Walter Bowman, the fire chief, nodded at the band leader, and with a few stomps of his foot and nods of his head, the music started once again. Within a few minutes, the dancing resumed, everyone got back into a good mood, and the six interlopers were forgotten.
Unable to get any of the ladies of the town to dance with them, Slater, Dillon, and Wilson cavorted around in their own square, and while they were disruptive with their loud laughter, and sometimes intrusive with their wide turns, they weren’t causing enough trouble to make it uncomfortable for others at the dance.
Meacham made no effort to dance. Instead, he stood to one side, leaning back against the wall, observing. Bleeker and Carver discovered the spiked punch, and they quickly ensconced themselves by the punch bowl, where they did little but drink and exchange obscene observations about the women who were present. That might not have caused any trouble at all, had Matt not overheard one of their comments when he came to the table to get coffee for himself and Lucy.
“They say that Perkins woman runs a boarding-house,” Bleeker said to Carver. “Ma Perkins’, they call it. But look at her. Does she look like someone who runs a boardinghouse?”
“Ha!” Carver replied. “Boardinghouse, is it? It’s a whorehouse just as sure as a gun is iron, and she is the chief whore.”
“Of course she is,” Carver said. “Look at her. You can tell she is a whore just by lookin’ at her.”
“What do you say that after this dance is over, we drop by her whorehouse and do some business with her?” Bleeker said.
Matt put both cups down and stepped up to the two men.
“Excuse me. I wonder if I could ask you two men to step outside?”
Matt’s sudden appearance surprised the two men, neither of whom had noticed him approach the coffee table.
“What do you want us to go outside for?” Bleeker asked.
“Because I heard what you two said about Mrs. Perkins, and I don’t like it.”
“Calling her a whore, you mean?” Bleeker replied with a chuckle. “Seeing as you are probably samplin’ some of her services, I don’t know why you would get all upset over it.”
“Step outside,” Matt said again.
“Why should we?”
“Because I’m going to have to whip your ass, and I don’t want to create a disturbance in here,” Matt said.
“Now which ass are you going to whip?” Bleeker asked. “Because maybe you didn’t notice, but there are two of us and only one of you. And you ain’t wearin’ no gun this time.”
“I know that it isn’t fair,” Matt replied. “I mean, being that there are only two of you. But life isn’t fair, and sometimes that’s just the way it is.”
A big grin spread across Bleeker’s face and he turned to Carver.
“Well, now, what do you think, Carver? Looks to me like he is challengin’ both of us at the same time. Christmas is coming early this year. What do you say we go outside with this fella and teach him a lesson or two?”
“But quietly,” Matt said. “I see no need for disturbing the others at their fun.”
“You mean you don’t want your whore to see you get beat, don’t you?” Carver said.
“Let’s go,” Bleeker said. “This is going to be fun.”
Matt followed the two men outside, but as soon as they reached the street, both of them turned and made swipes at him with knives. Their quick turn, and the fact that both were carrying knives, caught Matt by surprise.
“I thought this was to be a fistfight,” Matt said.
“Yes, well, life is just full of surprises, ain’t it?” Bleeker said as he made another swipe toward Matt. The two men handled their weapons skillfully, but again, Matt managed to avoid the blades.
“Ha!” Bleeker said. “You took away our guns, but you didn’t say nothin’ about knives, did you?”
Carver feinted and as Matt jumped away from him, Bleeker swung his knife in a low vicious arc. Despite the quickness of Matt’s reaction, Bleeker’s flashing blade opened a wound in his side, and Matt staggered back.
Bleeker moved in again, trying to take advantage of Matt’s wound, but to his surprise, Matt sent a booted foot at the Y of Bleeker’s legs. When Bleeker dropped his knife and grabbed his groin, Matt slammed his fist into Bleeker’s neck, crushing his larynx.
Bleeker fell to the ground, even as Matt picked up the knife and turned to face Carver. Seeing what happened to Bleeker, and now realizing that he was alone, Carver turned and ran, leaving his partner writhing and choking to death on the ground behind him.
Matt was in no condition to give chase; in fact, he was in no condition to continue the fight, and he was glad Carver had run. He felt the nausea rising up in him. Bile surged in his throat and he threw up in the street. Dizzy and weak, he staggered back to the hotel, then stepped into the ballroom.
“Mr. Jensen!” Carl called. “Mr. Jensen, what happened?”
At the loud and concerned shout of the fireman, the dance caller stopped, the squares ceased their movement, and even the music, after a few more ragged bars, fell silent. Everyone stared at Matt with curiosity. Then, seeing blood spilling through the fingers of the hand he held clasped over his wound, some of the other women screamed.
“Matt!” Lucy called out loudly.
Matt felt the room spinning, then a weakness, then nothing.
Chapter Twenty-six
When Matt opened his eyes, he was lying in bed in the room he had rented from Lucy Perkins. He felt a slight pressure around his middle and lifting his head from the pillow, saw that he was wearing a bandage that had been wrapped all the way around his body. For just a moment, he wondered what he was doing here, and why he was wrapped in a bandage. Then he remembered the fight he had had with two of Denbigh’s men.
Damn. He had been in this position before when a man named Clyde Payson had hired two Mexican assassins to kill him. They had come at him with knives in the night, and though he had been badly cut in that fight, as he had in this one, he had left one of them dead and the other blind.3
He wondered if the cut he’d received this time had cut across the old scar.
Matt tried to get up, but when he swung his legs over the side of the bed, he felt an overwhelming wave of dizziness, and he knew that he wasn’t going to be able to stand up.
The door to his room opened, and Lucy came in.
“What are you doing sitting up?” she asked sternly. “The doctor said you were to remain flat on your back for at least five days. It has been only three days.”
“Three?” Matt said. “I’ve been in bed for three days?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly, Matt realized that, except for the bandage wrapped around his middle, hewas naked. And the bandage concealed nothing.
“Damn!” he said, and he got back into bed and under the sheet so quickly that he got dizzy again. He put his hand to his forehead, as Lucy chuckled.
“It serves you right, trying to get up by yourself,” she said. “And don’t worry about me seeing anything. Who do you think has been changing your bandage every day?”
“I’m hungry,” Matt said.
“Well, blessed be, I’ve been waiting three days to hear you say that,” Lucy said. “You lost a lot of blood, and Dr. Purvis said I should give you beef broth to restore it. But, try as I might over the last three days, I couldn’t make you take anything except a little water. I’ll get you some broth.”
“Forget the broth, how about a steak?” Matt said.
“You’ll like this broth,” Lucy promised. “I already have some ready.”
Lucy left, then returned in just about a minute, carrying a tray with a bowl and a spoon. She put the tray on a table and moved the table closer to the bed.
The broth was rich, with a very appetizing aroma, and when Matt looked at it, he saw that it was augmented with noodles.
“I don’t see how the noodles can hurt you,” Lucy said. “And since you haven’t eaten in three days, you probably need something
a little more substantial than just broth.”
“Uhmm,” Matt said after he took his first bite. “Lucy, these noodles are delicious!”
“I’m glad you like them,” Lucy said. “Mrs. Black didn’t make these. I made them myself. I learned how to cook them from my mammy.”
Matt chuckled. “Your mammy. That’s right, John did say you were a Southern lady.”
“Oh, and the worst kind,” Lucy teased. “I’m a Southern lady who married a Yankee.” She poured a glass of red wine and handed it to him. “The doctor said that red wine would help too.”
“What about beer? Did he say beer would help?”
“I think we’ll just go with the wine,” Lucy said.
“Won’t you join me?” Matt asked.
Lucy smiled and poured another glass for herself. “I thought you would never ask,” she said.
Prestonshire on Elm
“Tell me, Mr. Meacham,” Denbigh said as he held a brandy snifter in his hand. “What do you know of psychology?”
“Psychology? I’ve never even heard of that word. What does it mean?”
“It is the study of the human mind, and how the mind works,” Denbigh said. “Herr Wilhelm Wundt has established a laboratory in Germany and is discovering some fascinating aspects of how the mind works.”
“I see,” Meacham said.
Denbigh chuckled. “You don’t see at all, do you?”
“No, sir, I don’t reckon I do.”
“I bring the subject of psychology up, Mr. Meacham, because we are about to do something that will have a whole effect that is greater than its parts.”
Meacham’s face was still a blank.
“Never mind. I will explain so that even you can understand. The largest rancher around, other than myself, of course, is Ian McCann. If something were to happen that would cause McCann to cease operation, I believe it would have a great psychological effect on all the others. They would see that if the biggest among them is not safe, then neither will they be.”
“Do you want me to kill him?” Meacham asked.
“No,” Denbigh replied. “Though I must say I am heartened by your eagerness to perform such a task, should I ask it of you. It won’t be necessary to kill him, only to dishearten him. Are you willing to do that?”
“You’re the boss,” Meacham said. “I’m willing to do whatever you want.”
Leo McCann was in the bunkhouse with Curly Dobbins and Slim Toomey. Curly was playing a guitar, and Slim was accompanying him with a Jew’s harp. Leo was stamping his foot and clapping his hands, enjoying the impromptu performance, when Slim lowered the Jew’s harp and walked over to look through the window.
“What the hell?” he said.
Curly quit strumming the guitar, and the music fell silent. “What is it?” he asked. “What do you see out there?”
“Lights,” Slim said. “I see a lot of lights.”
“Lights? What? Lanterns? Candles? What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know, I’m not sure. I’m going outside to take a better look.”
“I’ll come with you,” Curly said, laying the guitar down, then stepping out onto the porch of the bunkhouse with his friend.
Leo went out onto the porch with the two men who rode for his father. As he stepped outside, he saw what Slim had seen, nearly a dozen lights. But even before he had time to wonder what he was seeing, he started wondering why he was seeing it. Each light was a burning torch, carried by a horseman, and now the horses were thundering down Crowley’s Ridge, heading straight for the ranch buildings.
“Son of a bitch! It’s Denbigh’s men!” Slim shouted. “They’re comin’ to burn us out! Boy, get our guns! They’re just inside the door!”
Leo stepped back into the bunkhouse and grabbed a pistol from each of the holsters that were hanging from a peg, then hurried back outside and handed them to Curly and Slim.
Slim got off one shot, Curly didn’t even do that, before a fusillade came back from the riders. Curly and Slim both went down, while Leo, unhit, dived off the porch, then crawled around behind it.
The riders started shooting through the windows of the main house, a couple of them taking great delight in shooting holes through the stained-glass transom that was the pride of Leo’s mother. Then, one by one, they rode right up to the house and tossed their burning torches, some of them through the windows, others onto the roof. Not until the house was heavily involved in flames did they turn and, with laughter as from hell, rode away at the gallop.
“Ma! Pa!” Leo shouted. He was concerned about Slim and Curly, but more concerned about his parents, who he knew to be still in the house. He started toward the house, but before he got there, he saw his mother and father come running out the front door. They hurried down the porch steps, then ran over to Leo, who embraced his mother.
“Who did this? Who did this terrible thing?” Cora McCann asked.
“I seen ’em,” Leo said. “I seen all of ’em.” Leo looked at his father, whose skin now glowed orange in the reflected light of the fire. “It was Denbigh’s men, Pa,” he said. “I recognized a bunch of them.”
“Curly? Slim?” Ian said.
“They was both shot. They’re layin’ there on the porch of the bunkhouse.”
Ian hurried over to his two men, then knelt beside them. It took but a cursory examination to see that both were dead.
“What are we goin’ to do, Pa?” Leo asked.
Ian stood up and looked back at the house, which was now totally enveloped in flame.
“It’s too late for the house,” Ian said. “But we might be able to save the other buildings if I can get help here quickly enough.”
“You stay with Ma,” Leo said. “I’ll go get help.”
The Fowler Ranch
E.B. Fowler had guests for dinner, and Sue had gone all out for the occasion. She baked a ham, made two pies, and had decorated the house with wildflowers.
Their guests were their nearest neighbors, Ralph and Amanda Putnam and their daughter Helen. The Putnams were farmers rather than ranchers, but Ralph had been one of the men who had gone with E. B. Fowler, Ian McCann, and the others in the unsuccessful attempt to force their way through Denbigh’s tollgate.
They had just finished their dinner and were in the parlor talking.
“Do you know anything about this fella Matt Jensen?” Ralph asked.
“Why?” Sue asked quickly. “I know he was hurt the other night at the dance. He hasn’t died, has he?”
Ralph shook his head. “No, I was in town this morning, and I saw Doc Purvis. He said Jensen is coming along.”
“Oh,” Sue said. “That’s good. For a moment, you frightened me. I thought he might have died.”
“Why are you so concerned about him? Do you know him?”
“We sort of know him,” E.B. said. “He stopped by here on his way into town the first day.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“He’s very nice, pleasant, well spoken,” E.B. said.
“He had lunch with us,” Sue added.
“He may be pleasant and well spoken, but he has been here less than two weeks and he’s already killed two men,” Ralph said.
“Ralph, that isn’t fair,” E.B. said. “Both cases were self-defense.”
“Yes, so they say.”
“Do you have any reason to doubt it?”
“You don’t think he killed Butrum because—” Ralph paused in mid-sentence.
“Because what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to take Butrum’s place? It would be a good way of getting it.”
“You mean work for Denbigh?” E.B. asked.
“Yes.”
“No, he would never do that. He has taken a job with John Bryce, and you know how Bryce feels about Denbigh. Anyone who has ever read the Defender knows how Bryce feels about Denbigh.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Sue, this cake is wonderful,” Amanda Putnam said, changing the subjec
t.
“Thank you, it’s a recipe I got from Cora McCann.”
Green and Helen were over in the corner, playing a game of checkers.
“Look how well they get along together,” Amanda Putnam said. “Like brother and sister.”
“Ha! Better than that,” Sue said. “I had a brother, and we fought like cats and dogs.”
“Who knows, maybe they will get married someday and can join our properties together,” E.B. said.
“And which would it become, E.B.? A bigger ranch or a bigger farm?” Ralph asked.
E.B. laughed. “Either way, maybe they could compete with Prestonshire on Elm.”
“Not likely. Denbigh isn’t going to stop until he owns the whole valley,” Putnam said.
“Please, let’s not spoil a perfectly lovely evening talking about Nigel Denbigh,” Sue pleaded. “I don’t care to hear his name again.”
“I agree,” Amanda said. “We hear enough about that monster as it is. There is no need to let him destroy our evening.”
E.B. held up his hand. “All right,” he said. “You have my solemn oath that I won’t mention that son of a bitch’s name again.”
“E.B.!” Sue scolded. “Your language!”
“Well, what else could I say, Sue? You said I couldn’t mention his name again.”
Ralph laughed out loud. “I think he got you there, Sue.”
Suddenly, someone burst through the front door, startling everyone with his unexpected entrance. His clothes were dirty and torn. His face was scratched by brush, his hat was gone, and he was bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. It was Leo McCann, Ian’s son. E.B., Ralph, Sue, and Helen went over to him.
“Leo, what in heaven’s name is it?”
“Mr. Fowler! Mr. Putnam!” Leo said, gasping for breath. “You gotta come! You gotta come quick!”
“Come where, son? You have to tell us what is going on.”
“Our ranch has been hit!” Leo said. “Curly and Slim have both been shot dead.”
“What?” Sue gasped.
“And they’ve set fire to the ranch. Our house is burnin’ down, Mr. Fowler. I expect it’s purt’ nigh burnt to the ground by now!”
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