Denbigh chuckled at the distaste Tolliver had for Butrum, most clearly demonstrated by the tone in his voice.
“Mr. Tolliver, why do I get the impression that you don’t much like Mr. Butrum?”
“Perhaps, sir, it is because I do not like the man,” Tolliver said.
“Why not?
“I find his demeanor most unpleasant.”
“He kills people for a living, Mr. Tolliver,” Denbigh said. “Someone who kills for a living can hardly be expected to have a very pleasant disposition now, can he?”
“No, sir,” Tolliver replied.
“Henry, I find our Mr. Butrum unpleasant as well,” Denbigh said, softening his words. “Not only Butrum, but every one of these cowboys, those who work for me and those who don’t. You have to understand that they are not like you and me. Whereas we have generations of culture bred into us, these men are wild and uncouth, little more than animals really. But for now, I need them. I find myself in the unusual position of being dependent upon those who are far inferior. Now, if you would, please show Mr. Butrum into the study.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Tolliver replied.
Tolliver left the room and as he did so, Denbigh rolled up the map that he had been examining so that Butrum could not see it. He did not believe that Butrum was intelligent enough to discern the meaning of a map marked out with crosshatches, but he had no wish to discuss the matter with him.
Ollie Butrum had buck teeth, eyes so pale a blue that they were almost colorless, pale skin, and yellow hair. In a world of gentlemen, he would be marginalized, not only for his innate ugliness, but also because of his intelligence, which was minimal, and his demeanor, the antitheses of the proper etiquette and decorum that so occupied the world in which Denbigh was raised.
But the Dakota Territory was not a world of gentlemen, and if a gentleman wanted to survive in this world, he needed an ally like Butrum, either as a friend, or better in this case, as a loyal and subservient employee.
“Mr. Denbigh,” Butrum started.
Denbigh said nothing, but held up his finger.
“I mean Lord Denbigh,” Butrum corrected.
“Yes, Mr. Butrum, what is it?”
“The paper come out again.”
“I expected that it would,” Denbigh said. “Though he is a thorn in my side, one must confess that John Bryce has more courage than the rest of the town combined. He wrote another scathing article about me, I suppose.”
“Scathing?”
“Bad.”
“Yes, sir, he did,” Butrum said. “But that ain’t all he wrote.”
“Oh? What else did he write about me.”
“Well, nothin’ else in the newspaper, but he did write a letter to someone and Clem Dawson, the fella that works down at the post office, he copied it down.”
“Did he now? And where is the copy of the letter Bryce wrote?”
“I’ve got it,” Butrum said. “Dawson give it to me ’cause he thought you might want to see it.”
Denbigh took the letter from Butrum and began to read.
As Denbigh read the letter, doing so silently, Butrum walked over to the liquor cabinet to examine its contents. The cabinet was filled with bottles of various wines, liqueurs, and whiskeys. He started to reach for one of the bottles, but was stopped by Tolliver.
“The liquor in this cabinet is not to be touched, sir,” Tolliver said. “That is a reserved cache.”
“There is some rye whiskey in the cabinet, Mr. Tolliver,” Denbigh said, not even looking up from the letter he was reading. “You may serve that to Mr. Butrum.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tolliver poured a glass of the rye whiskey, turning his nose up slightly at the aroma. Butrum took the glass, tossed it down, then held the glass out for a second serving. Tolliver poured another drink, then looked over at Denbigh, who had finished the letter and was now deep in thought.
“Is something troubling you, sir?” Tolliver asked.
“Mr. Butrum, have you ever heard of Matt Jensen?”
“No, I ain’t,” Butrum said as he turned the glass to his lips.
“Have you, Mr. Tolliver?”
“Only what I have read,” Tolliver replied. “And from what I read, he must be quite a magnificent fellow.”
Denbigh chuckled. “I suppose that’s all in how you look at it,” he said. “If he is on your side, he is magnificent. But if he is against you, it could be quite troubling.”
“And is that likely to be the case, m’lord? Is Mr. Jensen likely to be against you?”
“If the newspaperman has his way, it might be.”
