Triumph of the Mountain Man (5 page)

“You've got that, old man.”

Old man?
Smoke never thought of himself as old. He climbed from the saddle and tied off Cougar and his packhorse, Hardy. Then he walked out to stand beside the youth who had been challenged. “Step out of the street, son. You didn't ask for this, and there's no reason you take any harm for it.”

With an expression of mingled relief and frustration, the sandy-haired boy angled off the street to stand by Smoke's horses. Then Smoke looked up at Banning. “I'm ready any time you are.”

Tully Banning's shoulders hunched, and his right hand twitched; but he did not go for his six-gun at once. It had been a signal, one old and familiar, to his companions. The challenged individual could be expected to focus his attention and anticipation upon the challenger. That's the way it had worked for Tully Banning time and again. So, when the cheat and sneak made the little jerk and arrest movement, his henchmen immediately drew their revolvers.

One small miscalculation marred their perfect ambush. Although the trio had often heard of the exploits of Smoke Jensen, none of them had ever met with him face-to-face. Now that they had, it was entirely too late. Smoke expected some sort of dirty work, so he readied himself accordingly. When all three louts drew, Banning last of all, Smoke already had their demise planned.

Drawing with his usual blinding speed, Smoke killed the one on the left first. Then he swung past Banning in the middle to take on the right-hand gunhawk. The poor soul never had a chance. He did get off one wild shot that split the air high above the head of Smoke Jensen. Then the hammer of Smoke's .45 Peacemaker fell, and a hot slug ripped into the ruffian's gut. It burned a trail of agony through his liver before it ripped out a piece of his spine and tore a hole in his back. Rapidly dying, he went to his knees as Tully Banning attempted to level his six-gun.

To his horror, Tully Banning saw the calm expression and faint smile of the man facing him an instant before flame and smoke spewed from the muzzle of the Colt and a wrenching agony exploded in his chest. Staggered, he took two feeble, uncertain steps to the right and triggered his piece. Banning's slug kicked up dirt between the wide-spread legs of Smoke Jensen.

Then Smoke shot again. Another terrible hammer blow smashed into the chest of Tully Banning. His legs went out from under him, and he dropped on his backside in the dusty street. Dimly he heard the shouts of amazement from the onlookers who had assembled well out of the line of fire. This couldn't be happening. The trap had always worked before. It would take the best gunfighter in the world to best the three of them, Banning's spinning mind fought to reject his mortality.

Blood bubbled on his lips as he asked weakly, “Who are you?”

Smiling that ghost of a smile again, Smoke Jensen told Tully Banning, who turned even whiter before he died. Suddenly, the freckle-faced, sandy-haired boy appeared at Smoke's side. “I didn't recognize you, Mr. Jensen.”

“Don't reckon they did, either.”

“You sure saved my life. Uh—my name's Ian MacGreggor. Most folks call me Mac. It's an honor to meet you. And, thank you, thank you for getting me out of that fix. They never gave me a chance to say no.”

Smoke nodded understanding. “Their kind never do. And, they never, ever pick on anyone capable of defending themselves. Remember that.”

“Yes, sir, I will. Thank you again.”

It took Smoke Jensen an uncomfortable fifteen minutes with the town constable to explain what he had accomplished in two seconds. Given the assurance it would be recorded as self-defense, Smoke at last got on the trail to Taos.

* * *

Thick-foliaged palo verde trees made silver-green smoke clouds against the horizon of red earth and cobalt sky. Cattle grazed on the sparse grass of Rancho de la Gloria. Throughout the prairie lands, from Texas to Montana, cattlemen talked of cows per acre. Not so here. Don Diego Alvarado had learned at his father's knee to think in terms of acres per cow. In future times, the elegant Diego Alvarado often told himself, irrigation would make this harsh desert into a veritable garden place. Not in his lifetime, though. So he did not share his dream with his friends and fellow ranchers. His vaqueros knew of it, and believed him. Three of them had been given the assignment of tending a herd of two hundred that grazed through a high meadow on the north end of the ranch property.

They found their work peaceful and pleasing. Not far off lay a connected chain of
tanques
where the beasts would water and they could take their
almuerzo.
Each had a cloth bag in his saddlebag, provided that morning by his wife, that contained a burrito—beans and onion rolled in a flour tortilla—a savory tamale, and fresh, piquant chile peppers to add flavor and spice. Arturo had even brought along some cornmeal sugar cookies baked by his wife. Arturo Gomez and Hector Blanco had promised their younger sons they could bring lunches and join the men at the tanks, the lads taking a noontime swim. That would get them out from under their mothers' feet. The older boys all tended goat herds during the day and could always find ways to get cool and wet. As a newlywed, Umberto Mascarenas, the third vaquero, only dreamed of the day when he would have sturdy sons like his companions. He looked up at the sound of pounding hooves. Could it be the
niños
already?

Caught unaware, Umberto Mascarenas did not hear the first gunshot, or any of those that followed. A bullet struck him in the right side of his head, an inch above his ear, and blew out the other hemisphere. He pitched from his horse in a welter of gore.

“Git them other greasers,” a harsh voice shouted.

More gunfire sounded across the plateau. Arturo Gomez returned fire with his Obrigon copy of a .45 Colt and had the satisfaction of watching an Anglo
ladrón
spill from his saddle at the third round. Then pain burned the life from him as three bullets struck him in half a second. To his right, Hector Blanco dismounted and drew his rifle. The Marlin cracked sharply, and the hat flew from another rustler's head. Hector shot again, and the thief threw up his hands and fell backward off his mount.

By that time, the reports of the weapons had registered on the dim brains of the cattle. They reacted at once and broke into a shambling run. Controlling the cattle became the primary objective of the rustlers, yet one took the time to ride down on Hector Blanco and steal his life with a bullet through the brain. Then the killer galloped ahead to join the others in a V-shaped formation in front of the stampeded herd and direct it off Alvarado land toward a waiting holding pen in a blind canyon.

Twenty minutes later, the horrified and grief-stricken sons of Arturo and Hector found the bodies of all three vaqueros. The Whitewater Paddy Quinn gang had struck again.

5

An hour short of sundown, with long, golden and carmine shafts of light spilling through the canyons, Smoke Jensen made night camp on a bluff above the Canadian River. He staked out his horses to graze and prepared a fire ring. Then he gathered dry windfall and laid a fire. With seemingly calm indifference to his surroundings, he went about setting up his cooking equipment. Constantly, though, he kept his ears tuned to the sound of soft footfalls that grew steadily nearer. Smoke's surprise registered on his face when the source of that noise came up within thirty feet of the campsite and hailed him.

“Hello, Mr. Jensen. It's me, Mac.”

Smoke looked up from the task of slicing potatoes into a skillet to study the gangly youth. Mac's shoulders were broad and his arms long, the promise of a fair-sized man when he got his growth. He was slim, though, and narrow-hipped, and with that boyish face, he looked a long way from reaching that maturity. Smoke motioned him in.

“Howdy, Mac. What brings you along?”

“Well, Mr. Jensen, I wanted to thank you again for saving my life. Really, though, I sort of got to thinking. I wondered if—if you'd welcome me to ride along with you. Seein' we're headed the same direction, that is.”

So much earnestness shone from his freckled face that Smoke had to turn away to keep control of his laughter. He fished an onion from a pan of water and began to slice it onto a tin plate to add to the potatoes. “Now, what direction would that be?”

“Why, to Taos, of course.”

Smoke feigned doubtfulness. “I'll have to think on that one. But, step down. Least you can do now is share my eats. I've got some fatback, taters, and I'll make some biscuits.”

Memory of the boiled oatmeal, twice a day, that had sustained him between his home and Raton prodded Ian MacGreggor. “Gosh, you sure eat well, Mr. Jensen.”

“Call me Smoke, Mac.”

Caught off balance by this, Mac gulped his words. “Yes, sir, ah, Smoke.”

“Now, to eatin' well, it's only common sense. In this climate, a man has to use up his fresh stuff right at the start. By the time we reach Taos it'll be spare enough.” Smoke turned his attention to the food for a while, then asked, “You have family in Taos?”

“No, sir, I'm leavin' home for good. I'm my pap's third son, so there's nothin' for me around the farm. We have a little dirt-scrabble place over in Texas. Whole lot of Scots folks around Amarillo. The farm'll go to my oldest brother, Caleb. Dirk is hot for workin' on the railroad. Wants to be an engineer. The apprenticeship and schoolin' costs money, so there was not much left for me.”

“Then, I gather you are looking for work in Taos?”

“That's right, Smoke. I heard there was plenty work being offered out Taos way. There was even a notice in the Amarillo paper. A man named Satterlee. He's lookin' for cowhands, timber fallers, all sorts of jobs.”

Smoke's frown surprised Mac. “Ah—Mac, I don't want to disappoint you, but do you know anything about this Satterlee?”

“No, no I don't. What's the matter?”

Smoke did not want the boy to go bad. He seemed to have some promise. So, he told Mac what he knew of Clifton Satterlee from the letter sent by Diego Alvarado. As he spoke, the youngster's eyes grew big, and he produced an angry expression. When Smoke concluded, Mac shook his head.

“I sure don't want anything to do with someone like that. Sounds like he's puredee crook.” Then he took on a sad expression. “But now I've burned my bridges, what am I gonna do to make a livin'?”

“Taos is growing. And I have a friend. A man who owns a large ranch. Do you happen to speak Spanish? His name is Diego Alvarado; he's a real Spanish gentleman.”

Mac nodded enthusiastically. “Sure do. Learned it from the sons of our hired hand. I growed up with them.”

“Then, if Don Diego takes you on, you'll have lots of use for it. All of his ranch hands are Mexican.”

Mac frowned. “I don't know much about cows. We planted mostly hay, sold it to the ranchers, put in some wheat, corn. Pap wanted to try watermelons. They grow real good in Texas.”

“As I recall, Diego has some fields down by a creek that runs behind his house which he uses to irrigate them. He grows several kinds of melons, as well as corn, onions, beans, chile peppers, and a little cotton. He provides nearly all the needs for the entire ranch.”

“How—how big is this place?”

“Three or four thousand acres, I'm not sure which.”

Mac looked at Smoke in awe. “That's the biggest spread I ever heard of. All we have is a quarter section.”

Smoke took pity on Mac, though not much. “Diego has more land under irrigated cultivation than that. I'm willin' to bet he could use an experienced farmer.”

Over their meal, Smoke worried around another idea in his head. When Mac offered to wash up after supper, Smoke poured a cup of coffee and spoke his mind. “If Diego has no need for a farmer, there might be something else you can do. Something for me. Though it might prove risky.”

New hope bloomed on Mac's face. “Anything, so long as it's legal, Smoke.”

“I assure you it's that. Don Diego asked me to come out and take a look at this Satterlee's operation. I could use some help in doing that.”

“How can you poke into something crooked? That's a job for the law.”

Smiling, Smoke produced his badge and showed it to Mac. “So happens, I'm a deputy U.S. marshal. What I have in mind is that if Diego does not take you on, you go ahead and take that job with Satterlee. Only, don't break the law yourself. Look around, keep your ears open. See what kind of sign you cut on his operation. Then, make arrangements to report anything you learn to me. You'd get regular deputy marshal pay, provided by the U.S. Marshal's Office. That should give you a good stake after the job is over.”

“What about the risk you mentioned?” Mac asked soberly.

No fool this one,
Smoke reflected. “If you are caught, Satterlee or one of his henchmen will try to kill you. Or at least hurt you pretty bad.”

Mac cut his eyes to the six-gun in the holster on his hip. “I ain't as fast or accurate as you, Smoke. An' I never caught on to the trap of those three in Raton. But I am good with a gun.”

“You'll have to be. What d'you say?”

“Okay. I'll do it.”

Smoke looked Mac levelly in the clear, blue eyes. “Done, then. But you may not live to regret it,” he told the boy ominously.

* * *

A refreshing spring shower had brightened the yellow bonnets of the jonquils and purple-red tulip globes in the wide beds planted at the front of the main house on the Sugarloaf. A rainbow hung on the breast of the Medicine Bow Mountains to the northeast. Sally Jensen gave up on her industrious dusting program at the clatter of narrow, steel-tired wheels on the ranch yard. She removed the kerchief which covered her raven locks, abandoned her smudged rag and straightened the apron as she walked to the door. She opened the portal to an astonishing sight.

A woman, vaguely familiar, and four children sat on the spring-mounted seats of a sparkling, brightly lacquered carriage. The three boys, their soft, brown hair cut in bang-fringed pageboy style, wore manly little suits of royal blue, Moorish maroon and emerald green, with identical flat-crowned, wide-brimmed hats. The small girl sat primly beside her mother, in a matching crushed velvet cape and gown of a puce hue, feathered bonnets to match. The young males quarreled loudly and steadily among themselves.

Sally took three small steps to the edge of the porch. She paused then as she put a name to the face, remembering the letter she had received three days earlier. Mary-Beth Whipple. No, Sally corrected herself, her married name was Gittings. Obviously when Mary-Beth had written asking to make a brief visit, she had taken for granted that the answer would be yes. How typical of Mary-Beth, Sally thought ruefully.

“Sally, dearest,” Mary-Beth burbled happily as she reined in.

“Mary-Beth?” Sally responded hesitantly. “I—didn't expect you so soon.”

Mary-Beth simply ignored that and gushed. “It's so good to see you again. You have no idea how much I've missed my dear schoolmate.” She raised her arms and flung them wide to encompass the whole of the Sugarloaf. “We're here at last.”

“Uh—yes, so you are. Won't you come in?”

“Of course. Right away. Can you get someone to take care of these dreadfully stubborn animals?”

For a moment Sally wondered if she meant the snorting, lathered horses or her three sons. The volume of their altercation had risen to the shouting stage. Sally recalled her school chum only too well. The daughter of a wealthy New England mill owner, she had always been a petulant, spoiled young woman. One who proved woefully empty-headed. Sally had been compelled to drag Mary-Beth's grades upward at the Teachers' Seminary. Worse, she absolutely, positively refused to eat meat. Yet those were not her only eccentricities, Sally recalled as Mary-Beth spoke again.

“These abominable horses, of course. They have made our journey from Denver absolutely miserable. So tedious. Well,” she declared, releasing the reins and standing upright in the carriage. “We're here now. And we can look forward to not having to deal with these fractious creatures for a whole month.”

A month?
Sally thought sinkingly.
That
was Mary-Beth's idea of a brief stay? “I'm afraid we're not . . . prepared for such a long stay.”

Mary-Beth's face clouded up, and she produced a girlish pout. “But, we simply must. My husband is doing businessey things in Denver, and it is frightfully boring.”

“But . . . my husband is not here. He has been called away.”

“Oh, bother the men. They are all alike. Born to neglect. I sometimes regret that I gave birth to even a single male. Little Francine here is all my life.”

Her words chilled Sally, who instantly saw the confusion and hurt in the expressions and suddenly flat eyes of the boys. For all of that, Sally's inborn hospitality compelled her to welcome them. She opened her arms in an inviting gesture. “Come on in, then. I'll fix coffee. And I have a sponge cake. Your boys will like that, I'm sure.”

Three bright, happy faces shined out on her. “Cake, yah!” they chorused.

Inside, with the boys gulping down slice after slice of the cake Sally had planned to have for herself and Bobby for supper, Mary-Beth returned to her earlier topic. “Ever since you described this heavenly place to me, I've dreamed of visiting. And we simply must stay the whole month. Grantland will be tied up in dull meetings every day for a full thirty days. Lawyers have such a dreary life. Besides, Denver is so depressing, with its heavy pall of smelter smoke hanging over everything. And, such rough, unlettered people swarming everywhere, with absolutely no control over them.” Mary-Beth paused and looked at her cup.

“Actually, I prefer tea. Could you arrange to have tea from now on?”

Sally curbed her temper. “I have some tea. When it's gone, it's gone.”

Mary-Beth reached over and patted Sally's forearm. “Fine, dear, I understand.” She looked over to where her sons had started to squabble noisily over the last slice of cake. “Boys, you go outside with that. You've eaten quite enough. It will spoil your supper.”

Grumbling, the three little louts jumped from the table and trudged outside. Mary-Beth picked up again. “At what hour do you serve dinner? We are accustomed to eight.”

“Well, Mary-Beth, we are accustomed to six. If you'll pardon me, we will stick to that schedule.” Gloomy images of a month of this flashed through Sally's mind.

* * *

Bobby Jensen first encountered the newcomers when he came up to the main house from the foaling barn where he had been mucking out stalls. He went directly to the wash house, where he had laid out clean clothes before beginning his task, to clean himself of the stink of blood, manure and horse urine. Bobby had barely eased himself into the big, brass bathtub and shuddered in pleasure at the feel of the warm water when he heard a sound like rats in the rafters. He looked around and saw nothing, so he went to his ablutions. The sound came again.

Bobby paused in the vigorous scrubbing of his hands and arms and let his gaze slide from corner to corner. Again he could find no source. He ducked his head of white-blond hair below the surface and began to lather it when he came up. The rustling persisted. Bobby rinsed his hair and pushed up on one arm.

“Who's there?” When no reply came to his demand, he gave careful examination to the interior for a third time, then returned to his bath. When he was satisfied with his degree of cleanliness—he had not washed behind his ears—Bobby climbed from the tub and stepped under the sprinkler can nozzle attached to a length of lead pipe. Lukewarm water cascaded down on the crown of his head and his thin shoulders when he pulled a chain attached to a spring valve. While he rinsed, he caught sight of furtive movement over by the chair where he had laid his fresh clothing.

A small, pale white hand reached slowly around the obstruction of the chair and headed for the parrot bill grip of Bobby's .38 Colt Lightning. Bobby took three quick steps toward the hidden person and called out in as hard a voice as he could muster.

“Get your hand off my gun.”

Suddenly, a boy somewhat smaller than Bobby popped up behind the chair. His appearance would have made Bobby laugh if he were not so angry. He wore a funny blue suit, with a big old flowery tie done in a bow under his chin, and had hair only a few shades more yellow than Bobby's, done in a sissy cut. Ribbons tied the bottoms of his trouser legs just below the knees. Full, bee-stung lips that were made for pouting formed a soft, Cupid's mouth. He screwed those lips up now and spoke in a snotty, superior tone.