Defeated and demoralized, the secretary raised a feeble arm and pointed the way. “Upstairs, third floor, at the back,” he bleated.
Quo Chung Wu remained behind to keep the secretary in line, while Smoke and his companions strode quickly down the hall and started up the staircase toward Murchison’s office. Behind them, they heard the dulcet voice of the secretary purring.
“Ooh, a Chinese boy. How very nice. I love Oriental food.”
Brian Pullen made gagging signs; Smoke Jensen twisted his face with a look of disgust; Louis Longmont produced a sardonic expression. Then they stood before the door. Smoke positioned Brian and Louis to either side, their shotguns at the ready. Then he raised a foot and kicked in the heavy portal. Wood shattered around the thick latch.
Moving smoothly on oiled hinges, the thick oak panel swung noiselessly until it collided with the inside wall. Beyond, Smoke saw a large expensive desk, ranks of bookshelves, an ornate sideboard with decanters of brandy and sherry, and flag poles with the United States flag and that of the California Central Railroad. He also noted heavy curtains that billowed into the room, driven by the breeze through open windows. Of Cyrus Murchison they found no sign.
“He got away,” Smoke spoke plainly.
Brian gasped. “It’s three stories down.”
Smoke led the way to the window. Outside, an iron fire escape clung to the brick wall. Somehow, Murchison had learned of their presence and eluded them by this handy way out. From the direction of the stairwell, Smoke heard the sounds of a fight in the lobby below. He nodded that way.
“Sounds like those hard cases came back.”
* * *
In the lobby, the secretary quailed under his desk while Quo Chung Wu tore into half a dozen railroad detectives. The timid soul peeped from the legwell of the rolltop from time to time when a strange warble or animal cry came from the lips of the Chinese student. He could not believe his eyes.
Two men already lay on the floor, writhing in agony. The Chinese boy moved so quickly and unpredictably that the others were unable to get a clear shot. He whirled and pranced, then came up on one toe and lashed out a blurred kick that rocked back the head of one detective. Staggered, the man crashed into the dividing rail and draped himself over it, unconscious and bleeding from the mouth. The handsome boy, the secretary had heard him called Quo, did not hesitate to enjoy his victory.
At once he spun and ducked and blocked a blow from an ax handle. The owner of that deadly device stared stupidly while Quo kicked him three times: in the chest, the gut, and the crotch. He went to his knees with a moan. Quo moved on. At the same time, a dozen more bully boys rushed into the lobby. Their charge was checked by the bellow of a 12-gauge Parker shotgun.
Brian Pullen arrived on the scene in time to drop two gunhands who had taken aim at Quo Chung Wu. The roar of the scattergun froze everyone in the lobby for a moment. It gave Brian time to reload. He needed it. Three hard cases turned his way slowly, as though under water. The Parker bucked in Brian’s hands and a load of buckshot slashed into one before he had completed his move.
He did not make a sound as he flew backward into another railroad thug. They sprawled on the floor in a heap; the unwounded one squirmed and kicked to free himself. Quo had not delayed. The moment he knew where the shotgun pointed, he went into action.
Instead of avoiding the new threat, he waded into the middle of it; elbow, back-fist, knee blows, and kicks rained on the stunned henchmen of Cyrus Murchison. One of the railroad policemen, accustomed to dealing with brawling hobos, leaped at Quo, only to end up hurtling through the air in his original direction bent double, his shoulder dislocated and an arm broken at the elbow. It had the effect of a bowling ball among ninepins.
Brown suits flew in all directions. Brian butt-stroked a lantern jaw of one and stepped aside to allow the unconscious man to skid into the railing. Before the railroad detectives could organize themselves, Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont arrived on the scene.
Smoke waded right in. He grabbed the coat of a hard case by one lapel and yanked him into a hard fist to the jaw. Saliva flew and his lips twisted into an ugly pucker. Smoke popped him again and threw him aside. A yard bull grabbed Smoke by one shoulder and heaved to spin him around.
Jensen did not even budge. Instead, he shrugged the thug off and drove an elbow into the man’s gut. Air hissed out and the face of the company policeman turned scarlet. Before he could recover, Smoke gave him a right-left in the face that split one cheek and mashed his lips.
Two more turned on Smoke Jensen. One had a thick chest, with bulges of muscles for arms. He stood on tree-trunk legs, with long, wide boots to hold it all up. His partner weighed in at only a bit less menacing. Growling, they went for Smoke with their bare hands. First to reach him, the smaller giant tried for a bear hug.
Smoke batted one arm away and sent a sizzling left up inside the loop it formed to crash in right under the big man’s ribs. He grunted and blinked . . . and kept on coming. A quick sidestep by Smoke evaded his clutching arms. Smoke popped him on the ear with a sharp right.
Again, all he did was blink. This could get tiresome right quick, Smoke reasoned. He disliked the idea of shooting an apparently unarmed man. Yet, from the corner of his eye he saw the other brute moving to find an opening. End it now, Smoke demanded of himself.
His left hand found the haft of his tomahawk and pulled it free. He dodged back a step and swung from his toes. The flat of the blade smacked into the forehead of the colossus with a soft ringing sound. His eyes crossed and he went to his knees. Smoke reached out quickly and pushed him to one side. He fell silently. Smoke looked up in time to see a fist slam into his face.
Starbursts went off in his head and he dropped his ’hawk. Bells rang and he felt himself losing control of his legs. He gulped air, rocked back, and swung in the blind. Due to the eagerness of the huge railroad detective to follow up his advantage, Smoke landed a good one. It gave Smoke time to recover his sight.
It went quickly then. He pumped lefts and rights to the gut of the gargantuan. Liquor-tainted air boiled out over his lips. Smoke waded in. His opponent lowered his guard to protect his stomach. Smoke went for his face. The hard case recognized the need for a change of tactics and reached under his coat for a holdout gun.
Lightning fast, Smoke snatched his warhawk from the floor and swung in a circular motion. The keen edge whirred through the air and neatly severed the man’s wrist. Hand and gun hit the floor. Gaping at the torrent of blood that flowed from the cut artery, the man gave a soft moan and passed out.
“Smoke, behind you,” Louis Longmont warned.
Smoke whirled, his right-hand Colt appearing in his hand as he moved. A hard case with a short-barreled H&R. 44 Bulldog gritted his teeth as he tightened his finger on the trigger. Fire and smoke leaped from the muzzle of Smoke’s Peacemaker. His slug punched into the protruding belly behind the small revolver and its owner dropped the Bulldog to cover the hole in his gut.
“The door,” Smoke yelled to his companions.
Understanding, they changed their tactics. Every move Louis, Quo, Brian, and Smoke made took them closer to the tall double doors of the main entrance. By studied effort, they cut a swath through their enemy. Aching, wounded, and dead reeled in their wake. Smoke Jensen broke free first, then turned back to batter an open face and create a pathway for his friends.
He jerked two hard cases together so violently that their heads clunked together loudly and they fell as though hit with sledgehammers. It took some time for the dazed thugs to realize the purpose of their opponents. Deafened by the loud reports of shotgun and six-shooter, they reeled in confusion while the four companions fought their way clear.
Smoke and Louis barreled into the street together, followed shortly by Brian and Quo. With an angry roar, the railroad’s hoodlums recognized what had happened and charged the doorway. Smoke and his Western companions laid down a blistering fire that kept the hard cases inside while the quartet backed do
wn the street. At the corner, they rounded a building and sprinted off into the center of the city.
“Where now?” Louis asked.
“We have to find Murchison,” Smoke stated the obvious. “My bet he’ll be somewhere around his railroad yards. First stop is the livery to get horses. Quo, can you ride?”
A blank expression came over the young Chinese student’s face. “I have never done so before. But, if I can master T’ai Chi, I can stay on top of a horse.”
Smoke did not know what T’ai Chi might be, but he already had doubts about the student priest’s horsemanship. Nothing for it, they had to move fast.
14
Not until the full extent of damage had been assessed did Cyrus Murchison realize the danger in which he found himself. With the pale pink light of dawn spreading over the hills of San Francisco, he sent urgent messages to his co-conspirators. Not a one of the judges whom he had wined and dined so lavishly, always making certain they departed with fat envelopes of large-denomination currency for their “campaign chests,” would even receive Cyrus in his time of peril. Nor, he was certain, would they seriously consider overruling a decision by a colleague.
That resulted in the plain and urgent summons to Titus Hobbs and Gaylord Huntley. It urged them to gather what men they had on hand and go directly to the California Central yard office. All were to bring horses. He dispatched Heck Grange on the same errand, with additional instructions to have the yard master assemble a “special”—at least six livestock cars, four chair cars, and his private coach. It was to be stocked with food and liquor and held in readiness at the yard office.
That settled, Cyrus Murchison went about his usual morning routine. He shaved, and he brushed and patted his thick shock of white hair into place. Then removed his dressing gown. His gentlemen’s gentleman assisted him in donning his usual starched white shirt, pinstriped blue-gray trousers, vest, and suit coat. He put his feet in glossy black shoes and sat patiently while his manservant adjusted pearl-gray spats. He would select a suitable hat from the rack in the front hall. On his way out the door to his bedroom, he looked back at the servant.
“Oh, Henry, will you see to packing my field clothes? That’s a good man. See that they are delivered to the yard office at once.”
“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”
“And while you’re at it, select a rifle and brace of revolvers, with ample ammunition for a long stay, and send them along also.”
Henry’s eyes widened, though he reserved comment. Like all of the servants, he had become aware of the turmoil in the latter half of the night. Something boded quite wrong for the master if he made such preparations so early in the morning. Henry would bide his time and see what developed.
Downstairs, Agatha had breakfast waiting for them. A fresh pot of Arabica coffee, date muffins, a favorite of Cyrus’s, eggs scrambled with sausage and topped with a lemony Hollandaise sauce, ham, fried potatoes lyonnaise, and a compote of mixed fruit. In spite of his troubled thoughts, Cyrus ate wolfishly. He and Agatha chatted of inconsequences until he had had his fill. Then, pushed back with a final cup of coffee and another muffin, Cyrus invited the remarks he felt certain would come.
“We’re going to be in for some sort of change, aren’t we, dear?” Agatha asked.
Cyrus considered, for a moment, revealing the full extent of the change he anticipated. “There have been setbacks, yes,” he allowed. “Nothing to concern you greatly. Although I will be required to be out of town for a while. At least until certain matters are—ah—attended to.”
Agatha frowned. “You mean the killing of those two men who upset your plans,” she stated flatly.
“ Tut-tut, my dear, that is hardly a concern of yours.”
Agatha Endicott Murchison had the proverbial bull by the horns and had no intention of letting go. “Come, Cyrus. I may choose to appear as vapid and vacant as my society sisters, but you know full well I am no fool. If you must leave town, this must be serious indeed. How badly can it affect our fortune?”
A rapid shift came to the expression of mild disdain on the face of Cyrus Murchison. A scowl replaced it. “I could be disgraced, humiliated, ruined,” he listed harshly.
“Prison?” Agatha prompted.
“Possibly. It would remain to be seen how much could be traced directly to me.”
“How much of what, Cyrus?”
Cyrus Murchison pressed himself up from his chair. “That I will not go into in detail with you, my dear. You are better off knowing nothing. I realize that women, even in your favored position, are still considered chattel. Even so, that does not exempt them from going to prison for not reporting prior knowledge of criminal events. I’m going east for a while. I’ll not be home tonight, nor for some time to come, I fear. Keep your chin up, and always insist you know nothing of anything I may be accused of having done. Goodbye, my dearest.”
They kissed as usual on the porch and Cyrus Murchison took his shiny carriage to the California Central Building on Market Street as he would any other day. There he found himself compelled to beat a hasty retreat far sooner than anticipated. He arrived at the railroad yard office short of breath, his usually impeccable clothes in disarray.
“Get everyone aboard at once,” he demanded of the yard master.
“Horses are already loaded, Mr. Murchison,” that worthy responded in his defense.
“Excellent. Did you send for my bay?”
“Chief Grange arranged for that. Oh, and Mr. Hobson and Mr. Huntley are waiting in the drawing room of your car, sir.”
“Good. I’ll join them. Heck,” he raised his voice to summon. “Get this motley collection of ne’er-do-wells aboard. Did you arrange for food?”
“I did. And whiskey, too.”
Murchison scowled. “Keep a tight lid on that. All we need is a load of drunken protectors.”
* * *
Any attempt to trail Cyrus Murchison through the early morning rush of people on the way to work would be useless. Smoke Jensen announced that conclusion to the others as they stood in the alleyway behind the California Central Building. He then offered an alternate approach.
“Odds are, he’s headed for the trainyard. We can go directly there, or try to find if his partners in this are still around. I say we do the latter.”
That received quick agreement and the four hunters set out. At the offices of Hobson’s mining company, they learned that he was not in and had sent word that he would not be in that day. In the dockyard office of Huntley’s maritime shipping company, one of those newfangled telephones jangled on the desk of the receptionist. He looked at it aggrievedly and assured them that Mr. Huntley had telephoned early to say he would be out of town for a few days.
“They’re all at the railroad,” Smoke summed up. “We’d best get over there.”
They rode at what speed they could through the throng of milling pedestrians—all to no avail, they soon discovered. Reluctant to make any answer, the yard master had a change of heart when Smoke Jensen used one big hand to bunch the bib of the man’s striped railroad overalls and lifted him clear of the ground.
“Y-you just missed them. Mr. Murchison and his associates had a ‘special’ made up. They and a whole lot of rough-looking characters rolled out of here not fifteen minutes ago.”
“Headed which way?” Smoke demanded.
Newfound defiance rang in the voice of the yard master. “I don’t reckon I should tell you that.”
Smoke gave him a shake and got his face down close to that of the other man. “I reckon you’d better, or I’ll have these fellers string you up by the ankles and I’ll slit your throat and let you bleed out like a sheep.”
Face suddenly gone white, the yard master bleated like one of the woolly critters. “E-E-East! Th-They went east on the Main Line. Clear to Carson City, in Nevada Territory.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Yard Master,” Smoke drawled. “We’re obliged. When’s the next train go that way?”
“N-not until tonig
ht. The local leaves at five o’clock, to pick up freight along the run.”
“Won’t do. See what you can do about rustlin’ us up another train to take out right now,” Smoke demanded.
“B-but that’s impossible!” the yard boss stammered. “Running one train right behind the other is too dangerous.”
“Suppose you let me worry about danger. Are there cars and a locomotive in the yard now?”
“Well, yes, of course. But . . .”
Smoke’s gray eyes turned to black ice. “But nothing. Like I said, we’ll worry about any danger. Where’d we find a likely train?”
“Out—out there,” came the reply from the yard master, his eyes wide with fear.
Smoke thought on it for a minute. “Quo, you an’ Louis go scout out a train that’ll suit us. Let me know pronto.” After they left, he turned back to the hapless captive. “I see you got one of Mr. Bell’s squawk boxes.” He lowered the thoroughly cowed yard boss to the floor and released him. Smoke’s Green River blade appeared in his hand. “I think we’ll just take that along with us. That telegraph key, too. That way, if you get the urge to send word down the line and warn Mr. Murchison about us, you’ll have a hard time doing it.”
“But—but that’s railroad property,” the man sputtered.
Smoke snorted through his aquiline nose his opinion of the severity of taking railroad property. “So’s that train we’re taking.”
Quo Chung Wu returned, excitement lighting his face. “We found one. A locomotive, tender, baggage car, and stock car. Louis said they were just making it up.”
“What’s Louis doing?” Smoke asked.
Quo broke into a grin. “He’s keeping the engineer and fireman peaceful. Also making them back up to a chair car.”
“Now, that’s nice. But we can do without the extra weight. It’ll only slow us. Run tell Louis to forget it. We’ll be with you shortly.”
After Quo departed, Brian Pullen offered some advice. “Whatever we do, word will get out fairly soon. Even tied up, when the yard master is found, he’ll spill everything.”
Power of the Mountain Man Page 40
