Dakota Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  “Hell, Paul, you always give a free beer to someone who comes into the saloon for the first time,” one of the saloon patrons said.

  “Now, don’t go givin’ away my secrets, Stan,” Paul said, and the others laughed. Paul drew a beer then handed it to Matt.

  “What brings you to Fullerton, Mister …” The bartender paused in mid-sentence, waiting for Matt to supply his name.

  Matt took a swallow, wondering how he should answer. Already in Colorado, Wyoming, Arizona, and New Mexico, his name was well enough known that he often got a reaction when he said it. He thought that whatever he had to do here, he could do it best if he kept a low profile, but he also had not spent any time in this part of the country, so it was entirely possible that he could say his name without generating any reaction. He decided to risk it.

  He lowered his glass. “The name is Jensen. Matt Jensen. I came to Fullerton to take a job. I’m going to be working for the newspaper.”

  “Is that a fact? John Bryce hire you, did he?” Stan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What will you be doing?” Paul asked.

  “I expect I’ll do whatever he needs done—keep the office and the printing press clean, run errands, sell advertising, maybe write an article now and then for him.”

  Paul laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “A handyman. You took Butrum’s gun away from him, but you are going to be a handyman. This is rich. Yes, sir, this is really rich.”

  “It’s honest work,” Matt said. “You don’t have anything against honest work, do you?”

  “No, I don’t mean that,” Paul said. “It’s just that—look out, mister!” Paul suddenly shouted.

  Paul’s shout wasn’t necessary because the innate awareness Matt had developed over the years of putting his life on the line had already warned him. Spinning toward the door, Matt saw Ollie Butrum charging through it with a gun in his hand. Butrum pulled the trigger and the bullet slammed into the bar right next to Matt.

  “You son of a bitch! Nobody does that to me!” the gunman shouted. He thumbed the hammer back for a second shot, but before he could pull the trigger, Matt dropped his beer, drew his own pistol, and fired. The .44 slug from Matt’s pistol caught the little man in the heart. When the bullet came out through the back, it brought half his shoulder blade with it, leaving an exit wound the size of a twenty-dollar gold piece.

  Butrum staggered backward, crashing through the batwing doors and landing flat on his back on the front porch. His body was still jerking a bit, but his eyes were open and unseeing. He was already dead; only the muscles continued to respond, as if waiting for signals that could no longer be sent.

  For a long moment, no one spoke. They just stared through the drifting gun smoke in shocked amazement at the body that lay on the floor.

  “Looks like I’ll be needing another beer,” Matt said as he put his pistol back in his holster.

  Chapter Twenty

  Quickly, the bartender drew another beer and handed to Matt.

  “SinceI spilled the other one, I guess I’d better pay for this one,” Matt said as he put a nickel on the bar.

  “Mister, if I was you, I’d drink that beer just real fast, then ride on out of town,” the bartender said.

  “Why?” Matt asked. “It was self-defense. Everyone in here saw it. I’m not concerned about the law. Besides, I’ve taken a job here. I’m going to be working at the newspaper, remember?”

  “It ain’t the law you need to worry about,” Stan said. “It’s Nigel Denbigh.” He pointed toward the body. “Butrum worked for him.”

  At that moment, a middle-aged, overweight man came into the saloon, wheezing from the effort of having moved so quickly. He had his gun in his hand, but when he saw Butrum sprawled out on the floor, he lowered his gun and just stared for a long moment in absolute shock at the body. The gun was still in Butrum’s hand.

  The man, who was wearing a badge, looked up, the expression on his face still mirroring his shock.

  “Who? Who did this?” he asked.

  “I did,” Matt said.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  “It was self-defense,” Matt said.

  The marshal shook his head. “Don’t be lyin’ to me, mister. Butrum was an evil little bastard, I’ll grant you that, and more’n likely he needed killin’. But you just can’t go around killin’ someone in cold blood and sayin’ it was self-defense.”

  “The stranger is tellin’ the truth, Marshal Tipton,” the bartender said. “Butrum come in here with his gun blazin’. You can see, right here, where his bullet hit the bar. Jensen wasn’t doin’ nothin’ but standin’ here real peaceable like, drinkin’ his beer and talkin’ to us.”

  “Are you tellin’ me that Butrum already had his gun in his hand, blazin’ away, you said, and this fella was just standin’ here, but somehow he drew his gun and kilt Butrum?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m sayin’,” Paul said.

  “And I’m backin’ him up, Tipton,” Stan said. “I seen ever’thing that happened.”

  With a sigh, Marshal Tipton put his pistol back in his holster. “Mister, you want to tell me how it was that you could do that? Are you that damn good? Or are you just that damn lucky?”

  “I guess it was just luck, Marshal,” Matt said self-deprecatingly.

  “Well, I can tell you this for sure. Denbigh ain’t goin’ to like this,” the marshal said. “He ain’t goin’ to like it one little bit.”

  “You didn’t say Lord Denbigh,” Matt said.

  The marshal looked at Matt with an expression of confusion, and some fear. “Wait a minute! Are you workin’ for Denbigh?”

  “No. I was just commenting,” Matt said. “I never heard of him until today, but from what I have heard, I don’t think I would like working for him very much. And I’ve heard he insists upon being called Lord Denbigh.”

  “Yeah, well, the sumbitch can insist all he wants. I ain’t goin’ to be callin’ him Lord.”

  “Ha,” Stan said. “You talk big, Marshal Tipton, but I haven’t seen you take down Denbigh’s tollgate.”

  “The tollgate is out on Ellendale Road, at least two miles south of town. That means it ain’t in my jurisdiction, which means it ain’t my job and you know it,” Tipton said. He pulled a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “There’s no way I can legally go outside of the town limits. But if he was to put one up here on Monroe, or Southworth, orFullerton, I’d stop him soon enough.”

  “I’m sure you would, Marshal, I’m sure you would,” Paul said.

  Tipton turned toward the bartender and pointed his finger. “And I ain’t a’ goin’ to be takin’ no sass from you neither,” he said.

  “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Marshal,” Paul said. “Hell, you ain’t the only lawman in the county that gives Denbigh free rein. None of the other town marshals, nor the sheriff, nor even the U.S. marshals have done anything to stop him.”

  “This here fella is the only one who has had the gumption to go against him, and he didn’t actually go against him, just Butrum,” Stan said.

  “Yeah,” Tipton replied. “Let’s get back to this. What is your name, mister? The reason I ask is when Denbigh gets through with you, I don’t want to have to strap you to a board and stand you up in the middle of town tryin’ to figure out who you are, like we did with those two cowboys.”

  “The name is Jensen. Matt Jensen.”

  Normally, when Matt told someone his name he got some kind of response, but as he studied the marshal’s eyes for any glimmer of recognition, he saw no response of any kind. The marshal did not recognize the name, and for that Matt was relieved.

  “Are you just passing through our town?” Tipton asked.

  “No, I plan to stay awhile,” Matt said.

  The marshal squinted his eyes. “Are you what they call a shootist? Have you come here to make money with your gun?”

  “I’ve come to take a job
at the newspaper,” Matt said.

  “The newspaper?” Tipton said, nearly shouting the word. “Mister, you have just killed one of the deadliest men in all of Dakota, and you tell me you don’t do nothin’ but work for the newspaper?”

  “Nothing but work for the newspaper?” Matt repeated. “Surely, Marshal, you are not unaware of the power and influence a newspaper can and should exercise? The freedom of the press is one of our nation’s most powerful freedoms.”

  “Yeah, well, what I mean is, I know Butrum,” Tipton said. “That is, I knew him. And he was an evil bastard, true enough, but I’ve never know’d him to just come into a saloon and start shootin’ like that. Got any idea what might have got him all riled like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt said. “It could be that he got upset because I took his gun away from him.”

  Paul, Stan, and the others in the saloon laughed.

  “You took his gun away from him? You expect me to believe that?”

  “I did take his gun away from him,” Matt said, “but it turns out that he had another one I didn’t know about.”

  “Why did you take his gun away from him?” Tipton said. “No, a better question is, how did you take his gun away from him?”

  “I took it away from him because he pointed it at me. I don’t like for people to point guns at me. And as to how, when I knocked him down he dropped the gun, so I picked it up, brought it in here, emptied it, and handed over to Paul, the bartender.”

  “That’s right, Marshal,” Paul said. He reached under the bar, then picked the pistol up, holding the handle by his thumb and forefinger. “This here is Butrum’s gun.”

  “I’ll be damn,” Tipton said. “You knocked him down, you say?”

  “Yes. When he drew on me.”

  “Why did he draw on you? Not that a fella like Butrum needed much of reason to draw on anyone.”

  “He was standing out front when I came up, and he got all upset when I didn’t show him the coupon.”

  “Yes, that would be the coupon you got when you paid a toll at the road,” Tipton said. “So, why didn’t you show it to him?”

  “That was the problem, Marshal. I didn’t pay the toll, so I didn’t have a coupon to show him.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tipton said. “Are you telling me that when you came through the tollgate, you refused to pay the toll? Denbigh has at least two men, sometimes more, manning that gate. So I’m going to be just real interested in hearing how you got by them.”

  “I just convinced the two men who were watching the gate that I was not going to pay them, so they let me through.”

  “That would be Bleeker and Carver,” Tipton said. “They are both hard men, Mr. Jensen, but you want me to believe that you were able to talk them into letting you through without paying the toll.”

  “Maybe I should have made myself more clear,” Matt said. “As it so happened, I had a gun in my hand, and they didn’t have one in theirs. That might have made it a little easier to convince them.”

  Tipton sighed, and shook his head. “Jensen, if I was you, I wouldn’t be takin’ that newspaper job. I’d be ridin’ on out of here as quick as I can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are trouble, mister,” Tipton said. “You refused to pay the toll, and you just killed one of Denbigh’s men. He ain’t going to like this. No, sir, he ain’t going to like this one bit. If you want to stay alive much longer, you’ll climb up on your horse and ride out. Only, don’t leave by the Ellen-dale Road.”

  “Oh, I can’t leave town now. Like I told you, Marshal, I have just taken a job with the publisher of your local newspaper. Plus, I have just paid for a week’s lodging at a local boardinghouse. Leaving now would not be the honorable thing to do.”

  “Well, all I can say is, if you really are working at the newspaper, you and John Bryce should get along just fine. Bryce is nothing but a hardhead who seems to enjoy agitating Nigel Denbigh.”

  “What do you mean by agitating Denbigh? Do you think perhaps it is because John Bryce tells the truth?”

  Tipton stroked his chin. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “All I know is, he seems to love to cause trouble. It would be far better for everyone if the paper wouldn’t be quite so hostile toward Denbigh, and I’ve told him that too. Maybe Bryce should just publish articles about church socials, ladies’ teas, barn dances, and such. I don’t know if you seen it when you come into town, but we’re havin’ us a firemen’s ball comin’ up soon. What he ought to do is write more about that.”

  “I’m sure that Mr. Bryce covers all the social events and news of local interest,” Matt said. “But I know him, and I know that he is the kind of man who feels that a newspaper should stand for things like truth, justice, and the rights of the citizens of this town to make a fair living, without being held up by an outlaw like Nigel Denbigh.”

  “An outlaw? Look here, that’s pretty serious language, isn’t it? It’s not like he is robbing banks, or holding up stagecoaches. He is a rancher, the largest and wealthiest rancher in the county.”

  “He is a rancher who extracts an illegal toll from people who use a public road just because it passes through his land. And since you say that you can’t do anything about it because it is out of your jurisdiction, then John Bryce is the only one who is standing up to him.”

  “Yes, well, that’s not very smart of Bryce, if you ask me,” Tipton said. “But I reckon that, being as it is his paper, he can pretty much do whatever he wants.”

  “Marshal, have you seen all you need to see? Can I get this body hauled out of here?” Paul asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen ever’thing I need to see. Go ahead, get him down to the undertaker’s place,” Tipton answered.

  “Free drinks for the rest of the night to anyone who will get this little turd’s carcass out of here,” the bartender offered, and four men hurried over to pick up the body.

  “I’ll have the magistrate hold an inquest tomorrow,” Tipton said. “So’s not to have to put you in jail tonight, I’ll release you on your own recognizance if you promise to show up.”

  “I’ll be there, Marshal,” Matt replied.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  After Butrum’s body was dragged out of the saloon and the excitement of the event died down, Matt took his beer over to a table and sat down. A young boy who was sweeping the floor came over to him.

  “I’ve read about you,” the boy said quietly.

  “Have you?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve read all about you and your brother, Smoke Jensen.”

  Matt didn’t correct the boy.

  “I read all about you in a book called Matt Jensen and the Outlaws of Dead End Gulch.”

  Matt smiled. The boy was talking about the penny dreadfuls. And though Matt had not yet been featured in as many of the novels as had Smoke, there were a few about him out now as well.

  “That is you, ain’t it? I knew it was you as soon as I seen the way you handled Butrum. And I know Butrum was fast, ’cause like the marshal said, he kilt two cowboys here a couple weeks ago, took ’em both on at the same time, and shot ’em both dead.”

  “That’s me,” Matt said. “But do me a favor, will you? Don’t tell anyone else what you know about me.”

  A big smile spread across the boy’s face. “No, sir, I won’t. I know how sometimes folks like you, when you are fighting for truth and justice, have to keep quiet about who you really are.”

  “I appreciate that,” Matt said. “What’s your name?”

  “Jimmy Smith.”

  Matt gave Jimmy a quarter.”

  “What’s this for?” the boy asked.

  “I want to hire you to work for me, Jimmy,” Matt said.

  “I can’t. I work for Mr. Paul Coker. He’s the bartender.”

  “You can still work for him,” Matt said. “The kind of work you will be doing for me is secret work. From time to time, you might hear things that I should know. If you do, I want you to come over to the
newspaper office and tell me. I’ll give you a quarter every day, and an additional quarter every time you bring me some information. Are you willing?”

  “Yes, sir!” Jimmy said, the smile on his face growing even wider.

  “We’ll keep it our secret,” Matt said.

  “I will tell no one,” Jimmy said.

  “Do you see that man sitting alone at that table over in the corner?”

  “You mean The Hawk?”

  “The Hawk?”

  “Yes, sir, well, he ain’t been in town very long, so I don’t know his real name. The Hawk is just what I call him,” Jimmy said. “I call him that ’cause he’s got a big nose that looks sort of like a hawk’s beak. And he don’t never talk to nobody. He just watches.”

  Matt had noticed him the moment he came into the saloon. This was the same man he had seen walking away from a full glass of whiskey back in Pueblo. He had seen him again on the train, going to Sugarloaf. That he was now here in Fullerton was way beyond mere coincidence.

  “I want you to find out what you can about him,” Matt said. “But don’t let him know what you are doing.”

  “That’s sort of like lawman work, ain’t it?” Jimmy asked.

  “I suppose it is in a way.”

  “Then I’ll do it,” Jimmy promised. “I figure that’s going to be my job one of these days.”

  “Do you now?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said. He smiled proudly. “I don’t plan to stay in Fullerton much longer. One of these days soon, I’ll leave, and maybe I’ll get me a job as a deputy somewhere. What I’d really like to do is become a marshal. Not like Marshal Tipton, I’m talkin’ about a United States marshal.”

  “That’s a pretty noble ambition,” Matt agreed. “But your mother and dad may want you to wait until you are a little older.”

  “I ain’t got no ma and pa,” the boy said. “I never had no pa. Well, I had one, but my ma never know’d who he was. My ma, she was a—well, she was what they call a—fancy lady, if you know what I mean. But she was a good ma to me, and I ain’t none ashamed of her.”