Triumph of the Mountain Man (4 page)

“Good thinking, Mr. Stoddard—er—Marsh. I'll naturally come with you. We will need to set up a place to question everyone. Say the smoking and bar car? But first, I want to take a look at the body.”

* * *

Rail coaches squealed and jolted to a stop beyond the southernmost switch of a siding. The switchman threw the tall cast-iron lever that opened the switch and signaled to the engineer. Huge gouts of black smoke billowed from the fat stack as the engineer reversed the drive and the big wheels spun backward. Slowly the observation platform on the smoking car angled onto the parallel rails of the siding and swayed through the fog. With creeping progress, the other carriages followed. When the cowcatcher cleared, the mobile rails slid back to the normal position. The train braked.

At once, members of the crew dismounted. Armed with rifles and shotguns taken from the conductor's compartment, they took position to observe the entire length of both sides of the train. From the express car came a short, slender, balding man with a green eyeshade fitted to his brow. He carried a portable telegraph key with a length of wire attached. Smoke Jensen and Marsh Stoddard joined him at the base of a pole. The express agent nodded toward the upright shaft.

“I ain't gonna try climbin' that. Not a man of sixty, fixin' to retire.”

Smoke turned to him. “Do you have climbing spikes and a belt in the express car?”

“Sure do.”

“Fetch them for me, will you, please,” Smoke requested.

Quizzically, the grizzled older man cut his eyes to Smoke. “D'ya mean you can do Morse code?”

Smoke nodded. “Among my lesser accomplishments I did happen to learn it. I may be a bit rusty, but I can manage. If need be, I'll have you write the message out for me in dots and dashes and simply follow along.”

“Now that's a good ida. 'Sides, you'll need the identity code for Walsenburg.”

“It is WLS, isn't it?” Smoke asked.

Surprise registered on the old-timer's face. “Wall I'll be danged, you do know something about it after all.” Then he cut Smoke a shrewd look. “What about the train signal?”

“I'll bet it's DLX.”

“Right as rain; Daylight Express.” Nodding eagerly, the express agent started for the car. “Be jist a minute.”

While Smoke Jensen fitted himself with the climbing gear, the agent wrote out the message, as dictated by Marsh Stoddard, in plain English and handed it and the key to the last mountain man. Smoke ascended the pole with ease. He settled himself comfortably at a level with the wires and fastened the bare ends of the lead to the proper one. Then he tightened the wing nut that fed power from the battery pack slung over one shoulder and freed the striker. Eyes fixed on the message form, Smoke tapped out the words.

After two long minutes acknowledgment came back along with a question. “DLX whose fist is that(q) It is not Eb(x)”

Smoke sent back, “No(x) Eb did not want to climb the pole(x) This is US Marshal Smoke Jensen(x)”

That brought a flurry of questions. “What is a marshal doing on the train(q) What is the nature of your emergency (q) How long will you be delayed(q)”

Smoke's reply must have electrified them. “There has been a murder(x) Notify the law in WLS(x) We will be at least two hours(x)”

With that Smoke detached the lead and descended the pole. “Now, Marsh, I suggest we set up to question the good folks on this train.”

* * *

Naturally enough, Smoke Jensen began by questioning the people from the car where the murder had occurred. He had passed through ten of them, including the still upset woman who had found the body, when he came face-to-face with the nosey dowager from the dining car. Mrs. Darlington Struthers—Hermione—proved to be a woman of strong opinions and downright regal condescension to those she considered her inferiors. With small, gloved fists on her ample hips she stood before the table where Smoke interrogated the passengers.

“I will tell you nothing, young man. The very idea that an upstart the likes of you can commandeer this train, halt it on a siding and pry into the affairs of its passengers is a matter I shall have my husband take up with the directors of the line. Darlington Struthers has considerable influence, as I am sure you shall learn to your regret.”

Smoke eyed her with ice glinting off the gold flecks in his eyes. “Are you quite through? This is a murder investigation. You will please answer my questions, or you will spend a few days at the tender mercies of the sheriff in Walsenburg.”

Hermione's face grew bright red. “The nerve . . .”

“I assure you it is not nerve. Now, where are you seated in relation to the dead woman?”

“You are not the law, and I do not have to answer your questions.”

Smiling, Smoke produced his badge folder. “Oh, but I am. Deputy U.S. Marshal. First, let me say that your evasions and bluster make you sound more like the guilty party than a mere fellow passenger. With that in mind, let me ask again: Where are you seated?”

Testily, Hermione Struthers answered. Smoke asked if she had seen or heard anything unusual during the night. Her face took on the expression of a dog passing a peach pit when she snapped her answer in the negative. Smoke tried another tack.

“Well, now, I might be just a hick lawman from the high lonesome, but I do have some smarts about me. From where you would have been in your bunk, it is impossible not to have heard any sounds of struggle. And believe me, from the looks of that Pullman berth, there was considerable struggle. Even the window shade is torn.”

“I am a sound sleeper.”

Smoke could not resist the barb. “A little too much claret, eh?”

Indignation rose to balloon the face of Hermione Struthers. “I am a teetotaler, I'll have you know.”

Smoke considered her stubbornness. She knew something, of that he was sure. Yet, he could not use force to learn it. And right now, his guile was wearing thin. “So, you heard nothing. Did you see anything, anyone around there?”

“I am not in the habit of spying on others.”

I'll bet you're not,
Smoke thought silently. “Hmm. We'll let that pass for the moment. If you heard nothing and saw nothing during the night, what about early this morning, when people began to rise for the day?”

“Again, nothing. Not the least thing.”

“Very well. You may go, ma'am. But I may want to talk to you again.”

Hermione turned to the door and spoke over her shoulder. “Do as you will. You will get nothing from me.” With a smug, tight expression she opened the portal and stepped across the threshold.

That's when Smoke Jensen launched his final arrow. “Oh, so there is . . . something?”

Outside in the vestibule between the smoking car and the rearmost Pullman, Hermione Struthers unloaded her bile on Marsh Stoddard, her voice loud and cawing. “Mr. Conductor, there is something you should know about that so-called marshal in there. To my certain knowledge, he is the last person to have seen the late Miss Larkin alive. They were carrying on scandalously in the dining car.”

4

For two blistering minutes, Hermione Struthers belabored Marsh Stoddard with a highly fanciful account of an imagined torrid liaison between Smoke Jensen and Winnefred Larkin. What she lacked in imagination, she made up for in viciousness. She concluded with a demand, hot with vehemence.

“I insist that you put this train in motion at once and proceed on our way. I'll have you know that my husband is an associate of the president of the line and well known to the board of directors. I intend to bring your dereliction to the attention of Mr. Struthers. Your future employment may depend upon your prompt obedience.”

Stoddard tipped the billed cap to her and spoke softly. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“What did you say?” Hermione demanded.

“I said, I don't doubt that.”

“As well you shouldn't. I shall return to my car, and I want immediate entrance.” She started for the vestibule steps.

Stoddard hurried to intervene. “I wouldn't do that, ma'am. One of the crew might take a potshot at you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Marshal's orders, ma'am. All vestibule doors are to be kept locked, and no one is to leave the train until the killer is unmasked.”

Hermione's face drained of color. “But I have already told you.
He
is the murderer. That false marshal in there.”

Stoddard kept a tight rein on his expression. “Very well, ma'am, I'll take care of it right away. First, come with me and I will see you to your car.”

* * *

Stoddard came back and entered the smoking car. “That damned woman. Claims you are the killer. Once she's got her steam up, she'll blow it off to everyone who will listen, and a good many who won't.”

Smoke considered that a moment. “That could complicate matters a little.”

“D'you have any more of an idea of who it might be?”

“None, so far. But I am convinced that officious old hen knows something she's not telling. I think I'll have her back in here after I've gone through all the others. Bring the next one, if you will, please.”

During the next three-quarters of an hour, Smoke interviewed the train's porters and every one of the passengers, with the exception of four people. Those who had come from the car that housed Hermione Struthers cast nervous, suspicious glances at Smoke when they thought he was not watching them. So much for the old bag. Finally, one of that group blurted out his apprehension.

“Mrs. Struthers says she has positive proof that you are the killer.”

“Well, Mr. Paddington, tell me this. When's the last time you saw a Poland China sail past overhead?”

Paddington looked confused a moment, then angry. “That's all stuff and nonsense. Ain't never been a Poland China that could fly.”

“That's my point. You can believe whatever that woman says the day pigs start to fly. Now, would you tell me if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary during the night?”

“Uh—uh well, nothing you'd call unusual, all considered.”

“Meaning what?”

“Ain't unusual for young folks to do some sparkin' on a train at night. They think it's romantic.”

That grabbed Smoke's attention at once. “And you saw something like that?”

“Yes, I did. I didn't see 'em actually clingin' to one another like soul mates, but I reckon that had come right before.” Again, Paddington paused irritatingly.

“Before what?” Smoke pressed.

“Jist before I saw this young man leave our car. He come from down the direction of that poor young woman's berth.”

“Could you recognize him?”

For once, Paddington did not hesitate. “Not for certain. His head was all in shadows. An' he seemed in a hurry. I was gettin' up to visit the slop jar an' he like to knocked me back into my bunk.”

Smoke listed physical characteristics in an attempt to spark memory. “Was he tall? Short? Heavy? Thin? What did he wear?”

Paddington mused on it. “He was about my height, five-nine, slightly built, I'd say, and had a suit on. Seemed to me the shirt was of two colors, dark and light.”

“Could that have been black and white?”

Surprise wrathed Paddington's face. “Say, yer right, marshal. It sure could have been.”

“Are you aware that in very low lamplight, or moonlight, blood looks black?” There had been a lot of blood.

“Ohmygod! If only I'd seen his face.”

Yes, if only,
Smoke thought with disappointment.

That had been fifteen minutes earlier, and Smoke was now ready to start on the last four. He ruled out the first to enter at sight of the man. He was short, fat and wore spectacles that would rival the bottom of a wine bottle. Smoke questioned him anyway.

No. No one had passed through the chair car where he had been trying to sleep. He had heard nothing. At least not until some woman screamed bloody murder early in the morning. Could hear her clear up in his coach. Smoke excused him and asked Stoddard to bring in the next.

A slender man in his early twenties entered the smoking car. He had shifty eyes, and his palms were notably wet and unexpectedly cold when Smoke shook his hand. Smoke let him sweat in silence for two minutes after giving his name.

“Now, Mr. Reierson, in order to save time, we'll start this off the hard way. I am a deputy U.S. marshal, empowered to investigate the murder that happened on this train last night. I'm going to ask you some questions and I expect truthful answers.”

“Why, of course. Any—-” Reierson's voice caught. “Anything I can do to help.”

While Smoke went through his routine questions, Reierson developed a nervous tic at the corner of his left eye. His trepidation increased the harder Smoke probed. More so when Smoke pointed out that his answers did not hold up with the observations of others.

Reierson tried bluster. “That's preposterous. I know where I was and what I did. They must be mistaken.”

Smoke rounded on him suddenly, his voice a soft purr. “No they aren't. You did it, all right. What I don't know is why. What made you kill that lovely young woman?”

“I didn't! Y-you're falsely ac-accusing an innocent man.”

“No, I'm not, Reierson. You did it, right enough. How did it happen? Did she resist your demands? Struggle? Maybe claw at you with those long fingernails?”

His face alabaster with fright, Reierson made to bolt for the door. Smoke Jensen reached him in two swift strides. He grabbed Reierson by one shoulder, spun him around and shoved him into a chair. Panicked, the pathetic specimen of a craven killer groped under his coat and whipped out a small, four-shot, “clover-leaf” pocket revolver.

“Yes, I killed her, goddamn you. And I'll kill you, too.” Sobbing in frustration, he fired wildly.

Smoke Jensen was a lot faster and much more accurate.

Stoddard burst through the vestibule door. “What happened?”

“He confessed. After he drew a gun on me. I'll write up a complete report and you can give it—and the bodies—to the law in Walsenburg.”

* * *

Soft music floated through the huge dining room of a hilltop mansion outside Taos, New Mexico Territory. A string quartet in formal black sawed away at an opus by Brahms. Clifton Satterlee sat at the head of a long, shining, cherrywood table that would easily seat eighteen. A wide strip of white linen ran the length of the ruddy, glowing surface. Brice Noble sat to Clifton Satterlee's right; to his left, Clifton's wife, Emma. Noble's wife, Mildred, sat to her husband's right. At the far end were Patrick Quinn and a young woman of his acquaintance, Lettie Kincade. The other women at the table would have been scandalized and highly offended if they knew that until ensnaring the attentions of Quinn, Lettie had been the inmate of a deluxe Santa Fe bordello.

Soft, yellow light from three silver candelabra flattered the complexions of the older women, smoothing out wrinkles, while it put a light of naughty mischief into the pale blue eyes of Lettie Kincade. Cole Granger stood in front of the high double doors that gave into a high-ceilinged, vaulted corridor. Dinner had concluded and the last of the dishes cleared away. At a sign from her husband, Emma stood and addressed the other women.

“Ladies, I suggest that we retire to my sitting room for coffee and sweets. If you gentlemen will excuse us?”

Clifton nodded blandly, and all of the men came to their boots as the women left the room. When the side door closed behind them, Satterlee turned to the butler. “Pour cognac around, if you will, Ramon, then you are excused.”

Soft clinking followed while Ramon Estavez poured from a crystal decanter into three glasses. When he finished his task and lighted cigars for all three, he soundlessly departed from the room. Satterlee lifted his glass in a toast and mockingly paraphrased Shakespeare.

“We grow . . . we prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards.” They all laughed and drank; then Satterlee continued. “First, let me announce that my lovely Emma will be returning to Santa Fe with me the day after tomorrow. Now, Mr. Quinn, we would appreciate a report of your progress.”

Rising, Quinn set aside his cigar. “The Bar-Four now belongs to C.S. Enterprises, it does. So does the Obrigon ranch. We completed papers on the Suarez ranch this morning. Two stores on the Plaza de Armas now belong to your development company, with three others likely to fall in line within two days more, an' that's a fact.”

“Thank you, Paddy, my friend.” Satterlee beamed.

“Ah, but there's more. The title on the Figueroa hacienda cleared the territorial land office late this afternoon.”

Satterlee shot to his feet in enthusiasm. “Splendid.”

“Here-here!” Brice Noble chimed in. “Though I must say, it was a blasted expensive undertaking. It cost a fortune to buy that mansion. Why not simply kill the old man? After all, the granddaughter could not inherit. The territorial government would appoint an executor to manage it until she reached her majority. And then”—he gestured widely—“through our connections in Santa Fe we could have gotten it for a song.”

Satterlee countered that at once. “To use our bought politicians on so trivial a matter would have unduly compromised them. The time might come when we need their influence much more. Now, let us move on to the next phase of our agenda.”

* * *

Railroad workers rolled a movable loading chute in place at the door to the stock car that held the horses Smoke Jensen had brought along. The last mountain man stood by patiently as a man led Cougar down the ramp onto solid ground. Smoke had been surprised by how much Raton had grown since he had last been in the northern New Mexico town. Low adobe houses now sprawled out for a good mile from the more settled part of the community near the depot, each with its familiar picket fence of ocotillo cactus rods. Smoke abandoned his reflections when Cougar let out a shrill squall and swayed drunkenly, unaccustomed to not having the surface below his hooves in constant motion. Smoke hurried to the heaving side of the big Palouse stallion.

“Easy, boy. Whoa, Cougar.” To the depot worker he added, “He'll get his legs back in a bit. Don't try to walk him around right now.”

When both animals had recovered, Smoke saddled them, then strapped the large panniers on the packsaddle. The sudden thought hit Smoke that in the years past, he had never needed a packhorse to accompany him. Nor had he dragged along all the comforts that the pouches of the panniers now contained. He would have laughed at the wrought-iron trestle, cast-iron skillet and Dutch oven, three-legged grill and cooking utensils. A coffeepot and a small, lidded skillet had been all he had ever needed.
Yet, when the years go by,
he mused with regret,
one's needs change.
Mounted on Cougar, Smoke walked his way toward the main intersection, where he would take the east-west trail toward Taos. With the Santa Fe and Denver and Rio Grande both passing through Raton, the usual entrepreneurs and hustlers had flocked into the burgeoning city. Hawkers with carts stood on street corners, touting their wares. Hundreds of people thronged the streets. A low haze of red-brown dust hovered at first-floor level throughout. Stray dogs yapped at the hooves of his packhorse, and the animal snorted its irritation and flicked one iron shoe. A yellow bitch yelped and slunk off. As he passed a saloon, a loud shout attracted Smoke's attention.

“Hey, let me go!” A young man stumbled out onto the street, as though propelled by eager hands.

Following him came three scraggly ruffians who spread out across the thoroughfare. To Smoke they had the seedy look of low-grade wanna-bes. The one in the middle raised an arm and pointed in a taunting manner. “Yer wearin' a gun, you little shit. Now yer gonna have to use it.”

With a start, Smoke Jensen recognized the speaker as Tully Banning, a two-bit gunfighter more renowned for the number of his back shootings than he was for face-to-face shoot-outs. In the next instant, as he reined in, Smoke realized that the challenged youth could not be more than fifteen. A beardless, frightened boy. Smoke quickly sized up the two louts with Banning. What his read gave him he did not like. The boy did not have a chance. Smoke stepped right in the middle of it.

“Banning! Tully Banning.”

Banning turned only his head. “Who th' hell wants to know?”

“That's not important. What I want to know is why you don't pick on someone your own age or older?”

Banning uttered a string of curses, and concluded with, “Maybe you'd be interested in taking this punk kid's place. If so, I'll deal with you first, then kill Momma's little boy anyway.”

Smoke pulled a face. “I don't think so. Keep your stray curs off me while I step down so I can accommodate you.”