“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.
Five
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.
“Climb down.”
“Huh? I cain’t do that.”
“I’ll blow you back through the car,” Smoke promised.
“Awh, hell . . ." foolhardy courage replaced the wise caution with which the man had operated so far. “Hey,Travis, there’s a couple of . . ." Smoke Jensen's bullet put a period to the sentence before the robber had intended.
Answering fire ripped from inside the express car.
Nothing had gone right on this job from the beginning. Buck Waldron thought, as he led the way out of the last chair car and into the vestibule between it and the first Pullman. So far they had taken only a hundred or so in cash and some trinkets. If Travis didn’t hit a bonanza in the express car, they might as well have stayed in Hays and gotten drunk.
“Okay, Dorne, you go through there. Watch for some fool playin’ hero,” Buck ordered.
Dorne entered the sleeping car ahead of his boss, a fat Smith American .44 in his left hand. A woman shrieked a moment before the quartet of bandits heard the fusillade from the express car far forward. Buck Waldron spat a curse and shook his head.
“We’ll have to take care of that later. First we pluck these fine folks of what they have.” To a portly gentleman whose face had turned an apoplectic red, “Dump it in the bag. Watch, rings, then your pocketbook. We even accept small change, so be generous.”
“I'll see you hang first,” the outraged citizen grunted.
He complied, nevertheless, when Buck Waldron shoved the muzzle of his .45 Colt into the expanse of belly, an inch above the thick gold chain that retained his watch. Waldron glowered menace at him.
“Watch first, remember?”
Swiftly the gang stripped the passengers of their valuables. When they reached the back of the car, Dorne opened the door and stepped onto the vestibule. A frightened face jerked back from the window in the portal to the second Pullman. At Dorne’s side, Rucker laughed sneeringly.
“Like a bunch of chickens with a fox in the roost,” Rucker observed. “Want to bet they’re already diggin’ out their cash an’ goodies?”
“Naw,” Dorne replied scornfully. “They can’t believe this is happening. Not to them; at least.”
Whoever had been watching for them had at least presence of mind enough to throw the bolt. Two .44 slugs from Dorne’s Smith and Wesson weakened the metal sheath around the deadbolt enough to allow them to shoulder open the door. Two women screeched in this car, and three small children huddled together, large tears running silently down their cheeks.
When Dorne reached out and chucked a boy of seven or eight under the chin, the lad began to whimper. “Here, now,” Dorne said gruffly, unsettled by the situation. “Big boys like you don’t cry, let alone make noises like a baby. Lady,” he added to the horrified woman who comforted the youngster, both arms draped over his shoulders, hugging him close, “don’t be doin’ that, it’ll make a sissy out of him.”
“How dare you!” she exploded in outrage.
Dorne winked at her. “Because I’m the one with the gun.”
“Empty out,” Buck Waldron commanded. “We accept everything. Watches, then rings and ladies’ brooches, then you gentlemen contribute your pocketbooks. Don’t stint on the change in your coin purses, either.”
Slowly the outlaws worked their way down the ais
le, totally unaware of what awaited them in the private car behind this one.
Quickly as it had begun, the rattle of gunfire from the express car ended. Powder smoke streamed out over the upper lip of the shattered door and formed a gray billow. Smoke Jensen approached cautiously. Behind him, Liam Quincannon faced outward, watchful for the return of any of the robbers out chasing their horses.
Smoke gave him a swift glance, then edged up to one side of the splintered door, which hung downward to the ballast. With colt leading the way. Smoke poked his head around he side. At once the sharp report of a Peacemaker bounced iff the inner walls. Poor shot. Smoke considered, as the slug vent wild a foot above his head. Smoke answered in kind.
"My God, I’m hit, Travis,” a voice rewarded Smoke’s accuracy.
"Shut up and keep down,” Travis growled back.
"How many of ’em is out there?” another bandit asked. "I don’t know,” Travis said shortly.
"Enough,” Smoke Jensen provided in a jaunty tone. "You a railroad detective?” Travis demanded.
"Nope. Only a passenger,” Smoke told him.
"This ain’t yer money. Why you doin' the Santa Fe any favors?”
"I got bored back in that private car. Thought I’d mix in and put some zest in my life.”
"Who are you, anyway?” Travis queried.
"Name’s Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”
"Oh, sweet Jesus,” Travis moaned. “I don’t need this. I surely don’t need to face off with Smoke—by God—Jensen.”
"You can always leave. Without the take from the safe, f course.”
"Jensen, you still packin’ a badge?”
‘‘I am.”
“Won’t do you any good here in Kansas,” Travis goaded, oping he was right.
He was wrong. “Deputy United States Marshal,” Smoke informed him. “I reckon it works here as good as in Colorado.”
“Aw, hell, Jensen. We’re good as goners as it is. Might as well come out.”
“You do that. I’ll be waiting,” Smoke invited.
Rage of the Mountain Man Page 5