Dakota Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what are you doing out here? If you know about this, why don’t you stop it? You certainly have jurisdiction over them. A vigilante mob is against the law, isn’t it? Even in a place as bereft of civilization as the Dakota Territory?”

  “I have no jurisdiction over them.”

  “What do you mean, you have no jurisdiction? They are in town, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t have jurisdiction because they aren’t a vigilante mob. They are a deputy U.S. marshal’s posse. As it happens, Matt Jensen is a deputy U.S. marshal, which means his authority supersedes mine.”

  “I see. Tell me, when is this supposed to happen?”

  “They will gather at eight o’clock in the morning, then come out here. I’d say you need to be ready for them by no later than a quarter till nine.”

  “All right, thank you, Mr. Tipton. I will be prepared for them.”

  “I’d better get back to town.”

  “Yes, you do that. No, wait a minute. It might be best if you don’t go back to town at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “They are going to gather at eight in the morning, you say?”

  “That’s their plan.”

  “Forewarned is forearmed,” Denbigh said. “I am not going to wait out here for them. I am going to take the battle to them. I will be coming into town tomorrow with twenty men. We will strike as they are organizing. They won’t know what hit them, and the battle will be over before it even started. You need to be out of town when that happens, just so there is no question as to where your loyalties lie.”

  “Yeah,” Tipton said. “Yeah, I guess maybe you are right. I think I’ll ride on down to Ellendale tonight to have a talk with the sheriff about the situation here in the valley.”

  “I’ll have Mr. Tolliver show you out,” Denbigh said. Picking up a small bell from the table beside him, he shook it, and the resultant tinkling summoned Tolliver.

  “Yes, m’lord?”

  “Show the marshal out, please. Then summon Mr. Meacham for me.”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  After Tolliver summoned Meacham, he stood just outside in the parlor listening to them talk as they discussed the next day. Then, half an hour after Meacham left, Tolliver opened the door slightly to Denbigh’s room. He could tell by the heavy and rhythmic breathing that Denbigh was asleep.

  Not until then did Tolliver go out to the barn, where, in the dark because he didn’t want to take a chance of anyone seeing a light, he saddled a horse and rode away into the night.

  There was no one manning the tollgate, so Tolliver was able to pass through without arousing any interest or concern as to what he was doing out on the road this late. It was after eleven when he reached town.

  As he rode down Monroe, the hollow clopping of the hoofbeats sounded exceptionally loud in the still of the night and he began having second thoughts. What exactly did he have planned?

  He answered his own question. He had nothing planned.

  Then, seeing that the only lit up building in the entire town was the saloon, he rode to it, dismounted, tied off his horse, and stepped inside. The saloon wasn’t entirely filled at this hour of the night, though there were more people than he would have imagined. Looking around, he saw several faces he could recognize, though no one he could call by name.

  It was Dennis Donovan who saw him first.

  “I’ll be damned,” Donovan said.

  “What is it?” Jennings asked. Jennings was sitting at the table with Donovan as the two men shared a bottle of whiskey that sat between them.

  Donovan pointed to Tolliver, who was standing nervously just inside the door. “Ain’t that the guy who works for Denbigh? His servant or something?”

  “Yeah, I think it is,” Jennings said.

  Donovan got up and walked over to him. “What are you doing here, mister?” he asked.

  “I am looking for Mr. Jensen,” Tolliver said.

  “Did you expect to find him here?”

  “I don’t know,” Tolliver said. “Idon’t have any idea whereto find him. I was hopinghe might be here, or that someone here might help me find him.”

  “You ain’t welcome here, mister. You need to go on back to Denbigh where you belong,” Donovan said angrily.

  “Please, sir, if you would direct me to Mr. Jensen, I would be most grateful.”

  “The only thing I’m going to do for you is direct your ass out of here,” Donovan said. “And if you don’t leave now, I’ll mop up the floor with you.”

  “Strike me if you must, sir, but after you finish, please, I must speak with Mr. Jensen,” Tolliver repeated.

  Tolliver offered no resistance, and closed his eyes to accept whatever blows Donovan intended to deliver.

  “Wait a minute, Dennis,” Jennings called out to him. Jennings walked over to join them. “If he’s willing to take a beating, maybe he has a good reason for wanting to see Jensen.”

  Donovan paused for a moment, then called over to the bartender who, like everyone else in the saloon, had stopped to watch the interplay between the two men.

  “Paul, do you know where Jensen stays?”

  “Yeah, he has a room at the boardinghouse,” the bartender answered. “The same place where you boys had your meeting tonight.”

  “I thought maybe he did, but I wasn’t sure,” Donovan replied. He looked back at Tolliver. “All right, come with me. I’ll take you to Jensen.”

  ***

  When Denbigh and twenty of his men approached Fullerton at eight-thirty the next morning, they expected to arrive in town by surprise, then ride up to the boardinghouse, where they would catch the valley farmers and ranchers by surprise. But the surprise was theirs for they saw stretched across the road in front of them, and extending for several feet to either side, an obstruction that would deny passage to their horses. Behind the crossed and sharpened log battlements was a barricade constructed of boxes, barrels, and logs. Protruding over the top of the barricade were a dozen or more rifles.

  “Whoa! What the hell!” Wilson shouted as he and the others riding with Denbigh came to a quick halt. “What is that?”

  “It is nothing you need worry about,” Denbigh said.

  “It don’t look like nothin’ to me,” Wilson said.

  “Me neither,” Carver added.

  “Forward, men, don’t weaken now,” Denbigh said.

  “Forward? Into that?” Wilson said. “Are you crazy?”

  “I have gone to great lengths to recruit only the most skilled gunmen in the territory,” Denbigh said. “Are you telling me now that you are afraid to go against a bunch of farmers and small ranchers? At the first shot, they will run.”

  “I don’t think so,” Wilson said, shaking his head. “I was at Shiloh. Wasn’t nobody there but farmers and such. And they didn’t run. I’m gettin’ out of here.”

  “No, you ain’t,” Meacham said, pulling his gun and pointing it at Wilson.

  “You watch me,” Wilson said. Turning his horse, he started to ride away, but before he had gone no more than a few feet, Meacham fired. His bullet caught Wilson in the back, just between his shoulder blades, and it exited from his chest. Slater fell from his horse, dead before he hit the ground.

  The other men riding with Denbigh broke into a gallop then, running away. Meacham raised his pistol to fire again, but Denbigh stopped him.

  “No need to do that,” he said. “Killing them won’t bring them back.”

  Now, only Meacham and Denbigh remained, and they dismounted and continued to stare toward the fortifications that had been erected overnight.

  Matt Jensen appeared then, climbing down from the barricade and walking toward the two men.

  “Give it up, Denbigh,” Matt said. “I’ll see that the two of you get a fair trial.”

  Denbigh applauded sarcastically.

  “Very good, Jensen, very good!” he said. “But I thought you were coming after me. How did you know we would be coming after you
?”

  Tolliver appeared then, standing on top of the barricade.

  “I’m afraid I told them, m’lord,” Tolliver said.

  “You? Mr. Tolliver, you would betray the trust that has existed between our families for over one hundred years?”

  “I am not betraying that trust, m’lord,” Tolliver said. “Your own family charged me with the responsibility of seeing that you did nothing to disgrace the Denbigh name. I am afraid I have been remiss in that duty, but there came a time when I could not let this go any further.”

  At that moment, and quite unexpectedly, Jimmy Smith came riding up the road behind Denbigh and Meacham. Jimmy was carrying a string of fish he had caught that morning. Because he had spent the night camped out on Brewer’s Pond, he had no idea of the events that had transpired in the town during his brief absence.

  More curious than frightened, he continued to ride forward.

  “Jimmy, go back!” Matt called, but it was too late.

  Moving quickly, Meacham jumped behind Jimmy’s horse, then pulled the boy down. Wrapping his left arm around Jimmy’s neck, Meacham managed to keep Jimmy between him and Matt. Meacham’s right hand held his pistol against the side of Jimmy’s head.

  “Well now, Mr. Jensen,” Denbigh said. “It would seem that there has been a change in our situation.”

  “What do you say, Jensen?” Meacham said. “Are you going to ask me to let the kid go? Are you going to try to convince me that the kid has nothing to do with this?”

  Matt glared at Meacham, but said nothing.

  “Undo your gun belt,” Meacham said. “Let it fall to the ground.”

  Matt continued to glare at Meacham, but he made no move to comply with Meacham’s demand.

  “Do it!” Meacham shouted, and to emphasize his order, he pulled the hammer back on the pistol he was holding against Jimmy’s head.

  Slowly, deliberately, Matt unbuckled his gun belt and let it fall.

  By now, everyone who had taken up arms behind the barricade was standing on top, watching the drama unfold before them.

  “Now what?” Matt asked. “As you can see, you aren’t going anywhere. Your men have left you. Your time is over.”

  “Oh, I think not,” Denbigh said. “These people have no homes to return to. I will provide them with homes, bigger and better than the ones they had before. I think we will be able to establish a relationship that is beneficial to us all. Of course, in order to assure that nirvana, I am going to have to take you out of the picture.”

  “Oh? And just how do you plan to do that?” Matt asked.

  “By engaging you in an affair of honor,” Denbigh said.

  “What are you talking about?” Matt asked.

  “We are going to have a duel, you and I, Mr. Jensen,” Denbigh said. Reaching into his saddlebag, he removed a wooden box. He opened the box and pulled out two dueling pistols.

  “When I say duel, that is exactly what I mean. Not the kind of crass gunmanship by which you bested Mr. Butrum. This will be a gentleman’s duel, fought with the weapon of a gentleman—a single-shot, beautifully balanced pistol.”

  As he was talking, he was also loading the two pistols, then, once loaded, he held both of them out by the barrel, presenting the butts toward Matt.

  “To show you that I have engaged in no chicanery in the charging of the pistols, you may choose whichever one you wish,” he said.

  Matt selected one of the pistols, then checked to see that the cap was in place.

  “Very good,” Denbigh said. “Now, since this is an affair of honor, we shall require seconds. Mr. Bryce! I take it you are there, somewhere among those standing on the barricade.”

  “I’m here,” John replied.

  “You will be Mr. Jensen’s second. Mr. Tolliver, you will be my second.”

  “What does a second do?” John asked.

  “As seconds, it should have been we who loaded the weapons,” Tolliver said. “And, according to that same code, we should try and arrange some accommodation between the parties that would prevent the duel from occurring in the first place.”

  “Very good, Mr. Tolliver, you know the code duello. But then, I was certain that you would. However, do not be concerned if all the niceties aren’t observed. You see, a duel is between two gentlemen of equal birth. Mr. Jensen, being a commoner, should not even be afforded this honor. However, I am a man of magnanimity, so I am extending him this privilege.”

  Matt looked at the pistol in his hand as if it were something foreign and incomprehensible.

  “Mr. Jensen, you seem uncomfortable with your weapon,” Denbigh said. “Would you rather use your own Colt?”

  “Yes,” Matt replied.

  Denbigh laughed. “I’m sure you would. But I intend to make a gentleman of you, if it kills you.” He laughed again, harder this time. “If it kills you,” he said again.

  “Are you planning on talking all day?” Matt asked.

  “No,” Denbigh said. “The only thing left to say is to explain the rules to you. We will stand back to back, then we will walk off twenty paces. Mr. Meacham shall count the paces. Upon the count of twenty, we will both turn and fire. Then, after you are killed, Mr. Meacham will maintain custody of the boy until we are safely out of here.”

  “Suppose I don’t want to do this?” Matt said.

  “I’m going to kill you, Mr. Jensen, one way or the other,” Denbigh said. “At least this way, you will have a chance. Not much of a chance, to be sure, but you will have a chance. Now, shall we proceed?”

  Matt and Denbigh stood back to back, holding their right arms crooked, so that the pistols were pointing straight up.

  “Mr. Meacham, if you would, please, begin your count.”

  “One,” Meacham started, and as he counted, Matt and Denbigh paced away from each other, the distance between them opening appreciably. There was not a sound from any of the men who were standing on the barricade, watching.

  At the count of twenty, both men turned. Denbigh pointed his gun toward Matt and fired, but Matt, in violation of the code of dueling, dropped to one knee so that the heavy ball whistled harmlessly by his head. Matt aimed, not at Denbigh, but at Meacham who, while watching the duel, had presented more of himself than before. Even so, it was a small target, but it was all the target Matt needed. The .58-caliber ball hit Meacham in his right eye, then burst through the back of his head carrying with it, blood, bone, and brain detritus. Jimmy Smith was free.

  Denbigh, who was also wearing a pistol, drew his gun and aimed it at Matt, but before he could pull the trigger, the sound of another shot rent the air.

  Denbigh was struck in the chest, and he clasped his hand over the wound, then pulled it away and watched as his blood filled the palm. Looking toward the man who had fired the shot, he saw Tolliver holding a smoking pistol.

  “Et tu, Brute?” he asked with his dying breath.

  One week later

  Matt was standing in front of the newspaper office. Spirit was saddled and ready to go, and John, Millie, Lucy, Kenny, and Jimmy were with him.

  “As the new owner of Prestonshire, Mr. Tolliver has removed the tollgate, and has promised to rebuild every house that was burned,” John said.

  “It’s obvious that Tolliver is a decent man,” Matt said. “And a lucky break that he is the one who inherited the ranch.”

  “More than just a lucky break,” Matt said. “It’s a matter of family inheritance. Turns out that Tolliver and Denbigh shared the same father, and though he could not pass on his name or title, the old man did see to it that Tolliver was in the will, if anything happened to Denbigh.”

  “I wonder if Tolliver knew that when he shot Denbigh,” Millie said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Matt said. “The killing was obviously justified. And the result is positive for everyone.” He laughed “Especially for me.”

  “Matt, will we ever hear from you again?” Lucy asked.

  “Good-bye, Matt,” John said. Then to the others, “Come on f
olks, he needs to get started.”

  “No need to rush him off,” Millie said, but John interrupted her with a pointed glance toward Lucy.

  “Oh, yes,” Millie said. “Come along Kenny, Jimmy. Let them say good-bye in private.”

  Lucy waited until John and the others had disappeared back into the newspaper office. “What I should have said, I suppose, is will I never hear from you again?” she told Matt.

  “Never is a mighty long time, Lucy,” Matt said.

  “It wouldn’t work, you know,” Lucy said.

  Matt didn’t have to ask what wouldn’t work. He knew exactly what she was talking about.

  “I have businesses to run, a son to raise,” she went on. “And I can’t see you playing checkers with Mr. Proffer.”

  “He wouldn’t play with me anyway. I cheat, remember?”

  Lucy laughed. “Yes, I remember. And speaking of remembering, thank you, Matt. You have given me memories that will last a lifetime.”

  “Lucy, I …”

  “No,” Lucy said. “Please, just get on your horse and go now, while I still have my composure.”

  Matt swung into the saddle and looked down at her. She wasn’t crying, though he could see a glistening of tears in her eyes.

  “It wouldn’t work,” she said again. “But, oh, isn’t it lovely to contemplate?”

  Before Matt could answer, Lucy turned away from him, then walked quickly into the newspaper office.

  Matt clicked at Spirit, and started the long ride to Ellendale. He saw clouds building up in the west. No doubt, there would be rain.