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Chapter Four
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.”
