Dakota Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m very serious.”

  “Do you think one hundred twenty-five dollars would be fair?”

  “More than fair,” Matt said. “I’ll give you a hundred and twenty-five dollars for a quarter share of the paper, and another one hundred dollars for operating expenses.”

  John smiled. “It seems to me like we went through this once before. Only then, it was gold ore you gave me.”

  “No gold ore this time, just money, I’m afraid,” Matt said.

  “Just money he says,” John said to Millie. “All right, I suppose I can take just money.” He and Millie both laughed.

  Matt stepped out to his horse, got the money from his saddlebag, then came back in. “I have another suggestion if you are open to it,” Matt said as he handed John the money.

  “What is your suggestion?”

  “Suppose you remain publisher, but hire me to work for you. That will give me an excuse for being here, and I can share the heat on anything that appears in the paper.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to put you in danger because of what is essentially my fight,” John replied.

  Matt laughed.

  “What is so funny?”

  “John, you invited me here, remember?” Matt asked. “Doesn’t that sort of make it my fight?”

  Now, John laughed as well. “If you put it that way, I guess you are right,” he said.

  “Besides, I just bought in to the paper. So in my book, this makes it my fight as well.”

  “Matt, I have not the words to express my gratitude. I don’t know what I was thinking writing to you as I did, but …”

  “No but,” Matt interrupted. “We are friends. That’s all that is needed.”

  John took Matt’s hand into his own. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

  “I’ll be in to work tomorrow,” Matt said. “In the meantime, I need to find a place to stay while I’m here.”

  “As I said in my letter, you are welcome to stay on a cot in an extra room at my house.”

  “No, if this really does develop into some sort of fight, it would better if we weren’t staying at the same house. I’ll find a hotel.”

  “I’m afraid our hotel doesn’t offer all that much,” John said.

  “How about Ma Perkins’ Boarding House?” Millie suggested.

  “Yes,” John said. “That would be a great place for him.”

  “Where is this place?” Matt asked.

  “It’s just across the street,” John said. He pointed. “It’s that two-story white house with blue trim.”

  “Kenny Perkins lives there,” Millie said. “So if you need anything, ask him.”

  “Kenny Perkins owns the house?”

  John laughed. “Not exactly. His mother owns the house. Kenny is our paperboy. He is only twelve years old, but he is very resourceful, as you’ll see when you meet him.”

  “All right,” Matt said. “I’ll give the place a try.”

  “There is a meeting of the Fullerton Business Association this evening. It’s being held in a conference room at the bank. After you get settled in, I’ll come by for you. I would like to introduce you to a few others in town.”

  “All right,” Matt agreed. “Just come by for me when you are ready.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Leaving the newspaper office, Matt rode down to Ma Perkins’ Boarding House. The woman who greeted him was very pretty, with blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a light spray of freckles across her nose. There was a young, fresh attractiveness about her, more like spring flowers than an arranged bouquet of roses.

  “Yes, sir?” she said.

  “I would like to speak to Ma Perkins,” Matt said.

  “I’m Ma Perkins.”

  “You?” Matt said, his surprise evident in his voice. “You are Ma Perkins?”

  She laughed, and brushed back a fall of auburn hair. “My real name is Lucy,” she said. “It’s just that when I started my boardinghouse, Kenny suggested I call it Ma Perkins’ House. I did, and before I knew it, people were calling me Ma Perkins. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “My name is Matt Jensen. John Bryce suggested that I might be able to secure a room here.”

  “So, Millie and John sent you to me, did they? Well, bless their hearts. They’re good people. But I worry about John. I swear, he has more courage than sense, taking on Denbigh like he has. How is it that you know him?”

  “I have taken a position at the newspaper with Mr. Bryce,” Matt said.

  “Is that a fact? My, I had no idea John was looking to increase his staff. But I suppose it is quite a job for him to be running the paper with just nobody but Millie for help.”

  “I take it then that you have a room I can rent?”

  “Yes, indeed, I have room for you,” Lucy Perkins said. “Would you like to see it?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “It’s upstairs,” Lucy said. “Follow me.”

  Matt followed Lucy up the stairs, then down the hall to a room that was at the front of the house, looking out onto the street. It was a comfortably appointed room with an iron bedstead, feather mattress, chifforobe, overstuffed chair, table, and lantern.

  “Does this meet with your approval?” Lucy asked. Her voice was soft, well modulated, and had a distinct Southern accent. “It will be three dollars a week. I hope that isn’t too dear.”

  “No, I think that is quite reasonable. And it’s a very nice room,” Matt said. “I’ll take it.”

  “Good, we will be happy to have you as our guest. Let me tell you about the place. There is a bathing room at the end of the hall, with a tub and a small stove you can use to warm your water. It’s the only bathing room in the house, so when you use it, I recommend that you lock the door from inside.

  “I furnish breakfast and supper. You are on your own for lunch. Supper is at seven. I know most folks eat at six, but nearly all of my guests work somewhere, and it’s sometimes hard for them to get off work and get home in time to have supper at six. I hope that doesn’t inconvenience you.”

  “No, seven o’clock would be fine,” Matt said.

  “Having just arrived in town, though, you might be hungry now. If you would like, I could have Mrs. Black scare something up in the kitchen for you. She is a wonderful cook.”

  Had he not enjoyed a good meal at the home of the Fowlers, Matt might have taken Lucy Perkins up on her offer. But he had two weeks of trail dust in his throat as well, so right now, even more than food, was the desire for a cool beer.

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. Perkins. But John is going to come by for me in a few minutes. I take it there is some sort of business meeting he wants me to attend.”

  “Oh,” Lucy said with a bright smile. “That would be the Fullerton Business Association. I will be attending that meeting as well. As a matter of fact, I am president of the Association.”

  “You are the president?”

  Lucy laughed at Matt’s reaction. “Do you think, perhaps, that a woman cannot be the president of a business association?”

  “No, it’s not that,” Matt said, trying to recover ground. “It’s just that I, well …”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Jensen,” Lucy said good-naturedly. “I know it is unusual. Come back downstairs with me to sign the guest book, and I’ll give you a key to your room before you leave.”

  Back downstairs, as Lucy watched Matt sign the guest book, an elderly, overweight, and bald-headed man came in. Looking up at him, Lucy smiled.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Proffer. Did you have a good game of checkers with Mr. Conners?” Then, to Matt, she added, “Mr. Proffer and Mr. Conners are old friends and they meet every day in the general store to play checkers.”

  “Hrumph,” Proffer replied. “Young man, I recommend that you never play checkers with Dilbert Conners. He cheats.”

  Lucy chuckled. “I take it you lost today.”

  “Who is this young fella?” Proffer asked.

  “This i
s Mr. Jensen. He is a new resident.”

  “Do you play checkers, Mr. Jensen?”

  “Yes, but I cheat,” Jensen said.

  “Hrumph!” Proffer replied as he shuffled off to his room.

  Lucy tried hard to bury her laugh. “You are awful, Mr. Jensen,” she said. “Just awful.”

  “What did my friend do that is so awful?” John asked, coming into the parlor of the boarding-house at just that moment.

  “Hello, John,” Lucy said. “Nothing. I was just laughing at something he said to Mr. Proffer, is all.”

  “Be careful of what you say to Proffer. He’s a lawyer, you know, and would sue you at the drop of a hat. Are you ready to go?”

  “I am,” Matt replied.

  “Wait until I get my hat,” Lucy said. “If you two don’t mind, Iwill walk down to the meeting with you.”

  “We will be happy to have your company, Madam President,” John said.

  In addition to John and Matt, there were seven others in attendance at the business meeting, Lucy Perkins being one of the seven and the only woman. They were sitting around a long table, with Lucy at the head. She began the meeting with a light rap of the gavel on the table.

  “Gentlemen, the meeting will come to order,” she said. “As you have no doubt noticed, Mr. Bryce has brought a guest. Before I have him introduced, I wonder if I could ask each of you to tell him your name and what you do. Mr. White, we’ll start with you.”

  White was a small, thin man, with a closely cropped mustache and wire-rimmed glasses. He started to stand.

  “No need to stand,” Lucy said. “We’ll do this informally.”

  “I’m Leland White, I’m a pharmacist, and I own White’s Apothecary.”

  “I’m Otis Miller, I own the bank,” the heavyset man sitting next to White said.

  “I’m Ernie Westpheling. I own the gunshop.” Westpheling was a tall, very dignified-looking man.

  “Paul Tobin. I own the Fullerton Livery.” Tobin had a very prominent scar that cut, like a purple lightning flash, across his left cheek.

  “Jason Scott, Scott Leathergoods.” Scott was totally bald.

  “Troy Jackson. I’m the blacksmith.” Jackson was a very large, very powerfully built man with huge arms and shoulders that strained against the shirt he was wearing.

  “Now, Mr. Bryce,” Lucy said. “Since all the introductions have been made, suppose you introduce your guest.”

  “Madam President, gentlemen,” John began. “This is Matt Jensen.”

  “Matt Jensen?” Westpheling said. “Look here, this isn’t ‘the’ Matt Jensen, is it?”

  “What do you mean, ‘the’ Matt Jensen,” Scott asked.

  “You mean you’ve never heard of Matt Jensen?”

  “I have,” Miller said. “You are a gunman, aren’t you, Mr. Jensen?”

  “Gentlemen, would you please allow me to continue my introduction?” John asked.

  When the others quit talking, John nodded at them. “Thank you. As I said, this is Matt Jensen. I wrote to him and asked him to come to Fullerton, because I think we need a man of his caliber and experience.”

  “Need him to do what?” Leland White asked.

  “Specifically, Mr. Jensen will be in my employ. But, given the recent, let us say, adventures of some of Denbigh’s men, I think it would be good for the town to have someone like Mr. Jensen around.”

  “To do what?” Miller asked.

  “Just to be a presence,” John said.

  “Mr. Jensen, I mean no offense by this,” Miller said. “But we already have one too many gunmen in this town. If you haven’t met him yet, I’m sure you will. His name is Ollie Butrum, and he is pure evil. He is also deadly quick. If I were you, I would leave town right away rather than face such a man.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Matt said.

  “But you have no intention of leaving, do you?” Miller asked.

  “I was invited by John Bryce,” Matt replied. I will be in town as long as John wishes me to stay.”

  “John, you said you intended Mr. Jensen to be a presence,” White said. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You do remember when Denbigh’s ruffians tried to destroy the newspaper office, don’t you, Leland?”

  “Yes.”

  “With Matt as my employee …” John stopped and looked over at Matt before he continued. “The fact is, he isn’t exactly an employee. He is more like a partner, since he bought in to the newspaper. And as a partner in the paper, I do not think we need fear any more vandalism.”

  “I don’t like it,” White said. “It looks to me like you are declaring war with Denbigh. And you are bringing in the entire town into your personal war.”

  “That’s just it, Leland,” John replied. “It isn’t my personal war. Can’t you see it? Denbigh literally has the entire town under siege.”

  “I, for one, am glad to have Mr. Jensen around,” Westpheling said.

  “As am I,” Tobin said.

  “Count me in,” Scott added.

  Jackson, the big blacksmith, reached his long arm across the table. “Welcome to Fullerton, Mr. Jensen,” he said.

  “Leland? Otis?” John said.

  Otis Miller, the banker, shook his head. “I don’t like him being here, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it,” he said. “Having this man around is going to cause us trouble. You mark my words. There will be trouble.”

  After the discussion about Matt, the meeting moved on to other issues, from how they, as businessmen, were going to respond to the city council’s proposal to increase the sales tax by a penny on the dollar, to a vote of support of, as well as a donation to, the town fire department’s plans to hold a firemen’s ball at the end of the month.

  When the meeting adjourned, Lucy asked Matt if he would be coming back to the house right away.

  “No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll take a look around the town, just to get myself acquainted,” Matt said.

  Lucy Perkins chuckled. “That won’t take you very long,” she said. “Fullerton isn’t exactly what you would call a big city.”

  Leaving the bank, Matt walked south on Monroe, where he encountered such businesses as an apothecary, a leather goods store, a mercantile, and the Morning Star Hotel. Turning west on South-worth Street, he encountered private houses and a church. He turned back north on Fullerton Street, which was lined on both sides with houses. Then from Fullerton, he turned east on Second Street, which brought him back to Monroe, the main street of the town. Back on the main street, he decided to look for a saloon.

  The saloon wasn’t hard to find. The New York Saloon was the biggest and grandest building in the entire town. He started to step up onto the porch.

  A rather small, pale-eyed man was standing just in front of the saloon door. He was wearing a leather vest decorated with silver conchos, a string tie, and a large turquoise-studded silver belt buckle. Matt had to hold back a chuckle, because the man was dressed more like an Eastern dandy’s idea of what a Westerner should wear than a real cowboy.

  “You’re new in town, ain’t you, mister?” the little man asked. “When did you get in?”

  Matt had already heard Butrum described, so he knew who this was the moment he was addressed. His immediate thought was to tell Butrum it was none of his business when he arrived. But, based upon some of the uneasiness expressed in the meeting of the businessmen earlier, he decided not to be confrontational.

  “Today,” Matt said.

  “Show me your coupon,” the little man said.

  “What coupon?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, mister. You know what coupon I’m talking about. The one you got when you paid your toll on the road. Show it to me.”

  “Oh, the toll,” Matt said. “Well, there’s the problem. I decided not to pay the toll.”

  “You decided not to pay the toll?” the little man asked, his voice increasing the volume and pitch. “Who the hell are you to decide not to pay the toll?”

&
nbsp; “It doesn’t look to me like you and I are going to be friends,” Matt replied. “So I see no reason to tell you my name.”

  “Draw, mist—”

  That was as far as the little man got, because though he was quick, Matt was quicker. The difference was, Matt, who by now was standing right in front of him, didn’t reach for his own gun. Instead, he brought his right hand around in a backhanded blow that swept the little man off the porch and onto the ground, where he landed in a rather substantial pile of horse apples. The blow had not only stunned the little man, it knocked the pistol from his hand. Matt reached down, picked the pistol up from the porch, then went inside as if nothing had happened. Stepping up to the bar, he swung open the cylinder of the little man’s pistol, punched out all the cartridges, then handed the empty revolver to the bartender.

  “This belongs to that little fella who was standing out on the front porch,” Matt said. “I expect he is going to be coming in here asking for it in a moment or two.”

  “My God, mister, is this Ollie Butrum’s gun?” the bartender asked.

  The bartender’s question got the attention of everyone in the room, and all conversation came to a halt as they looked toward the tall stranger who had just come in.

  One of the most interested of the saloon patrons was sitting in the very back of the room, nursing a drink. He had piercing dark eyes, a hook nose, and a protruding chin, which he was now rubbing absent-mindedly as he studied Matt Jensen.

  “I don’t know the little fella’s name,” Matt said. “He didn’t give it to me.”

  “How did you come by his gun?”

  “He drew it against me, so I took it away from him,” Matt said.

  “You took it away from him? Mister, Ollie Butrum has killed at least ten men that I know of. He’s little, but he’s as quick as a rattlesnake and twice as evil.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t exactly get the idea that he was a Sunday School teacher.”

  The bartender and the others in the saloon laughed.

  “Sunday School teacher. That’s a good one,” the bartender said.

  “How about a beer?” Matt asked.

  “Sure thing, mister,” the bartender said, picking up a mug and stepping over to the beer barrel. “And this first one is on the house. Anyone who can take a gun away from Ollie Butrum deserves it.”