“Scathing?”
“Bad.”
“Yes, sir, he did,” Butrum said. “But that ain’t all he wrote.”
“Oh? What else did he write about me.”
“Well, nothin’ else in the newspaper, but he did write a letter to someone and Clem Dawson, the fella that works down at the post office, he copied it down.”
“Did he now? And where is the copy of the letter Bryce wrote?”
“I’ve got it,” Butrum said. “Dawson give it to me ’cause he thought you might want to see it.”
Denbigh took the letter from Butrum and began to read.
As Denbigh read the letter, doing so silently, Butrum walked over to the liquor cabinet to examine its contents. The cabinet was filled with bottles of various wines, liqueurs, and whiskeys. He started to reach for one of the bottles, but was stopped by Tolliver.
“The liquor in this cabinet is not to be touched, sir,” Tolliver said. “That is a reserved cache.”
“There is some rye whiskey in the cabinet, Mr. Tolliver,” Denbigh said, not even looking up from the letter he was reading. “You may serve that to Mr. Butrum.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tolliver poured a glass of the rye whiskey, turning his nose up slightly at the aroma. Butrum took the glass, tossed it down, then held the glass out for a second serving. Tolliver poured another drink, then looked over at Denbigh, who had finished the letter and was now deep in thought.
“Is something troubling you, sir?” Tolliver asked.
“Mr. Butrum, have you ever heard of Matt Jensen?”
“No, I ain’t,” Butrum said as he turned the glass to his lips.
“Have you, Mr. Tolliver?”
“Only what I have read,” Tolliver replied. “And from what I read, he must be quite a magnificent fellow.”
Denbigh chuckled. “I suppose that’s all in how you look at it,” he said. “If he is on your side, he is magnificent. But if he is against you, it could be quite troubling.”
“And is that likely to be the case, m’lord? Is Mr. Jensen likely to be against you?”
“If the newspaperman has his way, it might be.”
“I can take care of the newspaperman for you,” Butrum said. “And this time, there won’t be no comin’ back the way he did after Slater and the others did their little job.”
“No, that’s all right. We’ll let him be for a while.”
“Whatever you say. You’re the boss,” Butrum said. His voice had the high-pitched quality that was common in very small people.
“Don’t leave just yet,” Denbigh said. Pulling a piece of paper from his desk, he began to write. “See to it that this telegram is sent, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Butrum said.
After Butrum left, Denbigh returned to his map and began studying it again, though this time his mind was on something else. He was thinking about the man to whom he had just sent the telegram.
Lucas Meacham.
Denbigh had employed Meacham’s services once before, and if there was anyone he had ever met, or even heard about, who was more deadly than Ollie Butrum, it was this man.
Meacham had once killed an entire family for Denbigh—father, mother, four kids, and a grandmother thrown in for good measure. He had a reputation for being deadly accurate with his shooting, and absolutely merciless with his killing. And though Denbigh had never met Matt Jensen, he knew it was going to take someone like Lucas Meacham to make certain that Jensen did not become a problem for him.
Chapter Six
Salcedo, Colorado
When Lucas Meacham struck the match, the flare of light made his piercing brown eyes, hawklike nose, and jutting chin even more prominent. Holding the match to his watch, he saw that it was almost ten o’clock. According to the information he had gotten, Bradley Keaton was supposed to appear on the corner under the lamplight at exactly ten o’clock.
Meacham was depending on that, because he had paid well to get it set up. And he knew that the person who was arranging this for him knew that if Keaton didn’t show up, Meacham would be most unhappy. And people who met Meacham realized, very quickly, that he was not the kind of man one wanted to make unhappy.
A few minutes later, a man came out of the saloon, then stopped on the corner, under the street lamp. He stood there for a moment, looking in both directions. Meacham raised the rifle to his shoulder, but he lowered it when he saw a woman come out of the saloon to join the man. The man gave the woman some money; then the two of them hurried off to her crib.
Meacham blew his nose onto the ground, and waited.
Behind him, his horse whickered and stamped its foot.
From the saloon, a woman’s high-pitched squeal of laughter was joined by a man’s deep guffaw.
A back door slammed shut in one of the houses and, in the moonlight, Meacham saw a man heading for the toilet, carrying a wad of paper with him.
Another man approached the street lamp, this time coming out of the dark. The man stopped under the light of the lamppost, reached into his pocket to pull out a watch, then raised his hand to study it pointedly, as if waiting to meet someone.
This was the man Meacham had been waiting for, and once again he raised his rifle, then aimed at the easy target the street lamp provided for him. Once he had the sight picture lined up, he squeezed the trigger slowly, and was rocked back by the recoil of the exploding cartridge. Even from here, he could see part of the man’s skull fly away as the heavy lead slug crashed through his head.
The heavy boom of the shot rolled back from the distant hills so that it sounded almost like a volley, rather than a single, exceptionally well-placed shot. Meacham mounted his horse and rode quickly toward the sprawled body of the man he had just shot. By the time he reached the corner, several others had gathered around the body.
“Who did this?” someone was saying. “Did anybody see anything?”
Meacham saw a star on the questioner’s vest.
“I did it, Sheriff,” Meacham said, swinging down from his horse.
“I’m the deputy, not the sheriff,” the man said. “You’re confessing to this, are you?”
“I’m not confessing, I’m claiming,” Meacham replied.
“What do you mean, you are claiming? Who are you?”
“The name is Meacham. Lucas Meacham.”
Meacham took a folded-up paper from his vest pocket and showed it to the deputy.
“This man is Bradley Keaton,” Meacham said. “There’s a thousand dollars reward out on him. Dead or alive,” he added pointedly. “And as you can see, he is dead.”
“Oh, yes,” the deputy said. “He is definitely dead.”
Meacham nodded toward the hotel. “I’m going to take a room in the hotel for tonight. I expect to have verification and payment by noon tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” the deputy said. “I’m sure you will have.”
“Thank you.”
The next morning, Lucas Meacham was awakened by someone pounding on the door of his hotel room. After shooting Keaton the night before, he had stayed up late drinking and playing cards, and now he felt as if every knock on the door had the effect of hitting him in the head.
“All right, all right!” he yelled, and even the sound of his own voice caused his head to hurt. Sitting up in bed, he saw the late-morning sun streaming in through the window, and he wondered what time it was. His throat was bitter from too many cigarettes, and sour with too much whiskey.
Whoever was outside the door pounded on it again.
“I said all right, I’m coming!” Meacham called out again. “If you pound on that door one more time, I’m going to shoot through it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” a muffled voice replied from outside the door. “Mr. Meacham?”
“What?”
“Are you Mr. Meacham?”
Wearing his long underwear, Meacham padded barefoot over to the door. He was carrying his pistol in his right hand, and with his left, he jerked the
door open.
“What do you want?” he demanded. “And it better be good.”
The man standing on the other side of the door was a small man, wearing a three-piece suit, bowler hat, and rimless glasses. He recoiled at the sight of the pistol in Meacham’s hand.
“I have to make sure you are Lucas Meacham,” the man said.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“I have a telegram for you, Mr. Meacham,” the man said, holding out a yellow envelope.
Meacham took the envelope from the small man’s hand and, without a word, slammed the door. Walking back over to the bed, he sat down and pulled the telegram out to read.
REQUIRE YOUR SERVICES TO FIND MATT JENSEN STOP ONCE YOU FIND HIM SPECIAL ARRANGEMENTS WILL APPLY STOP YOU WILL BE COMPENSATED AS BEFORE STOP N DENBIGH
Meacham had been tracking Keaton for nearly two months before finding him and killing him last night. He had nothing else planned, so this telegram came at a good time.
Denbigh wanted “special arrangements” applied to Matt Jensen. Special arrangements meant that he wanted this man Jensen killed. Denbigh always paid exceptionally well when he wanted someone killed. All Meacham had to do now was find Jensen, and that was goingtobeeasy. Asitsohappened, Meacham had read about Matt Jensen just the day before, in the Citizen’s Monitor, the Salcedo newspaper.
Matt Jensen To Be Feted in Pueblo
BANK ROBBERS KILLED IN DEADLY SHOOTOUT
Stolen Bank Money Recovered
Matt Jensen, who is well known throughout the West as a champion for justice, will be honored Saturday next by the city of Pueblo. The celebration is in recognition of Mr. Jensen’s daring pursuit and dispatch of the fiends Cyrus Hayes and Emmet Cruise.
The two outlaws, while perpetrating a bank robbery, did shoot and kill Joshua King, the bank teller, as well as two customers, Mr. and Mrs. Kyle Prescott, Mrs. Prescott being with child at the time.
Upon learning of the robbery and murders, Matt Jensen began an immediate pursuit of the bandits and, on his own, tracked, located, and killed them. After he recovered the stolen money, Mr. Jensen returned every cent to the bank.
Mayor Robert McKay McClelland has declared Saturday next to be set aside so that honors may be paid to Matt Jensen. The editor of this newspaper wishes to take this opportunity to extend kudos to Mr. Jensen, whose sterling performance not only adds to his own considerable luster, but speaks well of the Western spirit.
When Lucas Meacham rode into Pueblo, he saw a huge banner stretched across Abriendo Street.
PUEBLO HONORS MATT JENSENFOR RECOVERING STOLEN BANK MONEY
It had not been hard to find Jensen. Stories of his running down thebank robbers and recovering the stolen money had appeared in nearly every newspaper in the West. This was going to be a lot easier than he thought, rather like taking candy from a baby.
As Meacham sat his horse, staring up at the banner, someone called out to him.
“Mister, you are going to have to get out of the street!”
“What do you mean get out of the street? What the hell for?”
“The parade is coming. The parade to honor Matt Jensen.”
Meacham stared at the man for a moment, then expectorated a stream of tobacco juice before moving.
In a town as small and rural as Pueblo, any occasion for a celebration was a welcome event. The Pueblo Sons of Liberty Brigade were cooking a steer over a pit, and the aroma of the roasting beef permeated the whole town. Later, it would be served, along with baked beans, to all who would make a donation to the brigade. Firecrackers popped throughout the day as young boys would put them in places where they would cause the most mischief, then run away laughing at their own antics.
At one o’clock, there was a parade led by the city band, then the fire department’s pumper, with all firemen in full uniform, followed by an open carriage in which Mayor Robert McClelland rode, waving at the people. The mayor’s carriage was followed by a woman, leading a group of children. The woman was also carrying a sign, identifying the children as being students of Miss Margrabe’s third-grade class.
The mayor had tried to talk Matt into riding in the carriage with him, but Matt was embarrassed by all the hoopla, and the last thing he wanted was to be riding in a carriage with the mayor. He managed to get out of it by explaining that he would much rather watch the parade than be in it.
After the parade there were games; the firemen defeated the Sons of Liberty in a spirited game of baseball, four to two, though the Sons of Liberty made up for it by winning the horseshoe-throwing contest. There was also target shooting, a three-legged race, and a tug-of-war.
Toward early evening, not being one to miss an opportunity to speak, Mayor McClelland mounted a speaker’s platform and spoke for forty-five minutes, extolling the virtues of Pueblo and the progress the city had made under his administration. Not until the last minute of his speech did the mayor remember to thank Matt Jensen for recovering the money that had been taken from the bank.
***
Lucas Meacham sat at a table in the back of the Blue Star Saloon, nursing a drink and planning his job. He could hear the sounds from outside, the band music as well as occasional applause and cheers from the crowd.
“Honey, are you goin’ to be a’ wantin’ me for anything?” the lone saloon girl asked him. “’Cause if you don’t want me for nothin’, I’m a’ goin’ to go outside and see what all is goin’ on.”
“No, I ain’t goin’ to be wantin’ you,” Meacham said. “If I was wantin’ me a woman now, I’d get one a lot prettier than you.”
The smile left the girl’s face and her eyes reflected a moment of hurt, before she was able to file the insult away with all the other insults she had heard for most of her life. Turning from him, she walked quickly to the door, then outside.
With the departure of the bar girl, the only people left in the saloon were the bartender and two Mexican men who were sitting at a table near Meacham. It was obvious that the bartender didn’t want to be here, as he was standing over by the door, staring out over the batwings at the activities outside.
One of the two Mexicans looked over toward Meacham. “Senor, you are not going to …” He turned to his companion. “Celebrare?”
“Celebrate.”
“Sí. You are not going to celebrate the grande Matt Jensen?” This from the taller of the two men.
“I have no interest in Matt Jensen,” Meacham replied. “As far as I’m concerned, Matt Jensen could fall off a horse and break his neck.”
The two men smiled. “I think maybe we are amigos,” the tall one said.
“What makes you think we are amigos?” Meacham asked. He wasn’t the kind of man who would likely be friends with these two men, or any Mexicans for that matter.
“Because we do not care if he breaks his neck either,” the tall one said.
“For two years we were in prison because of Señor Matt Jensen,” the smaller of the two said.
Meacham took a quick glance toward the bartender and saw that he had not moved away from the batwing doors.
“So, because of Matt Jensen, you two were in prison, huh?”
“Sí, señor, for two years.”
“How would you like to get revenge? And make some money besides?” he asked.
The two men looked at each other, then the smaller responded. “I think maybe we would like that very much.”
Because of the many festivities and the dinner, it was late by the time Matt went to bed that night. He was staying in a room in the Railroad Hotel, the accommodations having been provided for him by the Colorado Bank and Trust. He fell asleep, not basking in the honors that had been bestowed upon him today, but feeling a sense of sorrow because it had been necessary for him to put Spirit down.
Later that same night, Lucas Meacham, Pablo Sanchez, and Enrico Gutierrez, the two men he had hired to help him, slipped through the dark shadows down the street to the Railroad Hotel. Although Lucas Meacham was a skilled gunman who believed he co
uld take Jensen in a face-to-face gunfight, why take the chance? All he wanted was for the man to be killed so he could collect his fee from Denbigh, and if Sanchez and Gutierrez guaranteed that result, that was good enough for him.
Meacham, Sanchez, and Gutierrez moved in through the front door, then walked quietly over to the counter where the sleeping desk clerk was snoring loudly. Meacham turned the registration book around and, in the light of the quietly hissing kerosene lantern, ran his finger down the list of names until he found the one he was looking for.
“Room Two-oh-seven,” he whispered.
Leaning over the counter, Meacham removed a key from a nail that was labeled 207.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Meacham led Sanchez and Gutierrez upstairs, cautioning them to walk very, very quietly. When they reached the top of the stairs, Meacham held out his hand to stop them on the stairway, then leaned around the corner to look down the hallway toward Room 207.
The hallway was lit by four kerosene lanterns, two on each of the facing walls. The lanterns made hissing sounds, and occasionally the flame in one or another lantern would flicker for a few seconds, causing the shadows to dance. After making certain that no one was in the hallway and that all the doors were closed, Meacham pulled his pistol and, with his arm crooked at the elbow, pointed it straight up.
“Put out the lanterns as we go by,” he whispered. “Let’s do it.”
The three men walked quietly, very quietly, down the hall, making certain they stayed on the hall runner, a long, narrow carpet that stretched from one end of the hallway to the other. As they passed each lantern they extinguished it so that the hallway grew progressively darker, until, by the time they were standing in front of Room 207, the only illumination was a dim, silver splash of light down at the far end of the hall, projected through the window by the moon.
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