Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m not sure we believe that. You could be charged with harboring fugitives.”

  Ophilia controlled herself enough to not show any reaction to that. “What you callin’ them gentlemen fugitives for?”

  “They are wanted for the murder of fifteen railroad police officers and other crimes.”

  Ophilia let her outrage flow over. “That ain’t true. No, suh, not one bit of it. I don’ believe a word you said. Now, you get your flat feet off my porch before I throw you off.” She turned her ample back on him and slammed the door.

  When they learned the purpose of the visit by the police, Smoke Jensen produced a frown. This could complicate matters considerably. “Murchison is a powerful man. I reckon he’s got some higher-ups in the police in his pocket. We’ll have to be mighty careful going around outside here.”

  Louis nodded his understanding. “Perhaps a change of costume is in order,” he suggested in a glance at Smoke’s buckskin hunting shirt and trousers.

  “Umm. I see what you mean. Sorta stands out around here, doesn’t it? I don’t cotton to the idea of fighting in fancy clothes, but the situation suggests I not look like myself.”

  “I, too, shall change my appearance,” Louis offered. “Perhaps the clothing of a longshoreman would be advisable.”

  “What?” Smoke jibed. “And give up those fancy shirts you like so much?”

  “It was Shakespeare who said, ‘All the world’s a stage.’ In this case the actors must blend with the audience.”

  Smoke quipped back, “ ‘Faith, that’s as well said, as if I had said it myself.’”

  Delighted amusement lighted the face of Louis Longmont. “Jonathan Swift. Polite Conversations, I believe. From Dialogue Two?”

  “Yes,” Smoke said with sudden discomfort. “Sally made me read a lot of Swift.”

  “And for good reason, I would say. His characters and you have a lot in common. Especially in Gulliver’s Travels.”

  “Are you comparing me to a giant among the Lilliputs? Don’t wax too literary, old friend. It’s too early in the morning.” They shared a laugh, and Smoke went on. “Seriously, we’re going to find ourselves with our tails in a wringer if the police get too involved in this.”

  “Why not talk to Lawyer Brian?” Lucy suggested, then flushed furiously.

  Louis picked up on it at once. “Aha! So it’s Brian now, eh?”

  “He’s been advising me on managing the—ah—busi-ness.”

  “And you have grown close? No doubt,” Louis went on gallantly. “You’re a lovely woman, ma cherie.”

  Lucy hastened to protest. “It isn’t—I’m just a client. He doesn’t even look on me as a woman, let alone have a romantic interest.”

  Louis cocked an eyebrow and shaped a teasing expression. “Time for our friend Shakespeare again. ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ Yet it’s entirely understandable, given the circumstances. What do you say, Smoke, my friend?”

  “I think they deserve a tad bit less prying. Louis, can’t you be serious for two minutes at a time? Lucy, I agree that maybe Pullen can help. I’d be obliged if you’d go see him about all this. As a lawyer, he can look into it, find out what the police have.”

  Lucy pushed back from the breakfast table, her meal forgotten. “I’ll go right away.”

  “Finish your breakfast first,” Smoke urged.

  “But those policemen might come back. And they might bring more with them.”

  “It’s a thought, Lucy. Though by then, Louis and I really will not be here.”

  * * *

  Liam Quinn had been working for the California Central Railroad since he was a boy—first as a cook’s helper and scullion, then as a switchman and telegrapher, and finally as a locomotive engineer. He was enjoying a day off with his buxom wife, Bridget, and their five dark-haired children. A small park, soon to be converted into office buildings and shops, stood across from the entrance to Chinatown. Bridget had packed a huge picnic basket, with cold fried chicken, a small joint of ham, cheese, pickled herring, cold boiled potatoes, and hard-cooked eggs. Liam had sent his eldest, eleven-year-old Sean, for a bucket of beer.

  Savoring the arrival of the cool, frothy brew, Liam tore off a hunk of sourdough bread and munched contentedly, a chicken wing in the other hand. Two men, quite tall, caught his attention across the street. Lord, they moved like panthers. A full head above other white men, head and shoulders topping the Chinese who milled about near the large Moon gate, they had an air about them that riveted Liam’s attention. Something about them set off an alarm in his head.

  Yes, that was it. Those men had the moves of gunfighters Liam had read of in the penny dreadfuls. And, yes, on those flyers that he had seen circulated early this morning when he had checked in at the yard office to be sure he could take the day off. These two sure resembled them. He studied them further, noting the rough dress of the bearded one and the somber cut of the other’s suit. Certainty bloomed in Liam’s brain.

  “That’s them, by St. Fiona!” Liam shouted. There was a reward offered, Liam recalled. A fat bounty on those particular gentlemen, sure and wasn’t it? He must get the word to Captain Beal or Chief Grange. “Sure an’ then that gold will jingle in me pocket,” he muttered gleefully.

  His beer would have to wait. Nothing for it, though. He had to be the first to report them and where they might be found. Liam tossed a hasty word of explanation to his wife and promised to rejoin them within the hour, then hurried off down the street.

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont resumed their search for the elusive Xiang Wai Lee on one of the many bustling new side streets of Chinatown. One shopkeeper, fear clearly written in his seamed old face and tired, ancient eyes, spoke with them while he cast worried glances at the front of the shop.

  “Nothing good can come of your search. You are not Han. You have no idea with what, and whom, you are dealing.”

  “Then the Tongs are here?” Smoke pressed.

  “Heyi! Take care in what you say,” the frightened elder warned. “They have ears and eyes everywhere. I do not want a hatchet painted on my door. You should not want one on yours, gentlemen.”

  “I agree,” Louis hastened to put in. “What can you tell us of Xiang Wai Lee?”

  Eyes wide with fear, the old man blanched so thoroughly that his complexion took on a waxen color. “Buddah nee joochung!” he wailed. “To speak the name is to ask for death. Buddha, fortify me,” he moaned again.

  Smoke Jensen found his patience wearing thin. “Look, this is getting us nowhere. You saw what happened yesterday?” Slowly the aged Chinese nodded. “Then I reckon you should rely upon us to protect you, instead of this Buddha feller. If you know anything at all, tell us how we can find Xiang Lee.”

  Drawing a shuddering breath, the old merchant stared at a spot above and beyond the shoulder of Smoke Jensen, while he spoke in quiet, broken words. “It is said that there is a secret place, near the opera house.”

  “The San Francisco Opera?” Smoke asked impatiently.

  “No—no, the Chinese opera. It is that large building near the south end of Chinatown. You see it easy, big pagoda, with many peaks and dragon carvings. Near it, it is said, the Triads hold secret meetings. Some say underground. I not know more.”

  Smoke gave him a warm smile. “You’ve done enough, old-timer. More than you think. Thank you.”

  Outside the shop, Louis asked the question that had been troubling Smoke. “Shall we go there straightaway?”

  “Don’t reckon to. We need to know a lot more about the Tongs. How many are they, for one thing. We don’t want to stumble into some nest of wasps. I’ve been thinking, maybe we’re goin’ at this the wrong way. There must be some whites who know something about the Tongs. What say we head for those offices built into the wall that runs along Chinatown?”

  Louis shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”

  Again, they drew blanks. Not until the fifth small, narrow office did Smoke and Louis come up
on anyone with specific knowledge. The sign on the outside identified it as an import broker’s office. Inside, dusty chairs were littered about and a large, desk-like table had been heaped with invoices and bills of lading. Seated at a cluttered rolltop desk, a slender, bookish young man in shirt sleeves and garters glanced up, his features shadowed by a green eyeshade.

  “You here to pick up the shipment of spices? The paperwork’s not done yet,” he added without waiting for verification.

  “No. Actually, we stopped in to ask you a little something about dealing with the folks of Chinatown,” Smoke Jensen advised him.

  Smoke kept his questions to generalities until the man had relaxed. At that point he directed their conversation toward the area of interest. “Tell me, when you bring in things from the Orient, China in particular, do you have to deal through—ah—shall we say—out-of-the-ordinary agents among the Chinese?”

  “Exactly what do you mean?”

  “Do you have to make payoffs to one or more of the Tongs?” Smoke asked bluntly.

  The broker did not even blink. “Yes. Anyone dealing with Chinatown has to make their—ah—contributions. It’s the way they do business. Even though I am not Chinese, I am not exempt from that rule. Tell me, why are you so interested in the Tongs?”

  “Idle curiosity? No, you’d never believe that,” Smoke went on, as though thinking out loud. “Actually, we need to talk to Xiang Lee.”

  Blinking, the import broker pushed up his eyeshade and removed his hexagonal spectacles. He wiped the lenses industriously as he spoke. “Whatever for?”

  “We have good reason to believe that the Tong hatchetmen are bent upon killing us,” Louis informed him.

  “Then the last thing you want to do is get anywhere near Xiang Lee. He’s the most bloodthirsty of them all. Xiang Wai Lee is a deadly, silent reptile who gives no warning before he strikes. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “Perhaps. Though I would reserve judgment, were I you,” Louis Longmont advised.

  They got a little more out of the broker. Not enough, and no confirmation of the location of Xiang’s lair. Back on the street, they headed again for Chinatown, armed with new facts to prod those they questioned. To appear to be armed with more knowledge than one had often resulted in gaining what one sought, Louis reminded Smoke. They had come abreast of the small park across the street when a shout thrust them into quick action.

  “Jehosephat! There they are! There’s the men I told you about,” a voice, thick with Irish accent, shouted.

  Smoke and Louis looked that way to see a burly black-haired man. He stood at the curb, pointing directly at them. Half a dozen railroad police gathered behind him. Two of them carried carbine-length Winchesters, which they swiftly brought to their shoulders. The discharge of the rifles made a crack-crack sound. Before they heard the muzzle roar, the deadly bullets passed close enough beside the heads of Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont that they felt the heat of the lead. It answered one question. These men had been ordered to shoot to kill.

  8

  Ten more of the railroad thugs swarmed out of the park. That put Smoke Jensen and Louis Longmont in considerable jeopardy. A quick evaluation of the situation decided Smoke on their wisest course of action.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said tightly.

  With Murchison’s hirelings streaming after them, Smoke and Louis bolted into Chinatown. The pursuers rapidly lost ground. Once they entered the throng of Chinese, the two with Winchesters did not fire again. Smoke led the way toward the central marketplace. He noted with satisfaction that many of the residents of the Chinese quarter bustled themselves into the street in a manner that would block the passage of the railroad detectives.

  Cursing and shoving their way through the throng, the hired guns fell further behind. Finally the first one broke free of the obstacles and threw a shot in the direction of Smoke and Louis. His bullet passed the gunfighter pair far enough away not to be heard. Two more guns joined the fusillade. Smoke and Louis led them by a block. It forced their attackers to halt to take aim.

  Now the slugs cracked past uncomfortably close. One round kicked up rock chips from the cobbles beside Smoke’s boots. He drew his Colt Peacemaker and returned fire. His target emitted a weak cry and pitched forward onto his face. It gave those behind him pause. Smoke pounded boot soles on the street as he led the way at a diagonal across the market square. Louis followed. In less than five strides, Smoke and Louis found themselves in even more trouble.

  Another ten railroad thugs appeared on their left. They had even less distance to cover than those coming from behind. In the blink of an eye, they had their six-guns in action. Before flame lanced from their muzzles, Smoke and Louis responded.

  Smoke’s .45 roared and sent a slug into the pudgy belly of a buck-toothed hard case who wore the round blue bill-cap and silver badge of a railroad policeman. He went down in a groaning heap of aching flesh. Smoke cycled the cylinder again and sought another target.

  Louis already had his. He put out the lights for a red-faced gunman who bellowed defiance at the formidable pair facing him. He stopped in mid-bellow when Louis’s bullet punched a neat hole half an inch below his nose. There was more hell to pay for the “detectives” as they closed on Smoke and Louis from two directions.

  Smoke blasted a round into the chest of another of them who had ventured too close. He screamed horribly and flung his Smith and Wesson American high in the air. Beside him, a startled thug triggered a hasty, unaimed round. He did well enough, though, as his slug gouged a shallow trough along the left side of Smoke’s rib cage. It burned like the fires of hell. All it did was serve to heighten Smoke’s anger.

  By then, so many of the hunters had weapons in action, it sounded like the Battle of Gettysburg. A Chinese woman screamed shrilly as a slug from one of the hard cases struck her in the chest. An angry mutter rose among the fright-paralyzed onlookers. A quick glance indicated to Smoke that they had only one way out. A small pagoda fronted on the west side of a small park south of the market square. It rested in stately composure atop a gentle, grassy slope. Smoke touched Louis lightly on one sleeve and nodded toward the religious shrine. Louis understood at once.

  Ducking low, the dauntless pair sprinted among the vendors’ carts toward their only hope. Two bullets cut holes in the sailor’s jacket worn by Louis Longmont and smacked into a cart wall. The pungent odor of spicy Szechuan food filled the air as the contents of a barrel inside poured onto the ground.

  Once free of the closing ring of hard cases, Smoke settled in to pick individual targets while Louis dashed forward a quarter block. Smoke zeroed in on a florid face and squeezed off a round. The thug went down with a hole in his forehead and the back of his head blown off. Those around him ducked for cover. At once, Smoke set off to close the distance between himself and Louis.

  Louis sighted on one of the more daring among the throng of hoodlums and sent his target off to pay for his sins. Smoke joined him a moment later. “Take off, Louis,” Smoke panted.

  Longmont left without a remark. Smoke turned at once to face their enemies. He had little time to wait for a new target. Two men loomed close at hand. The first shouted an alarm too late. Smoke pinwheeled the other railroad detective and spilled him over backward. Sweat stung the raw wound along Smoke’s ribs.

  No time to think about that. He banished the discomfort from his consciousness. Halfway to their goal, Louis Longmont took cover behind a cart piled with what looked like small gray-brown stones. A stack had been made on a counter outside one of the barrels from which they had come. Louis opened up on the charging gunmen and immediately Smoke Jensen made a dash to join his companion. Return fire shattered several of the stones and released an abominable odor.

  Smoke’s nostrils flared at the scent of sulfur and sea salt. He swiveled at the hips and fired almost point blank into the chest of his closest pursuer. The man’s arms flung wide and his legs could no longer support him. He hit the ground in a skid. Two mor
e long strides and Smoke rounded the odorous cart. More of the objects had been broken open by gunfire and three of the barrels oozed a malevolent ichor.

  Through the distaste in his expression, Smoke asked Louis about them. “What are those?”

  “Hundred-year-old eggs,” Louis enlightened him. “They are not really a hundred years old, merely duck eggs preserved in sea salt and brine.”

  Before Louis started off on the next leg of their retreat, Smoke asked, “What are they for?”

  “The Chinese eat them,” Louis answered and began his sprint.

  Left behind to hold off the hoodlums, Smoke could only repeat the last part of Louis’s sentence: “Eat them?”

  Without pausing to consider that, Smoke had his hands full of burly railroad detectives and uniformed yard police. He had emptied his Peacemaker and now used the left-hand Colt to hold them at bay. A well-placed round took down a skinny thug with a huge overbite that made him look like a rabbit. That scattered the two who had been beside him. One of the nearer hard cases caught a whiff of the broken eggs.

  “Gawd, that’s awful. What is that stink?”

  “Them things there,” a comrade answered. “Let’s get away from here.”

  “Can’t. That’s where they’re hold up.”

  “Only one of them, an’ you’re welcome to him,” the disgruntled gunhawk offered. “That stuff would gag a maggot.”

  Louis had reached his latest shelter and taken the time to reload his six-gun. Now he opened up. Instantly, Smoke was on the run. He concentrated on their goal and found a final dash would make it. He advised Louis of that fact when he skidded to a halt behind a stone lion carved in the Chinese style.

  “I figured it that way, too, my friend. Shall I give you time to reload?”

  “It would be a good idea. I don’t hanker to have them follow us into that place with my iron dry.”

  Swiftly, without a tremble to his hands, Smoke Jensen reloaded both revolvers. Louis kept up a steady fusillade until he had emptied his own, then ran for the beckoning archway that formed the entrance to the temple. Smoke laid down covering fire, and as soon as he glanced at the pagoda and saw Louis no longer in sight, he made his own hurried rush to the promised safety. Louis blasted two more thugs into perdition while he backed up Smoke. When the last mountain man disappeared into the shrine, a jubilant shout rose from their hunters.