Rage of the Mountain Man (13 page)

Then he hauled back on the control and eased them to a stop. The trackwalkers ran to catch up with the train as it rolled past them. The rumble of collapsing bridge chased them. Casey O’Banyon looked with wild eyes at the spume and shattered wood that fountained upward.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’ll lose me job for this, certain sure.”

“No, you won’t, O’Banyon. We made it, and that’s what counts. Besides, I’ll be glad to square things through Colonel Drew.”

O’Banyon looked embarrassed for a moment, then beamed as he flashed a smile and offered Smoke his hand. “Sure an’ yer every bit the fine gentleman I believed ye to be, Smoke Jensen.”

“I take that as a damned generous compliment, O’Banyon. Now, I had better let you have your train back. We’re due in Chicago in a short while.”

Not yet called the Windy City, Chicago sprawled on the shore of Lake Michigan, a metropolis large enough to win the immediate dislike of Smoke Jensen. These huge, urban centers, which had begun to develop over the past few years, represented for him everything bad about the direction the country had taken of late. The plains tribes, and even most of the eastern, “civilized” Indians, had long ago learned the lessons of close living.

They found it impossible, as all people eventually did, to keep large masses of people living in close proximity peacefully month after month and year after year. Not without an all-powerful central authority that strangled individual freedom and responsibility. When the tribes had grown in population to the point that they could no longer be governed by a single chief, or group of chiefs, units would break off along family lines, with representatives of several clans forming separate bands, to live elsewhere, away from the main body.

It worked well for them. Smoke reasoned. Why couldn’t his own people understand and benefit from that? They made the change of trains in the New York Central yards and departed with only a window's view of the crowded conditions of the working class and most of the smaller merchants. Once clear of the suburban clutter of single houses, Smoke asked Jenkins for champagne.

“We’re celebrating,” he informed Sally.

“What is there to celebrate, outside of not being destroyed in that river?”

“Oh, there’s that, too. I want us to celebrate escaping from Chicago without being drowned in all those people.” A tiny vertical frown creased Sally’s brow. “Smoke, you promised,” she began.

“I can’t help it,” he responded, cutting her off. “But I will keep my promise not to let it get to me when we reach your family.”

Sally brightened at that. “Just think, in another two days, we’ll be in Keene. I certainly hope Father and Mother haven’t gone to too much trouble.”

Smoke produced a rueful grin. “You can be sure they have.”

Chris appeared in the study of his father-in-law’s home in Keene, New Hampshire, shortly after the latest issue of the Keen
Guardian
came out. Eyes wide with shock, he waved the newspaper before him as he addressed John Reynolds.

“I thought you said Smoke Jensen had mellowed. Father Reynolds,” Chris’s voice broke over the words.

“He has. Sally assured me of that,” John Reynolds said past his thinning gray mustache.

“Then take a look at this.” Chris shoved the newspaper forward.

John Reynolds took the
Guardian
and quickly found the source of Christopher’s agitation. Bold, black headlines spelled out the latest of Smoke Jensen's encounters with the forces of lawlessness.

NOTORIOUS SMOKE JENSEN

      GUNS DOWN WALDRON GANG!

Beneath it, couched in the typically florid prose of eastern yellow journalism, the article gave a colorful, if inaccurate, account of the train robbery in which the Waldron gang had met their end. Near its conclusion came a paragraph that caused icy fingers to clutch the heart of John Reynolds:

No stranger to our fair city. Smoke Jensen is expected 

to return within a matter of days. He is scheduled 

to participate in the late spring lecture tour of the 

New England Lecture Society, speaking as 

the 'Mountain Man Philosopher of the Rockies.’ After the bloodbath 

he brought to Keene on his first visit, the
Guardian
 

wonders if he should not be heralded as the Philosopher 

of the Colt .45.

“And here, see what the Boston Globe has to say,” Chris urged, revealing another newspaper.

Frowning, John Reynolds set his eyes to absorbing the inflammatory expostulations of the Boston reporter. It certainly seemed to him that someone had set his cap for Smoke Jensen. John wondered how the most mercurial of his sons-in-law would react to this.

Probably with a shrug. No doubt Smoke Jensen had seen worse over the years. “Doesn’t appear as though they are set to offer him the key to the city.”

Chris threw his hands in the air in a gesture of hopelessness. “This is terrible publicity, and at the worst possible time. It will simply ruin our tour.”

“Nonsense,” John thundered. As an attorney, he had long ago been made privy to the secrets of public opinion. “What we are doing is promoting an entertainment. And among entertainers, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. The more people who see these articles, the better for us. They’ll pack the halls, sellout crowds, standing room only.

They’ll each and every one want to get as close to this ‘dangerous’ man as possible. If only for an hour, they'll want to feel that they have shared his adventures. Although, I daresay, the Guardian could have been a bit less censorious. After all. he is married to a daughter of Keene, and he s my son-in-law.”

Somewhat calmed, Chris considered what John had said. It made sense of a sort, he granted. If only Smoke Jensen could be kept in a peaceful mood while here, it all might go well after all. “I suppose all we can do is hope for the best,” he offered lamely.

“In the case of Smoke Jensen, ‘the best’ can be positively awful,” John Reynolds recalled from experience.

Coarse, black hair, topped by a derby of matching color set at a rakish angle, formed a forelock that just came short of being bangs. The oily strands hung over a low forehead, creased by a perpetual scowl. Beady obsidian eyes sparkled with a shrewdness that spoke of a hard life, lived in the gutters and cruel streets of Boston. They studied the expensively and immaculately dressed man across the rude table in the low tavern on Beal Street in Boston, Massachusetts.

Phineas Lathrop had contacted Sean O’Boyle earlier in the day at the offices of the Brotherhood of Stevedores and Longshoremen on Congress Street. Labor unions as yet were far from universally accepted, even among the mass of blue-collar workers along the Atlantic seaboard. Due to the wildcat strike called by O’Boyle and his puppet union officials, a cordon had been erected a block from the headquarters in all directions.

Manned by tough Boston policemen, it kept everyone away, including the rank-and-file of the union. Perhaps, Phineas Lathrop had considered, that was for the best. Militant anti-unionists had been known to toss dynamite bombs through the windows of union offices. Granted, most had been in retaliation for bombs thrown by the more aggressive of union thugs, but once having chosen a position, one had to maintain the perspective of that stand. The implied risk notwithstanding, Lathrop would have preferred to hold this meeting at the musty hall, rather than here.

Even in his most profligate days, Phineas Lathrop would have eschewed association with the likes of Sean O’Boyle. Yet he now found himself drinking a brandy of questionable origin, across the table from O’Boyle, in one of the grimmest dives he had ever encountered. O’Boyle had met him in New York, as ordered, a decision Lathrop had immediately begun to regret. Intrigue and empire building made for strange bedfellows, Lathrop decided. His mood changed, though, when O’Boyle handed him a creased, grease-stained handbill.

“Like I tole’ you. Mr. Lathrop, they’re plastered up all over town." Sean O'Boyle confided, in what for him came closest to a deferential tone.

Phineas Lathrop glanced up from the flyer he held in his flawlessly manicured hands. “How delightfully ironic!” he exclaimed to O’Boyle’s startled expression. “Here I am, devoting hundreds of man-hours to seeking out our Mr. Jensen, and he obligingly hands himself over to us, complete with advance publicity.”

“Yer—ah—yer really pleased, Mr. Lathrop?” O’Boyle asked doubtfully.

“Why, certainly, Mr. O’Boyle. In fact, I am going to place the entire matter of disposing of Smoke Jensen in your capable hands. Right here in Boston is the ideal place to terminate his interference in our plans. How fitting that the ultimate westerner should meet his end on a rat-infested dock in a teeming eastern city.”

Colonel Drew’s private car created quite a stir when it rolled into the depot in Keene, New Hampshire, at the rear of the New England Zephyr. The glittering brass brightwork rivaled even the opulent steam yachts of the wealthy New Englanders. The fact that it brought the notorious Smoke Jensen to town added to the excitement. Troops of small boys materialized out of nowhere and formed gaggles of giggling, wriggling gawkers along the platform edge. They shrilled enthusiastic information and pointed with grubby fingers at the first sign of movement from within.

More restrained, their parents and other adults in Keene held back under the shade of the roof overhang. It didn’t prevent them from gaping every bit as much as the tykes when the lovely Sally Reynolds Jensen and her legendary husband, Smoke Jensen, appeared on the observation platform, light carpetbags in hand.

“I shall arrange for your luggage to be transported to the Reynolds manse, Mr. Jensen,” Jenkins advised from the doorway.

“Thank you, Jenkins. You have arranged a place to bunk down?” Smoke responded.

“We shall be quite comfortable here, sir,” Jenkins replied stiffly.

“I’d think you’d want to get off this rattlin’ wreck for a while,” Smoke observed.

A fleeting ghost of a smile creased Jenkins’ lips. “A stationary bed would be pleasant for a change,” he wistfully admitted.

“Done, then. The best hotel in town. For you, Lee Fong, and his helper,” Smoke concluded abruptly.

Jenkins hastened to decline. “We really should keep close to the car, sir. There’s no telling what mischief might get afoot if it were abandoned.”

“Cow plop! Lock it up when you leave. Nothing will go wrong in Keene, New Hampshire.”

“Very well, sir,” Jenkins acquiesced. To himself, he muttered, “Nothing will go wrong with Smoke Jensen around.”

Right then, Sally spotted her mother in the crowd. She waved energetically and dismounted from the platform. Both women rushed into each other’s arms.

“Oh, my dear, dear girl,” Abigale, trilled as she embraced Sally.

“I’ve missed you, Mother, terribly,” Sally offered dutifully. “And Father, too,” she added, as John Reynolds approached.

After a powerful hug, John Reynolds spoke over his daughter’s shoulder to Smoke Jensen. “Come along, you two, the carriage is outside the depot.”

Smoke Jensen had to endure the stultifying heaviness of a traditional New England boiled dinner before retiring to the room John Reynolds used as a study for cigars and brandy. John used a delicate, gold-filled scissor to cut the tip of his Havana cigar, while Smoke bit off the end of his. Both men puffed them to life with the aid of sulfurous lucifers, took deep drags, and exhaled.

John poured brandy and they sipped appreciatively before he sprang his latest enterprise on his son-in-law. With an elegant flourish, he presented Smoke with a copy of the handbill. Smoke read only half a dozen words, then looked up in consternation.

“Pardon me, John, but what in the hell is this? ‘Mountain Man Philosopher of the Rockies?’ ” he quoted.

John Reynolds ran long, lawyer-soft fingers through his leonine mane of white hair. “That’s you, Smoke.”

“Not by a damned sight,” Smoke snapped. “I’ll not be turned into some sort of—of performing bear.”

“That’s not it at all. The—the cream of society will attend these lectures. And you’ll have an opportunity to explain the way of life in the West. Is there anyone better qualified?” he added flatteringly.

“No.”

“That’s what I thought,” Reynolds stated with satisfaction.

“No means that I’m rejecting the idea out of hand. I’m not a damned speechmaker. I’m plainspoken, direct. Hell, John, I’d wind up insulting the audience before I’d said ten words.”

Their voices had risen enough that it attracted Robert and Chris to the open doorway of the study. Their stricken expressions showed how clearly agitated they were by Smoke’s vehement opposition. Smoke cut his eyes from them to John Reynolds.

“I honestly thought you’d be pleased by this,” the elder Reynolds offered by way of explanation. “Or at least encouraged by this opportunity to cast the light of truth on the miasma of those terrible dime novels.”

That, at last, struck a responsive note for Smoke Jensen. “You’ve a point there. But I think you’ll find that whatever audience is drawn to such a lecture comes with the expectation of tales of bloodshed and derring-do.”

John Reynolds produced a wry smile. “It wouldn’t hurt to give them a little of that, too, would it?” He sighed and nodded toward the flyer. “Besides, we’ve booked the lecture into several theaters and lecture halls. These are up all over New England and as far south as New York City. After all, you’d be joining a long list of notable persons who have made lecture tours. Even the famous Irish playwright Oscar Wilde did the tour circuit. Not only here in the East, but out West, too.”

“That was different,” Smoke snapped. “Oscar Wilde was a twit.”

“No,” John persisted. “He was a wit, a playwright, and an essayist. A man of many talents. At least consider it, Smoke,” he pleaded his case. “It would be a shame to have generated all this interest ... ah, most of those who have contracted for the tour report sellouts for each performance . . . only to have to cancel.”

“I—we,” Smoke amended, when he glanced up to see Sally in the doorway with her brother and brother-in-law, “don’t need the money.”