The thug turned nasty. “Put me down or I’ll blow a hole clear through you.”
If only to better get to his six-gun, Smoke set the man on his feet again. At once, the ruffian, a head shorter than Smoke Jensen, shot out a hand and pushed Smoke in the chest. Smoke popped him back, then two more of the evic-tors jumped him.
Smoke planted an elbow in the gut of one and rolled a shoulder in the way of the other so that he punched his boss instead of Smoke. He took in the remaining three standing in place on the bottom step, staring. That wouldn’t last long, Smoke rightly assumed. Time to give them something to worry about.
Smoke Jensen spun to his left and drove a hard, straight right to the chest of the bruiser who kept punching him. He followed with a left, then swung his right arm in a wide arc to sweep the smaller man on that side off his feet. By then, their leader had recovered himself enough to return to the scuffle. He lowered his head and came at Smoke with a roar.
Roaring back, Smoke met him with a kick to one knee. Something made a loud pop and the thug howled in pain and abruptly sat down. Smoke returned his attention to the last upright opponent. He moved in obliquely, confusing the brawler as to his intent. The man learned quickly enough what Smoke had in mind when big, powerful hands closed into fists thudded into his chest and gut. Wind whistled out of his lungs and black spots danced before his eyes. Wobble-legged, he tried to defend himself, only to be driven to his knees. Smoke finished him with a smash to the top of his bowed head. The other three, Smoke noted, had been suitably impressed.
They remained where they had been, eyes wide and mouths agape. Not so their leader. Unwilling to face that barrage of fists again, he decided to up the ante. A big, wicked knife appeared in his hand from under his coat. Sunlight struck gold off the keen edge as he forced himself upright, wincing at the pain in his leg. He took a wild swipe at Smoke Jensen, expecting to see his intended victim back up in fright.
Smoke obliged him instead with a swift draw of his .45 Peacemaker and quick discharge of a cartridge. The bullet shattered the thug’s right shoulder joint.
“D’ja see that?” one of the less belligerent ones croaked. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Help me, you idiots!” their wounded leader bellowed. “Get me away from here.”
They moved with alacrity, eyes fixed on the menace of the six-gun in Smoke’s hand. Ignoring the continued yelps of discomfort, they dragged their leader away. With order restored, Smoke Jensen reholstered his revolver and tipped his hat to the soiled doves in the carriage.
“I apologize for the unpleasantness, ladies,” he told them politely.
“Quite all right,” Lucy replied. “I enjoy seeing scum like that get their come-uppance. We’ll lead the way to Lawyer Pullen’s office.”
* * *
Brian Pullen had his office over the Bank of Commerce on Republic Street. Smoke Jensen was able to tie up at a public water trough, which Thunder appreciated. The ladies had to place their oversized vehicle in a lot next door to the bank. Smoke walked there and escorted them to the outside staircase that led to the lawyer’s office. The sight of all those painted ladies turned more than a few heads.
Rising from behind a cluttered desk, Brian Pullen extended a hand in greeting. “You must be Mr. Jensen. Lucy—uh—ladies, I’ll send my law clerk for more chairs. Please, make yourselves at home.”
The lawyer turned out to be younger than Smoke had expected. His well-made and stylishly cut suit showed his prosperity without being ostentatious. Pullen wore his sandy-blond hair in a part down the middle. Not one to make snap judgments, Smoke Jensen found himself liking the youthful attorney. Chairs began to arrive and with a twitter of feminine voices the soiled doves seated themselves.
Smoke noted that Pullen had mild gray-green eyes, which he imagined could become glacial when arguing before a jury, against a prosecutor in defense of a client. He spoke precisely, addressing them in an off-hand manner.
“There is another gentleman expected, though he appears to be late. We’ll give him until one o’clock.”
They passed the time in small talk. Pullen made an effort to draw Smoke out about his circumstances. “I understand you are in ranching?”
“Horse breeding. I have a good, strong line of quarter horses and another of ’Palouse horses.”
“Weren’t they first bred by Indians?”
“Yes, Mr. Pullen. The Nez Perce,” Smoke answered precisely.
“Please, call me Brian. I’m not old enough to be Mister Pullen. You are in Montana, or Colorado, is it?”
“Colorado, Brian,” Smoke replied.
Pullen frowned and checked his big turnip watch. These short answers weren’t getting him anywhere. If only the other man would arrive so they could get on with the reading of the will. He’d give it one more try.
“You’ve been a lawman, is that right?”
“Yes. Off and on.”
“On the frontier?”
“Of course.”
Brian sighed. “I suppose you have some exciting tales to tell.”
“Nothin’ much to tell. At least, not in mixed company. Blood and violence tends to upset the ladies.” Smoke gave Lucy a mischievous wink.
Another look at the watch. “Well, it’s the witching hour, you might say. I don’t believe we can delay any longer. Very well, then, let’s proceed. We are here for the reading of the last will and testament of Frances Delong. As her attorney, I am well aware of the contents, and feel she exercised excellent judgment in the disposal of her estate.”
He paused and opened a folded document. From a vest pocket, he produced a pair of half-glasses and perched them on his generous patrician nose. Then he began to read in a formal tone. “‘I, Frances Delong, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath all my worldly possessions as follows: to my dear friends at the San Francisco Home for Abandoned Cats, the sum of one thousand dollars. To my faithful employees,’”—here, Brian Pullen read off the names—“‘I leave the sum of five hundred dollars each. To my ever faithful assistant, Lucy Glover, I leave in perpetuity the revenue from the saloon bar at my establishment. All my other property, liquid assets, and worldly goods I leave to the man who once saved my life, Kirby Jensen.’ This was dated and signed six months ago,” Brian added.
Smoke had always hated his first name and had not used it except under the utmost necessity for many years, so the shocking import of what the lawyer read did not strike him at once—not until the door opened and a jocular voice advised him, “What do you think of being the proprietor of the most elaborate sporting house in San Francisco, mon ami?”
Just as he had expected. Louis Longmont, his old friend and fellow gunfighter, stood in the doorframe with a broad grin on his face. Smoke came to his boots quickly and crossed the short space. Both men gave one another a backslapping embrace.
“I thought it was you who sent me that mysterious message. Now, tell me about it.”
“I will, mon ami, but not here or now. We need some place to be alone for what I have to say.”
* * *
Sally Jensen stood over the boy seated at the kitchen table. Bobby had his face turned up to hers, though he would not meet her eyes. Not ten minutes ago Sally had caught the twelve-year-old behind the big hay barn, a handmade quirley in his lips, head wreathed in white tobacco smoke. Now, rather than the hangdog expression of shame, his face registered defiance. His explanation of the smoking incident had shocked and angered her.
“Buck made it for me. Jason said I was big enough to take up smokin’.”
She hadn’t liked the looks of them when they’d first arrived, and she hadn’t grown any fonder of them since. This was just about the last straw.
This morning, they had both remained in the bunkhouse, claiming sickness, when the hands had ridden out to check the prize horses on graze in the west pasture. Not long ago they had come out and moseyed around the barnyard. Bobby, who had been laid up with his bunged-up toe since three days ago, had joined the
m. The three of them had gone around behind the barn.
Sally, at work at the kitchen sink, had kept an eye on the barn, wondering what they might be doing. When enough time had passed to arouse her suspicions, she wiped her hands on her apron and walked out to check on them. She had found Bobby alone, smoking a cigarette. She descended on him in a rush and snatched the weed from his mouth. Crushing it with a slender boot toe, she had demanded to know what he thought he was doing. His explanation only increased her pique.
“Well, Buck Jarvis and Jason Rucker are neither your mother nor your father. Smoke would have a fit if he knew what you’ve done. Come with me to the kitchen.”
Seated now, with Sally over him, Bobby said, “Does it mean you are not going to tell Smoke? You know? What you said? That he would have a fit if he knew what I had done?”
“I’m disappointed in you, Bobby. I don’t know now if I will tell Smoke or not. But you are staying inside for the rest of the day, young man.”
“Awh, Miss Sal—Mom, I feel okay now. No more sore toe. Please let me eat with the hands. It’s goin’ on noon anyhow.”
Sally considered it. “All right. But you stay away from Buck and Jason, hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You may go to your room now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Feet dragging, Bobby headed for the staircase that led to the second-floor bedrooms.
Although he ordinarily slept in the bunkhouse with the hands, since the arrival of Buck and Jason, Sally had insisted that Bobby return to his room in the main house. Something about them made her mighty uncomfortable.
She had good reason to recall that when the hands arrived at noon, Buck and Jason joined them. The two drifters stuffed themselves, then begged off work on the pretext that they still ailed a mite. After the hands rode off and Bobby came back inside, they lounged around on a bench outside the bunkhouse. When she went outside to hang up a small wash, they gave her decidedly lascivious looks.
Aware of that, Sally thought to herself it was a good thing she was not entirely alone.
* * *
Dinner for Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont was at the Chez Paris on the waterfront, near the huge pier that people were already calling Fishermen’s Wharf. The fancy eating place catered to San Francisco’s wealthy and near-wealthy. White linen cloths covered the tables, their snowy expanse covered with matching napkins in silver rings, heavy silverware, and tall, sparkling candleholders, complete with chalky candles. Thick maroon velvet drapes framed the tall windows, each foot-square pane sparkling from frequent cleaning. Paintings adorned the walls, along with sconces with more tapers flickering in the current sent up by scurrying waiters.
The staff wore black trousers and short white jackets over brilliant lace-fronted shirts and obsidian bow ties. The maitre d’ was formally attired in tails. He led Smoke and the New Orleans gunfighter to a table in an alcove. Seated, they ordered good rye. While it was being fetched, Louis perused the menu.
“I’ll order for us both, if you don’t mind, Smoke,” he offered with a fleeting smile. The menu was in French.
Smoke took a glance and smiled back. “Yes, that would be fine.”
When the waiter returned with their drinks on a silver tray, Louis was ready to order. “We’ll start with the escargots. Then . . .” He went on to order a regular feast. He added appropriate wines for each course and sat back to enjoy his whiskey.
After an appreciative sip, he inclined his long, slim torso toward Smoke, seated across from him. “You are no doubt wondering why I so summarily summoned you here, non?”
Smoke pulled a droll expression. “I will admit to some curiosity.”
Louis pursed his lips and launched into his explanation. “Francie was still alive when I sent that letter. It is not about her rather—unusual—demise. Something is afoot among the big power brokers of Northern and Central California. There are rumors of a secret cabal recently formed that includes Cyrus Murchison, the railroad mogul, Titus Hobson, the mining magnate, and Gaylord Huntley, the shipping king.”
“Hummm. That’s some big guns, right enough. Murchison is the biggest fish, of course. Even in Colorado we have read of his doings in the newspapers.”
“Well, yes. Word is that they are out to establish a monopoly on all transportation and gold mining. But, that’s not all, mon ami. Phase two of their scheme, I have learned since coming to San Francisco, is to then go after title to all of the land in private hands.
“They will strangle out all the small farmers and shop owners with outrageous shipping rates by rail, water, or freighting company.” Louis paused and nodded sagely. “Part of it, too, is to take control of all forms of entertainment: theaters, saloons, and bordellos.”
“Not too unusual for captains of commerce,” Smoke observed dryly. “A bit ambitious, but I’d wager any group of powerful men might seek to eliminate competition.”
“Quite true,” Louis agreed. “Yet this is no ordinary power play. The cabal is supposed to have made an unholy alliance, which has prompted me to seek your help. Murchison and company are believed to have made an accommodation with the dreaded Triad Society.” At Smoke’s quizzical expression, he explained, “The Tongs of Chinatown.”
Smoke raised an eyebrow and his eyes widened. A certain darkness colored his gray gaze. “Of course I’ll help, Louis. I think I’ve already had an encounter with some of the cabal’s henchmen.” He went on to describe the incident at Francie’s.
Louis listened with interest and nodded frequently. “That sounds like their methods, all right. Must be the railroad police.”
“Are you staying at Francie’s?” Smoke asked, as the waiter arrived with their succulent, garlicky-smelling snails. Smoke took one look and made a face.
“Try them. You’ll like them.”
“I don’t eat anything that crawls on its belly and leaves a trail of slime behind.”
“Smoke, my friend, you must become more worldly. Escargots are a delicacy.”
“Sally squashes them when they show up in her garden.”
“These are raised on clean sand and fed only the best lettuce and other vegetable tops.”
“They are still snails.”
“Suit yourself,” Louis said, as he picked up the tongs and fastened them onto one of the green-brown shells.
With a tiny silver fork he plucked the mollusk from its shelter and smacked his lips in appreciation. His hazel eyes twinkled in anticipation as he popped the snail onto his tongue. His eyes closed as he chewed on it thoughtfully. Smoke made a face and sipped from the glass of sherry the waiter had poured. Not bad. The aroma of the escargots reached his nostrils and they flared. His stomach rumbled. He had not eaten since the depot cafe that morning, he recalled. Tentatively, he reached for the tongs and clamped them on a snail shell.
“Aha! You have joined the sophisticates. Enjoy. Now, in answer to your question, no. I am staying at Ralston’s Palace.”
“I haven’t taken a room. But I think one of us should stay at Francie’s. The trash that showed up might come back.”
“Since you own it now, it sounds reasonable to me that it is you who stays there, mon ami. I’ll meet you there in the morning.”
“Make it early. The way I see it, we have a lot to accomplish.”
* * *
When they had finished the lemon gelato, Louis Longmont offered to accompany Smoke Jensen back to the bordello. Smoke gladly accepted; he enjoyed the company of his friend. Their route took them past the pagoda gateway that marked the entrance to Chinatown. Beyond it, a dark alley mouth loomed. They had barely passed it when the men in black pajama-like clothes attacked.
Tong hatchets whirred in the moonlight, striking a myriad of colors from the cheerful lanterns bobbing in the light onshore breeze behind Smoke and Louis. Both gunfighters had been walking their horses and now mounted swiftly. A man on horseback had it all over one afoot. With eight Oriental thugs rushing at them, it became even more critical.
In t
he lead, one snarling, flat-faced Tong soldier swelled rapidly. Smoke reared Thunder and prodded with a single spur in a trained command. The black cap flew one way and the cue flung backward as Thunder flicked out a hoof and flattened the Tong face. Then the others swarmed down on Smoke and Louis.
5
The Chinese gangsters soon discovered that their Tong hatchets might well strike terror into the merchants of Chinatown, but they proved no match for blazing six-guns in the hands of the two best gunfighters in the West. Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont opened up simultaneously with their .45 Colts. Hot lead zipped through the air. Louis’s first round rang noisily off the blade of a hatchet descending on the head of his horse.
Its owner howled in pain and dropped the weapon. Smoke put a bullet through the hollow of another Tong soldier’s throat and blew out a chunk of his spine. Suddenly limp, the Asian thug went down to jerk and twitch his life away. Louis fired again. Another Tong fight master screamed and clutched his belly in a desperate attempt to keep his intestines from squirting through the nasty hole in his side where the slug had exited. Alarmed, others shrank back momentarily.
“Where did they come from, Smoke?” Louis asked cheerily, as he lined his sights on another enemy.
“I’d say that alley behind us.” Smoke paused as Louis fired again. “I believe we can safely say you heard the right of it about the Tongs.”
“Why is that?”
Smoke Jensen loosed a round at a squat Chinese who had recovered his nerve enough to foolishly charge the two gunfighters. “They don’t even know I’m in town. You’re the one who has been asking questions around San Francisco.”
“I see what you mean, mon ami. Smoke, we had better make this fast, non?”
“Absolutely,” Smoke agreed, as he dropped another hatchet shaker.
Wisely, the surviving pair, one of them wounded, turned and ran. The wide street held a litter of bodies and a sea of blood. Longmont’s horse flexed nostrils and whuffled softly, uneasy over the blood smell. Both men reloaded in silence.
Power of the Mountain Man Page 29
