Dakota Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Yeah. But like I said, she has really been strong. Her strength is to be expected, though, since she comes from a good family. Her father owns a plantation in Mississippi, and was a brigadier general in the Confederate Army. Her husband, Emil, was a good man who met her when he came down to Mississippi after the war. He was a Yankee civil engineer, so her father didn’t approve, but she defied her father, married Emil for love, and came out here with him when he took a job with Peabody Mining Company.”

  “Is she doing all right with the boardinghouse?”

  “It’s not just the boardinghouse, you know,” John said. “She also owns the Coffee Cup Restaurant, and the Fullerton Ladies Emporium. That’s how she wound up as president of the Fullerton Business Association. And Kenny, the boy that works for me? He’s a regular entrepreneur. In addition to delivering papers for me, he mows lawns in the summer, shovels snow in the winter, cuts and delivers firewood, and helps Jimmy out at the livery stable. Yes, sir, that boy is going to be a wealthy man someday.”

  In the New York Saloon, Lucas Meacham sat at his usual table in the back of the room, listening to the patrons who had witnessed the shooting yesterday regale those who hadn’t seen it, with the story, told and retold, until eventually it became so embellished as to bear little resemblance with the facts.

  “‘No man relieves me of my pistol and lives! Die, you impudent dog!’ Butrum shouted as he pushed through the doors, a blazing gun in each hand, and a knife clinched in his teeth.”

  Unexplained was how Butrum could have shouted such a challenge while clutching a knife in his teeth.

  “‘You have met your match, Ollie Butrum. You will take your supper in hell!’ Matt Jensen replied as he drew both guns and returned fire, his bullets finding their mark.”

  Meacham shook his head in disgust as he saw Matt Jensen being promoted to the status of hero right in front of him. At least the story, as reported in the Extra edition the Perkins kid had brought to the saloon earlier, more closely adhered to what actually happened.

  Looking up from the story, he saw Logan, Caleb, and Ben coming into the saloon. The only reason he knew their names was because he heard them spoken last night. He’d also learned last night that these three men worked for Denbigh.

  Seeing them gave him an idea, and getting up from his table, he walked up to the bar.

  “Gentlemen, if you would join me at my table, I’ll pay for your drinks,” Meacham said.

  “You’ll buy the drinks?” Logan said. “Hell, yeah, we’ll join you.”

  Paul poured whiskey for the three men and Meacham paid for them. The four men returned to Meacham’s table.

  “I don’t like to look a gift horse in the mouth, mister, but why did you buy us drinks?”

  “You three men ride for Denbigh, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Caleb said. “Only, he don’t like to be called that. He likes to be called Lord Denbigh.”

  “Why do you ask?” Ben wanted to know.

  “Have you been back out to the ranch since last night? What I’m asking is, have you told him about Butrum?”

  The three looked at each other. Then Logan spoke for them. “No, we ain’t told him yet,” Logan said. “It ain’t nothin’ we’re lookin’ forward to doin’, so we was kind of hopin’ he’d find out about it on his own.”

  “Suppose I tell him for you,” Meacham suggested.

  “What? Why would you want to do that?”

  “I have my reasons,” Meacham answered.

  Logan smiled broadly and looked at the other two riders. Then he reached his hand across the table to shake with Meacham.

  “Mister,” he said. “We’d be pleased to let you tell Lord Denbigh about Butrum gettin’ hisself killed last night.”

  Meacham had not been specific with the three riders as to why he wanted to be the one to tell about Butrum. But he believed it was possible that Butrum getting killed may have just elevated his own position with Denbigh. It was time that he rode out to have another visit with the man.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  As Lucas Meacham approached the tollgate, he thought about telling them that, like them, he was working for Denbigh. If he didn’t tell them, they would charge him a dollar every time he rode through, and that could get expensive.

  Meacham smiled at the thought. What did he care how much it cost him, as long as he got every dollar back? And then he had an idea. What if he claimed more trips through the gate than he actually made?

  No. That wasn’t such a good idea. If Denbigh found out what he was doing, it could mess up the entire thing. He was going to make enough money just by killing Matt Jensen. But if he hadn’t known before, he knew now that killing Matt Jensen wasn’t going to be easy.

  Bleeker came out to meet Meacham as he approached the gate.

  “Well, now, seems to me like you just come through here yesterday. What’s the matter, you don’t like Fullerton?”

  “Just take my dollar and keep your mouth shut,” Meacham said.

  “Mister, I don’t know who you are,” Bleeker began, but he stopped in mid-sentence when he saw how quickly Meacham drew his pistol.

  “You’ve got two choices, mister,” Meacham said. “You can take my dollar and keep your mouth shut, or you can…” Meacham swung his pistol toward Carver when he saw Carver trying to sneak out his own gun. “I wouldn’t,” he said.

  Carver moved his hand away from his gun.

  “What do I have to do to make you take my dollar?” Meacham asked.

  “Don’t go gettin’ a burr under your saddle, mister, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Bleeker said. He took the dollar proffered by Meacham. “Open the gate, Carver, let this gentleman through.”

  “Just be glad Butrum ain’t here,” Carver said. “He ain’t as nice as we are.”

  “Butrum is dead,” Meacham said as he rode through the open gate.

  “What? How? When?”

  Carver’s shouted question was ignored.

  “Is Lord Denbigh expecting you, sir?” Tolliver asked when he answered the door pull ring.

  “No.”

  “Wait here, I will see if he will grant you an audience.”

  “Tell him Butrum is dead,” Meacham said.

  “Oh, dear, that is news,” Tolliver said.

  Meacham chuckled. “I must say, you don’t seem all broke up over it.”

  “I cannot lie, sir,” Tolliver replied. “I cannot work up any degree of distress over his demise. Wait here, please.”

  “How did it happen?” Denbigh asked a moment later, when Meacham was shown into his study.

  “Jensen killed him.”

  “Was the contest fair?”

  “It wasn’t fair at all.”

  “I didn’t think so. Butrum was exceptionally skilled in the use of his pistol, could withdraw it from its holster quite quickly, and discharge it with extreme accuracy. I can understand how someone would have to take unfair advantage in order to best him.”

  Meacham shook his head. “You got it all wrong. It wasn’t fair because Butrum already had his gun out and fired first. He missed, and before he could fire a second time, Jensen drew his gun and killed him.”

  “That is hard to believe,” Denbigh said.

  “It’s not hard to believe at all. Matt Jensen is known all over the West. Nobody outside of Dakota Territory ever heard of that little turd you hired.”

  “It wouldn’t have happened if you had done your job,” Denbigh said. “I hired you to kill Jensen and you haven’t done it. Now I am out my best man.”

  “He wasn’t your best man,” Meacham said.

  “Oh? And who is?”

  “I am.”

  “But you don’t work for me. I have contracted with you to do one thing, and you have not done that.”

  “I’m going to do it, but the conditions have changed,” Meacham said.

  “You have already changed the conditions once,” Denbigh said, obviously irritated by
the way the conversation was going. “I will not raise the agreed-upon amount.”

  “No need to,” Meacham replied. “I’ll still kill him for three thousand dollars, just like we agreed. But I also want to work for you full time. I want to take Butrum’s place.”

  “I thought you were quite the paladin, roaming the West in pursuit of desperadoes for the reward money.”

  “I’m tired of that,” Meacham said. “Most of the time, you don’t get more’n a couple hundred dollars for it, and sometimes you don’t get nothin’ at all. I’m lookin’ for a job that can use my particular skills and will let me settle down.”

  “I see. And how good are your particular skills?” Denbigh asked.

  “They are good enough.”

  “So you say. Suppose we arrange a demonstration?”

  “All right. Want me to shoot a flower, the way you did?”

  “Not quite,” Denbigh said. “I will come up with a way for you to display your prowess.”

  “Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

  Five minutes later Denbigh, Meacham, Tolliver, and several others from the household were out on the well-kept lawn, standing next to the exquisite flower garden of Denbigh Manor. Tolliver’s face was pale with fright. His right arm was extended to his side, and he was holding a whiskey glass.

  “Now, when I say drop it, you drop it,” Meacham said. “I will shoot the glass before it hits the ground.”

  “Not good enough,” Denbigh said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You will, no doubt, begin your draw as soon as you tell Mr. Tolliver to drop the glass. That gives you an advantage. I propose that you say nothing. Allow Mr. Tolliver to drop the glass in his own time. Then, once you see the glass leave his hand, you can draw and shoot. If you are successful, then I will believe that your skills are certainly adequate for the task.”

  “I don’t know. Something like that might make me hurry the shot. I could wind up hitting your man, instead of the glass.”

  “Oh, my!” Tolliver said.

  Denbigh had brought his own dueling pistol out, loaded and capped. He now raised his pistol and pointed it at Meacham.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Tolliver,” Denbigh said. “If Mr. Meacham’s bullet so much as nicks you, I will kill him.”

  “What?” Meacham said. “If I hit him, it won’t be my fault! You are the one who changed the rules on me.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter whose fault it will be,” Denbigh said. “My declaration stands. If you so much as nick Mr. Tolliver with your bullet, I will kill you.”

  “What kind of demonstration is that?” Meacham asked.

  “Quite a good one, I would imagine,” Denbigh replied. “If you think about it, this very effectively duplicates the condition of a real encounter, because now, as in the case of an actual quarrel, your own life is in danger. You do have the choice now of backing out if you wish. But if you do back out, I must warn you now that any and all business arrangements we may have discussed will be considered null and void.”

  “Null and void? What does that mean?”

  “It means that our heretofore-agreed-upon contract pertaining to Matt Jensen is no more. No matter whether you fulfill the contract or not, I will pay you nothing.”

  “And if I do the demonstration?”

  “If you do it successfully, then our agreed-upon contract will still be in force, and, you will be the newest, and most highly compensated, employee of my fiefdom. So, which will it be, Mr. Meacham? Will you make the try, or not?”

  “I’ll do it,” Meacham said.

  “Good for you,” Denbigh replied. Aiming the pistol at the side of Meacham’s head, he cocked it, the hammer making a click as it came back and locked into place.

  “Do you have to point that thing right at my head?” Meacham asked.

  “Indeed I do.”

  Meacham cleared his throat, then pulled his pistol from the holster to loosen it, before dropping it back. He held his hand, slightly cupped, just over the holster. He bent slightly at the knees, and just as slightly, leaned forward.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  “Mr. Tolliver, you may drop the glass at anytime you wish.”

  Tolliver gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

  “And don’t worry. You will not be struck by an errant shot for, should that occur, I will kill him.”

  For a long moment, there was an eerie tableau vivant in the garden. In the stable, ahorse whickered; overhead, a crow called; and a freshening breeze created a whisper in the leaves of the aspen trees and caused the windmill blades to begin spinning.

  Then, with a grimace, Tolliver dropped the glass. As quick as thought, Meacham drew and fired. The glass was shattered.

  “Ahh!! I’m shot, I’m shot!” Tolliver shouted.

  At Tolliver’s yell, Meacham looked toward Denbigh, and was relieved to see the Englishman smile and lower his pistol.

  “You aren’t shot, Mr. Tolliver,” Denbigh said. “That’s merely shattered glass. Mr. Meacham was brilliant. I believe he has adequately proven his expertise to me.”

  “Am I hired?” Meacham asked.

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Meacham. You are hired.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “John, Mr. Jensen, you might want to come see this,” Millie said.

  Matt was in the back of the newspaper office with John, trying to learn the workings and mechanisms of the Washington Hand Press, the machine with which the Fullerton Defender was printed. Millie was out front, sweeping the porch.

  “What is it?” John asked, starting toward the front door.

  “It’s Denbigh.”

  At the south end of town, Matt saw five riders coming in, one rider in the lead, then four behind him riding two abreast. Behind the four riders was as elegant a coach as Matt had ever seen. It was pulled by four white horses, driven by a liveried driver. The coach itself was green, the wheels were yellow, and there was a large crest on the door.

  The coach was followed by six more riders in three ranks of two.

  “John, you asked about Lucas Meacham?” Matt asked.

  “Yes.”

  “There he is,” Matt said, pointing to the rider who was leading the others. “Have you ever seen him before?”

  “No, I haven’t,” John said. “Not only have I never seen him with Denbigh, I’ve never even seen him in town before. He must be new.”

  “New to you, but not to me,” Matt said. “I’ve been seeing him for several days, now.”

  As the coach passed the newspaper office, Matt saw its occupant looking toward him with great interest.

  “That,” John said, “is Nigel Denbigh.”

  The hollow, clopping of hoofbeats from seventeen horses filled the street with sound, and much of the town turned out to watch the parade.

  “Does he always make such an arrival?” Matt asked.

  “He always arrives by coach, and he always has a group of men who come with him,” Millie said. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this many before. I guess he has brought more than usual for the funeral.”

  “The funeral?”

  “Millie ran into Fay Lisenby at the mercantile. Her husband is the undertaker, and she told Millie that Denbigh wanted a big funeral for Butrum.”

  “Has anyone else who works for him ever died or been killed? What I’m asking is, is this unusual?”

  “I don’t know that anyone who worked for him died or was killed before now,” John said. “That said, this is still a very unusual event. Butrum wasn’t that well liked of a man.” He made a scoffing sound that might have been a laugh. “What am I talking about? Butrum was hated. Nobody ever had one good thing to say about him, not even the others who rode for Denbigh. You have to wonder why Denbigh would even bother to have a funeral for him.”

  “To send me a message, I suspect,” Matt replied.

  “You think he knows about you already?” John asked. “Wait, what am I saying? Of course he knows about you. Eve
ryone in town, probably in all of Elm Valley, knows by now that you killed Butrum. And my bet is, they are all cheering the fact.”

  “Maybe I’ll just make it easier for him to know me,” Matt suggested.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to the funeral.”

  “I don’t know how you can conduct a funeral for that man,” Millie said to her father. “He was pure evil.”

  “All have sinned and fallen short of God, daughter,” Reverend Landers replied. “And I would preach a funeral for him if I were asked, but I have already been told that there will be no funeral per se, in that no prayers will said and no words will be spoken. Denbigh wanted to hold the service, such as it is, in the church, but I told him that, without words being spoken, there would be no service in the church.”

  “Good for you,” Millie said, hugging her father. “Why is it that the only two men who will stand up to Denbigh are my father and my husband?”

  “I don’t think we are the only two, Millie,” John said. “Seems to me as if Matt has already started.”

  “Oh,” Millie said. “Yes, I guess you are right at that.”

  Butrum’s body lay in state at the Lisenby Undertaker Parlor, displayed in a black lacquer coffin that was extensively decorated with silver trim. The top half of the lid was open so that anyone who wished could view his body. The death grimace on his pasty face made him even uglier in death than he had been in life. Because he was so small, his burial suit had to be cut to fit, and it made him look more like a grotesque gargoyle than a human being.

  Quite a few citizens of the town came, some because they did business with Denbigh and thought it would be to their advantage to come, but most out of a sense of morbid curiosity. As they filed by the open coffin to look down at the pale face of the deceased, someone would occasionally, more out of habit than conviction, cross himself, then walk away. The expression on the faces of most, however, showed no sympathy for the man, and a few even showed satisfaction that he was dead.