And that little snit Pullen. Until now, Brian Pullen had been the least-feared lawyer in San Francisco. Where did he learn to fight like that? Where did he learn to shoot?
The way the three of them had gone through the Tong gangs impressed Cyrus Murchison. For all his fine education and refined manners, he actually preferred using raw brute force to accomplish his goals. As a boy, he had dominated his friends, always been the one to decide what games they played. Later, when away from home at school, Cyrus had been fiercely competitive. He would brook not the slightest error in the work of his lab or his student engineering partners.
When at home during the summer, he worked with his father on the Union Pacific and frequently used his superior intellect, fast reactions, and utter fearlessness to knock resentful gandy dancers and other underlings into line. Yet here he sat, in his private car, running away from a fight. The mere thought of it infuriated him. A burning indignation rose within his chest and he decided to change his tactics.
At their last stop, a fragmentary message had caught up to him. It told enough. The men pursuing him had not been stopped at Parkerville. Beal had failed, and was dead in the bargain. Cyrus pounded a fist on the arm of his chair in frustration. From now on, Jensen and Longmont would have to pay for every inch of track they gained.
* * *
For the past hour, the commandeered train had been climbing a barely perceptible upgrade. The foothills of the Sierra Madre lay ahead. To keep up to the top speed safety would allow consumed far more fuel. The engineer conveyed that to Quo Chung Wu, who relayed the message via a pulley-and-rope device rigged between the baggage car and cab. Smoke Jensen replied that the train was to stop at the next station and take on all the wood it could hold.
When the train with the four avengers aboard arrived at Grass Valley, all appeared peaceful and serene. Only the engineer recognized a familiar car on the end of a train on the main line, alongside the depot. Suddenly, a switch was thrown and their stolen train rolled onto a siding and all hell broke loose.
From the three parlor cars, a torrent of lead blasted toward the three-car train. After the first stunned moment, Smoke Jensen saw that none of the rounds seemed aimed at the stock car. Relieved for the safety of the horses, he concentrated on returning fire. At once a hard case in the window of a chair car went down behind a shower of shattered glass. Up ahead, Smoke caught a quick look at the switch. A red ball atop the upright told him the switch was set against them. Fully occupied with suppressing the volume of incoming rounds, he hadn’t the time to scribble a message and send it to Quo. Fortunately, the thick, heavy desks used for sorting mail successfully absorbed the bullets flying through the doorway. It became a very dangerous waiting game.
When at last the baggage car of the slowing train rolled past the lead passenger car of the other train, Smoke seized the chance to write a brief note. “Quo, send the switchman to throw the switch and let us through,” it read. Smoke affixed it to the signal cord on the far side of the train and ran it forward. He did not expect a reply and did not get one. Meanwhile, the thugs in the other train were trashing the coach behind the baggage car. A shout came from two of them when they spotted the switchman heading forward to change the switch.
They fired in unison and their bullets struck the hapless man in the back. He jerked, spun, and fell in the ballast along the track. A sudden lull came in the firing and Smoke steeled himself for what he knew must come next. He alerted his companions.
* * *
Feeling quite smug, Cyrus Murchison ordered his henchmen out of the train and to rush the one opposite on the siding. They ran forward eagerly, unaware of how well Smoke Jensen had instructed his three companions. With a shout, three of the hard cases rushed up to the grab-iron and ladder to the locomotive. They didn’t know it at the time, but they were about to get a lesson in the etiquette of boarding a train, though unwelcomed.
* * *
First to reach the ladder, one thug clambered toward the cab, shouting an order for the engineer and fireman to go down the other side. For his efforts, he received a foot in the face that broke his nose and jaw. He flew off the iron rungs with a strangled cry. He hit in the gravel and cinders of the track ballast, a moaning, bloodied wreck. Those with him hesitated only a second.
Six-guns crashed and bullets spanged off the metal walls and roof of the cab. Their momentary delay had given Quo time to dodge below the protecting wall of metal beside the cringing engineer. Quo looked at the terrified railroad employee with disdain—if one could not conquer fear, one could never fully know oneself. Outside, the situation quickly changed.
Covered by fire from both, one of the remaining hard cases climbed the ladder. The hand holding his six-gun came above the steel plates of the cab flooring first. Quo saw it and shifted position. When a hatless head slid up next, Quo set himself and aimed a deadly, full-thrust kick. Bushy brows followed and Quo let fly.
His training-hardened sole crashed into the exposed forehead and snapped the skull backward with such force that Quo could clearly hear the snap of vertebra. Not a sound came from the thug as he fell, twitching, to his death, his neck broken. That convinced his companion, who headed in the opposite direction. A shotgun roared from the open doorway of the baggage car and a swath of buckshot swept the fleeing hoodlum off his feet.
A rifle and six-gun took up the defense and a withering fire came from the riddled car that rapidly thinned the ranks. It slowed, then halted the advance. From their exposed position, most of the hard cases saw no advantage in rushing men barricaded behind thick counters. Several made to withdraw. A sudden ragged volley came from both sides of the track that slashed into the armed longshoremen and railroad police caught between the trains.
* * *
“What the hell is this?” Cyrus Murchison bellowed at the sight of his henchmen retreating toward the train.
Titus Hobson peered from the window, the red velvet curtain held aside in his rough hand. “It appears to me your local farmers and merchants have failed to be cowed by the thugs you sent out here, Cyrus,” he replied sarcastically.
A bullet hole appeared noisily in the window out of which Gaylord Huntley gazed. He yelped and flopped on the floor. Cyrus Murchison cast a worried glance in his direction.
“Are you injured, Gaylord?”
“N-no, but it was a close call. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Cyrus Murchison cut his eyes to Heck Grange. “Get those men back on board.”
Reluctantly, then, he reached for the signal cord after Grange left for the observation platform. Three mournful hoots came in reply from the distant locomotive and steam hissed from all the relief valves. Slowly the pistons began to shove against the walking beams. The big drivers rolled forward, spun, and regained purchase. A moment later, the creak, groan, and jolt of the cars elongating trembled through the train. Ponderously, it began to move forward.
Only then did an expression of abject relief cross the face of Gaylord Huntley. Some of the color returned to the features of Titus Hobson, who reached for the brandy decanter with trembling fingers. Cyrus Murchison covered his face with an unsteady paw and repeated the dying words of Tyrone Beal.
“Goddamn you . . . Smoke . . . Jensen!”
* * *
Agatha Murchison read with horror the bold, black headline of the afternoon Chronicle, her heart fluttering in her breast.
RAILROAD POLICE AND TONGS
FIGHT IT OUT!
Was this the problem that had taken Cyrus from home and office? If his police minions had clashed with those heathen Chinese, his life must be in danger. Tears stung Agatha’s eyes. She did not want to read further, but she knew she must.
Late last night, elements of the California Central Railroad police clashed with members of the secret societies of Chinatown, variously called the Tongs or Triad Society. Much bloodshed resulted. More than twenty men died in the conflict, with a hundred more injured. Listed among the dead was an ominous figure known
as Xiang Wai Lee, reputed Triad Society leader. When the smoke cleared, no sign could be found of the railroad police or of the sinister foreign gangsters of the Tongs.
Attempts early this morning by the Chronicle to contact Chief Hector Grange of the Central California Police elicited the information that the chief was not available. Likewise, attempts to reach Cyrus Murchison, President of the California Central Railroad, proved fruitless. Sources in the railroad offices stated that Mr. Murchison had left the city on business and was not expected back for several days. Our Chinatown contacts responded with terse replies of “No comment.” The Chronicle’s Chinatown reporter, Robert Gee, informed us that a sect of Buddhist priests were also attacked by the Tongs. We have often spoken out against vigilantism in our fair city, and this time is no exception. However, until we learn the motivation behind this most recent outbreak of citizen violence, we must reserve judgment.
Yet duty clearly calls for this newspaper to demand an investigation . . .
Agatha laid aside the fiery words of the editorializing journalist and swallowed to banish the tightness in her throat. Something became undeniably clear to her sharp mind: if whatever had compelled Cyrus to order his police into Chinatown had been a legitimate reason, he would have had no reason to go into hiding. Unless, of course, there had been some—some—She could not use the word “criminal.” Had there been something unlawful about the association of her husband with those Chinese? Suddenly she went cold and still.
Hadn’t that one in the article, that Xiang Wai Lee, been right in this very house not long ago? Slowly she lowered her head and covered her face with hands that trembled. Hadn’t he?
* * *
When Murchison’s train began slowly to gain momentum, Smoke Jensen climbed from the baggage car and waved his thanks to the local citizens. They cheered him and a few fired parting shots at the fleeing moguls. Smoke took his hat from his head and waved it to quiet the local vigilantes.
“If that fight didn’t give you a bellyful, we could use some help. Anyone who wants to come along, put your mount on board and take a seat in that parlor car.”
More cheers answered him, and men headed for their horses. Smoke went forward and swung up into the cab. His stern, powder-grimed face struck pure terror in the heart of the engineer, not a man to show yellow before anyone. But with the muzzle of Smoke Jensen’s Peacemaker jammed against his head, he decided now would not be the time to show undue bravado.
“I want you to explain to my friend here how to throw that switch when that train clears it. Don’t steer him wrong, or you’ll answer to me.”
“I won’t, Mister. I surely won’t.” At once he began to outline the steps to activate the switch.
Quo Chung Wu listened intently, then dismounted and ran forward. By then, Murchison’s “special” had cleared the switch. Looking down, Quo located the lever that swung the hinged tracks to give the siding access to the main line. Only minutes separated the two trains, and every second counted. Quo raised the arm into the position described and heaved on it.
Total resistance. The wrong way. Sweating, Quo reversed his stance and pushed. With a metallic creak, the steel rails swung away from the closed position and rode across the space between tracks. When the thin end of the right-hand rail mated to the inside edge of the main line track. Behind him, he heard the locomotive gather itself to rush forward.
He stood upright and gave a friendly wave. Then, fists on hips, he waited for the stolen train to come to him. More time was lost to allow horses and volunteers to board. Then Quo stepped aside to allow the locomotive to rumble past. When the grab iron came next to him, he reached out and swung aboard with all the ease of one who had had years of practice. He was surprised to see that Smoke Jensen had gone back to the bullet-riddled baggage car. Flame leaped from the open door of the firebox and Quo gave it a satisfied smile. They would catch up soon.
* * *
Speed came on the runaway as it rattled through and beyond the switch. Behind it, in the bay window section of the depot, the telegrapher frantically worked his key. The dots and dashes of Morse code sped down the line with the speed of an electric spark. Tersely, he advised stations to the east of two extras, one a stolen runaway, hurtling in their direction. Abruptly, he looked up when his sounder took on that flat buzz that came from talking to no one.
His eyes narrowed as he saw a local merchant shinny down a telegraph pole. The line sagged to the ground in both directions from the cross arm. “Thunderation, Hiram, why in hell did you do that?” he roared in his frustration.
Hiram made an obscene gesture. “We’re tired of takin’ hind tit to the likes of Cyrus Murchison. I tell you, he’s up to somethin’ no good, Rupe. I seed the flash of a marshal’s badge on one o’ them fellers shootin’ at his train. A U.S. marshal’s badge.”
For the first time since he had gone to work for the railroad at the age of twelve, Rupe gave serious thought to ending his career.
16
Gaylord Huntley looked back apprehensively along the track. Greasy sweat popped out on his forehead. “By God, they’re gainin’ on us.”
“We still have them outgunned,” Cyrus Murchison responded, with a tone of indifference he certainly did not feel.
“I don’t think so anymore,” Heck Grange injected. “I saw some of those local bumpkins jump on board back there.”
“Well, Zach Bourchard is a trustworthy man. He’ll send word along the line. Up ahead there’s a siding just beyond a wide curve. When we reach it, we’ll pull onto it and throw the switch against them. I don’t like wrecking a locomotive, but I’ll do it if it stops those damnable gunfighters.”
“Sort of costly, isn’t it?” Titus Hobson suggested.
Cyrus Murchison revealed his anxiety in a flash. His fist pounded the edge of his desk. “Damn the expense! These men are not dolts. That they are on the verge of ruining us right now should prove it.” His eyes narrowed. “We could still lose it all, gentlemen. I have an idea. I own this fine long-range hunting rifle. It has a telescope on it. You are such an excellent shot, Gaylord—what say you stop worrying and make yourself useful? See if you can pick off the engineer of that train.”
Huntley pulled a droll expression. “I thought you just finished praising his loyalty?”
Impatience at such dullness flashed on Murchison’s face. “I was talking about the stationmaster at Grass Valley. Although you have to admit, I have a point about Terry O’Brian, the engineer. Otherwise, he would not be running that locomotive, would he?”
Doubt in his face, Gaylord Huntley turned away from his vigil and reached for the rifle. He pushed in the loading gate cover and checked that a round was ready to chamber. With care he raised the muzzle to the ceiling and turned back to the platform door. His shoulders, slumped in resignation, more noticeable than his words, he opened the door and walked out on the observation deck. He knelt and brought the rifle to his shoulder.
Carefully he eased the eyepiece closer and established a field. The sway of the train made it difficult to settle the cross-hairs on the head and left shoulder of the engineer. Satisfied, Huntley worked the lever action and chambered a long, fat .45-70-500 Express round. Then he returned to his study of the target.
Steady . . . steady . . . lower now . . . easy . . . Damn it! The train lurched violently and destroyed his aim. Gaylord Huntley eased off the telescope and let the bright spot fade in his right eye. Try again. Lord, that loco must be a thousand yards off. He fined his sight picture, elevated the muzzle, and squeezed off.
The powerful Winchester Express slammed into his shoulder. A second later he saw the flash of a spark as the bullet whanged off the face plate of the cab a foot above the open window. A quick glimpse through the scope revealed that the engineer had not even flinched. Quickly he ejected the spent cartridge and chambered another.
His second shot screamed along the outside of the boiler and burst into a shower of lead fragments when it hit the thick iron plate of the cab face
. Quickly he reloaded. The third round went two feet wide of the cab when the private car hurtled sharply to the left as the speeding train swung into a curve. Gaylord did some quick mental arithmetic. Four rounds left. He rose from his cramped pose and eased his numb legs.
When he returned to his position, he quickly expended two more bullets. They did no more good than the other three. Time to reload, he figured. He’d fire one more round first. A wild lurch of the car sent his bullet high; had he been on board the pursuing locomotive, he’d have heard the bell halfway down the boiler clang with a fractured tone.
Back in the plush interior of Murchison’s private car, Huntley went to the gun cabinet and located and shoved fresh cartridges into the Winchester. He ran a nervous hand through his oily black hair and worked his foreshortened upper lip over his rodent-like teeth. Huntley knew what he needed and went directly to it.
Three fingers of brandy warmed the cold specter of defeat in his gut and spread calm through his limbs. Thus fortified, he returned to the observation platform and knelt to steady his aim. Huntley failed to notice that in his absence, someone else had entered the cab of the locomotive behind them. He also did not observe that the newcomer held a Winchester Express like his own.
Huntley took aim and took up the slack in the trigger. Then, through the circular rescale of the telescopic sight, he saw a lance of flame and a curl of smoke. A split second later, hot lead spanged against the brass cap of the platform rail and showered shards of metal into the face of Gaylord Huntley. Sharp pains radiated from the wounds and he screamed in horror as he felt a sliver pierce his exposed eye.
Reflexively he dropped the rifle and fell backward onto his butt. Beyond the rail, his tearing eyes took in another flash. Terrible pain erupted in his chest and he was flung backward against the doorjamb. Gaylord Huntley’s mouth sagged and darkness swarmed over him. Beyond him in the parlor section, unaware of what had happened, Cyrus Murchison froze, half out of his chair, hands flat on the desk, eyes bugged, as he stared in confused astonishment at the body of his former associate.
Power of the Mountain Man Page 42