“That would be quite satisfactory—er—Mr. Jensen.”
“Well,” Smoke began. “I shot the first one between the eyes, blew most of his brains out the back of his head. They sprayed everywhere,” he added with a wicked twinkle in his eyes.
For the next three minutes he invented the most chilling, gory details he could imagine. It had the desired effect. First one, then another of the offensive journalists gave in to their more tender sensibilities. By the time he launched into a graphic description of how the outlaws in the express car met their end, three more with weak stomachs had scurried away. With the departure of the last, Smoke laughed uproariously. Sally looked at him with real concern.
“Smoke, do you know what you’ve done? They’ll print every word you said, along with self-righteous condemnation of such ‘barbarity.’ ”
“To hell with them. Let them print whatever they want. They would anyway, even if I'd refused to tell them a thing. Only theirs would be a lot bloodier than mine.
“I hope all this won’t take much longer,” Smoke changed the subject. “I’m eager to get to Kansas City, so we can part company with our lovebirds.”
“I. . . wonder . . .” Sally began. “Perhaps they will patch it up before then. Thomas did something a while ago that offered promise.”
“I know, I saw it. Will you do your best to make it happen? Because, barring another train robbery, that’s the only problem we’ll have from now on.”
Smoke Jensen could not have been more wrong.
Eight
Thick, red velvet drapes protected diners in the Cattlemen’s Club wing of Chicago’s Livestock Exchange from the prying eyes of the hoi-polloi outside. At a small, round table in a turretlike section of the eatery, Phineas Lathrop sat with Arnold Cabbott. Lathrop scanned the pages of the Chicago Tribune. After he’d made a cursory reading of the headline story, another item caught his attention. He read it carefully, a frown growing with each line. Their waiter brought a refill of their drinks and left silently, well accustomed to the vagaries and relaxed attitudes of these moguls of the livestock trade. When Lathrop finished the article, he slammed the paper onto the table with enough violence to spill bourbon from both glasses.
“Damn that man!” he exploded.
Heads turned at several nearby tables and Arnold Cabbott leaned forward to urge a more discreet demeanor. “What we don’t need is to draw attention to ourselves. I gather something in the paper upset you?” he added, then sipped from his old-fashioned.
“ ‘Upset’ is a mild term for what I feel,” Lathrop snapped back.
“The man you refer to is, no doubt, Smoke Jensen?” Cabbott prompted.
“Precisely, Arnold. The Tribune is full of his latest exploits.”
Arnold Cabbott smiled. “If he’s up to his old ways again in Colorado, it should make it easier for Tanner, right?” “No. Jensen is on the move. I don’t know where, but he’s headed east. He was on a train that some gang led by a Buck Waldron tried to rob. I say ‘tried’ because Smoke Jensen took a hand. In fact, he took every trick from then on. The paper claims he killed twenty-three singlehandedly. I’d believe ten; he’s done that before. The point is, Tanner is doing us no good out in Colorado. I’m going to telegraph him and tell him to forget Jensen. He’s to go back to helping Buford Early intimidate holdouts over Utah way.”
“What are you going to do about Smoke Jensen?” Arnold asked.
“For the time being, nothing. According to the report in the paper, he’ll be here in two days. We’re scheduled to leave for New York tonight. If Middleton hadn’t made it appear so vital, we could stay and handle it ourselves. If only I knew where Jensen was headed.”
Food was brought. Uncharacteristically, Phineas Lathrop paid it little attention. When they had eaten their fill, Lathrop downed a last glass of wine and rose from the table. “Take care of this, will you, Arnold? I’ll go along and telegraph Tanner. I’m also sending one to Sean O’Boyle. Perhaps his presence will have a calming effect on Victor Middleton.”
Cabbott raised an eyebrow. “Is he needed so early?”
“If we expect to accomplish our goals on time, he is. If for no other reason than that he and his bully-boys can intimidate Middleton and his New York crowd into cooperation. Take your time, finish off. It’s all quite good, only that thinking about Smoke Jensen has spoiled my appetite.” Lathrop stopped in the small telegraph office attached to the stockyard sales office. He sent off a terse demand that Wade Tanner quit chasing shadows and do something productive by helping Buford Early. Then he addressed an even shorter message to Sean O’Boyle. It contained a single line: “Meet us in New York with some of your men when our train arrives Grand Central Station, three days from now, at one p.m.”
With those matters accomplished, Phineas Lathrop departed for their hotel to pack his luggage and be ready to catch the New York Central Daylight at five that evening. All the while, the news about Smoke Jensen kept nagging him.
After the circus in Hays, Smoke Jensen calmed down enough to enjoy the trip somewhat. Beyond Salina, Kansas, on the long run to Topeka and Kansas City, Sally spent patient, though tedious, hours in the Henning compartment talking earnestly with Priscilla. Thomas Henning had moved into the first cubicle, exiled by his estranged wife. For reasons Smoke could not understand, Sally took it on herself to reconcile the unhappy couple.
The first Smoke knew of her progress came when Sally emerged one night for a late supper. She had a soft smile on her face, rather than a downturned mouth and the vertical furrow between her brows. After Jenkins had served them and retired, Smoke gained more assurance from the way Sally dug into her pan-fried catfish. Always a hearty eater, Sally had an appetite this night that brought a smile to his lips.
“I gather you are gaining ground,” he remarked offhandedly.
Sally chewed and swallowed a forkful of potatoes and onions and washed it down with a sip of water. “A little,” she replied sparingly. “They’re such a nice couple, Smoke. It would be a shame if Priss persists in her intentions.”
Smoke stopped eating. “She is serious about leaving him?”
Sally considered her words a moment. “Not so much as at first. But she’s stubborn, and quite used to having her way.”
“Can she get their marriage dissolved?” Smoke asked. He had never had occasion to learn about such proceedings.
With Sally, their vows had meant they’d be together forever.
“I’m not certain,” Sally answered candidly. “Although, with enough money and influence . . . and her father certainly has that, it can be arranged.” She looked at him pointedly. “Have you spoken to Thomas about it?”
“Not really. I’m afraid we don’t have a lot in common,” her husband answered.
“Of course you do. You’re both men,” Sally retorted archly.
“We’ll have to leave the persuading up to you. Maybe time will work it out.”
Beyond Topeka, Smoke had reason to recall that conversation. A smirking Sally led Priscilla Henning out of the compartment to sit beside Thomas at the dinner table. The young bride hardly spoke, but she did respond to an effort on his part to make amends.
“I behaved wretchedly toward you,” he began tentatively.
Sally cut her eyes to Smoke, her expression one of questioning. Smoke shrugged and sliced another morsel of the medium-rare Chateaubriand on his plate. Priss wore a face of surprise.
“I should never have said the things I did,” Thomas offered.
“If you—if you believe something, you should stand up for your beliefs,” Priscilla responded.
Anguish cut across the worried face of Thomas. “Well, you see . . . I’m not entirely sure I do believe all that. I’m not certain I wasn’t just parroting things I learned at home, and at Harvard.”
Oh, Lord, Harvard, Smoke thought. Spare us that. Thomas correctly read the expression on the big gunfighter’s face.
“They have some professors there who are opposed to this entire
westward movement. There’s a poem they like to quote, it starts, ‘Lo! The noble redman.’ ”
Smoke made a face of disgust. “I’ve heard it.”
“They say you westerners are destroying the land, the animals, the last noble savage race. And that it is the fault of guns that it is happening.”
Smoke Jensen blinked, then blurted without thinking, “Do you think we should go back to using spears and stone clubs?”
“That’s not the point. They contend that we don’t belong out here,” Thomas answered painfully.
"They don’t belong out here, that’s one thing for certain,” Smoke declared flatly “Nor their ideas.”
“That’s silly, Thomas,” Priscilla prodded her husband.
“Yes, yes it is. At least I’m beginning to think so.” To Smoke, he offered, “We owe you our lives. Priss was right, if it hadn’t been for you and your guns . . .” Thomas shrugged and raised his hands plams up in surrender.
“I think there’s some hope here,” Sally pronounced her judgment.
Later that night, the young couple patched up their quarrel on the observation platform. Thomas moved back into the second compartment. And Smoke and Sally Jensen had a delightful night, doing terribly naughty things in the lower bunk of their room.
Thomas and Priscilla Henning left the train at Kansas City for a stern wheeler bound down the Missouri to the Mississippi and New Orleans. Arm in arm, they strolled down the depot platform and paused for only a moment to wave a farewell to Smoke and Sally Jensen. Priscilla gazed adoringly up at her husband as the steam whistle shrilled and the train pulled out, headed across Missouri and on north to Chicago.
“That ended nicely, I thought,” Sally remarked to Smoke, as they stood on the observation platform later that night.
A full moon lit the prairie and cast silver light on her face as Smoke bent to kiss her gently on one cheek. “And now we have the car all to ourselves,” he murmured.
Sally gave him an expression of mock disapproval. “Is that all you can say?”
“Not at all. Henning has a lot of changing to do if he’s going to last with that girl. They are a nice couple,” Smoke declared, then started to add more when Sally cut him off.
“I’m glad to hear you say that. Do you really mind so much making this visit to my family?”
“No, not really.”
“You’re resigned to it, is that it?”
“Sally, let’s not get started on that. Think about something else.”
“All right, I will.” Her famous smile bloomed and her voice grew wistful as she opened a new topic. “I’ve never seen anyone so proud as punch over where he slept as Bobby.”
Smoke nodded. “He figured he’s made it through growing up to be able to sleep in the bunkhouse with the other hands. I thought the little nipper would bust when I told him. Then, when the avalanche knocked the building off its foundation, he looked so glum when I had him stay in his old room those five nights.”
“Surely he realized it took time to arrange rollers and enough teams to pull the bunkhouse back in its place? It was his room in the house, or sleep outside under a tree with the other hands.”
Smoke’s indulgent chuckle stirred something deep in Sally’s breast. “Bobby would have preferred the ground. I’m sure. He got over it quickly enough, though, when he learned he would not be going to school for the three weeks we’ll be gone.”
Sally produced a fleeting frown of concentration. “You’re really fond of the boy, aren’t you?”
“I am. He reminds me of our brood when they were his age,” Smoke admitted.
“You never told me how it came to be that he wound up with you on the way to Mexico that time.”
Smoke sighed. “It’s not a nice story, Sal. I’d rather not go into it.”
“Oh, please. Bobby never speaks of it, either. At least, nothing past that you saved his life.”
Smoke shrugged and cut his eyes away from her lovely, moon-whitened face, uncomfortable at the recounting. “I saved him from a beating. I’m not sure I saved his life.”
“How did that come about?”
“I killed his stepfather,” Smoke said dully.
Sally’s eyes went round and wide. “However did that happen?”
“When I came upon them, the stepfather had beaten Bobby’s pony to its knees,” Smoke began. In a lifeless voice, he recounted the confrontation with Rupe Connors, their fight, and how Connors had come at him with a pitchfork. “I heard him running across the corral, but Bobby’s shout of alarm helped me move in time. I shot him. Then I told him my name. He died knowing for the first time in his life that he had made a big mistake.”
“That’s awful,” Sally declared. She had thought nothing of the outlaw she had killed only two days ago, yet this unvarnished tale touched her deeply as that never could.
Smoke nodded and held her closer. “You know the rest. Bobby has no family and could not stay there alone. After a few encounters with some rockheads along the way, I sent him to you. There’s something else I didn’t tell you: Connors pounded on Bobby as savagely as he did that pony from the day he married the boy’s mother. He also beat her so badly she died of it. For a man who abused helpless women, children, and animals, he got what he deserved.” “Yes ... I suppose he did,” Sally answered simply. “What a terrible life the boy has led. I’m so grateful 1 had the parents I did. It shaped the way I look at raising children. And I’m so glad you had Preacher to bring you up to be the man you are. Our children never knew how bleak life could be.” She sighed, flashed a winsome smile, and changed the subject. “Ever since that shootout in Keene, my father has thought the world of you.”
“I suspected that. And I hope John Reynolds hasn’t turned out the whole town as a welcoming committee.”
“Father is quite enthusiastic about this visit,” Sally replied cautiously. “I know he gets carried away sometimes, but he’s promised me that everything will be done quietly this time. Only ... he did say something about having something planned for you.”
Smoke laughed softly and kissed the top of Sally’s head. “I’m afraid to ask what it might be.”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Sally replied vaguely, her mind already on the wonderful night that lay ahead, with them making love in the moonlight while the train rocked them gently.
Tall, stately maples and leafy American elms lined the streets of Keene, New Hampshire. Their shade fell in dappled patterns on the wide, trellis-edged porch and white clapboard front of the two-story house that belonged to John Reynolds. Inside the far-from-modest dwelling, the senior Reynolds, his son, Walter, and his son-in-law, Chris, sat at a table in the spacious dining room.
John Reynolds looked up from his study of a handbill just presented to him by an inkstained printer’s helper. He nodded and passed it to Walter. “I think these will do nicely. Tell Silas he can begin printing them right away. Make it a thousand copies.”
“Yes, sir,” the adenoidal youth squeaked.
“ ‘The New England Lecture Society proudly presents the Mountain Man Philosopher of the Rockies,’ ” Walter read aloud. “It sounds mighty impressive, Father. But do you think there will be enough interest to fill a hall?”
“Was there any interest the first and only time Smoke Jensen visited Keene?” John Reynolds challenged.
“How do you know he’ll go along with it, sir?” Chris asked, still deferring to his father-in-law, although he was himself the father of four Reynolds grandchildren.
John smiled a soft, knowing smile. “I have an ace in the hole.”
“Sally,” Chris responded immediately, with a chuckle.
“Precisely. If anyone can get Smoke Jensen to take to the lecture circuit, she can. He’s a wealthy man in his own right now, and no longer has need to undertake those hair-raising adventures of his. Thank God.”
“Amen to that,” Walter added. “Even though you stood side-by-side with him against those ruffians who invaded Keene, I know your heart wa
sn’t in it.”
John Reynolds gave his son an odd expression. “To say it like Smoke put it, I wouldn't be alive now if my heart wasn’t in it. I actually enjoyed my short opportunity to employ western justice.”
“Oh, dear,” Chris let slip out. “What—what did the firm say?”
John Reynolds grinned broadly. “Don’t you remember? Old Hargroves called me a barbarian. The younger partners actually envied me. Hargroves came around, though, about a year ago, just before he died. Said he’d begun to think lately that we could use some of that Western—ah—‘creative law enforcement’ back here. Particularly down in Boston and New York.” He snorted. “Enough of that. I want you two to go down to the newspaper office and see that the first of those flyers are put up here in Keene before the ink is dry.”
After the younger men had departed, Abigale Reynolds joined her husband. Her cultured voice remained soft as she gently probed John about his plans for the lectures. When he admitted to her that Smoke knew nothing about the proposed grand tour of New England, her words took on a more chiding tone.
“Perhaps Smoke Jensen will not be too happy about this when he does learn?” she suggested.
“Well, now, Abigale,” John huffed, “he’ll simply have to accommodate himself to it. After all, he’s a man of the world, traveled, and well educated, albeit not in formal institutions. Why, he himself informed me of that ‘University of the Rockies’ that the mountain men had for themselves. That’s what gave me the idea. And it will do Smoke some good. Get some exposure to the people who have been reading those dreadful dime novels about him.
“This way he can dispel some of those myths that have grown up,” John concluded. “Besides, the grandchildren will be coming home from Europe this summer, and they won’t want to be trailed about by the wild tales of their father.”
Abigale’s lips compressed. “Louis Arthur is too much like his father already,” she spoke her harshest criticism of one of her beloved Sally’s children.
Rage of the Mountain Man Page 8
