* * *
Smoke Jensen lowered the Winchester Express from his shoulder when he saw the body of Gaylord Huntley sprawl backward in his death throes. One less, he thought grimly. The chase continued, though the gap had rapidly closed. Hauling more cars, the lead locomotive could not maintain its distance advantage for long. At the suggestion of the suddenly and surprisingly cooperative engineer, the whistle shrilled constantly, a tactic that Smoke Jensen thought would unnerve those they pursued. Torn snatches of answering screams came from sidetracked westbound trains as the two locomotives ran headlong through the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Train crews stared after them with eyes wide and mouths agape. Tediously, the distance shortened to half the original 1,000 yards.
From there on, time was suspended as the trailing locomotive rushed toward the private car of Cyrus Murchison. Smoke judged it time to put his rough plan in motion. He left the baggage car to talk to the volunteers in the chair coach behind. The two dozen of farmers and townies who had jumped aboard Smoke’s commandeered train gathered around at his summons. He eyed them with concentration.
“Now, this is going to be tricky. None of you are required to do what I’m going to ask. First off, I want to know how many among you consider yourselves surefooted.”
Nearly all hands went up. Smoke suppressed a smile and nodded. “Take a look outside and forward.” By turns they went to the open windows and did so. Several recoiled from the blast of wind created by their swift passage. “See that catwalk along the boiler? How many of you surefooted ones think you can walk that while the train is moving?”
Not so many hands went up this time. Smoke considered that with himself and Louis, and six of these willing volunteers, they could carry off his plan. It didn’t matter to him what happened to the rest of the train. What they needed to do was isolate the rear car containing Murchison and Hobson. Now for the tricky part.
“That’s good. We need six men to come with Louis and me. What we are going to try to do is close in and ram that observation car. The idea is to derail it.” Startled expressions broke out among the plain country folk facing Smoke Jensen. “Failing that, those of you who come with us are to be ready to advance along the catwalks on both sides of the locomotive and board the other train while we are in motion.”
“That sounds a tall order, Mister,” a farmer with sun-reddened face observed.
“Yeah,” a pimply store clerk picked it up. “Why should we take such a risk for you? Besides, who are you, anyway?”
“Folks call me Smoke Jensen.”
Color drained from the lippy clerk’s face. “Oh, Jesus. I’ve heard of you. Read all about you in them Ned Buntline books.”
Smoke gave him a hard, straight face. “Buntline lies. I’ve never shot a man in the back who hadn’t turned it after I squeezed the trigger.”
Eyes widened, the clerk gulped, “You’ve read all them dime novels?”
“A fellah needs to know what others are sayin’ about him,” Smoke said simply. “Now, like I say, do you think you can walk that narrow track and jump, if need be?”
Seven responded in the affirmative. “Better than I expected,” Louis Longmont stated dryly.
Smoke let the other shoe drop. “Remember, there are still a lot of hard cases aboard that train. If we don’t isolate the rear car, the fighting will be rough.”
Only one of the hands went down. “All right,” Smoke announced. “I’ll lead you. Louis here will give you the word when the time is right.”
* * *
Terence O’Brian did not mind shattering the nerves of those they pursued. Besides, he reasoned, it gave them more of a chance by warning approaching trains onto sidings. When he heard the blathering of that crazy man he knew the boy-o had slipped a cog somewhere. Jumping from one train to another? Pure madness. When the tough-faced gilly ordered the throttle opened to full again, he said, as much.
“That’s a lunatic idea if I ever heard one. Why, at the speed we’re goin’, we could ram that train ahead of us.” Smoke Jensen’s reply left him thunder blasted.
“Exactly what I had in mind.”
“Not with my beautiful baby, ye won’t,” Terry O’Brian blurted in indignation. “Ye’ll derail us both!”
Smoke Jensen pulled an amused face. “The thought occurred to me. Only, I want you to just knock them off the track, not us.”
Gloved hand on hip, O’Brian snapped his defiance. “Can’t be done. We hit them hard enough to derail that heavy car, we go off, too.”
Smoke though a moment. “You’re the engineer. If you say that’s the case, I’ll believe you. Can you do this? Get us close enough that men can jump from the front of this locomotive to the rear car of that train?”
“Sure. Easy. If anyone is crazy enough to try makin’ the leap. Thing is, I don’t want to ram them.”
“I understand. Only, give it a try and see what we can do.”
“You’re stark ravin’ crazy, ye are,” O’Brian offered his opinion again. Then, in exasperation, he put hand to throttle and shoved it forward.
It took a while for the big drivers to respond. With the rush of steam, they spun free of traction for a moment, then O’Brian added sand and the engine leaped forward. The gap quickly closed. At two hundred yards, four men appeared on the top of the private car. Two took up sitting positions, while one knelt and the other flattened out prone. Smoke took note of it and hefted his Express rifle.
Aiming through the forward window, opposite the engineer, Smoke squeezed off a round. One of the seated hard cases reared backward, fell to one side, and rolled off the car. The others opened fire.
“Get down!” Smoke shouted to O’Brian. “Not you,” he barked at the fireman. “Keep stoking that boiler.”
Bullets spanged off the metal plates of the locomotive. Smoke hunkered down and took aim again. The Winchester bucked and another thug sprang backward from his kneeling position and sprawled flat on the walkway atop Murchison’s car. A slug cracked past Smoke’s left ear and he reflexively jerked his head to the side. Damn, they have some good shots over there, Smoke thought. Not the time to ease up.
He fired again. As the hammer fell, the private car swayed to the left and their locomotive jinked right. Smoke’s bullet sped through empty air. He cycled a fresh cartridge into the chamber. When the careening rolling stock settled down, he drew a bead on the chubby gunhand lying on his belly.
At the bullet’s impact, the fat hard case jerked upward and flopped back down, shot though the top of his head. Not bad, Smoke judged his performance. At the last moment, before Smoke could sight in on him, the fourth of Murchison’s gunmen gave it up and ran for the safety of the car ahead. Smoke held his fire as the thug’s head disappeared below the lip of the roof overhang. Time to get ready, he decided, and turned away.
When he returned to the cab, the distance had narrowed to less than a hundred feet. Gingerly, O’Brian brought his behemoth up to within twenty feet, his hand playing the throttle like an organist at a mighty pipe organ console. Smoke gave him the nod. Swallowing against the lump of fear in his throat, the engineer opened the throttle again and the big Baldwin 4-6-2 sped into the rear of the Pullman-manufactured private car.
Violent impact knocked many of the volunteers off their feet. One clung desperately to the grab-rail to keep from falling down among the spinning drivers. Smoke staggered as the two vehicles slammed together. With a terrible screech, the observation platform rail sheered off and went flying to the sides of the track.
Murchison’s car jolted forcefully and the rear truck raised, then slammed back. Unasked, O’Brian eased back. The blunt nose of the locomotive withdrew from its menace over the beleaguered carriage and held steady, three yards off the shattered rear platform. Terence O’Brian looked pleadingly at Smoke Jensen. Smoke nodded to him.
“Bring it in as close as possible. We’ll jump.”
* * *
Cyrus Murchison could not believe what he saw through the open door at
the rear of his private car. Beyond the gap between it and the chase train, men stood on both sides of the locomotive boiler, slowly advancing to the nose of the steaming monster. He had been knocked out of his chair by the collision. At first he could not figure out what these lunatics had in mind. Then the reality struck him.
They intended to jump from the speeding locomotive to his car! If they made it, it would be all over, he thought in a panic. He waved to a slowly recovering Heck Grange. “Got to get some of the men in here. Those crazy bastards are coming after us.”
“How?” Heck demanded.
“They are going to jump over here, you idiot. Now, do as I say. Get a dozen, no, twenty guns in here right now.”
Heck started for the front door of the car. He worked the latch handle and passed through at an uneven gait. Wobbling on unsteady legs, Grange pushed into the next car. Concerned faces looked up. He stared them down, swaying with the roll of the car, one hand on the butt of his six-gun.
“We’re in for it, boys. Jensen’s comin’ after us. Gonna jump from train to train. The boss wants twenty of you in his car right now.”
“Hell, Chief, we can’t get twenty men in there. Maybe eight or ten. Even then, we’d be crammed so close it would be like shootin’ fish in a stock tank.”
“I know that, Miller. Best thing is to be ready on the vestibule, in case those gunhawks get through. Mr. Murchison will never know if there’s twenty or five in there. Now, let’s get going.”
* * *
Smoke Jensen looked down at the dizzying blur of ballast and cross-ties in the space between the cowcatcher of the Baldwin loco and the rocking platform ahead. He swallowed to regain his equilibrium, flexed his knees, and prepared to spring. Behind him he heard a voice raised in sincere prayer.
“. . . Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death . . .”
Well, that might be right now, the last mountain man considered. What he proposed to do, what they were about to do, could easily be considered suicidal. One or all of them could be dead within the next two minutes. The rail-like bars of the cowcatcher inched closer, closer. Another foot. Two feet. Smoke Jensen reached forward with his gloved hands. Smoke took his mind off the rush of death below and sucked in a breath.
Jump! Smoke left his insecure perch and sailed over the gap between the two trains. He seemed to pause in the middle, while the gap widened. A moment later the Baldwin surged forward and Smoke hit the platform on hands and knees. He landed solidly, thankful for the gloves he wore. A burly farmer crashed to the platform beside him. Smoke looked up to see the car interior was empty.
He came to his feet as two more men landed on the observation deck. A moment later, the door at the far end flew open. Five men poured in. Smoke filled his hand with a .45 Colt and set it to barking. Crystal shattered and tinkled down on the expensive Oriental carpets that covered the floor. The hard case in the lead jerked and spilled on his face in the narrow passage that paralleled the bedrooms. The man behind him threw a wild shot and tripped over the supine corpse.
More glass shattered, this time an etched panel between the dining room and the parlor area. Smoke sidestepped and a shotgun behind him roared. Two thugs screamed and slapped at invisible wasps that stung them with buckshot fury. More gunhands pushed through the vestibule door. By now, four of the volunteers had gained the hurtling lead train.
Louis Longmont appeared at Smoke Jensen’s side. “The last two are on their way.”
“Good. No chance to secure that door now. No reason, really. Murchison and Hobson got away.”
“They can’t go far,” Louis stated the obvious.
With the arrival of the last volunteers, the volume of fire became too much for the armed ruffians. Their ranks devastated, they chose to withdraw from the hail of lead that cut them down mercilessly. Smoke Jensen’s last slug slammed into the thick wooden door of the private car. A muffled howl of pain came from the other side.
“Not as sturdy as I thought,” Smoke said lightly to Louis. “I say we go ahead.”
Louis cocked an eyebrow. “They will be waiting for us.”
Smoke grinned. “Yep. I know. That’s why I brought these.” From the pocket of his vest, Smoke produced half a dozen bright red packets, covered and sealed with tin foil.
“What are those?” Louis asked.
“Railroad torpedoes,” Smoke explained. “I picked them up from the utility box in the cab of the other train.”
Louis still did not follow. “What do you do with those?”
Smoke showed mischief in his twinkling gray eyes. “We have one of these fine gentlemen toss them through the far door, one at a time, and shoot them like clay pigeons.
“What good will that do, mon ami?”
“They make a hell of a bang. Enough explosive to jar the lead truck of a locomotive and be heard over the noise of the engine.”
“Powerful. What gave you the idea?”
“I learned about these torpedoes when I worked for the D&RG. When a train breaks down on the main line and there is no siding, a trackwalker goes back half a mile and lays out a series of torpedoes. The number of bangs tells the engineer what is wrong and prepares him to slow and stop his train. In the construction camp we used to shoot them for sport, so I know it will work.”
A sardonic smile turned down the lips of Louis Longmont. “Then, by all means, let us get to it, my friend.”
Smoke turned to the volunteers. “Any of you good at Abner Doubleday’s game of baseball?” Three of the Valley men nodded their heads. “One of you consider yourself a good hurler?”
“Ay bin fairly good, Mr. Yensen,” a cotton-haired Swede declared with suppressed pride.
“Olie’s right,” one of his companions offered. “He’s hell at the pitch.”
Smoke smiled. “Good, then. Here, I want you to take these,” he began, explaining his plan to the Swede pitcher.
Two minutes later, Smoke, Louis, and Olie crossed the gap between vestibules and got ready. Louis yanked open the door. Olie gave a slow underhand pitch that sailed one of the red torpedoes down the aisle, flat side toward the door. Smoke brought up his .45 Colt before the startled hard cases could react, and fired.
A bright flash and shattering explosion followed. Glass rang musically as windows blew out all along the car. Men screamed and clutched their ears. At Smoke’s nod, Olie pitched another one. One man, blood streaming from his nose, leaped from his seat and stumbled down the passage toward the far end of the coach. A strong odor of kerosene rose from pools under the broken lamps. Smoke signaled for another.
With an expression of awe on his broad face, Olie flung another torpedo. A weakened portion of the sidewall, complete with blown-out window sash, ripped away from the side of the car. It whipped off along the rushing train. The gunhands who remained conscious could stand it no longer. Pandemonium broke out as they surged toward the next car forward.
Smoke signaled to the waiting volunteers and led the way after the fleeing enemy. He skidded to a stop and jumped to one side when a torrent of bullets ripped through the facing wall and the door. Tinted-edged glass shattered in the upper panel of the door and one clipped the shoulder of a farmer from the Central Valley.
“Ow, damn them,” he complained. “Toss in some o’ them bombs, Olie.”
Smoke gave the nod and Olie complied. The first one went off before Smoke could fire. The startled gunhand who had shot it gaped in disbelief. Olie recovered instantly and hurled another. Smoke blasted it a third of the way down the car. Windowpanes disappeared. Men groaned and cursed. Powder smoke filled the afternoon air. Sunlight filtered through the billows of dust and burnt explosive in sickly orange shafts. Another torpedo put the defenders in panic.
They raced off to find security in the next car. Smoke watched as the last man through the entry paused to throw the lock. He cut his eyes to Louis.
“We’re going to have to do this the hard way,” Smoke stated flatly, as he paused to reload
. The vision haunted him. Someone among his volunteers would die before this was over.
17
Smoke Jensen stationed three men at the vestibule door, to keep the attention of the hard cases beyond. Then he and Louis led the others to the rear of that car and out onto the narrow platform. He pointed to a set of iron rungs which led to the roof. With difficulty they climbed the ladder, fighting against the jerk and sway of the careening train.
On top of the car, Smoke went forward with the volunteers following. Clouds had formed, Smoke noticed, as he worked his way toward the car-full of gunmen. A light misty rain fell, whipped into their faces by the rush of wind. The air smelled of woodsmoke, which gushed from the tall, grinder-fitted stack. It was filled with fine, gritty cinders and inky exhaust, which quickly blackened their faces and clothing. Footing became treacherous on the damp strips of wood that formed the walkway. When they reached the gap between cars, Smoke stopped to consider the alternatives.
Climb down, cross over and climb back up, or jump. He tested his boot soles against the wood to gauge the security of the roof walk. He took a quick, appraising glance at the strained faces behind him, then he moved back toward them, took three, quick, running steps, and jumped. At the last instant, his foot slipped.
Smoke hurtled in an awkward sprawl toward the forward chair car roof. The toe of his boot caught on the trailing lip of the walkway and sent him to his hands and knees. He hung there, painfully aware that he could have cost them the element of surprise. After two, long, worrisome minutes, he inched forward. Still challenging fire to come up through the roof, he paused again. Perhaps the idea did not occur to those below that they could penetrate the thin roof of the car. Smoke pressed himself up onto his boots and motioned for the others to follow.
To his relief, they made it without undue noise. When they had gathered as best they could, Smoke explained what he had in mind. “Spread out. We’re going to fire at random through the roof. May not hit anyone, but it will stir them up some. The next coach is the smoking car. My bet is that Murchison and Hobson are in there. If we can rig the doors of the next car, jam them somehow, we can trap his gunmen there and go after the leaders with little risk.”
Power of the Mountain Man Page 43