Dakota Ambush

Chapter Two

Fullerton, Dakota Territory, twelve years later

A brick had been thrown through the front window, and great jagged spears of the glass reached out from all corners of the frame. Two months earlier, John Bryce had paid a professional painter to come over from Bismarck to paint:

FULLERTON DEFENDER

John Bryce—Publisher

Millie Bryce—Office Manager

The letters were broad and black, outlined in white and gold. That sign, once a source of pride, was now no more than a few remaining letters on the remaining shards of glass.

LLE ON F DER

J y lisher

Not one letter of Millie’s name remained.

At the moment, John was standing just inside the office of the Fuller ton Defender, surveying the damage. The perpetrators had done more than just break his front window; they had also trashed the office. His arm was around his wife, and he held her close to him as she sobbed quietly. Type had been scattered about the room, newsprint had been ripped and spread around, the Washington Hand Press, which John used to put out his weekly paper, was lying on its side.

They had come to the newspaper office directly from their breakfast table, having been told of the break-in by City Marshal Tipton. More than a dozen citizens of the town had already been drawn to the scene of the crime by the time John and Millie arrived, and they were standing in a little cluster out on the boardwalk, just in front of the building.

The perpetrators had left a note:

Don’t be writting no more bad artacles about

Lord Denbigh or we will kum back and

do more damige to you nex time.

“Who would do such a thing?” Millie asked between sobs.

“It’s fairly apparent, isn’t it?” John replied. “Denbigh did it.”

“We don’t know that,” Marshal Tipton said.

“The note doesn’t suggest that to you, Marshal?” John asked.

“Just the opposite,” Tipton said. “Denbigh is an educated man. Now, I’m not as smart as you are, but even I know how to spell the words come and damage.”

“I don’t mean Denbigh did it himself,” John said. “I mean he had it done.”

“Or maybe there are just some people in town who got upset with you because you’ve been coming down pretty hard on Denbigh in your stories. And Denbigh has done a lot of good for this town.”

“Really? What good has he done?”

“Let’s just say that he does a lot of business with the town.”

“Yes, by allowing only the businesses he wants to stay, and squeezing out the others. He’s killing this town, Marshal Tipton. And the people in town know it, only they are too frightened to do anything about it.”

“So you plan to mount a one-person campaign do you, Bryce?”

“If I am the only one willing to do anything about it, then yes, I will mount a one-person campaign.”

“Uh-huh,” Tipton said, stroking his jaw as he surveyed the shambles of the newspaper office. “And look what it got you.”

“It has set me back a bit, I’ll admit,” John said. “But it won’t stop me. It’ll take me a day to clean up. I’ll have the paper out this Thursday, just as I do every Thursday.”

“I’ll help you pick up all the type, Mr. Bryce,” a young boy of about twelve said.

“Thank you, Kenny.”

“I can go get Jimmy to help too, if you want me to.”

“That would be nice,” John said. He turned toward the group of people who were still standing just outside the office, and seeing Ernie West-pheling, called out to him.

“Ernie, would you help me set the printing press back up?”

“Sure thing,” Ernie said. Ernie, who had been a colonel during the Civil War, was now a local businessman who owned a gun store.

A couple of the other men also volunteered to help, and within a few minutes the printing press had been righted and was, once again, in its proper place. John surveyed it for a moment or two, then patted the press with a big smile.

“Not a scratch,” he said. “It takes more than a few of Denbigh’s hooligans to put ole George out of business.”

“George? I thought your name was John,” one of the men who had helped him, said.

“It is. George is the name of my printing press.”

“You’ve named your press?”

“Sure. It’s not only a part of this newspaper, it is the heart of the newspaper.”

“What are you going to do about your window?” Ernie asked.

“I’ll have to order a new glass from Bismarck,” John said. “In the meantime, I guess I’ll just board that side up.”

“What are you going to do about this, Marshal?” Ernie asked.

“I’ll look into it, see if I can find out who did it,” Tipton replied. “But if I don’t come up with any witnesses, I don’t know what I can do.”

“There has to be a witness somewhere,” Millie said. “It had to make a lot of noise when they broke out the window.”

“You live no more than a couple of blocks from here, Mrs. Bryce. Did you hear anything?” Tipton asked.

“No.”

“And the newspaper belongs to you and your husband, so you would be even more attentive, I would think. You heard nothing, but you expect others in the town did?” Tipton shook his head. “No, ma’am, I don’t expect I’m going to find anything.”

“That’s because you aren’t looking in the right place,” John said. “You and I both know who is behind this.”

Tipton glared at John, but he said nothing.

Central Colorado

“Is the son of a bitch still following?” Cyrus Hayes asked Emmet Cruise. The two men had stopped for a moment in order for Hayes to relieve himself, and Cruise crawled up onto a rock to look back along the trail.

“Yeah, he’s there,” Cruise said.

“What the hell? Are we leaving bread crumbs or something?” Hayes asked as he buttoned his trousers. “Who the hell is that, and how is staying on our trail?”

“I don’t know who he is, but he’s good,” Cruise said.

“Yeah, well, let’s go,” Hayes said. “The more distance we can put between us and him, the better I will feel.”

Earlier that morning, Hayes and Cruise had robbed the Rocky Mountain Bank and Trust in Pueblo, Colorado, and during the robbery, had shot down in cold blood a teller and two customers. The two customers, a man and his pregnant wife, had been friends of Matt Jensen. Because of that, even before the state got around to offering a reward for two bank robbers and murderers, Matt had gone after them.

Knowing they would be pursued, the two outlaws took great pains to cover their true trail, while leaving false trails for anyone who would follow. Then, reaching a stream, they started riding right down the middle of it, confident that they were erasing any sign that could possibly be followed.

For most trackers, that might work, but not for Matt. He had learned his tracking expertise from Smoke Jensen, who had learned his own skills from an old mountain man named Preacher. And Preacher was, arguably, the best tracker who had ever lived. Because that know-how had been passed down, Matt was almost equally as accomplished as Smoke or Preacher. He could even follow a trail through the water by paying attention to such things as rocks dislodged against the flow of water, or silt, which, when disturbed by horse’s hooves, would leave a little pattern in the water for several minutes afterward.

Matt was tracking down the streambed when a rifle boomed and a .44-40 bullet cracked through the air no more than an inch from his head.

Matt leaped down from his horse and ran though the stream, his feet churning up silver sheets of spray as he ran. The rifle barked again, then, right on top of that, he heard the flatter sound of a pistol shot. Almost simultaneously, two bullets plunged into the water close by.

Reaching the bank on the opposite side of the stream, Matt dived to the ground, then worked his way toward a nearby outcropping of rocks. There, he sat with his back against the biggest of the rocks while he took a few deep breaths.

“Who are you?” one of the men called out to him.

“My name is Jensen,” Matt called back.

“Jensen? Matt Jensen? Son of a bitch!” The outlaw had obviously recognized Matt’s name and there was fear in his voice.

“Which one are you?” Matt called back. “Are you Hayes or Cruise?”

“What? I’m Hayes. How did you know our names?”

“Half the town saw you two boys riding away from the bank, and half the ones who saw you knew who you were.”

“What are you after us for, Jensen?” Hayes called. “I’ve heard of you, but I ain’t never heard that you was someone who would chase a fella down for the reward. Is that why you are chasin’ us?”

“I’m not after the reward.”

“Then if you ain’t after the reward, what the hell are you comin’ after us for?”

“It seems the thing to do,” Matt said, without being specific as to his reasons.

“Well, mister, you made a big mistake,” Hayes shouted. “’Cause all you’re goin’ to do now is get yourself kilt!”

Hayes and Cruise fired again, and once more the bullets whistled by harmlessly overhead.

“You still there?” Hayes called.

“I’m still here.”

“I tell you what, mister. Me and my partner here just talked it over, and we got us an idee. We have got us near ’bout five thousand dollars that we’ve taken from the bank. A thousand of it is your’n iffen you’ll just go away,” Hayes called.

“No deal.”

There was a beat of silence, then Hayes called out again. “All right, how ’bout two thousand? We’ll give you two thousand and all you got to do is let us ride away.”

“You expect me to believe you two are willing to give me nearly half of what you took from the bank?”

“Why not? It’s no big deal, we can always rob another bank,” Hayes shouted back. “Two thousand dollars. You don’t come across money like that very often, do you?”

“Not very often,” Matt agreed.

“So, what do you think? You going to take us up on the offer?”

“Let me think about it,” Matt said.

“You do that.”

Matt had no intention of taking the two men up on their offer, but he responded in such a way as to enable him to stall for time until he figured out how best to handle this situation. He picked up a stick about two feet long, put his hat on top of the stick, then raised it slightly above the rock.

A rifle boomed, and the hat flew off the end of the stick.

“Ha! You got ’im, Cruise!” Hayes shouted.

“Whoa, I guess you two boys weren’t really serious about giving me all that money, were you?” Matt called out.

“Son of a bitch, I missed!” Cruise said.

“Mister, you know what I said about givin’ you that money? Well, you can forget about it, we ain’t goin’ to give you nothin’,” Hayes said. “Except maybe a bullet right between your eyes.”

Hayes’s shout was punctuated with another rifle shot, this one hitting the top of the rock, then whining off into the valley.

After that there was silence.

The silence stretched into several long minutes.

“Hayes? Cruise? You still up there?” Matt called.

There was another rifle shot, and this time the bullet hit the rock, not on the side facing away from Matt, but just to the right of him. One of them, the one with the rifle, had improved his position, and even as Matt scooted around to put the rock between himself and the shooter, there was a second shot.

This time, Matt saw the puff of smoke from the rifle, so he aimed at the spot and waited. Seconds later he was rewarded by seeing Cruise’s face raise up.

Matt pulled the trigger, and Cruise fell forward, sliding belly-down until his face wound up in the stream. Matt watched for a moment longer to make certain Cruise was dead. Then suddenly, he heard the sound of a horse’s hooves. Looking around he saw that Hayes had used the opportunity to get mounted, and was now galloping toward him. Hayes had his pistol in his hand and he was firing at Matt as he rode.

When Matt fired back, he saw a puff of dust rising from Hayes’s vest, followed by a tiny spray of dust and blood. Hayes pitched backward out of his saddle, but one foot hung up in the stirrup and his horse continued to run, raising a plume of water as the outlaw was dragged through the stream. When the horse reached the other side of the stream and started up the bank, Hayes’s foot disconnected from the stirrup and he lay, motionless, half in the water and half out, not more than ten feet from where the body of his partner lay.

Matt ran over to them, his gun still drawn, but the gun wasn’t necessary. Because both men were dead.