“But I’m not a soldier’s wife anymore.”
“Yes, you are. Once a soldier, always a soldier. And you’re still my wife. Now, do like I tell you.”
“All right.”
“Mrs. Logan, go around by Cottonwood Pass Road,” Smoke suggested. “That way there’s little chance you’ll run across any of Garneau’s men.”
Ethel nodded, then stood there with her sons until Logan brought the buckboard around a few minutes later. He kissed her, then helped her and the two boys into the buckboard.
“Stay with Sally until we come back,” Smoke said.
Ethel nodded, then slapped the reins against the back of the team, and the buckboard left.
“Cal, why don’t you ride out toward the south and keep an eye out. Let us know if you see anything,” Smoke suggested.
“Will do,” Cal agreed, and remounting, he left at a trot.
Logan watched his wife drive off for a long minute, then he turned back to Smoke and the others. “I lied.”
“What?”
“When I said that Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull didn’t scare me, I lied. They scared the hell out of me.”
Smoke laughed. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes, good. I don’t want to be standing here, facing Garneau’s men with a fool beside me.”
Logan and the others laughed as well.
“Well, we may as well get ready for them,” Smoke said. “Chris, this is your place, and you’re an old army sergeant, do you have any ideas on disposition of the troops?”
“Yes. One of you should be in the hayloft over there. You’ll have a good field of fire from the open door.”
“I’ll go there,” Pearlie said.
“Another could be on top of the machine shop. Get on the other slope of the roof, just behind the peak.”
“I’ll do that,” Malcolm said.
“Smoke, if you’d like, you can be down here on the ground, waiting just behind the cottonwood over there. I’ll be by the watering trough. I can get down behind it quickly, if I need to.”
The men heard the sound of an approaching horse, and looking in that direction, saw Cal coming back at a gallop.
“They’re comin’,” Cal said as he swung down from the saddle.
“How far, and how many?” Smoke asked.
“I’d say they’re still a mile to a mile and a half away. “I counted ten of ’em.”
“That means they have us exactly doubled,” Malcolm said.
“Is Garneau with them?”
“To tell the truth, Smoke, I don’t know if he is or not. I’ve only seen him one time, and they were too far back to make out any actual features.”
“No matter, we’ll handle it all right. You get up into the hayloft with Pearlie. Malcolm, you may as well get yourself in position as well.”
“Right,” Malcolm said.
“Come on, Cal, let’s get to our places,” Pearlie said.
The three men left to climb into their perches, so that only Smoke and Logan remained behind.
“How do you think we should handle this, Smoke? Let ’em get close enough to talk? Or start shootin’ as soon as we see ’em?”
“Yell at them and stop them just out of pistol range,” Smoke said. “If they try to pass that point after you have warned them, start shooting.”
Armed and ready, they stood next to each other, waiting for Garneau’s men.
Templeton held up his hand to stop the riders. They were on the rest of a ridgeline, and Logan’s house and outbuildings were spread out before them.
“What do you think, Templeton?” Jerry Briggs asked.
“I think we should just ride in and shoot the man. And leave no witnesses.”
“He’s got a woman and kids,” Mathis said.
“Like I said, leave no witnesses.”
“Don’t you think, maybe, we could have a little fun with the woman first?” Carr asked.
“Have you seen his woman, Carr?” Briggs asked. “She’s so ugly she’d make a train take ten miles of dirt road.”
The other men laughed.
“Hell, what does that matter?” Carr asked as he grabbed himself. “I just want to have a little fun with her. I don’t plan to marry her.”
Again, the men laughed.
They continued to advance toward the Logan place until they were within about two hundred yards. Templeton stopped them again.
“What it is?” Mathis asked. “What’d you stop us for?”
“Let’s spread out and advance in . . . in . . . what was it Garneau called it during our practices?”
“A frontal line attack,” Briggs said.
“Right. Spread out and advance at a trot. When I give the word, we’ll continue at a gallop.”
“Smoke,” Logan said. “I’ve seen this before. There ain’t goin’ to be no talkin’, no callin’ out for them to not come any closer. They’re comin’ at us in a full blown attack.”
“All right. Get down behind the water trough.” Smoke used his hands as a megaphone and called, “Pearlie, Cal!”
“Yeah?” a voice called back.
“Start shooting as soon as they’re in range.”
“Right.”
“Malcolm?”
“Yes, sir, I heard,” Malcolm said.
Smoke levered a round into the chamber of his rifle, then got behind the cottonwood tree and waited.
The line of trotting horses came within a hundred yards of the barn, which was the closest building to them.
“Now!” Templeton shouted.
The ten riders broke into a gallop, firing pistols as they advanced.
Cal was the first one to fire. Standing in the open window of the hayloft, he fired at the rider closest to him, and that rider went down. Pearlie fired next, then Smoke, Malcolm, and Logan all fired at about the same time. The defenders had not picked out individual targets, so only two more attackers went down, a couple of them hit twice.
“What the hell?” Briggs shouted. “He ain’t alone! We’ve been ambushed!”
“Let’s get out of here!” Templeton shouted, and he jerked his horse around, leading the retreat as all seven remaining men galloped away.
“Hah!” Cal shouted from just inside the window in the hayloft. “Did you see them boys run?”
Cal, Pearlie, and Malcolm came down from their perches, and the five men gathered just in front of the watering trough.
Pearlie laughed. “You know what I think? I think them boys got a huge surprise.”
“Yeah,” Cal said.
“How did you know they were comin’?” Logan asked.
“Believe it or not, one of Garneau’s men told us,” Smoke said.
“Who was it? Gately or Anderson?”
“Both of them, actually.”
Logan nodded. “Yeah, I thought so. They were about the only two men still workin’ over there who had any good left in ’em.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
From the Big Rock Journal:
Gun Battle at Logan’s Ranch
On Thursday previous, several mounted gunmen attacked Chris Logan and some of his neighbors at Mr. Logan’s ranch. Long time residents of Eagle and Pitkin counties will recognize that Logan’s ranch is near Carro de Bancada, which once belonged to the late Mr. Humboldt Puddle. They will also remember that Humboldt Puddle was killed in an occasion similar to the most recent gunfight.
Colonel the Marquis Lucien Garneau, owner of Long Trek Ranch, suggests the assailants were cattle rustlers, with the intention of stealing Chris Logan’s entire herd. “This validates the concern I expressed to the Cattlemen’s Association recently, when I explained my reason for hiring skilled gunmen who could provide protection, not only for my cattle, but for the cattle of my neighbors, such as Chris Logan.”
Lucy Woodward to Visit Atlanta
Lucy Woodward, the winsome lass who is the daughter of local farmer Charles Woodward, will be taking the eastbound train on Monday next. The purpose of the
trip is to visit her cousin and to enjoy the sights of Atlanta. Mr. Woodward brought his family from Atlanta six years previous, and this will be the first time any member of the family has returned to the old homeland.
New York City
Inspector Laurent stood in the office of Captain Warren Haggardorn of the New York Police Department. “I am Inspector André Laurent of the Gendarmerie Nationale, the French Police, and I am looking for one of my countryman, a person who identifies himself as Colonel the Marquis Lucien Garneau.”
“Inspector, if there is such a person as Colonel the Marquis Lucien Garneau in New York, I know nothing of him,” Haggardorn said. “How much money did you say he brought with him to America?”
“Half a million dollars in American money.”
Haggardorn let out a low whistle. “That is a lot of money. I don’t think anyone would keep that much money on his person. I’ll do a very thorough check of all the banks in the city. If he made a deposit anywhere, we’ll find him.”
“Thank you, Monsieur.”
“You want this man pretty bad, do you?”
“Oui. He not only stole the money from the French Army, he murdered a soldier who was under his command, then attempted to blame that murdered soldier for the robbery. He is a man who is completely without honor. I want to take him home to face the guillotine.”
“I don’t blame you,” Chief Haggardorn said. “I don’t know what I can do to help, but I promise you that we’ll do everything we can for you.”
“Merci, Monsieur Chief Haggardorn.”
Big Rock
Charles Woodward was driving a buckboard taking his daughter to the depot in Big Rock. In the back of the buckboard was the train case Lucy would carry on board with her, as well as two suitcases that would be checked through to make the trip in the baggage car.
“Now, you are sure you are taking enough clothes?” her father teased. “I wouldn’t want you to get to Atlanta and suddenly find that you didn’t have a dress, a hat, a pair of shoes, or the pitcher and basin from your bedroom.”
“Father, you know what Atlanta is like,” Lucy said. “Why, Cousin Doreen will have all sorts of balls and cotillions for me to attend. You wouldn’t want me to embarrass you by not being properly dressed, would you?”
Woodward chuckled. “Oh, heavens no. The last thing I want is to be embarrassed because my daughter, who more often than not can be found wearing men’s pants, shirt, hat, and straddling a horse, wouldn’t be properly dressed at some fancy ball.”
“Then you needn’t worry, because I won’t embarrass you.”
They reached the train station and Woodward parked the buckboard under a tree. He grabbed the suitcases, Lucy carried the train case, and they entered the depot. After securing a ticket and checking the suitcases, they took a seat to wait until it was time to board.
Woodward turned to his daughter. “I see you are wearing your mother’s cameo brooch.”
“Yes, isn’t it beautiful? She said I could wear it while I was in Atlanta.”
“You be careful that you don’t lose it. Your mother sets quite a store by that.”
“I’ll make sure I don’t lose it. I will wear it pinned to my dress, every day.”
“I’m surprised you are going anyway. I thought you and young Malcolm Puddle were sparking one another.”
“Why, Father, whatever gave you that idea?” Lucy asked, though her cheeks flamed red as she blushed over the comment.
Woodward chuckled. “Nothing, my dear. Absolutely nothing.” He leaned over and kissed his daughter on the forehead. “I was just teasing you a little. I want you to have a wonderful time. Give your cousin my regards.”
“I will, Father.”
“And I want you to send me a telegram as soon as you arrive in Atlanta. I want to know you got there safely.”
Lucy laughed. “I swear, Father, you are a bigger worrywart than Mama. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine. I’m not a little girl anymore, you know.”
“It’s just that Atlanta is very large, not like the small towns we have here. You must watch yourself while you are there.”
“Father, I will be all right.”
“Board!” the conductor called.
“Oh, I must get aboard now,” Lucy kissed her father then hurried to the train and stepped up onto the car vestibule.
Woodward went down to the track as well, and as the cars began to move, he walked alongside, keeping pace with the train as it pulled away from the depot. “Remember, as soon as you arrive . . .”
“Send you a telegram. Yes, I promise,” Lucy called back through the open window. “And I’ll write to you in a few days to tell you what a wonderful time I’m having.”
“Bye!” Woodward said, waving and calling to her.
“Bye!”
Woodward remained on the platform as the train pulled out of the station, watching it until, moving quite rapidly, it receded in the distance. Not until the train was a remote whistle and a distant puff of smoke in the clear, blue, sky, did he return to the buckboard. Untying the reins, he snapped then against the back of the team, and started home.
“Ticket, please, miss,” the conductor said.
Lucy showed him the long roll of tickets and he perused them before punching a hole in one.
“All the way to Atlanta, is it?”
“Yes, sir, to see my cousin.”
“Well, you’ll change trains in Pueblo, Denver, St. Louis, and Nashville. You are certainly going to be seeing a lot of the country.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose I will.”
“Well, Miss . . .”
“Woodward. Lucy Woodward,” she replied with a smile.
“Miss Woodward, if you need anything, just let me know. My name is Murtaugh, and I am the conductor. You make friends with all the conductors from here to Atlanta. It’s their job to keep an eye on young, unaccompanied ladies.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Murtaugh, I will. Thank you.”
Four hours later, the eastbound train, on which Lucy Woodward was a passenger, made a late night stop for water. Lucy, who was sleeping in the front seat of the car, was only vaguely aware the stop had been made. She was too comfortable and too tired from all the packing and preparation for her visit to Atlanta to pay too much attention to it.
Turning her head away from the window she closed her eyes again and listened to the bumping sounds from outside as the fireman lowered the spout from the trackside water tower and began squirting water down into the tank.
“Whoowee. This is one thirsty train,” the fireman called.
“It should be thirsty. We haven’t taken on a drop of water in the last sixty miles,” the engineer called down.
Lucy could hear the two men talking, and she thought of them working hard to drive the train while she was inside on a comfortable and padded seat.
The train was alive with sound: from the loud puffs of the actuating cylinder relief valves venting steam to the splash of water filling the tank to the snapping and popping of overheated bearings and gearboxes. Lucy, the fireman and engineer, and everyone else on the train were unaware of Briggs and Carr outside the train, slipping through the shadows alongside the railroad track.
They had been in position for nearly an hour, waiting by the tower where the train would have to stop for water. Behind them, tied to a willow tree, were two horses. One of the horses was pulling a travois.
“Which car is she on?” Carr asked.
“Well, according to what we was told, she was goin’ to be in the first car,” Briggs answered.
Glancing up toward the tender, they saw the fireman standing with his back to them as he directed the gushing water from the spout into the tank. Satisfied that his attention was diverted, the two men stepped up onto the vestibule platform between the mail car and the first car. They remained there for just a moment to make certain they had not been discovered. Satisfied they were safe, they pushed open the door and stepped inside. The car was dimly lit by two low-burnin
g, gimbal-mounted lanterns, one on the front wall and the other on the rear. The aisle stretched out between two rows of seats. Nearly all the passengers were asleep.
“Is that her?” Briggs whispered, indicating a woman who was sleeping in the front seat.
“Yeah, I think so,” Carr answered.
Briggs reached out and touched the young woman. She awakened with a start, and looked at the two men with her eyes wide in anxious confusion.
“Are you Lucy Woodward?” Briggs asked.
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“Your mama has had a terrible accident. Your papa sent us to get you and bring you back home.”
“Oh! What has happened?”
“Come with us. We have a buckboard and a fast team outside.”
Concerned about her mother, Lucy got up to follow the two men outside. They approached two saddled horses, one of them dragging a travois.
“What is this? I don’t see a buckboard,” Lucy said.
One of the men dropped a looped rope around her to hold her arms close to her side. She screamed, but the scream was drowned out by the sound of the locomotive whistle. Before she could scream a second time, a gag was stuffed in her mouth.
No one on the train had even noticed when she left the car, nor did anyone see them putting her on the travois.
“Let’s go,” Briggs said.
The two men mounted and rode off, even as the train, its tank full of water, got underway again.
It wasn’t until half an hour before the train pulled into Cañon City the next morning that the porter, who had been told by the conductor to keep an eye on the young, unaccompanied woman in the front seat, realized that she was gone. He made a thorough search of the two cars he was in charge of, but didn’t see her.
When he checked with Julius, the other porter, a look through his two cars was also fruitless.
“What happened to her?” Julius asked.
Strike of the Mountain Man Page 20