Triumph of the Mountain Man

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.

“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.”

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 . . .”

“I assure you it is not nerve. Now, where are you seated in relation to the dead woman?”

“You are not the law, and I do not have to answer your questions.”

Smiling, Smoke produced his badge folder. “Oh, but I am. Deputy U.S. Marshal. First, let me say that your evasions and bluster make you sound more like the guilty party than a mere fellow passenger. With that in mind, let me ask again: Where are you seated?”

Testily, Hermione Struthers answered. Smoke asked if she had seen or heard anything unusual during the night. Her face took on the expression of a dog passing a peach pit when she snapped her answer in the negative. Smoke tried another tack.

“Well, now, I might be just a hick lawman from the high lonesome, but I do have some smarts about me. From where you would have been in your bunk, it is impossible not to have heard any sounds of struggle. And believe me, from the looks of that Pullman berth, there was considerable struggle. Even the window shade is torn.”

“I am a sound sleeper.”

Smoke could not resist the barb. “A little too much claret, eh?”

Indignation rose to balloon the face of Hermione Struthers. “I am a teetotaler, I’ll have you know.”

Smoke considered her stubbornness. She knew something, of that he was sure. Yet, he could not use force to learn it. And right now, his guile was wearing thin. “So, you heard nothing. Did you see anything, anyone around there?”

“I am not in the habit of spying on others.”

I’ll bet you’re not, Smoke thought silently. “Hmm. We’ll let that pass for the moment. If you heard nothing and saw nothing during the night, what about early this morning, when people began to rise for the day?”

“Again, nothing. Not the least thing.”

“Very well. You may go, ma’am. But I may want to talk to you again.”

Hermione turned to the door and spoke over her shoulder. “Do as you will. You will get nothing from me.” With a smug, tight expression she opened the portal and stepped across the threshold.

That’s when Smoke Jensen launched his final arrow. “Oh, so there is . . . something?”

Outside in the vestibule between the smoking car and the rearmost Pullman, Hermione Struthers unloaded her bile on Marsh Stoddard, her voice loud and cawing. “Mr. Conductor, there is something you should know about that so-called marshal in there. To my certain knowledge, he is the last person to have seen the late Miss Larkin alive. They were carrying on scandalously in the dining car.”