Rage of the Mountain Man (6 page)

As though summoned by name, the butler, Jenkins, appeared from the door to one compartment. “Miss Priscilla, Mr. Thomas, I have taken the liberty of giving you the second compartment. That way there will be no one to either side of you.” He actually blushed at the implication of his words. “Mr. Jensen? Yours will be the one at this end, Number Four.”

“Thank you, Jenkins,” Priscilla said, with all the polished casualness of those accustomed to dealing with servants. “If you will excuse us, we will go change to something more suitable for travel,” she told Smoke and Sally.

Jenkins cleared his throat. “There will be champagne and hors d’oeuvres to celebrate the occasion in the parlor section in one hour.”

“That . . .” Priscilla and Thomas exchanged glances. “Will be fine.”

“Needn’t hurry on our account,” Smoke offered in an amused tone.

One long and two shorts shrilled from the steam whistle of the locomotive to announce departure. The great driver wheels spun until trickles of sand gave proper traction. Then the space widened between cars as they stretched to the limit of their couplers. Another long and three shorts celebrated the entire chain of cars getting under way.

Smoke and Sally entered their compartment and found it as opulent as the rest of the car. Wood-paneled walls with plush red-flocked wallpaper interspersed gave a rich glow to the room. All of the brasswork had been highly polished. A double set of facing seats would fold down into one bed, the other an overhead, swing-away model. Sally examined them and grinned impishly up at her husband.

“I wonder how the newlyweds will handle this arrangement?” she asked mischievously.

Smoke made a great show of offended sensibilities, eastern style. “You shock me. I never dreamed you could harbor such nasty thoughts,” he teased, then added, “For that matter, how are we going to get around it?”

“We’ll manage,” Sally told him saucily.

Once the train had slowly rolled through the heart of Denver and beyond its suburbs, it was literally all downhill to Ellsworth. The journey across the rolling prairie would take the rest of the day and much of the next afternoon to complete. Although named the Daylight Express, numerous water and coaling stops would eat into the time on the 396-mile journey. Also, there would be passenger stops at Limon and Stratton in Colorado, and at Goodland and Fort Hays in Kansas.

With that thought in mind, Smoke and Sally Jensen returned to the parlor section of the private car shortly before the hour had passed. Before the happy couple put in an appearance, the conductor entered the car and came to Smoke.

“Mr. Jensen, ye’ll pardon me for being blunt, sir. As it is, I happened to notice ye had boarded the train armed. Sure an’ that’s a comfort to me,” he added.

Smoke made a puzzled frown. “Why’s that?”

“Because I’m travelin’ armed this trip, also. The name’s Liam Quincannon, and though ’tis true I work for the Santa Fe, Colonel Drew had a quick word with me when we made arrangements for his car to be placed on the Daylight. The good colonel asked that I keep a protective eye on his daughter, ya see?”

Smoke saw only too well. He began to suspect that Colonel Drew’s generosity in offering them his private car, and then installing the newlyweds, might be tempered by a desire to have further protection for his dearest daughter. The old man had spoiled her outrageously whenever she had visited the railhead during construction. Fine with him, Smoke decided, so long as everything went well. Somehow, though, Smoke Jensen had the gut feeling that something would come along to see that it did not go so well.

Dutifully the happy couple showed up some twenty minutes late for the postnuptial celebration, obviously laid on the behest of Colonel Drew. They wore smirking, guilty expressions that clearly telegraphed how, besides changing clothing, they had spent the time since disappearing into their compartment. They sipped champagne, munched on small, heart-shaped sandwiches, carved a miniature of their wedding cake and passed out pieces to Smoke and Sally, and then, in a rush of egalitarianism, included a spluttering Jenkins, the cook. Lee Fong, and his helper.

John Reynolds would not have approved, Smoke Jensen thought amusedly over that. Following a chatty half hour, the bemused pair withdrew to their compartment once more. Smoke and Sally saw little of them from then on. When a tinkling silver bell announced a light supper at six o’clock that evening, Sally and Smoke ate alone. Another sounding of the bell by Jenkins at nine for dinner brought the lovebirds forth, both looking decidedly more weary than the rocking, swaying journey could account for.

They ate sparingly of excellent pheasant and boiled potatoes, and departed early. Smoke turned an amused visage on Sally. “I gather they have found a way,” he opined.

“So shall we, dear; so shall we,” Sally promised.

* * *

Despite Smoke Jensen’s misgivings, everything went well through the night. Not until the train rattled down the track, well into Kansas, did the morning sunlight reveal a condition that warranted quick action by Walk Bigalow, the engineer.

A section of track had been ripped up and used with cross-ties to form a barricade. It could mean only one thing, Walt Bigalow thought: a train robbery. Hostile Indians had long been cleared from this part of Kansas. Fort Hays had been dwindling into the small town of plain Hays, Kansas. Yet he could use the cavalry now. He quickly pulled back the throttle, swung the reverse bar to the proper position, and hoped for the best.

Huge drivers squealed and threw out showers of sparks. All along the train, startled crewmen leaped to the large wheels of the brake controls for the cars. Last to be jolted by the emergency stop was the private car in which Smoke and Sally Jensen, Thomas and Priscilla Henning partook of a late breakfast. Coffee sloshed over the gold-filled rims of delicate china cups and stained the linen tablecloth. Thomas nearly impaled his cheek with a fork.

“What in heaven’s name?” he blurted.

“Something on the tracks,” Sally suggested.

Smoke cut his eyes to the window opposite his place at the table. “From what I can see, it’s a two-legged something,” he stated tightly, as he came to his boots and started toward the passageway that led past the compartments and kitchen. Sally sent an understanding look after him, then rose in a composed manner.

“Come, Priss, I think it is wise if you and Thomas go to your compartment. Lock the door after you.”

“Why? What is it, Sally?” Priscilla asked, suddenly alarmed.

“Perhaps nothing, but Smoke isn’t often mistaken. It could be trouble.”

It was Thomas rather than Priscilla who paled. “What sort of trouble?”

“Train robbers,” Sally answered him simply, not one to mince words at this point.

Smoke stepped onto the vestibule at the same time as Liam Quincannon. The worried expression on the conductor’s face made Smoke’s question unnecessary. Quincannon’s words confirmed it.

“Sure, I’m in a devil of a spot. I’ve me duty to the passengers and the railroad, but there’s ...” He nodded toward the private car.

“We’ll take care of them first, reassure them,” Smoke suggested.

“Foine thinkin’, bucko,” Quincannon responded. Under tension, his accent had thickened noticeably.

Inside the car, Smoke and Liam walked along the passageway until they came upon Sally. So far, she had failed to convince the Hennings to take quick action to disappear. She turned a worried gaze on Smoke.

“We’re going to have to do something about breaking up this robbery,” Smoke stated flatly. “I suggest you two lock yourselves in your compartment and pull down the window blind,” he told Thomas.

“I’ve tried to get them to hurry and do that, Smoke,” Sally answered in the tense silence that followed Smoke’s instructions.

“If ye’ll not use good sense, then I must stay to protect the colonel’s daughter,” Liam Quincannon insisted.

Sally delved into her pearl-studded clutch purse. “It’s all right. I can do that. I have my Colt Lightning.”

Thomas’s eyes went wide as he stared at the compact, parrot-bill grips of the .38 revolver. A typical eastern establishment socialite, he twisted his face into an expression of extreme revulsion. “I thought I had made it clear. I despise nasty firearms.”

With a wicked grin, Sally advised him, “If you won’t use one, then I suppose I can protect you, too.”

“Get them into their room quickly, Sally. We’re going to go cause some grief for those train robbers,” Smoke informed her.

Once on the vestibule again, Smoke gave a satisfied nod when he heard Sally lock the door behind them. “I’d say we ought to cut down the odds some at first,” Smoke suggested. “You take the off-side, I’ll cover this one.”

Smoke and Liam took the door opposite the side of the train where the robbers sat their mounts in silent contemplation. Well-seasoned to the job of looting trains, their leader, Buck Waldron, knew the advantage to be gained by making their intended victims sweat a while. Oblivious to resistance in the form of Smoke Jensen and the conductor, Waldron watched with steely gray eyes over the bandana that served as a mask while the passengers grew more agitated.

“I’ll head for the cab. They always put one or two in there to watch the engineer,” Quincannon offered.

“Good idea. I’ll take to the top of the cars.”

“You could be trapped there, Mr. Jensen.”

“Smoke to you, Liam. I don’t think so. I’ll have the advantage of surprise, and try to keep it.”

Liam’s eyes widened and he drew a deep, hasty breath. “Saints above. Yer Smoke Jensen, the gunfighter an’ mountain man?”

“Some have called me by those names,” Smoke admitted, one foot on the first rung of the iron ladder. “We’ll talk about it later. I’ll give you time to reach the locomotive. Then don’t shoot anyone until I open up. Better chance they won’t know you’ve taken out their men that way.”

“Yer a crafty one, I’ll say that,” Quincannon responded as he started along the right of way, bent below the thick layer of ballast that would mask his movements.

Smoke climbed to the roof of the Pullman next to Drew’s private car. Belly down on the catwalk, he edged forward and then to his right, off the boards. When he neared the edge, he raised his head slightly to take in the scene below. Smoke immediately saw half a dozen of the masked hold-up men. None looked upward, for which he was thankful. Colt already in hand and cocked, Smoke poked the seven-inch barrel forward and sighted in.

Three fast rounds cleared as many unsuspecting men from their saddles. Uncertain as to from where the shots had come, the survivors looked around in confusion. One said he had heard shots from the cab, another swore they came from between the cars. Then one caught a glimpse of a streamer of powder smoke above the roofline of the coach.

“Up there!” he shouted.

Immediately three sixguns barked nearly as one. It did them no good. Smoke Jensen had been on the move the moment the last bullet left the muzzle of his .45 Colt. The slugs whizzed far over his head as he hugged the off side of the car, below the catwalk. He hand-walked his way back to his starting place, climbed down, and went to the ground in the direction Liam had taken.

A quick glance forward gave him sight of an all-clear signal from Liam Quincannon in the cab. Smoke went beyond the point of his first encounter with the bandits and crawled under a car, his action hidden behind the wheels of the rear truck. Smoke took a quick peek beyond one shiny steel disc. Fine place he’d picked, he thought sourly.

The trio he had left unharmed had been joined by five more. They spread out almost on top of him. Before any of them could notice him, a loud blast signaled the forced entry of the express car. That drew the attention of all the hard cases forward.

Smoke swiftly seized the advantage of that. His Peacemaker barked twice more and a pair of robbers crumpled over the necks of their mounts. Again Smoke disappeared before being spotted. Curses came from the remaining six. Seated with his back against the ballast gravel, Smoke reloaded his .45 while he reviewed the positions of his enemy.

Six across the track from him. He’d counted seven more in a cluster near the chair cars. Ten, perhaps a dozen, had gathered outside the express car before the blast. Nothing for it, Smoke summed up, but to keep taking the fight to them. He eased his way along the grade to put himself between the two rearmost groups.

When next he popped out, he fired two rounds to left and right, then dodged behind the leading truck of the second Pullman. Hot, soft lead smashed into steel, to howl off in misshapen ricochets. Smoke holstered his Peacemaker and pulled the older .45 Colt Frontier from the holster high on his left. This time he chose to climb and add to the confusion of the bandits.

On top of the rear chair car, Smoke wriggled on his belly to the near edge and looked down on a group of empty saddles, the reins of the horses that wore them held by a single outlaw. A sharp report from the cab reached Smoke’s ears a moment after the man jerked in his saddle, stiffened, and fell.

Eight pair of reins flew from his hands as he hit the ground. Smoke immediately fired two rounds over the heads of the nervous horses and set them off at a fast run. A shout of alarm, followed by heartfelt curses, brought most of the outlaws at a trot to find their mounts racing away across the prairie.

Although he had easy targets, Smoke held his fire. So did Liam, he noted with satisfaction. It took only a second for the bandits to grasp the situation. Grumbling, they chased after their hastily departing horses. Smoke Jensen climbed from the rooftop and started toward the express car. Liam showed himself in the doorway to the cab and swung onto the rungs that gave access to the ground.

He joined Smoke outside the combination mail and strongbox car. Voices came from inside. “See what the hell that’s all about,” one demanded.

“Buck’s out there somewhere,” another protested. “He can take care of whatever it is.”

“I said for you to look. Now, do it.”

A masked man appeared in the blast-shredded doorway. He looked forward, then to the rear, and finally downward. His eyes widened, showing a lot of white when he peered into the muzzle of the .45 Frontier in Smoke Jensen’s hand. Smoke spoke softly.