Dakota Ambush

Chapter Four

Fullerton, Dakota Territory

When Slater, Dillon, and Wilson tied their horses off in front of the New York Saloon, they saw a small, pasty-faced man sitting on a bench on the front porch.

“Howdy, Butrum,” Slater said.

The little man nodded, but made no response.

“Want us to bring you out a beer?” Dillon asked.

“I don’t drink,” Butrum said.

“All right. Just thought I’d ask.”

With an arrogance brought on by the fact that they rode for Nigel Denbigh, the largest rancher in Dickey County, the three men swaggered up to the bar and pushed aside some of the customers who were already there.

“Find another place to be, pilgrim,” Slater said. “Me ’n my pards need this space.”

The man Slater pushed aside worked as a clerk in the Fullerton Mercantile. Not wanting any trouble, he took his beer and retreated to the far end of the bar.

Ordering whiskey, the three men continued their conversation after their drinks were served.

“Do you really reckon Butrum don’t drink?” Dillon asked.

“I don’t think it’s as much that he don’t drink as it is that he can’t drink,” Wilson said.

“What do you mean, he can’t?”

“Well, look at him. You ever see a fully grow’d man that was that little? Why, I bet one beer would just about make him drunker than a skunk.”

The three men laughed.

“Maybe that’s why Lord Denbigh hired him,” Dillon said. “He has to sit out there on that porch ever’ day, checkin’ to make sure folks has paid their toll. Anyone else might be drinkin’ all day, but seein’ as Butrum don’t drink, well, it ain’t no problem.”

“That’s not the only reason he was hired,” Slater said. “Don’t you know who that is?”

“Yeah, I know who he is,” Dillon said. “His name is Butrum.”

“Yeah, Butrum. Ollie Butrum,” Slater said. “He may be little, but don’t let that fool you. They say he has kilt more than twenty men.”

“Folks may say that, but has he really?” Wilson asked.

“I don’t know,” Slater admitted. “Do you want to try him?”

Wilson shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “If that’s what folks say, then as far as I’m concerned, it’s all true, ever’ word of it.”

Slater tossed his drink down, then called out to the bartender.

“Bartender, how about another whiskey down here?”

Without answering, the bartender brought the bottle down and refilled the three glasses.

“Hey, I hear tell the newspaper fella had hisself a little trouble the other night,” Slater said. He laughed. “I hear tell they broke out his winder and messed up his place pretty good. Did you hear that?”

“I heard it,” the bartender replied, keeping his answers as short and nonconfrontational as possible.

“It serves him right. Anyone who would write all those lies about Lord Denbigh deserves to have his place all torn up,” Slater said. He laughed. “I’ll bet he won’t be writin’ any more lies, seein’ as how he can’t get his paper out anymore.”

“What makes you think he won’t get the paper out anymore?” the bartender asked. “I understand he will come out this Thursday, same as always.”

“How can he if his press is broke?”

“It wasn’t broken,” the bartender said. “It was pushed over, but it wasn’t broken.”

“I told you we should’a took an ax—” Wilson began, but Slater interrupted him in mid-sentence.

“Shut up, Wilson, you fool.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I was just sayin’, we need to take an ax back out to the ranch so we can get to work on some of them stumps,” Wilson said in an attempt to minimize the issue.

Slater glared at him for a moment, then turned his back to the bar and studied the saloon. Seeing one of the bar girls occupied with a customer, he walked over to that table.

“Step aside, friend,” he said to the man who had been laughing and joking with the young woman. “I’m taking your woman.”

Slater reached out to take the girl by the arm. “Me and her is goin’ to go up to her room for a bit.” He continued. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll be finished with her soon,” he added. “It’s been a while since I had me a woman, so it ain’t goin’ to take me very long to get the job done, if you get what I mean.”

“What makes you think that I’ll go upstairs with you?” the girl asked.

“’Cause you’re a whore,” Slater said. “And that’s what whores do.”

“Other whores maybe, but not this whore,” the bar girl replied. “I do what I want to do, and right now I am enjoying a conversation with my gentleman friend.”

“Yeah, well, now you’re going to enjoy that conversation with me.”

“I don’t think so,” the girl said.

“Oh, I think you’ll talk to me. Because, if you don’t, I’m goin’ to pistol-whip this here gentleman you was a’ talkin’ to.”

The gentleman started to whimper, but the woman put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry.” She looked at Slater, measuring the expression in his eyes. She saw nothing but evil, and she couldn’t help but close her own eyes to blot it out. “Before I let him hurt you, I will go with him,” the girl said.

Slater put his pistol away. “Yeah,” he said. “I thought you might.”

“Kaye,” the bartender called to the soiled dove that worked for him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Paul, I’m fine,” Kaye replied. “This won’t be the first time I’ve ever had to deal with Mr. Slater.”

“What makes you dislike me so?” Slater asked the woman.

“I don’t like you because you have a very tiny pecker.”

The others in the room laughed outrageously as Slater’s face turned beet red. He vowed not to ask any more questions that might trip him up.

As the three men galloped out of town an hour later, they yelled and fired their pistols into the air. They were just passing a man and woman who were arriving in town in a buckboard, and the shouting and gunfire startled the buckboard team into a gallop. The woman hung on to her seat for dear life while the man fought to regain control of his team.

Most of the others, seeing the three cowboys shouting and shooting as they rode their horses at an unseasonable speed, moved quickly to get out of their way.

In the office of the Fullerton Defender, John Bryce stood in the doorway and watched as the three men terrorized the town.

“What’s all the noise?” Millie called toward the front. At the moment, she was in the back of the office, sweeping the floor.

“It’s some of Denbigh’s riders, razzing the town,” John answered. “Slater, Dillon, and Wilson.”

“It would be them,” Millie said. “They are the worst of the lot.”

John shook his head. “No. The little gargoyle that Denbigh keeps posted on the front porch of the saloon—Butrum—he is the worst of the lot.”

“You would think Denbigh would have more control over his men.”

“He does have control over them,” John answered. “You think Denbigh didn’t know his men were going to trash our office? He not only knew it, he ordered it done.”

“Marshal Tipton says it could have been someone from town, either someone upset or someone doing it as a prank,” Millie suggested.

“What sort of prank would tearing up somebody’s place of business be?” John asked. “No, whoever it was did exactly what Denbigh wanted them to do. He wants, not only us, but the whole town to be intimidated. And he has about succeeded with the town. That’s why he lets ruffians like Slater, Dillon, and Wilson act without restraint.”

John walked back to the Washington Hand Press, put a sheet of paper onto the tympan, then moved the bed under the platen. “All right, George,” he said, speaking to the hand press. “Do your stuff.” John pressed it down with the bar, then used the rolling block to move the bed back out. Peeling off the first page of the newspaper, he held it up for just a moment to let the ink dry, then took it over to the light of the front window to read the copy.

The Northern Express Stage Company

Intelligence received from the above-mentioned company suggests that they would offer the best route from Fullerton south to Ellendale, the route bringing within easy reach the railroad, which, by connections, would provide our citizens with easy travel to all the great metropolises of America.

This company has plans to equip their line with twelve of the best and most comfortable Concord coaches, with one hundred and sixty horses, and would establish stations and supply ranches along the route at distances from twelve, and not to exceed fifteen miles apart. Though the Indians are believed to offer little or no trouble, The Northern Express Stage and Transportation Company has of late expressed some concern as to whether they will be able to put their plans into effect at all.

Mr. R. A. Weatherly, operations officer for the company, released the following statement. “It has come to the attention of this company that one individual has gained control of the Ellendale Highway and is imposing a toll upon all who make use of the road. We cannot, and will not pay tolls for the passage of our coaches, for to do so would render the profit so marginal as to be non-productive.”

Though Mr. Weatherly mentioned no names, this newspaper feels an obligation to its readers to publish herein the name of the individual whose actions may cost our town this important transportation service. His name is Nigel Denbigh, and he has made the spurious claim that, because the road passes through his property, it is subject to a toll to be collected by him.

An appeal to Sheriff Hightower in Ellendale has availed us of no relief from this condition, and many of our citizens have already faced personal hardship because of the toll Denbigh has established on the Ellendale Road.

I am sending, by post, a copy of this newspaper to Governor Ordway in Bismarck, with the hope that he will see his way to right this wrong that is being perpetrated against us.

“Look at this, Millie,” John said, showing the first printed page to his wife.

“I read it when I set the type,” Millie replied. Millie was not only John’s wife. She was also a valued employee, for she could set type, operate the press, and even write a column that was aimed specifically at the ladies of Fullerton. She had come to work for John when he started the newspaper some two years earlier, and the work relationship grew to something more. That was when John Bryce, who had thought that he would never be married, took her as his bride.

“Well, what do you think of it?” John asked.

“I don’t know,” Millie said.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You think it isn’t a good story?”

“John, it is a wonderful story, and why shouldn’t it be? You are, after all, a wonderful writer. But I don’t want to see our place all messed up again. Or worse.”

“What do you mean, worse?”

“You know what I mean, John,” Millie said with a little shiver.

John walked over to Millie, put his arms around her, then pulled her to him. “Denbigh is an evil man, Millie, but he isn’t dumb. And killing a public figure like me would be a dumb thing to do.”

“I hope you are right,” Millie replied.

“What I hope is that the effect of this article will be to galvanize the governor, the sheriff, the mayor, and the citizens of this town into action against the evil Mr. Denbigh.”

“And I fear it will have just the opposite result,” Millie said. “Already, some of the people are concerned over what happened here the other night.”

“Concern? Nonsense, why should they be concerned?”

“They are afraid it might happen to them.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“John, sometimes I feel as if you are trapped in a soap bubble. It is a wonderful soap bubble, filled with all the noble ideas of honor, truth, and justice, but you see nothing beyond that bubble. The people of town are afraid that Denbigh will react to your stories by stopping all business dealings with Fullerton. And whether you like him or not—”

“Not!” John interrupted, and stabbed his finger into the air. “Madam,” he said, speaking as dramatically as if he were on stage. “I like him not!”

Millie laughed. “Whether you like him or not,” she continued, “you must admit that he does a great deal of business with the people of the town. They are afraid they will lose that business.”

“They are being foolish,” John said, his voice returning to normal. “Don’t they understand that without his interference, they would do even more business?”

“Nevertheless, the whole town is afraid, and I fear some may, out of their fear, stop doing business with us. I know you feel strongly about this, but we do have our own well-being to consider.”

“Millie, you know yourself that if this town dies, we will as well. A newspaper can survive only as long at the public it serves survives. I am looking out for our own well-being.”

“I suppose you are right,” Millie acquiesced. “But I beg of you, John, to please exercise some caution.”

At that moment, Kenny Perkins came into the office. Kenny Perkins was the twelve-year-old who had come to help pick up the scattered type. It was no accident he was there because Kenny worked for John. He was the son of Ma Perkins, a widow who owned a boardinghouse as well as a couple of other businesses. Kenny’s father, Emil, had been killed three years earlier in a mining accident. Like his mother, Kenny had a nose for business, and he had convinced John that he needed a paperboy to deliver the Fullerton Defender. As it turned out, Kenny proved to be a very good paperboy, so the arrangement had a mutual benefit.

“Did you get the Thursday paper out, Mr. Bryce?” Kenny asked.

“Indeed I did, Kenny.”

Kenny smiled broadly. “I knew you would. Are the papers ready to go yet?”

“That they are, Kenny, that they are. Go, quickly now, and wearing the shoes of Hermes, attend to your appointed rounds.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m not wearin’ this fella Hermes’ shoes. Heck, warm as it is today, I’m not wearin’ any shoes a’tall. See?” Kenny held up one of his feet and wriggled his toes.

“The young man speaks the truth, Millie. His feet are as bare as the feet of a newborn babe.”

Kenny laughed. “You’re funny, Mr. Bryce.” He took the papers, then started up Monroe Avenue, which was the main street of town, with his delivery.

“Now there goes a good boy,” John said.

“Yes, he is, and you shouldn’t tease him so,” Millie said.

“He enjoys it,” John said. “Besides, without a father, he needs a man to joke with him now and then.”

“I agree. But you can’t say his mother isn’t doing a good job with him. I’ve known Lucy for a long time. I just hope …” She stopped in mid-sentence.

“You hope what?”

“I hope the people who vandalized out newspaper office won’t ever take it out on Kenny.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” John replied.

“Yes,” Millie said pensively. “I’m sure they won’t either.”

From out on the street, they could hear Kenny’s call. “Paper! Get your paper here!”

John took a sheet of stationery from his desk.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to write a letter.”

“To the governor?”

“No, I wrote to the governor once, and it didn’t do any good. I’m writing this letter to Matt Jensen, but I’m going to send it to Smoke Jensen because he is the only one I know how to reach. If Smoke is still in contact with Matt Jensen, and I’m sure he is, I will ask him to forward the letter. I did a favor for Mr. Jensen once, and he said if there was ever anything he could do for me, to let him know. Well, there is something he can do for me now, and I’m about to let him know.”