Venom of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m good enough, I suppose.”

  “Don’t you think there might be somebody out there that’s better ’n you?”

  “If there is, I haven’t met him yet, or I wouldn’t still be alive.”

  “Uh-huh. Tell me, Jensen, just how much longer do you think you’re goin’ to stay alive?” Plappert asked.

  “I expect to be alive right up until the moment I’m dead.”

  “That might just come sooner ’n you think,” Plappert said.

  “That’s enough, Plappert,” The Professor said. “What is it, Jensen? What do you want?”

  “I hear you killed Fenton,” Smoke replied.

  “Yes, I killed him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I tried to arrest him, he tried to kill me. It was self-defense. Isn’t that the way it was with you and my four deputies?”

  “Something like that, yes. What I meant was when the two young ladies who worked for Delilah told you that Fenton was the one who killed Miss Dupree and Miss Fugate, you didn’t pay any attention to them.”

  “They were whores, Jensen. I have no intention of conducting my investigations on the word of whores. To quote the great bard, ‘Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.’”

  Smoke chuckled. “I know you were an English professor at William and Mary, but given your present reputation, I have a hard time connecting you with Romeo and Juliet.”

  “And I have an even more difficult time believing that it is even a quote that you would recognize.”

  “You can thank my wife for that. But to get back to the subject, you came to believe that Fenton killed Miss Dupree and Miss Fugate, or you wouldn’t have attempted to arrest him. What changed your mind?”

  “Nothing changed my mind. I just thought I would talk to him and give him the opportunity to deny that he was in Delilah’s establishment during the time of the shooting . . . or to explain why he was there if he didn’t deny it.”

  “But you didn’t get to ask him?”

  “No, I didn’t. Tell me, Jensen, why are you so interested in this case?”

  “I believe that Miss Dupree knew the whereabouts of the kidnapped children. And I believe that Fenton’s killing her had something to do with that.”

  “I see. So you are suggesting that Fenton was one of the kidnappers?”

  “I would say either that or he was working for the kidnappers.”

  “Working for them in what way?”

  “I think he was paid to kill Delilah in order to keep her from telling anyone where the kidnapped children are.”

  “You mean like someone offered to pay Allison to kill you?”

  Smoke was surprised by the comment, but he was even more surprised by the next comment.

  “Or how my deputies planned to collect that same reward by killing you?”

  “Who is offering the reward?” Smoke asked.

  The Professor shook his head. “I don’t have any idea, and that is what makes the whole thing so fatuous. If one doesn’t know from whom they are to collect the reward, why accomplish the mission, especially without guarantee of payment?”

  “Did Delilah tell you where the children were being kept?” Smoke asked.

  “No, why would you think she would do that?”

  “Well, you are the law. It seems to me like you would be the logical place for her to go with the information.”

  “How do you know she even knew? Did she tell you where they were?”

  Smoke smiled but didn’t answer The Professor’s question. “I’ll be seeing you, Marshal.” He turned and left.

  “Plappert, I think you and Slago should keep an eye on Mr. Jensen,” Bodine said.

  “With pleasure,” Plappert replied with a broad grin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  New York City

  Sally had still not been mistreated in any way, other than the fact that she was kept tied to the bed all the time. The only time she was untied was while she was eating or using the privy, and at this moment she was lying on the bed with her arms stretched out over her head, tied to the bedposts. Remaining in such a position for so long was very uncomfortable, and she tried, to the extent possible, to relieve the pressure on her back.

  The door was open between the two rooms, and she could hear her captors talking in the other room.

  “He’s dead.”

  She had learned the identity of the three men who’d brought her to this place and recognized the speaker’s voice. Gallagher was the one with the pistol, who had stepped out from the alley to confront them. The three men who had been following them, she now knew, were Kelly, Brockway, and O’Leary. One of them had hit Cal from behind, and the other had used chloroform to knock her out.

  “Who’s dead?” Kelly asked.

  “O’Leary is dead. That damned cowboy killed him.”

  Cowboy? Sally thought. Smoke? A quick, happy thought flashed through her mind. Is Smoke here?

  “We should have killed the son of a bitch when we had the chance,” Brockway said.

  Cal! They have to be talking about Cal. She realized almost instantly that her thought it might be Smoke was unreasonable. Even if he knew of her situation, he wouldn’t have had time to get there yet. She was happy Cal was still alive.

  “’Tis walkin’ around the city he is, wearin’ a pistol ’n a holster like he was ridin’ the range,” Brockway said.

  “’N would you be for tellin’ me how he can be doin’ that?” Kelly asked. “Wouldn’t Muldoon be for arresting him for doin’ so?”

  “Here’s the thing,” Gallagher said. “Turns out that the son of a bitch is a deputy sheriff back in Colorado, ’n now the mayor has made him a deputy in New York. He ’n Muldoon are workin’ together.”

  “Lookin’ for the woman, are they?” Brockway asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Are we goin’ to be for movin’ her?” Brockway asked.

  “I see no reason for doin’ so,” Gallagher said. “Only O’Leary knew she was here, ’n he’s dead. There’s two million people in this town. How are they goin’ to find ’er now?”

  “Aye, right you be.”

  “I’ll be for tellin’ you this, though. Our friend in Wyoming is goin’ to be havin’ to pay us well, seein’ as this little job we’re doin’ for him has gotten one of us killed.”

  Friend in Wyoming? Who could that be? Sally wondered. And why would someone in Wyoming want me captured and held prisoner? What possible reason could there be for that?

  Sally asked that question of Kelly when he came into her room an hour later, bringing her one of the two meals she was given each day.

  “I don’t know who it is,” Kelly said. “Sure ’n all I know is that Gallagher got a telegram tellin’ that you was comin’, ’n we was to snatch you up.”

  “But why?” Sally asked. “Why did someone from Wyoming want me to be taken prisoner?”

  “I don’t know,” Kelly said. “But I can tell you that it was for the money that we took you.”

  “What money?”

  “’Tis a lot of questions you be askin’, woman, when you should be usin’ your mouth for eatin’ now,” Kelly scolded.

  Sally asked no more questions, and after the meal, Kelly started to tie her to the headboard again.

  “Mr. Kelly, please don’t tie me to the bed again. You have done that every day, and the ropes are cutting off the circulation. I could wind up losing the use of my hands. Or losing them altogether.”

  Kelly looked back toward the door that opened into the other room. “Put your hands up there.”

  “Please?”

  “I’ll not be for tying you to the bed,” Kelly said. “But keep yer hands there so that if Gallagher or Brockway looks in, they’ll be for thinkin’ that yer still tied up.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kelly. Oh, thank you.”

  “’N if either of them happen to discover that you not be tied, I want you to tell ’im that you untied yourself.”

  “I will,�
� she promised, stretching her hands up over her head toward the iron headboard.

  Kelly wrapped the rope around them, but he didn’t tie them.

  Sally waited until Kelly left, then she got out of bed and walked over to the window. It was the first time she had been able to look outside since she was brought there, and her suspicion that she was very near an elevated railroad was confirmed. There, not fifty feet from the side of the building, was an elevated track. To her surprise, she wasn’t on the second floor of the building as she had thought. She wasn’t even with the elevated railroad, she was looking down on it. Gauging by the building across the street, she realized that she was on the fourth floor. She was much too high to escape through the window. With frustrated disappointment, she returned to the bed but didn’t lie down with her hands over her head. She sat up on the bed and was still sitting there half an hour later when Gallagher came into the room.

  “What are you doing sitting there like that?” Gallagher asked in a loud angry voice.

  “My back was hurting from lying down, so . . .” Sally replied.

  “You’re supposed to be tied up.”

  “I got loose. Really, Mr. Gallagher, what is the advantage of keeping me tied up? Either you, or Mr. Kelly, or Mr. Brockway, and sometimes all of you are always in the other room. And because we are on the fourth floor, there’s no way I can escape through the window. There is really no need to tie me.”

  Gallagher stared at her for a long moment, stroking his chin. “All right,” he said with a nod. “I’ll leave you untied.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gallagher turned to leave.

  “Mr. Gallagher?”

  He turned in acknowledgment of her call.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Sally asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Whatever happens to you won’t be for me to decide.”

  “Who is behind all this? Who wanted me taken like this, and for what reason?”

  “Blimey, woman, you sure be one for askin’ so many questions,” Gallagher said.

  “’N can you be for blamin’ me, Mr. Gallagher? For sure, ’tis my ownself that’s in danger here. ’N have I no right ter know about m’ own fate?” Sally asked, affecting an Irish brogue.

  “Is it Irish you be?”

  “Aye, ’twas from Ireland m’ own sweet mither came.”

  “He didn’t say anything about you bein’ Irish.”

  Sally wasn’t Irish, but she had been around enough Irish in her youth to be able to perfectly mimic the brogue. She didn’t know if it would do her any good, but she didn’t think it would do her any harm.

  “Would you be for tellin’ me now, Mr. Gallagher, who is the blaggard that ordered you to cotch me so, ’n keep me like a wee bird in a cage?”

  “’Tis an old friend is all I can say,” Gallagher replied.

  “’N how is it that an Irishman like you has a friend in Wyoming? Have you traveled in the West?”

  “I’ve never been out of New York. ’Tis a friend I know from here.”

  “’N is he still a friend, seein’ as one of yer own was killed?”

  “I’ll be for confessin’ to you that ’twas not part o’ the deal that one of us would be killed,” Gallagher said. “When it comes to settlin’ with the money, I’ll be for askin’ ’im to pay us well.”

  “And if he does not?”

  “’Tis not for you to worry about such a thing,” Gallagher replied as he turned to leave the room before Sally could ask any more questions.

  * * *

  Cal and Muldoon had found nothing the night before. Cal’s “commission” limited him to working with a New York policeman, and Muldoon was the policeman who had been assigned to work with him. But Muldoon was available only during his watch, which had been changed from the day watch to the one from seven o’clock in the evening until three o’clock the next morning. It was Muldoon who had asked for the change. As he told Cal, most of the people they would need to see could be seen only at night. The bad thing was that Cal was too anxious to spend an entire day doing nothing while he waited for Muldoon’s shift to start.

  Cal wondered whether or not he should send a telegram to Smoke. He didn’t want to—at least, not until he had some sort of news to report to him, hopefully positive news. It had been his hope to get Sally’s kidnapping resolved quickly enough that Smoke would not have to be worried, but it was already too late for anything to be done quickly. Smoke had to be told.

  Cal went to the nearest Western Union office to send the message. A little bell on the door dinged as he stepped inside, and the telegrapher looked up. Seeing a man openly wearing a pistol, the telegrapher reacted with fear.

  “Oh, don’t worry about the gun,” Cal said, calming the telegrapher’s nerves. “I’m a deputy, working with the police.” He showed the telegrapher the commission paper signed by Mayor Grace.

  “Indeed, sir,” the telegrapher said, obviously relieved that Cal wasn’t some outlaw there to do him harm. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  “I need to send a telegram to Big Rock, Colorado.”

  “Big Rock, Colorado? I’ve never heard of the place. Does Big Rock, Colorado, have a Western Union office?”

  “We sure do. It’s right next to the railroad depot,” Cal said.

  “All right. Let me look in the book and determine the routing procedures.”

  “Can’t you just start tapping that thing to say To Big Rock?”

  The telegrapher smiled. “No sir, it will have to be routed . . . I expect through Denver.” He studied his book for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, just as I expected, it will go through Denver. Can you write, sir?”

  “What? Yes, I can write.”

  The telegrapher gave him a tablet and a pencil. “Write your message for me.”

  Cal wrote: When Mrs. Sally and I were walking some men came up, knocked me out, and took Sally. She is missing now, but the police don’t think she has been harmed because they have received no information about a woman being harmed. I have been made a deputy in the New York Police Department, and I am working with the police to try and find her. I will continue to look for her until we find her and I will keep you informed. If you want to send me a message you can reach me at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Cal

  When he was finished, he slid the message across the counter to the telegrapher.

  “Oh, my. That is too bad about your friend, but this message is much too long. It will cost you a fortune. Suppose you let me rewrite it for you. I promise I will get the same information across.”

  “All right,” Cal agreed.

  SALLY MISSING STOP AM WORKING WITH POLICE TO FIND HER STOP POLICE BELIEVE SHE IS NOT HARMED AS THEY HAVE NO INFORMATION ANY WOMAN HURT STOP WILL CONTINUE TO LOOK FOR HER AND KEEP YOU INFORMED STOP REACH ME AT FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL STOP CAL

  Cal examined the telegram just before it was sent. He saw that it said only that she was missing, rather than that she had actually been taken, and he was about to correct it when he decided that missing was enough.

  “That will be five dollars and eighty cents,” the telegrapher said.

  Big Rock

  A short while later the telegrapher in Big Rock took the message. “Oh,” he said aloud. “Oh, dear me, this isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.”

  “What is it, Mr. Deckert?” the Western Union delivery boy asked.

  “Missus Jensen is missing in New York.”

  “Miz Jensen? You mean Miz Smoke Jensen?”

  “Yes.” Quickly, Deckert printed out the message, put it in a yellow envelope, and handed it to the boy. “Here, Tommy, take this out to Sugarloaf and give it to Mr. Jensen. Ride as quickly as you can.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tommy said.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, son,” Slim Taylor said when Tommy rode into Sugarloaf. In the absence of both Pearlie and Cal, Slim was acting as the foreman over the cowboys who were watching over the ranch.
“Ever’one is gone right now. Mr. Jensen ’n Pearlie are up in Wyoming, and Miz Jensen ’n Cal are in New York City.”

  “Well, do you know how I can get ahold of Mr. Jensen?” Tommy asked. “I’ve got a telegram for him that’s just real important.”

  “Well, I know he took a bull up for Mr. Condon. He said a-fore he left that if I had to get ahold of him to go see Condon.”

  “Where does Mr. Condon live?”

  “He lives over on the Wiregrass Ranch. That’s about ten miles east o’ here.”

  “Thanks,” Tommy said.

  * * *

  Sam Condon leaned against the post as he read the telegram. “Damn.”

  “Do you know how to get this telegram to Mr. Jensen?” Tommy asked.

  “Yes. Send it to him in care of my wife at the Del Rey Hotel in Mule Gap, Wyoming,” Sam said.

  “It’ll cost more to send the telegram a second time,” Tommy said.

  “I’ll pay the fee,” Sam said.

  After getting his billfold, Sam gave Tommy a ten-dollar bill.

  “Oh, it won’t cost that much.”

  “You’ve had a long ride out here to find out how to deliver an important message,” Sam said. “Young man, I admire your adherence to the pursuit of your duty. You keep the change.”

  “Gee, Mr. Condon, thank you!” Tommy said, smiling broadly at his good fortune.

  “Get the message through, son. It’s very important.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  French Creek Canyon

  “Where’s Whitman?” Keefer asked.

  “We was plumb out of whiskey,” Reece said, “so he went into town to get some.”

  “Not Mule Gap, I hope. Remember, we ain’t s’posed to go into Mule Gap except on business, ’n whiskey ain’t business.”

  “Don’t worry. He went to Warm Springs.”

  “All right,” Keefer said. “We could do with some whiskey around here. I’m goin’ to get the Condon boy to write the note, then I’ll be takin’ it in to his mama and get the money. Sanders, I want you to come with me.”