* * *
With an impatient twist to his lips, Clifton Satterlee gazed from the narrow window of the mud wagon stagecoach that rattled and swayed along the narrow dirt roadway that led from Santa Fe to Taos. “One would think,” he muttered under his breath, “that since our nation has conquered this country, the government would put down proper paving stones.” If they did not reach the relay station soon, he swore he would leave his breakfast on the floor of the coach. Across from him, his chief partner in C. S. Enterprises, Brice Noble, sat beside Satterlee’s bodyguard, Cole Granger. To the increase of his discomfort, Satterlee realized that Granger actually liked this trip. He seemed to thrive on the discomfort. Suddenly Clifton’s stomach lurched, and a fiery gorge rushed up his throat. He turned sideways and hastily flung aside the leather curtain.
“Oh, God,” Satterlee groaned as he thrust his head out the window. With explosive force, he vomited into the rising plume of dust that came from under the iron-tired right front wheel. He could feel Granger’s amused gaze resting on him. Damn the man!
When he recovered himself, Clifton Satterlee crawled limply back inside. Cole Granger held out a canteen for him, which he took eagerly and he rinsed his mouth. Then Granger extended a silver flask. “Here you go, Mr. Satterlee. It’s some of your fine, French brandy.”
Irritation crackled in Satterlee’s voice. “It’s cognac, Cole. C-O-G-N-A-C.”
Hastily, Satterlee seized the container and swallowed down a long gulp. Immediately his stomach spun like a carousel. Then the warm, soothing property of the liquor kicked in, and his nausea subsided somewhat. From outside, above on the box, came a welcome cry.
“Whoa, Tucker, whoa, Benny, whoa-up, Nell. Wheel right.” He called out the rest of the team, and the momentum of the stagecoach slackened.
Satterlee addressed the rest of the occupants. “About damned time. You know, that little upset of mine has left me ravenously hungry. Or maybe it is the cognac.” He took another swig.
Cole Granger checked the stage itinerary. “There’ll be a meal stop here, Mr. Satterlee.”
Brice Noble looked balefully out the window. “I certainly hope the food will be better than we had this morning. That must have been what caused your discomfort, Cliff.”
Satterlee nodded his gratitude for his partner’s cover-up of his motion sickness. He hated any sign of weakness, as did Noble. Clifton Satterlee studied his partner. A man in his late forties, ten years senior to himself, Brice Noble had a bulldog face with heavy jowls. For all his youth, Noble was completely gray, his hair worn in long, greasy strands. Shorter by three inches, Noble weighed around one hundred seventy pounds and had the hard hands of a working cowboy, although Satterlee knew he had been a wealthy man for a long time. Brice had never given up his habit of carrying a brace of revolvers, in this instance, Merwin and Hulbert .44s. Satterlee knew only too well how good he could be with them. His pale blue eyes had a hard, silver glint when angered.
For his own part, Clifton made certain he never infuriated Brice. Even at six feet, two inches with longer, once stronger, arms and barrel chest, Satterlee readily acknowledged that he was no match for Noble. He sighed as he glanced down at the beginnings of a potbelly. He would have to get out and do more riding, Satterlee admonished himself. Although a lean man, Satterlee’s left armpit felt chafed by the shoulder holster he wore there, and more so from the weight of the .44 Colt Lightning double-action that fitted it. Recalling its presence brought a laugh to the lips of Clifton Satterlee. He had not had occasion to draw it in anger or even self-defense in the three years since he bought it.
“What’s funny, Cliff?”
“I was thinking about my gun, Brice. Do you realize I have not used it, except for practice, in the past three years?”
Noble nodded to Granger. “That’s what Cole is here for. But, I can tell you I’m looking forward to whatever food they have for us.”
With a shriek of sand caught between brake shoe and wheel, the stage jolted to a stop. The station agent brought out a four-step platform with which the passengers could dismount. “Welcome to Española, folks. We’ve got some red chili, chicken enchilada and beans inside for you.”
“Sounds good,” Cole Granger told him with a big smile.
Clifton Satterlee saw it differently. “By all that’s holy, don’t you have any white man’s food?”
“Nope. Not with a big, fat Mexican cooking for me. She cooks what she knows how to.”
Satterlee appealed to his partner. “Do you know what that will do to my stomach, Brice?”
“Fill it, no doubt.” Then, to the agent, “Do you have any flour tortillas?”
“Yep. An’ some sopapillas with honey to finish off with.”
Stifling a groan, Clifton Satterlee instructed, “I’ll start with those.”
Inside, over savory bowls of beef stewed with onions, garlic, and red chili peppers, corn tortillas stuffed with chicken, onions, black olives, cheese, sauce, the driver and guard joined in demolishing the ample food laid out for the occupants of the coach. Satterlee morosely doused the fried dough in an amber pool of honey. After devouring four of the sopapillas, he spoke low to Noble.
“I want you to stay a few days, up to a week, in Taos. Look around, make contact with our people. Make certain they are getting things done. My wife and I will return to Santa Fe two days from now.”
Brice Noble chewed on the flavorful cubes of meat. He washed them down with beer that had been cooled in the well. “What do you propose doing next?”
“Our people have to accelerate their efforts. We need that timber and damned soon. Our whole lumber business depends upon it. Go after those blasted savages.”
* * *
Smoke Jensen stopped in on Monte Carson the next day, before he took the afternoon train south to Denver, where he would change for the run to Raton. He could have taken the AT&SF to Santa Fe, but he wanted to catch what word there might be running up and down the trail. Monte was awake when Smoke entered the infirmary. His skin held a pallor, and his response when he turned his head and saw Smoke was weak.
“Smoke, good you came. Maybe you can talk sense to the man.”
“What’s that about?”
“That croaker, Simpson, says I have to stay here for two, maybe three weeks. Then some kind of operation by a doctor from Denver.”
Smoke nodded. “You’ve got a bullet in you, Monte. I’ll tell you what he probably won’t. It’s near your spine. There’s the chance . . . for permanent injury.”
Monte cut his eyes away from Smoke. “Damn. If that happens, I won’t be fit for anything. Old before my time and stove up. Not a fittin’ end.”
“No,” Smoke agreed. “At least you would be alive.”
“You call that alive? Ask me, it’d be nothin’ more than livin’ hell.”
Smoke decided on a change of subject. “I came to tell you what was in that letter from Don Diego.”
That brightened the lawman somewhat. “Really? What did the old grandee have to say?”
Smoke’s fleeting frown framed his words. “There’s trouble brewing out in the Sangre de Cristo. Some feller named Satterlee has it in mind to build himself a little empire. According to Don Diego, he’s not shy about the sort of persuasion his men use to get what he wants. Alvarado’s lost some stock and some cowboys. He asked if I’d come take a look.”
“And are you?”
Smoke nodded. “Leavin’ today, Monte. Train to Raton, then trail it from there. But, I feel bad about leaving you here all bunged up.”
Monte tried to make little of it. “Not much happens in Big Rock anymore. My deputies can handle it.”
“After that list you gave me yesterday, and what we ran into, I’d say your ‘not much’ is a bit of an exaggeration.” Smoke tipped back the brim of his Stetson. “Well, I have to get to the depot. Look out for yourself, Monte. And do what the doctor says.”
Monte scowled, then gave a feeble wave. “Watch yer back trail.”
Smoke turned for the door. “I have a feelin’ I’m going to have to.”
3
On the train south, Smoke Jensen settled into his Pullman car with a copy of the Denver Dispatch and sat in the plush seat that would become part of his sleeping berth. The editorial page contained the usual harangue about the lawlessness of the miners and smelter workers. Someone named Wilbert Clampton had a piece on the subject of temperance. According to him, Demon Rum was soaking the brains and inflaming the passions of the lower classes. Until Denver banned liquor, the depredations chronicled elsewhere in the newspaper would only continue and increase. A moderate man in his drinking habits, Smoke could not find the energy to get worked up over Clampton’s cry for abstinence. After twenty minutes and a dozen miles had gone by, Smoke put the paper aside. Immediately he noticed an attractive young woman seated in the same car.
She smiled in his direction with her eyes as well as her lips, then dabbed at her mouth with a dainty square of white linen. Her heart-shaped face was framed by a nest of small, blond curls. That and her expensive clothes added to her allure. Fiercely loyal to his beloved Sally, Smoke made only the lightest of passing acknowledgment to her discreet flirtation. The rail carriage swayed gently as the train rolled through the high mountains. Up ahead, Smoke knew, his two horses, a sturdy pack animal and Cougar, would be comfortable in padded stalls in a special car. The expense of such travel conveniences had grown steeply over the past few years. Yet, he could afford it. Blooded horses brought good money. Far more so than cattle. Smoke went back to his newspaper.
There was talk again of building a canal across Central America to speed ship passage. More for cargo, Smoke knew, than passengers. With the nation linked from coast to coast with steel rails, the hazards of a sea voyage could be easily abandoned for the more secure railroads. At least with the James gang out of business, there seemed little possibility of robberies like those of the past. After completing the speculations on a canal, Smoke reached into an inner coat pocket and removed a twisted tip Marsh Wheeling cigar and came to his boots.
When he walked past the young woman, on his way to the vestibule for his smoke, she spoke in a melodic, honeyed voice. “Good day.”
Smoke touched fingertips to the brim of his hat. “Yes, it is.”
He had barely gotten in four satisfactory puffs when she appeared in the doorway to their car. With a hesitant smile, she came forward. “Excuse me. My name is Winnefred Larkin. Forgive me if this sounds too brazen. But, I’m traveling alone, you see, and I wish to ask you if you would be so kind as to escort me to the dining car later this evening.”
Smoke hid his smile behind his cigar. “Not at all, Miss Larkin. My name is Jensen, Smoke Jensen. I would be delighted to be your escort.”
“Thank you. I am so relieved. Smoke . . . Jensen. What an odd name.”
“It’s sort of a handle other folks hung on me. My given name is Kirby.” Now why did he say that? Smoke wondered. He hated that name.
Winnefred made a small moue of her pretty lips. “Then I shall call you Smoke. First call for dinner is at five. Or is that too early for your liking?”
“Yes, it is, a bit,” Smoke allowed.
“Would seven be better?” Without conscious intent, Winnefred appeared coy.
“Perfect. I’ll present myself to you then,” Smoke replied, working out of himself a gallantry he rarely had cause to display.
“Then, I shall leave you to your cigar. And again, my sincerest thanks.”
* * *
When Smoke Jensen entered the dining car with Winnefred Larkin on his arm, it turned heads all up and down both sides of the aisle. They made a striking couple. Smoke led her to a vacant table and seated her, then drew up his own chair opposite. A rather recent addition, these rolling restaurants had been designed, like the sleeping cars, by George Mortimer Pullman. They had proven quite successful, much to the chagrin of the Harvey House chain of depot-based eating establishments. Smoke examined the menu, printed in flamboyant style, bold black on snowy white.
“What sounds good to you?” Winnefred asked after a few silent moments of study. “Everything seems so strange to me.”
Smoke nodded understanding. “I gather you are from the East, Miss Larkin? When one gets this far west, the larder on these dining cars is stocked from locally available food for the most part. See? There’s rainbow trout listed, though I don’t know what amandine means. Bison tongue, elk steak, and beef stew.”
“Please, make it Winnie. And, amandine means the fish is done with an almond and lemon sauce. Quite the rage in Philadelphia. Perhaps you would choose for the both of us, Smoke?”
Never a fancy eater, Smoke Jensen concentrated to select something that he believed would please Winnie and yet not be too out of his ordinary fare. He selected cold, sliced bison tongue in a mildly hot sauce for an appetizer, then followed with elk steak, new potatoes and peas, cold pickled lettuce and hot bread. Winnie Larkin seemed enchanted with the choices. Their waiter, a large, smiling, colored man in a short, white jacket and black trousers, suggested a bottle of wine. At Smoke’s insistence, Winnie made the selection.
For once it all turned out right, and even Smoke enjoyed the meal. Cut from the rib eye, the elk steak was juicy and tender. The California claret went well with it. Fortuitously, Smoke had asked that the cook withhold the green peppercorn sauce from the meat. It was rich and thick, and to the way Smoke thought, if a piece of meat was poor in quality, one could dump all the sauce in the world on it and not make it the least bit better. This time it was decidedly not needed.
While they ate, Winnie kept up a light, fanciful banter about her travels in the West. She found New Orleans charming, Texas rough and exhilarating, Denver a cultural oasis in the midst of near-barbarism. Now she looked forward to Santa Fe. She had heard somewhere that the territorial governor had written a most popular book.
“Yes,” Smoke informed her. “It’s called Ben Hur. Surely you have read it?”
“Oh! Then General Lew Wallace is Governor Wallace? And, yes, I have read that book. It is so . . . uplifting.”
When she learned Smoke was involved in breeding blooded horses, she waxed ecstatic over her childhood desire to have a papered horse. All her parents had, Winnie lamented, were a pair of plodding dray horses. She spoke of riding lessons as a girl in her teens and how she still longed to own a Thoroughbred of her own.
Smoke quickly disabused her of that ambition. “I don’t raise Thoroughbreds. They are for racing and fancy shows back east. Mine are Palouse and Morgans and Arabians. Those of lower quality I sell to the army as remounts. Arabians are show horses, but a lot of military officers want, and can afford, them for parade horses. The Morgans are great for carriages as well as saddle stock. Since the Nez Perce have been forced onto a reservation, their breed, the Palouse, has all but died out. I am trying to recover it.”
Winnie looked entirely helpless. “Oh, dear, that sounds incredibly complicated. It must be rewarding to see all those horses thriving, though.”
“Yes, it is, Winnie. I used to raise cattle. They are stupid, intractable animals. They also eat a lot and are vulnerable to the harsh winters in the mountains. Horses aren’t much brighter, but they survive better and do useful work. Did you know that wolves are the smartest animals in the wild?”
Winnie shuddered. “Wolves? How awful. They’re killers.”
“No. Not how you mean. A wolf will not attack a human, even a child, unless cornered or they believe their young to be threatened. They have a structured society, with strict rules and a pecking order. They care for their pups until they are able to fend for themselves. They even have intricate tactics for hunting.”
“See, that’s what I mean. They are relentless killers.”
Masking a flare of impatience with a straight face, Smoke tried to explain. “Wolves prey on the weakest animals of a herd. By doing so, they improve the breed. You might say that what I do for horses by record keeping and selective breeding, the
y do by instinct.”
Tiny frown lines appeared on Winnie’s high, smooth brow. “I’ve never heard anything like that before.”
“Not likely that you will. People have been badmouthing wolves since the Middle Ages. Wolves are the most misunderstood animals on the frontier. I have counted up to eight in one pack running on my ranch, and I have never lost a foal.” He paused, then produced a rueful grin. “Of course, I wouldn’t want one living under the same roof with me. They are still wild animals.”
Winnie’s eyes grew wide. They went on talking amiably through dessert and coffee. Gradually the car emptied of occupants. The waiters began to clear the tables and turn down kerosene lamps. Only a balding, portly man and his buxom wife remained when Smoke stood and went around the table to help Winnie from her chair. Smoke had noticed earlier that the fusty busybody had been giving them a jaundiced eye throughout the meal and had even restrained her husband when he made to leave earlier. With a silent snigger at those with nothing better to do, he pushed the incident out of his mind, took Winnie by the elbow and escorted her to the door.
They found their Pullman bunks made up and ready. Smoke and Winnie said their goodnights, and Smoke went on back to the smoking car for a cigar. He struck up a conversation with a man near his own age about the severe storms of the previous winter. When their stogies had burned down to short stubs with long, white ash, Smoke excused himself and went on back to his bed.
* * *
A shrill scream punctured the peaceful silence of the sleeping car.
It seemed to Smoke Jensen that he had only just laid down his head, yet light streamed around the pull-down shade as he opened his eyes to the continued wailing that came from up the aisle.
“She’s dead! She’s dead! My God, it’s horrible. Blood everywhere.”
Smoke swiftly pulled on his trousers and boots, shrugged into a shirt and slipped a .45 Colt Peacemaker into his waistband. A middle-aged woman stood in the aisle, hands to her pasty white cheeks as she continued to shriek. Smoke reached her in four long strides. He took her by one shoulder and shook her gently.
Triumph of the Mountain Man Page 3