Dakota Ambush Read online

  “How do I do that?”

  “Walk him around for a bit so that he gets used to his saddle, and to you. Then get on.”

  “He won’t throw me then?”

  “Oh, he’ll still throw you a few times,” Smoke said with a little laugh. “But at least he’ll know how serious you are.”

  To Matt’s happy surprise, he wasn’t thrown even once. The horse did buck a few times, coming down on stiff legs, then sunfishing, and finally galloping at full speed around the corral. But after a few minutes, he stopped fighting and Matt leaned over to pat him gently on the neck.

  “Good job, Matt,” Smoke said, clapping his hands quietly. “You’ve got a real touch with horses. You didnt break him, you trained him, and that’s real good. He’s not mean, but he still has spirit.”

  “Smoke, can I name him?”

  “Sure, he’s your horse, you can name him anything you want.”

  Matt continued to pat the horse on the neck as he thought of a name.

  “That’s it,” he said, smiling broadly. “I’ve come up with a name.”

  “What are you going to call him?”

  “Spirit.”

  As Matt lay there alongside the track he continued to think about his two horses named Spirit. He had given them good lives, treated them well, always making certain they were well fed and cared for, but in the end, both had died before their time, precisely because by being his horses, they had been subjected to more danger than most other horses.

  He thought about the expression in Spirit II’s eyes just before he had pulled the trigger. It was as if Spirit II knew what was about to happen to him. Was he blaming Matt? Was he telling Matt he understood that it had to be done?

  Fortunately, before Matt could sink any deeper into the morass of melancholy, he heard a distant whistle. Pushing the gloomy thoughts away, he got up from his impromptu bed and looked south, toward the train. When first he saw it, it seemed to be just creeping along, though Matt knew that it was doing at least twenty miles per hour. It was the distance that made it appear as if the train was going much slower. That same distance also made the train seem very small, and even the smoke that poured from its stack seemed but a tiny wisp against a sky which had now been made gold by the setting sun.

  Matt could hear the reverberation of the puffing engine, sounding louder than one might think, given the distance. When the train came close enough for him to be seen, Matt stepped up onto the track and began waving. After a few waves, he heard the train begin braking, so he knew that the engineer had spotted him and was going to stop. As the engine approached, the train, which had appeared so tiny before, now appeared huge. It ground to a squeaking, clanking halt with black smoke pouring from its stack. Tendrils of white steam, escaping from the drive cylinders and limned in gold by the rays of the setting sun, wreathed the huge wheels.

  The engineer’s face appeared in the window.

  “What do you want, mister? Why’d you stop us?” the engineer called down to him. He had to raise his voice over the rhythmic sound of venting steam.

  “My horse stepped in a prairie dog hole and I had to put him down,” Matt said. “I need a ride.”

  The engineer stroked his chin for a moment, studying Matt as if trying to decide whether or not he should pick him up.

  “What’s going on here? Why did we stop?” another man asked, approaching the engine quickly and importantly from somewhere back in the train. The man was wearing the uniform of a conductor.

  “This fella needs a ride,” the engineer said. “His horse went down on him.”

  “I’m not in the habit of giving charity rides to indigents,” the conductor said.

  “I can pay,” Matt said. “I need to get to Pueblo.”

  “You can pay, can you? Well, let me ask you this. Does this place look like a depot to you? Do you think you can just flag down a train and board it anywhere you wish?” the conductor asked in a self-important and sarcastic voice.

  “I don’t know about you, Mr. Gordon, but I wouldn’t feel right just leavin’ him out here,” the engineer said. “I mean, him losin’ his horse and all kind of makes it like an emergency, don’t it?”

  The conductor stroked his chin and spent a long moment studying Matt. All the while, the pressure relief valve continued to vent steam, giving the engine the illusion of some great beast of burden, breathing heavily now from its exertions. Some distance away, a coyote barked, and closer in, a crow called.

  “Hey! What’s going on? Why have we stopped?” a passenger called, walking up toward the engine.

  “Get back in the cars, sir!” the conductor shouted.

  “You’ve got a trainload of people wondering why we stopped. We’ve got a right to know what is going on,” the passenger said.

  “Please, sir, get back in the cars,” the conductor repeated. “I will take care of the situation.” The conductor waited until the passenger reboarded the train, then looked up at the engineer.

  “All right, Cephus, have it your way,” the conductor said. He turned to Matt. “I don’t like unscheduled stops like this, but I don’t want it said that I left you stranded out here. It is going to cost you two dollars to go to Pueblo.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said, taking two dollars from the poke in his saddlebag and handing it to the conductor.

  “Sorry about your horse, mister,” the engineer called down from the cab window.

  “Yes, he was a good horse.”

  In an elaborate gesture, the conductor pulled a watch from his vest pocket, popped open the cover, and examined the face. The silver watch was attached to a gold chain, the chain making a shallow U across his chest.

  “Cephus, we are due in Pueblo exactly one hour and twenty-seven minutes from right now,” the conductor said to the engineer as he snapped the watch closed and returned it to his vest pocket. “I do not plan to be late. That means I expect you to make up the time we have lost by this stop.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Gordon, don’t worry. If Doodle keeps the steam up, we’ll be there on time.”

  “Don’t you be worryin’ none about the steam,” Doodle, the fireman, said, stepping out onto the platform that extended just behind the engine. “You’ll have all the steam you need.”

  “Come along,” the conductor said to Matt. “You can ride in any car. There are seats in all three of them, and they are all day coaches.”

  “I’d rather ride in the express car, if you don’t mind,” Matt said.

  “No, I’m sorry, I can’t let you in there,” the conductor replied.

  “Maybe you haven’t heard,” Matt said, “but the bank in Pueblo was robbed this morning.”

  “Yes, I heard. What does that have to do with anything?”

  Matt held up the canvas bag he had taken from Cyrus Hayes’s body. “This is the money that was taken from the bank.”

  “What? What the hell, mister? Are you telling me you are the one who held up the bank?”

  “No,” Matt said. “I’m the one who is taking the money back to the bank. And I would just as soon not be riding in one of the passenger cars while I’m carrying this.”

  “Oh,” the conductor said.

  At that moment, the door to the express car slid open, and the express messenger looked down on them.

  “He can ride in here with me, Mr. Gordon. It will be all right.”

  “I’ll let him in there, but remember, it was your idea, not mine,” Gordon replied.

  “I’ll remember. Hi, Matt,” the messenger said.

  Matt smiled up at a friend with whom he had played cards many times. “Hi, Jerry,” he greeted.

  1Matt Jensen: The Last Mountain Man

  Chapter Four

  Fullerton, Dakota Territory

  When Slater, Dillon, and Wilson tied their horses off in front of the New York Saloon, they saw a small, pasty-faced man sitting on a bench on the front porch.

  “Howdy, Butrum,” Slater said.

  The little man nodded, but made no response.


  “Want us to bring you out a beer?” Dillon asked.

  “I don’t drink,” Butrum said.

  “All right. Just thought I’d ask.”

  With an arrogance brought on by the fact that they rode for Nigel Denbigh, the largest rancher in Dickey County, the three men swaggered up to the bar and pushed aside some of the customers who were already there.

  “Find another place to be, pilgrim,” Slater said. “Me ’n my pards need this space.”

  The man Slater pushed aside worked as a clerk in the Fullerton Mercantile. Not wanting any trouble, he took his beer and retreated to the far end of the bar.

  Ordering whiskey, the three men continued their conversation after their drinks were served.

  “Do you really reckon Butrum don’t drink?” Dillon asked.

  “I don’t think it’s as much that he don’t drink as it is that he can’t drink,” Wilson said.

  “What do you mean, he can’t?”

  “Well, look at him. You ever see a fully grow’d man that was that little? Why, I bet one beer would just about make him drunker than a skunk.”

  The three men laughed.

  “Maybe that’s why Lord Denbigh hired him,” Dillon said. “He has to sit out there on that porch ever’ day, checkin’ to make sure folks has paid their toll. Anyone else might be drinkin’ all day, but seein’ as Butrum don’t drink, well, it ain’t no problem.”

  “That’s not the only reason he was hired,” Slater said. “Don’t you know who that is?”

  “Yeah, I know who he is,” Dillon said. “His name is Butrum.”

  “Yeah, Butrum. Ollie Butrum,” Slater said. “He may be little, but don’t let that fool you. They say he has kilt more than twenty men.”

  “Folks may say that, but has he really?” Wilson asked.

  “I don’t know,” Slater admitted. “Do you want to try him?”

  Wilson shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “If that’s what folks say, then as far as I’m concerned, it’s all true, ever’ word of it.”

  Slater tossed his drink down, then called out to the bartender.

  “Bartender, how about another whiskey down here?”

  Without answering, the bartender brought the bottle down and refilled the three glasses.

  “Hey, I hear tell the newspaper fella had hisself a little trouble the other night,” Slater said. He laughed. “I hear tell they broke out his winder and messed up his place pretty good. Did you hear that?”

  “I heard it,” the bartender replied, keeping his answers as short and nonconfrontational as possible.

  “It serves him right. Anyone who would write all those lies about Lord Denbigh deserves to have his place all torn up,” Slater said. He laughed. “I’ll bet he won’t be writin’ any more lies, seein’ as how he can’t get his paper out anymore.”

  “What makes you think he won’t get the paper out anymore?” the bartender asked. “I understand he will come out this Thursday, same as always.”

  “How can he if his press is broke?”

  “It wasn’t broken,” the bartender said. “It was pushed over, but it wasn’t broken.”

  “I told you we should’a took an ax—” Wilson began, but Slater interrupted him in mid-sentence.

  “Shut up, Wilson, you fool.”

  “Oh, uh, yeah, I was just sayin’, we need to take an ax back out to the ranch so we can get to work on some of them stumps,” Wilson said in an attempt to minimize the issue.

  Slater glared at him for a moment, then turned his back to the bar and studied the saloon. Seeing one of the bar girls occupied with a customer, he walked over to that table.

  “Step aside, friend,” he said to the man who had been laughing and joking with the young woman. “I’m taking your woman.”

  Slater reached out to take the girl by the arm. “Me and her is goin’ to go up to her room for a bit.” He continued. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll be finished with her soon,” he added. “It’s been a while since I had me a woman, so it ain’t goin’ to take me very long to get the job done, if you get what I mean.”

  “What makes you think that I’ll go upstairs with you?” the girl asked.

  “’Cause you’re a whore,” Slater said. “And that’s what whores do.”

  “Other whores maybe, but not this whore,” the bar girl replied. “I do what I want to do, and right now I am enjoying a conversation with my gentleman friend.”

  “Yeah, well, now you’re going to enjoy that conversation with me.”

  “I don’t think so,” the girl said.

  “Oh, I think you’ll talk to me. Because, if you don’t, I’m goin’ to pistol-whip this here gentleman you was a’ talkin’ to.”

  The gentleman started to whimper, but the woman put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry.” She looked at Slater, measuring the expression in his eyes. She saw nothing but evil, and she couldn’t help but close her own eyes to blot it out. “Before I let him hurt you, I will go with him,” the girl said.

  Slater put his pistol away. “Yeah,” he said. “I thought you might.”

  “Kaye,” the bartender called to the soiled dove that worked for him. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Paul, I’m fine,” Kaye replied. “This won’t be the first time I’ve ever had to deal with Mr. Slater.”

  “What makes you dislike me so?” Slater asked the woman.

  “I don’t like you because you have a very tiny pecker.”

  The others in the room laughed outrageously as Slater’s face turned beet red. He vowed not to ask any more questions that might trip him up.

  As the three men galloped out of town an hour later, they yelled and fired their pistols into the air. They were just passing a man and woman who were arriving in town in a buckboard, and the shouting and gunfire startled the buckboard team into a gallop. The woman hung on to her seat for dear life while the man fought to regain control of his team.

  Most of the others, seeing the three cowboys shouting and shooting as they rode their horses at an unseasonable speed, moved quickly to get out of their way.

  In the office of the Fullerton Defender, John Bryce stood in the doorway and watched as the three men terrorized the town.

  “What’s all the noise?” Millie called toward the front. At the moment, she was in the back of the office, sweeping the floor.

  “It’s some of Denbigh’s riders, razzing the town,” John answered. “Slater, Dillon, and Wilson.”

  “It would be them,” Millie said. “They are the worst of the lot.”

  John shook his head. “No. The little gargoyle that Denbigh keeps posted on the front porch of the saloon—Butrum—he is the worst of the lot.”

  “You would think Denbigh would have more control over his men.”

  “He does have control over them,” John answered. “You think Denbigh didn’t know his men were going to trash our office? He not only knew it, he ordered it done.”

  “Marshal Tipton says it could have been someone from town, either someone upset or someone doing it as a prank,” Millie suggested.

  “What sort of prank would tearing up somebody’s place of business be?” John asked. “No, whoever it was did exactly what Denbigh wanted them to do. He wants, not only us, but the whole town to be intimidated. And he has about succeeded with the town. That’s why he lets ruffians like Slater, Dillon, and Wilson act without restraint.”

  John walked back to the Washington Hand Press, put a sheet of paper onto the tympan, then moved the bed under the platen. “All right, George,” he said, speaking to the hand press. “Do your stuff.” John pressed it down with the bar, then used the rolling block to move the bed back out. Peeling off the first page of the newspaper, he held it up for just a moment to let the ink dry, then took it over to the light of the front window to read the copy.

  The Northern Express Stage Company

  Intelligence received from the above-mentioned company suggests that they would offer the best route from Fuller
ton south to Ellendale, the route bringing within easy reach the railroad, which, by connections, would provide our citizens with easy travel to all the great metropolises of America.

  This company has plans to equip their line with twelve of the best and most comfortable Concord coaches, with one hundred and sixty horses, and would establish stations and supply ranches along the route at distances from twelve, and not to exceed fifteen miles apart. Though the Indians are believed to offer little or no trouble, The Northern Express Stage and Transportation Company has of late expressed some concern as to whether they will be able to put their plans into effect at all.

  Mr. R. A. Weatherly, operations officer for the company, released the following statement. “It has come to the attention of this company that one individual has gained control of the Ellendale Highway and is imposing a toll upon all who make use of the road. We cannot, and will not pay tolls for the passage of our coaches, for to do so would render the profit so marginal as to be non-productive.”

  Though Mr. Weatherly mentioned no names, this newspaper feels an obligation to its readers to publish herein the name of the individual whose actions may cost our town this important transportation service. His name is Nigel Denbigh, and he has made the spurious claim that, because the road passes through his property, it is subject to a toll to be collected by him.

  An appeal to Sheriff Hightower in Ellendale has availed us of no relief from this condition, and many of our citizens have already faced personal hardship because of the toll Denbigh has established on the Ellendale Road.