Rage of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “I have killed men in self-defense, or in protecting my property or that of others. I have killed outlaws stupid enough not to surrender to me or to other lawmen. But I have never been paid money for the purpose of taking another human life. To me, the only justifiable circumstances for that is being a soldier, during time of war.”

  Johnson seized on that. “Did you serve the Union cause, sir?”

  “No,” Smoke answered shortly. “Nor the Confederate, for that matter. That’s why I can tell you I’ve never taken money to kill another person.”

  “That’s . . . quite surprising. I understand your wife is traveling with you. What does she think of your exploits?” Smoke’s hard gaze bore into the eyes of the impetuous reporter. “We’ve remained married long enough to raise five children to adulthood. I think that speaks for her outlook.”

  “Seriously, she must have some strong feelings about the subject,” Johnson pressed.

  “I’m sure she does. We rarely discuss them. But, I can tell you one thing—you’re getting entirely too damn nosy. I’ll answer any reasonable questions about myself, but keep my wife the hell out of it.”

  Johnson blinked and cleared his throat. “Agreed. I—ah—understand you were engaged in a bloody uprising down in Mexico not long ago.”

  “You’ve done your research rather thoroughly,” Smoke stated sincerely impressed by this eager youth’s knowledge. “It was hardly what you could call an uprising. In fact, the opposite. Two old friends prevailed on me to help them put down an uprising by a bandit leader that threatened to take over the central region of their country. I obliged them.”

  “And those gentlemen were Esteban Carbone and Miguel Martine?” Johnson prompted.

  “The same. We go back a long ways,” Smoke filled in.

  “But they are notorious gunmen,” Johnson blurted.

  Smoke Jensen smiled without mirth. “Some say that applies to me, too.” Johnson’s unexpected reaction to the mild rebuke prodded Smoke into an explanation. “Both had retired several years before. Both are large landowners in the state of Nayarit. They stood in the way of an hombre named Gustavo Carvajal, who called himself El Rey del Norte—the King of the North. Carvajal believed himself to be the reincarnation of Montezuma, the last Aztec emperor.”

  Oliver Johnson shook his head in wonder. Here was a story well worth telling. He only hoped he could keep Smoke Jensen talking long enough to get the whole piece down on paper. “Crazy as a loon,” he opined.

  “You could say that,” Smoke answered dryly.

  “Tell me more.”

  Relaxed under the shift in Johnson’s attitude, Smoke did as he was bidden. They extended the interview until an hour before Smoke’s matinee performance. Johnson departed after exacting an promise for another interview over a late-night supper. For some reason, Smoke looked forward to it.

  Thirteen

  Her hands filled with bulky packages, Sally Jensen paid no attention to three burly, dark men in blue cotton work shirts who trailed along in her wake down Tremont Street, on the east side of Boston Common. She had had her fill of shopping and now wanted to return to the hotel before Smoke left for his afternoon performance. She could have facilitated that by taking one of the many hansom cabs, but considered that a lot of bother with all her parcels. Instead, she decided on a shortcut through the park to Beacon Street and to Beacon Hill Road beyond.

  Sturdy old elms, oaks, and maples provided a refreshing shade that cooled her as Sally walked along a gravel pathway. Children frolicked on the slopes of the hilly park, where in winter they would squeal with delight as their sleds followed the long runs to the small lake where older youths placidly skated on the ice.

  Near the halfway mark, the three men increased their pace and rapidly closed with Sally. Two of them grabbed her by the arms and the third spoke hoarsely into her ear from behind. “Don’t make a fuss, Mizus Jensen. Just come with us and do as I say.”

  Sally dropped a hatbox and made a grab for her brocaded purse. “Let go of me this instant,” she demanded.

  One of her captors stayed her hand. “We ain’t out to rob you, Mizus. But you’re gonna come with us, like it or not.”

  “Who are you? What do you want with me?” Sally blurted.

  “It’s yer husband we want, Smoke Jensen? We figger he’ll come for you when you don’t show up at the hotel.”

  Her anger and indignation were overridden by fear for Smoke’s safety, and Sally ceased struggling. Her sharp mind worked quickly to devise some means of escape, or lacking that, to warn Smoke. The incidents in New Hampshire, and the previous night here in Boston, imprinted themselves on her consciousness. Someone out there was after her Smoke and she had to prevent them from succeeding.

  Grim-faced, the men steered her toward a side exit of the common. Sally looked about her for some way of getting a message to Smoke. To her regret and frustration, she found none before the men whisked her into the rear of an enclosed wagon, some sort of furniture mover to judge, by the name on the side. Her packages were taken from her and her hands were firmly bound behind her back. Then the sat her unceremoniously on a quilted pad and the wagon started off.

  Sean O’Boyle sidled through the Cambridge Street entrance of Fin O’Casey’s on Charles Street at three that afternoon. A quick glance at the back bar told him that the spirits dispensed differed little from the Irish saloons that lined Atlantic Avenue and Commercial Street down by the docks. Only the prices indicated a better class of clientele. Even the soft glow of highly polished brass, the rich, dark wood paneling, and the plush velvet upholstery of comfortable chairs told him this place was at least two classes above his accustomed watering holes. He spotted Phineas Lathrop sitting with a friend on a shadowy corner banquette. He whipped the cloth cap from his thick thatch of black hair as he approached the table.

  “A good afternoon to ye, gentlemen,” he delivered with deference.

  Phineas Lathrop and Arnold Cabbott looked up at their Boston henchman and did not reply. O’Boyle noted their mood and forced more affability than he felt into his beaming Irish face.

  “Not to worry about our little project. Everything is at hand. Within the hour the—ah—package will be delivered to the warehouse on Pier Seven. By evening, the trail will be laid to the whereabouts of that lovely bit of goods. Smoke Jensen will be able to follow it easily.”

  “You’re certain this time?” Lathrop growled.

  “Positive. By midnight Smoke Jensen will be dead.”

  Patrons lined the rear wall of the lecture hall where Smoke Jensen would speak that night. Every seat had been filled by twenty minutes before the program was to begin. In contrast to his usual calm, calculated demeanor, Smoke paced the corridor outside the line of minute dressing rooms, a dark expression drawing together his heavy brows and turning down the corners of his mouth.

  So far, Sally had yet to appear. He had not seen her since breakfast. He had at least expected to meet her for a light supper after the matinee. When she had failed to join him in the suite while he dressed, he had sent Robert and Walter Reynolds out looking for her. They reported negative results at the lecture hall two hours later. He told them to look harder, that he knew she had mentioned the shops along Tremont Street.

  “She can’t have disappeared,” Smoke insisted. “Someone has to have seen something.”

  “It’s been hours, Mr. Jensen,” Robert protested. “A whole different sort of people will be along Tremont, and most of the shops closed.”

  “I don’t like the idea of bringing in the police,” Walter began.

  “Nor do I,” Smoke agreed. “Sally’s a resourceful girl. If you look hard enough you’ll find something that leads to where she’s gone,” he insisted.

  By the conclusion of the lecture, Robert and Walter returned, excited by a discovery they had made. “We found two children playing with a woman’s hat and hatbox on the common. It was the sort of thing Sally would like,” Robert blurted to Smoke.

  “What el
se did you find?” a worried Smoke asked. “There were some scraps of paper, like from a parcel. They had blown some, but led to the north edge of the park. On Winter Street. That’s where we lost sight of anything.” “You’re sure nothing else could lead us to Sally?” Smoke queried urgently.

  Both young men shook their heads in defeat. A commotion raised at the stage door as a small waif of about eleven squirmed past the doorman and bolted down the corridor toward Smoke and his brothers-in-law. He had a scrap of paper in one hand and a thatch of carroty hair that sprouted from under a cloth cap. He looked over the three men carefully and spoke to Smoke.

  “You Smoke Jensen?”

  “I am.”

  “This is for you.” He thrust the paper toward Smoke and turned to run without even waiting for a tip.

  Smoke took a quick glance at the first words of the folded note: “We’ve got your wife . . ." and went for the boy. He caught him in three long, fast strides.

  “Who gave you this?” he demanded.

  “Leggo!” the kid shouted as one word.

  Inflamed by the implication in the note, Smoke lifted the lad off his brogues and shook him roughly. “Answer me. Who gave you this note?”

  Eyes wide with fear, the boy screwed his full, curved lips into a pout. “It was just a man. A big one. Not like you, but thick through the shoulders and chest.”

  “Tell me more,” Smoke demanded.

  “Put me down, okay?” Feet on the floor again, he went on, “He had real black hair, short and curly. A mick face.” “What do you mean?”

  “He looked like Irish to me.”

  Smoke studied the flaming hair, freckles, and cornflower-blue eyes. The boy looked Irish enough to him. “Does this Irishman have a name?”

  “No—I don’t know. He didn’t give me one.”

  “If you’re holding something back, I’ll drop your britches and blister your behind,” Smoke threatened.

  “You can’t touch me. We got a Child Protective League in Boston.”

  These pint-sized hard cases learned all the angles at an early age, Smoke reflected. Forcing himself to stay calm, Smoke looked the boy over again. He didn’t appear to be beyond redeeming. Smoke decided to try a little naked intimidation.

  "I'm not from Boston.” he stated nastily. “Where I come from, they still use razor straps and willow switches on smartass punks like you. So I reckon I can do anything with you that I want to. Don’t you doubt that if you brought any of those do-gooder ladies around here to complain I’d give them a look at my forty-five Colt. They’d wet their bloomers and faint dead away. Better open up before I hurt you a little.”

  Not that Smoke Jensen would ever deliberately harm a child, a woman, or an animal. He’d skinned a knuckle on the jaws of more than one so-called man he’d caught in the act. Popped a few caps, too. The now-terrified messenger didn’t know that.

  “Honest, I don’t know his name. I’ve seen him around, though.”

  “Where?”

  “Places.” Smoke glowered at him and he hurried to elaborate. “Like on the docks, outside the gin mills, that sort of place.”

  Smoke released his grip on the boy’s shirt front. “All right. You’ve saved yourself from a world of hurt. I want you to take me to the exact place where he gave you the message.”

  The kid shrugged. “It must be important.”

  “Believe me, it is,” Smoke confided. He looked up to find

  Oliver Johnson from the Herald standing close by, notepad in hand, pencil skipping over the page.

  “Just what’s in that note?” Johnson inquired around the unlighted stub of a cigar in one corner of his mouth.

  It occurred to Smoke that he had not read beyond the first four words. He delayed his answer to Johnson, opened the scrap of paper, and read the entire contents. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he directed to the reporter. “It’s from someone calling themselves the Defenders of Erin. It says that she'll be released unharmed if I do what they say.”

  “And what’s that?” Johnson pressed.

  “I’m to go to a place called Pier Seven, alone. To walk down the center of the pier to the far end. There’s a building there, a warehouse. I’m to go inside.”

  Johnson looked up, frowned. “That’s where O’Boyle and his anarchist union thugs hang out. Not a place you’d want to be going in the best of times. Certainly not at half past ten at night.”

  Recollections of the encounter the previous night flooded over Smoke Jensen. Could this be connected somehow? “What do you suggest?”

  “Truth to tell, I’d say don’t go. That’s not what you’re going to do, I can tell. I’ll go with you.”

  Smoke started to refuse, then considered it to be wise to have someone along to scout the area who knew the lay of the land. “All right. If this is as dangerous as you suggest, it might be good if you knew how to use a gun.”

  Johnson produced a broad, youthful smile. “As it happens, I know a little about shooting. Nothing to match your skill, but satisfactory for around here.”

  After they left the lecture hall, Oliver Johnson hailed a passing hack. Once they had settled into the leather-upholstered seat of the use-worn surrey, Smoke spoke his thoughts aloud.

  “Aren’t they making this a little bit too easy for me?” “That had occurred to me,” Johnson agreed. “Those hoodlums don’t often advertise their activities.”

  ‘‘Maybe we should approach the place from a different route.”

  “That makes sense. For at least one of us.”

  Johnson groped inside his suit coat and withdrew a small, compact revolver, a tilt-top Smith and Wesson .38. He made a quick glance at the blunt gray noses of the bullets in their chambers and dropped it into a side pocket. Then he nodded to Smoke Jensen.

  “Do these wharf rats know what you look like?”

  “We have to assume they do.”

  “The reason I asked is that I think you should be the one to come in from a different way,” Johnson suggested. “We’re of close to the same size. If we swap hats and coats, I can show up on the pier and probably get close enough in the dark before they notice the difference. The note did say to come alone, right?”

  “You've got me there." Smoke allowed. “All right, we’ll do it like that. Slipping around and surprisin’ folks is something I used to do a lot of.”

  “I’ll have the driver let you off on Atlantic Avenue. There’s an alleyway that will lead to the blind side of that warehouse,” Johnson advised.

  A wicked anticipatory smile lighted the face of Smoke Jensen. “I like your way of doin’ things. I only wish that I had changed out of these boots into moccasins. These leather boot heels are about as quiet as a cow in a briar patch. If it works and we catch them between us, I intend to make them the sorriest sons of bitches for miles around.”

  James Finnegan saw him first. A surrey hack stopped under a streetlamp that had been deliberately turned low. A tall man in a formal black evening coat and top hat climbed out, handed the fare to the driver, and turned toward the high wooden-slat gates that closed off access to the pier. Finnegan watched him search out the smaller human-sized portal that had been conveniently left unlocked. The cab rattled away down Adams Lane as the latch rattled and the silhouetted figure of Smoke Jensen entered.

  “He’s here,” the sharper-sighted Finnegan informed his friends.

  “Sure it’s him?” Henny Duggan asked.

  “Who the hell else would be comin’ here this time o’ night?” Finnegan shot back.

  “Yeah. I see him,” Brian Galagher verified. “He’s alone like he’s supposed to be.”

  “Unless there’s a flyin’ squad o’ Boston’s Finest waitin’ down the dock,” grumbled Liam O’Tolle.

  “Shut yer face,” a fifth man grumbled. “He could hear you from there.”

  “Why don’t we pop him right where he stands?” O’Tolle complained.

  “Liam, ye couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from the inside wi
th that pop-gun yer packin’,” Finnegan retorted. “There’s six of us to make sure the job’s done right. This here Jensen is a dangerous feller.”

  “That’s why I say do it now,” O’Tolle defended himself.

  “Wrong,” Finnegan responded in a harsh whisper. “We wait until he’s close enough for you boys with the cargo hooks to snag him in the shoulders. That way, we who’ve got shooters along can empty them into him without any risk. Now hush up.”

  Smoke Jensen had scaled the secondary gate that barred entry to the pier on the back side of the warehouse. He stealthily approached the blind narrow end of the lofty, metal-clad wooden structure. There he found an iron ladder that led to the roof. He removed his boots and closed his mind to the discomfort climbing would bring to his feet.

  Silently Smoke ascended and worked his way along a catwalk until he reached the far end. His gaze reached the black, oily water of the upper end of Boston Harbor, where it received the outpouring of the Charles River. He recalled from his reading of history that just across an inlet to the southeast was the spot where the Sons of Liberty had staged the Boston Tea Party. A fitting place for this night’s work, Smoke thought wryly. A sibilant rustle of voices wafted up from below.

  Smoke listened in on the discussion of tactics and glanced toward the street end of the warehouse in time to spot the approach of Oliver Johnson. He knew at once he occupied a disadvantageous position. Starlight picked out a duplicate of the ladder at the other end. Smoke eased himself along the steep pitch of the roof until he reached it.

  Why had they built it this way, and not directly below the catwalk that topped the roof crown? Probably to keep anyone from easily jumping ship or boarding unwanted visitors. he decided, as he lowered himself down the rungs.

  With three treads to go. Smoke Jensen saw movement from the comer of one eye. Two men materialized out of the deep shadows between large bales of some sort and made a dash toward Oliver Johnson, who had walked beyond their hiding place and had his back to them. Light from a fat, yellowish rising moon glinted off wicked, curved hooks held high to strike. Smoke set a foot on the next lower rung and held on with one hand while he hauled out his .45 Peacemaker.