The second flaw was Smoke Jensen. Determined to carry out their assigned task of eliminating the famous gunfighter, the three hard cases set out to locate more of their men. Three blocks from the warehouse, they came upon fifteen of O’Boyle’s bully-boys.
“Go on to Seventh Street,” O’Boyle commanded. He added a description of Smoke and Sally Jensen, and Seamas Quern contributed details on Oliver Johnson. “Seamas, you go back with them,” he added, much to Quern’s disappointment. “I want ye to make sure not a one of them leaves there alive,” O’Boyle concluded ominously.
Fifteen
While they made a hasty exit from the warehouse, Smoke Jensen introduced Sally to Oliver Johnson. He immediately became “Ollie” to her. They had only rounded the shoreward end of the building when sixteen burly longshoremen appeared inside the gate.
“There they are!” a voice shouted. “Let’s get ’em, boys.” Smoke Jensen made an immediate estimate of the situation. “Back to the warehouse. We’ll have a better chance there.”
Sally Jensen found she could not run fast enough to keep up with Ollie Johnson. Smoke slowed his pace to keep beside her. A bullet sped by them, well off target, followed by the crack of a small-caliber revolver.
“These easterners are the lousiest shots I’ve ever seen,” Smoke observed to Oliver.
“Not much opportunity for practice in the big cities,” the reporter informed Smoke.
“I can see that,” Smoke agreed, as they banged through a narrow doorway. “But I’d think they could go out in the country and improve their skill.”
“Most of that bunch would be lost a mile away from the Charles River. Besides, do you seriously want them to be better marksmen?”
Smoke laughed. “You have me there.”
He called for a stop to check the loads in their weapons. Smoke had retrieved his primary .45 and reloaded before they set off. Now he tended to the iron in its cross-draw rig. Oliver Johnson frowned as he groped in a pocket for loose cartridges.
“Damn, I didn’t count on a protracted gunfight,” the Boston Herald staffer complained to himself.
“Does that thing chamber thirty-eight Long Colt, Ollie?” Sally asked sweetly. “I have half a box in my purse.”
Ollie gave her a startled look in the twilight dimness of the warehouse. “No, damn it. It’s a Smith.” He groped again in his coat pocket. “I have enough rounds for two reloads, Smoke,” he announced.
“I’m not much better off. I’m glad you have your Lightning along, Sal. How is it they didn’t take it off you?”
“Never knew I had it. They might be a pack of hardened criminals, but being easterners, they wouldn’t think of a lady carrying a gun.”
Oliver Johnson gaped openly at Sally Jensen: A loud banging and muffled curses announced the arrival of the fresh pack of thugs at the door. Smoke had had the presence of mind to slide the bar before they’d delved into the darkness of the warehouse.
“That won’t hold them long,” Smoke announced. “I suggest we find places among these stacks of cargo and make them come to us. Sally, dear, it might be better if you took up a place above, on that catwalk.”
“Think I’ve forgotten how to hit what I shoot at?” she asked testily.
“No, damn it, I only want you out of the way of any danger.”
Sally produced a hint of a pout. “I’ve handled worse bastards than this pack,” she snapped.
“You’re our back-up, all right?” Smoke barked back at her.
She scurried off to the cast-iron stairway at the other side of the building. Oliver Johnson found a convenient hiding place atop a mound of tarpaulin-covered machine parts. Smoke Jensen surveyed the positions, made careful note of where Sally hunkered down behind a concealing plank on the catwalk, then faded into the mounds of unidentified items.
With a bang, the door slammed open. Five men spilled inside. Another quintet followed, while the remaining longshoremen spread out to secure all exits. The first set moved directly to the center of the warehouse. Their voices echoed in the high-ceilinged structure as they gave directions to the others.
“Someone check the office.” Sally recognized the voice of Seamas Quern.
“Make sure you cover every way out of here.”
“Spread out and start looking down the aisles.”
“How are we supposed to see?”
“There’s light enough. Your eyes will get used to it in a little while.”
“Maybe you will, but I don’t thi—unnng!” A meaty smack preceded the abrupt end of his remarks.
“What the hell?” Quern blurted. “Where are you, Joe? Are you all right?”
Not by a long shot, Oliver Johnson thought, as he hefted the long, wooden leverage handle of a chain come-along. Silently he moved to the far side of the pallet and peered into the gloom for another target. One appeared, two aisles over, only to suddenly disappear as a big, brawny arm whipped out and yanked the uneasy stevedore off his feet. A soft thud, of revolver barrel meeting skull, followed. Johnson grinned tightly. Smoke Jensen was adding to the score.
“Nobody in the office,” a distant voice advised. Then, a second later, “There’s one of them.”
A knife swished through the air and made a musical hum when it stuck in a wooden crate three inches from the throat of Smoke Jensen. The front of the office washed yellow-white in muzzle bloom and the slug from Smoke’s Colt drilled a hold dead-center in the knife-thrower’s chest. He catapulted backward and crashed through the glass of the office window, dead before he hit the floor.
Low-light vision had not returned to the eyes of Oliver Johnson when two longshoremen rushed to the place where their companion had had a fatal encounter with Smoke Jensen. Smoke saw them, though, and moved in on cat feet. Both dockyard thugs leaned inside the cubicle to stare at their dead friend. Smoke bent low and snatched the ankles of one, then heaved and dumped him on his head in the office.
“Wha’ th’ . . .” jolted from the other a moment before Smoke Jensen’s big left fist connected under the hinge of his jaw and sent him spilling into darkness.
His partner had recovered enough to come to his knees. He swung a vicious blow with a cargo hook that swished past the point of Smoke’s shoulder and buried the tip in the wooden partition to the office. Smoke made a backhand swing with his Colt and caught his assailant in the temple. Bone made a crackling sound and the man uttered a breathy gurgle before he fell over backward. That made three more down. Smoke moved off into the darkness. He well knew he would have to hunt for the others.
Brian Galagher could be considered one of the brighter of O’Boyle’s gang of wharf rats. After he had regained consciousness outside the warehouse, he had crawled away to find more of his brothers in crime. He soon found six of them and informed them of how their ambush had been turned into a trap by Smoke Jensen. They, in turn, had been pressed into returning by Sean O’Boyle and Connor O’Fallon. Now, separated from the commanding presence of O’Boyle, Brian let his brains dictate his actions.
“I got me somethin’ figured out,” he advised the two thugs with him. “We can see everything a whole lot better from up there.” Galagher pointed to the catwalk.
“Jeez, yer right, Brian,” a not-too-savvy dock walloper whispered back.
“What say we go up there and have a look around?” Brian Galagher winced as Smoke Jensen blasted the knife-throwing longshoreman into eternity. “Might be we’d stand a better chance of staying out of the line of fire, too,” he opined.
“What if one of them is up there?” the timid dolt asked.
“Don’t think they had time. What’s to worry about? There’s just two men and a girl.”
“Two men who kicked shit out of a dozen of our boys,” his nervous companion reminded Brian.
Brian grabbed the reluctant one’s shirtfront and jerked him close. “I’m one of those they kicked the shit out of, remember?” he hissed. “And I’m not afraid of them. Come with me.”
Galagher started up the wood
en treads of the iron staircase. Hesitantly, the others followed. At the top, Galagher turned to his left and skirted along the catwalk. Behind him, the others did likewise. He had only turned the corner at the far end when he came upon a delicious bonus. The young woman brought to the warehouse as a captive sat near the barrier and peered over one thick plank.
“Well, look what we have here,” Brian Galagher smirked aloud. For all his higher intelligence, Galagher had one terrible flaw. The sight of a helpless woman completely at his mercy caused him to abandon reason and be led by his gonads. Now he approached Sally Jensen, one hand groping at his crotch in what he considered a suggestive manner. “You have something for me, pretty thing?”
“I sure do,” Sally answered sweetly, and drilled him through the heart with a smooth draw and pull-through of her double-action .38 Colt Lightning.
“Jesus! Oh, God, she’s got a gun!” the uneasy thug bleated, as he beat a hasty retreat.
Although stunned, the remaining hard case noted an omission on the part of the gun-wielding woman. When she swung the muzzle toward him, he advanced on her, sneering. “You forgot to cock it, sweetie. And I’m gonna take it away from you before you can.”
Sally squeezed through the double-action trigger and shot him in the kneecap. “I don’t need to. It’s double-action, asshole.”
Her victim didn’t hear her reply; he lay, hunched up and howling, on the grid flooring of the catwalk. Would these vermin ever learn to take them seriously? Sally wondered. Then she thought of the effect this incident could have on Smoke. She would have to sacrifice safety to reassure him, and she quickly abandoned caution.
“It’s all right, Smoke. I shot two, one ran away,” she called out, then swiftly moved a long distance from where she had fired her weapon.
This was all going to hell right before his eyes. Connor O’Fallon cut his eyes to Seamas Quern. What the hell, they’d both taken a drubbing from this Smoke Jensen. He could see no good reason for being killed by the big, hard-faced gunfighter. Quern seemed to read his thoughts. He flashed a nervous grin. Quern replied and jerked his head in the direction of the door through which they had entered. Grinning broadly now, Connor O’Fallon nodded in assent.
Both started toward their agreed goal when a high shriek, which cut off in a hair-raising gurgle, froze them in place.
“What the hell?” O’Fallon asked rhetorically.
“They got another of the boys,” Quern suggested.
“Aw, shit. Let’s get out of here.”
“I sort of figured we were about to do that, I did,” Quern answered.
“What about the rest?”
“Best let them know what we have in mind, Connor.”
“Aye, Seamas. Though it’s not in me blood to tuck me tail and run.”
Two flashes and sharp reports punctuated Seamas Quern’s timely reply. “Ye’ve a strong desire to wait for that to come get yer?”
Connor O’Fallon rose and called to his men, “All right, boys, we’re pullin’ out. We’re leavin’, ye hear, Mr. Smoke Jensen? Don’t be for shootin’ us in the back, don’t ye,” he urged, as the search broke off in fits and starts.
With shuffling shoes, the longshoremen began to withdraw to the safety of the out of doors. O’Fallon had nearly reached the doorway when a deep voice set the air to ringing.
“What says you won’t lie for us outside?”
Exasperation colored O’Fallon’s words. “Devil take ye, man. We’ve had enough taste of yer sneakin’ Injun ways, we have. We’ll not be doin’ ye any more harm.”
“Besides,” Seamas Quern whispered up close to Connor O’Fallon’s ear, “we can get at them some other time. Like out West, eh?”
Not entirely convinced of the truthfulness of the one he had heard called Seamas, Smoke Jensen and Oliver Johnson made a thorough search of the warehouse floor before relaxing their guard. They came together at the foot of the catwalk stairs. Smoke glanced upward.
“They’re gone, Sal. Come on down,” he called out.
Three minutes later, Sally Jensen joined them. “Why did they leave?” she asked with sincerity.
Smoke considered that a moment, and noted the signs of strain etched into her face. “They must have decided they were outnumbered,” he remarked dryly.
Oliver Johnson began to laugh first, joined quickly by Smoke as a titter welled up to Sally’s full, sensuous lips. She had never looked better to Smoke. All of the reasons why he loved her came forth during their moment of gratifying release. When their merriment dwindled, Sally looked worriedly toward her husband.
“Do you think it’s safe to go outside?” she asked.
“We’ll give it a while,” Smoke suggested. “Now, tell me everything that happened since I saw you last at breakfast.”
Quickly, Sally related her day. She could see how the account of her abduction angered Smoke. She went on, giving as much detail as possible about her ride through Boston to the dockyards. For all the lack of adequate light, Smoke noticed with amusement, Oliver Johnson made copi
ous notes on his small pad. When she concluded, Smoke commented on the reporter’s dedication.
“You have visions of filling the front page, I take it?” Shadow concealed Johnson’s blush of pride. “That I do. I already have the headline drafted. ‘SMOKE JENSEN FOILS KIDNAPPING GANG, HERALD REPORTER WITNESS TO DERRING-DO.’ How’s that?”
Smoke chuckled. “You journalists are all alike. Even those with enough sand to fight with more than a pen.” “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Oliver said lightly. “Smoke, I’ve been thinking,” Sally interrupted.
“What’s that?”
“I told you' about the one called Sean and his friend, Connor, getting drunk and talking about Phineas Lathrop and his relationship to Rex Davidson. Sean also said Lathrop was on his way to New York to round up thirty or more hoodlums to take west with him. Are you going to go after him?”
It took no time at all for Smoke Jensen to make up his mind. “Looks like the lecture tour has to be cut short. I’ll take the first train tomorrow for New York.”
“I’m going with you,” Sally announced.
“No, you’re not,” Smoke stated flatly. “You’ll go on back to Keene with your father and brothers.”
“Smoke!” Sally exclaimed, exasperated.
“No argument. I’m going after Lathrop and his partners. That’s what’s important. I don’t want to be worried about your safety, or to have to rescue you from kidnappers again. I mean it, Sal. You’re to go back to New Hampshire.” “What if you can’t find them in New York?” she tried another ploy.
“Then I’ll be headed after them until I do catch up.” Sally’s stubborn streak exerted itself. “The Sugarloaf is my home, too. I’ll not be left behind if you head off for the High Lonesome.”
Smoke weighed that a moment. “No, of course you won’t. You’ll have to join me in New York or take the private car on the next train out.”
“It would be easier if I came along from the start.”
“No, Sally.”
Familiar with Smoke’s bullheadedness, Sally had to admit to herself that he was determined. “All right, Smoke. I’ll do it that way,” she resigned herself, though she was unwilling to admit it would be his way.
“You can’t keep me from going,” Oliver Johnson stated.
“Still hungry for a story?” Smoke asked him, as the trio started for the door nearest to the street end of the warehouse.
“Well, yes, that, too. But the fighting has been sort of exciting so far. I’d like to get another taste, if possible.”
“Reporters,” Smoke Jensen summed up with a snort.
On his first visit to New York City, Smoke Jensen had been fascinated by Central Park. Up until the War Between the States, sheep had grazed here, he had been told. It had been “improved” with the addition of benches, a bandshell, seats around a large pond where ice skaters gathered in winter, and gravel paths laid out. Fashionable houses had been erected on t
he streets facing the park and oil streetlamps placed along the pathways. A riding stable and its attendant school had been under construction when Smoke had come to the park on that trip.
On the train down from Boston, Oliver Johnson had informed Smoke Jensen that the Central Park Riding Academy had become quite popular. Smoke could not imagine why riding had become so fashionable, even though many of the horses he bred had been sold to the East. From what he recalled, walking provided the most common means of going from one place to another. Public transportation, in the form of horse-drawn trollies and the newly formed Electric Railway System, took care of most of the rest.
Smoke dismissed contemplation of this aspect of the mysterious East and concentrated on their main purpose in coming to the big city. When they arrived in Grand Central Station, the first destination was the files of the New York Ledger, one of the leading dailies. There, they found vague references in the financial section to the offices of Middleton and Asher, but no references to Phineas Lathrop.
Not unexpectedly, when they located the office complex, on the fifth floor of a marble-faced building on Wall Street, Smoke and Oliver found the premises closed and apparently vacated.
“What now?” Oliver asked.
“I can track a man across bare rock, if I have to,” Smoke admitted. “But I don’t know the first damned thing about finding someone in a town this size.”
With an expression that asked for eager compliance, Oliver suggested, “The thing to do is find a nearby saloon, a gentlemen’s bar, as a matter of fact. We can put out the word and see what we learn.”
Smoke gave him a warm smile. “By damn, that’s exactly what I’d do in any western town. Go to a saloon and let it be known who I wanted to find. Don’t seem things are all that different, anyhow.”
After a visit to a third gentlemen’s bar, with an obligatory drink in each, Smoke called a halt to their inquiries for the day. “Now we let the word get around. By tomorrow we should hear something.”
Rage of the Mountain Man Page 15
