They swiveled their heads once more, and when they looked forward again, two men appeared on the trace in front of them, six-guns in hand. Tom, Dick, and Harry reined their horses furiously in an attempt to turn and flee back to the camp, only to find two more people blocking their way, weapons at the ready. Desperately they spun their mounts again.
“Who are you?” Tom demanded, for want of something better to say.
The hard-faced one with cold eyes answered him. “We’re your worst dream come true.”
Somewhat less daunted than his brothers, Dick pushed the issue. “What’s your name, Mister?”
“Smoke Jensen.”
Awareness dawned. “Awh, Jesus,” Tom groaned.
“We’re dead men for sure,” Harry concluded for his brother.
“Not necessarily,” the hard-faced messenger of death told him.
“We saw what you did to those fellers last night.”
Fire flashed in the ruddy eyes. “One of them came after me with a knife.”
The brothers saw it then, a thickness of the left shoulder of Smoke Jensen. Tom also noted a rent in the cloth of the jacket, with red-brown stains around it. It fed him a dose of false bravado.
“What about the other two?”
“They got in the way.” Then Smoke read the expression on their faces. “Don’t worry, they were dead when I strung them up.”
Dick, worried over the condition of his hide, asked Smoke the fateful question. “You gonna do the same to us?”
“Not unless I have to,” Smoke answered calmly. “I gather you have given up on Mr. Murchison’s little enterprise?”
“Yessir, yes, we sure have,” Harry hastened to say. “Anyway, we worked for Mr. Huntley, an’ he’s long gone.”
“ Then you are free to go. All we ask is that you limit yourselves to a single weapon each, and leave all but five rounds with us.”
Shocked by this, Tom blurted, “That ain’t fair.”
“I think you will find that life is not fair. Do it that way or be left for the buzzards and wolves.”
“God, you’re a hard man, Mr. Jensen,” Tom blustered.
“Enough talk,” a man with a Frenchy-sounding accent told Tom, Dick, and Harry. “Do it or die.”
Quickly, Tom, Dick, and Harry divested themselves of six-guns, hideout pistols, and one spare rifle, and pockets-full of ammunition. Sweating profusely they rode off down the trail.
“That’s a good start,” Smoke Jensen told his companions. “Though there’s a lot more where they came from.”
* * *
The next dawn brought a cold, sharp wind and thick-bellied clouds Smoke Jensen knew to be laden with snow. All four ate heartily and fortified themselves with plenty of coffee. Smoke gnawed on a final biscuit while Brian Pullen covered the fire pit. The first lacy white flakes danced in the air as they took to saddle and set off.
Two miles down the trail, they encountered five disgruntled former employees of the California Central Railroad. The exchange went much as the one with the Newcomb brothers. None of the demoralized hard cases liked the idea of travel in this country so lightly armed, yet the alternative held not the least attraction. They did provide one gem of information. Their departure had left Murchison with only twenty-three men.
“Better odds, wouldn’t you say?” Smoke Jensen quipped, as the five men rode away.
Louis Longmont answered him drily. “We have them outnumbered, mon ami.”
“When do you propose hitting them again?” Brian Pullen asked.
Smoke made an unusual admission. “This arm smarts like the fires of hell. I’d as soon get it over with. But I think we should let them tire themselves out a bit more. It’ll be time enough at Donner Pass.”
They rode on in silence for an hour, the snow falling heavier by the minute. Every tree and bush wore a mantle of white. Except for the mournful wail of the wind off the sheer rock faces, their surroundings had taken on a cotton-wool quiet. Three inches accumulated almost before they knew it. Their horses’ hooves creaked eerily in that underfoot. Smoke called for a halt.
“We had better gather some wood. Otherwise it will be too wet later on.”
He set the example by rounding up an armful and wrapping it in his slicker. He tied the bundle behind his saddle. When they pointed the noses of their horses east again, the snow had deepened to six inches.
“I don’t like this at all,” Brian Pullen lamented. “It never snows in San Francisco.”
Smoke spoke through a snort of laughter. “Get used to it. I reckon we’ll have a lot more before this storm moves on.”
* * *
City men all, except for Titus Hobson and his mine police, the snow storm caught the column of Cyrus Murchison’s men by surprise. It slowed, then halted their movement. By mid-afternoon, the horses stood knee-deep in cold discomfort. Heck Grange urged his boss to have the men keep going. He reminded Murchison of the fate of the Donner party, and again suggested that they could rig some sort of plow to clear a lane, dragging it by horseback.
“To what purpose? It will exhaust the men and animals. Have the tents set up here and we’ll shelter until the storm blows over.” An icy gale whipped his words away.
Folding tin stoves came from the back of one packhorse and men installed them as soon as the tents had been erected. Stove pipes poked through specially prepared openings, and before long, ribbons of blue-gray smoke rose into the air to be shattered into ragged wisps by the turning whirl of the wind. Because of their thin walls, the stoves could burn only thin twigs and small branches. Fuel went up at a rapid rate, yet the drawback held one positive side. Heat radiated quickly, warmed the men, and boiled water for coffee.
Before long, savory aromas came from each tent as pots of stew began to simmer. In his large, well-appointed shelter, Cyrus Murchison opened a bottle of sherry and poured a glass for Titus Hobson and himself. He also cracked the lid on a blue, hinge-gate Mason jar that held neat stacks of small, white spheroids.
“Pickled quail eggs,” he offered them to Hobson. “Quite tasty. Only so rich, one does not want more than a few at a time.” Murchison helped himself and lifted his glass. “To better times.”
“Oh, quite well put,” a tired, cold, and wet Titus Hobson responded. He swallowed a sip, munched an egg, and peered at the jar. “Say, what’s this in the bottom?”
“What is left of the shells. After boiling the eggs, they are put in with the shells on. The vinegar dissolves the calcium and the residue falls to the bottom.”
“Clever. I suppose picking the shells off of hundreds of these little things could drive someone quite dotty.”
“Tedious work at best,” Murchison agreed. Then he spoke the fear that still rode them both. “After the other night, there’s no question Jensen and Longmont are still on our trail. I admit I am at my wits end to find a way to stop them.”
“Short of losing all of our men, you mean?”
“Exactly, Titus. Has anything occurred to you?”
Hobson took his time answering. “Other than surrendering, I haven’t much to say that is encouraging. You do realize we are in one damnable position, don’t you? If those left with Jensen and Longmont come at us now, we are about equally matched in numbers. Our men are fighting for money. Those valley yokels are fighting for they see as a cause. They won’t give up. If we have to face them we badly need reinforcements.”
Cyrus Murchison scowled. “That’s why we have to keep going to Carson City. It’s only seventy miles, once we reach Donner Pass. There are enough track layers and more yard police there to fill our needs.”
Titus canted his head to indicate the tempest outside the tent. “And if we get trapped in the pass by a storm like this? Do we feed on one another like the Donner party?”
Impatience painted lines on Murchison’s face. “Spare me the grotesqueries.” Then he argued from a basis of reason. “This is the first storm of the year. The snow will not last past the first few hours of sun on it. There probably
won’t be another until we are well down on the desert.”
“You have no way of knowing that. It only seems to me that your way takes a whole lot for granted.”
“Titus, Titus, you disappoint me. I always believed prospectors and mine owners were classical gamblers. Given what is at stake, don’t you think that risking all is in order?”
Silently, Hobson considered this, his face a morose study. “Yes, I suppose so,” he admitted reluctantly. Then he downed his sherry. “I need something stronger than this. How’s the brandy supply?”
“Still holding out. Courvoisier VSOP, to be exact. I’ll take one, too.” With snifters poured, Murchison raised his in a toast. “Confusion to the enemy.”
* * *
Smoke Jensen did not stay confused for long. Another night wasted. When the day dawned clear and cold, he rolled out of the snow-dusted blankets. The stockpile of wood soon provided a small fire to warm the stiffness from fingers and toes. He let the others sleep while he gnawed on a cold biscuit and set water to boil for coffee. Louis Longmont turned out next.
“Hell of a morning, mon ami,” he greeted Smoke.
“It’ll pass. Sun’s already got some heat in it. Way I measure, we have two feet of snow. Soon as it begins to slag down we’ll head out. Coffee’s ready.”
Louis accepted a cup. “Is there any cornmeal?”
“Enough, I’d say,” Smoke told him.
“I’ll make some Southern-style mush. It will warm us and last a while.”
Smoke Jensen knew all about Southern mush. It had shreds of bacon in it, plenty of eggs, when available, and cooked to the consistency of wall plaster. Some old-timers still called it belly plaster. Smoke nodded.
“There’s enough ham to fry some, if you want.”
“Done. Too bad we have no eggs.” Louis shrugged it off. He downed his coffee and went to work.
They left an hour later. Snow-melt trickled down summer-sun-dried water courses. Slowly the birds found new life and cause to celebrate a fresh day. Their music filled the air. As a boy, Smoke often wondered if they were telling each other about the storm that had blown away at last, sharing gossip. A foolish notion he soon abandoned in the cold light of being alone and a kid in the awesome vastness of the High Lonesome.
Now he had a scrap of that youthful fantasy return to him. Somehow it turned out to be comforting. Endless days and nights of fighting and bloodshed needed a counterpoint. For years it had been his lovely, raven-haired Sally. Out here in these strange mountains, he needed to cling to something.
“Cling to yourself, you maudlin old fool!” Preacher’s voice roared at him in his head. And so he did. By one hour after noon, they came upon the site of Murchison’s encampment. From the condition of the ground, he estimated the hard cases had been gone no more than three hours. There would be a little catch-up tonight.
22
Angry voices rasped around the campfires the next morning to wash away the good feelings of Cyrus Murchison on the previous evening. During the night, six more men deserted the camp. Now only seventeen gunmen remained. Cursing under his breath, Murchison stuffed himself into clothes, donned a heavy sheepskin coat, and stomped out to quell the upheaval.
“Nothing has changed, men. Nothing at all. We still outnumber them even if they all come after us.”
“Yeah, and they kicked our butts right good every time before,” one wag taunted.
“What’s to say that the fighting and the weather haven’t had a similar effect on them?” He wanted to avoid direct acknowledgment of the desertions.
No one could come up with an answer for that. Murchison seized on it to regain control. “Break camp and make ready to ride.”
Muttering, some of those on the fringe of the angry assembly turned away to begin packing. Gradually, the remainder joined them, stared down by an aroused Cyrus Murchison. When the last had left, Murchison turned to his partner.
“ Titus, is it going to be like this every day?”
Hobson sighed and jinked one shoulder. “Don’t ask me. If they leave us alone, I don’t think so. But another storm like that last one, and I won’t hold out much hope.”
“Bugger the weather,” Murchison grumped. “If we push ourselves, we can be to the next pass before nightfall.” He withheld the fateful name “Donner.”
“I agree. It is critical that we make it. I’ll talk to my men.”
Murchison clapped him on the back. “Good. It can only help. Oh, and at noon, we won’t stop to cook a meal. Have everyone bring along something they can eat in the saddle. I am going to beat Smoke Jensen at his own game.”
* * *
By noon, Smoke Jensen had put his small band a good five miles beyond Murchison’s overnight camp. Most of the snow had melted; only on the shady northern sides did drifts and patches still remain. In its wake it left a quagmire of slippery mud.
Smoke nodded to this. “It will slow them down more than us. Those heavy-loaded packhorses will make hard goin’ of the mud.”
“Shall we be visiting them tonight?” Louis asked.
“Oh, yes, I am sure we will. The ground is wet enough to use a little fire this time.”
* * *
They came an hour after sundown. Smoke Jensen led the way, a flaming torch held at arm’s length in his left hand. His right worked a big .45 Colt. The reins hung over the saddle horn and he steered Thunder with his knees. Louis Longmont rode to his left with another torch. Behind them came Brian Pullen and Quo Chung Wu.
Quo fired the Purdy shotgun one-handed and clung to his saddle with the other. Brian emptied one of the four revolvers he carried into one of the smaller tents as he raced past. Thugs cried in alarm and crashed through the low door flaps of other canvas lodges. Smoke reined in sharply and hurled his flambeau onto the roof of the tent that housed Cyrus Murchison. Cries of alarm came from inside as the heavy billet burned its way through. The blazing canvas illuminated the entire campsite.
Louis fired the other large tent, sheets of flame rushing up from the fringed roof overhang. This time the shouts of alarm came from outside.
“The supplies! They’re burning the supplies.”
“Get away. There’s ammunition in there,” Heck Grange shouted. “There’s dynamite in there, too.”
Cyrus Murchison burst clear of his doomed tent, his clothes in hasty disarray. He waved an awkward, long-barreled Smith and Wesson American in one hand and shouted for Heck Grange. Grange reached his side in a moment and the agitated railroad mogul made frantic gestures back toward the tent.
“Titus Hobson is still in there. Get some men to pull him out. A wall support hit him on the head.”
“Right away, Mr. Murchison.” Heck Grange sent two men into the burning tent to retrieve the unconscious form of Titus Hobson.
* * *
When they laid him on the ground, Titus Hobson swam slowly back into the real world. He coughed clear a phlegmy throat and tried to sit upright. Everything swirled around him. He caught himself with one hand before he could fall back. Fuzzily, he made out the face of Cyrus Murchison as it hovered over him.
“Are you all right, Titus?” Murchison queried.
“I think . . .” Titus Hobson began his answer, when the detonator caps in the supply tent let go.
The dynamite quickly followed from sympathetic detonation. A tremendous white flash and crushing blast followed. The ground heaved, heat waves washed over everything, and the concussion knocked Titus Hobson flat, along with nearly everyone else. A huge cloud of dust and powder smoke filled the clearing. The horrendous sound echoed off the surrounding peaks for a long time, while the stunned men tried to regain their feet.
“We should have never brought that along,” Titus stated with feeling.
* * *
Quo Chung Wu found himself faced by five men made more dangerous by their desperation. He downed one with the last round in his shotgun. With no time to reload, he put the weapon aside and met their charge with fists and feet when the remain
ing four swarmed over him. His kicks found their targets and two men fell back. The other pair came at Quo from opposite directions.
He dodged the first lout and the other thug connected with a knife in the shoulder of the one facing him. The city trash howled and Quo jumped nimbly from between them. By then the first hard cases had recovered enough to return to the fight. They circled Quo, one with a knife, the other with his clubbed, empty revolver. Quo kept pace with them. . . at least until the knife artist who had stabbed his comrade chose to try again.
Now, Quo faced enemies on three sides. He used every bit of his martial arts skill to keep them at bay. They circled, feinted, snarled, and cursed. Quo made small whistling and warbling sounds, his hands and arms describing figures in the air, weaving his spell, lulling these dull-witted qua’lo. It worked rather well, until the fourth gunhand joined his companions.
Quo realized at once he had to take the offensive. He spun, lashed out a foot, and kicked one thug low in the gut. The injured dolt bent double and vomited up his supper. Quo pivoted gracefully and delivered another jolt to the side of the exposed head. The hard case went down, twitched, and lay still. The other three rushed Quo at once. The young priest’s fists and feet moved in blurs. Another went down, then one with a knife got in close and drove the blade into Quo’s back, over a kidney.
His mouth opened in a soundless scream and the strength left his legs. Quo stumbled forward and the knife twisted clear of his back. The grinning goon who held it thrust again, the keen edge sliding between two of Quo’s ribs and into a lung. A fountain of blood gushed from his pain-twisted lips. Blackness swarmed over Quo Chung Wu as he pitched forward onto his face, never to rise again.
* * *
Smoke Jensen saw Quo Chung Wu go down and a moment of sharp regret filled him. The young Chinese priest had known the dangers involved in this battle and had come along at his own wish. Any of them, all of them, could die right here in this mountain pass, where so many had perished before. His lament for Quo ended, Smoke turned to check on Brian.
Power of the Mountain Man Page 49