Rage of the Mountain Man (7 page)

“Climb down.”

“Huh? I cain’t do that.”

“I’ll blow you back through the car,” Smoke promised.

“Awh, hell . . ." foolhardy courage replaced the wise caution with which the man had operated so far. “Hey,Travis, there’s a couple of . . ." Smoke Jensen's bullet put a period to the sentence before the robber had intended.

Answering fire ripped from inside the express car.

Nothing had gone right on this job from the beginning. Buck Waldron thought, as he led the way out of the last chair car and into the vestibule between it and the first Pullman. So far they had taken only a hundred or so in cash and some trinkets. If Travis didn’t hit a bonanza in the express car, they might as well have stayed in Hays and gotten drunk.

“Okay, Dorne, you go through there. Watch for some fool playin’ hero,” Buck ordered.

Dorne entered the sleeping car ahead of his boss, a fat Smith American .44 in his left hand. A woman shrieked a moment before the quartet of bandits heard the fusillade from the express car far forward. Buck Waldron spat a curse and shook his head.

“We’ll have to take care of that later. First we pluck these fine folks of what they have.” To a portly gentleman whose face had turned an apoplectic red, “Dump it in the bag. Watch, rings, then your pocketbook. We even accept small change, so be generous.”

“I'll see you hang first,” the outraged citizen grunted.

He complied, nevertheless, when Buck Waldron shoved the muzzle of his .45 Colt into the expanse of belly, an inch above the thick gold chain that retained his watch. Waldron glowered menace at him.

“Watch first, remember?”

Swiftly the gang stripped the passengers of their valuables. When they reached the back of the car, Dorne opened the door and stepped onto the vestibule. A frightened face jerked back from the window in the portal to the second Pullman. At Dorne’s side, Rucker laughed sneeringly.

“Like a bunch of chickens with a fox in the roost,” Rucker observed. “Want to bet they’re already diggin’ out their cash an’ goodies?”

“Naw,” Dorne replied scornfully. “They can’t believe this is happening. Not to them; at least.”

Whoever had been watching for them had at least presence of mind enough to throw the bolt. Two .44 slugs from Dorne’s Smith and Wesson weakened the metal sheath around the deadbolt enough to allow them to shoulder open the door. Two women screeched in this car, and three small children huddled together, large tears running silently down their cheeks.

When Dorne reached out and chucked a boy of seven or eight under the chin, the lad began to whimper. “Here, now,” Dorne said gruffly, unsettled by the situation. “Big boys like you don’t cry, let alone make noises like a baby. Lady,” he added to the horrified woman who comforted the youngster, both arms draped over his shoulders, hugging him close, “don’t be doin’ that, it’ll make a sissy out of him.”

“How dare you!” she exploded in outrage.

Dorne winked at her. “Because I’m the one with the gun.”

“Empty out,” Buck Waldron commanded. “We accept everything. Watches, then rings and ladies’ brooches, then you gentlemen contribute your pocketbooks. Don’t stint on the change in your coin purses, either.”

Slowly the outlaws worked their way down the aisle, totally unaware of what awaited them in the private car behind this one.

Quickly as it had begun, the rattle of gunfire from the express car ended. Powder smoke streamed out over the upper lip of the shattered door and formed a gray billow. Smoke Jensen approached cautiously. Behind him, Liam Quincannon faced outward, watchful for the return of any of the robbers out chasing their horses.

Smoke gave him a swift glance, then edged up to one side of the splintered door, which hung downward to the ballast. With colt leading the way. Smoke poked his head around he side. At once the sharp report of a Peacemaker bounced iff the inner walls. Poor shot. Smoke considered, as the slug vent wild a foot above his head. Smoke answered in kind.

"My God, I’m hit, Travis,” a voice rewarded Smoke’s accuracy.

"Shut up and keep down,” Travis growled back.

"How many of ’em is out there?” another bandit asked. "I don’t know,” Travis said shortly.

"Enough,” Smoke Jensen provided in a jaunty tone. "You a railroad detective?” Travis demanded.

"Nope. Only a passenger,” Smoke told him.

"This ain’t yer money. Why you doin' the Santa Fe any favors?”

"I got bored back in that private car. Thought I’d mix in and put some zest in my life.”

"Who are you, anyway?” Travis queried.

"Name’s Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”

"Oh, sweet Jesus,” Travis moaned. “I don’t need this. I surely don’t need to face off with Smoke—by God—Jensen.”

"You can always leave. Without the take from the safe, f course.”

"Jensen, you still packin’ a badge?”

‘‘I am.”

“Won’t do you any good here in Kansas,” Travis goaded, oping he was right.

He was wrong. “Deputy United States Marshal,” Smoke informed him. “I reckon it works here as good as in Colorado.”

“Aw, hell, Jensen. We’re good as goners as it is. Might as well come out.”

“You do that. I’ll be waiting,” Smoke invited.

Travis motioned to the two unwounded men with him that he wanted them ready. They nodded silently, unseen by Smoke Jensen. Then Travis rose from behind the mail sorting frame and rushed the door, sixgun blazing.

Smoke Jensen shot him in the hip. Travis spun, stumbled, then swung back from his waist and fired at Smoke. A second round punched into the exposed belly of Travis. He doubled over as his underlings rushed past.

From behind Smoke came the roar of Quincannon’s revolver. One of the attacking outlaws cried out and pitched through the opening. He landed on his head. Smoke could hear the dry stick crack of the bones in the wounded man’s neck. The other loomed over him and a bullet cut a hot wind past Smoke’s head a moment before he returned fire.

An expression of sheer surprise lighted the face of the man Smoke shot. He remained upright, made a desperate effort to recock his Colt, and then keeled over to one side and out of sight in the express car.

“I ain’t armed,” came a cry from the man Smoke had wounded earlier. “I’m comin’ out. I’ll crawl on my belly.”

“Good enough,” Smoke advised him. “Make it slow.” He turned to Liam Quincannon. “We’ll secure this one and head for the train. You can be sure there’s a few of them looting the passengers.”

“Right ye are, Smoke.” Quincannon swung around at the rumble of fast hooves, his expression washing to one of gloomy resignation. “B’God, they’re some of ’em comin' back.”

Six of the Waldron gang had recovered their horses and now rode at a gallop back to the train. Laying along the necks of their mounts, they fired shots at the strangers who stood outside the express car. They risked no harm to any of their own, for one of the men they shot at wore the uniform of a conductor for the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe railroad.

A spurt of smoke came from the weapon in the conductor’s hand and one horse let out a wild whinny when the slug cut through the tip of its ear. The bullet did greater harm to the rider as it entered the top of his shoulder and splintered the collarbone. Pink froth formed on his lips as the damage it had done took effect.

Before they had closed half the distance, he sagged and fell from his mount, one lung filled with blood. The other five reined up short when the other intruder opened up. Three rounds from Smoke Jensen emptied three saddles. A single bandit remained when Liam Quincannon took aim on the hapless man’s chest. Wisely he threw up his hands, sixgun held between thumb and forefinger.

Behind him, one of the wounded came to his knees and threw a shot at the big hombre in the expensive suit coat. His slug snapped the hat from Smoke Jensen’s head. It didn’t effect his aim any, which his assailant found out a split second later as hot liquid fire exploded in his chest. The lights went out for him and he died without ever knowing who had shot him.

“We had better find out where the rest are on the train,” Smoke prodded, as he reloaded his .45 Frontier.

“Right ye are, Smoke. I’ll tell the engineer to put her in reverse once we get aboard. That should give us a hair’s edge on them spalpeen bastids.”

Laughing, Smoke Jensen trotted along the stalled cars toward the last in line. Liam soon joined him and the chuffling engine hissed to life. The drivers spun as Smoke mounted the steps to the last Pullman. Liam Quincannon came behind and paused long enough to give the hand signal to go to full reverse.

Space between cars compressed as the twenty-eight-ton locomotive began to overcome inertia. Wheels turned smoothly in the trucks and slowly the train rolled backward. Inside the Pullman, anxious faces greeted them with new apprehension.

“We’ve already been robbed,” a pinch-faced woman accused. “We’ve nothing more to give you.” Then she saw Liam Quincannon over Smoke Jensen’s shoulder and her jaw sagged. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought, we thought, you were more of them.”

“They went there,” a small boy announced, a finger pointed to the rear door.

“Hush, Billy,” his mother scolded. “We don’t want any more trouble.”

Smoke Jensen cut his eyes over his shoulder. “What do you think, Liam?”

“No sense in blunderin’ right into them, I says.” “Agreed. I think I’ll take to the rooftops again. You back me up from the vestibule once it’s cleared.”

“Denver and Rio Grande,” Buck Waldron read into the initials inscribed above the door of the private car. “Well, boys, I wonder if that old fart himself is in here.”

“I thought this was the Santa Fe,” Rucker remarked doubtfully.

“It is. They’re haulin’ ol' Colonel Drew along as a courtesy,” Waldron explained. “If that’s so, we can make us a passel more money selling his carcass back to his railroad.”

“Door’s locked,” Dorne announced. “Should I shoot it off?”

“No. Rich folks are more careful of their hides. Might be we can talk ’em into openin’ it for us,” Buck Waldron suggested.

Fitting action to his pronouncement, Waldron stepped forward and banged on the glass of the door. “Open up in there!” he bellowed. “You hear me? Open up right now!”

Inside, a thoroughly demoralized Thomas Henning wrung his hands and stared along the passageway toward the front of the car. The walls of the compartments and kitchen partly obscured the glass panel. He could not be certain how many outlaws had clustered there. All he knew for sure was that they were in desperate trouble. Nervously he slid his green gaze over onto the woman he now had doubts was indeed related to John Reynolds.

How could she lower herself enough even to touch a gun, let alone carry one in her purse? His ingrained loathing for any weapons blinded him to the fact that their present circumstances might well account for it. Why, any civilized person would simply give the brutes what they wanted and let them be on their way.

“God damn it, open this door!” Waldron roared.

Thomas Henning turned in agitation. “Well, what do you propose to do?” he asked of Sally Jensen.

“Exactly what Smoke said to do. We stay here, safe behind that door,” Sally answered calmly. “Although it is too late for you to lock yourselves in your compartment. They’d see you going there and it wouldn’t buy us anything.”

“Then I think the reasonable thing to do is open up and let them in before they get any angrier,” Thomas offered primly.

“Thomas, I don’t know how it’s done where you come from,” Sally began patiently. “But out here, when a person lies down and rolls on his back, he’s likely to be kicked in the belly.”

Blanching, Thomas swallowed hard. “That’s crudely put, but colorful. What has it to do with our present situation?”

“Everything,” Sally snapped, her patience exhausted.

Right then the car gave a lurch and began to roll backward. From the vestibule came another furious shout. “Open up or we’ll kill everyone in there.”

Priscilla clutched at her husband’s arm, which she noticed had developed a marked tremble. Her lips took on the shape of her disillusionment. She cut her eyes to Sally Jensen. “Do they mean it?”

“Possibly,” Sally answered curtly. “All the more reason we delay them as long as possible. It wasn’t any outlaw started up the train. Smoke will be here soon,” she advised confidently.

“It won’t do us any good,” Thomas blurted in an anguished wail. He broke free of his wife and all but trotted along the passageway toward the door. Sally started after him, then held back. Maybe she should shoot the little coward . . . One look at the stricken face of Priscilla Henning disabused her of that idea.

“Come on, Priss. We have some planning to do, and some playacting.”

In the parlor section of the private car, Sally explained what she intended while she hid her Colt Lightning between the cushions of a plush loveseat. Only seconds later, a jumble of voices overrode the frightened bleat of Thomas Henning. Five hard-faced, scowling outlaws advanced along the narrow corridor toward where the women waited. The one in the lead roughly shoved Thomas along ahead of himself.

“We—ell, what do we have here?” the big, burly, barrelchested thug pushing Thomas drawled when they entered the parlor area and took in the two lovely women.

“Who are you?” Sally Jensen demanded coldly.

“More to the point, sister, who are you?” Buck Waldron asked through a leer.

“Why, I’m . . . Sally, Miss Priscilla’s maid.”

Astonishingly, Waldron touched fingertips to the brim of his hat in polite acknowledgment. “Please to make your acquaintance, Sally.” His eyes narrowed. “Who’s Miss Priscilla?”

“She . . .” Sally began, to be cut off by Priscilla.

“That’s all right, Sally. I can answer for myself. I am Priscilla Henning. That’s my husband you were shoving around, you lout.” For the first time since he had betrayed them by opening the door, Priscilla got a look at Thomas. His hair was mussed and his eyes were wild. A thin line of blood ran down from a split lip. “What have you done to him?” she demanded hotly.

Waldron produced a wicked chuckle. “We didn’t like the way he took his sweet time opening the door. So Lovell here gave him a lesson in manners.”