“But why, sir? Why would you do such a horrible thing?” Tolliver asked, aghast.
“Careful, Tolliver, remember your place!” Denbigh chastised sternly.
“But m’lord,” Tolliver started, only to be interrupted by Denbigh’s raised finger.
“Tolliver,” Denbigh said, purposely calling him only by his last name. “Your family has been in service to my family for over one hundred years. I would think that such a long relationship would have inculcated some loyalty. I am not used to, nor will I accept, having my actions criticized, or even questioned, by an inferior.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Tolliver said, lowering his head in submission.
“However, because of that long relationship, I will share my reasoning with you. It is not necessary that I share it, you understand, but I shall do so nevertheless.
“It is my intention to build a great fiefdom, incorporating all the small ranches and farms in the valley. In exchange for rebuilding all the houses, I will demand title to the land. They can continue to live there, but all of them will be working for me.”
“You would make serfs of them?”
“Exactly.”
“But, m’lord, there is no serfdom society in America.”
“Maybe it is time we established one,” Denbigh said. “After all, it works very well in England. Why wouldn’t it work here? And if you think about it, I am really doing all these people a favor. They would be much better off serving me—no more worry about crop failures or cattle dying. You do see that, don’t you, Mr. Tolliver?”
“Yes, m’lord,” Tolliver said quietly.
Dennis Donovan was helping some of the women clean up from the dinner after the funeral. He had just put a box of dishes into the back of his buckboard when he saw someone that he recognized as a Denbigh rider approaching. He went out to meet him.
“What are you doing here?” Donovan asked angrily. “Did you come to gloat over killing three of our men, and burning Ian McCann’s house down?”
“No. I need to talk to Matt Jensen.”
“What do you need to talk to him for?”
“Please, it’s important.”
Donovan thought about it for a second, then shrugged. “All right, come on, I’ll take you to him.”
Matt, John Bryce, Curt Jennings, and several others, including both the mayor and Marshal Tipton, were still engaged in conversation, still trying to decide the best way to handle Denbigh, when Donovan came up to them with his visitor in tow.
“Matt, this here fella wants to talk to you,” Donovan said. “But you better watch out because, though I don’t know his name, I do know that he rides for Denbigh.”
“Rode for Denbigh, not anymore,” the man said. “Mr. Jensen, my name is Caleb Jenkins. I don’t know whether or not you remember me, we met on the night that you, uh, that is, on the night that Butrum got hisself kilt.”
Matt thought of the three cowboys who had braced him that night, and he remembered that one of them was named Caleb.
“I remember you,” Matt said. “What can I do for you?”
“I, uh …” Caleb looked around at all the other men, then swallowed nervously. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he said.
“How about you just come out and say it?” John suggested.
Caleb held up his hands, palms out, as if pushing himself away from the others. “I want you to know, I want you all to know, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” he said. “And when I heard what all Meacham and the others done, what Denbigh had them do, well, I just couldn’t take it no more. I decided I needed to get out of there, but before I leave, I figure I owe it to all of you to tell you what happened.”
“Get on with it, Jenkins,” Donovan said. “What are you talking about? What happened?”
“Your house has been burned down. That’s what happened,” Caleb said.
“What? You son of a bitch!”
“I didn’t have nothin’to do with it, Itold you that!” Caleb said, stepping back away from Donovan.
“Let him talk, Dennis. I have a feeling there is more,” John said.
Caleb cleared his throat, then nodded. “Yes, sir. There is more,” he said. “There’s lot’s more.”
“What else is there?”
“It ain’t only this feller’s house that’s been burned,” Caleb said.
“Who else’s house did they burn?” Byrd asked.
“They burned your house too,” Caleb said.
“Mine? How do you know my house was burned? You don’t even know who I am, do you?”
“No, sir,” Caleb replied, “but it don’t matter none that I don’t know your name. I know your house was burned ’cause all of ’em was.”
“What?” John gasped. “Are you saying all the houses were burned?”
