Dakota Ambush

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 is 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?”

“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.”

“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.