“I’m way ahead of you,” Smoke tossed over his shoulder, as he headed for the bottom tread.
Two men popped up over a balcony railing and fired wildly. They perforated plaster and raised a fog of whitish dust for their efforts. Smoke Jensen shot one of them in the hip and Ollie dusted the other with fifteen pellets of OO buckshot. Screaming, the outlaw dropped his weapon and thrashed on the floor.
They met no further resistance from the railed half-floor and continued on to the second level. At the head of the stairs they paused a moment to orient themselves. Using hand signals, Smoke Jensen silently dispatched Captain Patterson along one hallway and Ollie down another, and he took the third wing of the mansion. He didn’t need to go far to encounter trouble.
“Jensen!” a man shouted triumphantly behind Smoke. Smoke hit the floor before the hard case’s bullet left the muzzle of his sixgun. The wily mountain man did a forward roll and came up facing his backshooting assailant. The big .45 Colt in Smoke’s hand barked and the gunman doubled over the tremendous pain in his gut. Smoke’s safety shot sent the man on his way to eternity. Doors banged open behind the big gunfighter.
“Shit, not again,” Smoke complained to the empty hallway, as he dived full-length to put the corpse between him and his enemy.
His maneuver saved Smoke’s life when, a second later, three slugs plunked into the dead man he used as a shelter. Smoke spotted the nearest gunny and dropped him with a solid round to the chest. He shifted aim and took a gapemouthed thug in a shoulder. Another bullet cracked past his head as Smoke lined up on the third former longshoreman.
Such blind good luck unnerved the Boston bully. “Oh, God, no. Don’t kill me, Jensen.”
“Lay it down. Now! Then shuck your cartridge belt and boots, drop your drawers around your ankles.”
“Awh, hell, man. I’ll look stupid like that.”
“You’ll look dead if you don’t.”
“All right—all right!” Quickly he obeyed.
Smoke Jensen came forward and hog-tied the man with his trouser belt, cartridge and holster rig, and his woolen pants. Then he set off after the elusive Phineas Lathrop.
The overconfident Victor Middleton had been first to hear the muffled gunshots at the gate. His poise quickly slipped and he was the first to urge that the conspirators make use of the unique escape route afforded by the Hampstead house. Arnold Cabbott and Abe Asher immediately agreed. Strangely enough, the taste of western-style fighting given him by Smoke Jensen had aroused a fierce combativeness in Phineas Lathrop. He proposed that they stay and shoot it out with the invaders.
“Fine, fine, that’s what we pay those louts out there to do,” a flustered Victor Middleton reminded him. “They can delay whoever is on the way here, while we get away. Abe and I didn’t put up all that money to see it fly away from behind bars . . . or used to buy a fancy funeral.”
Lathrop considered that last and gave a curt nod. “Lead the way,” he stated in resignation.
Their route led to the door to the cellar stairs. Each of the conspirators took a preprepared set of saddlebags from wooden pegs fitted into the stone walls. With Victor Middleton at the point, they proceeded to the narrow wall at the far end. There, a cleverly concealed section of the stonework swung inward at a touch.
Beyond the hidden access, the trio lighted brass carbide gas lamps and placed the miner’s helmets that held them on their heads. Only then did Middleton swing shut the secret door. Their lamps made eerie shadows dance on the damp stone walls. Victor Middleton directed them to the top of a flight of stairs.
Steep and rickety, the steps gave access to a stope that formed part of an old, abandoned gold mine. It honeycombed the domed hill on which the Hampstead house had been built. The stope angled sharply to a lower level, where Phineas Lathrop found them to be in a long, seemingly endless tunnel. Blaze marks, made of a swatch of whitewash, gave them the key to the maze.
“I—ah—I—” Phineas Lathrop began tentatively, after the first hundred yards. For all his discomfort, he loathed revealing his fear of close, dark places to his partners.
“Just keep moving; we’ll be out of here in no time,” Victor Middleton assured him.
* * *
With the second floor cleaned out, and no sign of Lathrop and company, it left Smoke Jensen with a puzzle: had they run out the back before the police could get in place? That was a possibility worth looking into. To that end, he led Captain Patterson and Ollie Johnson downstairs and out through the large, well-equipped kitchen. The officers guarding the back gave negative shakes of their heads.
“No, sir. Marshal Jensen. No one came out after we got here. An’ you can see, the ground is clear in all directions for a good three hundred yards. They’d have had to fly to get shut of that.”
“What about those stables?”
“A horse in every stall, Marshal,” the second policeman answered Smoke. “We done checked.”
“Then, how could they . . . unless Lathrop and his partners weren’t here when we came calling?” Smoke broke off his speculations and headed back inside the mansion. “We’ve overlooked something. What makes this place so special?”
Captain Patterson came forward. “Wendal Hampstead was a partner in the Galconda Mining Company. At one time they had five mines operating here and in Alder Gulch. Made literally tons of money. When the Rainbow played out, Hampstead bought this land and had the house built. Nothin’ unusual in that.”
Smoke Jensen considered a moment. “How’s that again?”
“I said there’s nothin’ unusual about land goin’ cheap when the mine under it runs dry.”
“The Rainbow was a mine? I thought you were talking about Hampstead’s personal fortunes changing.”
“Oh, no. Er, yes. The Rainbow’s what gave the name to Gold Hill. It bored into about every inch of this hill not needed to keep the shafts and tunnels in shape. It’s dang near hollow.”
Smoke cut cold, gray eyes to the police captain. “Is there any possibility that Hampstead drilled a connection through to that mine?”
Understanding dawned for Pat Patterson and his eyes went wide and round. “By damn, I think you’re right. He always bragged about having the world’s largest wine cellar.”
“Then let’s find it,” Smoke commanded.
It took the efforts of all three, plus those of a couple of burly policemen, to locate the hidden entrance to the Rainbow mine. That gave Phineas Lathrop and his partners a full hour head start, a condition that would soon come to haunt Smoke Jensen.
Lathrop and his three principal partners now became the fugitives. On the run constantly after leaving the far side of the minimountain that housed the Rainbow mine, they constantly felt the pressure brought to bear by Smoke Jensen. Deprived of the advice of Wade Tanner, whose death they assumed, they did little to hide their trail.
It led due northwest through the Rockies. On the way, they gathered what men Chance Lovell and Ed Miller had to offer. The latter two had taken over for their dead boss, Wade Tanner. Gradually the lost babes in the woods, led by Sean O’Boyle and Eddie Meeks, began to straggle across their path. On their second day out, Phineas Lathrop had cause to be thankful for their presence.
Like a wraith, Smoke Jensen appeared out of a low ground fog that blanketed their night camp. Although it was well after sunup, that bright orb had yet to burn through. One instant Phineas Lathrop saw Smoke Jensen, and the next he did not. Then all hell broke loose as dynamite sticks sailed into camp, their passage marked by arcs of sputtering sparks.
“Get down!” Sean O’Boyle barked. Then he amended, “No, get out!”
The powerful explosives began to detonate. Numbed, shaken, and confused, the eastern outlaws staggered about blindly. Dirt became a deadly weapon as the blast effect hurled pebbles and clods about at high speed. A piece took an eye out of young punk from New York. Two of O’Boyle’s Irish longshoremen howled in pain as sharp-edged pebbles slashed into their legs. Their horses panicked.
&
nbsp; Shrieking in a demented state of fear, the poor beasts broke free of their picket line and added to the befuddlement of the gang by racing one way and another in random disarray. Following up quickly on the last explosion, Smoke sent a spray of bullets into the unnerved mass of men.
“God damn you, Smoke Jensen!” Sean O’Boyle screamed. “This ain’t fair, it’s not.”
Over the subsiding pandemonium, O’Boyle could later swear he heard only soft laughter answering him.
After two more days of trying to impede Lathrop’s progress, Smoke concluded that the trail seemed to be leading somewhere specific. All efforts to drive them in another direction had failed. Trouble was, Smoke couldn’t put his finger on the destination. He found himself out of dynamite and low on ammunition, so Smoke decided to break off contact for a short while and resupply.
By his reckoning, the small town of Hurley, Wyoming, lay not five miles off the indicated course taken by Lathrop and the remainder of his eastern gang. Smoke rode there with expectations of a hot bath, ample fresh supplies, and a stove-cooked meal, and then the chance to ride back after the band of despoilers. Unfortunately, his high hopes were doomed to disappointment.
Smoke got his bath at the Hurley barbershop, left off his list to be filled at the general mercantile, and sent a telegram to points along the backtrail, addressed to Monte Carson. Then he headed for the only saloon, to wash away the trail dust and powder residue. He entered the barroom in his usual cautious manner, the leather safety thong slipped off both his sixguns, and a casual, though penetrating glance to all corners of the room.
He strode to the bar on his left and ordered a beer. The moment Smoke entered, he noted one probable trouble spot. Seated in the far corner, by a painted-over window, their backs to the wall, were three young men, obviously drifters, who paid no more attention to the locals than to his entrance. When Smoke turned away to pick up his foam-capped schooner, the trio got their heads together in a swift, yet furtive move.
Their whispers rustled like leaves in Smoke’s keen hearing. The one in the middle produced a flyer and showed it smugly to his companions. His voice rose above their earlier, muted conversation.
“I tell ya, it’s him.”
“Naw,” the youth on his right objected. “What t’hell would he be doin’ up here?”
“I don’t know, an’ I don’t care. What I’m fixin’ to do is collect this here re-ward offered by that Lathrop feller.” “Take it easy, Buck,” his comrade to the left urged. More than the blustery war talk, mention of Lathrop’s name advised Smoke that he had become the topic of conversation. It put him on that fine, keen edge that one feels when about to make the choice between flight and fight. Chances were, Smoke told himself, that he could talk them out of anything deadly. But then, he’d told himself that a hundred times before. He kept his eyes fixed on the back bar and waited for things to develop.
It didn’t take long.
Chair legs scraped on the bare plank floor and the lanky Buck came to his boots. His husky “You boys spread out” had no need for amplification.
Smoke Jensen sighed and set himself. He spoke without turning. “That would be a terrible mistake.”
Confused, Buck blurted, “Say what?”
“Thinking that you can take me. A very bad error, my friend.”
“I ain’t your friend, damn it!”
“You put that so delicately,” Smoke said through a sneer, as he slowly lowered the half-full schooner of beer and turned around. “Just what sort of brief do you have with me?”
Confronted by the level, steely gaze of Smoke Jensen, Buck Singleton went suddenly icy. Cold, bony fingers strolled along his spine. With obvious effort, he stumbled through his half-prepared statement, intended to goad this stranger into a shootout.
“You don’t know us, but we know you—of you, that is—an’ seein’ as—ah—how we can read, we figure on cashin’ in on the re-ward offered on yer hide.”
“And just who the hell do you think I am?”
“Smoke Jensen, that’s who,” a reemboldened Buck sneered.
“Well, boys, this is indeed not your lucky day. Because . . . I am Smoke Jensen."
Five chairs, at as many tables, emptied at this ominous announcement. Prudent men scattered for the exits, front and rear. Those unable to reach these laudable goals shrank back against the walls, as far out of the line of fire as possible. One old coot gnawed on the age-yellowed ends of a once luxurious mustache and crouched behind the far end of the bar.
Those deadly words of verification electrified Buck Singleton into the worst and last error he ever committed. His long, slender fingers curled around the butt-grip of his ho-gleg and he hauled it out with what his sycophants always assured him was blinding speed. Speedy Buck Singleton didn’t hold a candle to Smoke Jensen.
Buck’s eyes began to bulge when he saw the muzzle of Smoke’s .45 centered on his chest before the cylinder of his sixgun had cleared the lefthand leather pocket. As though in slow motion, Buck watched the hammer of Smoke’s Colt drop. He witnessed only the slightest flash of flame and wisp of smoke before the 240-grain slug smashed light and life out of him.
Before Buck’s body hit the floor, Smoke turned to the nearest of the dead drifter’s companions. “You want yours now?”
“Aw, shit. No. Aw, shit, yes!” the frightened would-be gunhawk wailed as desperation forced him into the draw.
Twenty-four
With the speed of a mountain lion, Smoke Jensen dropped to one side a fraction of a second after the slug left his .45 Colt. His opponent discharged a round far too late. The foolish young man who sought to even the balance for his dead friend died himself as Smoke’s bullet smashed through ribs and burst his heart.
“Oooh, Mother,” he moaned, as he collapsed like a wet bag of oats.
Blood had sprayed everywhere from his mortal wound, including on the face and hands of the third youthful drifter. His eyes showing more white than iris, he staggered about in uneven circles, mumbling unintelligible words. He had his sixgun in hand, the barrel canted toward the floor. Only extreme personal danger, or the same to an innocent person, could drive Smoke Jensen to kill yet another. He stayed his third round until this mentally disconnected young man made his intentions clear.
Buck Singleton’s last living friend recovered his senses sooner than Smoke Jensen expected him to. Face ashen, eyes wildly darting from object to object without clear focus, he seemed gradually to become aware of the weight of a sixgun in his hand. Moving with the lethargy of the aged, he raised his right thumb and ever so slowly eared back the hammer.
Head moving slothfully, he glanced down at the weapon he clutched. It draggingly dawned on him the use for which it was intended. Comprehension spread with molasses slowness across his blank features. A torpid grin stretched his thin lips. Suddenly the deceleration left him. The muzzle of the Smith .44 came up and steadied on the chest of Smoke Jensen.
“Don’t do it, kid,” Smoke warned.
“Noooo! Youuuu kiiillled Buuuuck!” the hapless youth shrieked, as he struggled to remember how to fire the gun.
By instinct, or perhaps belated design, he fired first. But Smoke Jensen no longer stood directly in front of the muzzle. The bullet cracked through empty space, converted the glass of Smoke’s schooner into a thousand shards, and sent beer spraying all over the saloon. Meanwhile, Smoke spun in profile on one bootheel until he again faced the astonished drifter. An eyeblink later, Smoke’s slug took the boy at the point of his right shoulder, dislocated the joint, and caused excruciating pain.
Reflex sent the teenager’s sixgun sailing toward the ceiling. Driven now by terror as much as rage, he pounced forward to fall on the Merwin and Hulbert dropped by his idol. Buck Singleton. Awkward with a left-hand hold, the wounded youth scrabbled to steady his pain- and terror-convulsed body long enough to finish off the object of his hate.
Smoke Jensen didn’t give him that chance. Another round punched through the young saddle tramp’s le
ft lung and propelled him back against the table where he’d sat with two living friends only seconds before. His weight collapsed the spindly legs and he ended up spread across the green baize covering like a Christmas goose on a platter.
“Jesus, I didn’t want to do that,” Smoke spoke huskily to no one in particular.
“He didn’t give you no choice, Mr.—ah—Mr. Jensen,” the barkeep answered in an equally low, awed tone. “None of ’em did.”
“I need a beer.”
With a nod to the recumbent drifters, the bartender observed, “Some of them’ll need a doctor.”
“No. Just the undertaker.”
The local law arrived five minutes later. Puffing to overcome the labor of his soft, doughy body, a cherub-faced man, with the whitest skin Smoke Jensen had ever seen on an outdoorsman, waddled through the batwings and stared with pink-rimmed eyes at the carnage in the corner. Wet lips, colored too dark a red, formed a rose-petal pout. “All right, who’s responsible for this?”
“He is,” the apron informed the lawman. “Stranger in town. Matter of fact, they all are—er—were.”
“This stranger have a name?”
The barman snickered as he offered, “Yep. Smoke Jensen.”
Knees turned to India rubber, bowels to water, the overweight town marshal cut his gaze and gape to Smoke. He licked his scarlet lips with a quick flick of a long, thin tongue. Holy Mother, he thought wildly. How do you go about arresting a living legend? Then he spotted the four empty casings lined up on the bar beside Smoke’s restored schooner.
“Three men, four rounds. That’s mighty good shooting.” Again the nervous lick of lips.
“Would have been three and three,” Smoke responded. “I tried to give this one a break, only he wasn’t havin’ any of it. Wanted to be with his friends, I reckon.”
“That’s cold. Mighty cold.” The pink-edged lids gave a reptilian blink.
Rage of the Mountain Man Page 23