William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

“What’s funny, Cliff?”

“I was thinking about my gun, Brice. Do you realize I have not used it, except for practice, in the past three years?”

Noble nodded to Granger. “That’s what Cole is here for. But, I can tell you I’m looking forward to whatever food they have for us.”

With a shriek of sand caught between brake shoe and wheel, the stage jolted to a stop. The station agent brought out a four-step platform with which the passengers could dismount. “Welcome to Española, folks. We’ve got some red chili, chicken enchilada and beans inside for you.”

“Sounds good,” Cole Granger told him with a big smile.

Clifton Satterlee saw it differently. “By all that’s holy, don’t you have any white man’s food?”

“Nope. Not with a big, fat Mexican cooking for me. She cooks what she knows how to.”

Satterlee appealed to his partner. “Do you know what that will do to my stomach, Brice?”

“Fill it, no doubt.” Then, to the agent, “Do you have any flour tortillas?”

“Yep. An’ some sopapillas with honey to finish off with.”

Stifling a groan, Clifton Satterlee instructed, “I’ll start with those.”

Inside, over savory bowls of beef stewed with onions, garlic, and red chili peppers, corn tortillas stuffed with chicken, onions, black olives, cheese, sauce, the driver and guard joined in demolishing the ample food laid out for the occupants of the coach. Satterlee morosely doused the fried dough in an amber pool of honey. After devouring four of the sopapillas, he spoke low to Noble.

“I want you to stay a few days, up to a week, in Taos. Look around, make contact with our people. Make certain they are getting things done. My wife and I will return to Santa Fe two days from now.”

Brice Noble chewed on the flavorful cubes of meat. He washed them down with beer that had been cooled in the well. “What do you propose doing next?”

“Our people have to accelerate their efforts. We need that timber and damned soon. Our whole lumber business depends upon it. Go after those blasted savages.”

* * *

Smoke Jensen stopped in on Monte Carson the next day, before he took the afternoon train south to Denver, where he would change for the run to Raton. He could have taken the AT&SF to Santa Fe, but he wanted to catch what word there might be running up and down the trail. Monte was awake when Smoke entered the infirmary. His skin held a pallor, and his response when he turned his head and saw Smoke was weak.

“Smoke, good you came. Maybe you can talk sense to the man.”

“What’s that about?”

“That croaker, Simpson, says I have to stay here for two, maybe three weeks. Then some kind of operation by a doctor from Denver.”

Smoke nodded. “You’ve got a bullet in you, Monte. I’ll tell you what he probably won’t. It’s near your spine. There’s the chance . . . for permanent injury.”

Monte cut his eyes away from Smoke. “Damn. If that happens, I won’t be fit for anything. Old before my time and stove up. Not a fittin’ end.”

“No,” Smoke agreed. “At least you would be alive.”

“You call that alive? Ask me, it’d be nothin’ more than livin’ hell.”

Smoke decided on a change of subject. “I came to tell you what was in that letter from Don Diego.”

That brightened the lawman somewhat. “Really? What did the old grandee have to say?”

Smoke’s fleeting frown framed his words. “There’s trouble brewing out in the Sangre de Cristo. Some feller named Satterlee has it in mind to build himself a little empire. According to Don Diego, he’s not shy about the sort of persuasion his men use to get what he wants. Alvarado’s lost some stock and some cowboys. He asked if I’d come take a look.”

“And are you?”

Smoke nodded. “Leavin’ today, Monte. Train to Raton, then trail it from there. But, I feel bad about leaving you here all bunged up.”

Monte tried to make little of it. “Not much happens in Big Rock anymore. My deputies can handle it.”

“After that list you gave me yesterday, and what we ran into, I’d say your ‘not much’ is a bit of an exaggeration.” Smoke tipped back the brim of his Stetson. “Well, I have to get to the depot. Look out for yourself, Monte. And do what the doctor says.”

Monte scowled, then gave a feeble wave. “Watch yer back trail.”

Smoke turned for the door. “I have a feelin’ I’m going to have to.”

3

On the train south, Smoke Jensen settled into his Pullman car with a copy of the Denver Dispatch and sat in the plush seat that would become part of his sleeping berth. The editorial page contained the usual harangue about the lawlessness of the miners and smelter workers. Someone named Wilbert Clampton had a piece on the subject of temperance. According to him, Demon Rum was soaking the brains and inflaming the passions of the lower classes. Until Denver banned liquor, the depredations chronicled elsewhere in the newspaper would only continue and increase. A moderate man in his drinking habits, Smoke could not find the energy to get worked up over Clampton’s cry for abstinence. After twenty minutes and a dozen miles had gone by, Smoke put the paper aside. Immediately he noticed an attractive young woman seated in the same car.

She smiled in his direction with her eyes as well as her lips, then dabbed at her mouth with a dainty square of white linen. Her heart-shaped face was framed by a nest of small, blond curls. That and her expensive clothes added to her allure. Fiercely loyal to his beloved Sally, Smoke made only the lightest of passing acknowledgment to her discreet flirtation. The rail carriage swayed gently as the train rolled through the high mountains. Up ahead, Smoke knew, his two horses, a sturdy pack animal and Cougar, would be comfortable in padded stalls in a special car. The expense of such travel conveniences had grown steeply over the past few years. Yet, he could afford it. Blooded horses brought good money. Far more so than cattle. Smoke went back to his newspaper.

There was talk again of building a canal across Central America to speed ship passage. More for cargo, Smoke knew, than passengers. With the nation linked from coast to coast with steel rails, the hazards of a sea voyage could be easily abandoned for the more secure railroads. At least with the James gang out of business, there seemed little possibility of robberies like those of the past. After completing the speculations on a canal, Smoke reached into an inner coat pocket and removed a twisted tip Marsh Wheeling cigar and came to his boots.

When he walked past the young woman, on his way to the vestibule for his smoke, she spoke in a melodic, honeyed voice. “Good day.”

Smoke touched fingertips to the brim of his hat. “Yes, it is.”

He had barely gotten in four satisfactory puffs when she appeared in the doorway to their car. With a hesitant smile, she came forward. “Excuse me. My name is Winnefred Larkin. Forgive me if this sounds too brazen. But, I’m traveling alone, you see, and I wish to ask you if you would be so kind as to escort me to the dining car later this evening.”

Smoke hid his smile behind his cigar. “Not at all, Miss Larkin. My name is Jensen, Smoke Jensen. I would be delighted to be your escort.”

“Thank you. I am so relieved. Smoke . . . Jensen. What an odd name.”

“It’s sort of a handle other folks hung on me. My given name is Kirby.” Now why did he say that? Smoke wondered. He hated that name.

Winnefred made a small moue of her pretty lips. “Then I shall call you Smoke. First call for dinner is at five. Or is that too early for your liking?”

“Yes, it is, a bit,” Smoke allowed.

“Would seven be better?” Without conscious intent, Winnefred appeared coy.