Smoke not only saved Matt’s life, he took in a boy with potential and began schooling him in such things as horsemanship, marksmanship with a rifle or handgun, the quick draw, how to fight with knife or fist, hunting, tracking, and how to survive in the woods, mountains, or desert.
But most of all, Smoke instilled in the boy the knowledge of right and wrong, a sense of justice and fair play, and an awareness of when to use his skills as a gunman—and when not to. Having started as a boy, Matt had graduated as a man who, like Smoke, was well on his way to becoming a legend in his own right.
It was six years after he and Tamara parted on the bank of that river before Matt saw her again.
“You don’t recognize me, do you, Matt?”
Matt stared at her. It couldn’t be. This woman looked ten to fifteen years older than he was, not a mere two years older.
“My God,” he said with an expulsion of breath. “Tamara?”
“I wondered when you were going to recognize me,” Tamara replied. “Have I changed that much? I recognized you right away.”
“No, it’s not that, it’s just that—well, I never expected to see you—here.”
“You mean you didn’t expect to see me whorin’,” Tamara replied.
Matt didn’t answer.
Tamara got out of bed and padded, naked, over to a chair where she had put her clothes the night before.
“What did you expect would happen to the girls at the Home?” she asked as she began dressing. “Mumford had us on the line by the time we were fifteen.” She looked up at him, and he saw tears sliding down her face. “I told you that. You do remember, don’t you, Matt, that I told you that?”
Matt nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I remember. I tried to take you with me.”
Tamara’s expression softened, and she nodded.
“I know you did, honey. But I guess it just wasn’t in the cards.”
“If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think I would have gotten away that night,” Matt said. “You led them away from me and the boat.”
“I know I did. And don’t think that I didn’t think about it a lot of times. I thought sure you had died up in the mountains, and I figured that if you had, it would have been my fault.”
“As you can see, I didn’t die,” he said. “And even if I had, it would not have been your fault. Like I said, I thank you for helping me out that night.”
Suddenly, there was the tinkling sound of broken glass as something whizzed through the window, followed by a solid “thock,” like the sound of a hammer hitting a nail.
Tamara pitched forward, even as a mist of blood was spraying out from the back of her head.
“No!” Matt shouted in a loud, grief-stricken voice.
Matt had avenged Tamara’s death, but he had never forgotten her, and even now, many years later, he continued to think of her.
Had Matt loved Tamara? He had thought about that many times over the years. He knew that he had not been “in love with” Tamara, at least not in the classic sense. But she was a part of his youth, and he could not deny that he had loved her, any more than he could deny his own heritage.
Chapter Eight
Grand Central Station, New York
The coach-and-four rolled onto the Park Avenue Bridge, crossing 42nd Street as it approached the great stone edifice that Cornelius Vanderbilt had constructed for his railroad. Inside the coach, on the backseat facing forward, sat financier Jay Peerless Bixby, a rather plump, balding man who wore chin whiskers and muttonchop sideburns. Bixby was dressed in a three-piece suit, as befitting a man of his economic station. He was in his late fifties, but because his wife, Cynthia, was an exceptionally beautiful woman in her mid-twenties, she was often taken for his daughter.
Riding in the coach with Bixby was Ken Hendel. Hendel, in his early thirties, was a small man who wore wire-rim glasses and, at the moment, was wearing a suit and tie.
“Are you sure you made all the arrangements so I can transfer the funds as needed?” Bixby asked.
“Jay, dear, you have asked Mr. Hendel that same question at least three times since we left the house,” Cynthia said.
“Yes, well, one can never be too careful when dealing with employees,” Bixby said, speaking of Hendel as if he weren’t present. “For the most part, they tend to be unreliable.”
“I have never known Mr. Hendel to be anything but reliable,” Cynthia said in defense of the man who was their business manager.
“You can understand my apprehension, I’m sure,” Bixby said. “After all, there is a great deal of money involved, and when I am done, I will be the largest landowner in the entire territory of Arizona. Why, I’ll own a ranch that will be the envy of the West.”
“For the life of me, I don’t understand your obsession with owning a ranch,” Cynthia said.
“I am buying a ranch to make money, my dear. The cost of beef is rising every day.”
“But you’ve never even been west of the Hudson River,” Cynthia pointed out.
“That’s why I will do well,” Bixby said. He laughed. “Can you imagine those Western cretins doing business with me? I will be their superior in every respect.”
When the coach stopped in front of the station, a footman hurried around to open the door. Once outside the coach, they could see the many omnibuses and cabs standing below them. They were met by three porters who picked up the baggage that the footman off-loaded from the coach.
“Hendel, you go with the porters to make certain our luggage gets checked through,” Bixby ordered.
“Very well, Mr. Bixby,” Hendel replied.
“And before you come back, check to make certain the train is on time.”
“He doesn’t have to do that,” Cynthia said. She pointed to a big blackboard. “You can see right there that the train is on time.”
“It may have changed and they may not have changed the posting,” Bixby replied to his wife.
Just beyond the north wall, under the great vaulting roof, trains were arriving and departing. As they did so, the rumble of heavy wheels rolling on the tracks caused the floor to shake and it filled the large cavernous room with echoes.
Through doors and portals that opened onto the tracks, they could hear the rush of steam, the clang of bells, and, occasionally, the blowing of a whistle.
“Oh, Jay,” Cynthia said, her eyes shining brightly. “Have you ever seen anything as exciting as this place?”
“Sometimes, Cynthia, you are such a child,” Bixby said gruffly.
Cynthia wrapped her arms about her shoulders as if hugging herself. “I don’t care,” she said. “I think this is so exhilarating!”
Bixby turned his attention away from his wife. “You,” he called to a uniformed railroad employee who was passing by. “Are these miserable accommodations the best you have for your passengers of means?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Do you not understand what I am saying? I am a very wealthy man,” Bixby said. “A man of my class and means should not have to sit on hard benches in a noisy room with the common passengers. Where are your upper-class accommodations?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m not aware of any such facility,” the employee replied. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”