William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

He returned three minutes later with a worried man in a dark blue uniform trimmed with silver braid. At Smoke’s urging, the conductor looked in the closed Pullman. He recoiled in aversion. “Lordy, what a sight. When did this happen?”

Smoke shook his head. “I don’t know. The woman over there found her about . . .” He plucked his watch from the small pocket in his trousers. “Four minutes ago. Her screaming woke me up.”

By then, a crowd had gathered, and Smoke noted five heads poking out of curtained bunks. The conductor examined them with disapproval. Then he waved the people away with small shooing motions as though dispersing a flock of chickens.

“There has been an unfortunate accident. Everyone who does not have a seat in this car, please leave. Those who belong here, take your seats and remain there.” Then he turned to Smoke. “You’ll likely want to get into your coat. Then I would like to talk to you at length. I’ll send for the train crew to take care of the body.”

Wise in the ways of trail crafts, Smoke knew how many bits of information could be gained from a study of all signs. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I want to get a thorough look in there before anything is moved, including Miss Larkin.”

Face twisted with distaste, the conductor responded indignantly. “We can’t just leave a—a dead body lying here. People will blame the line.”

Smoke spoke firmly, convincingly. “You can leave it until a peace officer examines the area around her.”

“But that won’t be until Walsenburg. And, oh, dear, everyone on the train will have to be questioned.”

“As to your first observation, that is not necessarily so. Come with me, I have something to show you.”

Still dithering, the conductor followed along in the wake of Smoke Jensen. At Smoke’s bunk, he reached in and retrieved a small leather wallet from his valise. He used his back to block view of it from the rest of the car and opened the fold. The silver shield of a deputy U.S. marshal shined up at the conductor.

“I have jurisdiction in Colorado. In as much as you have a mail car on this train, I also have jurisdiction over any crime that occurs on it, if I choose to exercise it. What I would like you to do is lock the doors to each car and contain the occupants while you put this train on a siding somewhere along the line, close to here, then have your express agent use his key to send ahead to Walsenburg that you have an emergency and are on the siding and identify which one. That’s when we can conduct our own investigation.”

Testily, the conductor removed his visored cap and scratched at a balding spot on the crown of his head. “That’s a tall order, Marshal—ah—”

“Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You’re the Smoke Jensen?” At Smoke’s nod, he went on in a rush. “I’m Martin Stoddard, folks call me Marsh. I’ll try to do everything I can to see that you get what you want. We’ll put men out once we’ve stopped to watch and make sure no one tries to get away from the train.”

“Good thinking, Mr. Stoddard—er—Marsh. I’ll naturally come with you. We will need to set up a place to question everyone. Say the smoking and bar car? But first, I want to take a look at the body.”

* * *

Rail coaches squealed and jolted to a stop beyond the southernmost switch of a siding. The switchman threw the tall cast-iron lever that opened the switch and signaled to the engineer. Huge gouts of black smoke billowed from the fat stack as the engineer reversed the drive and the big wheels spun backward. Slowly the observation platform on the smoking car angled onto the parallel rails of the siding and swayed through the fog. With creeping progress, the other carriages followed. When the cowcatcher cleared, the mobile rails slid back to the normal position. The train braked.

At once, members of the crew dismounted. Armed with rifles and shotguns taken from the conductor’s compartment, they took position to observe the entire length of both sides of the train. From the express car came a short, slender, balding man with a green eyeshade fitted to his brow. He carried a portable telegraph key with a length of wire attached. Smoke Jensen and Marsh Stoddard joined him at the base of a pole. The express agent nodded toward the upright shaft.

“I ain’t gonna try climbin’ that. Not a man of sixty, fixin’ to retire.”

Smoke turned to him. “Do you have climbing spikes and a belt in the express car?”

“Sure do.”

“Fetch them for me, will you, please,” Smoke requested.

Quizzically, the grizzled older man cut his eyes to Smoke. “D’ya mean you can do Morse code?”

Smoke nodded. “Among my lesser accomplishments I did happen to learn it. I may be a bit rusty, but I can manage. If need be, I’ll have you write the message out for me in dots and dashes and simply follow along.”

“Now that’s a good ida. ’Sides, you’ll need the identity code for Walsenburg.”

“It is WLS, isn’t it?” Smoke asked.

Surprise registered on the old-timer’s face. “Wall I’ll be danged, you do know something about it after all.” Then he cut Smoke a shrewd look. “What about the train signal?”

“I’ll bet it’s DLX.”

“Right as rain; Daylight Express.” Nodding eagerly, the express agent started for the car. “Be jist a minute.”

While Smoke Jensen fitted himself with the climbing gear, the agent wrote out the message, as dictated by Marsh Stoddard, in plain English and handed it and the key to the last mountain man. Smoke ascended the pole with ease. He settled himself comfortably at a level with the wires and fastened the bare ends of the lead to the proper one. Then he tightened the wing nut that fed power from the battery pack slung over one shoulder and freed the striker. Eyes fixed on the message form, Smoke tapped out the words.

After two long minutes acknowledgment came back along with a question. “DLX whose fist is that(q) It is not Eb(x)”

Smoke sent back, “No(x) Eb did not want to climb the pole(x) This is US Marshal Smoke Jensen(x)”

That brought a flurry of questions. “What is a marshal doing on the train(q) What is the nature of your emergency (q) How long will you be delayed(q)”

Smoke’s reply must have electrified them. “There has been a murder(x) Notify the law in WLS(x) We will be at least two hours(x)”

With that Smoke detached the lead and descended the pole. “Now, Marsh, I suggest we set up to question the good folks on this train.”

* * *

Naturally enough, Smoke Jensen began by questioning the people from the car where the murder had occurred. He had passed through ten of them, including the still upset woman who had found the body, when he came face-to-face with the nosey dowager from the dining car. Mrs. Darlington Struthers—Hermione—proved to be a woman of strong opinions and downright regal condescension to those she considered her inferiors. With small, gloved fists on her ample hips she stood before the table where Smoke interrogated the passengers.

“I will tell you nothing, young man. The very idea that an upstart the likes of you can commandeer this train, halt it on a siding and pry into the affairs of its passengers is a matter I shall have my husband take up with the directors of the line. Darlington Struthers has considerable influence, as I am sure you shall learn to your regret.”

Smoke eyed her with ice glinting off the gold flecks in his eyes. “Are you quite through? This is a murder investigation. You will please answer my questions, or you will spend a few days at the tender mercies of the sheriff in Walsenburg.”

Hermione’s face grew bright red. “The nerve . . .”