“At least he doesn’t go around wearing a brace of pistols,” John defended his favorite grandson.
“No,” Abigale agreed. “Not around here, or in London. And certainly not two of them. But I’ve heard stories of what goes on when he visits that ranch of theirs. Absolutely bloodcurdling.”
“No doubt,” John said shortly, anxious to get off this subject. "It's hard to realize Sally will be here in only three more days.”
“Yes. I can hardly wait. I do hope I’ll be strong enough to cook all her favorite dishes.”
“You’ll do fine. Mother. Only, don’t overdo,” John cautioned.
“I sincerely pray that Smoke does not,” an uneasy Abigale Reynolds replied to her husband, the last bullet-riddled visit still fresh in her mind after so many years.
Nine
West of Chicago, the Santa Fe KC Limited train, to which the private car had been attached, took Smoke and Sally Jensen into a dark and stormy night. With a suddeness rarely seen outside the High Lonesome, huge billows of black clouds roiled up and snuffed out the stars. For a while the still full moon tried valiantly to pierce the stygian cloak, a pale nimbus in the thinner portions of the gathering storm.
When a chill wind whipped around the corner of the observation platform, Sally shivered and drew a shawl close to her shoulders. “Why don’t we go in?” Smoke suggested.
“There’s certainly no more moonlight to make us romantic,” Sally agreed. “I smell rain in the air.”
“You’re more western every day, Sal,” Smoke said with a chuckle. “I think Jenkins left out that custard pie from supper,” he hinted.
Sally had never seen her caged lion husband so relaxed. There had always been a tenseness about him, as though the next turn in the road, or the next tree, might reveal someone waiting to menace him. Tonight he seemed almost like her father.
A graduate of the law school at Harvard, John Reynolds had married early in his career. Sally remembered him always as a kindly, easygoing man who literally worshipped the canon of law and the image of blind justice. He had raised his children that way as well. Her experiences in the West had long since disabused her of her father's naivete, yet she cherished his sweet, self-imposed blindness to the real evil in the world.
Not even when the brute violence of reality invaded his home in the form of Rex Davidson, Bothwell, Raycroft, and Brute Pitman did it remain in his consciousness for long. He had simply become another man for a while, a western man, with a gun in his hand, and later he admitted to enjoying immensely the long, bloody hours of fighting that followed. It made him “feel really alive,” as he put it. Smiling to herself, she followed Smoke inside.
Poking in the icebox, Smoke found the pie and cut himself a large slab. A quick glance at Sally put him to carving 3. second, smaller piece. They stood in the narrow, cramped kitchen, eating their pilfered desert in grinning silence, enjoying the closeness of the moment. Without warning, a flash of actinic light washed through the darkened room.
Ear-splitting thunder came right on top. Smoke Jensen had a retinal imprint of a telegraph pole wreathed in flames. A sudden drumming on the metal roof above them announced the rain. Streaks of wetness blurred the view out the window. More lightning crackled and flickered, though not so close. Through it all, Smoke Jensen leaned calmly on the small-scale butcher’s block and contentedly munched bites of the custard pie. At last, Sally could bear it no longer.
“I know that after all these years I shouldn’t feel this way. But those damned storms terrify me.”
“Long as you are not out in it, there’s no way it can harm you,” Smoke told her levelly.
“What if lightning strikes this car?” Sally asked, her unease mounting.
“If you’re holdin’ onto something metal that’s attached to the car, you’d get fried like a thin-cut steak.”
Sally made a ghastly expression. “My dear, you certainly have a colorful way of putting things.”
“Thank you,” Smoke answered dryly.
Without warning, the brakes slammed on suddenly. By the time the effect reached the private car, it propelled the remaining half of Smoke’s pie off the plate to splatter on the wall next to Sally’s head. The blob of custard on the tip of her nose did nothing to heighten her allure. Smoke followed his pie a split second later. He dropped the plate, which shattered into a hundred pieces, and caught himself with both hands.
Sally rebounded off the cook stove and rubbed at the painful line across her abdomen made by the retaining rail, much like those used on shipboard. Her eyes went wide. “What is it?”
“I’ll go see,” Smoke told her. “I doubt it is another robbery.”
“I should hope not,” Sally sent after him, as he left the kitchen and started to the door to the vestibule.
Paul Drummond, the conductor on the Santa Fe KC Limited, peered forward in the poorly illuminated gloom to what had caused the engineer to throw on the brakes. Water ran at an undetermined depth over the bridge ahead. Slashing sheets of drops caused the light from the headlamp to waver and give off untrustworthy images. Drummond held a hand over the bill of his cap to shield his eyes from the horizontally driven rain. The wind that whipped them kept him from hearing the approach of the big man from the private car until he was right upon the conductor.
“What is it?” Smoke Jensen asked above the howl of the storm.
“Illinois River’s out of its banks and over the bridge,” Drummond answered.
“Can we cross it?”
“I doubt it.” Paul Drummond looked up at the cab where Casey O’Banyon, the engineer, and his fireman were sheltered from the tempest. “Ho! Casey! Can we get over that?”
“I don’t know, Paul. We’ll have to have trackwalkers go out ahead and see,” came the reply. Steam hissed noisily from the relief valves on the huge cylinders.
“I’ll get them on it right away. We’ve got a schedule to keep, and we sure don’t want to have a cornfield meet with ol’ Number Nine.”
Smoke Jensen had been around railroad men long enough to know that a “cornfield meet” meant a head-on between two locomotives on the main line. He touched Drummond lightly on one shoulder. “Can you telegraph ahead to hold the other train at the next station?”
Drummond looked at the broad shoulders, recalled the powerful muscles bulging in the arms of the man. He occupied the private car of the president of the D & R G, so no doubt he knew something about railroading. “We can try. Line’s out to the west. Lightning took out a couple of poles. I’ve got my portable key.” Then curiosity pushed him to ask the question he had wanted to ask since the private car had been put on his train. "Are you an official with the D & R G?”
“No. Used to work for them. I'm ranching now. Horses,” Smoke told him.
Drummond absorbed that, not entirely satisfied, and noted the streams of rainwater coursing down the big man’s slicker. We’re not doing ourselves any good standing here getting wet. I’ll get a couple of brakemen on walking the trestle.”
“Fine. I’ll go back and reassure my wife.” Smoke Jensen turned and walked away along the train.
Sally wanted to accompany him. It took a while before he convinced her to stay dry in the comfortable coach. Jenkins, Smoke noted, had awakened Lee Fong, who had started to prepare a huge pot of coffee. That would be for the crew7, Smoke knew. Colonel Drew made a practice of looking out for the men loyal to him and his line.
When Smoke reached the front of the locomotive again, the engineer had dismounted from his cab and stood alongside Paul Drummond. Two half-inch ropes extended from the cowcatcher into the tunnel of light from the headlamp. At the far end, a pair of crewmen sloshed along in the swiftly moving chocolate water of the flooded river.
It was obvious to Smoke that the storm had not come upon them; rather, they had run into a huge weather front that had stalled out and continued to dump inches of rain on already sodden ground. The resultant runoff had created flash floods, not only here, but no doubt in many other p
laces. With luck, the bridges would hold up. One of the brakemen turned and waved a lantern, signaling that the track was clear to that point.
He took another step and was suddenly swept off his feet. His partner did a crazy dance in an attempt to remain on the unstable platform of a railroad tie and reach for the other. The lantern winked out as the swift current rolled the fallen man over a second time. A wild yell, barely heard above the tumult of the storm, came from the upright crewman a moment before he lost his tenuous hold and the raging stream claimed him.
He rolled and thrashed in the water as it swept him toward the edge of the trestle. Thoroughly sodden, his partner lay against an upright of the siderail. In mounting panic, the newly doused man made frantic grabs for the crossbar of the safety barrier as he neared it. Their mistake, Smoke grasped instantly, had been in not securing themselves to the ropes they payed out as they advanced. Several of the remaining crew gathered beside Smoke Jensen. One pointed and spoke excitedly.
“Look, Luke and Barney can barely hold on. That water’s fierce.”
“Which ones of you will go out and bring them back?” Drummond asked.
No one answered. Uncomfortable glances passed among the train crew. Smoke Jensen made a quick assessment of the situation. If someone didn’t act fast, both men would be swept down the raging river.
“I’ll go, if you can get me another rope,” he volunteered.
Drummond gave him an odd look. “It ain’t your problem, Mr. Jensen,” he informed Smoke.
“I don’t see it that way,” Smoke snapped. “If you want a reason, say I don’t want to stay out here all night in that flood water. Who knows how high it will get?”
Drummond nodded. “You’ve got a point.” Quickly he issued orders.
Once he had the rope secured to the cowcatcher, Smoke fastened the other end around his waist. Without a backward glance, he waded out into the swirling water. Ahead of him he saw the dark outline of a small tree trunk racing along the frothy surface. Smaller flotsam spun in eddies, some of which collected against the straining bodies of the half-drowned crewmen.
Water surged around Smoke’s waist when he felt the footing under him change from ballast gravel to the wooden beams of the trestle platform. A strong undertow tugged at his boots. About a third of the way out onto the bridge, the first of the brakemen. Barney, clung frantically to the side-rail. Smoke plunged through the torrent toward him.
Slippery footing made for slow going. Smoke had to accurately gauge the distance from one tie to the other. Even with perfect pacing, each step proved hazardous. The current provided one benefit, he noted: with each advance, the pushing, sucking water forced him closer to the edge and the man he sought to rescue.
If only he could time it so that the sideward movement matched the forward and eased him in position where he wanted to be. He took another carefully calculated step and peered into the fuzzy gloom at the extreme edge of the headlamp beam.
White-faced, Barney clung to the railing and glanced anxiously toward the approaching figure. He broke off repeatedly to try to see into the dark upstream and judge his chances. A sudden bellow of pain came when a submerged hunk of waterlogged tree limb slammed into his ribs. Then, to his overwhelming relief, the rescuer towered over him.
“I brought your rope. Hold on while I tie it around you,” Smoke Jensen told him.
With that accomplished. Smoke started out for the other man. some thirty feet beyond. Startled that the man who had come to save him now abandoned him, the first brake-man yelled after him, “What are you doing? Come back and get me out of this.”
Smoke held up the loose end of the second rope. “I have to tie this around your partner, then I’ll be back.”
“A lot could happen in that time, mister.” Sudden horror enveloped the battered, weary Barney. “For God’s sake, don’t leave me behind!”
Tension had drained Smoke of any patience. “Stop the damned whimpering and get ahold of yourself, man.” His hot retort served well to spur the sodden man to renewed effort at survival.
One more step . . . two . . . three, four . . . the rapid current plucked at Smoke’s clothing with invisible fingers. Fifteen feet more and he would be there. Ahead of him, the man’s head disappeared under the rising flood. Smoke rushed a stride and nearly lost his footing.
While Smoke teetered precariously, Luke’s nearly bald pate reappeared. Luke spluttered furiously and choked up a gout of water. “Help me. For God’s sake, help!” he bellowed.
“Hang on. Be there in a second,” Smoke called back.
From beyond the diffuse cone of light, Smoke heard a loud crack as a large branch struck the trestle. A moment later, in midstride, he felt the whole structure shudder from the impact of something against the pilings that supported the bridge platform. Barney and Luke both howled in alarm. Only inches separated Smoke from the brakeman pinned to the 4x4 post by the rushing water. One more step.
Smoke reached out and wound the sodden shirtfront in thick, strong fingers. Fighting the current, Smoke hoisted Luke to his feet. “Hold on to the rail,” he instructed.
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” the walleyed Luke spluttered. His knuckles whitened from his grip on the crossrail.
In less than a minute, Smoke fitted the rope around a thick waist and tied firm knots. “Can you walk?” he asked over the roar of the water.
“My legs are numb, but I can move them,” Luke told him.
“Good. I don’t think I can carry you against the current. Let’s go.”
“Ca—can’t you take Barney first?” Luke asked nervously.
“And fight my way back out here again?” Smoke snapped a rhetorical question.
Luke shrugged and made his first tentative step away from the false security of the safety rail. He swayed like a drunken man in the surge of brown water. Smoke steadied him and they made slow progress back toward the edge of the flood. A moment later, when the slack in the line was noticed, two stout crewmen began to haul on it steadily. Another pair began to tug on Luke's rope. It helped, Smoke noted at once.
He signaled for a pause when he reached Barney. “Hold tight, I'll be back when I have your partner on solid ground.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to come with you now,” Barney said with quiet urgency.
“Not enough men to haul on your line and ours, too,” Smoke rejected the idea. “You’d only get swept off your feet again.”
Smoke started off at once. The water had risen to his chest now, over a part of the track that should be in a shallower condition. No sign of a cresting, he thought with growing concern. A few more steps should see them off the trestle. Smoke sensed the fury of the flood draining his stamina. Would he be able to go back for the other brakeman? He’d see when he got this one to safety, he dismissed the worry.
Gravel gave under the sole of his boot. What should have been reassuring only concerned him more. The water level had not yet dropped. He felt less surge from the current, though, which helped. Beside him. Luke made more confident strides. Ten feet closer to the cowcatcher of the locomotive and the swirling surface dropped dramatically to mid-stomach, then to his waist, and then was knee-deep. Smoke breathed easily for the first time since he’d come forward to see the river racing over the trestle.
“One more to go,” Smoke told Drummond as he and Luke stumbled into the welcome of warm, dry blankets.
“You can’t go out there again,” Drummond protested. “We can pull him in from here.”
“And risk drowning him?” Smoke retorted. “Give me a minute to catch up, and I’ll head back.”
“A little nip of brandy to warm you?” Drummond suggested.
“That would help,” Smoke allowed. He took the offered flask and drank deeply. Then, without another word, he stood and strode off into the rampaging torrent.
Smoke returned in half the time. Barney had fared better than Luke in his tumble toward the oblivion of the trestle side. He struck out with as confident a stride a
s allowed by the current. Once free of the cloying danger of the flood, he sluffed off the rope around his waist and moved with alacrity toward the waiting comfort.
“Mr. Jensen, we’ve decided to wait until the water goes down below the trestle,” Casey O’Banyon, the engineer, informed Smoke as he walked up from the last rescue effort. “No way we can tell the conditions out there until we can see them.”
“Good idea,” Smoke agreed. His two perilous outings on the swaying bridge had changed his mind about hurrying on. “Might be wise to back up a little. That flood hasn’t crested as yet.”
O’Banyon’s eyes widened. “Then there’s more danger?”
“A whole lot, the way I see it,” Smoke informed him grimly.
Sheriff Monte Carson looked up irritably from the wanted poster on his desk in the Big Rock sheriff’s office. “Now gawdamnit, Victor. It ain’t against the law for someone to make you an offer on yer spread. Thing is, you don’t have to sell if you don’t want to.”
“I suppose you told the others that, too,” Victor Mitchem complained.
Monte stroked both sides of his walrus mustache with a crooked finger. “Yep. The Smiths, the Evanses, Xavier Gomez, an’ Gil Norton. All of them who’ve come so far. Any idea who this Early is fronting for?”
Mitchem shook his head in a negative gesture. “None. He won’t tell us. But I ask you, Monte, is it legal to ask to buy a man’s land with half a dozen gunhawks glaring death-in-a-minute at you all the while?”
“Now, that puts a different light on it,” Monte said, after considering it a moment. “Did any of them make a direct threat?”
“No. Not in so many words. Early said I would be sore-pressed if I refused the offer.”
“What’d you tell him?” Monte probed.
“To go to hell, what do you think?” Victor snapped. “I tell you, you ought to look into this, Monte.”
“I will. I surely will. Damn, I wish Smoke weren’t gone clear th’ hell back East. You have any idea this Early paid a call on the Sugarloaf?”
Rage of the Mountain Man Page 9
