Strike of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Lord, I wish I knew,” the first porter answered. He took his concern to the conductor.

  “Well, she has to be on the train somewhere. Let’s look through every car.”

  “Mr. Murtaugh, me and Julius done looked through ever’ car on this train, and we ain’t found her.”

  “Conductor, are you looking for the woman who was sitting there?” one of the passengers asked, pointing to the front row of seats.

  “Yes. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

  “No, sir. But I see a piece of paper on the floor under her seat, and I know it wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s a clue.”

  The porter picked up the folded over piece of paper and handed it to the conductor.

  Woodward—

  We’ve got your daughter. It’s going to cost you $5,000 to get her back. We will tell you where to deliver the money.

  “What are we going to do, Mr. Murtaugh?”

  The conductor thought a moment. “We’ll turn this note over to the sheriff as soon as we reach Cañon City.”

  From the Big Rock Journal:

  Mysterious Disappearance of Woman from Train

  The fate of Miss Lucy Woodward, daughter of prominent Eagle County farmer, Charles Woodward, is still unknown. The porter on the Pueblo Special noticed she was missing shortly before the train reached the Cañon City station. He reported her disappearance to the conductor, Miles Murtaugh, and a search of the train was conducted, but to no avail.

  Subsequently, a note was discovered which leads the sheriff’s department to believe the woman was snatched from the train, though nobody remembers seeing the event actually happen.

  The local train agent reports the note, which demands a five thousand dollar ransom, has been turned over to the sheriff.

  “We’ve done all we can do,” a railroad official reported. “All the stations along the line have been notified and we are asking that anyone who has any information on Miss Woodward’s whereabouts to please contact any Denver and Pacific Railroad official.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Malcolm was sitting in a chair on the front porch of Woodward’s house. Charles Woodward sat across from him. Sue Woodward was in the house, taken to bed with worry over her daughter.

  “Sheriff Carson said the train only stopped twice between here and Cañon City, once for water, and once at Buena Vista,” Woodward said.

  “Did anyone notice her at either of those stops?” Malcolm asked.

  “They don’t know if she was on the train at Buena Vista or not. Nobody noticed that she was missing until shortly before the train reached Cañon City.”

  “It seems unlikely anyone could have taken her off forcefully without being seen,” Malcolm said.

  “But I don’t think Lucy would have left the train on her own.”

  “She might have, if she was convinced to.”

  “How could someone convince her to leave the train in the middle of the night?”

  “If she thought something had happened to either you or Mrs. Woodward, perhaps,” Malcolm suggested.

  “Yes, I see what you mean. That is possible, I suppose. Say, did you see in the paper that the Frenchman is offering a reward for her safe return?”

  “I saw it. I don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he realizes he’s gotten off on the wrong foot with everyone, and he’s trying to make it up. After all, nobody would want all of his neighbors hating him, would they?”

  “I’m still mighty suspicious,” Malcolm said. “Say, who’s that coming up your drive?”

  Woodward squinted as he stared at the man approaching in a buggy.

  “I don’t know. He’s too far away to—No, wait, there’s only one man I know who takes up the entire seat of a buggy. That has to be Robert Dempster.”

  “Who?”

  “Robert Dempster. He’s a lawyer in town. I wonder what he wants?”

  “Maybe it has something to do with Lucy,” Sue Woodward said, her comment surprising both Woodward and Malcolm, who had not seen her come out onto the porch.

  Woodward reached over to take his wife’s hand. “Don’t get all worked up over it one way or the other. Let’s find out what this is about.”

  They stood as they watched the buggy approach. Malcolm went down the steps, and Dempster halted the horse, then handed the reins to him. Malcolm tied the reins around a hitching post.

  The buggy tilted to one side as Dempster, wheezing and puffing, climbed down. He was sweating profusely and held a handkerchief to his face as he climbed the steps to the porch.

  “Can I help you, Mr. Dempster?” Woodward asked.

  “Actually, Mr. Woodward, I rather hope I can help you,” Dempster replied. “It’s in regards to your daughter.”

  “What about Lucy?” Woodward asked anxiously. “Do you know where she is?”

  “No, no. I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression,” Dempster said, waving his hand. “I don’t know where she is . . . but . . . I may be in a position to facilitate her safe return.”

  “What do you mean you can facilitate her safe return?”

  “The amount of ransom being asked is five thousand dollars. Do you have five thousand dollars, Mr. Woodward?”

  “Mr. Dempster, what does it matter to you whether I have five thousand dollars or not?”

  “Because I told you, I may be in a position to help you. You see, Mr. Woodward, my office has been contacted by the person, or persons, who took your daughter. They have asked me to act as the agent in negotiations between you and them.”

  “Where is Lucy?” Malcolm asked. “You tell me where she is!”

  “Easy, young man. I don’t know where she is. As I told you, they contacted me and asked me to be the go between.”

  “How do you know they have her?” Woodward asked.

  “They sent me something to give to you, something they said would prove they have her.”

  “What is it?” Sue Woodward asked.

  “This,” Dempster said, taking an ivory cameo brooch from his pocket and showing it to them.

  “Oh!” Sue put her hands over her face and began sobbing.

  “Give that to me,” Woodward said, grabbing the brooch.

  “Is that Lucy’s brooch?” Malcolm asked.

  “Yes. Well, it is her mother’s brooch, but she was wearing it for her trip to Atlanta.”

  Sue reached for the brooch then clasped it in her hands again, bringing her hands to her face as she wept.

  Dempster frowned. “So, Mr. Woodward, I ask you again. Do you have five thousand dollars?”

  “No, God in heaven, I don’t have it.”

  “That’s too bad,” Dempster said.

  “Too bad? What do you mean, too bad?” Sue asked. “Are you saying that they are going to . . . that they will . . .” She was unable to finish the question.

  “No, they want the money. They don’t want to hurt the girl,” Dempster said. “All you have to do is come up with five thousand dollars, and they’ll release her unharmed.”

  “Where am I going to get that kind of money?”

  Dempster stroked his triple chins as he fixed his gaze on Woodward. “I tell you what. I don’t want to see this innocent girl hurt, any more than you do. I don’t believe it is just by chance that they chose me as the agent between you and them. I can’t promise you anything, but it just may be that I will be able to arrange the money for you.”

  “How?”

  “You let me work on that. I’ll be back tomorrow with a proposal that just might work.”

  “Oh, bless you, Mr. Dempster. Bless you,” Sue said, reaching her hand out toward him.

  “Don’t despair, Mrs. Woodward. I’m almost certain I can work something out.” Dempster walked back down the steps, climbed into the straining buggy, turned it around, and started back toward the road.

  “I wonder what he means by saying he will work something out,” Malcolm said.

  “I don’t know,” Woodward sa
id. “But I do know he is a pretty smart lawyer. You ask anyone in town and they’ll tell you Dempster is a smart lawyer.”

  Malcolm grimaced. “Yes, that’s what bothers me.”

  Sugarloaf

  “That looks like Malcolm coming up the road,” Sally said as she stood looking out the kitchen window.

  “Yes, I believe it is,” Smoke said, joining her at the window. He went out onto the porch to meet his young friend. “Hello, Malcolm. Climb down and come on in.”

  Malcolm followed Smoke inside, then accepted a cup of coffee. “I just came from Mr. and Mrs. Woodward’s place.”

  “How are they doing?” Sally asked.

  “They’re both very frightened. To tell the truth, I’m also frightened.”

  “Have they heard anything else from whoever took Lucy?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes, that’s why I’ve come to see you.”

  “What have they heard?”

  “Well, nothing directly, but they have heard indirectly. By that I mean Mr. Dempster drove out to speak to them. He said the people who took Lucy have gotten in touch with him, and asked him to be an agent between them and the Woodwards.”

  “Were you there when he came to see them?”

  “Yes, I was visiting with Mr. Woodward. Uh, the truth is, Smoke, you may not know it, but I’ve got me sort of a personal reason for wantin’ Lucy back all safe and sound.”

  Smoke smiled. “Malcolm, I don’t think there’s a man in the whole county who doesn’t know about that personal reason.”

  “Oh. Well, then you can see why this has me about as anxious as the Woodwards are.”

  “Did you believe Dempster, when he said that he had been contacted?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s been contacted all right. There’s not the slightest doubt about that.”

  “Really? Why do you say that?”

  “Because he gave Mr. Woodward an ivory brooch Lucy was wearing.”

  “That sounds like proof enough,” Smoke said. “Did he have anything new to add?”

  “Well, not about Lucy. I mean, not about where she was or how she was doing. He says they want five thousand dollars, just like the ransom note said.”

  “And he’s supposed to transfer the money?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say. But here is something strange that he did say. When Mr. Woodward told him he didn’t have five thousand dollars, Mr. Dempster said he would come back tomorrow with a way that Mr. Woodward could get the money.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, that’s interesting,” Smoke said. “In fact, that is very interesting. Suppose you and I go over to Woodward’s farm and be there when Mr. Dempster returns tomorrow.”

  Malcolm smiled. “I was hoping you would suggest that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  New York City

  Inspector Laurent was standing at the window of his hotel, looking down on Forty-second Street when there was a knock on his door. Opening the door, he saw one of the hotel staff.

  “Mr. Laurent?”

  “Oui?”

  “Could you come to the lobby, sir? There is a telephone call for you.”

  Puzzled as to who would be calling him on the telephone, Laurent rode the elevator down to the lobby, then followed the messenger over to the check-in desk.

  “This phone call is for you,” the desk clerk said, inviting Laurent around behind the desk. The telephone was mounted on the wall, and the receiver was standing on a shelf just below the instrument.

  Laurent picked up the receiver, held it to his ear, then leaned in to the phone. “Oui, this is Monsieur Laurent.”

  “Mr. Laurent, this is Captain McKenzie of the New York Police. Could you come down to the Fifth Avenue station, please, sir? I think we have something here that you might find interesting.”

  “Oui, right away.”

  In front of the hotel, Laurent summoned a hansom cab. “The police station on Fifth Avenue, si vous s’il vous plait.”

  The city was alive with activity. Jangling bells from the harnesses of horses played against the staccato beat of hooves and the ring of iron-rimmed wheels on cobblestone streets. The cab driver maneuvered the two-wheeled vehicle expertly through the heavy traffic—omnibuses, carriages, freight wagons, other cabs, and even chugging locomotives.

  It took but a few minutes before the cab came to a stop in front of the police station. Paying him, Inspector Laurent went inside to inquire about Captain McKenzie.

  “I am Captain McKenzie,” a uniformed man said, coming to greet him.

  “You said you had something that I might find interesting, Capitaine?”

  “Yes,” McKenzie said. “I believe you were searching for one of your countrymen, a man named Garneau?”

  “That is the name he has assumed. His real name is Pierre Mouchette.”

  “Would someone going by the name of Colonel the Marquis Lucien Garneau be of any interest to you?”

  A broad smile spread across Laurent’s face. “You have him, Capitaine?

  “No, but I know where he is.”

  “Please, Monsieur, I beg of you. Arrest him.”

  “I can’t do that, Inspector. He isn’t in my jurisdiction. In fact, he isn’t even in New York. But I can show you where he is, and you can go make your case with the local authorities.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Of course, this may not be your man. It could be another Colonel the Marquis Lucien Garneau.”

  “There is no Colonel in the French army, nor is there a marquis, by the name of Lucien Garneau. If you have located someone who is using that name, Monsieur, he is my fugitive.”

  Take a look at this, Inspector,” Captain McKenzie said, opening the New York Times and laying it before him. “This is an article the Times picked up from the Associated Press. It has the name of the man you are looking for.”

  McKenzie put his finger on a specific article.

  Gun Battle at Logan’s Ranch

  BIG ROCK, COLORADO (AP)—(From The Big Rock Journal)—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.”

  “Oui! Yes!” Laurent said excitedly. “This must be Mouchette. It can be no other. Where is this place, this”—Laurent looked back at the article—“Big Rock, Colorado?”

  “Come over here to the map. I will show you,” McKenzie said.

  Laurent followed McKenzie to the wall where there was a large map of the United States.

  “Here is New York where you are now,” McKenzie said. “And way over here”—he reached far across the map with his other hand—“is Colorado.”

  “Mon Dieu, that is a long way.”

  “Yes, it is. But we have trains that go there. You can be there in less than a week. You aren’t going to let a little thing like a long trip get in your way, are you?”

  “Non, monsieur. If Mouchette is in a place called Big Rock, Colorado, then that is where I shall go.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “May I take this newspaper, Capitaine?” Laurent asked.

  “Certainly, be my guest.”

  “Merci.”

  With the newspaper under his arm, Laurent returned to the hotel where he packed his bag, checked out, then took a cab to Grand Central depot where he bought a ticket to Big Rock, Colorado. Before boarding the trai
n, however, he sent a cablegram to General Moreau.

  HAVE DETERMINED LOCATION OF MOUCHETTE

  STOP AM PROCEEDING THERE NOW STOP

  INSPECTOR LAURENT

  Ajax Mountain Range, Pitkin County, Colorado

  Lucy had been in the small cabin for two days, tied up for the entire time. Her back and legs were cramped and her wrists were raw from the rubbing of the ropes. “How long are you going to keep me here?”

  “We’re going to keep you here until your papa pays us five thousand dollars,” Briggs said.

  “My father is not a wealthy man. There is no way he can raise that much money.”

  “If he wants to get you back in one piece, he’ll raise the money,” Carr said.

  “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?” Briggs asked.

  “No, thank you,” she replied.

  “Here, take a piece,” Briggs said, offering her a piece of jerky.

  Lucy shook her head. “I don’t want it. I would like a drink of water, though.”

  “You got to eat something. It’s been two days and you ain’t et nothin’. All you’ve done is drink water. Maybe you’d like somethin’ to drink other than water. You want some whiskey?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. It’ll make you feel better.” Briggs held the bottle out toward her.

  “Please, no,” she said.

  “Leave her alone if she don’t want it,” Carr said harshly. “It don’t make no sense tryin’ to give whiskey to someone who don’t want it. You’ll just be wastin’ good whiskey.”

  “Why won’t you eat somethin’?” Briggs asked.

  Lucy didn’t answer.

  “Miss, we’re just tryin’ to be nice to you. I don’t really care whether you drink or not, and that’s the truth of it.”

  “Nice to me? You haul me off the train by telling me a lie about my mother, then you bring me here and tie me up, but you say you are being nice to me?”

  “Miss, maybe you don’t know what sometimes happens to women when they get took,” Briggs replied.