“Laird, laddie, ye look like you’re a million miles away.”
Kingsley turned away from the window and looked over at the man sitting beside him. Big Steve Corrigan was his second in command, a brutal, ruthless Irishman, none too bright but smart enough to follow orders. Kingsley knew he could depend on Corrigan. It had been the Irishman’s sausage-like fingers that had snapped the delicate neck of Claire Litchfield that night some six months earlier in the mansion on Riverside Drive in New York. Two others had beaten Grant Litchfield to death while Kingsley had gone for the boy, but the little brat had slipped away from him.
Kingsley had experienced a sick, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach when they found the old abandoned tunnel with small, fresh footprints in the dust and he realized that Donald Litchfield was gone, vanished into the night.
He and his men had searched all over the city without turning up a sign of the missing boy. For several days after that, Kingsley had worried that the coppers would turn up at his house to arrest him, even though logically he knew that Donald wouldn’t have been able to recognize him and his men. Still, the fear that one part of his life would intrude into the other was always there.
Gradually, that fear had faded. The kid had fallen into the river and drowned, Kingsley had told himself, or been run over by a wagon and a team of draft horses, or fallen victim to some other deadly fate. He couldn’t still be alive after so long.
Then William Litchfield had sent word to Kingsley, and the fear started all over again....
“There ye go, driftin’ away before ye can even say anything to me,” Corrigan went on. “What the devil’s the matter, Laird?”
“You’re an Irishman, Steve. You’re bound to know the feeling of someone walking over your grave.”
“Oh, aye!” Corrigan nodded his head slowly and solemnly. “It’ll chill ye to the bone, even more than that weather out there. Ye have a bad feelin’ about this job, do ye?”
“Wouldn’t anybody?”
Corrigan’s broad, thick shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I’ve found that enough money soothes most bad feelin’s. The world is a hard, cruel place, and fellas like you and me, we’re just the instruments of that fate, laddie.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” Kingsley said with a humorless laugh.
A short time later, the train slowed as it neared a town. He didn’t know the name of the place and didn’t care. It would feel good to get out and stretch his legs on the platform, even though he knew it would be cold. He had never felt anything quite as chilly as the wind that blew out on the endless plains.
When the train shuddered to a halt at the depot, Kingsley and Corrigan stood up. Kingsley looked along the benches in the car. Several more of his men were scattered among the passengers. He had brought eight men total, plenty to do the job. Killing the boy wouldn’t be difficult, of course, but to get to him they might have to get through that private detective, and there was no telling who else might try to interfere.
They climbed down from the car to the station platform, and just as Kingsley had expected, the icy wind cut like a knife. He pulled his hat down and raised the collar on his overcoat.
Passengers were getting off the train and others were getting on. As the two men from New York walked briskly back and forth, he noticed several individuals huddled together. One of them he recognized as the conductor. The other, judging by the clothes he wore, was the engineer. They were talking to two of the locals.
The conductor seemed to be upset about something. After a considerable amount of animated discussion, he turned and strode along the platform. Kingsley moved to intercept him and held out a hand to stop the blue-uniformed man.
“Excuse me, sir,” the conductor said impatiently. He tried to step around Kingsley, but he found the formidable bulk of Big Steve Corrigan blocking his path and had to come to an abrupt stop.
“Is something wrong?” Kingsley asked.
For a second, the conductor looked like he wasn’t going to answer, but then he shrugged and said, “The stationmaster got a wire from farther up the line. The division manager has ordered this train to stop here.”
“To stop?” Kingsley repeated in surprise. That wasn’t good news. “For how long?”
The conductor shrugged again. “We don’t know. There was a big storm last night in the Rockies, and some of the passes have been closed by snow. In fact, the westbound that’s in front of us didn’t make it through.”
“It crashed?” asked Kingsley as his eyes widened. A train wreck would make his job easier . . . and harder. The kid might have been killed in the catastrophe, but how was Kingsley going to determine that?
“No, no,” the conductor replied with a wave of his hand. “It’s just stuck, too, like we are, only a lot closer to the passes that are closed down. I think the wire from the division manager said it was stopped in a town called Big Rock.”
“Well, what’re we gonna do?” rumbled Corrigan. “We can’t just sit here in this burg.”
“No choice. Chances are the weather will break, and the pass will clear enough in a few days for trains to make it through again. They’ll probably attach a snowplow to the locomotive that’s stuck in Big Rock and send it on ahead to try to clear the tracks through the passes. Then it can go back and pick up the rest of the train. I hope you fellas didn’t need to be anywhere by Christmas. It’ll be after that, maybe even after New Year’s, before we can get through.”
Something occurred to Kingsley. “What if the snow doesn’t melt off any? Is there any chance the passes will stay closed for the rest of the winter?”
“I’ve never known that to happen this early”—the conductor spread his hands—“but who knows? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to start letting the other passengers know that they either need to make arrangements to head back east if that’s what they want, or else stay here until we can move on. There are a couple hotels in town, and they ought to be able to put up everybody. What are you two gentlemen going to do, turn back or wait here?”
“Neither,” said Kingsley in a flat, hard voice. “We can’t afford to wait.”
“What—” the conductor began, but Kingsley jerked his head for Corrigan to follow him and strode off, leaving the puzzled railroad man behind.
“What are ye doin’, Laird?” Corrigan asked. “If that other train’s stuck, too, there ain’t no reason we can’t wait here. We’re still the same distance behind it when we were startin’ out.”
“What if it gets through in a few days and then another storm comes along before our train reaches that Big Rock place? We might get stuck there while those damn orphans go on their merry way to California. What would we do then?”
Corrigan scratched his rock-like jaw and frowned in thought. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said after a moment. “But what’re we gonna do? This train’s not goin’ anywhere.”
“A train’s not the only way to travel out here. Gather up all the boys, get our things together, and meet me back here.”
Corrigan looked completely puzzled, but he nodded. “You’re the boss, laddie.”
A short while later, Kingsley led the group of hard-faced men in overcoats away from the train station and along the main street of the frontier settlement. He had asked the stationmaster—one of the men who had been talking to the conductor and the engineer, the other being the telegrapher—where the nearest livery stable was, so he knew where he was going.
They soon reached the big, cavernous barn. The double doors on the front were closed, but Corrigan pulled one of them open and the men trooped inside. It was chilly in the livery barn, but not nearly as cold as outside. The air smelled of hay, manure, and horseflesh. Kingsley had been around enough carriage houses that the blend of smells was familiar to him.
An old man in overalls, a flannel jacket, and a shapeless old hat came out of a small office to the side. He looked surprised to see so many obvious easterners in his establishment. “Somethin’ I can d
o for you gents?”
“We need to buy some horses,” Kingsley said briskly.
“You mean saddle mounts? Or have you got a buggy or somethin’ like that?”
“Saddle mounts.”
The old-timer rubbed his jaw, which bristled with silvery stubble, and drawled, “Well, I usually rent out saddle mounts, instead of sellin’ ’em. . . .”
“We probably won’t be able to bring these back,” snapped Kingsley. “That’s why I’d rather buy them.” He would pass the expense along to William Litchfield, so he didn’t really care.
Fleetingly, the thought crossed his mind that he and his men could just steal the horses they needed, but if they did that, they would probably have lawmen coming after them. Also, he seemed to remember hearing that in the West, they hanged horse thieves. He didn’t need that sort of trouble.
“How many of you are there?” the liveryman asked.
“Nine.” Kingsley tried to contain his impatience. Couldn’t the old codger count?
“And you all need horses?”
“That’s right.”
“I ain’t sure I got nine horses that I could sell. . . .” The old man’s words came out of his mouth as slow as molasses.
Kingsley could tell that Corrigan was getting impatient. The big Irishman might lose his temper if the conversation kept up much longer, and Kingsley didn’t want that. He took a roll of greenbacks out of an inside pocket in his coat.
At the sight of the money, the old-timer’s eyes widened and he spoke a little faster than before. “I reckon I could come up with nine mounts. You’ll need saddles and tack?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I can figure you a price. Just lemme go back in the office . . .”
“How about a thousand dollars for everything?” Kingsley suggested.
The liveryman didn’t have to think very long about that. His head bobbed up and down on his scrawny neck. “Yeah, I suppose that’d be all right.”
“Get them saddled and ready to ride as quickly as you can. What about a pack animal?”
“Yeah, I reckon, but I might have to charge a little more. . . .”
“I think you’re getting plenty.” Kingsley’s voice packed enough of a menacing tone to cut through the old man’s greed.
The liveryman nodded in quick agreement. “I can throw in a pack hoss.”
Kingsley turned to his men. “A couple of you find a store and buy some supplies. We’ll be on the trail for a few days.”
“Where you boys headed?” the old-timer asked.
“A place called Big Rock. You know it?”
“Heard of it, that’s all. Ain’t never been there.” Recognition dawned on the liveryman’s face. “I think that’s where Smoke Jensen lives. Close by, anyway.”
“Who’s Smoke Jensen?” Kingsley asked in idle curiosity.
“You never heard o’ Smoke Jensen? Why, mister, he’s just about the fastest gun that ever did live.”
Kingsley snorted. Some cowboy who fancied himself a gunman. That wasn’t anything to worry about.
CHAPTER 28
Sugarloaf Ranch
When Smoke woke up the morning after Preacher and Eagle-Eye had patched up their differences, he went to the window in the second floor bedroom wearing only the bottom half of a pair of long underwear, and pushed back the curtains. He wasn’t really surprised when he looked out on a world wearing a thick white mantle.
Preacher had said that the storm might be a big one, and sure enough, a couple feet of snow lay on the open areas. Drifts several times that deep could be seen in numerous places. The sky still had a lot of gray clouds in it, but no snow was falling and Smoke saw blue peeking between the clouds here and there.
The door behind him opened and he glanced back over his shoulder.
Sally was standing there, wrapped in a thick robe. She had a cup of coffee in her hand. Steam rose from it. “So you’re awake at last,” she said with a smile. “I was beginning to think you were going to sleep half the day.”
“How long’s the sun been up?” asked Smoke.
“Five minutes at least. Maybe ten.”
His smile widened into a grin. “I guess you must’ve worn me out last night.”
“Be careful or I’ll throw this coffee at you instead of letting you drink it.”
“I reckon it’d warm me up some, either way.” As Sally came closer to him, he added, “Although I can think of even better ways to warm up.”
“Go ahead and start on that while you get dressed,” she said as she handed him the coffee. “Then come on down to breakfast. We’re going into Big Rock this morning. Christmas Eve is the day after tomorrow. We still have a lot to do to get ready for the party, you know.”
“I don’t see how. You and the ladies in town have been planning it for more than a month.”
Sally shook her head. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re a man, after all.”
“Yeah, I am,” Smoke agreed. He tried to slip his free arm around her, but she laughed and moved away before he could. He chuckled and sipped the hot coffee.
When he went downstairs a short time later, carrying the cup, he found Preacher, Eagle-Eye, and Ace and Chance sitting at the long table in the dining room, all of them eagerly putting away a big breakfast of ham, eggs, flapjacks, and fried potatoes. Sally set a similar platter of food in front of Smoke’s chair at the head of the table.
Smoke was glad to see that all the hard feelings between Preacher and Eagle-Eye seemed to have evaporated. Between bites, the two old mountain men were reminiscing about events from the fur trapping era, some forty to fifty years earlier. Preacher’s time in the mountains actually went back farther than that, although Eagle-Eye’s didn’t.
“Finally decided to crawl outta your soogans, did you?” Preacher jibed as Smoke sat down at the table.
“These young fellas wasn’t never as eager to get up and get to work as we were back in our heyday, Preacher,” Eagle-Eye said.
“I wouldn’t want to say they was plumb lazy,” drawled Preacher, “but I seen a young fella yawnin’ once while he was tryin’ to get outta the way of a buffalo stampede.”
“I reckon he made it?”
“Yeah . . . and then he took a nap.” Preacher shook his head. “Wonder whatever happened to ol’ Breck Wallace. I ain’t seen nor heard anythin’ about him for a heap o’ years.”
Smoke had heard Preacher mention Breckinridge Wallace before, but he didn’t know what had happened to the old frontiersman, either. Odds were, the man was dead.
Smoke looked over at Ace and Chance and asked, “How did you fellas sleep last night?”
“Best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time,” Ace said.
“Me, too,” Chance added. “You and Mrs. Jensen have a mighty nice spread here, Smoke.”
From the kitchen, Sally said through the open doorway, “You’re supposed to call me Sally, Chance. We’re all friends and family here.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll try to remember that.”
Smoke devoted himself to his food for a few minutes, as did the other men, then after washing down some ham and eggs with coffee, he said, “Sally and I are going into Big Rock this morning, if any of you boys want to come along.”
“It looked like a nice town when we passed through it,” Ace said. “Anything to do there?”
“There’s a billy-ard parlor,” said Preacher, “happen you like pokin’ balls with a stick.”
“And there’s a theater and opera house,” Smoke said, “but it’s closed down for the winter. The fellow who runs it can’t hardly abide the cold weather, all that snow and ice, so he usually heads south until spring. Mostly I sit around a saloon and restaurant called Longmont’s and talk to the owner, who’s an old friend of mine.”
“Louis Longmont?” asked Ace, raising his eyebrows slightly. “I’ve heard of him. He used to be a gunman, didn’t he?”
“Fast on the draw,” Smoke confirmed. “Still is. That doesn’t necessar
ily make a man a gunman, though. Louis is a gambler and a businessman, but more than anything else he’s a gentleman.” Smoke paused then added, “He plays an excellent game of chess, too.”
Chance poked a thumb toward his brother. “That’s Ace’s game. Poker’s more my speed. Maybe a little blackjack now and then.”
“You’ll find somebody at Longmont’s to accommodate you,” Smoke said.
“I wouldn’t mind goin’, too,” Eagle-Eye said. “Been a while since I been in a big city.”
Smoke smiled. “I’m not sure Big Rock qualifies as a big city.”
“When you’ve spent most o’ the past forty years in a tradin’ post in the middle o’ nowhere, it does!”
Smoke couldn’t argue with that. Anyway, even though Preacher and Eagle-Eye appeared to have made peace, Smoke liked the idea of the two old-timers going to town with them so he could keep an eye on them.
After breakfast, he hitched up the buggy horse, then saddled his own mount while Ace, Chance, Preacher, and Eagle-Eye got their horses ready to ride. It was a formidable group that set out for Big Rock a short time later.
The snow on the trail slowed them down a little, but it wasn’t anything the horses and the buggy couldn’t make their way through. The rugged scenery with its covering of white was so pretty it looked like it ought to be on a calendar, thought Smoke.
Big Rock
As they approached the settlement and moved along Main Street, the Jensens, Preacher, and Eagle Eye could see numerous columns of smoke rising from various chimneys, which added to the picturesque quality of the scene. Despite the snow, the town was bustling.
Smoke noticed that a train was stopped at the depot. No smoke was puffing from the locomotive’s diamond-shaped stack, which meant it didn’t have any steam up. The fact that the westbound hadn’t pulled out yet caused his curiosity to perk up. He pulled his horse alongside the buggy and leaned over slightly in the saddle. “I think I’ll ride on down to the train station,” he told Sally.
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