Dakota Ambush

Chapter Sixteen

Prestonshire on Elm

“Excuse me, m’lord,” Tolliver said, stepping into the study of Denbigh Manor.

Denbigh, who was cleaning his dueling pistol, looked up when Tolliver came in.

“Yes, Mr. Tolliver, what is it?”

“There is a—gentleman—by the name of Lucas Meacham who wishes to have an audience with you.” Tolliver showed that he did not believe Meacham was actually a gentleman by the way he sat the word apart from the rest of the sentence.

“Meacham is here?” Denbigh asked, surprised by the announcement. “What is Meacham doing here? I thought he was … never mind, show him in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Denbigh did not put the pistol away but was, instead, aiming it at an imaginary target when Tolliver showed Meacham in to the study.

“Ha!” Meacham said. “What the hell is that?”

“This is a single-shot percussion dueling pistol made by A. Kehlner of Prague. It is a .58-caliber, eight-and-seven-eighths-inch ribbed round barrel, exquisitely made, and perfectly balanced,” Denbigh said.

“What do you think somethin’ like that can do?” Meacham asked. “Especially since it only has one shot.”

Denbigh aimed the pistol at Meacham, and pulled the hammer back. “One shot is enough,” Denbigh said, his words cold, quiet, and calculating.

“What? Look here, what are you doing?” Meacham asked, putting his hands out in front of him. “Point that thing somewhere else.”

Denbigh held the pistol steady for a moment as Meacham squirmed; then, with a smile, he lowered it, and eased the hammer back down.

“Evidently, you think it quite capable of killing someone as well,” Denbigh said.

“Did you say that was a .50-caliber?” Meacham asked.

“It is a .58-caliber.”

“That’s the size of a small cannonball. Hell, yes, it can kill someone.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Meacham? Am I to gather by your presence that you have dealt with Matt Jensen?” Denbigh asked.

Meacham rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “Uh, no, not exactly,” he answered.

“What do you mean, not exactly? You have either taken care of the matter, or you have not,” Denbigh said. “Which is it?”

“I have not,” Meacham replied.

“Then I will ask you again. Why are you here?”

“Mr. Denbigh, do you know this man Jensen?”

“You will address me as Lord Denbigh.”

“What? Oh, yeah, Lord Denbigh. I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“To answer your question, no, I do not know anything about him.”

“Yes, sir, well, you said you had never heard of him, so I guess you don’t know, but he is one of the best known pistoleers in the West. His name is practically legend, and he is one hard son of a bitch to kill.”

“Why? Won’t a bullet kill him, just as it would any other human being?”

“Yes, sir, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was, getting that bullet into him. It’s like he has nine lives or something. And like I said, he is damn good with a gun.”

“I thought you were good with a gun,” Denbigh said. “Isn’t that why I hired you?”

“Yes, sir, I am good with a gun, but this man, Jensen, well, sir, he’s about as good as they come. I don’t reckon there’s more’n two or three people in the country who are as good as he is.”

“Would you be one of those two or three?”

“As a matter of fact I am,” Meacham said.

“Then, what is the problem?”

“The problem is, we ain’t talked about money.”

“Of course we have. In the telegram I sent you, I clearly said that you would be compensated as before,” Denbigh said.

“Yes, sir, but what I want to know is, how much money are we talking about? Because the, uh, compensation you give me last time, well, that was for someone who barely knew which end of the gun a bullet come out of. It’s different with Jensen, and what you paid last time ain’t enough for this job.”

“How much do you think this job is worth?” Denbigh asked.

“Three thousand dollars,” Meacham said.

“Three thousand dollars?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s twice as much as I gave you for your last job.”

“Yes, sir. But like I said, Jensen is twice as hard to kill.”

“All right. If you get the job done, I will pay you your price.”

“Good,” Meacham said.

“Unless Mr. Butrum kills him first.”

“Wait a minute. You have hired someone else to kill Matt Jensen?”

“Not specifically,” Denbigh said. “But I have hired someone who is quite skilled in the use of firearms, and has demonstrated to me a willingness, no, I daresay an eagerness, to ply his trade. If he encounters Matt Jensen before you do, then he may kill him. That would save me the three thousand dollars I just promised you.”

“Who is this Butler person anyway?”

“Oliver Butrum.”

Meacham snorted.

“You have a comment?”

“Yeah, I ain’t worried, ’cause he ain’t goin’ to kill Matt Jensen.”

“How do you know he won’t?”

“’Cause I’ve never heard of him. And if I’ve never heard of him, he damn sure ain’t goin’ to be good enough to kill Matt Jensen.”

“We will just have to see, won’t we?” Denbigh said.

By way of dismissal, Denbigh picked up an oiled cloth and began cleaning his pistol again. When he saw that Meacham had not yet left, he looked up.

“You have something else?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What?”

“I, uh, don’t know where Matt Jensen is. I mean, I found him, but before I could do anything, I sort of lost track of him.”

“Well, Mr. Meacham, you can’t very well kill him if you don’t know where he is, can you?”

“No, sir.”

“Hadn’t you better be looking for him?”

“Yes, sir, but the thing is, seeing as you are the one who wants him dead, well, I was thinking that maybe you might know where he is.”

Denbigh chuckled. “Most astute of you, Mr. Meacham,” he said. He lifted his pistol and Meacham grew tense, but relaxed when he saw Denbigh aim the gun at something outside the window.

“The truth is, I do not know where he is at this exact moment, but I have a pretty good idea of where he will be soon.”

“Where?”

“Here, Mr. Meacham. Or at least, in Fullerton. It would seem that Fullerton has a crusading journalist, and that journalist has written a letter to Matt Jensen, inviting him to come to town. I don’t think it will be for a social visit.”

“Do you know when he is coming to Fullerton?”

Denbigh looked at Meacham with an expression of annoyance. “No, I’m afraid he did not clear his itinerary with me.”

“Well, then, I’ll just go into town and wait on him,” Meacham said.

“Yes, you do that,” Denbigh replied.

Denbigh loaded his pistol, then fit it with a percussion cap. “I’ll walk you outside,” he said.

Meacham was visibly nervous at seeing Denbigh with a loaded pistol, but he walked outside with him. Once outside, Denbigh pointed to a prairie rose. The small, pink wildflower was some thirty yards distant.

“Would you like to see a demonstration of the Kehlner dueling pistol?”

Meacham chuckled. “You ain’t goin’ to tell me you can hit that flower from here with that thing, are you?”

Denbigh didn’t answer. Instead, he aimed, and pulled the trigger. The percussion cap popped, then concurrent with the boom of the pistol, there was a flash of smoke and light. The heavy-caliber bullet destroyed the prairie rose.

“As I said, Mr. Meacham, one shot is enough,” Denbigh said.

“Yes, sir, I reckon it could be,” Meacham said.

The groomsman who had taken Meacham’s horse from him earlier now came toward him, leading the animal.

“Mr. Meacham?” Denbigh said as Meacham swung into the saddle.

“Yes, sir?”

Denbigh gave Meacham a dollar. “You will come to a tollgate on the road between here and town. Give the men who are manning the gate this dollar, and they will give you a coupon. When you get into town you will encounter Butrum. Butrum will ask you to show him a coupon, proving that you paid the toll. Show him that coupon.”

“Since I’m workin’ for you, won’t they just let me through? Especially if you give me a letter or something?” Meacham asked.

“Yes, I’m sure they would,” Denbigh replied. “But I don’t want anyone to know you are working for me, not the men at the gate, and not Mr. Butrum. When you get to town, try and remain as inconspicuous as you can until you get the opportunity to attend to your task.”

“All right, whatever you say, Mr. Denbigh.”

Denbigh glared at Meacham.

“Lord Denbigh,” he reminded him.

***

Meacham had been on the road for about half an hour when he saw the tollgate. Someone stepped out into the road in front of him. For a moment he contemplated telling them that he worked for Denbigh, and keeping the dollar. After all, a dollar was a dollar.

But for some reason, Denbigh didn’t want anyone to know that Meacham was working for him, and he didn’t want to anger Denbigh, because he didn’t want to take a chance on losing the three thousand dollars he was going to get for killing Jensen.

“Where you headed?” the man at the tollgate asked.

“What difference does it make to you as long as I pay the toll?” Meacham asked.

“No difference at all, I reckon. That will be …” Bleeker started to say, but when he saw Meacham extending a dollar to him, he stopped in mid-sentence. “A dollar, yes,” he said. “Well, good for you, you had the money all ready. How did you know how much the toll was?”

This would be his opportunity to say that Denbigh told him, but he restrained himself.

“I’m not here to palaver with you. Just open the damn gate and let me through,” he said.

Bleeker took the dollar. “Well, it’s good to see that you are a good citizen. Oh, and if you are goin’ into town, more’n likely you are going to run into a sawed off runt of a fella, a real little man by the name of Butrum. He’s goin’ to want to see this coupon, so it’s best you don’t lose it. Oh, and when he asks you to see it, you show it to him, you hear? Butrum might be a little fella, but he ain’t the kind of man you want to piss off.”.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Meacham said.