Lucy Perkins asked her son, her voice rising in exasperation.

  Kenny had just returned home after delivering the extra edition of the Defender, and casually mentioned to his mother that he had told Jimmy Smith about her expressed interest in Matt Jensen at
tending the firemen’s ball, which would be held the coming Saturday night.

  “Please don’t tell me that you told him that,” Lucy said.

  “But Ma, you said that yourself. I heard you tellin’ Mrs. Bryce that you hoped Mr. Jensen would go to the firemen’s ball.”

  “That was strictly between Millie and me,” Lucy said. “It was nobody else’s business, not your business, and certainly not Jimmy Smith’s business.”

  “But Jimmy is my best friend,” Kenny said. “I tell him everything.”

  “He may be your best friend, but he isn’t mine. You can tell him anything you want about yourself, but I don’t want you blabbing to him, or to anyone else, things about me.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” Kenny said contritely.

  Lucy sighed, then walked over, put her arms around her son, and pulled her to him.

  “You are a good boy, Kenny,” she said. “I know it has been hard on you without your father. It’s been hard on me as well, but you have been such a big help to me. I don’t know if I could make it without you.”

  “Are you going?” John asked. Jimmy had already left, and John and Matt were cleaning the press after the extra run.

  Matt laughed. “You are as nosy as Jimmy.”

  “Of course I’m nosy, I’m a newspaperman,” John said. “It is my profession to be nosy. What do you think of her?”

  “You mean what do I think of Ma Perkins?” Matt accented the word “Ma,” and John laughed out loud.

  “Yeah, Millie and I had a good laugh thinking about that. No doubt when you heard her name was Ma Perkins, you were expecting some fat old lady.”

  “I will admit I was surprised when she answered the door,” Matt said. “You are right, she is not someone I would think of as ‘Ma.’ She is an uncommonly handsome woman.”

  “She is a very good woman too,” John said. “A lot of women would not have had the gumption to stay if they lost their husband the way she lost Emil.”

  “What happened?”

  “Emil worked with dynamite. Evidently, there was a bad fuse or something, because the instant he held a match to it, the stick blew. That set off all the other sticks, and Emil was killed.”