Rage of the Mountain Man (16 page)

“You have a matinee this afternoon. Smoke. I'm going shopping. I’ll see you at the theater this evening.”

“Women and their shopping,” Smoke grumped good-naturedly. “In that amount of time, you could buy up all of Boston.”

“That’s unfair. I have to come back here with my purchases, and change for the lecture tonight. After all, Beacon Hill is some distance from the commercial district.”

“Is your mother going with you?” Smoke asked casually. “No. She’s not feeling well. Perhaps after lunch.”

“Sally, you know I don’t like you going around alone in a big city,” Smoke admonished gently. “There are too many things that can happen. And if they did, how would anyone know to get in touch with me?”

“You worry too much,” Sally said lightly. “After all, I’ll have my friend Sam Colt along.”

Smoke frowned. “I was thinking of runaway horses or a beer wagon accident.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll stay far away from the middle of the streets. Don’t you worry. Nothing can happen to me.”

With that, Sally draped a knit shawl over her graceful shoulders, fitted a small, stylish hat into place, and departed. A knock sounded a minute later. Thinking it to be Sally returned for some forgotten item, Smoke answered it readily. He opened the portal to reveal a young man in his early twenties, slightly built, with a pigeon breast and boyishly eager expression.

“Mr. Smoke Jensen?” he asked in a tenor rush. “Oliver Johnson, the Boston
Herald
. If you have a few minutes, I’d like an interview with you.”

“I was just finishing breakfast,” Smoke began, framing a refusal.

“That’s all right. I’ve already eaten, but I could use a cup of coffee,” Johnson rattled off, as he pushed past Smoke and entered the suite. He paused suddenly and turned full about. “This is quite the most opulent hotel room I’ve ever been in.”

Smoke couldn’t understand why his face colored while he explained, “My father-in-law made our travel arrangements.” Then, accepting the inevitable, he gestured to a chair. “What is it you wanted to ask me?”

Oliver Johnson produced a small notepad and a stub of pencil. He wet the lead with thin lips and poised the point over the paper. “Is it true you’ve killed more than four hundred men?”

“No,” Smoke answered forcefully, then amended his denial. “That is, I’m not sure. I don’t keep score.” Johnson cut his eyes to Smoke with a sly expression. “No notches on the old sixshooter, eh? I thought every hired killer in the West cut notches for his victims in the grips of his revolver?”

At the best of times, Smoke Jensen had little use for representatives of the press. By Smoke’s lights, this proper, typically dressed Bostonian was quickly wearing thin a tentative welcome. In three short sentences, he had proved himself to be a typical reporter, rude and pushy. Memories of other eager young men over the years directed Smoke to give Johnson more than an even break.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I am not, and never have been, a hired killer.”

“Yes, but. . Johnson interrupted, to be silenced by the faint hint of violence in those hard, gray eyes and an upraised hand.

“I have killed men in self-defense, or in protecting my property or that of others. I have killed outlaws stupid enough not to surrender to me or to other lawmen. But I have never been paid money for the purpose of taking another human life. To me, the only justifiable circumstances for that is being a soldier, during time of war.”

Johnson seized on that. “Did you serve the Union cause, sir?”

“No,” Smoke answered shortly. “Nor the Confederate, for that matter. That’s why I can tell you I’ve never taken money to kill another person.”

“That’s . . . quite surprising. I understand your wife is traveling with you. What does she think of your exploits?” Smoke’s hard gaze bore into the eyes of the impetuous reporter. “We’ve remained married long enough to raise five children to adulthood. I think that speaks for her outlook.”

“Seriously, she must have some strong feelings about the subject,” Johnson pressed.

“I’m sure she does. We rarely discuss them. But, I can tell you one thing—you’re getting entirely too damn nosy. I’ll answer any reasonable questions about myself, but keep my wife the hell out of it.”

Johnson blinked and cleared his throat. “Agreed. I—ah—understand you were engaged in a bloody uprising down in Mexico not long ago.”

“You’ve done your research rather thoroughly,” Smoke stated sincerely impressed by this eager youth’s knowledge. “It was hardly what you could call an uprising. In fact, the opposite. Two old friends prevailed on me to help them put down an uprising by a bandit leader that threatened to take over the central region of their country. I obliged them.”

“And those gentlemen were Esteban Carbone and Miguel Martine?” Johnson prompted.

“The same. We go back a long ways,” Smoke filled in.

“But they are notorious gunmen,” Johnson blurted.

Smoke Jensen smiled without mirth. “Some say that applies to me, too.” Johnson’s unexpected reaction to the mild rebuke prodded Smoke into an explanation. “Both had retired several years before. Both are large landowners in the state of Nayarit. They stood in the way of an hombre named Gustavo Carvajal, who called himself El Rey del Norte—the King of the North. Carvajal believed himself to be the reincarnation of Montezuma, the last Aztec emperor.”

Oliver Johnson shook his head in wonder. Here was a story well worth telling. He only hoped he could keep Smoke Jensen talking long enough to get the whole piece down on paper. “Crazy as a loon,” he opined.

“You could say that,” Smoke answered dryly.

“Tell me more.”

Relaxed under the shift in Johnson’s attitude, Smoke did as he was bidden. They extended the interview until an hour before Smoke’s matinee performance. Johnson departed after exacting an promise for another interview over a late-night supper. For some reason, Smoke looked forward to it.

Her hands filled with bulky packages, Sally Jensen paid no attention to three burly, dark men in blue cotton work shirts who trailed along in her wake down Tremont Street, on the east side of Boston Common. She had had her fill of shopping and now wanted to return to the hotel before Smoke left for his afternoon performance. She could have facilitated that by taking one of the many hansom cabs, but considered that a lot of bother with all her parcels. Instead, she decided on a shortcut through the park to Beacon Street and to Beacon Hill Road beyond.

Sturdy old elms, oaks, and maples provided a refreshing shade that cooled her as Sally walked along a gravel pathway. Children frolicked on the slopes of the hilly park, where in winter they would squeal with delight as their sleds followed the long runs to the small lake where older youths placidly skated on the ice.

Near the halfway mark, the three men increased their pace and rapidly closed with Sally. Two of them grabbed her by the arms and the third spoke hoarsely into her ear from behind. “Don’t make a fuss, Mizus Jensen. Just come with us and do as I say.”

Sally dropped a hatbox and made a grab for her brocaded purse. “Let go of me this instant,” she demanded.

One of her captors stayed her hand. “We ain’t out to rob you, Mizus. But you’re gonna come with us, like it or not.”

“Who are you? What do you want with me?” Sally blurted.

“It’s yer husband we want, Smoke Jensen? We figger he’ll come for you when you don’t show up at the hotel.”

Her anger and indignation were overridden by fear for Smoke’s safety, and Sally ceased struggling. Her sharp mind worked quickly to devise some means of escape, or lacking that, to warn Smoke. The incidents in New Hampshire, and the previous night here in Boston, imprinted themselves on her consciousness. Someone out there was after her Smoke and she had to prevent them from succeeding.

Grim-faced, the men steered her toward a side exit of the common. Sally looked about her for some way of getting a message to Smoke. To her regret and frustration, she found none before the men whisked her into the rear of an enclosed wagon, some sort of furniture mover to judge, by the name on the side. Her packages were taken from her and her hands were firmly bound behind her back. Then the sat her unceremoniously on a quilted pad and the wagon started off.

Sean O’Boyle sidled through the Cambridge Street entrance of Fin O’Casey’s on Charles Street at three that afternoon. A quick glance at the back bar told him that the spirits dispensed differed little from the Irish saloons that lined Atlantic Avenue and Commercial Street down by the docks. Only the prices indicated a better class of clientele. Even the soft glow of highly polished brass, the rich, dark wood paneling, and the plush velvet upholstery of comfortable chairs told him this place was at least two classes above his accustomed watering holes. He spotted Phineas Lathrop sitting with a friend on a shadowy corner banquette. He whipped the cloth cap from his thick thatch of black hair as he approached the table.

“A good afternoon to ye, gentlemen,” he delivered with deference.

Phineas Lathrop and Arnold Cabbott looked up at their Boston henchman and did not reply. O’Boyle noted their mood and forced more affability than he felt into his beaming Irish face.

“Not to worry about our little project. Everything is at hand. Within the hour the—ah—package will be delivered to the warehouse on Pier Seven. By evening, the trail will be laid to the whereabouts of that lovely bit of goods. Smoke Jensen will be able to follow it easily.”

“You’re certain this time?” Lathrop growled.

“Positive. By midnight Smoke Jensen will be dead.”

Patrons lined the rear wall of the lecture hall where Smoke Jensen would speak that night. Every seat had been filled by twenty minutes before the program was to begin. In contrast to his usual calm, calculated demeanor, Smoke paced the corridor outside the line of minute dressing rooms, a dark expression drawing together his heavy brows and turning down the corners of his mouth.

So far, Sally had yet to appear. He had not seen her since breakfast. He had at least expected to meet her for a light supper after the matinee. When she had failed to join him in the suite while he dressed, he had sent Robert and Walter Reynolds out looking for her. They reported negative results at the lecture hall two hours later. He told them to look harder, that he knew she had mentioned the shops along Tremont Street.

“She can’t have disappeared,” Smoke insisted. “Someone has to have seen something.”

“It’s been hours, Mr. Jensen,” Robert protested. “A whole different sort of people will be along Tremont, and most of the shops closed.”

“I don’t like the idea of bringing in the police,” Walter began.

“Nor do I,” Smoke agreed. “Sally’s a resourceful girl. If you look hard enough you’ll find something that leads to where she’s gone,” he insisted.

By the conclusion of the lecture, Robert and Walter returned, excited by a discovery they had made. “We found two children playing with a woman’s hat and hatbox on the common. It was the sort of thing Sally would like,” Robert blurted to Smoke.

“What else did you find?” a worried Smoke asked. “There were some scraps of paper, like from a parcel. They had blown some, but led to the north edge of the park. On Winter Street. That’s where we lost sight of anything.” “You’re sure nothing else could lead us to Sally?” Smoke queried urgently.

Both young men shook their heads in defeat. A commotion raised at the stage door as a small waif of about eleven squirmed past the doorman and bolted down the corridor toward Smoke and his brothers-in-law. He had a scrap of paper in one hand and a thatch of carroty hair that sprouted from under a cloth cap. He looked over the three men carefully and spoke to Smoke.

“You Smoke Jensen?”

“I am.”

“This is for you.” He thrust the paper toward Smoke and turned to run without even waiting for a tip.

Smoke took a quick glance at the first words of the folded note: “We’ve got your wife . . ." and went for the boy. He caught him in three long, fast strides.

“Who gave you this?” he demanded.

“Leggo!” the kid shouted as one word.

Inflamed by the implication in the note, Smoke lifted the lad off his brogues and shook him roughly. “Answer me. Who gave you this note?”

Eyes wide with fear, the boy screwed his full, curved lips into a pout. “It was just a man. A big one. Not like you, but thick through the shoulders and chest.”

“Tell me more,” Smoke demanded.

“Put me down, okay?” Feet on the floor again, he went on, “He had real black hair, short and curly. A mick face.” “What do you mean?”

“He looked like Irish to me.”

Smoke studied the flaming hair, freckles, and cornflower-blue eyes. The boy looked Irish enough to him. “Does this Irishman have a name?”

“No—I don’t know. He didn’t give me one.”

“If you’re holding something back, I’ll drop your britches and blister your behind,” Smoke threatened.

“You can’t touch me. We got a Child Protective League in Boston.”

These pint-sized hard cases learned all the angles at an early age, Smoke reflected. Forcing himself to stay calm, Smoke looked the boy over again. He didn’t appear to be beyond redeeming. Smoke decided to try a little naked intimidation.

"I'm not from Boston.” he stated nastily. “Where I come from, they still use razor straps and willow switches on smartass punks like you. So I reckon I can do anything with you that I want to. Don’t you doubt that if you brought any of those do-gooder ladies around here to complain I’d give them a look at my forty-five Colt. They’d wet their bloomers and faint dead away. Better open up before I hurt you a little.”

Not that Smoke Jensen would ever deliberately harm a child, a woman, or an animal. He’d skinned a knuckle on the jaws of more than one so-called man he’d caught in the act. Popped a few caps, too. The now-terrified messenger didn’t know that.

“Honest, I don’t know his name. I’ve seen him around, though.”

“Where?”

“Places.” Smoke glowered at him and he hurried to elaborate. “Like on the docks, outside the gin mills, that sort of place.”

Smoke released his grip on the boy’s shirt front. “All right. You’ve saved yourself from a world of hurt. I want you to take me to the exact place where he gave you the message.”