War Of The Mountain Man

They changed trains in Cheyenne and headed northwest, and Smoke had to endure yet another new bunch of pilgrims with a thousand questions.

“My, my,” Sally said during a lull in the verbal bombardment. There was a twinkle in her eyes. “I didn’t realize I was married to such a famous man.”

“Bear it in mind,” Smoke said with a straight face. “And the next time I ask for a cup of coffee, you quick step and fetch it.”

Sally leaned over, putting her lips close to his ear, and whispered a terribly vulgar suggestion.

Smoke had to put his hat over his face to keep from busting out laughing. Sally was every bit the lady, but like so many western women, she could be quite blunt at times.

A fat drummer twisted in his seat and asked Smoke, “Will we see any Indians this trip? I’ve never seen an Indian.”

“We might see a few,” Smoke told him, aware that everyone within hearing range had their ears perked up. “But the tribes have pretty well been corralled. What well more than likely encounter—if anything—is outlaws working the trains.”

“Outlaws!” a woman hollered. “You mean like ... highwaymen?”

“Yes, ma’am. Once we cross over into Montana Territory, the odds of outlaws hitting trains really pick up. Especially this train,” he added.

“What’s so special about this train?” the lippy preacher asked.

“We’re carrying gold.”

“Now, how would someone such as you know that?” the preacher demanded.

Smoke ignored the scarcely concealed slur upon his character. “I saw them loading it, that’s why.”

“Well,” the preacher huffed. “I’m certain the railroad has adequate security.”

“They got an old man with a shotgun sitting in the car, if that’s what you mean.”

The preacher turned away and lifted his newspaper.

“Are we carrying gold, Smoke?” Sally asked.

“Yeah. And a lot of it. And not just gold. We’re carrying several payrolls, too. For the miners.”

“What are the chances of our getting held up?”

“Pretty good, I’d say. If I had to take a guess, I’d say we’re carrying about a fifty-thousand-dollar payroll—all combined—and maybe twice that in gold. Be a juicy haul for those so inclined.”

“They wouldn’t dare attack this train,” she kidded him. “Not with the famous Smoke Jensen on board.” She punched him in the ribs.

“Your faith in me is touching.” He rubbed the spot where she had punched him. “In more ways than one.”

The day melted into dusk and then full dark, the train chugging on uneventfully through the night. The passengers slept fitfully, swaying back and forth in their seats to the rhythm of the drivers on the tracks.

Smoke sensed the train slowing and opened his eyes. Being careful not to rouse Sally, he stood up and stepped out into the aisle, making his weaving way to the door. He stepped outside and stretched, getting the kinks out of his muscles. On instinct, he slipped the leather thongs from the hammers of his six-guns.

Smoke leaned over the side and saw the skeletal form of the water tower ahead, faintly illuminated by the dim light of a nearly cloud-covered moon.

Through the odor of smoke pouring from the stack of the locomotive, Jensen could almost taste the wetness in the air. A storm was brewing, and from the build-up of clouds, it was going to be a bad one.

He looked back at the lantern-lit interior of the car, the lamps turned down very low. The passengers, including Sally, were still sleeping.

The train gradually slowed and came to a gentle halt, something most experienced engineers tried to do late at night so the paying passengers wouldn’t be disturbed.

Smoke caught the furtive movement out of the corner of his eyes. Men on the water tower. With rifles.

One big hand closed around the butt of a .44. He hesitated. Were they railroad men, posted there in case of a robbery attempt? He didn’t think so. But he wasn’t going to shoot until he knew for sure.

He saw the brakeman coming up the side of the coaches and Smoke called to him softly just as he dropped to the shoulder. “My name’s Jensen, brakeman. Smoke Jensen. There are armed men on the water tower.”

The man’s head jerked up. “They damn sure ain’t railroad men, Smoke. And we’re carryin’ a lot of gold and cash money.”

“That’s all I need to know,” Smoke said. He leveled a .44 and knocked a leg out from under one gunman crouching on the water tower. The man fell, screaming, to the rocky ground.

Another gunman, hidden in the rocks alongside the tracks, opened fire, the slugs howling off the sides of the cars.

Smoke yelled, “Get these pilgrims down on the floor, Sally.” To the brakeman, who had hauled out a pistol and was trying to find a target, he called, “How far to the next water stop?”

“Too far,” the man said. “We got to water and fuel here or we don’t make it.”

“We’ll make it,” Smoke told him, pulling out his second .44 and jacking back the hammer.

One outlaw tried to run from the darkness to the locomotive. Either the engineer or the fireman shot him dead.

“How far is this payroll going?” Smoke asked, crouching down.

“All the way to the end of the line, up in Montana.”