Cunning of the Mountain Man (28 page)

“Gawdamn!” Stalker blurted.

“He needed that.”

Awe filled the eyes of Quint Stalker, as he nodded his head in agreement. “I still gotta lock you up. You know the way.”

Down the corridor of the cellblock, Smoke found three of the missing Rangers, locked together in one large cell. No doubt the holding tank for drunks. They all had depression written on their faces.

“In you go,” Quint Stalker said with a wink.

He opened the cage, and Smoke joined his three allies. Without further comment, Stalker left the cellblock and the jail and returned to the Exchange Hotel.

Deft, brown fingers worked at the fastenings of the wire basket that enclosed the cork. With it pried open and removed two thumbs pried the cork until it popped loudly and flew to the ceiling of the men’s bar in the Exchange Hotel. A shower of bubbles followed. Laughing, Miguel Selleres turned to the four other men in the room.

“We have much to celebrate,
Señores
. Our good friend Sheriff Reno, is out of jail and . . . Smoke Jensen is inside!”

“Not to mention we still have the hostages, old boy,” Geoffrey Benton-Howell chortled as he presented his glass to be filled.

“More important, the Tuckers will not be released until the ranch is signed over to the three of us,” Dalton Wade crowed.

“They’ll not be released even then,” Benton-Howell stated quietly, instantly drawing the attention of Sheriff Reno, Dalton Wade, and Miguel Selleres.

“Whatever do you mean by that, Sir Geoffrey?” Dalton Wade asked concern creasing his brow.

“There’s no percentage in leaving behind any living witnesses. Surely you see the wisdom of that, Dalton.” “My word. I’d never given that problem any consideration. Isn’t it a bit savage to take the lives of women and children?”

Benton-Howell peered at his partner over the rim of his champagne glass. “We live in brutal times, my friend. We cannot afford to have anyone—outside of ourselves— left to bear tales of how we obtained all this property and the wealth of that gold field in the White Mountains. Oh, yes, I have been assured the transfer will take place as promised. You can see the importance now, can you not? Not even these troublesome Arizona Rangers must escape our little cleanup.”

“Yes,” Selleres agreed. “Which brings us to what means to use to dispose of Smoke Jensen.”

All four men remained silent with their thoughts a moment. Then a beatific smile spread on the face of Benton-Howell.

“I think the most demeaning, humiliating, degrading form of death should be applied to Smoke Jensen. Unfortunately, there is not a single guillotine to be had in this forsaken country. So, I suggest we hang him. How ignoble.”

Soft applause came from Dalton Wade and Miguel

Selleres. Sheriff Reno nodded approval. As did Quint Stalker, who had to fight to keep his face rigidly devoid of any expression. The plotters were convinced of the complete defeat of Smoke Jensen, only the outlaw leader felt no surprise when a cacophony of sound blasted into the elegant barroom, followed by the crumbling of stone and brickwork from the direction of the jail.

Following Smoke Jensen’s instructions, the Rangers watched until he disappeared into the jail, then drifted off in groups of threes and fours. They made their way out of sight of town at the slow pace of men who had reluctantly admitted their cause to be lost, vet unwilling to leave in a body. The ruse worked Jeff York realized half an hour later when no pursuit had begun against them.

At that point, Geoffrey Benton-Howell had as yet to pronounce their death sentences along with the rest. After the Rangers departed Quint Stalker had withdrawn the lookouts, leaving only some of the hungover dregs to keep watch, so that his men could join in the celebration. Before he had returned to the hotel, he noted a number of those who had come bounty hunting, drift off toward more promising fields. He would soon regret that.

Jeff York and six men had no difficulty in slipping unobserved into Socorro. They went directly to the jail, located the cell holding Smoke Jensen and the missing Rangers. They cut short any reunion for the business at hand.

“Get mattresses,” Jeff instructed curtly. “Sit down clear of this wall, cover yourselves, and hold your ears.”

“Awh, crap, Jeff, you ain’t gonna blow us outta here, are you?” one lanky, horse-faced Ranger complained.

“Come up with a better way, and I won’t have to,” Jeff quipped.

While he spoke, Jeff rigged a bundle of dynamite sticks to the wall, close to the small window, which he figured for the weakest point. With everything in readiness, he lit the fuse and cleared out with his Rangers. The blast reverberated all over town, bounced off the steep walls of the gorge in which the village had been built, punished ears for a quarter mile, and set dogs to howling hysterically

It didn’t do too much for the men in the cell, for that matter. The brick wall within the native fieldstone one pummeled them with chunks that would leave bruises the next day. Even with fingers in ears and mouths open, the pressure was enormous. Two Rangers lost consciousness, and Smoke Jensen discovered he had a bloody nose. A tad bit more dynamite, and they’d all be playing harps for St. Peter, he thought dazedly as the caustic fumes and mortar dust swirled around him. Only indistinctly did he hear the pound of hooves, as Jeff and his volunteers rushed back to extricate them from the jail.

Upright beside Jeff York, Smoke Jensen gestured to the ruined building they had just exited. “We have to get our weapons.”

“Already taken care of.”

Smoke frowned as the import of that struck him. “Then why in Billy blue hell did you try to turn us into red mush?”

“Thought it might scare hell out of some of these tender feet gunhawks.”

“You did a fair job of that on us.” Jeff gave a shrug, so Smoke continued “Give me my rig, and let’s go get these bastards who hide behind women and children.”

Geoffrey Benton-Howell had no doubt as to the source of the explosion. He immediately sent Quint Stalker to organize the horde of gunslingers who milled about the streets of Socorro, most of them confused as to what was going on. Miguel Selleres went upstairs at once, to make sure the Tuckers remained secure in the Exchange Hotel. He spoke urgently to the guards outside the door to the room that held the children.

“No one gets in there, none of our own or any lawmen.”

“
Si
,
Señor
Selleres
,” one Sonoran
pistolero
responded respectfully. “Not a soul will get past us.”

“See to it.” Selleres went on down the hall to where Mrs. Tucker had been kept. “Unlock it,” he demanded. Inside, he crossed to a small table where Martha Tucker sat taking her evening meal. He shaped his features to show pleading. “
Señora
, there is going to be a great deal of bloodshed. You can prevent it. Simply sign the ranch over to us . . .” Selleres ended with hands outstretched palms up in silent appeal.

“I do not believe in fairy-tales,
Señor
Selleres. The moment I sign those papers, myself and my children are dead. On the other hand I can trust that for now, no stray bullet will strike any of us.”

Selleres hardened his face. “Can you trust that we will not kill you outright, rather than let you fall into the hands of Smoke Jensen?”

A chill-ran along Martha’s spine. She girded herself for the answer she knew she had to make. “If you are that thoroughly reprehensible, then I can only place my trust in the Lord . . . and Smoke Jensen.”

A burst of gunfire from down the street interrupted the hot retort that started from the lips of Miguel Selleres. He turned on one boot heel and started for the door.

Two gun-toting henchmen appeared high up in the windows of the feed mill. The tinkle of broken glass alerted those below. Smoke Jensen went to one knee and snugged the Winchester .44 carbine to his shoulder in one smooth motion. Jeff York raised his Colt, and put a .45 round through the corrugated metal skin of the grain elevator.

It expanded as it went its way, and slammed into flesh an inch above the buckle on the cartridge belt of one hard case. He jolted forward in reaction to his wound and lurched through the window sash. His startled companion had only a moment to hear the agonized scream, as Smoke Jensen put out his lights for all time with a hot lead snuffer. The sniper’s body jerked backward and out of view.

“That was close,” Jeff observed.

“They never got off a shot,” Smoke reminded him.

Halfway down the next block, four men ranged across the street. They had a variety of mismatched weapons, which spoke for their lack of expertise. What they lacked in knowledge they made up for in courage—or foolishness. All four entered the dance with blazing six-guns.

Smoke Jensen downed one easily, and heard the nearby crack of a bullet that sailed past his head. He lined his sights on another as two more weapons opened up through windows on the second floor above the general mercantile. He made a quick shot at his target, missed and swung the muzzle of the Winchester upward. Three rounds levered through the Winchester silenced one of the hidden assassins. From behind Smoke the six-gun of Tallpockets roared and spat flame.

“They ain’t gonna do any back-shootin’,” the lanky Arizona Ranger remarked casually.

“We have to get to the Exchange Hotel fast,” Smoke urged. “Every minute puts the Tuckers in more danger.”

“Was I doin’ it,” Tallpockets drawled “I’d get me away from here an’ come at ’em from behind. Let me an’ the boys take care of Main Street.”

Smoke smiled broadly. “I appreciate the offer, Tallpockets. And I’ll take you up on it. Jeff, Walt, and I will take this alley and come at the hotel from the back door.”

“Three of you gonna be enough?” Tallpockets asked then he looked over the trio indicated grunted and answered his own question. “I reckon so.”

The street fighting grew fiercer as the outlaw scum and bounty-hungry drifters realized a major push was on against them. The way they saw it, they had to stand their ground; they simply had no way to go and no money to take them there. While they hotted up the battle,

Smoke, Jeff, and Walt darted down an alleyway and turned into the one that paralleled the main street. Three blocks to the hotel, and no way of knowing how many of Benton-Howell’s gunhands they would encounter.

They made it only a block, and ran into half a dozen desperate men forted up in the rear of the saddler’s shop. Lead flew thick and fast. Smoke Jensen felt a searing pain just below the point of his right shoulder, and cut his eyes to a ragged tear in the cloth of his shirt. Another fraction of an inch, and he’d be dripping blood again. Suddenly one of the defenders showed enough head for a clear shot.

Smoke took it with his old .44. The hat of the hard case flew off as his head snapped back. His eyes glazed as he sagged to the floor. A pair of boot heels could be heard pounding on the floorboards, headed for the front. That slackened the fire enough for Jeff York to dart along the alley, past the shop. From that angle, he poured fire into the back of the saddlery. Smoke and Walt did the same.

A couple of yowls of pain came from the interior. Then the firing lessened. A table, hastily put in place to barricade the back door, slid noisily across the floor. Nervous sounding, a voice called to them.

“That does it. We give up! We’re coming out.” Smoke Jensen knew the darkness served as an ally to the dangerous men inside. He set himself and responded “Come out one at a time. Hands in sight.”

“Sure—sure. Don’t shoot us, huh?”

A moment later the door opened and a man’s silhouette appeared in the frame. He advanced hands at shoulder height, palms forward. So far, so good. Another man followed a moment later. When the body of the first to surrender blocked the view, the second man reached forward and yanked a hidden six-gun from the small of his partner’s back. He threw a shot in the general direction of Smoke Jensen.

And died for his treachery. Smoke drilled him through the left eye. Bleating his nonexistent innocence, the first man went to his knees. The three lawmen ignored him for the moment, and concentrated on the others. A trio of rounds sped through the doorway, and the others came out so docile that one would think they were in church.

“That’s more like it,” Jeff York growled.

They quickly trussed up their prisoners and left them for the other Rangers to tend to. Of one accord Smoke and his companions started off toward the hotel. Smoke found the back door first. He tried it, found it latched and pondered their problem.

“This isn’t going to be as easy as we thought,” he advised the others. “If we make any noise going in there, they just might kill Martha and the children.”

Whether by chance or design, the beleaguered gun-fighters in the streets of Socorro drew back on the Exchange Hotel and the few buildings immediately around it. There they rallied and put up a determined resistance. Without a foolish risk of life, the Arizona Rangers could not expose themselves to make a frontal assault. Gradually it became obvious to everyone that the battle had degenerated into a standoff.

By one-thirty in the morning, only a few of the more aggressive individuals took potshots at their counterparts.

Another problem presented itself, brought to the attention of Smoke Jensen by Walt Reardon.

“We’ve got more prisoners than places to put them. Blowin’ out that wall weren’t such a good idea. That drunk tank could hold an easy twenty, twenty-five.”

Smoke thought a moment. “Go to the Tinto Range Supply. There should be some barbed wire there. Use all you need to crisscross that opening like a spiderweb. Then put some men to guarding it. Some of the Tucker hands should be fine for that. They aren’t getting paid to be shot at. Jeff and I will hold the fort here.”

“Mighty interestin’ idea. Just might work.” Walt scooted out of there.

Within half an hour, prisoners had begun to be shifted from the grain bins of the livery into the holding cell of the jail. The first ones inside stared in stunned disbelief at what appeared to be a gaping hole in the wall.

“C’mon, boys, let’s make a break for it,” Wink Winkler muttered to those nearest to him. He made a dash for the opening, only to be caught in midair on the all but invisible strands of barbed wire. He howled in agony and thrashed a while, until he realized he only made it worse.