Dakota Ambush Page 12

  “I get the opinion he don’t care much for me,” Butrum said.

  “Your feeling is accurate. He doesn’t like you.”

  “Why not? I ain’t never done nothin’ to him.”

  “No, and you never shall,” Denbigh replied. “Not if you intend to remain in my employ.”

  Fullerton, Dakota Territory

  John Bryce was setting type for the regular weekly newspaper when Millie came into the newspaper office. Smiling, she held out several envelopes.

  “Look at this!” she said enthusiastically.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s mail, silly. Mail from people about the extra edition we put out.”

  “Ha! I thought you said you were opposed to the extra edition.”

  “I was then, because I thought it was a waste of money. But if we get this many letters in response, that means it has struck a resonant cord. And that has to convert into more business for us. Why, I’ll bet we get half a dozen new advertising accounts from this.”

  John chuckled. “Accounts. Is that all you think about? Don’t you care a whit about the responsibility of a newspaper to look out for the public?”

  “We can’t very well look out for the public if we don’t have enough money to publish,” Millie said.

  “Touché, my dear. I suppose you do have me there,” John said. He finished setting the line in a composing stick, then fit the stick into the printing bed.

  “Listen to this letter, from the fire chief, Walter Bowman,” Millie said. “‘In times of trouble the people of our great nation have always been able to count upon the valor and industry of its most courageous citizens. You, sir, have the soul of a crusading journalist, and our fair community is blessed to have you as our advocate.’

  “And this one from Paul Deckert,” Millie continued. “‘Keep up the good work, John, the whole town is behind you.’”

  Millie picked up the next letter, but didn’t open it. “Oh,” she said, the tone of her voice changing. “This one can’t be good.”

  “Why not? Who is it from?”

  “It is a letter from Mr. Denbigh.”

  “Read it.”

  “I’d rather not. You read it.”

  Millie handed the unopened envelope over to John. He opened it, then pulled out the single page. He read for a moment, then smiled.

  “All right,” he said. “Now we are getting somewhere.”

  “Getting somewhere? What do you mean? What does the letter say?”

  “He says that I may have had a point with my article, that perhaps he is hurting business in town. He also says that he would not want to kill the town as it serves a necessary function. He asks me to come talk with him.”

  “Are you going to go see him?”

  “Yes. After all, I’m the one that organized the ball. I at least owe him a dance,” John replied, chuckling at his own joke.

  Two miles south of Fullerton, on the Fullerton-Ellendale road, John reached the tollgate. Bleeker and Carver were sitting on the side of the road, and Bleeker, sucking on a long stem of grass, got up to approach him.

  “You know the rules, newspaperman,” Bleeker said. “It’s going to cost you a dollar to get through.”

  “I will not pay one dollar to pass through here,” John said. “I received a letter from Denbigh asking me to come speak with him. I will not pay a dollar merely for the privilege of speaking with a despot.”

  “What is a despot?” Carver asked.

  “It means someone who is assuming more power than is rightly his, someone like Denbigh who is acting like a tyrant.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind,” John said. “I’m afraid you lack the necessary intelligence to comprehend the meaning. Open the gate.”

  “Not without you pay the dollar.”

  “Let him through,” Bleeker said.

  “You know what Lord Denbigh said. He said ever’one has to pay.”

  “But the newspaper editor here is goin’ to see the boss. I say let ’im through.”

  Carver thought for a moment, then swung the gate open. “All right, mister, you can go on through.”

  John nodded, but said nothing as he rode by the open gate, heading toward Denbigh’s house.

  Ten of the several thousand acres of Preston-shire on Elm had been set aside and exquisitely landscaped. These were the grounds on which Denbigh’s house, Denbigh Manor, was situated. It was a house one might expect to see in the English countryside, but scarcely on the range in Dakota Territory. Three stories high with a mansard roof and corner towers. Nigel Denbigh had gone all out to create the most grandiose home he could. The house was approached by a long, wide avenue, paved with white limestone and lined with aspen trees. The avenue ended at a large, circular drive in front of the house, the centerpiece of which was a dramatic statue of Denbigh himself.

  John was met by a uniformed groomsman, who held the horse as the newspaper editor dismounted.

  “I’m here to see Denbigh,” John said.

  “Yes, sir,” the groomsman said. “If you will avail yourself of the bell pull at the front door, someone will see to you.”

  “Avail myself of the bell pull,” John repeated. He chuckled. “Someone teach you to say that?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Tolliver, he taught us all to say that whenever someone comes up,” the groomsman said. “I will give your horse food and water,” he added as he led John’s horse away.

  John climbed the broad steps up to the porch, then, crossing the porch to the huge carved oak door, he pulled on a rope that hung alongside. He could hear the melodic chimes echoing from within the house, and a moment later, Mr. Tolliver answered. John recognized Tolliver, because he had seen him in town before.

  “Denbigh invited me to come visit with him,” John said, purposely using his last name only.

  Tolliver winced at the disrespectful tone, but he invited John into the house.

  “Wait here, sir, I will see if the master of the house is receiving,” Tolliver said.

  This was the first time John had ever been in the house, and he looked around at what he could see as he waited, taking in the dramatic ceiling heights, the white oak flooring, the custom moldings, and the decorative architectural columns, as well as a grand, sweeping elliptical staircase.

  A moment later, Tolliver returned.

  “Lord Denbigh is in the library,” he said. “If you would follow me, sir?”

  The library, as John knew it would be, was a beautiful room of rich mahogany, lined with bookshelves that were filled with books of various sizes and hues. Denbigh was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a white robe that featured upon the left breast the Denbigh family crest, a black lion with red claws, rampant against a white shield, filled with stars of black fleur-de-lis.

  “Mr. Bryce,” Denbigh said. “I am pleased that you accepted my invitation.”

  “I’m here,” John said. “What do you want to talk about?”

  Denbigh walked over to his desk, then picked up a folded copy of the Fullerton Defender.

  “These are the times that try men’s souls,” Denbigh said, reading aloud the opening line of John’s extra edition. He laid the paper back on the desk. “You are quite the crusading scribe, aren’t you?”

  “It’s called freedom of the press. While we don’t have titles in America, we do have freedom of the press. It’s in our Constitution. You have heard of our Constitution, haven’t you?”

  “What would it take, Mr. Bryce, to hire your services?”

  “Hire my services? What do you mean, hire my services? Hire my services for what?”

  “I would like to hire your services to be my advocate, rather than my adversary,” Denbigh said. “Such things are done, I know. It would not be unprecedented, nor would it be unsavory to hire you to write something favorable about me.”

  “It would be more than unsavory, it would be absolutely dishonest,” John replied.

  “Would it?” Denbigh picked up an earlier copy
of the Defender, and began to read. “Fuller and Simpson, men’s furnishing goods, shirts and underwear of all kind, the finest men’s furnishing goods store in America.”

  Denbigh put the paper down and smiled at John. “Really, Mr. Bryce. Are you telling me that there is no other men’s furnishing goods store anywhere in America that is as good as Fuller and Simpson?”

  “That is merely an advertisement, sir,” John explained. “A certain degree of hyperbole is allowed, indeed is expected, in advertisements.”

  “Well, then, that should ease your conscience,” Denbigh said. “I will hire you to write favorable advertisements about me.”

  “No,” John said. “I cannot, and I will not. I believe that your actions are stifling, indeed, killing, not only Fullerton, but nearly all of Dickey County. I will not support you. On the contrary, I will fight you as hard as I can.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Bryce. I’m just real sorry to hear that,” Denbigh said. “I had hoped that you and I could come to some sort of an accommodation.”

  “That was my hope as well. You said in your letter that you thought I had a point in my article. In fact, I believe you said you would not want to kill the town as it serves a necessary function.”

  “Did I?”

  “You did. I took that to mean that you were willing to discuss removing the toll from Ellendale Highway.”

  “You took it wrong,” Denbigh said. He made a motion with his fingers toward Tolliver.

  “Yes, m’lord?”

  “Do show Mr. Bryce out, will you, Mr. Tolliver?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “That’s it?” John said. “This is the end of our conversation?”

  “Mr. Bryce, do be careful on your ride back to town,” Denbigh said ominously.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Big Rock, Colorado

  When Matt stepped down from the train in Big Rock, he waited on the platform until his saddle and saddlebags were off-loaded. Then, picking them up, he walked across the road from the depot to Mercer’s Corral where, according to a professionally lettered sign, one could RENT HORSES, BUCKBOARDS, AND WAGONS.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be right with you,” the proprietor said when Matt walked into the barn through the wide-open double doors. The proprietor was putting a horse into a stall.

  “No big hurry, Bob, I never like to disturb a man at his work,” Matt said.

  Hearing himself addressed by a familiar voice, Bob turned, then, smiled broadly.

  “Well, Matt Jensen, as I live and breathe,” he said jovially, hurrying toward the opening with his hand extended.

  Matt shook his hand.

  “What can I do for you?” Bob asked.

  “I just came in on the train,” Matt said. “I’d like to rent a horse for a while.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll pick out a good one for you,” Bob said. “Are you going to be here long?”

  “Not too long,” Matt said. “I thought I’d ride out and visit with Smoke for a spell.”

  “Yes, I thought that might be what brought you here. Is Smoke back?”

  Matt looked confused. “Back? I don’t know—I didn’t know he was gone. This wasn’t a planned trip, I just happened by.”

  “Well, he may be back, I don’t know. All I know is he left a few days ago, for who knows where. You never know with Smoke, he is one travelin’ man. Oh, but this time Sally didn’t go with him, so even if he isn’t here, you can say hi to her.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” Matt replied, disappointed that his old friend Smoke might not be home.

  Sugarloaf Ranch

  “Miss Sally?” Cal called in through the back door of the main house. “Miss Sally?”

  “Yes, Cal, what is it?”

  “There’s a rider a’ comin’.”

  “Oh, is it Smoke?”

  “No, ma’am, it ain’t him. I don’t know who it is.”

  “Oh!” Sally said, seized by a sudden fear. “Oh, God in heaven, Cal, you don’t think …” She let the sentence die in her throat, too frightened to give words to the terrible thought that maybe something had happened to Smoke and this was someone who had come to tell her.

  “No, ma’am, I don’t think that,” Cal said, understanding what she meant. “If somethin’ had happened to Smoke, it would more’n likely be Sheriff Carson comin’ to tell us, or maybe Mr. Longmont. It wouldn’t be no stranger.” “Yes,” Sally said. “I’m sure you are right.” Sally walked out onto the porch and looked toward the rider. For a long moment, the anxiousness did not leave her face. Then, suddenly, she relaxed and broke into a great smile.

  “Well, I’ll be. It’s Matt,” she said. “My goodness, I haven’t seen him in ages.” “Matt who?” Cal asked. “Who is Matt?” “An old friend,” she said as she stepped down from the porch and hurried to meet the rider with a welcome wave.

  Fifteen minutes later Matt, Pearlie, and Cal were sitting around the kitchen table. Sally was in the kitchen as well, but at the moment she was standing by the stove, with the oven door open. The kitchen was redolent with the sweet aroma of freshly baked bear claws.

  “You should’a seen ’im,” Cal said. “Pearlie hung on to that bull like a tick on a dog, an’ no matter what that bull did, goin’ this way and that, humpin’ up in the middle, kickin’ out his hind legs, he couldn’t shake Pearlie.”

  “Cal didn’t do bad his ownself,” Pearlie said. “He won the calf-ropin’ and the bull-doggin’ contest.”

  “I’m sure Smoke will be proud of both of you,” Matt said. “I’ll tell you the truth, Miss Sally, that smells mighty good,” Matt said.

  “Sally makes the best bear claws in Colorado,” Pearlie said.

  “Sally makes the best bear claws in the world,” Cal added, not to be outdone.

  “You boys don’t have to butter me up,” Sally said. “I’m baking enough bear claws to satisfy even your appetites.”

  “Too bad Smoke isn’t here to enjoy them,” Cal said.

  “Yes, I had hoped to see Smoke,” Matt said as he took a bear claw from her. “Where is he anyway?”

  “He is in Nevada,” Sally said. “Nicole’s brother, Bobby Lee Cabot, got himself into some trouble, and Smoke went to help him out.”2

  “Really? What sort of trouble has Bobby Lee got himself into? I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

  “Wait a minute, you know this fella, Bobby Lee, do you?” Cal asked.

  “Sure do.”

  “How come you know him and we don’t?”

  “Cal, Matt knew Nicole, Smoke’s first wife,” Sally said.

  “Wow, I had no idea you had known Smoke that long,” Cal said.

  “Oh, I knew Smoke long before he ever thought about marrying Nicole,” Matt said. “But yes, I knew Nicole. I also knew Art, their baby.”

  “Yeah, I know about Smoke’s first wife and his kid,” Cal said. “And I know they was both kilt, and Smoke kilt the ones who done it. Didn’t know you knew them, though.”

  Sally laughed. “That’s understandable, Cal, since you didn’t even know about Matt until a few minutes ago.”

  “When did you first meet Smoke, Matt?” Pearlie asked.

  “You might say that Smoke met me,” Matt replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was nothing but a kid, starving and freezing to death in the mountains, when Smoke found me. If he hadn’t found me when he did, I would’ve been dead within another few hours.”

  “You might say that Smoke’s finding you was quite fortuitous,” Pearlie said with a broad smile.

  “Why, Pearlie,” Sally said. “Fortuitous? I’m impressed.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I learned that word while I was at the rodeo in Denver, and I’ve been lookin’ for a chance to use it.”

  “Speaking of that, Matt, one might also say that your stopping by is quite fortuitous.”

  “Fortuitous in what way?” Matt asked.

  “Yesterday, I received a letter for you. I was going to give it to you before you
left, but this seems as good a time as any.”

  “A letter for me?” Matt asked, surprised by the statement.

  “Yes. Well it was addressed to Smoke, but when I opened it, I saw that it was actually meant for you.”

  “Who is the letter from?”

  “It is from a man named John Bryce. Do you know him?”

  “John Bryce?” Matt thought for a moment. Then he smiled and nodded. “Yes, I remember John Bryce. Smoke and I met him a long time ago. I was about to be tried for robbery and murder, the charge lodged by a crooked assayer. And since I was a stranger to the town, the sheriff took his word over mine. I hadn’t been tried yet, but it wasn’t looking good for me, and Smoke had already determined to break me out of jail if need be. Of course if he had done that it would have made criminals out of both of us. But, just before the trial, John Bryce, who was a journalist for a local newspaper at the time, wrote a story that cleared me. And I have a letter from him, you say?”

  “Yes. Just a moment, I’ll get it for you.”

  Dusting a residue of flour from her hands, Sally walked over to a secretary/bookcase, opened the curved-glass door, and took out an envelope, which she handed to Matt.

  Matt remove the letter from the envelope, then turned it slightly to catch the morning sunlight. The cursive letters were formed by neat and even strokes on the stationary.

  “He sure has a neat hand, doesn’t he?” Matt said.

  “He certainly does,” Sally agreed. “I taught school for seven years and never encountered anyone with such penmanship.”

  Dear Mr. Matt Jensen,

  I do hope you remember me, though as our paths crossed so long ago, I would not be at all surprised if you have forgotten the humble journalist whose investigative reporting once freed you from the unjust accusation of murder and robbery.

  Although I intend this letter to be for Matt, I am addressing to Smoke, because whereas I know that Smoke Jensen can be reached at Surgarloaf Ranch, I do not know how to get in contact with Matt. I feel some degree of confidence that this will reach Smoke, and I ask, if you are still in contact with Matt Jensen, that you forward this missive to him.