Shootout of the Mountain Man (12 page)

Turning with a sense of self-importance, the conductor moved on through the car.

After the conductor left, a nice-looking and well-mannered boy came walking up the aisle, balancing himself against the jerk and roll of the train by putting his free hand on the backs of the seats. He was carrying a book.

“Sir, are you Smoke Jensen?”

Smoke was somewhat surprised to be recognized this far from home, and to be recognized by a young boy.

“Yes, I am,” he said.

A huge smile spread across the boy’s face.

“I knew it! I told Mama that’s who you was.” He held out the book and a pencil. “Would you please sign this book for me?”

The title of the book was
Smoke Jensen and the Desert Outlaws.
Neither the author nor the publisher had ever acquired Smoke’s permission to use his name in their books, and in truth, Smoke was irritated by their very existence. But the boy was genuinely excited, and Smoke didn’t want to do anything to disappoint him, so he nodded, then reached for the book.

“None of this is true, you know,” Smoke said as he began to sign.

The boy smiled. “I know it isn’t,” he said. “Heck, I’ve read enough about you in the newspapers to know that the real things you have done are much better than these stories. But I would like to have your autograph anyway. ”

“All right,” Smoke said, signing the book. “What’s your name?”

“Timothy, sir. But ever’ one calls me Timmy.”

How old are you, Tim?”

“Tim, yes, I like that better than Timmy. I think I’ll be Tim from now on. I’m fifteen.”

Smoke stopped in mid-signing and looked for a long moment at the boy.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Jensen?” Tim asked.

“No, son, nothing is wrong,” Smoke said as he completed the signing. He handed the book back. “There you go. Just remember, don’t believe everything you read. ”

“I won’t. And thank you, sir,” Tim said, holding the book to his chest excitedly as he returned to sit with his mother and younger sister.

Smoke watched as the boy proudly showed the book to his mother and sister. The boy had said he was fifteen. His son, Arthur, would be fifteen now. But Arthur had been murdered along with his mother, Smoke’s wife, Nicole.

As Smoke thought of Nicole and young Arthur, he connected them with the mission he was on now, and he remembered what a hard time Nicole’s brother had had in dealing with the murder of his sister and nephew.

Young Bobby Lee wiped the tears from his eyes. “My sister never hurt anyone. She was a good person.”

“Yes, she was,” Smoke answered. He had his arm around the boy’s shoulder, and he pulled him closer to him. Although Smoke’s own son, Art, was still just a baby, Smoke had become a father figure to Bobby Lee. It wasn’t the first time Smoke had ever been a father figure to a young boy. Even before Smoke had married Nicole, he’d rescued a boy who was lost in the mountains, half frozen and half starved. Taking him back to his own cabin, Smoke had raised him until he was an adult. Out of gratitude once the boy was on his own, he’d taken Smoke’s last name. He was now known as Matt Jensen, and had established a reputation of his own.

“Why did they kill Nicole? And little Art? He was just a baby. Who could kill a baby?”

“I
can’t answer that question, Bobby Lee. There are some people who are just too evil to live. ”

“But these people are evil, and they are alive,” Bobby Lee said.

“Yes,” Smoke said. “They are alive now, but they won’t be alive much longer. ”

“You are going after them, aren’t you?”

“I am. ”

“I want to go with you. ”

Smoke ran his hand through the boy’s hair. “I know you do, son. And I wish I could let you come with me. But you are still a bit too young, and if I have to worry about you, it will make my job harder to do. You do want to see them pay for what they did, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Bobby Lee said resolutely.

“Then you understand why I can’t take you with me?”

“Yes,” Bobby Lee said again. “But Smoke?”

“Yes?”

“When you kill the sons of bitches, kind of think about me while you’re doin’ it, will you?”

“I promise.”

“And I’m sorry I cussed like that. Nicole, she didn’t like me saying things like son of a bitch.”

“I think, in this case, Nicole would forgive you,” Smoke said. “Sons of bitches is about the only way you can describe these people. ”

“Sons of bitches,” Bobby Lee said. “Sons of bitches, sons of bitches, sons of bitches. “He repeated the words, using them as a means of fighting against the sobs that he was trying, not too successfully, to hold back.

A porter came through the car announcing dinner with a three-note chime, thus interrupting Smoke’s reverie. He joined the others in moving toward the dining car.

It was just after midnight and Frank Dodd and the six men with him were waiting alongside the Nevada Central tracks just south of Rock Creek.

“That ain’t high enough,” Dodd said. He was speaking to Conklin, who was standing on a collapsible ladder. A pyramid of three poles had been erected in the middle of the track, and Conklin was attempting to attach a lantern to the poles.

“That’s about as high as I can make it,” Conklin said.

“You can get it higher. Put it all the way up on top,” Dodd ordered.

“Well, how high does it have to be anyway?”

“It has to be as high as the headlamp on a train,” Dodd said. “I want the engineer to think he’s about to run smack dab into another train.”

“How’s that goin’ to work?” Stillwater asked. “This here lamp ain’t a’ goin’ to be movin’ none. It’ll just be sittin’ here.”

“Believe me, when that engineer sees another headlamp in the middle of the track, he ain’t goin’ to think about whether it’s movin’ or not. And so what if it ain’t movin'? It would still look like a train is here, even if it’s just a’ settin’ still, and he damn sure ain’t goin’ to be wantin’ to run over it.”

“How’s this?” Conklin asked after repositioning the lantern, which was an actual lamp taken from the front of an engine.

“Yeah,” Dodd said. “Yeah, that’s just about perfect. Come on down now, and get your ladder out of the way.”

Wayland Morris laughed. “I have to hand it to you, Frank. When you said you wanted to steal a headlamp off the front of an engine, I thought you was plumb loco. But this here is a good idea.”

Phillips and Garrison had joined Dodd, so that there were six men waiting alongside the track for the arrival of the Prospector, which was the name of the train that made this run every night.

“Conklin, as soon as the train stops, I want you and Stillwater to ride up to the cab. Make certain the train stays here. Morris, you and I will hit the express car. Phillips, you and Garrison go through the train and collect whatever money the passengers might have.”

“Wait, that ain’t fair. Is that all the money we get?” Garrison asked.

“Just do what I tell you, Garrison,” Dodd said.

A distant whistle came through the night.

“Get ready,” Dodd said. “It won’t be long.”

When the engineer of the Prospector came around a long, sweeping curve on the Nevada Central, he saw the headlamp of an approaching train.

“Sweet Jesus, Ernie! Look at that!” he shouted, even as he pulled the brake lever to full emergency stop.

“Where’d that come from?” his fireman shouted. “There ain’t supposed to be no train a’ comin’ this a’ way now!”

* * *

Smoke was in the bottom berth. He was sound asleep when the train made the abrupt stop. Reaching up, he grabbed the assist strap to keep from being tossed out. Some of the other sleepers were thrown from their berths, and Smoke heard sounds of surprise, pain, and anger.

Having taken off only his boots when he went to sleep, he sat up now and began pulling them on. He had no idea why the train had come to such a sudden stop, but it couldn’t be good. He also didn’t like the fact that the conductor had taken his pistol and holster when he’d boarded the train earlier that night.

There was a time when Smoke had worn two guns, a .44 on his right hip and a .36 on his left, which he had worn butt-forward. But sometime ago, he had given up that habit, and now wore only one pistol in his gun belt.

There was, however, a habit he had not given up. Smoke had long carried a two-barrel derringer in his boot, and even as he put on his boots, he pulled the derringer out and held it in the palm of his hand. Now, dressed and so armed, he stepped out into aisle of the car.

The car was dimly lit, illuminated by two lanterns that hung from the ceiling. As he started toward the front of the car, he saw the conductor.

The conductor wasn’t alone. There was another man with him, and the man with him had one hand on the conductor’s shoulder. There was a pistol in his other hand, and that pistol was pointed at the conductor’s head. Even in the dim light, Smoke could see the absolute terror in the conductor’s face and eyes.

“Mister, just where the hell do you think you’re a’ goin'?” the man with the gun asked.

“The train came to a sudden stop,” Smoke said. “I thought I would investigate the cause.”

“Investigate the cause? Haw!” the man laughed. “Mister, you sure talk fancy. But you don’t need to do no investigatin'. I’ll tell you what’s happenin'. We’re robbin’ the train and I come in here to collect ever’body’s money. So you might as well get whatever money you got, and put it there on the floor. All of you folks that’s hidin’ behind them curtains, drop your money out onto the floor.”

“I’ll just bet that none of these folks want to give you any of their money,” Smoke said calmly. “I know I don’t want to give you any of mine.”

“Haw!” the man said, laughing again. “You don’t want to give me any of your money, eh? Well now, tell me, mister, just how in the hell are you goin’ to stop me from takin’ it?”

Smoke raised his hand and pointed his derringer at the train robber.

“I’ll shoot you if you try,” Smoke said.

“Mister, can’t you see that I’m pointin’ this pistol at the conductor’s head?”

“And can’t you see that I’m pointing my pistol directly at your head?”

“You don’t understand,” the train robber said. “If you don’t put down that little peashooter of your’n, I’m goin’ to blow this little feller’s brains out.”

“No,
you
don’t understand,” Smoke said. “I met the conductor earlier today, and I don’t like him. In fact, I don’t think anyone on this train likes him all that much. So I don’t care whether you blow his brains out or not. But just think of this. While you are killing him, I’ll be killing you.”

“No, my God, no!” the conductor shouted in a high-pitched, panic-stricken voice. He soiled his pants.

“You’re—you’re crazy!” the train robber shouted. He pushed the conductor out of his way and tried to bring his pistol to bear on Smoke, but it was too late. Smoke pulled the trigger and a black hole appeared in the train robber’s forehead. He fell back as women, and the conductor, screamed.

“Where is my gun?” Smoke asked the conductor.

The conductor’s eyes were wide open in terror.

“Garrison, what’s goin’ on in here?” another armed man shouted, coming into the car then. Seeing Garrison dead on the floor, he looked up. “Who did this?”

“I did,” Smoke replied.

With an angry bellow, the second train robber raised his pistol, but before he could fire, Smoke pulled the trigger for the second barrel. Like Garrison before him, the train robber went down, this time with a bullet hole in the bridge of his nose.

“Where is my gun?” Smoke asked again.

“I-I had it put into the baggage car,” the conductor answered, finally finding his voice.

Moving quickly, Smoke picked up one of the train robbers’ pistols, then stepped rapidly to the front door of the car. Standing on the plates between the cars, he looked around and saw two men on horseback alongside the express car. He leaned around the edge of the car and fired. One of the two men went down.

“It’s a trick!” one of the men on horseback shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”

Smoke saw the robbers turn away from the car. He tried to fire a second time, but the pistol he had taken from the robber misfired and the remaining three men galloped away.

In frustrated anger, Smoke threw the pistol away, then hurried back in to grab the pistol of the other would-be train robber. By the time he got back outside, though, the train robbers had disappeared into the night.

When Smoke returned to the train car, he saw that most of the passengers were out of their berths and were staring with morbid curiosity at the two dead men. The conductor was sitting on the floor of the car, up hard against the front right corner, with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around his legs.

The porter now came into the car.

“Anybody kilt in here?” the porter asked.

“Two,” Smoke said. “Neither of them passengers.”

“Where is Mr. Polosi?”

“Who?”

“The conductor. I been lookin’ for him, I ain’ found ‘im.”

“He’s up here,” Smoke said, stepping to one side and pointing to the figure who sat all drawn up in the corner.

The porter’s eyes grew wide in surprise. “Mr. Polosi, you all right?” he asked. “Did you get shot?”

“He’s all right.”

“You sure?”

“He wasn’t shot.”

The porter stared at Polosi for a moment longer before speaking again. “Mr. Polosi, don’t you think you should tell the engineer to get us goin’ again?”

Polosi didn’t answer.

“What about these dead folks?” asked the porter. “We can’t just leave ‘em lyin’ here in the car. Don’t you think we should move ‘em into the baggage car?”

Polosi looked up at the porter, his eyes wide and his lower lip trembling. He tried to speak, but was unable to say anything.

“What’s your name?” Smoke asked the porter.

“John, sir. John Ware.”

“Any other porters on the train, Mr. Ware?”

“Yes, sir. Two more.”

“I expect you’re going to need some help getting the bodies out of here.”