Dakota Ambush

Chapter Fourteen

Prestonshire on Elm

“Yes, Mr. Tolliver?” Denbigh asked, looking up from the book he was reading.

“Mr.—Butrum—is here to see you, sir,” Tolliver said, as always setting Butrum’s name apart to show his disdain for the man.

“Show him in, please.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Tolliver said with a respectful dip of his head.

Denbigh put a bookmark between the pages he was reading, then closed the book and set it aside. Before Tolliver returned with Butrum, Denbigh poured whiskey into a glass, and he handed it to the little man when he came in.

“Thanks,” Butrum said. He took a drink.

“What is it, Mr. Butrum?” Denbigh asked. “Why have you left your post in town?”

“I came out here ’cause that newspaper editor has done wrote another one of them articles. He put it out in somethin’ that’s called an extra. All the folks in town is talkin’ about it.”

“Well, what does he say?”

“It’s all full of highfalutin talk, so it’s kind of hard for me to understand all that much, to tell you the truth. But I figure a smart man like you can most likely read it and figure it out all right. So, that’s why I brung one of them papers with me for you to see.”

Denbigh cringed, and ground his teeth at the fractured grammar, but he said nothing, realizing that a silk purse could not be made from a sow’s ear.

“So, Mr. Bryce put out an extra, did he? And it is all about me?”

“Yes, sir. And it ain’t just about the shootin’. It goes on about the toll and the like. Like I said, it’s got a lots of folks in town talkin’.”

“Let me read it,” Denbigh said, reaching for the paper.

Butrum had the paper folded up and stuck inside his shirt. Reaching in between the buttons, he pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Denbigh.

Denbigh turned his nose up slightly as he took the paper from him. Then he read aloud, the first line.

“These are the times that try men’s souls.” He stopped reading then, and laughed out loud. “Oh, good one, Mr. Bryce, very good. Don’t you think so, Mr. Butrum?”

“I don’t know,” Butrum said. “I don’t know what that means.”

“You’ve never heard that line before?”

“No, sir, I ain’t.”

“Well, Mr. Butrum, it is a line that is borrowed from one of your own treasonous rebels.”

“Who would that be?”

“Thomas Paine.”

Butrum shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t reckon I ever met nobody by that name,” he said. “Leastwise, not that I can recall.”

Denbigh chuckled softly, then continued. “I believe you said that all the people in town are talking about this article?”

“Yes, sir, ever’where you go, you hear folks talkin’ about it,” Butrum said.

“What are they saying?”

“Well, sir, they’re sayin’ they don’t think it’s right for you to be a’ collectin’ a toll like you’re doin’. And they are wonderin’ why no one is doin’ nothin’ about it.”

“I see.”

“But then some of ’em is worried about it and say they don’t think the newspaper fella should be writin’ articles like that.” Butrum chuckled. “They don’t want to make you mad.”

“Sensible people, I would say,” Denbigh said.

“If you ask me, Mister, uh, that is, Lord Denbigh. The fella that is causin’ all the trouble is this here newspaperman.”

“I would say that you are right,” Denbigh said.

“Just messin’ up his office like Slater and them boys done ain’t goin’ to stop this man. No, sir, he’s got more gumption than just about anyone I’ve ever seen.”

“I suppose that is right,” Denbigh said. “He is a troublemaker.”

“Iffen you want me to, I can fix it so he won’t be givin’ you no more trouble,” Butrum suggested.

“How?”

“I’ll kill him for you, if you want me to.”

“I wouldn’t say we are ready to go that far yet,” Denbigh said. “You just keep doing what you are doing. Make certain nobody gets in or out of town without paying the toll.”

“I may have to kill a few more people,” Butrum suggested. “I hope that don’t bother you none.”

“Mr. Butrum, other than your unique talent for killing, can you think of any other reason I might have hired you?” Denbigh asked. “Why should that bother me?”

“Just so’s you know,” Butrum replied, not entirely sure that he understood what Denbigh just said.

“I don’t care how many people you kill,” Denbigh said. “As long as you manage to keep it legal. If your activities result in your being indicted for murder, you are on your own. I will neither defend you, nor will I pay a lawyer to defend you. Do you understand that, Mr. Butrum?”

“Yeah. All I have to do is make them draw first.”

“Now, I want you to wait around for a moment or two. I’m going to write a letter to Mr. Bryce, and I want you to take it in town to the post office.”

“No need to do that, Mr. Lord Denbigh. I can just take the letter directly to Bryce his ownself.”

Denbigh shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I do believe the letter will have more effect if you take it to the post office. It will be more official that way.”

“Yes, sir, whatever you say,” Butrum said.

Butrum waited quietly until Denbigh finished the letter. Once he finished, Denbigh folded it, put it into an envelope, then sealed it.

“This feller you got workin’ for you, Tolliver?” Butrum said as Daveport handed him the envelope.

“Yes, what about Mr. Tolliver?”

“I get the opinion he don’t care much for me,” Butrum said.

“Your feeling is accurate. He doesn’t like you.”

“Why not? I ain’t never done nothin’ to him.”

“No, and you never shall,” Denbigh replied. “Not if you intend to remain in my employ.”

Fullerton, Dakota Territory

John Bryce was setting type for the regular weekly newspaper when Millie came into the newspaper office. Smiling, she held out several envelopes.

“Look at this!” she said enthusiastically.

“What is it?”

“It’s mail, silly. Mail from people about the extra edition we put out.”

“Ha! I thought you said you were opposed to the extra edition.”

“I was then, because I thought it was a waste of money. But if we get this many letters in response, that means it has struck a resonant cord. And that has to convert into more business for us. Why, I’ll bet we get half a dozen new advertising accounts from this.”

John chuckled. “Accounts. Is that all you think about? Don’t you care a whit about the responsibility of a newspaper to look out for the public?”

“We can’t very well look out for the public if we don’t have enough money to publish,” Millie said.

“Touché, my dear. I suppose you do have me there,” John said. He finished setting the line in a composing stick, then fit the stick into the printing bed.

“Listen to this letter, from the fire chief, Walter Bowman,” Millie said. “‘In times of trouble the people of our great nation have always been able to count upon the valor and industry of its most courageous citizens. You, sir, have the soul of a crusading journalist, and our fair community is blessed to have you as our advocate.’

“And this one from Paul Deckert,” Millie continued. “‘Keep up the good work, John, the whole town is behind you.’”

Millie picked up the next letter, but didn’t open it. “Oh,” she said, the tone of her voice changing. “This one can’t be good.”

“Why not? Who is it from?”

“It is a letter from Mr. Denbigh.”

“Read it.”

“I’d rather not. You read it.”

Millie handed the unopened envelope over to John. He opened it, then pulled out the single page. He read for a moment, then smiled.

“All right,” he said. “Now we are getting somewhere.”

“Getting somewhere? What do you mean? What does the letter say?”

“He says that I may have had a point with my article, that perhaps he is hurting business in town. He also says that he would not want to kill the town as it serves a necessary function. He asks me to come talk with him.”

“Are you going to go see him?”

“Yes. After all, I’m the one that organized the ball. I at least owe him a dance,” John replied, chuckling at his own joke.

Two miles south of Fullerton, on the Fullerton-Ellendale road, John reached the tollgate. Bleeker and Carver were sitting on the side of the road, and Bleeker, sucking on a long stem of grass, got up to approach him.

“You know the rules, newspaperman,” Bleeker said. “It’s going to cost you a dollar to get through.”

“I will not pay one dollar to pass through here,” John said. “I received a letter from Denbigh asking me to come speak with him. I will not pay a dollar merely for the privilege of speaking with a despot.”

“What is a despot?” Carver asked.

“It means someone who is assuming more power than is rightly his, someone like Denbigh who is acting like a tyrant.”

“A what?”

“Never mind,” John said. “I’m afraid you lack the necessary intelligence to comprehend the meaning. Open the gate.”

“Not without you pay the dollar.”

“Let him through,” Bleeker said.

“You know what Lord Denbigh said. He said ever’one has to pay.”

“But the newspaper editor here is goin’ to see the boss. I say let ’im through.”

Carver thought for a moment, then swung the gate open. “All right, mister, you can go on through.”

John nodded, but said nothing as he rode by the open gate, heading toward Denbigh’s house.

Ten of the several thousand acres of Preston-shire on Elm had been set aside and exquisitely landscaped. These were the grounds on which Denbigh’s house, Denbigh Manor, was situated. It was a house one might expect to see in the English countryside, but scarcely on the range in Dakota Territory. Three stories high with a mansard roof and corner towers. Nigel Denbigh had gone all out to create the most grandiose home he could. The house was approached by a long, wide avenue, paved with white limestone and lined with aspen trees. The avenue ended at a large, circular drive in front of the house, the centerpiece of which was a dramatic statue of Denbigh himself.

John was met by a uniformed groomsman, who held the horse as the newspaper editor dismounted.

“I’m here to see Denbigh,” John said.

“Yes, sir,” the groomsman said. “If you will avail yourself of the bell pull at the front door, someone will see to you.”

“Avail myself of the bell pull,” John repeated. He chuckled. “Someone teach you to say that?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Tolliver, he taught us all to say that whenever someone comes up,” the groomsman said. “I will give your horse food and water,” he added as he led John’s horse away.

John climbed the broad steps up to the porch, then, crossing the porch to the huge carved oak door, he pulled on a rope that hung alongside. He could hear the melodic chimes echoing from within the house, and a moment later, Mr. Tolliver answered. John recognized Tolliver, because he had seen him in town before.

“Denbigh invited me to come visit with him,” John said, purposely using his last name only.

Tolliver winced at the disrespectful tone, but he invited John into the house.

“Wait here, sir, I will see if the master of the house is receiving,” Tolliver said.

This was the first time John had ever been in the house, and he looked around at what he could see as he waited, taking in the dramatic ceiling heights, the white oak flooring, the custom moldings, and the decorative architectural columns, as well as a grand, sweeping elliptical staircase.

A moment later, Tolliver returned.

“Lord Denbigh is in the library,” he said. “If you would follow me, sir?”

The library, as John knew it would be, was a beautiful room of rich mahogany, lined with bookshelves that were filled with books of various sizes and hues. Denbigh was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a white robe that featured upon the left breast the Denbigh family crest, a black lion with red claws, rampant against a white shield, filled with stars of black fleur-de-lis.

“Mr. Bryce,” Denbigh said. “I am pleased that you accepted my invitation.”

“I’m here,” John said. “What do you want to talk about?”

Denbigh walked over to his desk, then picked up a folded copy of the Fullerton Defender.

“These are the times that try men’s souls,” Denbigh said, reading aloud the opening line of John’s extra edition. He laid the paper back on the desk. “You are quite the crusading scribe, aren’t you?”

“It’s called freedom of the press. While we don’t have titles in America, we do have freedom of the press. It’s in our Constitution. You have heard of our Constitution, haven’t you?”

“What would it take, Mr. Bryce, to hire your services?”

“Hire my services? What do you mean, hire my services? Hire my services for what?”

“I would like to hire your services to be my advocate, rather than my adversary,” Denbigh said. “Such things are done, I know. It would not be unprecedented, nor would it be unsavory to hire you to write something favorable about me.”

“It would be more than unsavory, it would be absolutely dishonest,” John replied.

“Would it?” Denbigh picked up an earlier copy of the Defender, and began to read. “Fuller and Simpson, men’s furnishing goods, shirts and underwear of all kind, the finest men’s furnishing goods store in America.”

Denbigh put the paper down and smiled at John. “Really, Mr. Bryce. Are you telling me that there is no other men’s furnishing goods store anywhere in America that is as good as Fuller and Simpson?”

“That is merely an advertisement, sir,” John explained. “A certain degree of hyperbole is allowed, indeed is expected, in advertisements.”

“Well, then, that should ease your conscience,” Denbigh said. “I will hire you to write favorable advertisements about me.”

“No,” John said. “I cannot, and I will not. I believe that your actions are stifling, indeed, killing, not only Fullerton, but nearly all of Dickey County. I will not support you. On the contrary, I will fight you as hard as I can.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Bryce. I’m just real sorry to hear that,” Denbigh said. “I had hoped that you and I could come to some sort of an accommodation.”

“That was my hope as well. You said in your letter that you thought I had a point in my article. In fact, I believe you said you would not want to kill the town as it serves a necessary function.”

“Did I?”

“You did. I took that to mean that you were willing to discuss removing the toll from Ellendale Highway.”

“You took it wrong,” Denbigh said. He made a motion with his fingers toward Tolliver.

“Yes, m’lord?”

“Do show Mr. Bryce out, will you, Mr. Tolliver?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“That’s it?” John said. “This is the end of our conversation?”

“Mr. Bryce, do be careful on your ride back to town,” Denbigh said ominously.