Dakota Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  Matt stood in the back of the room and watched as residents of the town filed by, never once venturing up toward the coffin. He recognized Logan, Caleb, and Ben, Denbigh’s men who’d happened into the saloon shortly after he had killed Butrum, as well as Carver and Bleeker, the two men he had encountered at the tollgate on the road into town. He could tell that they recognized him as well, but neither of them approached him, nor did he see either of them say anything to Denbigh about it. He was sure that they’d never even told Denbigh about their encounter. He saw Logan point him out to two other men who had ridden into town with Denbigh’s entourage.

  “That’s Slater and Dillon,” John whispered, indicating the two men that Logan was talking to. “They are every bit as evil as Butrum was. I just don’t think they are quite as good with a gun.”

  Although Matt didn’t see anyone else point him out specifically, he knew that word had spread because at one time or the other, he saw every one of Denbigh’s men take a glance his way. Usually, though, when he looked back, they looked away, unwilling to meet his gaze.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would kindly step back from the bier, we can load the coffin into the hearse and proceed to the cemetery for the interment,” Lisenby said.

  The visitors began filing out of the room where the body had been displayed, while six of the men who had come to town with Denbigh acted as pallbearers, picking up the coffin and carrying it out to a glass-sided hearse, its ebony wood glistening in the morning sun. Four white horses stood in harness, each horse draped with a purple pall, their manes adorned by a black feather plume.

  Matt saw Meacham say something to Denbigh. Denbigh nodded, then approached Matt.

  “Mr. Jensen, I believe?” Denbigh asked in his clipped British accent.

  “That’s right.”

  “I am …”

  “I know who you are, Denbigh,” Matt said.

  Denbigh winced at being addressed in such a way, but he said nothing about it. “I am informed that you are the one who killed Mr. Butrum,”

  “I am.”

  “I am also told that a hearing found that the shooting was justified.”

  “It did.”

  “Nevertheless, whether justified or not, I must say that you certainly have a great deal of cheek. I mean, here you are, present for the funeral services of the very man you killed.”

  “You’re calling this a funeral, are you?”

  “Yes, of course. What would you call it?”

  “Seems to me like it is more of a burying than a funeral. At least from what I have noticed,” Matt said.

  “What do you mean? I have bought and paid for the finest coffin one can buy. And, as you can see, he is being transported to his final resting place in style.” Denbigh indicated the hearse that was even now receiving the coffin of the late Ollie Butrum.

  “Excuse me, Lord Denbigh,” Lisenby said, calling over to him from his position at the back of the hearse. “Will you be present for the interment?”

  “No,” Denbigh replied. “I shall leave that in your capable hands.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “You aren’t going to the cemetery to see your friend buried?” Matt asked.

  “He was my employee, not my friend,” Denbigh said.

  “As I said, it isn’t much of a funeral,” Matt repeated.

  “So, it is a service you want, is it? And would you have a vested cleric reading words and telling lies about what a noble life Mr. Butrum lived?”

  “Are you saying he did not live a noble life?”

  “You met him briefly,” Denbigh said. “Did he seem all that noble to you?”

  “I would say—no,” Matt replied.

  Quite unexpectedly, Denbigh laughed out loud, his laugh totally incongruous in the setting. In fact, some of the attendees, who had left the viewing room and were now watching the coffin being loaded onto the hearse, looked toward him in shock.

  “Oh, my, I seem to have upset some of the locals who, no doubt, feel that I am not showing the proper respect for the late Mr. Butrum.”

  This time it was Matt’s turn to laugh. “I doubt any of them are that concerned about it. In fact, I would say that most of them are glad to see him gone.”

  “Do you believe you did the town a favor by dispatching Mr. Butrum?”

  “I think that would be the consensus,” Matt replied.

  “Consensus? My, that’s quite a word for someone like you to use. Are you an educated man, Mr. Jensen?”

  “It depends on your definition of the term education,” Matt said. “I have some formal schooling, though most of my education was outside the classroom. But it was intense, thorough, and has been much more applicable to my life than would be a degree from some university.”

  “What you are saying is, you can track a bear, but you know nothing of Chaucer.”

  Matt began to quote:

  “When priests fail in their saws,

  And lords turn God’s laws

  Against the right;

  And lechery is held as privy solace,

  And robbery as free purchase,

  Beware then of ill!

  Then shall the Land of Albion

  Turn to confusion,

  As sometime it befell.”

  Denbigh applauded, clapping his hands lightly. “Hear, hear, Mr. Jensen, you do know Chaucer. Is it limited to Chaucer’s Prophecy?”

  “I’ve read The Canterbury Tales, and a few others of his works.”

  “I must say, I am impressed.”

  “Easily so, I would surmise.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps another day we can discuss English literature. In the meantime, I would be interested in what exactly brought on the confrontation between you and Mr. Butrum?”

  “He wanted to see proof that I had paid the toll.”

  “A simple enough request. Why didn’t you show him the coupon?”

  “I had no coupon, because I paid no toll.”

  “I see,” Denbigh said. “They tell me that Mr. Butrum came after you with his gun already in his hand. And you, or at least so they say, were standing there holding a beer in your hand. Yet despite that, you were able to drop the beer, withdraw your pistol from it sheath, and fire, all before he could shoot a second time. Is that true?”

  “It must be true if that’s what you heard,” Matt said. “You don’t strike me as a man who is easily lied to.”

  Denbigh nodded. “Very astute of you, Mr. Jensen. Very astute,” he said.

  “I hear that you have taken a position with the newspaper.”

  “I have.”

  “You are a man who is obviously good with a pistol, and despite a lack of formal education, you show a surprising acquaintance with Chaucer, but you would take a job with a small-town newspaper?”

  “It is honest employment.”

  “Surely, your salary is paltry. How would you like to come work for me? I would put you in charge of all my associates. I think you would be surprised and well satisfied with the compensation I can offer.”

  “From what I noticed when you rode into town, you already have someone in charge.”

  Denbigh smiled. “You must be talking about Mr. Meacham. Have you ever met him?”

  “I’ve seen him around. I’ve never met him.”

  “I’m sure the two of you could work well together, but let’s rectify the fact that you have never met, shall we?” Denbigh said. He held his hand up toward Meacham and motioned him to come over.

  “This is Lucas Meacham,” Denbigh said when Meacham joined them. “Mr. Meacham, this is Matt Jensen.”

  Meacham started to stick out his hand, but when he saw that Matt was not going to reciprocate, he pulled it back.

  “We’ve met,” Meacham said.

  “No, we haven’t,” Matt replied. “Though you have been following me for the last several days.”

  “I wasn’t following you,” Meacham said. “I was coming here to take a job with Lord Denbigh.”

  “Would t
hat be the job he just offered me?” Matt asked.

  Meacham glanced over quickly toward Denbigh. “Is that true?” he asked.

  Denbigh chuckled. “Worry not, my dear fellow. It was merely a matter of banter,” he said. “Your job, as long as you perform it adequately, is secure.”

  “What exactly is that job, Mr. Meacham?” Matt asked.

  “To take care of things,” Meacham answered.

  “The way Butrum took care of things?”

  Meacham smiled. “Turns out he wasn’t all that good at it, was he?”

  “Shall we get under way, Mr. Meacham?” Denbigh asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Meacham said. Then to Matt, he said, “I have a feeling that we’re goin’ to meet again.”

  “I have that feeling as well,” Matt said.

  Meacham nodded, then turned and walked away.

  Matt watched while Denbigh climbed into his coach, then as Meacham mounted and took his position in front of the others, who, in military precision, formed into columns to escort the coach. At a signal from Meacham, the coach, and all the men who had accompanied Denbigh, left, once again filling the street with the echo of horses’ hooves.

  John Bryce had purposely held himself apart from the conversation of Matt and Denbigh, as well as Matt and Meacham. Now he walked over to join Matt.

  “You said you have heard of him,” John said, nodding toward Meacham.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him.”

  “Is he going to be trouble for us?”

  “I imagine that is his intention,” Matt replied without elaboration.

  Lisenby stood alongside the elegant, glass-sided hearse until Denbigh and the others had departed. Then he called out to one of his men, who was waiting back in the barn.

  “Bring up the wagon.”

  A well-weathered wagon, its sun-bleached wood gray and splitting, emerged from the barn, drawn by a single mule. The driver of the wagon, the driver of the hearse, and Lisenby took the coffin, closed now, from the hearse and set it, none too gently, into the back of the wagon.

  “Dewey, get the hearse back in the barn. Mick, the grave is already open and Al is out there. Take this carcass out there and get it planted.”

  As Dewey drove the hearse back to the barn, Mick drove the wagon down the street toward the cemetery with one of its wheels squealing in protest as it made its solitary journey.

  “How was the funeral?” Millie asked when Matt and John returned to the newspaper office.

  “No tears,” John answered.

  “Did you expect them?”

  “Not really. What is that?” John asked, noticing a story Millie had just finished setting.

  “It’s a story about the Firemen’s Ball this Saturday night.”

  Because it was already set to print, the typeface from John’s perspective was backward. Nevertheless, he was able to read it as quickly and easily as the average person could after it was already printed.

  “Good story,” John said. “Two m’s, one t in commitment,” he pointed out.

  “Aahh, I knew better than that,” Millie said. She made the correction. “Are you going, Mr. Jensen? It sounds like it is going to be fun.”

  “Oh, yes,” Matt replied. “I don’t want to miss this.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  To show that he was a magnanimous man, Denbigh let it be known that on Saturday night he would open the tollgate free of charge to anyone who wanted to come to town to attend the Firemen’s Ball. As a result of his action, small ranchers and farmers, and their families, doubled the population of Fullerton on the night of the ball.

  The firemen were using the ball as a means of raising money to buy a new pumper. In order to make certain that the people got their money’s worth, they hired a band all the way from Bismarck. Making the trip in a rented carriage the Fullerton Fire Department supplied them, they arrived in mid-afternoon, and went straight to the hotel ballroom to set up.

  Green Fowler and several of his friends, boys that he went to school with, were looking upon the afternoon and evening as a great party, and it was a party not only for the young people but for the adults.

  Even before the dance started, the band began practicing, and the high skirling of the fiddle, the low thump of the bass viol, and the melodic strum of the guitar could be heard out in the street. Monroe Avenue had been thoroughly cleaned of horse droppings, and now resembled a carnival midway. There were booths where women were displaying their quilting projects, and Kenny Perkins, ever the entrepreneur, had spent the last two days prior to the dance making doughnuts, tarts, cookies, and fudge. Today, he had a booth where he sold the confections, as well as coffee and lemonade. For the occasion, he had hired Jimmy Smith and Becky Carson, one of his classmates, to help him.

  Green and the other boys were running up and down the street, darting in and around the booths. One of them suggested that they play the game of “Shooting Ollie Butrum,” and they did so with relish, Green winning the coveted role of portraying Matt Jensen because he had actually met him.

  At Ma Perkins’ Boarding House, the boarders were all gathered around the supper table when Lucy came into the dining room, obviously dressed for the dance.

  “Mrs. Black has baked a wonderful apple pie tonight,” she said. “And Mrs. Mouser has graciously offered to serve.”

  “My, oh, my, Mrs. Perkins, if you don’t look lovely tonight,” Proffer said. “Why, if I were thirty years younger, wouldn’t I be squiring you.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Proffer,” Lucy said, beaming at the compliment.

  “Where is Mr. Jensen?” Mrs. Gibson asked. “I thought he would dine with us, tonight.”

  “I believe John and Millie Bryce invited him for dinner,” Lucy said.

  “Well, I am sure he will be at the dance. Please tell him we missed him tonight,” Mrs. Gibson said.

  “If I see him, I certainly shall,” Lucy said.

  The ball was well under way, and Matt was standing against the back wall enjoying the music and the movement and swirl of the women in their butterfly bright dresses, and of the men, uncomfortable in their unaccustomed suits as they danced. He watched as one of the cowboys walked over to the punch bowl, took a quick look around the room, then, as unobtrusively as possible, poured whiskey into the bowl. Matt chuckled, because this was the third cowboy within the last fifteen minutes to make such an addition to the fruit punch.

  He saw Lucy Perkins the moment she came in. She was clearly the most beautiful woman in the room, and though Millie had told Matt that Lucy was thirty-one years old, which was three years younger than Matt, she did not look a day over twenty-one. Lucy was greeted warmly by several of the men and women, and after returning their greetings, she walked over to the punch bowl, where she picked up a stem of crystal. Matt reached her just as she picked up the ladle.

  “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” he said.

  “Oh, tish,” Lucy said, flashing a big smile. “You think I don’t know it has been spiked? This isn’t the first ball I’ve ever attended, you know.”

  Lucy turned to Matt and saluted him with a full glass. “It’ssonicetosee you here, Mr. Jensen,” she said.

  Lucy took a swallow of her drink, then immediately lowered the glass and coughed. Putting the glass down on the table, she made a fist, then hit herself in her bare chest, just above the cleavage her dress displayed.

  “Oh, my!” she gasped. “What is in that? Kerosene?”

  Matt laughed. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said.

  Lucy joined in the laugh. “No, I can’t say that,” Lucy agreed.

  “Ladies and gents, choose your partners and form your squares!”

  Lucy looked at Matt expectantly and, with a smile, Matt held out his hand.

  “Shall we dance, Mrs. Perkins?”

  “Must you call me Mrs. Perkins?” she asked.

  “Do you prefer Ma?”

  Lucy laughed out loud, and clasped her hand to her mouth. “How about Lucy?” s
he suggested.

  “Lucy it is,” Matt replied.

  “Thank you, Matt, I would love to dance.”

  They danced two more squares before six of Denbigh’s men rode up. All six were armed when they stepped up to the table to buy their tickets.

  “Gentlemen, if you are going to come in here, you are going to have to leave your guns outside,” the fireman who was manning the front door said.

  “I don’t take my gun off for anyone,” Meacham said.

  “That’s fine, sir. If you want to keep your gun, you may keep it,” the fireman said politely. “You just can’t come in here with it.”

  Seeing that there appeared to be some disturbance at the front door, Matt, John, and one of the other fireman walked over to see what was going on.

  “Any trouble, Carl?” John asked the fireman at the door.

  “These gentlemen don’t seem to want to check their guns,” Carl replied.

  “Meacham, isn’t it?” John said to Meacham.

  “That’s right,” Meacham replied.

  “Mr. Meacham, as I am sure you can tell by looking around this room, nobody is armed,” Carl, the fireman at the door said. “That means you are in no danger here. I see no reason for you and your men to be armed.”

  “What about Jensen here?” Meacham asked. “I’ve never known him to be without his gun.”

  Without saying a word, Matt opened his jacket to show that he wasn’t armed.

  “All right, boys, give up your guns,” Meacham said to the others as he unbuckled his gun belt and handed it to the fireman who was sitting at the table. He forced a smile. “We do want to be sociable, after all.”

  Meacham, Slater, Dillon, Wilson, Bleeker, and Carver gave up their guns, then the six of them moved on into the ballroom. For the first few minutes, there was an uneasiness in the room. All knew that these men worked for Denbigh, and Slater, Dillon, and Wilson were frequent troublemakers when they came to town.

  “Well, come on!” Slater shouted. “This is supposed to be a dance, ain’t it? How can you dance without music?”