Dakota Ambush

Chapter Twenty-four

“John, Mr. Jensen, you might want to come see this,” Millie said.

Matt was in the back of the newspaper office with John, trying to learn the workings and mechanisms of the Washington Hand Press, the machine with which the Fullerton Defender was printed. Millie was out front, sweeping the porch.

“What is it?” John asked, starting toward the front door.

“It’s Denbigh.”

At the south end of town, Matt saw five riders coming in, one rider in the lead, then four behind him riding two abreast. Behind the four riders was as elegant a coach as Matt had ever seen. It was pulled by four white horses, driven by a liveried driver. The coach itself was green, the wheels were yellow, and there was a large crest on the door.

The coach was followed by six more riders in three ranks of two.

“John, you asked about Lucas Meacham?” Matt asked.

“Yes.”

“There he is,” Matt said, pointing to the rider who was leading the others. “Have you ever seen him before?”

“No, I haven’t,” John said. “Not only have I never seen him with Denbigh, I’ve never even seen him in town before. He must be new.”

“New to you, but not to me,” Matt said. “I’ve been seeing him for several days, now.”

As the coach passed the newspaper office, Matt saw its occupant looking toward him with great interest.

“That,” John said, “is Nigel Denbigh.”

The hollow, clopping of hoofbeats from seventeen horses filled the street with sound, and much of the town turned out to watch the parade.

“Does he always make such an arrival?” Matt asked.

“He always arrives by coach, and he always has a group of men who come with him,” Millie said. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this many before. I guess he has brought more than usual for the funeral.”

“The funeral?”

“Millie ran into Fay Lisenby at the mercantile. Her husband is the undertaker, and she told Millie that Denbigh wanted a big funeral for Butrum.”

“Has anyone else who works for him ever died or been killed? What I’m asking is, is this unusual?”

“I don’t know that anyone who worked for him died or was killed before now,” John said. “That said, this is still a very unusual event. Butrum wasn’t that well liked of a man.” He made a scoffing sound that might have been a laugh. “What am I talking about? Butrum was hated. Nobody ever had one good thing to say about him, not even the others who rode for Denbigh. You have to wonder why Denbigh would even bother to have a funeral for him.”

“To send me a message, I suspect,” Matt replied.

“You think he knows about you already?” John asked. “Wait, what am I saying? Of course he knows about you. Everyone in town, probably in all of Elm Valley, knows by now that you killed Butrum. And my bet is, they are all cheering the fact.”

“Maybe I’ll just make it easier for him to know me,” Matt suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to the funeral.”

“I don’t know how you can conduct a funeral for that man,” Millie said to her father. “He was pure evil.”

“All have sinned and fallen short of God, daughter,” Reverend Landers replied. “And I would preach a funeral for him if I were asked, but I have already been told that there will be no funeral per se, in that no prayers will said and no words will be spoken. Denbigh wanted to hold the service, such as it is, in the church, but I told him that, without words being spoken, there would be no service in the church.”

“Good for you,” Millie said, hugging her father. “Why is it that the only two men who will stand up to Denbigh are my father and my husband?”

“I don’t think we are the only two, Millie,” John said. “Seems to me as if Matt has already started.”

“Oh,” Millie said. “Yes, I guess you are right at that.”

Butrum’s body lay in state at the Lisenby Undertaker Parlor, displayed in a black lacquer coffin that was extensively decorated with silver trim. The top half of the lid was open so that anyone who wished could view his body. The death grimace on his pasty face made him even uglier in death than he had been in life. Because he was so small, his burial suit had to be cut to fit, and it made him look more like a grotesque gargoyle than a human being.

Quite a few citizens of the town came, some because they did business with Denbigh and thought it would be to their advantage to come, but most out of a sense of morbid curiosity. As they filed by the open coffin to look down at the pale face of the deceased, someone would occasionally, more out of habit than conviction, cross himself, then walk away. The expression on the faces of most, however, showed no sympathy for the man, and a few even showed satisfaction that he was dead.

Matt stood in the back of the room and watched as residents of the town filed by, never once venturing up toward the coffin. He recognized Logan, Caleb, and Ben, Denbigh’s men who’d happened into the saloon shortly after he had killed Butrum, as well as Carver and Bleeker, the two men he had encountered at the tollgate on the road into town. He could tell that they recognized him as well, but neither of them approached him, nor did he see either of them say anything to Denbigh about it. He was sure that they’d never even told Denbigh about their encounter. He saw Logan point him out to two other men who had ridden into town with Denbigh’s entourage.

“That’s Slater and Dillon,” John whispered, indicating the two men that Logan was talking to. “They are every bit as evil as Butrum was. I just don’t think they are quite as good with a gun.”

Although Matt didn’t see anyone else point him out specifically, he knew that word had spread because at one time or the other, he saw every one of Denbigh’s men take a glance his way. Usually, though, when he looked back, they looked away, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you would kindly step back from the bier, we can load the coffin into the hearse and proceed to the cemetery for the interment,” Lisenby said.

The visitors began filing out of the room where the body had been displayed, while six of the men who had come to town with Denbigh acted as pallbearers, picking up the coffin and carrying it out to a glass-sided hearse, its ebony wood glistening in the morning sun. Four white horses stood in harness, each horse draped with a purple pall, their manes adorned by a black feather plume.

Matt saw Meacham say something to Denbigh. Denbigh nodded, then approached Matt.

“Mr. Jensen, I believe?” Denbigh asked in his clipped British accent.

“That’s right.”

“I am …”

“I know who you are, Denbigh,” Matt said.

Denbigh winced at being addressed in such a way, but he said nothing about it. “I am informed that you are the one who killed Mr. Butrum,”

“I am.”

“I am also told that a hearing found that the shooting was justified.”

“It did.”

“Nevertheless, whether justified or not, I must say that you certainly have a great deal of cheek. I mean, here you are, present for the funeral services of the very man you killed.”

“You’re calling this a funeral, are you?”

“Yes, of course. What would you call it?”

“Seems to me like it is more of a burying than a funeral. At least from what I have noticed,” Matt said.

“What do you mean? I have bought and paid for the finest coffin one can buy. And, as you can see, he is being transported to his final resting place in style.” Denbigh indicated the hearse that was even now receiving the coffin of the late Ollie Butrum.

“Excuse me, Lord Denbigh,” Lisenby said, calling over to him from his position at the back of the hearse. “Will you be present for the interment?”

“No,” Denbigh replied. “I shall leave that in your capable hands.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You aren’t going to the cemetery to see your friend buried?” Matt asked.

“He was my employee, not my friend,” Denbigh said.

“As I said, it isn’t much of a funeral,” Matt repeated.

“So, it is a service you want, is it? And would you have a vested cleric reading words and telling lies about what a noble life Mr. Butrum lived?”

“Are you saying he did not live a noble life?”

“You met him briefly,” Denbigh said. “Did he seem all that noble to you?”

“I would say—no,” Matt replied.

Quite unexpectedly, Denbigh laughed out loud, his laugh totally incongruous in the setting. In fact, some of the attendees, who had left the viewing room and were now watching the coffin being loaded onto the hearse, looked toward him in shock.

“Oh, my, I seem to have upset some of the locals who, no doubt, feel that I am not showing the proper respect for the late Mr. Butrum.”

This time it was Matt’s turn to laugh. “I doubt any of them are that concerned about it. In fact, I would say that most of them are glad to see him gone.”

“Do you believe you did the town a favor by dispatching Mr. Butrum?”

“I think that would be the consensus,” Matt replied.

“Consensus? My, that’s quite a word for someone like you to use. Are you an educated man, Mr. Jensen?”

“It depends on your definition of the term education,” Matt said. “I have some formal schooling, though most of my education was outside the classroom. But it was intense, thorough, and has been much more applicable to my life than would be a degree from some university.”

“What you are saying is, you can track a bear, but you know nothing of Chaucer.”

Matt began to quote:

“When priests fail in their saws,

And lords turn God’s laws

Against the right;

And lechery is held as privy solace,

And robbery as free purchase,

Beware then of ill!

Then shall the Land of Albion

Turn to confusion,

As sometime it befell.”

Denbigh applauded, clapping his hands lightly. “Hear, hear, Mr. Jensen, you do know Chaucer. Is it limited to Chaucer’s Prophecy?”

“I’ve read The Canterbury Tales, and a few others of his works.”

“I must say, I am impressed.”

“Easily so, I would surmise.”

“Yes, well, perhaps another day we can discuss English literature. In the meantime, I would be interested in what exactly brought on the confrontation between you and Mr. Butrum?”

“He wanted to see proof that I had paid the toll.”

“A simple enough request. Why didn’t you show him the coupon?”

“I had no coupon, because I paid no toll.”

“I see,” Denbigh said. “They tell me that Mr. Butrum came after you with his gun already in his hand. And you, or at least so they say, were standing there holding a beer in your hand. Yet despite that, you were able to drop the beer, withdraw your pistol from it sheath, and fire, all before he could shoot a second time. Is that true?”

“It must be true if that’s what you heard,” Matt said. “You don’t strike me as a man who is easily lied to.”

Denbigh nodded. “Very astute of you, Mr. Jensen. Very astute,” he said.

“I hear that you have taken a position with the newspaper.”

“I have.”

“You are a man who is obviously good with a pistol, and despite a lack of formal education, you show a surprising acquaintance with Chaucer, but you would take a job with a small-town newspaper?”

“It is honest employment.”

“Surely, your salary is paltry. How would you like to come work for me? I would put you in charge of all my associates. I think you would be surprised and well satisfied with the compensation I can offer.”

“From what I noticed when you rode into town, you already have someone in charge.”

Denbigh smiled. “You must be talking about Mr. Meacham. Have you ever met him?”

“I’ve seen him around. I’ve never met him.”

“I’m sure the two of you could work well together, but let’s rectify the fact that you have never met, shall we?” Denbigh said. He held his hand up toward Meacham and motioned him to come over.

“This is Lucas Meacham,” Denbigh said when Meacham joined them. “Mr. Meacham, this is Matt Jensen.”

Meacham started to stick out his hand, but when he saw that Matt was not going to reciprocate, he pulled it back.

“We’ve met,” Meacham said.

“No, we haven’t,” Matt replied. “Though you have been following me for the last several days.”

“I wasn’t following you,” Meacham said. “I was coming here to take a job with Lord Denbigh.”

“Would that be the job he just offered me?” Matt asked.

Meacham glanced over quickly toward Denbigh. “Is that true?” he asked.

Denbigh chuckled. “Worry not, my dear fellow. It was merely a matter of banter,” he said. “Your job, as long as you perform it adequately, is secure.”

“What exactly is that job, Mr. Meacham?” Matt asked.

“To take care of things,” Meacham answered.

“The way Butrum took care of things?”

Meacham smiled. “Turns out he wasn’t all that good at it, was he?”

“Shall we get under way, Mr. Meacham?” Denbigh asked.

“Yes, sir,” Meacham said. Then to Matt, he said, “I have a feeling that we’re goin’ to meet again.”

“I have that feeling as well,” Matt said.

Meacham nodded, then turned and walked away.

Matt watched while Denbigh climbed into his coach, then as Meacham mounted and took his position in front of the others, who, in military precision, formed into columns to escort the coach. At a signal from Meacham, the coach, and all the men who had accompanied Denbigh, left, once again filling the street with the echo of horses’ hooves.

John Bryce had purposely held himself apart from the conversation of Matt and Denbigh, as well as Matt and Meacham. Now he walked over to join Matt.

“You said you have heard of him,” John said, nodding toward Meacham.

“Yes, I’ve heard of him.”

“Is he going to be trouble for us?”

“I imagine that is his intention,” Matt replied without elaboration.

Lisenby stood alongside the elegant, glass-sided hearse until Denbigh and the others had departed. Then he called out to one of his men, who was waiting back in the barn.

“Bring up the wagon.”

A well-weathered wagon, its sun-bleached wood gray and splitting, emerged from the barn, drawn by a single mule. The driver of the wagon, the driver of the hearse, and Lisenby took the coffin, closed now, from the hearse and set it, none too gently, into the back of the wagon.

“Dewey, get the hearse back in the barn. Mick, the grave is already open and Al is out there. Take this carcass out there and get it planted.”

As Dewey drove the hearse back to the barn, Mick drove the wagon down the street toward the cemetery with one of its wheels squealing in protest as it made its solitary journey.

“How was the funeral?” Millie asked when Matt and John returned to the newspaper office.

“No tears,” John answered.

“Did you expect them?”

“Not really. What is that?” John asked, noticing a story Millie had just finished setting.

“It’s a story about the Firemen’s Ball this Saturday night.”

Because it was already set to print, the typeface from John’s perspective was backward. Nevertheless, he was able to read it as quickly and easily as the average person could after it was already printed.

“Good story,” John said. “Two m’s, one t in commitment,” he pointed out.

“Aahh, I knew better than that,” Millie said. She made the correction. “Are you going, Mr. Jensen? It sounds like it is going to be fun.”

“Oh, yes,” Matt replied. “I don’t want to miss this.”