Dakota Ambush Page 13

  Matt, I recall that you once promised to come to my aid should I ever require it. I require it now, though I am ever mindful of the fact that any obligation to me, if it had ever existed at all, would have been totally satisfied by your generous donation of money by which I was able to start a newspaper. I hasten to add, however, that it is not for me alone that I seek help, but rather for the people of the town of Fullerton, and the county of Dickey, in Dakota Territory. The hapless citizens of this fair community are sorely in need of justice, that commodity being denied us by the nefarious operations of an evil Englishman who, by stint of wealth and land holdings, holds us all in his grip. The person of whom I speak is Nigel Cordell Denbigh.

  I have no wish to make a request that would be a disruptive imposition, but if you are available, and if you would be so inclined as to pay a visit to the offices of my newspaper, The Fullerton Defender, in Fullerton, Dakota Territory, I would be eternally grateful. I must tell you, though, that any help you might supply us would have to be gratis, for I can offer you nothing but the guarantee of good home-cooked meals prepared by my wife, Millie, an uncomfortable bed in our spare room, and the undying gratitude of a newspaper editor who is giving test to the adage “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

  Your friend,

  John Bryce

  When Matt finished the letter, he folded it, returned it to the envelope, then handed it to Sally.

  “How long have you had the letter?” Matt asked.

  “Just since yesterday,” Sally replied.

  “That means it is still timely.”

  “I would think so. Are you going to answer his request?”

  “Yes, I’ll go. I would be honored to go. I’ll leave right away.”

  “I don’t know the man, but if he is responsible for saving you from hanging, then I am glad you are going to help him,” Sally said.

  “Now I need to ask a favor of you,” Matt said.

  “Of course,” Sally said.

  “I need a horse,” Matt said. “Spirit broke his leg and I had to put him down.”

  “Oh, Matt,” Sally said, reaching her hand across the table to rest on his arm. “I know what Spirit meant to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Matt said. “He sort of carried on the spirit of the first Spirit, if you know what I mean. I’d like another horse that can do that as well, and seeing as I got Spirit One from Smoke, I think it would be really good if I could get Spirit Three from him as well. Of course, I intend to buy him, not take him as a gift the way I did the first one.”

  “Smoke took Seven with him, but he left Drifter behind. You can have any horse but Drifter. Cal, take Matt out to the corral.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cal said. “Uh, Miss Sally, does that mean any horse?”

  Reading the expression on the young man’s face, Matt knew what was troubling him.

  “Cal, point out Drifter, also the horses you and Pearlie are riding. I’ll pick from the rest.”

  A wide, relieved smile spread across Cal’s face. “Yes, sir, come on out. Smoke has some really great horses.”

  After looking through the horses in the Sugar-loaf stable, Matt saw one that appealed to him. Examining the horse carefully, he saw a coat that glistened like burnished copper, though his long tail was somewhat lighter. The horse was just under seventeen-and-a-half hands at the withers, completely blemish free, and a model of conformation

  “What do you think about that one?” Pearlie asked.

  “Do you know the horse?” Matt asked. He rubbed the horse behind his ear, and the horse dipped his head in appreciation.

  “I know him. He’s a good horse,” Pearlie said. “He can run like the wind and he’ll hold to a good trot all day without tiring.”

  “What do you think, Spirit?” Matt asked. “You want to come with me?”

  “You’re going to name him Spirit?”

  “That is his name,” Matt said.

  “I thought you said your other horse was named Spirit.”

  “Both my other horses were named Spirit.”

  Pearlie chuckled. “You’re just like Smoke. He names all his horses Seven or Drifter.”

  “I find nothing strange about that,” Matt said. “If you find a good name, why give it up?”

  Walking over to the rental horse, he removed the saddle, then put it on Spirit Three. Spirit stood tall and proud, accepting the saddle without the slightest complaint.

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said. “We’re going to get along just fine.”

  As Matt tightened the saddle cinches, Cal and Pearlie stood with him. He finished, just as Sally came out of the house, carrying a small sack.

  “You didn’t have to come out here,” Matt said. “I was going to come back in to pay you for the horse, and to tell you good-bye.”

  “If I took money for the horse, Smoke would be all over me,” Sally said. “He’s yours.”

  “I don’t feel right about just taking him without paying you.”

  “Then take it up with Smoke next time you see him.” Sally held out a little sack. “I thought you might enjoy these. I’m sending some bear claws with you,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Matt replied. “I know that I will enjoy them.”

  “But you kept some behind, didn’t you, Miss Sally?” Cal asked.

  “I kept some behind,” Sally said.

  Matt took the bear claws, shook hands with Cal and Pearlie, then swung into the saddle. Pearlie had put a lead bridle on the rental horse, and he handed it to Matt.

  “You can just leave this lead bridle with Mr. Mercer at the livery in town,” Pearlie said. “One of us will pick it up, next time we go in.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said. He touched the brim of his hat. “Tell Smoke I’m sorry I missed him, but I’ll drop back by sometime in the not too distant future.”

  “I will,” Sally said. “Be careful, Matt. I don’t know what was behind this letter, but I’ve learned, since living with Smoke, that most of the time when someone sends a letter like that asking for help, it’s not just a walk in the park.”

  Smoke nodded, then slapped his legs against Spirit’s side, riding out at a gallop. This was as good a time as any to see what the animal had in him.

  2Shootout of the Mountain Man

  Chapter Sixteen

  Prestonshire on Elm

  “Excuse me, m’lord,” Tolliver said, stepping into the study of Denbigh Manor.

  Denbigh, who was cleaning his dueling pistol, looked up when Tolliver came in.

  “Yes, Mr. Tolliver, what is it?”

  “There is a—gentleman—by the name of Lucas Meacham who wishes to have an audience with you.” Tolliver showed that he did not believe Meacham was actually a gentleman by the way he sat the word apart from the rest of the sentence.

  “Meacham is here?” Denbigh asked, surprised by the announcement. “What is Meacham doing here? I thought he was … never mind, show him in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Denbigh did not put the pistol away but was, instead, aiming it at an imaginary target when Tolliver showed Meacham in to the study.

  “Ha!” Meacham said. “What the hell is that?”

  “This is a single-shot percussion dueling pistol made by A. Kehlner of Prague. It is a .58-caliber, eight-and-seven-eighths-inch ribbed round barrel, exquisitely made, and perfectly balanced,” Denbigh said.

  “What do you think somethin’ like that can do?” Meacham asked. “Especially since it only has one shot.”

  Denbigh aimed the pistol at Meacham, and pulled the hammer back. “One shot is enough,” Denbigh said, his words cold, quiet, and calculating.

  “What? Look here, what are you doing?” Meacham asked, putting his hands out in front of him. “Point that thing somewhere else.”

  Denbigh held the pistol steady for a moment as Meacham squirmed; then, with a smile, he lowered it, and eased the hammer back down.

  “Evidently, you think it quite capable of killing someone as well,” Denbigh said.


  “Did you say that was a .50-caliber?” Meacham asked.

  “It is a .58-caliber.”

  “That’s the size of a small cannonball. Hell, yes, it can kill someone.”

  “Why are you here, Mr. Meacham? Am I to gather by your presence that you have dealt with Matt Jensen?” Denbigh asked.

  Meacham rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “Uh, no, not exactly,” he answered.

  “What do you mean, not exactly? You have either taken care of the matter, or you have not,” Denbigh said. “Which is it?”

  “I have not,” Meacham replied.

  “Then I will ask you again. Why are you here?”

  “Mr. Denbigh, do you know this man Jensen?”

  “You will address me as Lord Denbigh.”

  “What? Oh, yeah, Lord Denbigh. I’m sorry, I forgot.”

  “To answer your question, no, I do not know anything about him.”

  “Yes, sir, well, you said you had never heard of him, so I guess you don’t know, but he is one of the best known pistoleers in the West. His name is practically legend, and he is one hard son of a bitch to kill.”

  “Why? Won’t a bullet kill him, just as it would any other human being?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was, getting that bullet into him. It’s like he has nine lives or something. And like I said, he is damn good with a gun.”

  “I thought you were good with a gun,” Denbigh said. “Isn’t that why I hired you?”

  “Yes, sir, I am good with a gun, but this man, Jensen, well, sir, he’s about as good as they come. I don’t reckon there’s more’n two or three people in the country who are as good as he is.”

  “Would you be one of those two or three?”

  “As a matter of fact I am,” Meacham said.

  “Then, what is the problem?”

  “The problem is, we ain’t talked about money.”

  “Of course we have. In the telegram I sent you, I clearly said that you would be compensated as before,” Denbigh said.

  “Yes, sir, but what I want to know is, how much money are we talking about? Because the, uh, compensation you give me last time, well, that was for someone who barely knew which end of the gun a bullet come out of. It’s different with Jensen, and what you paid last time ain’t enough for this job.”

  “How much do you think this job is worth?” Denbigh asked.

  “Three thousand dollars,” Meacham said.

  “Three thousand dollars?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s twice as much as I gave you for your last job.”

  “Yes, sir. But like I said, Jensen is twice as hard to kill.”

  “All right. If you get the job done, I will pay you your price.”

  “Good,” Meacham said.

  “Unless Mr. Butrum kills him first.”

  “Wait a minute. You have hired someone else to kill Matt Jensen?”

  “Not specifically,” Denbigh said. “But I have hired someone who is quite skilled in the use of firearms, and has demonstrated to me a willingness, no, I daresay an eagerness, to ply his trade. If he encounters Matt Jensen before you do, then he may kill him. That would save me the three thousand dollars I just promised you.”

  “Who is this Butler person anyway?”

  “Oliver Butrum.”

  Meacham snorted.

  “You have a comment?”

  “Yeah, I ain’t worried, ’cause he ain’t goin’ to kill Matt Jensen.”

  “How do you know he won’t?”

  “’Cause I’ve never heard of him. And if I’ve never heard of him, he damn sure ain’t goin’ to be good enough to kill Matt Jensen.”

  “We will just have to see, won’t we?” Denbigh said.

  By way of dismissal, Denbigh picked up an oiled cloth and began cleaning his pistol again. When he saw that Meacham had not yet left, he looked up.

  “You have something else?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What?”

  “I, uh, don’t know where Matt Jensen is. I mean, I found him, but before I could do anything, I sort of lost track of him.”

  “Well, Mr. Meacham, you can’t very well kill him if you don’t know where he is, can you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Hadn’t you better be looking for him?”

  “Yes, sir, but the thing is, seeing as you are the one who wants him dead, well, I was thinking that maybe you might know where he is.”

  Denbigh chuckled. “Most astute of you, Mr. Meacham,” he said. He lifted his pistol and Meacham grew tense, but relaxed when he saw Denbigh aim the gun at something outside the window.

  “The truth is, I do not know where he is at this exact moment, but I have a pretty good idea of where he will be soon.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, Mr. Meacham. Or at least, in Fullerton. It would seem that Fullerton has a crusading journalist, and that journalist has written a letter to Matt Jensen, inviting him to come to town. I don’t think it will be for a social visit.”

  “Do you know when he is coming to Fullerton?”

  Denbigh looked at Meacham with an expression of annoyance. “No, I’m afraid he did not clear his itinerary with me.”

  “Well, then, I’ll just go into town and wait on him,” Meacham said.

  “Yes, you do that,” Denbigh replied.

  Denbigh loaded his pistol, then fit it with a percussion cap. “I’ll walk you outside,” he said.

  Meacham was visibly nervous at seeing Denbigh with a loaded pistol, but he walked outside with him. Once outside, Denbigh pointed to a prairie rose. The small, pink wildflower was some thirty yards distant.

  “Would you like to see a demonstration of the Kehlner dueling pistol?”

  Meacham chuckled. “You ain’t goin’ to tell me you can hit that flower from here with that thing, are you?”

  Denbigh didn’t answer. Instead, he aimed, and pulled the trigger. The percussion cap popped, then concurrent with the boom of the pistol, there was a flash of smoke and light. The heavy-caliber bullet destroyed the prairie rose.

  “As I said, Mr. Meacham, one shot is enough,” Denbigh said.

  “Yes, sir, I reckon it could be,” Meacham said.

  The groomsman who had taken Meacham’s horse from him earlier now came toward him, leading the animal.

  “Mr. Meacham?” Denbigh said as Meacham swung into the saddle.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Denbigh gave Meacham a dollar. “You will come to a tollgate on the road between here and town. Give the men who are manning the gate this dollar, and they will give you a coupon. When you get into town you will encounter Butrum. Butrum will ask you to show him a coupon, proving that you paid the toll. Show him that coupon.”

  “Since I’m workin’ for you, won’t they just let me through? Especially if you give me a letter or something?” Meacham asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure they would,” Denbigh replied. “But I don’t want anyone to know you are working for me, not the men at the gate, and not Mr. Butrum. When you get to town, try and remain as inconspicuous as you can until you get the opportunity to attend to your task.”

  “All right, whatever you say, Mr. Denbigh.”

  Denbigh glared at Meacham.

  “Lord Denbigh,” he reminded him.

  ***

  Meacham had been on the road for about half an hour when he saw the tollgate. Someone stepped out into the road in front of him. For a moment he contemplated telling them that he worked for Denbigh, and keeping the dollar. After all, a dollar was a dollar.

  But for some reason, Denbigh didn’t want anyone to know that Meacham was working for him, and he didn’t want to anger Denbigh, because he didn’t want to take a chance on losing the three thousand dollars he was going to get for killing Jensen.

  “Where you headed?” the man at the tollgate asked.

  “What difference does it make to you as long as I pay the toll?” Meacham asked.

  “No diff
erence at all, I reckon. That will be …” Bleeker started to say, but when he saw Meacham extending a dollar to him, he stopped in mid-sentence. “A dollar, yes,” he said. “Well, good for you, you had the money all ready. How did you know how much the toll was?”

  This would be his opportunity to say that Denbigh told him, but he restrained himself.

  “I’m not here to palaver with you. Just open the damn gate and let me through,” he said.

  Bleeker took the dollar. “Well, it’s good to see that you are a good citizen. Oh, and if you are goin’ into town, more’n likely you are going to run into a sawed off runt of a fella, a real little man by the name of Butrum. He’s goin’ to want to see this coupon, so it’s best you don’t lose it. Oh, and when he asks you to see it, you show it to him, you hear? Butrum might be a little fella, but he ain’t the kind of man you want to piss off.”.

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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Denver, Colorado

  Matt had a six-hour layover in Denver, which was plenty of time for him to take care of something he needed to do. After making certain that Spirit was taken off the train and secured in the depot stable, Matt went out front of the depot and caught a ride on one of the horse-drawn trolleys. He stepped off the trolley ten minutes later in front of the Federal Building. The office of the man he was looking for was on the second floor, and when Matt opened the door to the office, he was greeted by an officious-looking young man.

  “Yes, sir, may I help you?”

  “I would like to speak with Marshal Connors,” Matt said.

  “May I tell the marshal who is calling, and the subject of the visit?”

  “You don’t need all that, Simmons, I recognize the voice,” a loud, gruff voice called from behind the frosted-glass window of a door. The door was jerked open and Matt saw a giant of a man standing there.

  “Matt Jensen, you reprobate, come on in here,” he said, greeting him effusively. “What brings you to Denver?”

  “Hello, Charley. I have a favor to ask,” Matt said.

  Connors chuckled. “Doesn’t everyone? But Lord knows, I owe you a favor or two.”