William Johnstone: Triumph of the Mountain Man

“Perfect. I’ll present myself to you then,” Smoke replied, working out of himself a gallantry he rarely had cause to display.

“Then, I shall leave you to your cigar. And again, my sincerest thanks.”

* * *

When Smoke Jensen entered the dining car with Winnefred Larkin on his arm, it turned heads all up and down both sides of the aisle. They made a striking couple. Smoke led her to a vacant table and seated her, then drew up his own chair opposite. A rather recent addition, these rolling restaurants had been designed, like the sleeping cars, by George Mortimer Pullman. They had proven quite successful, much to the chagrin of the Harvey House chain of depot-based eating establishments. Smoke examined the menu, printed in flamboyant style, bold black on snowy white.

“What sounds good to you?” Winnefred asked after a few silent moments of study. “Everything seems so strange to me.”

Smoke nodded understanding. “I gather you are from the East, Miss Larkin? When one gets this far west, the larder on these dining cars is stocked from locally available food for the most part. See? There’s rainbow trout listed, though I don’t know what amandine means. Bison tongue, elk steak, and beef stew.”

“Please, make it Winnie. And, amandine means the fish is done with an almond and lemon sauce. Quite the rage in Philadelphia. Perhaps you would choose for the both of us, Smoke?”

Never a fancy eater, Smoke Jensen concentrated to select something that he believed would please Winnie and yet not be too out of his ordinary fare. He selected cold, sliced bison tongue in a mildly hot sauce for an appetizer, then followed with elk steak, new potatoes and peas, cold pickled lettuce and hot bread. Winnie Larkin seemed enchanted with the choices. Their waiter, a large, smiling, colored man in a short, white jacket and black trousers, suggested a bottle of wine. At Smoke’s insistence, Winnie made the selection.

For once it all turned out right, and even Smoke enjoyed the meal. Cut from the rib eye, the elk steak was juicy and tender. The California claret went well with it. Fortuitously, Smoke had asked that the cook withhold the green peppercorn sauce from the meat. It was rich and thick, and to the way Smoke thought, if a piece of meat was poor in quality, one could dump all the sauce in the world on it and not make it the least bit better. This time it was decidedly not needed.

While they ate, Winnie kept up a light, fanciful banter about her travels in the West. She found New Orleans charming, Texas rough and exhilarating, Denver a cultural oasis in the midst of near-barbarism. Now she looked forward to Santa Fe. She had heard somewhere that the territorial governor had written a most popular book.

“Yes,” Smoke informed her. “It’s called Ben Hur. Surely you have read it?”

“Oh! Then General Lew Wallace is Governor Wallace? And, yes, I have read that book. It is so . . . uplifting.”

When she learned Smoke was involved in breeding blooded horses, she waxed ecstatic over her childhood desire to have a papered horse. All her parents had, Winnie lamented, were a pair of plodding dray horses. She spoke of riding lessons as a girl in her teens and how she still longed to own a Thoroughbred of her own.

Smoke quickly disabused her of that ambition. “I don’t raise Thoroughbreds. They are for racing and fancy shows back east. Mine are Palouse and Morgans and Arabians. Those of lower quality I sell to the army as remounts. Arabians are show horses, but a lot of military officers want, and can afford, them for parade horses. The Morgans are great for carriages as well as saddle stock. Since the Nez Perce have been forced onto a reservation, their breed, the Palouse, has all but died out. I am trying to recover it.”

Winnie looked entirely helpless. “Oh, dear, that sounds incredibly complicated. It must be rewarding to see all those horses thriving, though.”

“Yes, it is, Winnie. I used to raise cattle. They are stupid, intractable animals. They also eat a lot and are vulnerable to the harsh winters in the mountains. Horses aren’t much brighter, but they survive better and do useful work. Did you know that wolves are the smartest animals in the wild?”

Winnie shuddered. “Wolves? How awful. They’re killers.”

“No. Not how you mean. A wolf will not attack a human, even a child, unless cornered or they believe their young to be threatened. They have a structured society, with strict rules and a pecking order. They care for their pups until they are able to fend for themselves. They even have intricate tactics for hunting.”

“See, that’s what I mean. They are relentless killers.”

Masking a flare of impatience with a straight face, Smoke tried to explain. “Wolves prey on the weakest animals of a herd. By doing so, they improve the breed. You might say that what I do for horses by record keeping and selective breeding, they do by instinct.”

Tiny frown lines appeared on Winnie’s high, smooth brow. “I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

“Not likely that you will. People have been badmouthing wolves since the Middle Ages. Wolves are the most misunderstood animals on the frontier. I have counted up to eight in one pack running on my ranch, and I have never lost a foal.” He paused, then produced a rueful grin. “Of course, I wouldn’t want one living under the same roof with me. They are still wild animals.”

Winnie’s eyes grew wide. They went on talking amiably through dessert and coffee. Gradually the car emptied of occupants. The waiters began to clear the tables and turn down kerosene lamps. Only a balding, portly man and his buxom wife remained when Smoke stood and went around the table to help Winnie from her chair. Smoke had noticed earlier that the fusty busybody had been giving them a jaundiced eye throughout the meal and had even restrained her husband when he made to leave earlier. With a silent snigger at those with nothing better to do, he pushed the incident out of his mind, took Winnie by the elbow and escorted her to the door.

They found their Pullman bunks made up and ready. Smoke and Winnie said their goodnights, and Smoke went on back to the smoking car for a cigar. He struck up a conversation with a man near his own age about the severe storms of the previous winter. When their stogies had burned down to short stubs with long, white ash, Smoke excused himself and went on back to his bed.

* * *

A shrill scream punctured the peaceful silence of the sleeping car.

It seemed to Smoke Jensen that he had only just laid down his head, yet light streamed around the pull-down shade as he opened his eyes to the continued wailing that came from up the aisle.

“She’s dead! She’s dead! My God, it’s horrible. Blood everywhere.”

Smoke swiftly pulled on his trousers and boots, shrugged into a shirt and slipped a .45 Colt Peacemaker into his waistband. A middle-aged woman stood in the aisle, hands to her pasty white cheeks as she continued to shriek. Smoke reached her in four long strides. He took her by one shoulder and shook her gently.

“Who is dead? What do you mean?”

She pointed with a suddenly palsied hand, and her voice quavered. “In—in there. Th—the y-y-y-young woman you took to dinner last night. W-w-we h-had an arrange— arrangement for breakfast this morning. Only her Pullman was still closed. I called out, then looked in.” This time she covered her face and spoke through broken sobs. “Her—her eyes were staring right at me, but I could tell they held no life. Sh-sh-she’s covered with blood.” Suddenly she broke off and stared with horror at the hands of Smoke Jensen, as though expecting to see splashes of crimson.

Speaking firmly to maintain control, Smoke directed, “Sit down over there. I will go get the conductor.”