Dakota Ambush

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.”

“Nor should you be,” Matt said.

“Truth to tell, mister, my last name ain’t really Smith, it’s just one my ma took. She died two years ago when I was twelve.”

“Where do you live?”

“Mr. Tobin lets me stay in a nice room over at the stable and charges me nothing because I muck out the stalls for him. And Mr. Coker, he gives me three meals a day because I sweep the floors for him. I have a good life.”

Matt thought of his own orphaned boyhood and how he had been little more than a slave to the Soda Springs Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. It would have been much better had he been on his own, like this boy. Others might feel sorry for Jimmy, but Matt knew that the boy was serious when he said he had a good life.

Matt smiled. “I guess you do at that,” he said.

“Do you want me to go over there and start spyin’ on him now?” Jimmy asked.

“No. He has seen us talking, so if you get too close to him now, he might get suspicious,” Matt said.

“Oh, yes, I see what you mean,” Jimmy replied. “I guess you have to pay attention to things like this when you are first learnin’.”

“And be careful,” Matt cautioned.

“Yes, sir, I will be,” Jimmy promised. “Oh, oh,” he said.

“What?”

“Them three men that just come in? They ride for Denbigh. That’s the same man Butrum worked for. I don’t reckon they’re goin’ to be any too happy over Butrum getting’ hisself kilt like he done.”

“Hey, bartender,” one of the three men called. “Where at is Butrum? How come he ain’t standin’ out on the front porch like he nearly always is?”

“Ha! I’ll bet he’s upstairs with a whore,” one of the others said.

“Are you kiddin’? He’s so ugly, not even a whore will have anything to do with him,” the third said, and all three laughed.

“What’ll it be, gents?” Paul, the bartender, asked.

“Whiskey,” the first said. “And you ain’t answered my question. Where at is Butrum?”

“He’s down at Lisenby’s,” Paul replied.

“Lisenby’s. What’s that? Another saloon?”

“Maybe it’s a whorehouse for ugly people,” the third said, and again all three men laughed.

“It is a mortuary,” Paul said.

“A what?”

“It is an undertaker’s parlor.”

“Well, what the hell is he doing down there?”

“He’s dead, cowboy,” Stan said from the opposite end of the bar. “When someone is dead, they generally wind up in a mortuary.”

“Dead? What the hell do you mean, dead? Who killed him?”

Neither Stan nor Paul answered the question.

“You heard me. Who killed him? Whoever it was had to have shot him in the back, ’cause there ain’t no man alive faster.”

“Jimmy, you’d better move away from the table,” Matt said quietly.

The cowboy pulled his gun and pointed it at the bartender. “I expect you had better tell me right now who killed him, else I’ll put a ball in your brain.”

“I killed him,” Matt said, his words loud and clear.

The cowboy turned toward Matt. “You killed him?”

Matt stood up. “I did,” he said.

“What did you do, mister? Shoot him in the back?”

“You’re name is Logan, ain’t it?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah, Logan, what of it?” Logan replied. He was still glaring at Matt.

“Logan, he didn’t shoot Butrum in the back. He took him on, face-to-face. And not only that, Butrum already had his gun in his hand.”

“What? You expect me to believe that?” Logan replied.

“Believe it, Logan, because it’s true,” Stan said.

“I seen it my ownself. Wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it,” one of the other saloon patrons said. “But what they are tellin’ you is true. Butrum come chargin’ in here with his gun in his hand. This fella was standin’ at the bar drinkin’ a beer, but he dropped his beer, drew his gun, and killed Butrum.”

“What did you shoot him for?” Logan asked.

“He was pointing a gun at me,” Matt said. “I don’t like it when people point their gun at me. I don’t even like it when someone is holding a gun in front of me, whether they are pointing it at me or not.”

Logan looked down at the gun he was holding.

“Like you,” Matt continued. “I would feel much better if you would put that gun away.”

“Ha! Would you now?” Logan replied.

“Yes, I would.”

“What if I decide I don’t want to put it away?”

“Then I will kill you,” Matt answered easily.

“Are you daft, mister? I’m holding a gun in my hand.”

“So was Butrum,” Matt answered easily.

“Logan, put the gun away,” one of the other two said.

“I ain’t puttin’ my gun away.”

“What if he starts shootin’, and winds up shootin’ all of us?”

“That’s it! Caleb, you and Ben pull your guns too. I don’t care how fast he is, he can’t kill all three of us.”

“What if he kills just one of us?” Caleb asked.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. He probably can’t get more’n one of us before we get him.”

“Which one?” Ben asked. “Which one of us is willin’ to be the one that gets hisself kilt for the other two?”

“Put your gun away now,” Matt said. Although he was standing, facing Logan, he had not drawn his gun, nor had he made any move toward it.

Logan hesitated for another moment, then slipped his gun back into its holster.

“Yeah, well, all right, I can’t see gettin’ into a fight over Butrum,” Logan said. “There didn’t none of us like that little son of a bitch away. Come on,” he said to the others. “Let’s go over to the Mex place. Hell, I like tequila better anyway.”

“We just got here,” Ben said.

“I’m goin’ with Logan,” Caleb said. “If you want to stay in here all by yourself, you go ahead.”

“No,” Ben said. “I’m comin’ too.”

Without another word, the three men turned and left the saloon. There had been a collective holding of breath by everyone in the saloon, and now, as one, they let it out, followed by several loud exclamations.

“Damn! If that don’t beat all I ever seen! He was standin’ there without a gun in his hand, and bluffed down three armed men.”

“I don’t think it was a bluff,” Stan said. “I think he would have killed them if they had tried anything.”

“What are you talking about? Logan already had his gun in hand. And maybe Logan ain’t as fast as Butrum was, but he is pretty damn fast. I’ve seen him shoot.”

“He wasn’t bluffing,” Stan said again resolutely.

All the other patrons turned to look at Matt, but he had already retaken his seat at the table, and he was just sitting there, staring into his beer.

“Damn. He wasn’t bluffing, was he?” someone said.