Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “That’s enough!” Sally commanded. “If that boy gets on that horse, you can pick up your time as of now.”

  “Awh, come on, Miz Jensen. You’re gonna make a sissy out of him,” Jason Rucker brushed off the threat.

  “Cole, you hear me?” Sally called to their winter foreman, Cole Travis.

  “Sure do, Miss Sally,” Travis responded, a tight smile on his face.

  “I mean what I say. If Bobby gets on that horse, you throw them off the Sugarloaf.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed in which Sally reached the cluster of hands at the corral. Buck would not meet her eye. Jase turned his back insolently. Sally marched to the gate, slid the bar, and entered. She raised an imperious hand toward the lad who stood before her, the pain of humiliation written on his face.

  “Come on out of here, Bobby,” she ordered quietly.

  “But I can ride him. I know I can.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you. Come with me.”

  “Please? He’s worn down some now. At least let me try?”

  “Not another word. Come along.”

  Outside the corral again, with Bobby in tow, Sally had the first pang of regret as she looked at his miserable expression. Huge, fat tears welled up and threatened to spill down his face. She knew she had done right! Then another part of her mind mocked her: How would Smoke have handled it?

  * * *

  “Saaan Fraaaan-cisssco. Last stop. Saaan Fraaan-ciiisssco!” the conductor brayed as he passed through the cars of the Daylight Express.

  Smoke Jensen, who had been snoozing, tipped up the brim of his hat and gazed out the window of the Pullman car. A row of weathered gray shanties—shacks, actually—lined the twin tracks. A gaggle of barefoot, shirtless boys of roughly eight to ten years old made impudent gestures to the passengers as the train rolled past their squalid homes. How different from youngsters in the High Lonesome, Smoke mused. There they would be clean as Sunday-to-meeting clothes, bundled up to their ears in coats and scarves and in rabbit-fur-lined moccasins or boots to protect them from the cold. Already the car felt warm, after their descent from the low coastal range. Gradually the speed drained off the creaking, swaying coaches.

  Now grim factories and warehouses took the place of the shacks. No doubt those youngsters’ fathers toiled in these places, Smoke reasoned. How could any man labor day after day with the only light from windows too high up to see out of and only dingy inner walls to look at. How could they stand it? He wondered again if Thunder had received proper care.

  His twice-daily visits to the stock car had not provided time enough to make a thorough check. Smoke had acquired the ’Palouse stallion from an old Arapaho horse trader to add new vitality to the bloodline of his prize horses. The Arapaho had obtained Thunder from the Nez Perce who had raised him from a colt and gently broken him. The beast proved to be better as a saddle horse than as a breeder. Accordingly, Smoke had ridden him for more than three years now. A sturdy mountain horse, Thunder could cover ground with the best of them. For years Smoke had worn smooth-knob cavalry spurs out of respect for his horses. As a result, not a scar showed on Thunder’s flanks. A huge rush of steam and a jolt of compressing couplers announced the arrival at the depot as the locomotive braked to a stop.

  Smoke roused himself and retrieved his saddlebags from a rack overhead. At night, the same rack served as frame for the fold-down bed that he had occupied for two nights. Not the most comfortable arrangement, Smoke acknowledged, but it beat the daylights out of a chair car. A trip back East with Sally several years ago had spoiled him. They had ridden in luxury in the private car of the president of the Denver and Rio Grande.

  They had their own room, and a big, soft bed that did not even creak when they made love. Now, that was the way to travel. Until man learned to fly—a foolish notion!—Smoke would prefer the pleasures of a private car for long-distance journeys. When the Pullman finally came to a jerking halt, Smoke walked down the aisle to the open vestibule door and outside, to descend from the train.

  He had a short wait while the crew positioned a ramp and opened the stock car. A vague hunger gnawed him, so Smoke availed himself of a large, fat tamale from a vendor with a large white box fitted on the front of a bicycle. The thick cornmeal roll was stuffed with a generous portion of shredded beef and lots of spices, including chili peppers, Smoke soon found out. Mouth afire, Smoke rigidly controlled his reaction, determined not to give the Mexican peddler the satisfaction of seeing a gringo suffer.

  Ten minutes later, as Smoke finished the last bite of the savory treat, a trainman walked Thunder down the ramp. Smoke hastened forward, but not fast enough. Typically, Thunder, like most ’Palouse horses, liked to nip. With a jubilant forward thrust of his long, powerful neck, Thunder sank his teeth into the shoulder of the crewman in a shallow bite.

  A bellow resulted. “ Tarnation, you damn nag!” the handler roared, as he broke free and turned to drive a clinched fist into the soft nose of the stallion.

  Smoke Jensen’s big hand closed on the offended shoulder in an iron clamp. “Don’t hit my horse,” he rumbled.

  “I’ll hit any damn’ animal that bites me,” the man snarled. Then he whirled and got a look at Smoke’s expression. Jeez! It looked as though he’d bite him, too. “Uh—er—sorry, Mister. Here, you hold him an’ I’ll go fetch your saddle.”

  Somewhat mollified, Smoke accepted the reins from the trainman and walked Thunder down off the ramp onto the firm ground. Fine-grained, the soil held thousands of broken bits of seashell. Smoke studied the curiosity. The station was some distance from the bay and even further from the ocean. Could it be that this area had once been under water? He ceased his speculation, rubbed Thunder’s nose, and slipped the big animal a pair of sugar cubes.

  Crunching them noisily and with great relish, Thunder rolled his big, blue eyes. The pink of his muzzle felt silken to Smoke’s touch. The ’Palouse flared black nostrils and whuffled his gratitude for the treat. Shortly the trainman returned with the saddle and blanket, which he fitted to Thunder’s back with inexpert skill. Amused, Smoke wondered how someone could get through life without acquiring the ability to properly saddle a horse. He took over when the man bent to fasten the cinch.

  “Here, I’ll do that. You hold him.”

  With a dubious look at Thunder, the man hesitated. “You sure he won’t bite me again?”

  “Positive. I gave him some sugar cubes.”

  “That’s all it takes?”

  Smoke chuckled. “That’s all it will take this time.”

  He tightened the cinch strap and adjusted his saddlebags, tying them in place with latigo strips. Then he swung into the saddle and rode off toward the far side of town.

  * * *

  Narrow, steep streets thronged with people made up the hilly city of San Francisco. Horse-drawn streetcars clanged noisily to scatter pedestrians from the center of the thoroughfares. Smoke Jensen steered his mount though the crowds with a calming hand ready to pat the trembling neck that denoted the creature’s dislike of close places and milling, noisy humanity.

  “Easy, boy, use your best manners,” he murmured. “We’ll be out of here soon.”

  The center of town consisted of tall buildings, four and five stories each, like red-brick and wooden canyon walls. Even Smoke Jensen felt hemmed in. Too many people in far too little space. He passed the opera house, its marquee emblazoned with bold, black letters.

  TONIGHT!

  MADAME SCHUMAN-HINKE

  Whoever she was, she must be important, Smoke thought. Those letters were big. Beyond the commercial district, which appeared to be growing with all the frenzy of a drowned-out anthill, tenements stood in rows, rising to small duplexes and single-family dwellings. Smoke found the street he sought and began to climb another hill. This one was wider, and led to a promontory that overlooked the bay. The higher he went, the better the quality of the houses.

  At last he came to an opulent residence that had a spectacular vi
ew of the Golden Gate, as the harbor was being called lately. Tall masts billowed with white bellies, a stately, swift clipper ship sailed toward port, a snowy bone in her teeth so large it could be seen from Smoke’s vantage point. He watched her for a while, captivated by her grace. Then he nudged Thunder and rode on to his destination.

  When he got there, his instincts kicked in and his hackles rose. Smoke cast a guarded gaze from side to side and along the street. What roused his sixth sense was the sight of a black mourning wreath that hung below the oval etched-glass portion of the large front door of the stately mansion. He slowed Thunder and eased off the safety thong on the hammer of his right-hand Colt.

  When he reached the wide, curving drive, he halted and looked all around. Not even a bird twittered. Smoke could feel eyes on him—some from inside the mansion, others from hidden places along the avenue. A cast-iron statue of a uniformed jockey stood at the edge of a portico. Smoke reined in there, dismounted, and looped his reins through the ring in the metallic boy’s upraised hand. Four long strides brought him to the door. A brass knocker shone from the right-hand panel. Smoke had barely reached for it when the door opened.

  A large, portly black woman, dressed in the black-and-white uniform and apron of a housekeeper, gave him a hard, distrustful look. “We’s closed. Cain’t you see the wreath?”

  “I’m not a—ah—client. I’m Smoke Jensen. Here to see Miss Francie.”

  Suddenly the stern visage crumpled and large tears welled in the eyes. “Miss Francie, she dead, suh.”

  “What?” Smoke blurted. “When? What happened?”

  “We’s ain’t supposed to talk about it, the po-lice said. Miss Lucy, she in charge now. Do you wish to talk to her?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He followed her into the unfamiliar hallway. Although Smoke had known of the place, and known Francie Delong for years, he had never visited the extravagant bordello. The housekeeper directed the way to a large, airy room, darkened now by the drawn drapes. A large bar occupied one long wall, a cut-crystal mirror behind it. Comfortable chairs in burgundy velvet upholstery surrounded small white tables.

  “Wait here, if you will, Mr. Jensen. Miss Lucy will join you shortly.”

  “Thank you.” Hat in hand, Smoke waited.

  Lucy arrived a few minutes later. She wore a high-necked black dress set off with a modest display of fine white lace. Her eyes, red and puffy from crying, went wide when she took in the visitor. “You have to be Smoke Jensen. Francie speaks—spoke—so highly of you.” The tears came again.

  “Miss Lucy, I’m sorry. I didn’t know something had happened to Francie. Was she sick for long?”

  “It—wasn’t sickness. She was—she was run down by a stolen carriage.” An expression of horror crossed her face and she covered it with both hands, sobbing softly.

  So that’s why the police said not to discuss it. Lips tight, Smoke laid his hat on the bar and stepped to Lucy, putting a big hand on her shaking shoulder. “It must have been terrible for you. For all the girls,” Smoke said helplessly, unaccustomed to words of condolence. “When did it happen?”

  “Three days ago. It was a foggy day. Francie went out to see her banker. She never came back.” Lucy drew a deep breath and shuddered out a sigh in an effort to regain control.

  “I received a note saying someone would meet me here.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll wait here a while, then.”

  “Oh, we cannot. There’s to be a reading of Francie’s will at half past noon. I am to be there, and you are expected, too.” She looked confused. “I sent you a telegram when I learned. We barely have time to get there as it is.”

  “I still want to confirm who wrote me to meet him here.”

  “I’ll leave word with Ophilia as to where we’ll be.”

  “Your housekeeper?”

  “Yes. All the girls are to be at the reading of the will.”

  “All right. Let me write a little note.”

  Lucy took paper, a pen, and an inkwell from behind the bar. Smoke wrote briefly. He gave it to Ophilia and turned to Lucy. “How are you getting to this?”

  “We have a carriage. You’re welcome to come along.”

  “I have my horse outside. I’ll accompany you.”

  “I’ll be relieved if you do.” She frowned slightly, her eyes gone distant. “Something doesn’t seem . . . right about the way Francie died. It will feel nice to have a strong man around. We will meet you on the drive.”

  * * *

  Raymond Wagner looked up from his study of the flake gold and several rice-sized nuggets he had retrieved from his sluice. The splash and rumble of water racing down the riffles and screens of his sluice box had masked the sound of hoofbeats. He stared into the ugly, impassive faces of the three men whom he had run off his claim not four days ago. They had another one with them.

  This time it was he who came forward and thrust the deed for him to sign. “Sign this,” Tyrone Beal demanded.

  “I told them fellers I would not and I say the same to you. Get off my claim.”

  “Sign it and save us all a lot of trouble.”

  “Gehen Sie zu Hölle!” a red-faced Wagner snarled in German.

  Beal sighed. “Go to hell, huh? Well, I tried to be nice.”

  With that, he whipped the pick handle off his left shoulder and swung it at Wagner’s head. The prospector ducked and lashed out a hard fist that caught an off-balance Beal in the chest. He staggered backward, recovered, and waded in on his victim. Another swing broke the bone in Wagner’s upper left arm. Beal rammed him in the gut, then the chest, and cracked the dancing tip off the stout German’s chin. Teeth flew.

  Wagner had not a chance. Methodically, Beal beat him with the hickory cudgel. Driven to his knees, Wagner feebly raised his arms to shield his head. Beal broke three of Wagner’s ribs with the next blow. Then came a merciful pause while Beal looked over his shoulder at the others.

  “Don’t just stand there. Give him a good lesson.”

  Kicks and punches pounded Raymond Wagner into a bleeding hulk curled on the ground in an attempt to protect his vital spots. The pick handle in Beal’s hands made a wet smack against Wagner’s back and the prospector rolled over to face upward. His eyes had swollen shut and a flap of loose skin hung down over his left eye. His mouth was ruined and large lumps had distorted his forehead. Beal prodded him with the bloody end of the handle.

  “We’ll be back when you’ve healed enough to sign this deed.”

  Without another word, they left. Raymond Wagner lay on his side again and shivered in agony. Slowly the world dimmed around him.

  4

  Buck Jarvis and Jason Rocker looked up from the generous slabs of pie on their noon dinner plates. They fixed long, hungry, speculative looks on Sally Jensen as she distributed more of one of her famous pastries to the other hands. Only four days and Sally had grown to dislike them intensely. Forcing herself to ignore their lascivious stares, she turned away.

  Jason leaned toward Buck and whispered softly into his ear, “Wonder what her body looks like under that dress?”

  “I wonder what it would look like without a dress,” Buck responded.

  “I bet them legs go on forever,” Jason stated wistfully.

  “Shoot, man, she’s too old for you.”

  Jason thrust out his chin. “I’m willin’ to find out. Some of them older wimmin is the best ride you can get. They appreciate it more.”

  “You be blowin’ smoke, Jason.”

  “Am not. My pappy tole me that when I was a youngin.”

  Buck sighed regretfully. “Well, neither one of us will get a chance to find out, you can be sure of that.”

  “Don’t count on it, Buck. I reckon her man is gonna be gone a long time. Wimmin get to needin’ things, know what I mean?”

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen had half the hall yet to cover when a loud pounding came on the door. Ophilia materia
lized out of a small drawing room and beat Smoke to the entrance. She opened the portal to reveal six tough-looking men.

  “I wanna see whoever’s runnin’ this fancy bawdy house,” a wart-faced man at the center of the first rank demanded.

  “I’m sorry, we are not receiving clients at this time. There’s been a death.”

  “Yeah. We know. An’ we’re here to throw you soiled doves out. This place don’t belong to you.”

  Icily Ophilia defied them, drawing up her ample girth like a fusty old hen. “That is to be determined at the reading of Miss Francie’s will this afternoon. Until then, no one is going anywhere.”

  “I have the say on that, Mammy,” the unpleasant man barked, as he pushed past the housekeeper.

  “I think not,” Smoke Jensen’s voice cracked in the quiet of the hall.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “A man who does not like rude louts.” Smoke advanced and the intruder retreated.

  Back on the porch, the knobby-faced man regained his belligerence. “We come to evict them whores and we’re gonna do it,” he snarled.

  “Who do you work for?” Smoke demanded.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Smoke bunched the man’s shirt in his big left fist and hauled him an inch off the ground. “I think it is. Is it the city? If so, by what right do they say these ladies must leave?”

  A carriage had pulled around from the stable behind the house and nine lovely young women peered out with surprise at the scene before them. Lucy dismounted and stormed across the lawn and drive to the front steps. Hands on hips, she confronted the six unwelcome visitors.

  “What exactly is going on here?”

  “You’re out in the street. My boss is taking over this place.”

  “Who is your boss?”

  “Gargantua here asked me the same thing. I didn’t tell him and I won’t tell you.”

  Smoke Jensen shook him like a terrier with a rat. “You do a lot of talking to say so little. Maybe I should loosen your jaw a little and rattle something out of you.”