Dakota Ambush

“All right,” he said. “Now we are getting somewhere.”

“Getting somewhere? What do you mean? What does the letter say?”

“He says that I may have had a point with my article, that perhaps he is hurting business in town. He also says that he would not want to kill the town as it serves a necessary function. He asks me to come talk with him.”

“Are you going to go see him?”

“Yes. After all, I’m the one that organized the ball. I at least owe him a dance,” John replied, chuckling at his own joke.

Two miles south of Fullerton, on the Fullerton-Ellendale road, John reached the tollgate. Bleeker and Carver were sitting on the side of the road, and Bleeker, sucking on a long stem of grass, got up to approach him.

“You know the rules, newspaperman,” Bleeker said. “It’s going to cost you a dollar to get through.”

“I will not pay one dollar to pass through here,” John said. “I received a letter from Denbigh asking me to come speak with him. I will not pay a dollar merely for the privilege of speaking with a despot.”

“What is a despot?” Carver asked.

“It means someone who is assuming more power than is rightly his, someone like Denbigh who is acting like a tyrant.”

“A what?”

“Never mind,” John said. “I’m afraid you lack the necessary intelligence to comprehend the meaning. Open the gate.”

“Not without you pay the dollar.”

“Let him through,” Bleeker said.

“You know what Lord Denbigh said. He said ever’one has to pay.”

“But the newspaper editor here is goin’ to see the boss. I say let ’im through.”

Carver thought for a moment, then swung the gate open. “All right, mister, you can go on through.”

John nodded, but said nothing as he rode by the open gate, heading toward Denbigh’s house.

Ten of the several thousand acres of Preston-shire on Elm had been set aside and exquisitely landscaped. These were the grounds on which Denbigh’s house, Denbigh Manor, was situated. It was a house one might expect to see in the English countryside, but scarcely on the range in Dakota Territory. Three stories high with a mansard roof and corner towers. Nigel Denbigh had gone all out to create the most grandiose home he could. The house was approached by a long, wide avenue, paved with white limestone and lined with aspen trees. The avenue ended at a large, circular drive in front of the house, the centerpiece of which was a dramatic statue of Denbigh himself.

John was met by a uniformed groomsman, who held the horse as the newspaper editor dismounted.

“I’m here to see Denbigh,” John said.

“Yes, sir,” the groomsman said. “If you will avail yourself of the bell pull at the front door, someone will see to you.”

“Avail myself of the bell pull,” John repeated. He chuckled. “Someone teach you to say that?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Tolliver, he taught us all to say that whenever someone comes up,” the groomsman said. “I will give your horse food and water,” he added as he led John’s horse away.

John climbed the broad steps up to the porch, then, crossing the porch to the huge carved oak door, he pulled on a rope that hung alongside. He could hear the melodic chimes echoing from within the house, and a moment later, Mr. Tolliver answered. John recognized Tolliver, because he had seen him in town before.

“Denbigh invited me to come visit with him,” John said, purposely using his last name only.

Tolliver winced at the disrespectful tone, but he invited John into the house.

“Wait here, sir, I will see if the master of the house is receiving,” Tolliver said.

This was the first time John had ever been in the house, and he looked around at what he could see as he waited, taking in the dramatic ceiling heights, the white oak flooring, the custom moldings, and the decorative architectural columns, as well as a grand, sweeping elliptical staircase.

A moment later, Tolliver returned.

“Lord Denbigh is in the library,” he said. “If you would follow me, sir?”

The library, as John knew it would be, was a beautiful room of rich mahogany, lined with bookshelves that were filled with books of various sizes and hues. Denbigh was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a white robe that featured upon the left breast the Denbigh family crest, a black lion with red claws, rampant against a white shield, filled with stars of black fleur-de-lis.

“Mr. Bryce,” Denbigh said. “I am pleased that you accepted my invitation.”

“I’m here,” John said. “What do you want to talk about?”

Denbigh walked over to his desk, then picked up a folded copy of the Fullerton Defender.

“These are the times that try men’s souls,” Denbigh said, reading aloud the opening line of John’s extra edition. He laid the paper back on the desk. “You are quite the crusading scribe, aren’t you?”

“It’s called freedom of the press. While we don’t have titles in America, we do have freedom of the press. It’s in our Constitution. You have heard of our Constitution, haven’t you?”

“What would it take, Mr. Bryce, to hire your services?”