“I would say that you are right,” Denbigh said.
“Just messin’ up his office like Slater and them boys done ain’t goin’ to stop this man. No, sir, he’s got more gumption than just about anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“I suppose that is right,” Denbigh said. “He is a troublemaker.”
“Iffen you want me to, I can fix it so he won’t be givin’ you no more trouble,” Butrum suggested.
“How?”
“I’ll kill him for you, if you want me to.”
“I wouldn’t say we are ready to go that far yet,” Denbigh said. “You just keep doing what you are doing. Make certain nobody gets in or out of town without paying the toll.”
“I may have to kill a few more people,” Butrum suggested. “I hope that don’t bother you none.”
“Mr. Butrum, other than your unique talent for killing, can you think of any other reason I might have hired you?” Denbigh asked. “Why should that bother me?”
“Just so’s you know,” Butrum replied, not entirely sure that he understood what Denbigh just said.
“I don’t care how many people you kill,” Denbigh said. “As long as you manage to keep it legal. If your activities result in your being indicted for murder, you are on your own. I will neither defend you, nor will I pay a lawyer to defend you. Do you understand that, Mr. Butrum?”
“Yeah. All I have to do is make them draw first.”
“Now, I want you to wait around for a moment or two. I’m going to write a letter to Mr. Bryce, and I want you to take it in town to the post office.”
“No need to do that, Mr. Lord Denbigh. I can just take the letter directly to Bryce his ownself.”
Denbigh shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I do believe the letter will have more effect if you take it to the post office. It will be more official that way.”
“Yes, sir, whatever you say,” Butrum said.
Butrum waited quietly until Denbigh finished the letter. Once he finished, Denbigh folded it, put it into an envelope, then sealed it.
“This feller you got workin’ for you, Tolliver?” Butrum said as Daveport handed him the envelope.
“Yes, what about Mr. Tolliver?”
“I get the opinion he don’t care much for me,” Butrum said.
“Your feeling is accurate. He doesn’t like you.”
“Why not? I ain’t never done nothin’ to him.”
“No, and you never shall,” Denbigh replied. “Not if you intend to remain in my employ.”
John Bryce was setting type for the regular weekly newspaper when Millie came into the newspaper office. Smiling, she held out several envelopes.
“Look at this!” she said enthusiastically.
“What is it?”
“It’s mail, silly. Mail from people about the extra edition we put out.”
“Ha! I thought you said you were opposed to the extra edition.”
“I was then, because I thought it was a waste of money. But if we get this many letters in response, that means it has struck a resonant cord. And that has to convert into more business for us. Why, I’ll bet we get half a dozen new advertising accounts from this.”
John chuckled. “Accounts. Is that all you think about? Don’t you care a whit about the responsibility of a newspaper to look out for the public?”
“We can’t very well look out for the public if we don’t have enough money to publish,” Millie said.
“Touche, my dear. I suppose you do have me there,” John said. He finished setting the line in a composing stick, then fit the stick into the printing bed.
“Listen to this letter, from the fire chief, Walter Bowman,” Millie said. “‘In times of trouble the people of our great nation have always been able to count upon the valor and industry of its most courageous citizens. You, sir, have the soul of a crusading journalist, and our fair community is blessed to have you as our advocate.’
“And this one from Paul Deckert,” Millie continued. “‘Keep up the good work, John, the whole town is behind you.’”
Millie picked up the next letter, but didn’t open it. “Oh,” she said, the tone of her voice changing. “This one can’t be good.”
“Why not? Who is it from?”
“It is a letter from Mr. Denbigh.”
“Read it.”
“I’d rather not. You read it.”
Millie handed the unopened envelope over to John. He opened it, then pulled out the single page. He read for a moment, then smiled.
