Preacher's Assault

by William W. Johnstone

  “Is this fella, John Bryce in town?” Matt asked.

  “Yes, sir, he’s over at the newspaper office right now,” Sheriff Daniels said.

  “I think I’ll go look him up.”

  “Do you own this paper?” Matt asked when he and Smoke found John Bryce hard at work in the newspaper office.

  “Oh, heaven’s no. It takes a lot of money to own and operate your own newspaper,” John said. “I just work here for Mr. Peabody as one of his journalists. Someday I expect to own my own paper, though,” he said.

  Matt, who had had the ore returned to him, reached down into his canvas bag and pulled out four pretty good sized rocks. “Here,” Matt said, handing the rocks to the newspaper man. “Cash these in and you may have your paper sooner than you realize. If there is ever anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

  “Bless you, Mr. Jensen,” John said, accepting the gold with a broad smile. “I’ll never forget you for this.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Fullerton, Dakota Territory, twelve years later

  A brick had been thrown through the front window, and great jagged spears of the glass reached out from all corners of the frame. Two months earlier John Bryce had paid a professional painter to come over from Bismarck to paint the window.

  FULLERTON DEFENDER

  John Bryce—Publisher

  Millie Bryce—Office Manager

  The letters were broad and black, outlined in white and gold. That sign, once a source of pride, was now no more than a few discordant letters on the remaining shards of glass.

  Not one letter of Millie’s name remained.

  At the moment John was standing inside the office of the Fullerton Defender, surveying the damage. The perpetrators had done more than just break his front window, they had also trashed the office. His arm was around his wife, and he held her close to him as she sobbed quietly. Type had been scattered about the room, newsprint had been ripped and spread around, the Washington Hand Press, by which John put out his weekly paper, was lying on its side.

  They had come to the newspaper office directly from their breakfast table, after City Marshal Tipton told of the break-in. More than a dozen citizens of the town had already been drawn to the scene of the crime by the time John and Millie arrived. The group stood in a little cluster on the boardwalk in front of the building.

  The perpetrators had left a note.

  Don’t be writting no more bad artacles about

  Lord Denbigh or we will kum back and do

  more damige to you nex time.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Millie asked between sobs.

  “It’s fairly apparent, isn’t it?” John replied. “Denbigh did it.”

  “We don’t know that,” Marshal Tipton said.

  “The note doesn’t suggest that to you, Marshal?” John asked.

  “Just the opposite,” Tipton said. “Denbigh is an educated man. Now, I’m not as smart as you are, but even I know how to spell the words come, and damage.”

  “I don’t mean Denbigh did it himself,” John said. “I mean he had it done.”

  “Maybe there are just some people in town who got upset with you because you’ve been coming down pretty hard on Denbigh in your stories. Denbigh has done a lot of good for this town.”

  “Really? What good has he done?”

  “Let’s just say he does a lot of business with the town.”

  “Yes, by allowing only the businesses he wants to stay, and squeezing out the others. He’s killing this town, Marshal Tipton. And the people in town know it, only they are too frightened to do anything about it.”

  “So you plan to mount a one person campaign do you, Bryce?”

  “If I am the only one willing to do anything about it, then yes, I will mount a one person campaign.”

  “Uh—huh,” Tipton said, stroking his jaw as he surveyed the shambles of the newspaper office. “And look what it got you.”

  “It has set me back a bit, I’ll admit,” John said. “But it won’t stop me. It’ll take me a day to clean up. I’ll have the paper out this Thursday, just as I do every Thursday.”

  “I’ll help you pick up all the type, Mr. Bryce,” a young boy of about twelve said.

  “Thank you, Kenny.”

  “I can go get Jimmy to help too, if you want me to.”

  “That would be nice,” John said. He turned toward the group of people still standing outside the office, and seeing Ernie Westpheling, called out to him.

  “Ernie, would you help me set the printing press back up?”

  “Sure thing.” Ernie, who had been a colonel during the Civil War, was a local businessman who owned a gun store.

  A couple other men also volunteered to help, and within a few minutes the printing press had been righted and was once again in its proper place. John surveyed it for a moment or two, then patted the press with a big smile.

  “Not a scratch,” he said. “It takes more than a few of Denbigh’s hooligans to put ole George out of business.”

  “George? I thought your name was John,” one of the men who had helped him said.

  “It is. George is the name of my printing press.”

  “You’ve named your press?”

  “Sure. It’s not only a part of this newspaper, it is the heart of the newspaper.”

  “What are you going to do about your window?” Ernie asked.

  “I’ll have to order a new glass from Bismarck,” John said. “In the meantime I guess I’ll just board that side up.”

  “What are you going to do about this, Marshal?” Ernie asked.

  “I’ll look into it, see if I can find out who did it,” Tipton replied. “But if I don’t come up with any witnesses, I don’t know what I can do.”

  “There has to be a witness somewhere,” Millie said. “It had to make a lot of noise when they broke out the window.”

  “You live no more than a couple blocks from here, Mrs. Bryce. Did you hear anything?” Tipton asked.

  “No.”

  “The newspaper belongs to you and your husband, so you would be even more attentive, I would think. You heard nothing, but you expect others in the town did?” Tipton shook his head. “No ma’am, I don’t expect I’m going to find anything.”

  “That’s because you aren’t looking in the right place,” John said. “You and I both know who is behind this.”

  Tipton glared at John, but he said nothing.

  Central Colorado

  “Is the son of a bitch still following?” Cyrus Hayes asked Emmet Cruise. The two men had stopped for a moment in order for Hayes to relieve himself, and Cruise crawled up onto a rock to look back along the trail.

  “Yeah, he’s there,” Cruise said.

  “What the hell? Are we leaving bread crumbs or something?” Hayes asked as he buttoned his trousers. “Who the hell is that, and how is he staying on our trail?”

  “I don’t know who he is, but he’s good,” Cruise said.

  “Yeah, well, let’s go,” Hayes said. “The more distance we can put between us and him, the better I will feel.”

  Earlier that morning, Hayes and Cruise had robbed the Rocky Mountain Bank and Trust in Pueblo, Colorado, and, during the robbery, had shot down in cold blood, a teller and two customers. The two customers, a man and his pregnant wife, had been friends of Matt Jensen. Because of that, even before the state got around to offering a reward for two bank robbers and murderers, Matt went after them.

  Knowing they would be pursued, the two outlaws took great pains to cover their true trail, while leaving false trails for anyone who would follow. Reaching a stream, they rode right down the middle of it, confident they were erasing any sign that could possibly be followed.

  For most trackers that might work, but not for Matt. He had learned his tracking expertise from Smoke Jensen, who had learned his own skills from an old mountain man named Preacher, arguably, the best tracker who had ever lived. Because that know-how had been passed down, Matt was almost as acc
omplished as Smoke or Preacher. He could follow a trail through the water by paying attention to such things as rocks dislodged against the flow of water, or silt disturbed by horse’s hooves, leaving a little pattern in the water for several minutes afterward.

  He was tracking down the streambed when a rifle boomed and a .44-40 bullet cracked through the air no more than an inch from his head.

  He leaped from his horse and ran though the stream, his feet churning up silver sheets of spray as he ran. The rifle barked again. Right on top of that he heard the flatter sound of a pistol shot. Almost simultaneously two bullets plunged into the water close by.

  Reaching the bank on the opposite side of the stream, Matt dived to the ground then worked his way toward a nearby outcropping of rocks. He sat with his back against the biggest of the rocks while he took a few deep breaths.

  “Who are you?” one of the men called out to him.

  “My name is Jensen,” Matt called back.

  “Jensen? Matt Jensen? Son of a bitch!” The outlaw had obviously recognized Matt’s name. There was fear in his voice.

  “Which one are you?” Matt called back. “Are you Hayes or Cruise?”

  “What? I’m Hayes. How did you know our names?”

  “Half the town saw you two boys riding away from the bank, and half the ones who saw you, knew who you were.”

  “What are you after us for, Jensen?” Hayes called. “I’ve heard of you, but I ain’t never heard that you was someone who would chase a fella down for the reward. Is that why you are chasin’ us?”

  “I’m not after the reward.”

  “Then if you ain’t after the reward, what the hell are you comin’ after us for?”

  “It seems the thing to do,” Matt said without being specific as to his reasons.

  “Well, mister, you made a big mistake,” Hayes shouted. “’Cause all you’re goin’ to do now is get yourself kilt!”

  Hayes and Cruise fired again, and once more the bullets whistled by harmlessly.

  “You still there?” Hayes called.

  “I’m still here.”

  “I tell you what, mister. Me and my partner here just talked it over, and we got us an idée. We have got us near ’bout five thousand dollars that we taken from the bank. A thousand of it is your’n if’n you’ll just go away,” Hayes called.

  “No deal.”

  There was a beat of silence, then Hayes called out again. “All right, how ’bout two thousand? We’ll give you two thousand and all you got to do is let us ride away.”

  “You expect me to believe you two are willing to give me nearly half of what you took from the bank?”

  “Why not? It’s no big deal, we can always rob another bank,” Hayes shouted back. “Two thousand dollars. You don’t come across money like that very often, do you?”

  “Not very often,” Matt agreed.

  “So, what do you think? You going to take us up on the offer?”

  “Let me think about it,” Matt said.

  “You do that.”

  Matt had no intention of taking the two men up on their offer, but he responded in such a way as to enable him to stall for time until he figured out how best to handle the situation. He picked up a stick about two feet long, put his hat on top of the stick, then raised it slightly above the rock.

  A rifle boomed, and the hat flew off the end of the stick.

  “Ha! You got ’im, Cruise!” Hayes shouted.

  “Whoa, I guess you two boys weren’t really serious about giving me all that money, were you?” Matt called out.

  “Son of a bitch, I missed!” Cruise said.

  “Mister, you know what I said about givin’ you that money? Well you can forget about it. We ain’t goin’ to give you nothin’,” Hayes said. “Except maybe a bullet right between your eyes.” His shout was punctuated with another rifle shot hitting the top of the rock, then whining off into the valley.

  After that there was silence.

  The silence stretched into several long minutes.

  “Hayes? Cruise? You still up there?” Matt called.

  Another rifle shot hit the rock just to the right of him. The one with the rifle had improved his position. As Matt scooted around to put the rock between himself and the shooter, there was a second shot.

  Matt saw the puff of smoke from the rifle, so he aimed at the spot and waited. Seconds later he was rewarded by seeing Cruise’s face raise up.

  Matt pulled the trigger, and Cruise fell forward, sliding belly down until his face ended up in the stream. Matt watched for a moment longer to make certain Cruise was dead when suddenly he heard the sound of horse’s hooves. Looking around he saw that Hayes had used the opportunity to get mounted and was galloping toward him. Hayes had his pistol in his hand, firing at Matt as he rode.

  Matt fired back. A puff of dust rose from Hayes’ vest, followed by a tiny spray of dust and blood. Hayes pitched backward out of his saddle but one foot hung up in the stirrup. His horse continued to run, raising a plume of water as the outlaw was dragged through the stream. When the horse reached the other side of the stream and started up the bank, Hayes’ foot disconnected from the stirrup and he lay motionless, half in the water and half out, not more than ten feet from where the body of his partner lay.

  Matt ran over to them, his gun still drawn, but the gun wasn’t necessary. Both men were dead.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hayes and Cruise were not the first outlaws Matt had ever tracked down. He was neither a lawman nor someone who hunted other men for any reward the government paid, but he was always on the side of law and order. Sometimes, going after an outlaw just seemed to be the right thing to do.

  He never sought trouble but, somehow, trouble had a way of finding him. As a result, Matt Jensen was one of a select company of men in the West whose very name evoked fear among the outlaws and evil doers.

  Matt took the bag of bank money from Hayes’ saddle, and started back to Pueblo, but just after noon, his horse stepped into an unseen prairie dog hole. The horse broke a leg and Matt had to shoot him. It was a hard thing to do; Spirit was only the second horse he had ever owned. Indeed, that horse had carried with him the spirit of his first horse, who was also named, not coincidentally, Spirit. There was nothing Matt could do but take shanks mare, so, throwing his saddle, saddle bags, and the money bag over his shoulder, he began walking.

  Matt Jensen dropped his saddle with a sigh of relief, then climbed up the berm to stand on the ballast between the railroad tracks. Before him the clear tracks of the Denver and New Orleans lay like twin black ribbons across the landscape, stretching north to south from horizon to horizon. For the moment they were as cold and empty as the barren sand, rocks, and mountains that surrounded him, but Matt knew a train would pass through there sometime before sundown.

  Since putting his horse down, Matt had walked for two hours, carrying his saddle with him. At the moment, he was standing alongside the railroad tracks some thirty miles south of Pueblo. All that was left for him to do was catch the train, so, using his saddle as a pillow, he lay down beside the tracks to wait. As he waited, he thought of the horse he had just put down. In order to combat the grief that threatened to consume him, he turned his thoughts to his first horse named Spirit, and how he had come by him.

  Right after the war, while still a boy named Matt Cavanaugh, the man known as Matt Jensen made the trip west from Missouri with his father, mother, and sister. On the trail west, their wagon was attacked by outlaws, and all were killed but Matt. He escaped, managing to kill one of the outlaws in the process. The incident left Matt an orphan and shortly thereafter he wound up in the Soda Springs Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. Rather than providing a refuge, the orphanage was so evilly run that eventually Matt escaped from the home.

  A few days later Matt, nearly dead from hunger and the cold, was found in the mountains by the legendary Smoke Jensen. Smoke took the boy in and raised him to adulthood. Out of respect and appreciation, Matt Cavanaugh changed his
name to Matt Jensen and though there was no blood relationship between the two men, they regarded each other as brothers. When it was time for Matt to go out on his own, Smoke had surprised him with an offer.

  “Why don’t you go out to the corral and pick out your horse?” Smoke had asked.

  “My horse?”

  “Yeah, your horse. A man’s got to have a horse.”

  “Which horse is mine?” Matt asked.

  “Why don’t you take the best one?” Smoke replied. “Except for that one,” he added, pointing to an appaloosa in one corner of the corral. “That one is mine.”

  “Which horse is the best?” Matt asked.

  “Uh-uh,” Smoke replied, shaking his head. “I’m willing to give you the best horse in my string, but as to which horse that might be, well, you’re just going to have to figure that out for yourself.”

  Matt walked out to the small corral that Smoke had built and, leaning on the split-rail fence, looked at the string of seven horses from which he could choose.

  After looking them over very carefully, Matt smiled, and nodded.

  “You’ve made your choice?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “I want that one,” Matt said, pointing to a bay.

  “Why not the chestnut?” Smoke asked. “He looks stronger.”

  “Look at the chestnut’s front feet,” Matt said. “They are splayed. The bay’s feet are just right.”

  “What about the black one over there?”

  “Uh-uh,” Matt said. “His back legs are set too far back. I want the bay.”

  Smoke reached out and ran his hand through Matt’s hair.

  “You’re learning, kid, you’re learning,” he said. “The bay is yours.”

  Matt’s grin spread from ear to ear. “I’ve never had a horse of my own before,” he said. He jumped down from the rail fence and started toward the horse.

  “That’s all right, he’s never had a rider before,” Smoke said.