Smoke made a tight smile. “Well, then, we take him along. If he’s not to be found, everyone will assume he’s off on some business.”
“I ain’t goin’,” the yard master blurted. Smoke glowered him into silence.
Ten minutes later, they boarded the train. The yard master cowered in one corner of the baggage car. Quo remained in the cab of the locomotive to, as he put it, “keep the engineer and fireman honest.” This he did with T’ai Chi kicks and painful pressure holds. With a nervous eye on the young Chinese, the engineer opened the throttle and the train steamed out of the yard.
* * *
Five miles down the track, with San Francisco dwindling in the distance, Smoke Jensen signaled for a halt. He dismounted from the baggage car and scaled a telegraph pole. He cut the three lines and descended. He would do the same several times more.
Once under way, Smoke settled down for a strategy session with Louis and Brian. “There’s not a hell of a lot we can do except chase after them. At full throttle we can close the distance, given time.”
“And then?” Louis prompted.
Smoke frowned, considering it. He was not an expert on trains, even though he had worked for the Denver and Rio Grande as a right-of-way scout. He visualized the exterior of the locomotive that pulled them. “There’s a walkway along both sides of the boiler on our locomotive. I reckon we can use that to board the other train. When we do that, what we have to do is take on Murchison and his partners without their hard cases mixing in.”
“Easier said,” Brian began, to be cut off by Louis.
“Do not despair. Once in that private car we can jam the doors at both ends so no one can enter. That will make our task much easier.”
“What if there’s a nest of them in there already?” Brian persisted.
Louis Longmont shrugged. “That is for Smoke and myself to deal with, non? For that matter, you do quite well with that shotgun. Quo Chung Wu is . . . Quo Chung Wu. He may eschew firearms, but the truth is, he is a weapon himself. We will do all right.”
Brian Pullen sighed heavily, resigned. “I hope you are right.”
* * *
Sally Jensen drove the dasher into her churn for the last time. She pushed back a stray lock of black hair, then removed the lid and beater. With a dainty finger, she wiped the blades clean, then reached into the conical wooden device and removed a large ball of pale white butter. She dropped it into a large crockery bowl and lifted the heavy churn, made up of wooden slats like a barrel.
From it, she poured a stream of buttermilk into a hinged-top jug. Setting it aside, she selected a large pinch of dried dandelion blossoms and powdered them between her palms. She dropped the yellow substance into the bowl with her butter, added salt, and began to knead it, to work out the last of the buttermilk. A pale, amber hue spread through the blob. Without warning, an enormous wave of relief washed through her bosom.
So intense was the dissolving of tension that her head sank to her chest and she uttered a violent sob of release. Smoke no longer faced such immense danger; she knew it. It made her heart sing. She wanted to break into a joyful ditty. In fact, she did begin to hum to herself.
“Oh, Susannah, don’t you cry for me.” The words rang in her head. She wanted to tell someone. Quickly she looked around. To her surprise and pleasure, she saw Monte Carson cantering up the lane from the far-off main gate to Sugarloaf.
Monte brought more substantial good news. “I’ve heard from Smoke. He telegraphed to say he was about to wind up his business in San Francisco. Should be home in a week.”
“When did it come, Monte?” Sally asked eagerly.
“This mornin’. I come on out right away I seened it.”
“Oh, thank you. I just know everything will be all right now.”
* * *
Cyrus Murchison set down the brandy decanter and offered glasses to Titus Hobson and Gaylord Huntley. They had finished a sumptuous dinner at noon, in the dining room of Murchison’s private car. Over coffee and rolls that morning, Murchison had explained the current situation to his partners in crime. Since then, Titus Hobson had complained about the moderate speed of the special train.
“Can’t go any faster,” Cyrus Murchison explained. “The Daylight Express is ahead of us by only half an hour. The slightest delay for them would result in a disaster when we rear-ended the other train.”
Hobson frowned. “Can’t word of an unexpected halt be sent to us by telegraph?”
“There’s no such thing as wireless telegraphy. Won’t ever be.” Murchison loaded his words with scorn for the uninitiated. “One has to be attached to the wire to get a message. So we run in the blind.”
“Did you send along word of our ‘special’?” Gaylord Huntley asked.
“Of course I did.”
“Then we could get flagged down in case of trouble, right?”
“True. But the faster we’re going, the longer it takes to slow down and stop. Relax. Enjoy your brandy. There’s no one chasing us. At least, none who can go as fast as we’re going now.”
“What do we do now?” Hobson bleated.
Murchison frowned. He had never seen this yellow streak in the mining magnate before. What caused it? He carefully chose the words he wanted. “We go as far east as we need to. Lie low, wait and see if anything is done officially. Actually, there’s nothing that can be done. Only the three of us know what we have in mind. I assure you, Jensen and Longmont have no idea where we are going. They are our only enemy. When we have a chance to regroup, we’ll strike back at them. And believe me, the consequences for Jensen and Longmont will be dire indeed.”
* * *
At the insistence of the engineer, the pirated train that bore Smoke Jensen and his allies made a water stop at a small tank-town located on the eastern downslope of the coastal range. Even though it was the gateway to the Central Valley, all the roads to be seen from the water tank were narrow and rutted. Truly, Smoke Jensen mused, the California Central could be considered the single vital artery to the area. To the south by twenty miles ran the tracks of the Union Pacific, which curved through the San Joaquin Mountains, from the first rail terminus at Sacramento to San Francisco.
No doubt the pressure of competition from the larger, more robust UP had been a factor in the decision for a power grab by Cyrus Murchison. No matter the man’s reasons, he had gone far outside the law and had harmed untold innocent people in his determination to amass control over all of Central California and he had to be stopped. Smoke Jensen considered himself the right person to bring an end to Murchison’s reign of bloodshed and terror.
His speculations interrupted by a hiss of steam and single hoot of the whistle, Smoke Jensen climbed back aboard the baggage car. A moment later, the train creaked and groaned and began to roll down the track. Louis had taken care of cutting the telegraph line. There would be so many breaks that it would take a week to repair them all, Smoke mused. Too bad. Catching Murchison and his partners came first. A question he had left unspoken so far came to him.
“Louis, what brought you to San Francisco in the first place?”
To Smoke’s surprise, Louis flushed a deep pink. “A certain situation had become untenable for me in New Orleans. You know I had invested extensively in certain establishments in the Vieux Carré. Restaurants, a casino. Another casino on a riverboat. In fact, I had overextended. We had a run of heavy losses. Money became tight. One individual in particular, who sought to gain control of my businesses, pressed hard.
“He became obnoxious over it. Silly as it may sound, I found myself forced into an affair of honor with him. Dueling has been outlawed since the Recent Unpleasantness. One of the gifts of Reconstruction. In spite of that, we fought . . . and I killed him.” Louis paused, wiped at imaginary perspiration on his forehead. “Fortunately, I was exonerated. I later found out this man worked as an agent for Cyrus Murchison of San Francisco. Digging deeper, I found out about Murchison’s grand scheme. It appeared he could not be content wi
th Central California, he wanted to expand. So I came here to find out all I could.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this from the git-go?” Smoke pressed.
Louis sighed. “Because I am convinced I behaved so foolishly. Like a twenty-year-old who still believes he is immortal. What could I do, alone, against such powerful men?”
“So you contacted me.”
Louis eyed Smoke levelly. “Only after I learned much of the scope of their plans. Three days later, Francie was killed. I knew I had to see it out. I loved that woman, mon ami. She was truly une belle femme. We set her up in that lavish establishment, do you remember? It was after you got her out of that tight spot in Denver.”
“Only so well, my friend. And I agree. Francie was indeed the lovely lady. She—deserved much better.” Smoke Jensen did not waste his time on if-onlies, yet the thought flitted briefly through his mind: If only Francie had chosen a different life. He turned to look out the open door.
Fields ripe for the harvest flashed past as the train gained speed. A short conference with the reluctant engineer provided him the information they would reach the town of Parkerville shortly after noon. Smoke wondered what they would meet there.
* * *
When the “special” slowed to a stop at the depot in Parkerville, Heck Grange prevailed upon Cyrus Murchison to give the men in the chair cars an opportunity to stretch their legs. With permission granted, they began to climb from the train. At once, Heck Grange spotted a familiar face.
“Ty!” he shouted above the hiss and chuff of the locomotive. “Tyrone Beal.”
Beal turned, then headed his way. Before Beal could speak, Grange pushed on. “You were supposed to be back in San Fran on the Midnight Flyer.”
“I know. Only there was some delay. Some hick-town sheriff got on our case about the fire and the dead man at that freight company. By the time he could verify our identity as railroad detectives, I missed the train.” Beal nodded to the throng of hard cases. “What’s going on here?”
“We could have used you in town. One hell of a fight with Longmont and his friend Jensen. Ol’ Cyrus Murchison’s got some wind up his tail. Seems he thinks those two are chasin’ after him and he wants to fall back and regroup. You and those others might as well throw in with us for now.”
“Glad to, though except for Monk Diller, the rest ain’t worth a pinch of coon crap.”
“Bring who you see as best, then. And after you get them aboard, come back to Mr. Murchison’s car.”
In five minutes, hat in hand, Tyrone Beal stood on the observation platform of Murchison’s private car. He stepped across the threshold of the rear door on invitation. Murchison sat behind a large, highly polished rosewood desk, Hobson and Huntley in wingback chairs to either side.
“Ah, Mr. Beal. I am sure Gaylord here is anxious to hear your report.”
“Yes, sir. We got that farmer all right. Burned his freight office to the ground. Pounded on him hard enough to get some sense into him, too. Actually, he got a bit much of a pounding. He died.”
A sardonic, cynical smile flickered on Huntley’s face. “Too bad. At least that’s one gnat out of our faces. You do good work, Mr. Beal.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You can do some more for us. I have only this minute learned from the station master that the lines are all dead west of us. The telegrapher received only part of a message that spoke of a runaway train headed this way. It is my belief that Longmont and Jensen, and whatever ragtag band of vigilantes they could round up, are in pursuit of us. I would be obliged if you took some of Heck’s men and set up a delaying action. It would mean a considerable bonus for you if you succeeded.”
Ty Beal inflated his chest in sudden pride. “You can count on me, Mr. Murchison. We’ll hold ’em, never you mind. Hold them long enough, anyway.”
“Fine. I’m counting on you. Now I rather think we should be on our way. Pick your men, and good luck.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, the commandeered train commanded by Smoke Jensen rolled into Parkerville. Nothing seemed untoward at first glance. Five boxcars stood coupled together on one of three sidings. On the other side, beyond the double tracks of the main line, a passenger car idled, attached to a standard caboose. Like a suckling pig, the locomotive nosed up to the water tank and took on precious liquid. The fireman hurled wood aboard the tender, aided by Quo Chung Wu and the brakeman.
Relieved to be out of their cramped quarters, if only for a little while, Smoke Jensen, Louis Longmont, and Brian Pullen walked out the kinks, stretched legs at an angle from a wooden slat bench, and breathed deeply of the country air. They had only begun to relax when a fusillade erupted from the boxcars.
15
Hot lead flew swift and thick. Trapped in the open, Smoke Jensen and his companions had no choice than to duck low and return fire. Smoke concentrated on the open door of a boxcar. The hardwood planking of the inner walls deflected his bullets and they ricocheted around the interior with bloody results. Yelps of pain, groans, and ouches came from the occupants.
Louis Longmont quickly duplicated Smoke Jensen’s efforts. The results proved spectacular. Curses and howls came from inside the cars. Then, from the opposite sides, away from the supposedly trapped quartet of avengers, came the sound of steel wheels in roller tracks. Light shone through the opening doors. Moments later, the hard cases left by Heck Grange deserted their vantage points, which had suddenly become hot spots.
Quo Chung Wu soon became frustrated with his inability to close with the enemy enough to be effective. He turned to Brian Pullen. “How do you use one of those?” he asked, with a nod toward Brian’s six-gun.
Brian gave it a moment’s thought. “Best use one of these,” he announced, giving a toss to his Parker and the net bag of brass cartridges. “Beginners do better with a shotgun.”
Grinning, Quo hefted the weapon, shouldered it, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Brian shook his head in frustration. “You have to cock the hammer first. Then, when you’ve fired both barrels, open it with that lever between the barrels, take out the spent shells, and replace them with fresh.”
“Oh, yes. I see. Thank you.” Quo’s first shot ground the shoulder of one hard case into gory hamburger. “I think I have it now,” he called out cheerily.
“I suppose you do,” Brian responded dryly, as he watched the wounded thug stumble away.
Gunfire continued unabated from the other cars and from beyond the second siding, where the grade had been built up to keep the track level. It was from there that the charge came. Half a dozen gunmen rose up and rushed the idling train with six-guns blazing. Return fire was sporadic at best. Louis Longmont downed one hard case, then ducked low behind the steel wheels of the lead truck of one car to reload. The shotgun in the hands of Quo belched smoke and fire and another of Murchison’s gang screamed his way to oblivion.
“One can apply the principles of Chi to shooting,” Quo observed wonderingly.
That left four gunhawks. Smoke Jensen zeroed in on one and cut his legs out from under. With the enemy routed on one side, Smoke took quick stock.
“Get back on board,” he commanded. He raised his voice to the engineer. “Get this thing moving!” He remained as a rear guard.
Quo seemed unhappy at having to give up on his newfound skill. He went up the ladder to the cab with agile speed, even with the shotgun in one hand.
Louis Longmont reduced the attacking force to half its original size before boarding the baggage car. The remaining trio faltered. At that moment, a burly figure stepped out of the depot, a smoking six-gun in one hand. “Which one of you is Smoke Jensen?”
Smoke answered quietly. “I am.”
Eyes narrowed, Tyrone Beal took a menacing step toward the mountain man. “I want you, Jensen. I’m gonna take you down hard.”
Smoke laughed. “Not likely.”
“You’ve got a gun in your hand, Jensen. Use it.”
For a moment, Smo
ke Jensen stared in disbelief at this cocky gunhawk. Confidence? Or was he completely loco? “If I do, you’ll die, whoever you are.” Slowly and deliberately, he holstered his Colt.
“M’name’s Tyrone Beal. I had a good thing goin’ before you showed up. Now, I’m gonna make you pay for upsettin’ my apple cart.”
The more mouth a man used, the less shoot he had in him, Smoke Jensen had learned long ago from Preacher. He decided to goad this lippy one further. “Road apples, if you ask me.”
Beal’s face clouded. “C’mon, you loudmouthed bastid, make your play.”
“You’re too easy, Beal. I’d feel guilty about it. It would be like killing a kid.”
Froth formed at the corners of Beal’s mouth. The locomotive whistle gave a preliminary hoot and steam hissed into the driver pistons. The big drivers spun with a metallic screech. Tyrone Beal’s eyes went wide and white a moment before he swung the muzzle of his six-gun up in line with the chest of Smoke Jensen. His thumb reached for the hammer.
Smoke Jensen whipped out the .45 Peacemaker and shot Tyrone Beal through the chest before the first click of Beal’s sear notch sounded. Disbelief warred with agony on the face of Tyrone Beal. He made a small, tottery step toward Smoke Jensen, then abruptly sat on his rump.
“I’m kilt,” he gasped. “Goddamn you . . . Smoke . . . Jensen!”
Then he died. Smoke quickly boarded the already moving train and settled down in the baggage car.
* * *
Rolling through the peaceful autumn countryside, Cyrus Murchison was almost able to forget he had been forced to flee an empire he believed to have firmly in his grasp. At least, he did until those meddling sons of mangy dogs interfered. Titus Hobson had told him that Smoke Jensen was a one-man army. Ruefully, he recalled that he had scoffed at that. He knew better now.
Louis Longmont, who was considered to be a dandy, a fop, had proved far tougher than anticipated, also. How did a New Orleans gambler get to be so accomplished a shootist? If he moved in company like Smoke Jensen’s, he must be one of the best gunmen in the country.
Power of the Mountain Man Page 41
