The Loner: Trail Of Blood (27 page)

“We’ll take that bag of ore, mister,” one of them shouted.

“Who are you?” Matt asked.

“We’re the folks you’re goin’ to give that bag of ore to,” one of the three said, and they all laughed.

While the three men were laughing, Matt was drawing his pistol, and while they were reacting to him drawing his pistol, Matt was shooting.

The pistol shots sounded exceptionally loud in the closed room as Matt and the three men exchanged gunfire. When the shooting stopped Matt had not a scratch, but the three would-be robbers lay dead on the floor.

Matt was examining the bodies when four more men came bursting into the room. Three of them were carrying sawed-off shotguns. They were also wearing badges.

The fourth man with them was the assayer.

“There he is, Sheriff! He is the one who stole the bag of ore!” Montgomery shouted, pointing at Matt.

“What?” Matt asked. “What are you talking about? I didn’t steal any ore from you!”

“He come into the office a little while ago,” Montgomery said. “He had a bag of worthless rocks, usin’ it as a way o’ getting my attention. While I was looking at his rocks, he stole a bag of genuine ore. I didn’t have no choice but to send my brother and two cousins to get the ore back. Didn’t know it would come to this, though.”

Montgomery looked down at the three dead bodies, then shook his head sadly. “If I had known they was goin’ to be murdered like this, I never woulda sent ’em over here. A bag plumb full of gold nuggets isn’t worth getting three good men killed.”

“Come along, mister,” the sheriff said, waving his shotgun menacingly at Matt. “You are about to learn that folks don’t come into my town to steal and murder and get away with it.”

“Sheriff, this man is lying,” Matt said. “I brought some ore in for him to assay. He tried to cheat me out of it so I told him I would go somewhere else. You think I would stop to take a bath if I stole anything in this town?”

“I don’t know what you would do, mister,” the sheriff said. “But the thing is, I know Montgomery and I don’t know you. So I reckon we’ll let the judge sort it all out.”

Matt looked at the three shotguns leveled at him. He was holding a pistol and he had a notion, but declined. He might be able to kill the sheriff
and both his deputies before they realized what was happening, but then, he might not, either. They were carrying shotguns, which gave them an advantage. It would also mean killing innocent men and he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

Matt turned the pistol around and handed it, handle first, to the sheriff.

“You are making a mistake, Sheriff,” Matt said.

“You let me worry about that.”

Montgomery reached for the sack of gold ore.

“Leave it,” the sheriff said.

“Why should I leave it, Sheriff? This is the selfsame sack of ore he stole.”

“Leave it,” the sheriff said again. “We’ll let the judge decide whether or not that gold ore is yours.”

Montgomery glared at the sheriff, then looked over at Matt. “I’ll be standin’ in the crowd, watch-in’ you hang,” Montgomery said.

“Let’s go, mister,” the sheriff said to Matt with a wave of his shotgun. “I got a nice jail cell for you until the judge gets here.”

Matt had been in jail for three days awaiting the arrival of the circuit judge so he could be tried. Smoke sat outside his cell visiting with him.

“I shouldn’t have left you,” Smoke said.

“Why not? If you had stayed, you would be in jail with me right now,” Matt said. “What good would that do?”

“I guess you have a point. I couldn’t help you any if I were in there with you. At least, by being out here, if you can’t convince the judge you are
innocent, I’ll take matters into my own hands. I’ll get you out of here, no matter what I have to do.”

Matt was about to answer when he looked up to see the sheriff coming into the jailhouse, leading Montgomery. Montgomery was in shackles.

“What is it?” Matt asked. “What is going on?”

“You’re free to go,” the sheriff said as he opened the door to the cell. “Mr. Montgomery here will be taking your place.”

“Sheriff, I have to hand it to you for doing your job,” Matt said. “You’ve had a good three days of investigating.”

“It wasn’t me,” the sheriff said. “It was John Bryce.”

“Who?”

“John Bryce,” the sheriff repeated. “Mr. Bryce is a newspaper writer for the
Swan Journal
, and he has been doing some, he calls it, investigative journalism. Here, read this,” he said, handing Matt a newspaper.

“After the paper come out I sent a telegram to the sheriff of Madison County, Montana, and he answered that Montgomery was wanted for murder, just like the newspaper article said. I went over to talk to Montgomery and found that he was tryin’ to leave town.”

“So I am free to go?” Matt asked.

“Yes, sir, you are free as a bird.”

“Is this fella, John Bryce in town?” Matt asked.

“Yes, sir, he’s over at the newspaper office right now,” Sheriff Daniels said.

“I think I’ll go look him up.”

“Do you own this paper?” Matt asked when he and Smoke found John Bryce hard at work in the newspaper office.

“Oh, heaven’s no. It takes a lot of money to own and operate your own newspaper,” John said. “I just work here for Mr. Peabody as one of his journalists. Someday I expect to own my own paper, though,” he said.

Matt, who had had the ore returned to him, reached down into his canvas bag and pulled out four pretty good sized rocks. “Here,” Matt said, handing the rocks to the newspaper man. “Cash these in and you may have your paper sooner than you realize. If there is ever anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

“Bless you, Mr. Jensen,” John said, accepting the gold with a broad smile. “I’ll never forget you for this.”

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 the window.

F
ULLERTON
D
EFENDER

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 discordant letters on the remaining shards of glass.

Not one letter of Millie’s name remained.

At the moment, John was standing inside the office of the
Fullerton 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, by which John put out his weekly paper, was lying on its side.

They had come to the newspaper office directly from their breakfast table, after City Marshal Tipton told of the break-in. 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. The group stood in a little cluster on the boardwalk 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.”

“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. Denbigh has done a lot of good for this town.”

“Really? What good has he done?”

“Let’s just say 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 still standing outside the office, and seeing Ernie Westpheling, called out to him.

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

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

A couple of 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.”

“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.

“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 he 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 went after them.