Rage of the Mountain Man (5 page)

It gave Early new insight into his boss. If Lathrop and his associates stooped to violence so readily, he had better carefully tailor what else he reported of his run-in with Smoke Jensen. Good fortune shone on him a moment later, when Phineas Lathrop waved a hand irritably and spoke gruffly.

“We missed him. We’ll have to try again. Get out of here, I have plans to make.”

After Buford Early’s hasty exit from the suite, Phineas

Lathrop summoned Wade Tanner from the hallway. He wasted no words.

"You’re wrong about Smoke Jensen. Early locked horns with him at the Sugarloaf. He’s still alive, Tanner. I want you to put men on changing that right away.”

“You want me to go with them, Mr. Lathrop?”

“No. I have something else in mind for you. I’m leaving this afternoon for back East. There’s much to be done in Boston and New York. I want you to take the rest of your men and start obtaining the smaller holdings in the high mountains. Proceed as though Jensen was no longer alive and everyone knew about it.”

“What if they know better and won’t sell?” Wade Tanner asked.

Coldness radiated from Lathrop’s deep-set walnut eyes. "Then deal with the widows.”

Spewing a huge, black cloud, the 4-6-0 mountain locomotive on the D & R G spur to Big Rock glided into the large, multitracked station at Denver. The engineer applied the brakes with a deft touch, then swung the big, brass lever over to activate the reverse control and change the direction of the wheels. White plumes of steam erupted from the escape valves in the cylinder heads and the pistons churned to drive the main rods, connecting rods, and walking arms.

Pale amber grains cascaded down from the sandbox to increase traction. The drivers spun a moment, then bit on the sand. A final touch of brake, then the throttle went off. Forward, the high, wide cowcatcher gleamed like carnival teeth, painted alternately in glossy black and red. Already the conductor had swung down off the first passenger coach, and now ran ahead to set his stepstool in place.

When the train stopped moving, it was aligned exactly with the door. He climbed up and opened the lower half, exposing the vestibule. In less than a minute, passengers started to detrain. Then the ruddy-faced conductor began to chant his familiar litany.

“Denver. Denver. Passengers for the eastbound Santa Fe for Ellsworth, Topeka, Kansas City, and points east, cross over to Track Four. Southbound for Pueblo and Santa Fe, Track Six. Westbound passengers will find accommodations in the waiting room.”

Smoke and Sally Jensen stepped down onto the platform with expressions of relief. Sally could not hide a girlish enthusiasm that made her look ten years younger than she had during the blizzardy days of January. Without livestock to worry about, although Smoke felt decidedly uncomfortable not having a saddle horse available: the couple crossed directly over to Track Four. They had been assured that their luggage would be transferred without need of personal supervision.

A clutch of other passengers had preceded them. More came from the depot, released from behind the wrought-iron gates by the ticket agent. When Smoke handed their tickets to the conductor, he glanced at them, then up at Smoke and Sally. He touched two fingers to the brim of his small, round, dark blue Santa Fe cap in salute.

"There will be a ten-minute delay, sir, while yer private car is coupled to the rear of the train. Sure an’ I hope it’s no bother.”

Surprised by this revelation as much as by the conductor's deference. Smoke didn’t know how to respond. He stood in silence until Sally gouged him in the side with an elbow. “Uh—that will be fine. Thank you,” he blurted out.

Some of those close enough to overhear turned indignant glowers on the couple. "Damned robber barons. He’s got no right to hold up the train. They all have too much money, if you ask me.” one man with a distinct Boston accent grumbled loud enough for Smoke to hear.

Momentary anger flared in Smoke Jensen. He was fiercely proud of his wild, free, albeit dirt-common years at Preacher’s side. He had carried his weight, earned his keep. And the hardscrabble days with Sally, building the Sugar-loaf, gave him just pride in his accomplishments. He and Sally might be comfortable now, well off, truth to be told, but he had put hard work and sweat into it. Every bit was honestly made. Before Sally could exert her calming influence, Smoke took three strides forward and tapped the offensive man on the shoulder.

“Mister, you have a serious problem with that mouth,” Smoke growled at him. “I’d be happy to rearrange it for you.”

Bristling, the Bostonian reacted in a manner Smoke Jensen had not anticipated. He hunched his shoulders and balled his fists, then spun on his left heel as he cocked one, ready to deliver a sucker punch. His aggression speedily deserted him as he focused on Smoke’s hard, set face, and the level, steely gaze of those compelling bullet-gray eyes.

For an icy moment the contenders took the measure of each other. The Bostonian broke off contact first. Deflated, he felt the color of his implanted class envy bleed from his face, then muttered something while he avoided further confrontation.

"What was that? I didn’t hear what you said,” Smoke challenged.

“Arthur, for heaven’s sake,” the diminutive woman beside him urged, as she tugged on his sleeve.

“Yes, Arthur, you had better listen to the little lady,” Smoke suggested, his full lips twisted in a sneer.

Self-examination revealed to Smoke Jensen how much he resented just such an attitude in other men. Yet he had to admit he enjoyed this a great deal. He shook his head in resignation.
How would he ever put up with being surrounded for two weeks by thousands like this one?

“. . . uh—said I was sorry. I spoke out of line,” Arthur mumbled a bit louder.

Smoke made himself be magnanimous. “That’s all right. The offense is forgotten. Have a pleasant journey.”

Some imp of rebellion lingered in Arthur from Boston. “Yeah, sure. I know you will.”

' Smoke chose to ignore it and turned to Sally. “How do they get so lippy?”

“It probably comes from living all crowded up close to one another,” Sally opined. “And it might be because they have ordinances prohibiting people from going around armed. From even owning guns, in some places.” She nodded to indicate the cartridge belt and the pair of Colts under Smoke’s dress coat.

Smoke produced a rueful grin. “Yeah. An armed society is a polite society. Preacher always said that.”

Sally dimpled with a conspiratorial smile. “I know. I have that cute little Lightning in my purse.”

Cute? Smoke thought wonderingly. That Colt was an instrument of death. Sally ought to know better. Preacher had taught Smoke that one respected guns, cared for them, even might fear them in the hands of others, but you didn’t personalize them, or give them familiar names, like Old Betsy. He took Sally’s arm and helped her onto the vestibule platform.

They started through the first of two Pullman cars when Smoke had to grab Sally’s elbow to steady her. A sudden jolt and loud, rumbling crash of metal against metal came from the rear of the train.

“Don’t hump that car, you dizzy idiot!” the conductor shouted to the yard goat engineer. “The colonel will have your balls for that.”

“It appears our coach has arrived,” Smoke said through his amusement.

Although well-accustomed to train travel, Sally Jensen had never seen anything quite so opulent as Colonel Drew’s private coach. Entering, they encountered a narrow passageway past the lavatory, storage pantry, and kitchen. A narrow, cell-like space provided sleeping accommodations for the cook, his helper, and the butler. Next came the doors to four sleeping compartments. Beyond that, the dining room, which had opened out to full width, its forward and rear walls covered with crystal mirrors in mahogany frames. A cut-crystal chandelier with Tiffany reflector hung over a large, oval cherrywood table. Matching chairs, with plush seat cushions, provided seating for eight.

Graceful columns of polished mahogany formed an archway into the sitting room. Overhead, pressed tin ceiling covers depicted scenes from mythology, the details picked out in gold foil. Comfortable wing chairs, a loveseat, and a chesterfield sat in casual disarray among low tables and smoking stands in the sitting room. A small bar graced the wall that screened the dining room. Stained glass bordered the windows and a domed cupola that admitted light. Sally drew in a delighted breath.

“It’s so beautiful.”

Smoke circled her still-trim waist with both arms and spoke over one shoulder, into her ear. “I’d buy you diamonds if you had anywhere to wear them.”

“Oh, pooh, I already have diamonds.” Sally looked around in eager appreciation. “Do you really think . . . that we can afford one of these?”

“We never go somewhere often enough to make it practical. And I, for one, don’t find that unappealing,” Smoke teased.

“Stick-in-the-mud!” Sally challenged.

The door to the observation platform at the rear opened suddenly. It caught Smoke and Sally in their intimate embrace. A gangly young man stood in the opening. He awkwardly held an alligator-skin gladstone bag.

“Excuse me” he said, in a somewhat squeaky voice. “I think you have the wrong car.”

Smoke released Sally. “Maybe it’s you who are in the wrong place,” he challenged.

The boy stood his ground. “This is Colonel Joshua Drew’s private car. I’m his son-in-law, his new son-in-law. I—we—we’re on our honeymoon.”

This was something he had not been advised about in advance. Smoke drew a deep breath and removed his Montana Peak Stetson. He studied the callow young man and wondered how the colonel had ever consented to allow his younger and most precious daughter to marry such a one.

Had the invitation to use the private car been in error? Smoke removed the tickets from his inside coat pocket, accidentally revealing the cartridge belt and the butt of his gunfighter-rigged crossdraw .45.

Immediately the youthful newlywed washed pale white and dropped the bag. He clutched at the arm of the girl who now stood beside him. “Watch out, Priss,” he bleated. “This ruffian has a gun.”

Priscilla Drew looked beyond her husband’s agitated face and her efforts at recollection moved fluidly across her face. “Why, I know you,” she addressed Smoke.- “You’re Mr. Jensen. You worked for my father. You laid the course for the D & R G through the high passes of the Rockies.” “That’s correct. But I don’t recall you, Miss—er—Mrs. . . ."

A light trill of laughter came up a long, graceful throat and bubbled on pretty lips. “Small wonder, Mr. Jensen. I was only a child at the time.”

Not much more now
, Smoke thought to himself. He produced a smile, along with a memory. “The one who loved horses more than locomotives, am I right? That lovely blond hair gives you away. You wore it in sausage curls then, too, didn’t you?”

Priscilla absolutely glowed. “Oooh, I would have just died of ecstasy if I had known you noticed me then.” She turned to her husband and said, “Thomas, it skipped my mind, what with everything that went on before and after our wedding. Daddy did say that we would be sharing the car with a good friend of his and his wife. This must be them. Mr. Smoke Jensen, my husband, Thomas Henning.” Then she added with glowing pride, “I'm Mrs. Henning now."

“How do you do?” Thomas Henning responded stiffly, his eyes still fixed on Smoke’s waistline, where he had seen the cross-draw gun.

“Fine, thank you. I was about to show you our tickets and travel itinerary. Your father is most generous, Mrs. Henning. We have use of the car all the way to Boston.”

“It’s like him,” Thomas Henning said poutishly. “Send along a chaperone on our honeymoon.”

“May I present my wife, Sally Reynolds Jensen,” Smoke finished the introductions, ignoring the petulance of Thomas.

At mention of Sally’s family name, Thomas cocked an eyebrow. Now that he had calmed somewhat, his voice held the distinct flavor of an eastern accent. “Would that be the New Hampshire Reynoldses? Banking, the stock market, diversified investments?”

“The same,” Sally informed him, fighting to suppress a throaty chuckle.

“Well, I must say, I had no idea that these rough-edged westerners even knew anyone from the distinguished families, let alone that one had married into a family so—so acceptable as the Reynoldses.”

That torqued Smoke Jensen’s jaw as very little else could. “I think you have it wrong, boy. Sally married me; I didn’t marry into any family.”

“Please, Thomas, don’t be such a snob. You’ve had a problem with that since you came to Denver,” Priscilla chided.

“But, he’s—he’s so . . . common.”

“
Thomas!
” Priscilla cried, embarrassed for herself as well as him. “One doesn’t talk to people out here like that.” “Not unless one is prepared to back it up,” Smoke prodded.

Thomas paled again and his upper lip trembled. “I’m not armed. I abhor firearms.”

“Which is what is keeping you alive right now,” Smoke growled, his dander fully aroused. Then, when he saw the sickly expression that washed over Thomas’s face, he uttered a sound somewhere between a shout and a bark of laughter. “Come on, folks, this is rapidly going nowhere. Relax, Mr. Henning. Sally always tells me my bark is worse than my bite. Since we’re going to be together in this car for . . . how long?”

“We’re leaving the train at Kansas City, to take a river-boat to New Orleans,” Priscilla informed Smoke.

Smoke turned to Sally. “That’s where we should be going, instead on to the East Coast,” he advised in an I-told-you-so tone. He continued his offer of peace. “Since we’re going to be together in this car for at least three days, we might as well make peace and get along as well as we can.”

“Call me Priss.”

“I’m Sally.” The two women smiled.

Uncomfortably, Thomas Henning extended his hand. “Thomas, if you please.”

“Smoke,” the most famous gunfighter in the penny dreadfuls responded.

“
Aaaall abooooard!
” the conductor cried from outside. “Do you have more luggage?” Sally asked.

“Jenkins has taken care of it,” Priscilla replied. “It should be in our compartment.”