Rage of the Mountain Man (28 page)

Immobilized, Tanner sank to his knees. Blood poured from the leg wound. Desperately, he tried to focus on Smoke Jensen. His vision blurred as he studied on the muzzle that seemed to take forever to rise for another shot. Then Wade Tanner remembered he had a second .44 Smith American and drew it.

Smoke Jensen shot him again, a fist-depth below the sternum. Knocked backward, Wade Tanner shot high. The bullet cracked past Smoke’s right ear and popped a hole through the brim of his hat. With a dying man’s desperation, Wade Tanner fired again. Better aimed, this bullet gouged a trough through Smoke Jensen’s shoulder point.

It felt like liquid fire. Although he had been shot and stabbed, and even been on the receiving end of a tomahawk many times before, Smoke Jensen had never exactly got used to being wounded. He certainly didn’t take it for granted and pass it off as nothing important. A bullet gouge hurt like hell. More than a through-and-through wound, Smoke believed. Accordingly, he made sure his next round shattered the gunhand of Wade Tanner.

Tanner’s last shred of loyalty washed away by the pain, his only thoughts were of buying his life. He raised his blood-dripping hand toward Smoke Jensen and spoke imploringly. “Wh—what do I gotta do for you not to kill me?” 

“Stop trying to kill me, you damned fool,” Smoke advised him.

“All right, all right. I ain’t much good for that now, anyway.”

“And answer some questions.”

Wade Tanner blinked at this. “What do you want to know, Jensen?”

“Where can I find Phineas Lathrop?”

Tanner nodded knowingly. It figured. “You’re goin’ after Lathrop, huh?”

“I reckon to put a stop to his harebrained scheme,” Smoke allowed.

Pain narrowed Tanner’s eyes. “He’s got near sixty men to go through first.”

A fleeting smile curved the corners of Smoke Jensen’s mouth. “Not anymore.”

New waves of agony sapped Tanner’s confidence along with the last of his strength. “He—Lathrop—was holed up in some rat den hotel in Denver along with this fancy New Yorker, Victor Middleton. Lathrop rode with us for a few days. Then, when you an’ your hands made those eastern dudes turn tail an’ run, Lathrop went back to Denver. He’s lickin’ his wounds in some fancy mansion Middleton found for them somewhere in Denver.”

By that time, Wade Tanner had worked his left hand behind his back to where he could wrap his long, spatulate fingers around the small bird-head grip of a Henderson & Richards .38 tilt-top that he carried for a back-up. He waited for an incautious moment when Smoke Jensen would look away. When it came, he whipped the small five-shot revolver around and fired at point-blank range.

Tanner’s triggerwork came a fraction of a second too late. Always the fastest, Smoke Jensen sensed the furtive actions in time to spring to one side and squeeze off his .45 Colt.

Tanner’s slug cracked past Smoke’s head a fraction of a second after Smoke’s bullet gave Tanner a third eye and ended his life of corruption and evil.

“Never could abide a sneak,” Smoke told the cooling corpse at his feet.

He also saw that chasing after Lathrop’s underlings would not get the job done. So, Smoke Jensen headed back to the rendezvous point where he would gather his hands, send them to the Sugarloaf, and then go on himself to Denver to hunt down Phineas Lathrop and his partners. He wondered how, if possible, he could keep Oliver Johnson from accompanying him.

Once again, that problem did not resolve itself to the liking of Smoke Jensen. When he and his hands returned to the Sugarloaf, and fresh men sent out to keep the pressure on Lathrop’s outlaw legion, Smoke announced his intention to go after the would-be empire builder.

“I’m coming with you,” Oliver Johnson announced simply.

“No. I think it would be better if you stayed here.”

“Remember when I told you that you are my story? Nothing’s changed that.”

Reluctantly, Smoke Jensen admitted to himself that he stood little chance of stopping the reporter. Together, the two men packed what they would need and set off to take the train from Big Rock. What Smoke regretted most was missing out on two or three nights of tender reacquaintance with his beloved Sally.

When he and Ollie got to Denver, all thoughts of blissful romance had disappeared. Not willing to waste time in a fruitless search of every “mansion” in Denver, Smoke Jensen prevailed on his friendship with Silas Greene at the Denver Livestock Exchange. If that failed to produce results, he knew he could rely on Captain Pat Patterson of the Denver Police.

Silas Greene responded to the question of a Victor Middleton making a recent purchase of a mansion with a long silence. His full lips pursed and relaxed as he ran through his copious knowledge of the aristocracy of Denver. At last he made a wet smacking sound and sighed heavily.

“I’m not sure he’s your man, mind, but the only recent purchase of a comfortable house was made by a man calling himself Virgil Medford. The names are similar, but it’s not the one you’re looking for.”

“Perhaps too similar,” Smoke opined. “Same initials. Could it be Victor Middleton has a monogrammed glad-stone, or some such item he can’t part with, and needed to keep that V.M. in his new name? It’s worth a try if nothing else develops. Where’s the place this Medford took over?”

“It’s the old Hampstead house, up on Gold Hill.”

“Thank you, Silas. I owe you one.”

Chuckling, Silas Greene rose to see his visitors out. “You owe me more than one, Smoke Jensen.”

Smoke’s visit to Pat Patterson proved to be even more fruitful. When Smoke stated his purpose, Patterson hardly hesitated before he announced, “Virgil Medford, alias Victor Middleton, bought the Hampstead mansion on Gold Hill only last week. I think he’s the one you want, isn’t he, Smoke?”

Smoke gave him a nod. “From what I heard elsewhere, yes. But I did want to make sure before I went barging in there.”

“Now, wait a minute. If he’s wanted for something, it’s up to the law to bring him in.” Patterson’s portly frame fairly jiggled with agitation and the anticipation of some action involving gunsmoke.

“I don’t think there’s anything the law can prove Middleton has done illegally. Besides, there’s someone else I’m after. Name of Phineas Lathrop. He’s supposed to be hiding out with Middleton.”

“Well, then, we’ve got harboring a criminal,” Patterson offered.

“Again, there’s so far only my word against Lathrop’s. If I can flush him out, though, I think I can get him to talk.”

Pat Patterson considered that. “Yes, Smoke, you do have your ways . . . Injun ways. Sounds dangerous enough. I’d like to send along a couple of my best—to sorta plug any escape holes. I’ll come along, too.”

Three rough-edged characters lounged around the small stone gatehouse that commanded the large, wrought-iron barriers which denied access to the average person to a wide, graveled drive at the Hampstead house. They aroused themselves with alacrity at the approach of four men in a light carriage, followed by a dark blue Denver PD paddywagon.

“You folks have an appointment?” one of them growled, when the buggy turned in and stopped at the closed gate.

“We don’t need an appointment,” Captain Patterson answered. “Captain Patterson, Denver Police, and U. S. Marshal Jensen.”

“Jee—zus, Smoke Jensen,” one of the other thugs spoke in awed tones.

“Are you going to open that gate?” Patterson made it a demand.

“Not without the say-so from Mr. Mid—er—Mr. Medford, we ain’t.”

“Oh, I think you are,” Smoke declared, rising.

His .45 Colt appeared in his hand as though by magic. Before its presence had registered on the four gunhands, it belched smoke and flame, and a loud spang sounded as the slug smashed into the lockcase at the center of the doublehung portals. Another quick round finished the work and the wrought-iron barrier swung slightly inward.

“Drive on,” Smoke told the policeman who sat to his right in the driver’s seat.

Another officer had stepped down from the paddywagon and come forward now to widen the gap. Smoke Jensen kept his eyes and the muzzle of his .45 Peacemaker on the stunned guards. The black bristle crests on the headstalls of a pair of matched dapple gray’s bobbed up and down as the carriage gained speed. The paddywagon rumbled behind and the dismounted policeman did a grab-iron mount like a railroad switchman as the rear lurched past where he stood.

“Now the thing to do is reach the house ahead of the news of our arrival,” Ollie Johnson remarked.

“I think the element of surprise has already been lost,” Pat Patterson observed dryly.

“There’ll be more of the sort we left at the gate around the house,” Smoke cautioned.

Ollie Johnson’s pigeon breast swelled as he reached into his coat for the Smith .38 he carried. “I don’t think we’ll get past them by just shooting up a gate.”

Smoke Jensen had not reholstered his Colt. “I reckon not, Ollie.”

“There’s two of them now,” Captain Patterson pointed out.

Two hard cases rushed toward the approaching vehicles. One reached for the holstered Merwin and Hulbert .44 at his hip while the other shook an extended index finger at the buggy. “This is private property. Get out at once.”

“Denver Police. Put your hands in the air and stay out of our way.”

“Damn lawmen!” the man with the Merwin and Hulbert snarled, as he hauled his sixgun from leather.

Smoke Jensen shot him in the shoulder. His companion immediately skidded to a stop and raised his hands. The buggy rolled on by. The officers in the patrol wagon would tend to both of the guards. Another thug appeared in the opening made by tall double doors at the front of the mansion. He quickly popped back inside and slammed the thick oak portals closed. When the two police vehicles came to a stop under a portico, lawmen jumped out of the rear of the van and ran to encircle the main building.

Shooting started almost at once. Smoke Jensen, Ollie Johnson, and Captain Pat Patterson headed directly for the door, which Smoke assumed to be locked and probably barred. Smoke’s suspicion proved true. The thick panels failed to yield to the turn of the brass handle. Smoke stepped back a pace and fired three rounds into the shiny plate of the lock. Still the door failed to yield.

“Let me,” Pat Patterson offered as he snatched the ten-gauge Purdy from the hands of Ollie Johnson.

The stoutly built lawman gave it both barrels. Then he and Smoke hit the opposing doors with their shoulders. The impact hurt like hell, Smoke had to admit, especially on his slightly wounded side. It had the desired effect, though. A crack and groan preceded the inward movement of the big portals.

Smoke Jensen let his .45 Colt lead the way inside. Two Lathrop gunmen made the mistake of trying to block their way. Smoke and Patterson fired as one. Both thugs went down moaning over their wounds. Smoke holstered his nearly empty sixgun and drew the other .45 Colt from the left side.

“People are just like rats,” Pat Patterson suggested. “They sense danger and they tend to go up.” He nodded toward an elegant, curving staircase that led to the balcony that surrounded the grand entrance hall, and beyond to the second floor.

“I’m way ahead of you,” Smoke tossed over his shoulder, as he headed for the bottom tread.

Two men popped up over a balcony railing and fired wildly. They perforated plaster and raised a fog of whitish dust for their efforts. Smoke Jensen shot one of them in the hip and Ollie dusted the other with fifteen pellets of OO buckshot. Screaming, the outlaw dropped his weapon and thrashed on the floor.

They met no further resistance from the railed half-floor and continued on to the second level. At the head of the stairs they paused a moment to orient themselves. Using hand signals, Smoke Jensen silently dispatched Captain Patterson along one hallway and Ollie down another, and he took the third wing of the mansion. He didn’t need to go far to encounter trouble.

“Jensen!” a man shouted triumphantly behind Smoke. Smoke hit the floor before the hard case’s bullet left the muzzle of his sixgun. The wily mountain man did a forward roll and came up facing his backshooting assailant. The big .45 Colt in Smoke’s hand barked and the gunman doubled over the tremendous pain in his gut. Smoke’s safety shot sent the man on his way to eternity. Doors banged open behind the big gunfighter.

“Shit, not again,” Smoke complained to the empty hallway, as he dived full-length to put the corpse between him and his enemy.

His maneuver saved Smoke’s life when, a second later, three slugs plunked into the dead man he used as a shelter. Smoke spotted the nearest gunny and dropped him with a solid round to the chest. He shifted aim and took a gapemouthed thug in a shoulder. Another bullet cracked past his head as Smoke lined up on the third former longshoreman.

Such blind good luck unnerved the Boston bully. “Oh, God, no. Don’t kill me, Jensen.”

“Lay it down. Now! Then shuck your cartridge belt and boots, drop your drawers around your ankles.”

“Awh, hell, man. I’ll look stupid like that.”

“You’ll look dead if you don’t.”

“All right—all right!” Quickly he obeyed.

Smoke Jensen came forward and hog-tied the man with his trouser belt, cartridge and holster rig, and his woolen pants. Then he set off after the elusive Phineas Lathrop.

The overconfident Victor Middleton had been first to hear the muffled gunshots at the gate. His poise quickly slipped and he was the first to urge that the conspirators make use of the unique escape route afforded by the Hampstead house. Arnold Cabbott and Abe Asher immediately agreed. Strangely enough, the taste of western-style fighting given him by Smoke Jensen had aroused a fierce combativeness in Phineas Lathrop. He proposed that they stay and shoot it out with the invaders.

“Fine, fine, that’s what we pay those louts out there to do,” a flustered Victor Middleton reminded him. “They can delay whoever is on the way here, while we get away. Abe and I didn’t put up all that money to see it fly away from behind bars . . . or used to buy a fancy funeral.”

Lathrop considered that last and gave a curt nod. “Lead the way,” he stated in resignation.

Their route led to the door to the cellar stairs. Each of the conspirators took a preprepared set of saddlebags from wooden pegs fitted into the stone walls. With Victor Middleton at the point, they proceeded to the narrow wall at the far end. There, a cleverly concealed section of the stonework swung inward at a touch.