Two
With three quick strides, Smoke Jensen reached the nearest of the snow-interred hands. He made big, scooping motions with his arms until he could grab both ankles and drag the unfortunate man out of his frigid tomb. Spluttering, the wrangler sat upright and pointed to the mound of crystalized flakes.
“Zeke an’ Harb are still under there,” he gasped.
“Go to the window and crawl out if you can,” Smoke ordered.
He went to work at once, helped by Sam Waters. They found Harbinson Yates quickly and yanked him free. Zeke Tucker had been driven back against the far wall. He sat in a semi-erect position, the huge slab of ice held in his lap. Smoke and Sam strained to remove the heavy object and it thudded loudly on the plank floor when released.
Zeke’s color returned and he spoke through heavy panting. “I . . . think . . . the way is open. Th—this was . . . was the . . . cork in the . . . bottle.”
“Glad you can take it so lightly,” Smoke said dryly.
Yellow light from a kerosene lantern spilled down through the doorway into the bunkhouse. “You all right down there?”
“Nothing that warm, dry clothes and a couple of shots of whiskey couldn’t cure,” Smoke replied. Then he recalled the fragmentary report he had been given before the second snow slide. “Have those who were injured been taken care of?”
“Oh, yeah, boss. If none of you is hurt, we’ll get you out in a minute.”
“Hey, what about me?” Zeke protested. “I got the livin’ hell squeezed out of me.”
“So that’s why your eyes are bugged out, Zeke,” Smoke observed through a chuckle. Then, suddenly, everyone began to laugh, as the tension drained away with the danger.
From the ten-foot-high, nearly floor-to-ceiling, windows of the Cafe London, located on the top floor of the Windsor Hotel in Denver, one could not tell that the High Lonesome still languished in the final throes of the most severe winter on record. Golden sunlight slanted warmly into the room, while below, on the street, children ran noisily home from school, protected by only the lightest of jackets.
Mid-afternoon traffic flowed with its usual jumble past the five-story edifice, designed like Windsor Castle in England. A favorite, “must do” stop for Europeans visiting the West, the Windsor also catered to the discriminating tastes of the wealthier, more traveled easterners. At two o’clock the noon crowd had dwindled in the fashionable pub-style eatery. White-jacketed waiters mutedly took orders from the few late arrivals, and walked across the thick carpets soundlessly, as though on a cloud. Not even the rattle and clatter of the dishwashers and other kitchen help intruded on the two men seated at a table in a corner turret window.
Phineas Lathrop had a striking appearance. He was in his early fifties, and the widow’s peak of his lush hair had not the slightest sprinkling of gray. What accentuated his remarkable good looks were two large streaks of white hair at his temples, shaped like the wings of a bird. He peered at his associate down a long, aquiline nose, through a pince-nez perched near the slightly bulbous tip.
“Well, Arnold, this is a far cry from Boston, I daresay,” Lathrop declared, in jovial spirits.
“Yes, it certainly is that,” Arnold Langford Cabbott returned; his words coated in the syrupy drawl of a New Englander.
A bit of a dandy, Arnold Cabbott wore the latest fashion, his vest as bright as the plumage of a scarlet tanager. A large, puffy silk cravat peeked from the V neckline, set off by a sea of snowy-white boiled and starched shirt. Junior to Lathrop by some seven years, he was the youngest of the five-man consortium established to engender Phineas Lathrop’s grand project.
Lathrop leaned forward slightly, his deep-set eyes burning as usual with a fixed, glassy walnut stare. “What was so urgent that it brought you so far away from your bully-boys down on the docks?”
Such colorful reference to the men of his Brotherhood of Longshoremen caused Arnold Cabbott to wince. He reached soft, pallid fingers to the arched flow of his walrus mustache and stroked it absently. While he toyed with the silken light brown strands, Arnold considered how to break his news to Phineas. At last he sighed as their waiter approached with the old-fashioneds both had ordered.
Once the drinks had been put in place and the waiter had departed, Arnold leaned across the table and spoke softly. “There’s a problem with our associates in New York. They are reluctant to commit the money. At least until our—ah— difficulties are resolved with that uncooth lout to the north of here.”
“Ah! I see. Having the available funds is always a problem. However, we should be hearing about that other matter any day now. I dispatched my most trustworthy subordinate to deal with it.” Phineas Lathrop paused and sipped from his drink. “Excellent,” he pronounced it. “They are so much better with good Monongahela rye. Out here you have to specify or you get rough-edged bourbon.”
Arnold sent the nervous glance of his watery blue eyes around the dining area. “What do you mean, ‘deal with?’ ”
“You’ll know when Wade Tanner returns from the high mountains,” Phineas said, evading the issue. “I left word at the desk that we would be here in the event he gets back today.” He broke off as the waiter approached again, order pad in hand. “Ah, yes,” Phineas Lathrop sighed, his eyes giving a quick, final appraisal of the menu. “I’ll have the medallions of beef in burgundy mushroom sauce. A side of potatoes Henri, some creamed leeks, and a salad of tossed greens.”
“For today, we have a combination of chicory, dandelion, and lettuce from our kitchen garden, sir. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Certainly, certainly. Does that come with a dressing?”
“Yes, sir. Chef Henri’s own rose-petal mayonnaise.”
Phineas Lathrop all but clapped his hands in delight. “Splendid.”
Arnold Cabbott ordered mountain oysters and observed to Phineas Lathrop that it was remarkable that shellfish lived at such high altitude and in such icy waters. Lathrop, who had been in Denver for more than two months and had learned the ropes, hadn’t the heart to advise his associate of the true nature of the entree.
To the waiter, he did add, “We’ll have a bottle of your best white wine with the salads, and a bottle of claret with the entrees.”
Left to await the wine, Arnold Cabbott leaned across the table again and spoke with greater force. “Our friends in New York insist on immediate action. They will not release a penny until they know the obstacle keeping us from our achieving our goal has been removed.”
Lathrop screwed the fleshy lips of his large mouth into a moue of distaste. “You’re talking like a bloody accountant, Arnold. I am in charge in the West, and I’ll decide when funds are to be released for the progress of the enterprise. If those penurious bastards in New York don’t like that, they can be cut out altogether.”
“We need their money, Phineas. Desperately. That’s why I came here to appeal to you to return with me and convince them yourself. You convinced them once, I know you can talk open their pocketbooks now that we’re in the clutch.” Lathrop’s heavy black brows shot upward. “Aha! So that’s what this excursion into the Rockies is all about. Are things really so desperate?”
“Yes, they are! You should know. That walkout on the docks is sucking us dry. We have to pay Sean O’Boyle and his longshoremen their pittance every week in order to keep them out. We can break the backs of the shipping companies and then move in and take over. But we must have the cash to do it, all of it! No bank would lend the money to buy a shipping company plagued by a wildcat walkout.” Conscious of how unfashionable his ardor appeared, Cabbott caught himself, paused, then spoke through an indulgent chuckle. “And we can hardly confide in the bankers that we’re responsible for the strike.
“So, to cover all of that, and continue to finance your acquisitions out here, we need the New York people,” Arnold pressed his point. “You, more than anyone else, has the power to persuade them.”
Phineas Lathrop sighed heavily and made to respond in agreement. Then he
brightened as he caught sight of the head waiter striding in their direction. Behind that worthy came the most unlikely patron for the establishment. The sour expression on Reynard’s face advertised his agreement with that evaluation.
Dressed in dust- and sweat-stained range clothes, his scuffed boots clumping noisily on runover heels, a man in his early forties followed the fastidious maitre d’ to the corner table. He had cold, riveting black eyes that could be clearly seen from the distance, in an angular face topped by thick, slicked-back black hair, on which perched a coal-colored derby hat.
“Mr. Lathrop,” Reynard spoke deferentially. “This— ah—gentleman claims to have an appointment with you.” “That’s correct, Reynard. Thank you,” Lathrop dismissed. To the newcomer, “Sit down, Wade.”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Lathrop. And you, sir?” he asked in a cultured, courteous tone that belied his scruffy appearance and the menace of a brace of Smith and Wesson American .44s slung low on his hips.
“Forgive my manners. This is an associate from back East, Arnold Cabbott. Wade Tanner, my—ah—chief enforcer, shall we say. You have good news for me, Wade?
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cabbott. Yes, Mr. Lathrop. That dynamite worked splendidly. You should have no difficulty obtaining the desired property now, and the others, without a rallying figure, should capitulate readily.”
Arnold Cabbott blinked at this cultured speech pouring from under the large, wide nose, past rabbity teeth that heightened a certain rodentlike appearance. Tanner looked the part of the lowliest of common gunmen, yet talked like a gentlemen. If only his boastful preamble proved true, their troubles would be over.
“You are absolutely sure of that?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Smoke Jensen is now just a memory.”
For Sally Jensen, the avalanche was the final straw. She was not one to make issues out of frivolous discomforts, but the snow slide that had nearly claimed the life of her husband and many of his workers hardened Sally’s determination to escape the rigors of the past winter. Hands still worked to dig out the imprisoned livestock and their damaged bunkhouse. With the stove dislodged, no cooking could be done in the men’s quarters. Sally did double duty, helped by Cynthia Patterson, to serve hot, filling meals to the ranch employees.
She put down a skillet now to peer through the open rear door and up the face of the mountain that, to her way of thinking, had betrayed them. Was that a blackened smudge she saw against the sparkling white of the snow ledge? Her eyes watered at the brightness and strain. There appeared to be two—no, three—dark spots. Her vision was no longer as sharp as when their children had been the age of Bobby Harris. Smoke would be able to tell, Sally assured herself. But first she must make it clear to him how badly she needed to get away from the basin.
Turning from the stove, she spoke with hands on hips. “Kirby, we simply have to get out of here.”
That got Smoke’s immediate attention. She never called him by his given name unless a situation had reached the critical level. “I’ve been thinking along those lines myself,” he allowed neutrally.
“Well, I’m glad. Because I’m convinced we need to get as far away from these mountains and that dreadful snow as possible.”
Smoke cocked a raven eyebrow. “Meaning where?” Sally took a deep breath. “New Hampshire. My father’s place. It’s been years since I’ve spent more than a day or two there. Longer still since you visited. He would be so pleased, and so would mother.”
Astonishment registered on Smoke’s face. He viewed any country north, south, east, or west of the Rocky Mountains with suspicion. But particularly east. And he considered anywhere east of the Mississippi River with abhorrence. People didn’t know how to live right back there.
Fact was, to Smoke they seemed only to exist. Odd creatures, they chose to spend their lives bunched up on top of one another in tall, narrow row houses, on tiny plots of ground not fitting even to grow a kitchen garden. And they had cities with two, three times the population of the entire state of Colorado. No, definitely not the place for them to go. He opened his mouth to say so, but Sally rushed on, eager to sell her idea.
“In his last letter, father grew almost poetic when he described the coming of spring in the Green Mountains.”
Mountains? Smoke thought, faintly amused at the use of the term. More like worn-down hills. “I was thinking of New Orleans,” Smoke managed to insert. He hoped to distract Sally from her temporary madness by offering a trip to her favorite city. Sally called New Orleans “the most civilized town in America.”
For a moment, her blue eyes glowed as she considered the Vieux Carre, and all those tiny balconies with their ornate wrought-iron banisters and the gaily painted shutters at the narrow windows. The spanking clean carriages and Hansom cabs that twinkled around Jackson Square. The French Market, with its heady aromas of spices, exotic coffees, and succulent vegetables. And, oh, the plethora of seafood: oysters, shrimp by the ton, redfish, crabs, and lobsters.
The latter were not so good, Sally had to admit, as those of New England. Yet she found the Crescent City enchanting. Who could not be charmed by the Garden District, where all the swells lived? And the constant rainbow flow of humanity and its many languages. From the palest, pampered milk white to coaly black, with cajuns, creoles, and red men mingled in for variety.
With conscious effort; Sally arrested her fleeting images and returned to her original campaign. “That would be very nice, dear,” she answered Smoke’s tempting blandly. “But Father has been growing more earnest in his urging for us to pay a visit. His last letter said he had a marvelous diversion in mind for you.”
“You are all the diversion I need,” Smoke teased, as he cleaned up his noontime plate of pork chops, beans, and cornbread. “We could rent a room in that big old house on Basin Street, and I could have you all alone to myself.”
“It’s . . . tempting,” Sally admitted. “But father would be so disappointed. “I’ve all but agreed, needing only to confer with you, of course.”
A perfunctory necessity at best, the ruggedly handsome gunfighter admitted to himself. Sally Reynolds Jensen had a knack for getting around him on nearly anything. And why not? She had given him everything a man could want out of life: a home that had grown from a cabin to a sturdy, two-story log mansion; fine, healthy children; a partner in hard times, a nurse when needed, a companion, friend, and lover. That revelation brought to Smoke Jensen a sudden change of heart.
“All right,” he drawled gently, albeit with a tinge of reluctance. “I suppose we can spare a couple of weeks to visit your father and mother. But I’m holding out for at least a week in New Orleans.”
Sally’s eyes went wide. “Why, that’s wonderful. Only . . . it’s so extravagant.”
“What’s wrong with that? We can afford it,” Smoke simply stated the obvious. “When do you want to go?”
“Right now. Right away,” Sally rushed to advise him. “I mean, right after the livestock have been rescued.”
Smoke pushed back from the table. “I’ll ride in to Big Rock this afternoon to telegraph John about our intended arrival, and also get the tickets for the train.”
Sally Jensen hung her arms around her husband’s neck and delivered a long, powerful, very wet kiss. “You darling, I knew you would say yes,” she sent after him as Smoke headed for the out of doors.
Big Rock, Colorado, had grown considerably over the years since Smoke Jensen had first ridden into town. The main street had lengthened to three blocks of businesses, with an additional residential block at the north and south ends. Cross streets featured shops at least to the alley, with the central intersection extending the commercial area a full block east and west. Smoke concluded his business at the railroad depot by four in the afternoon.
With himself committed to the journey east, he decided on paying a call on Sheriff Monte Carson. They had not seen each other for two weeks. Although Smoke Jensen had hung up his gun long ago, he liked to kee
p in touch with what went on outside the Sugarloaf. Particularly which specific gunhawks or bounty hunters happened to blow through town.
A man could never be too careful, Preacher had taught him early on. In his wild, single years, Smoke had walked both sides of the law. He had never gone so far as to be considered a desperado. Yet he had made enemies. Some of them still lived, and carried around grudges the size of Pike’s Peak. So, after his siding with the sheriff during the Valley War, Smoke Jensen had cultivated his friendship with Monte Carson. It had more than once saved his life. He walked Dandy along Berry Street, the main drag, to the squat, stone building that housed the sheriff's office and jail.
There, a deputy told Smoke that Monte had left for the day, and could be expected in the Silver Dollar. Monte liked his beer, as the slight rounding and thickening of his middle gave testimony. Smoke thanked the deputy and headed to the saloon anticipating their chat.
He entered through the batwings and spotted the lawman at the bar. One elbow resting on the mahogany, Monte Carson was turned three-quarters away from the array of bottles on the backbar. His left hand held a large, bowl-like schooner, its contents lowered by half. The other wiped idly at a froth of foam on his walrus mustache. A smile lighted his face when he made out the features of Smoke Jensen.
“Now, ain’t that a sight,” Monte brayed good-naturedly. “What brings you to town?”
“Cabin fever,” Smoke Jensen responded, as he neared the lawman. To the apron, “Beer.”
“Let’s sit down,” Monte invited, when the brew had been delivered.
They took a table off to one side. Settled in, their conversation ran to small talk, until Smoke mentioned the avalanche of the previous night. Carson asked for details and got them. He shook his head wonderingly as Smoke recounted the initial downfall of winter-packed snow. He literally gaped when Smoke told of the second slide.
Rage of the Mountain Man Page 2