“Where to now?” Oliver asked, longing for another shot of rye and a beer at yet a fourth spirits emporium.
“How about Central Park? I must have sold fifty horses to the riding school there. I’d sort of like to see what’s been done with them.”
Oliver Johnson readily agreed and suggested they take the horse trolley north on Broadway and Park Avenue to 106th Street and walk the two blocks to the entrance nearest the stables. Smoke considered that a good idea, particularly since they were at about the southernmost tip of Manhattan Island, with Central Park more than a hundred blocks north. On the trip, Smoke soon discovered that little had changed since his first visit. And that reminded him of why he had such an immense dislike for easterners.
Bony and droop-headed, the nag that pulled the wheeled conveyance along its street-level tracks showed signs of maltreatment along with extreme age and exhaustion. A small, hot coal of anger grew in Smoke’s middle while the driver shouted and liberally applied the lash to the tired beast. Smoke’s anger had almost burst into flame by the time they reached the 106th Street stop.
His fury fanned into full blaze the moment they entered the compound around the stables and riding school. A small man with a cruel, narrow face struck furiously at a handsome bay with a riding crop that sported an excessively long leather lash.
“You’ll not try to bite me again, you miserable, stupid animal,” his high, thin, porcine voice raged.
Clearly visible in the white blaze on the forehead of the horse were dark lines of other, recently healed wounds. Smoke Jensen’s face darkened and he started forward, his outrage over such blatant abuse fueling the anger he already felt. His slate-gray eyes had turned to Arctic ice. Belatedly, Oliver Johnson realized that the life of the man abusing his horse now hung by a very narrow thread.
Sixteen
Blood had welled up in a deep cut by the time Smoke Jensen reached the disagreeable little man. As Smoke closed on him, he raised the crop for another slash.
. “Yes, I’ll show you, you miserable beast.”
In the next instant, thick, powerful fingers closed in iron bands around the wrist behind the upraised hand. “No, you won’t,” Smoke Jensen growled close in the ear of the furious horse owner.
Increasing pressure turned the hand cherry red. Its owner yelped and directed his fury against the big man who had interfered. “Get your hands off me!” he bleated, although he had intended it to come out an angry roar.
Darker red, now, the hand began to swell and throb. “It’s only one hand. If I’d wanted to use two, it would be to break your goddamned neck.”
Purple now, the captive appendage opened and released the quirt. Frantic with pain and fear, the man screeched through his misery, “Help! Someone help me! Anderson, Norton, come here at once!”
Aware the riding crop no longer represented a danger, Smoke Jensen spun the little man around and gave him a solid backhand slap with his huge left paw. “Don’t ever hurt that animal again,” Smoke said with deadly finality.
He gave the helpless man a hard shove that sent him sprawling into a high pile of used straw and fresh horse manure. Then Smoke turned and walked away as though nothing at all had happened.
In the small office of the academy, Smoke met the man who had so far been only a name on a letter. He seemed genuinely pleased to meet Smoke Jensen and they talked of the horses purchased over the years. Some had been sold outright to wealthy clients, as gifts for wives or children. Others still walked the tree-lined trails of the park. A few, who had grown older, had been sold to the New York Transit System.
That last rankled, when Smoke thought of the savage treatment rendered to the draft animals he had seen so far. What the manager told him next averted any outburst.
“There’s one I keep back. He’s reserved for some special, very skilled riders. Sort of an outlaw.”
“I never sell outlaws,” Smoke contradicted.
Looking embarrassed, the manager spoke with his eyes averted. “He became one, though. Really, it might be said it was in part my fault. I allowed our Mr. Armbrewster to take him out several days in a row. That was before Mr. Armbrewster purchased a horse of his own. I’m afraid Mr. Armbrewster maltreated the animal. We never knew until we had a chance to observe how he dealt with his personal mount. Then it became clear.”
“This Armbrewster,” Smoke began, after several moments’ thought. “Is he short, with a pinched-up face and a horse’s ass attitude?”
Oliver Johnson, who stood at Smoke Jensen’s side, chuckled.
“That—ah—describes him fairly well. Why do you ask?” “I’ve met him. Only a short while ago.”
“Oh? Under what circumstances, Mr. Jensen?”
“He was beating his horse. I rearranged his outlook on the considerate treatment of animals. You shouldn’t have any more complaints about how he cares for his mount. If he backslides, though, just mention my name to him.”
“I—ah—see. And . . . thank you from everyone at the academy.”
“You're welcome,” Smoke responded. “Now, I think I’d like to have your outlaw saddled. If I’m here a few days, maybe I can turn him around for you.”
“That’s most generous of you, Mr. Jensen. I appreciate it, you can be sure. I’ll see that he’s brought up at once.”
Out on the bridle path some twenty minutes later, Oliver Johnson found out what all first-timers learned about riding horseback. His thighs started to ache, and he strongly believed he had endured irreversible damage to his crotch. He endured it, though, in order to point out the ambitious building projects, endowed by such wealthy men as Grandville Dodge and the grandson of John Jacob Astor.
“Astor got rich on the fur trade, as I’m sure you know,” Oliver pointed out.
“He was rich before he started the American Fur Company,” Smoke responded. “Though from what people say back here, he was generous with what he had.”
Three men blocked the path ahead. Two of them moved aside as Smoke and Ollie approached, and muttered polite greetings. The third, a stout, heavily muscled individual with a shock of coarse, black hair, did a double-take, his face tightening as Smoke rode past.
Ollie Johnson started also and then put a blank mask on his face. Once beyond the trio, he spoke softly to Smoke. “Believe me, I’m not imagining things. We just rode past Phineas Lathrop and Victor Middleton. The one with them who looks like a stevedore, is one. That’s Sean O’Boyle, the cause of your recent troubles.”
“B’God, let’s go get them,” Smoke exploded.
“They’re bound to have more.men close by,” Johnson cautioned. “Just because they’re dressed in fancy riding habits doesn’t mean Lathrop and Middleton are any less thugs than O’Boyle.” He looked around uncomfortably. “It’s too isolated here.”
Smoke smiled at that. “Which makes me like it all the more. I mean to get them off my back for good and all.”
With that, Smoke Jensen wheeled his horse and gigged it to a trot. Certain of the foil}' of this course, Oliver Johnson hurried to catch up. When he joined Smoke, his face mirrored his misery.
“I—I didn’t bring my gun along,” Oliver admitted.
“I have a spare,” Smoke informed him, and handed over the .45 Colt he carried high on the left side.
When they rounded a curve in the sylvan trail Smoke discovered that their quarry had disappeared. He sprinted ahead to a break in the trees that lined the bridle path. There he paused only a second while he took in the broad backs of the men he sought as they fogged across the grassy meadow that sloped down toward the large man-made lake.
“They recognized me, that’s for sure,” he declared, a moment before an agitated shout came from the trail behind them.
“Damn! That’s Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke shot them a quick glance and saw four men in the process of trying to mount horses with which they were definitely unfamiliar. He touched blunt spurs to his fractious mount and sped off after Lathrop and the others, ignoring the
threat from behind. Oliver Johnson joined him.
It took the better part of two minutes for Johnson’s slower mount to close up on Smoke’s frisky stallion. Picnickers on the meadow scattered as the horses ridden by Lathrop, Middleton, and O’Boyle bore down on them. They shouted their indignation and shook angry fists as Smoke and Oliver followed. Unfamiliar with the terrain, Smoke was unable to anticipate the destination of the fleeing partners in crime so as to cut them off. He and Oliver came within shooting range, but caution whispered in Smoke’s mind that so far they had no justifiable reason to shoot anyone. At least, not as the New York police would see it.
Their quarry entered another clump of trees and faded from sight. Thirty yards separated them from Lathrop, and it proved to be their undoing. By the time Smoke Jensen entered the grove of ash, he found three chest-heaving horses and not a sign of the men they sought.
“Split up and we’ll circle these trees,” Smoke suggested to Oliver.
Conscious of the four men behind them, Smoke made a hurried search and had to concede that Lathrop and company had gotten cleanly away. He turned back to the inept horsemen who only now had reached the edge of the copse. One of the Boston hard cases saw him coming and made the mistake of pulling a small revolver from under his coat.
Smoke Jensen reacted with blinding speed. The big .45 Colt filled his hand in an eyeblink and bucked comfortably in response to his twitching trigger finger. Hot lead sped to the target and cleared the man from his saddle. Without regard for their comrade, the remaining three fled with all the speed they could muster from their rented horses.
Implacably, Smoke came after them. One of the longshoremen showed even less aptitude than his companions. He drummed heels into unresponsive flanks and shouted uselessly.
“Giddy-up! Giddy-up!”
His mount turned a big, doubt-filled brown eye to him and ambled at its chosen gait. Desperate now, the dockyard thug slapped an open palm on the animal’s rump. Ahead he could see his friends streaking away toward the safety of public streets. Behind he saw Smoke Jensen looming closer.
Riding western style, albeit in an English saddle, Smoke leaned forward and far to the right, one arm extended. He clubbed the laggard off the top of his mount, sped on past, and made a quick shout over his shoulder.
“Take care of that one, Ollie, I’ll get the others.”
Smoke Jensen swept past a woman who shook a parasol at the backs of the fleeing men and mouthed some of the foulest oaths Smoke had ever heard from a woman. And that included the madam of a certain bordello in Deadwood City, Dakota Territory. She increased the stridency and heat of her blast as Smoke flashed over the mound on which she stood, clots of dirt flying from the shod hooves of his laboring mount.
The strength of the animal impressed Smoke. Then he recalled that the stables had ordered a stallion in order to improve the bloodlines of their existing stock. Most riding academies preferred geldings or mares. For the moment, he was grateful for their desire to upgrade, particularly when the powerful horse brought him within two lengths of the men he chased by the time they reached the walking path that bordered the meadow.
Gauging the distance, Smoke freed his boots from the stirrups and launched himself at the trailing hard case. His widespread arms slammed into the ribcage of his target and snapped closed with enough force to drive the air from the thug’s lungs. When they hit the ground. Smoke heard the ribs under him crack.
A quick grasp of the situation encouraged the partner of the fallen man. He reined sharply, dismounted unsteadily, and lumbered toward the prone pair. New York sunlight glinted off the keen edge of the knife in his hand. At the last moment, he bent slightly, arm upraised to drive the blade into Smoke Jensen’s back, between the ribs, and into Smoke’s heart.
Sensing the danger, Smoke did a snap roll sideways and snaked the .45 Colt from his holster. Unable to check himself, the villain continued the plunge, to drive the fine tip of his knife into the chest of his friend. Smoke Jensen shot him a second later.
Smoke’s quick action saved the life of the longshoreman he had hurled off his horse. The impact of the big 240-grain bullet stayed the motion of the blade artist’s hand a moment, and reflex threw him backward in reaction to the intense pain. As the man fell, Smoke came to his feet with fluid motion.
Gasping, the man who had nearly been stabbed considered Smoke accusingly. “You broke my ribs. All of them, I think.”
“I also saved your life,” Smoke told him indifferently.
Oliver Johnson, who had dismounted, prodded his prisoner along as he approached. He sized up the situation in a moment. “Two for two, that’s not bad,” he said cheerfully. “Old Abner Doubleday would say you were batting five hundred.” Oliver lost his jocularity as he gazed at the prostrate men. “Some of O’Boyle’s union trash. What do we do now?”
“Return the horses and then pay another visit to the office of Victor Middleton.”
Their trip to Wall Street proved nearly as fruitless as the previous one. A stout, matronly woman who claimed the title of Office Manageress greeted Smoke Jensen and Oliver Johnson icily after Smoke’s intimidating size and harsh growl had frightened a male secretary into summoning the Valkyrie of the financial district.
“Mr. Middleton is not presently in and is not expected for some time,” her haughty tones informed them.
“I saw Mr. Middleton with a Mr. Lathrop less than two hours ago in Central Park,” Smoke Jensen pressed.
“Yes?” she countered with frigid rejection, not believing it.
“Indeed,” Oliver Johnson added. “Both of them, and five unsavory associates.”
His description of O’Boyle and company thawed her some, coinciding with hers as it did. “I do believe you are correct. There was some talk of acquainting a number of his lesser employees with the intricacies of horseback riding. For the life of me, I do not understand why they delayed so long. Both Mr. Middleton and Mr. Lathrop should already be boarding the train west.”
“Where in the West?” Smoke probed.
“I'm not at liberty to disclose such information,” came the newly frosted reply.
“You could reveal your knowledge to the police instead,” Smoke suggested.
“The . . . po—lice?” she stammered.
“Just so. Exactly where is Phineas Lathrop headed?” She studied the hard face and determined set of the jaw of Smoke Jensen and moderated her stand. “Who might you be, that I should tell you these things?”
“My name is Smoke Jensen.”
She paled. She had seen the name recently in the newspapers. Some sort of notorious shootist from out West. She had also heard mention of Smoke Jensen, though not the context, in conversations in Mr. Middleton’s private office. Could it be he might have some connection to the western enterprise of Mr. Middleton and Lathrop?
“Mr. Lathrop, Mr. Cabbott, and Mr. Middleton are taking the train to Denver, that’s in Colorado.”
“Yes, I know,” Smoke responded, with a twitch of amusement.
“They are taking along some thirty of, if I must say so, the most disreputable gentlemen from here in New York that I have ever seen. Another twenty like individuals, from Boston, I believe, are to learn to ride and follow on tomorrow’s train.”
“Thank you, you’ve been most helpful,” Smoke turned on the charm. Outside in the hall, he smacked a hard fist into an open palm. “Damn it! Sally said they had their sights on the Sugarloaf. Looks like she was right; they want to grab all of the High Lonesome. I have to get back there. But first, I need to let Sally know what is happening. I’d also like to know who else Lathrop is partnered with and dry up any help they might send.”
“That last part is easy,” Oliver Johnson assured him: “You take care of letting your wife know. I’ll go at it through some newspaper friends. The best way, I think, is to ask about Middleton’s connections.” their masthead and screaming headlines, the back covered by advertising. They hadn’t even gotten the facts correct. They identified
Smoke Jensen as “a Mr. Smoking Johnson, most likely a gentlemen from the colored section of town,” and stated that a dozen innocent bystanders had been trampled by horses.
By afternoon, the newspapers in New York City had gotten ahold of the police report on the chase and shootout in Central Park. The first to rush it into print, a tabloid called the New York Eagle, put out a single page, the front bearing
Smoke Jensen purchased a copy from a tough-faced ten-year-old who hawked the scandal sheet on a street corner. The purple prose and alarmist tone of the article left him unimpressed with the quality of journalism in the big city, and slightly uneasy over the “lock-your-windows-and-bar-ricade-the-doors” advice to readers. Out West, Smoke knew, the editorial slant would be more likely “If the sheriff can’t do anything about it, then maybe a vigilance committee is in order.” Smoke wasn’t certain which treatment bothered him more.
After an interesting hour with the police, from which he had extricated himself and Oliver Johnson by showing the precinct captain his U.S. Marshal’s badge, Smoke and the journalist paid their call on Lathrop’s office, and then Smoke wired Sally regarding the need for a speedy return to the High Lonesome. Again he urged her to remain with her parents.
An efficient and well-maintained telegraph system brought Sally’s reply by early evening. She and the D & R G private car would arrive late the next day at Grand Central Station. She spent the extra money to add her clincher to the argument she anticipated from Smoke. There was no reason, she said, for him to suffer in an uncomfortable chair car or Pullman that would get him there no sooner. Which left Smoke Jensen with nothing to do but wait, and fume at his wife’s stubbornness.
Seventeen
Over breakfast, Smoke Jensen glowered at the bold, black headlines of the New York Sun. “CRAZED FRONTIERSMAN LOOSE IN CENTRAL PARK,” it declared.
At least the Sun had done some research and had his name right. The article went on to decry how “the notorious Smoke Jensen, gunfighter and mountain man, went on a rampage in Boston, ruthlessly murdering innocent dock workers and leaving a trail of widows and orphans behind. Only yesterday,” it continued, “Smoke Jensen raised havoc in Central Park. Two men were left dead, and four more seriously injured. What the Sun does not understand is why the police questioned and then released this dangerous hired killer.”
Rage of the Mountain Man Page 16
