“Shall we go on to Francie’s?” Smoke asked lightly.
“Hadn’t we better report this to the police?” Louis asked.
“If the police haven’t showed by now, I imagine they already know and don’t want to get involved. We’ll leave these here for whoever wants them.”
* * *
Freshly ground Arabica beans usually made the day for Cyrus Murchison. This morning, his coffee tasted bitter in his mouth. The reason was the presence of Titus Hobson and Gaylord Huntley in his breakfast room—that, and the news they brought. The news came in the form of Xiang Wai Lee. The slight-statured Chinese could barely suppress his fury.
“The first time we are to perform a service for you, we are sent out against men of inhuman capability.” His queue of long black hair bobbed in agitation as he hissed at Murchison. “You told us that Louis Longmont was a fop, a dandy, a gambler, an easy target. Not so,” Lee informed the wealthy conspirators. “Then there was the other man with him. Such speed and accuracy with a firearm.”
“Who was that?” Murchison demanded.
“What does it matter?” Xiang snapped. “Only two of the men sent after Longmont and his companion survived the encounter.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Who is this other man?” Ordinarily, this Oriental would not be in this part of his house. Would not even gain access, except by the servants’ entrance to the back hallway and pantry. Murchison took his presence as an insult.
“My two soldiers who lived informed me that Longmont used the word ‘smoke’ as though it was a name.”
Hobson paled and gasped. “He can’t still be alive.”
“Who?” Murchison barked.
“Smoke Jensen,” Hobson named him. “He is reputed to be the best gunfighter who ever lived. If he still is alive, we have a major problem on our hands.”
“Preposterous,” Murchison dismissed.
Hobson would not let it go. “He has killed more men and maimed many more than any other three shootists you can name. His name is legend in Colorado. When I was there last, Smoke Jensen had devastated a force of forty men who hunted him through the mountains for a month. It was they who died, not Jensen. He has been an outlaw and a lawman.
“There are some who say he has back-shot many men he has killed.” Hobson paused to catch his breath. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I have also heard that to say so to his face is to get yourself dead rather quickly. He is mean and wild and totally savage. He’s lived with the Indians. He was raised by another total barbarian, a mountain man named Preacher. The pair struck terror into the hearts of the men in the mountains for years.”
Murchison snorted derisively, totally unimpressed. “What impact can a couple of aging gunfighters have on our project?” His small, deep-set blue eyes glittered malevolently in his florid face as he cut his gaze to Xiang. “If your men cannot handle this, Tyrone Beal and his railroad detectives can take care of a mere two men, no matter that they are good with their guns. Now, get out of here, all of you, and let me finish my breakfast.”
* * *
Smoke Jensen punched back his chair from the round oak table in the breakfast nook of the Delong mansion. Frilly lace curtains hung over the panes of the bay window, with plump cushions on the bench seats under them. This excess of the feminine touch made Smoke a bit uneasy. If he kept the place, there would have to be some changes. No. That was out of the question. Sally would be bound to find out. When she did, she would skin him alive.
Amusement touched his lips as he recalled the time Sally had herself inherited a bordello from a favored aunt who had passed away. That and a big ranch that stood in the way of the ambitions of powerful, greedy men who needed some lessons in manners. Smoke Jensen had given those lessons, with fatal results. No, Sally would never favor him owning a bawdy house. Lucy Clover’s entrance banished the images of the past.
“Mr. Longmont is here, Smoke.”
“Thank you, Lucy. Have Ophilia show him in. Join us—we have a little strategy to discuss.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. About protection for this establishment, among other things,” Smoke informed her.
Lucy left him alone to return with Louis Longmont. “Bonjour, mon ami,” Louis greeted.
“Oui, c’est tres bon,” Smoke answered back with almost his entire French vocabulary.
Louis chuckled. “They must have fed you well. What is in order for today?”
“First, we must make provisions for someone to protect this place.” He paused to sip the marvelous coffee.
“You think there will be trouble?” Lucy asked anxiously.
“Those louts who came yesterday will be back, count on it. And we can’t stay here all the time. Now that I own the place, I want to make sure all of you are safe.”
“You make it sound ominous,” a pale-faced Lucy observed.
Smoke was disinclined to play it down. “Believe me, it is.”
Ophilia appeared in the doorway. “Those nasty gentlemen from yesterday are here again, Miss Lucy. And they brung friends.”
Smoke’s lips tightened. “How many?”
“They’s about a dozen, Mister Smoke.”
Smoke came to his boots. Louis started to rise. “I’ll take care of it, Louis.”
“If you say so, mon ami,” he answered with a shrug.
“This way, Mister Smoke,” Ophilia directed. Although richer by $500, thanks to Francie, she still performed her duties as housekeeper flawlessly.
At the door, Smoke quickly counted the twelve men standing in a semicircle at the foot of the porch steps in three ranks. Several of them held stout hickory pick handles. Tyrone Beal, who had returned only that morning on the early train, acted as spokesman this time.
“Tell those girls that they are to be out of here within half an hour. This place has been sold for back taxes and the new owner, the California Central Railroad, wants immediate occupancy.”
After seeing all the books and ledgers on Francie’s establishment the previous day in Pullen’s office, Smoke knew that there were no back taxes. “I have some bad news for you, whoever you are.”
Beal drew himself up. “Captain Tyrone Beal of the Railroad Police. I’m not interested in any news you might have. I said out they go, and that’s what I mean.”
“The bad news, Captain Beal,” and Smoke put a sneer on the title, “is that you are a liar. All taxes have been paid up through next year. I’m the owner now, so you had best back off so no one gets hurt.”
Goaded by the insult, Beal launched himself at Smoke. Jensen waited for him to the precise second, then powered a hard right into the face of the railroad detective. Beal, his feet off the ground, flew down the steps faster than he had ascended them. His pick handle clattered after him. The others similarly armed, pressed forward, dire intent written on their faces.
Smoke turned slightly and called over his shoulder, “Louis, would you like to join the dance?”
“I would be delighted,” Louis said from the doorway, where Smoke had anticipated he would be.
Back-to-back, they met the railroad thugs. The first to attack came at Smoke. When he swung his pick handle, Smoke ducked and kicked him in the gut. The billet of wood went flying. Smoke finished him with a left-right combination to the right side of his head and jaw. He fell like a rumpled pile of clothes. Another stick-wielder went for Louis.
The New Orleans gunhand gave his hapless assailant a quick lesson in the French art of la Savate. He kicked the brawler three times before the man could get set to swing his hickory club. His swing disturbed, he staggered drunkenly when he missed. Louis kicked him twice in the back, once in each kidney. Grunting in misery, he went to his knees, one hand on the tender flesh at the small of his back. Louis swung sideways and put the toe of his boot to the bully’s temple. He went down like a stone.
Smoke popped a hard right to the mouth of an ox of a man who only shook his head and pressed his attack. Smoke went to work on the protruding beer gut. Hi
s hard fists buried to the wrists in blubber. Still he failed to faze his opponent. Instead, he launched a looping left that caught Smoke alongside his ear. Birdies twittered and chimes tinkled in the head of Smoke Jensen. He shook his head to clear it and received a stinging blow to his left cheek that would produce a nasty yellow, purple, and green bruise.
Another pick handle whizzed past his head and pain exploded down his back when it struck the meaty portion at the base of his neck. Left arm numbed, he cleared tear-blurred eyes and snapped a solid right boot toe to the inner side of his attacker’s thigh. A squeal of pain erupted from thick, pouting lips. Smoke sucked in air and stepped close.
With a sizzling right, he pulped those flabby lips. The blow had enough heft behind it to produce the tips of three broken teeth. Finish him fast, thought Smoke, as feeling returned to his left arm. Two powerful punches to the gut brought the man’s guard, and the gandy stick, down. Smoke felt the cheekbone give under the terrible left he delivered below the man’s eye. His right found the vulnerable cluster of nerves under the hinge of the jaw and the man went to sleep in an instant.
Louis had four men down in front of him and worked furiously on a fifth. Not bad, Smoke thought. He sought his fourth. The sucker came willingly to the slaughter. Wide-eyed and yelling, he rushed directly at Smoke. The last mountain man sidestepped him at the proper moment and clipped him with a rabbit punch at the base of his skull. His jaw cracked when he struck the lowest marble step. Suddenly Smoke had no more enemies. The remaining three thugs hung back, uncertain, and decidedly impressed by what these two men could do. Smoke gestured to the fallen men.
“Drag this trash off my property and don’t bother to come back,” he commanded hotly.
Satisfied with the results, he and Louis turned to walk back in the mansion. Enraged at this ignominious defeat, Tyrone Beal wouldn’t leave it alone. Mouth frothing with foam, he shrieked at his henchmen. “What’s the matter with you three? Finish them off. Kill the bastards!”
Six-guns exploded to life and a bullet took the hat off Louis Longmont’s head. Instantly the two gunfighters turned to meet the threat. Crouched, they spun and drew at the same time. Smoke’s .45 Colt spoke first. He pinwheeled the middle hard case, who did a little jig with the devil and expired on his face in the grass. Louis took his man in the stomach, doubling him over with a pitiful groan. Smoke’s Peacemaker barked again.
The slug burned a mortal trail through the lower left portion of the railroad policeman’s chest and burst his heart. He tried to keep upright, but failed. Slowly he sank into a blood-soaked heap. Powder smoke still curling from the muzzle of his Colt, Smoke Jensen addressed Tyrone Beal.
“Take this garbage out of here. You would be smart not to report this to the police. We have a building full of witnesses who saw what happened. If your boss wants to verify what I said about the taxes and owning this place, he can check with Lawyer Pullen.” He turned away, then paused and spoke over his shoulder. “Oh, and don’t bother coming back.”
Up on the porch, Louis Longmont opened the loading gate on his revolver and began to extract expended cartridges. “Now that we have finished our post-breakfast exercise, what’s next?”
“Easy,” Smoke said with a slow grin. “We look into this Tong business from last night and find some reliable men to guard this place while we are gone.”
* * *
“They did it again,” Sally Jensen testily said.
Both of those saddle tramps, as she now saw Buck and Jason, remained behind, professing illness again. She looked up sharply from the elbows-deep soap suds when their coarse laughter reached her in the wash house attached to the outer kitchen wall. Through the small, square window she saw them lolling around, obviously in perfect health. She had sent Bobby out with the hands today. Now she was thankful she had. While she watched, Buck and Jason drew their lanky frames upright and ambled in the direction of the bunkhouse well pump. She gave her washing an angry drubbing on the washboard and abandoned it.
Wiping her arms, she headed to the kitchen. She had pies in the oven, and biscuits yet to do. When she stepped out of the wash house, Buck and Jason were nowhere in sight.
“What are they up to now?” she asked herself, mildly disturbed by this disappearance.
In the kitchen she pulled the four large deep-dish pies from the oven and slid in two big pans of biscuits. That accomplished, she dusted her hands together in satisfaction. Now, she had better cut vegetables for the stew. She strode to the sink and pumped water into a granite pan. Bending down, she pulled carrots, potatoes, turnips, and onions from their storage bins. As she came upright, her eye caught movement through the window.
Buck and Jason were back. The two young saddle tramps were headed directly toward the kitchen.
* * *
Tyrone Beal and his battered henchmen sat nursing their wounds in a saloon on Beacon Street. After they’d downed several shots of liquid anesthetic, their bravado found new life.
“We’re not gonna let two country hicks get the best of us, are we, Boss?” Ned Parker growled.
“Not on your ass,” Tyrone Beal growled.
Parker poured another shot from the bottle. “I want a piece of that Frenchie bastard.”
“Me, too,” Earl Rankin piped up.
“Sam’s got a busted jaw,” Beal reminded them.
“They say only sissies fight with their feet,” Monk Diller observed.
“Maybe so, but that Longmont broke five of Ham’s ribs with a kick,” Beal said, continuing to list their injuries.
“’Twern’t nothin’ compared to what the big guy with him did to the boys,” Ned Parker summed up.
Tyrone Beal had enough of this. “No, boys, we’re not going to let them get away with it. We’ll get ’em both, even if we have to shoot them in the back.”
Monk Diller’s tone came out surly. “You tried that. There’s three of us dead for it.”
Tyrone Beal wanted to keep them on the subject. “What’s done is done. The thing is, we drop everything else until we can fix their wagon.”
Beal had no idea of how soon the opportunity would come. Even while he detailed a plan for ambushing Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont separately, a young Chinese entered the saloon. The bartender noticed at once.
“Get out. We don’t allow your kind in here.”
“I got message for thisee gentleman, Bossee,” he singsonged in pidgin, pointing to Tyrone Beal.
“Okay. Deliver your message and get out.”
Walking softly in his quilted shoes, the Chinese youth approached the table. “Arrogant qua’lo disgust me,” he muttered in perfect English, as he came before the railroad detective.
“What was that?”
“I said bigots like that bartender make me angry. I have a message for you from Xiang Lee. Here it is.” He offered a scrap of rice paper.
Beal opened the folded page and read carefully. “Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont are strolling around Chinatown bold as brass dragons. It is an insult to the Triad. The Tong leaders have met and consider it wise, and more convenient, if other qua’lo take care of them. You and your railroad police are to come at once. The messenger who brought this will lead you to your quarry. Xiang.”
Boyle looked up at the young Chinese. “This says you can take us to some men we want rather badly. Is that so?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then do so,” he rumbled as he rose, and adjusted the hang of his six-gun.
* * *
The door to the Jensen kitchen flew open and the two young drifters swaggered in. Sally looked askance at them from where she stood washing vegetables. She dropped the paring knife in the bowl and rubbed her arms furiously on her apron. Nursing her rising anger, she turned to them with a stony face.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded harshly.
Buck Jarvis cut his eyes to Jason Rucker. Then they both ogled her boldly, slowly, up and down in an insolent, lewd manner. “We’re here to get some of what y
ou must have under that dress,” the smirking lout nearest to Sally brayed.
Sally took two purposeful steps to the table and picked up her clutch purse. Men had seen the expression in her eyes and known fear. This pair hadn’t a clue. Her scorn aimed directly at Jason, she calmed herself as she shoved a hand into the open purse. Her voice remained level when she answered his insolence.
“No, you’re not.”
Buck, the bolder of the two, reached for her. His eyes, slitted with lust, widened to white fear and disbelief when the bottom of the purse erupted outward toward him, a long lance of flame behind the shattered material. An unseen fist slammed into Buck’s gut an inch above his navel and an instant of hot, soul-shriveling pain raked his nerves raw. He doubled over so rapidly that Sally’s second round, double-actioned from her Model ’77 Colt Lightning .44, smacked into the top of his head.
A giant starburst went off in the brain of Buck Jarvis and he fell dead at her feet.
* * *
White men alone on the streets of Chinatown stood out markedly in the daytime. Particularly ones as big, strong, and purposeful as Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont. The denizens of the Chinese quarter gave them blank, impassive faces. The few who would talk to them, or even acknowledge they understood English, made uniformly unsatisfactory replies.
“So solly, no Tongs in San Francisco,” one old man told Smoke, his face set in lined sincerity. He was lying through his wispy mustache and Smoke knew it.
“I know nothing of such things, gentlemen,” a portly merchant in a flowing silk robe stated blandly. “The Triads did not come with us from China.”
More horse crap, Smoke and Louis agreed. They moved on, creating a wake behind them. More questions and more denials. One young woman in a store that sold delicate, ornately decorated china did register definite fear in her eyes when Smoke mentioned the Tongs. Like the rest, though, she denied their existence in San Francisco.
“This is getting nowhere,” Louis complained. “We waste our time and make a spectacle of ourselves, mon ami.”
“We’ll give it another quarter hour, then try the local police,” Smoke insisted.
Power of the Mountain Man Page 30