Cunning of the Mountain Man (19 page)

“Damn, I hate a man who’d needlessly kill a horse,” Smoke grunted.

He took aim and, as the last bullet sped from the Winchester in the giant’s hand, discharged a 500 grain slug that pinwheeled the shooter and burst his heart. Only twenty yards from his horse, Smoke put out another light in a downstairs window and hurried to the nervous roan.

Jeff York joined him a moment later, and began to strip the saddle off his dead mount. Smoke had the bridle and reins in one hand. “We’ll double up,” he informed Jeff.

“Make it easier to track and catch us,” Jeff complained. “I’ll walk out.”

“No. I brought you here; I’ll get you back. They aren’t going anywhere for a while.”

Jeff looked back toward the house. A bucket brigade had formed to douse the flames that roared from two rooms of the ranch house. With a whinny, a horse-drawn, two-wheel hand-pumper rolled up from a small carriage house next to the barn. A pair of hard cases ran with a canvas hose to the creek bank, and plunged the screened end into the water. At once four volunteers began to swing the walking arms up and down. An unsteady stream spurted from the nozzle.

“No, I guess you’re right,” he told Smoke.

Even so, Smoke Jensen wasted no time, nor spared any caution in departing from the B-Bar-H. He left behind a cursing, shrieking, livid Geoffrey Benton-Howell.

After the large number of recent disasters, Benton-Howell had been forced to send for reinforcements. The nine men who had been patrolling the slope behind the house on the previous night had quit first thing after being found the next morning. Smoke Jensen had nearly succeeded in burning down his house. His study was a ruin. All meals were being prepared in the bunkhouse; the kitchen had burned out completely. Now he confronted one of the men he considered responsible for his current calamity.

Sheriff Jake Reno stood across the cherry wood desk in Benton-Howell’s office above the bank. With him was the mayor of Socorro. Both wore sheepish expressions. Benton-Howell had poured copious amounts of his deep-seated vitriol over them. Only now had he begun to wind down.

“I didn’t spend the money to get you two elected to hear a constant stream of reports of failure. I expected competence. I expected success. Now, I’m going to get it. I want your full cooperation. No complaints, no excuses, no lectures on why it can’t be done. I’m putting out the word for every available gunhand in the Southwest, to come here to put an end to Smoke Jensen.”

“I thought you wanted it all done legally,” the sheriff protested.

“I wanted results!” Benton-Howell snapped.

Mayor Ruggles looked stricken. “You’ll fill the streets of Socorro with saddle tramps and every two-bit gunslick

around,” he whined. “Think of the good people of the community.”

“I am thinking of the good people—Miguel Selleres and myself.”

“Why don’t you simply offer a larger reward?” Jake Reno suggested.

Too tightfisted to raise the ante on Smoke Jensen’s head, Geoffrey Benton-Howell spluttered a minute, then focused his disarrayed thoughts on a new proposition. “Without gunmen to collect it, that would only tie up more of my money. What’s going to happen, is that the city is going to add a thousand dollars to the reward.” “What?” the mayor and sheriff echoed together.

“If you think it such a good idea for me to put out more funds for the purpose, then surely it behooves you to do it.” To Mayor Ruggles he added, with a roguish wink, “Sort of putting your money where your mouth is, eh, old boy?”

In that quick, pointed thrust, Mayor Ruggles lost his head of steam. “If that’s what you want, we’ll see about it right away. Only let me appeal to you to keep the gun trash out of town.”

“It’s your posterior they’ll be saving, as well as mine. You and Sheriff Eagle Eye here. Now, get out of here and run your errands like good little lads. I want fifty— no a
hundred
guns in here, and Smoke Jensen stretched over his saddle shortly thereafter.”

Socorro became a busy place as the word went out for fast guns. Mayor Ruggles stewed and dithered, his anxious eyes scanning the rough-edged characters who swarmed the streets. The new posters came out with the wording: “$2000 Reward Offered for Capture Dead or Alive of the Killer of Lawrence Tucker.” No mention was made of Smoke Jensen. It sounded good that way, all agreed.

Some of the gunfighters and wannabes who came to Socorro to search for the “killer,” left suddenly when they learned the identity of the accused. Sheriff Jake Reno noted with some smugness that eleven no-reputation young pretenders departed in a group shortly after the mention of the name Smoke Jensen.

“Perhaps they decided that it was safer to travel in numbers,” he confided to Morton Plummer at the Hang Dog shortly after they blew out of town.

“Considerin’ who it is they were expected to run to ground, I’d say they’re right smart fellers,” Mort responded with a grin. He loved to tweak this pompous ass of a sheriff.

Reno scowled. “Watch that lip, Mort.” He quickly downed his shot and beer and stormed out of the saloon.

Being on the payroll of Benton-Howell and Selleres had other drawbacks, Sheriff Jake Reno considered as he directed his boots toward the jail. Those politicos who remained behind had been frightened almost witless by that second visit from Smoke Jensen. Only an hour ago, Benton-Howell had summoned him to the office to demand that he put men on the ranch to keep the politicians there, until an agreement could be reached on his White Mountain project.

“Like he’d bought all my deputies, too,” Reno complained aloud, as he hurried to round up men to guard the B-Bar-H.

He returned to the world around him in time to meet the cold, hard stare of one of a pair of gaunt- and narrow-faced men with the look of gunfighters about them. Their square chins jutted high in arrogance, and the mean curl of their lips had to come from hours of practice before a mirror. The one with black leather gloves folded over his cartridge belt spoke, revealing yellowed, crooked teeth.

“Sheriff. Just the man we wanted to see. How are we supposed to find this feller done killed your Mr. Tucker, if we don’t know his name? Who is he, or do you know?”

“Oh, I know all right. The name is Smoke Jensen.”

“Not the Smoke Jensen?” the sneering one blurted as his face grew pale.

“The only Smoke Jensen I know,” Sheriff Reno replied, as he laughed inwardly at the discomfort his words sparked.

The sneer gone from his face, the gunhawk cut his eyes to his partner. They appeared to reach wordless agreement that concluded with a nod. “Do you happen to have any idea where he might be found?” The question seemed to lack conviction of being acted upon.

“Yep. He’s hangin’ out in the Cibolas, last I heard.”

“Why ain’t you got a posse out?” the taller of the two challenged.

“I already lost a dozen good men to that bastard. I don’t reckon to reduce the whole population of Socorro to bring him outta there.” It was a lie. Smoke Jensen had killed only three of the posse, wounded six or seven more. Also some twenty had quit all together. What Sheriff Reno wouldn’t admit was that he couldn’t get anyone to go after Smoke Jensen. Not even Quint Stalker’s men.

“Bein’ we’re from Texas, which way is these Cibolas?”

Suspecting what would come next, Sheriff Reno waved his arm expansively. “All around here. To the east, north, and mostly to the west. That’s where Smoke Jensen can be found, west of here, I’m certain of it.”

“Thank you kindly, Sheriff,” the tall one replied.

Together they crossed the boardwalk and mounted their horses, while Sheriff Reno watched in silence. They touched reins to necks and pointed the animals south. Face alight with quivering amusement, Sheriff Reno pointed out their error.

“West’s that way, fellers.”

“We know it,” the second-string hard case with the black gloves replied in a low, gruff voice.

They barely cleared the business district of Socorro, down in its canyonlike draw, before they fogged out of town in a lather. Behind them, Sheriff Jake Reno bent double with a torrent of laughter that rose from deep within. He kept on until the tears ran, then laughed even more . . . until he counted score and realized that that made a record of twenty-two for one day, and left him with that many less to stand between him and Smoke Jensen.

Senator Claypoole examined the certificate authorizing him to draw on the Philadelphia mint for the sum of twenty thousand dollars in gold bullion. Carefully he folded it and placed it reverently in an inside coat pocket. He gave a beatific smile to Geoffrey Benton-Howell, and patted over the spot where he had deposited the draft.

“You are a gentleman and a scholar, Sir Geoffrey. Likewise a man of his word. Nice, anonymous gold has always appealed to me. It can be used anywhere.” Benton-Howell pushed back his castored desk chair and lit a fat cigar. The rich aroma of a Havana Corona-Corona filled the study at the B-Bar-H. “I dare say, if you fail to use your usual, impeccable, diplomatic skill in this, you might have need of somewhere else to spend that.”

“I know. My colleagues and I shall invent some sort of reason why that land has to be separated from the reservation. Heaven forbid that we ever mention gold being found there. Too many others would want a piece of the pie, and spoil your project all together.”

“You understand only too well, Chester. Now, then, I suggest a small tot of brandy to seal the bargain, and then I have others to see.”

“Certainly.”

Ten minutes later, Chester Claypoole had departed, and the leather chair opposite Benton-Howell had been occupied by His Honor, Judge Henry Thackery of the Federal District Court for the Territory of Arizona. His Honor didn’t seem the least bit pleased. A heavy scowl furrowed his high, shiny forehead.

“You’ve handled this Smoke Jensen affair miserably, Geoff,” he snapped, accustomed to being the ranking person in any gathering.

“I will admit to having erred slightly in regard to the security of my ranch headquarters,” Benton-Howell answered with some asperity.

“It’s a great deal more than that, Geoff. If it ever comes out that your man, Quint Stalker, arranged the scene of the crime to indicate the guilt of Smoke Jensen, you may find yourself seeking the life of a grandee down in Mexico, or even South America. Or worse still, standing on the gallows in Santa Fe. I certainly do not intend to be there beside you.”

Benton-Howell fought to recover some of his sense of well-being. “And you shall not be, my friend. Judge, everything is arranged as you asked. Seven thousand, five hundred in gold coin, mostly fifties and twenties. It is right there in my safe. A like amount to be paid, whenever you are called upon to hear any challenge to our claim of the White Mountain reservation land.”

Judge Thackery pondered a moment, pushed thin lips in and out to aid his musing. “That’s satisfactory. However, Geoff, I must caution you. Smoke Jensen has to be dealt with swiftly and finally . . . or the consequences will fall on you.”

Jeff York and Walt Reardon rode into Socorro with Smoke Jensen. They had come for supplies for the Tucker ranch. Martha’s idea of hiding in plain sight seemed to have worked so far. Recently, Smoke began chafing at the inactivity, and expressed a willingness to test how anonymous he had become. Walt halted the buckboard at the rear loading dock of the general mercantile, and dismounted.

“Jeff and I are going to amble over and visit with Mort Plummer at the Hang Dog, while the order is filled.”

“Fine with me. I’ll meet you there when it’s loaded,” Smoke replied.

“We’ll be waitin’, Kirby,” Jeff drawled, a light of mischief in his eyes.

Being a purloined letter did not include speaking Smoke’s name in public. Jeff had wormed Smoke’s given name out of him for just such events as this. From the pained expression on the face of the gunfighter, Jeff gathered that Kirby was not Smoke’s favorite handle. Walt untied his saddle horse from the tailgate of the wagon, and stepped into a stirrup. Together, he and Jeff rode to the mouth of the alley and turned left on the main street.

Business was sparse in the saloon at this early hour. Only a handful of barflies lined the mahogany, shaky hands grasping the first eye-opener of the day. Walt and Jeff ordered beers and settled at a table near the banked and cold potbelly stove. Walt started a hand of patience.

“You ever play two-handed pitch?” he asked Jeff.

“Yeah. About as exciting as watching grass grow.”

“Now, I don’t know about that,” Walt defended the game. “If it’s four-point, a feller’s got a whole lot of guessin’ to do to figure out what his opponent is holdin’.”

“For me, I like to have all the cards out. Seven players is my sort of game.”

“What about that fancy game all the hoity-toity Eastern dudes play—whist?”

“Not for me,” Jeff declined. “I’m a five-card-stud man myself.”

Walt chuckled. “Now yer talkin’. I ain’t had a good hand of poker for nigh onto six months. Nobody on the Sugarloaf will play with me anymore.”

“You win too much?”

“You got it, Jeff. And honest, too. No dealing seconds or off the bottom, either. Never stacked a deck in my life.”

Two young wranglers stomped into the saloon. They turned to the bar at once, and did not take notice of the pair in conversation at the table. Jeff York had a good look at them, though. He grew visibly tense and sat quite still.

When they had sipped off their first shots and chased them with beer, the tall, lanky blond turned from the bar and peered into the shadowed corner that contained Jeff York and Walt Reardon. His face took on an expression of extreme distaste.

“I’ll be goll-damned, Sully. It’s that no-account Ranger from back home.”

“You’re seein’ things, Rip. We’s in New Mexico now.” “Nawh, I’m right. Turn around an’ see for yourself. I know an asshole, when I see one.”

Walt Reardon cut his eyes to Jeff York’s muscle-tightened face. Jeff knows this pair, that’s a fact, he reasoned. This could get deadly in about a split second. He scooted back his chair, came to his boots, and started for the rear.

“Got to hit the outhouse,” he announced to Jeff, but cut his eyes toward the location of the general store. Jeff nodded.