Triumph of the Mountain Man (6 page)

“You can't have a gun. You're only a kid. Besides, nobody has a right to have a gun, except a policeman. And even they shouldn't have them. My mother says.”

Although naked as a jaybird, Bobby immediately snapped out his verbal defense. “The hell I can't. Smoke Jensen gave me this six-gun himself. I've got a rifle, too.”

“Liar. My mother says no one has the right to a gun. That they are the most evil things on earth.”

Bobby bristled further. “You're the liar. You ever hear of the Constitution? Smoke taught me real good. There's a part of it that says, ‘ . . . the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.' So there.”

Mary-Beth's eldest, Billy, narrowed his eyes and balled his small fists. “Think you're one of those dirty, back-shootin', coward gunfighters like Smoke Jensen?”

That proved too much for Bobby. He swiftly closed the distance between himself and the other boy and gave his antagonist a two-handed shove to the chest. Rocked off his heels, twelve-year-old Billy stumbled backward. Bobby came right after him. Another push and Billy went sprawling out of the wash house. Bobby watched the other boy flail in the dirt a moment, then turned back and shrugged into his trousers. He came out of the building as Billy scrambled to his feet.

Billy made the mistake of swinging the moment he saw Bobby. Young Jensen ducked and threw a punch of his own. It smacked Billy under the left eye. He cried out at the pain and then rushed Bobby. Bobby side-stepped and tripped Billy. At once, the older boy dropped down on his knees, astraddle the small of Billy's back. Bobby began to drub his opponent on the shoulders. Billy made squealing, yelping sounds and kicked the toes of his boots against the ground. At last he found purchase enough to thrust upward and throw Bobby off of him.

“Damn you, you don't fight fair,” Billy sobbed, his dirt-smeared cheeks streaked with tears. He dived on Bobby before the older boy could get up.

From there their fight degenerated into a lot of rolling around in the dirt. Bobby got a couple of good punches to Billy's ribs. Then he clouted his opponent on the ear, which brought a howl of agony from Billy. Bobby wrestled himself around on top and began to drive work-hardened fists into Billy's midriff. All pretense of toughness deserted Billy, and he began to wail in a pitiful voice.

“Help me! Momma, help me! Get him off, get him off.”

The sudden commotion reached the ears of Sally Jensen and Mary-Beth Gittings where they sat on the porch, sipping at cups of jasmine tea. Mary-Beth's face went blank, then white a moment, and she clutched at her heart. Half rising, she put her cup aside.

“I think that's Billy. Whatever could be happening?”

Sally listened to the uproar a moment and picked out Bobby's voice. “Yer a liar and a trespasser. Git the hell outta here.”

Dryly she remarked to Mary-Beth, “I think he has met our youngest. We had better go see.”

Together they headed in the direction of the wash house. The sight they saw made Sally Jensen ache, though inwardly she burned with pride for her adopted son. Bobby Jensen remained astride Billy Gittings, pounding him rhythmically. Billy was getting his tail kicked right properly. One eye showed the beginnings of a splendid mouse, and his nose had been bloodied. He sobbed wretchedly with each punch Bobby delivered. She could not let that go on, Sally realized at once. She hurried to the boys.

“Bobby, you stop that at once. Get off Billy this instant.” Embarrassment filled Sally Jensen as she dragged Bobby Jensen off Billy Gittings.

Mary-Beth Gittings harbored entirely different emotions. Her voice became accusative and filled with indignation. Her son and Bobby each gave his version of what had started the fight. Her face red, she turned with hands on hips to lash out at Sally.

“Billy is correct. No one has the right to own a gun except the police. I would certainly never allow a child of mine to have one.”

Bobby remained defiant. “Then why did he try to steal mine?”

Surly, though in control of his sobs and tears, Billy answered truculently. “I was gonna take it away from you and do what's right and give it to Mother.”

Sally stepped in. “Bobby is correct. Taking another person's property, whether you think he has a right to it or not, is stealing. There will be no more of that around here. Now, both of you go in there and get yourselves washed up. You're a couple of mud balls. And shake hands and try to be nice.”

Thoroughly mollified, Bobby put out a hand. “My name's Bobby, what's yours?”

“Billy,” the other boy answered, still offended. Then he drew himself up. “William Durstan Gittings. But you can call me Billy.”

They released their grip and turned away from the adults. With an arm around each other's shoulders, they walked toward the bath that awaited them. Sally breathed a sigh of relief, only to learn that Mary-Beth had not finished.

“One thing you must accept, dear Sally. My son was right in what he did. He certainly did not deserve anything like the beating he got.”

Sally groaned inwardly at the thought of the ensuing month, saddled with this now former friend.

* * *

In a large, adobe mansion outside of Santa Fe, Clifton Satterlee and four of his associates from back east sat in a sumptuous study, two walls lined floor to ceiling with books in neat rows on their shelves. Long, thick, maroon brocade drapes covered the leaded glass windows, with the usual wrought-iron bars covering them from outside. A small, horseshoe-shaped desk occupied the open space directly in front of the limestone casement. That was where Satterlee held court. The tall back of a large, horsehair-stuffed chair loomed over his six-foot-plus height. He wore a blue velvet smoking jacket and open front shirt of snowy perfection, riding trousers and calf-length boots. His guests clothed themselves with all the formality of eastern evening wear. Brass lamps provided illumination, and the yellow rays of the kerosene flames struck highlights off the cut crystal decanter and five glasses on a low table around which the visitors sat. The topic of conversation had turned to their plans for the conquest of Taos and its environs.

“We already have a good foothold,” Satterlee reminded his associates. “C.S. Enterprises has the timber rights to a thousand acres on the eastern slopes of the Sangre de Cristo range. By selective cutting, we can clear a way to allow passage of the logs we harvest from the land currently held by those Tua vermin. We can pass them off as coming from our legally held property.”

Durwood Pringle cocked an eyebrow. “Do you think that will fool any inspectors the Interior Department sends out here?”

“Of course, they are the same kind of trees. We will continue to log off the eastern slopes so that an inspector will see cutting activity. And, we will have ample advance warning of any surprise visit. Besides, when it comes to the local officials, we have already bought them.”

Pringle still lacked assurance. “Yes, but are they
honest
politicians?”

Satterlee snorted in impatience. “What do you mean? We paid them off, didn't we?”

“I understand that, Clifton, old fellow, what I mean is that an
honest
politician is one that once he's been bought, he stays bought.”

They shared a good laugh at this levity. Then Satterlee moved on to the next subject. “The merchants and residents of Taos remain stubborn for some reason. Although we have added to our cattle holdings recently with two hundred head from the Alvarado ranch.”

A frown creased the forehead of Durwood Pringle. “That's excellent, Clifton. But what we want to know is what is being done to encourage these reticent merchants in Taos to sell out?”

Clifton Satterlee took a long pull on his cognac and produced a warm smile. “Have no fear, Durwood. That is being taken care of as we speak.”

6

Bright orange tendrils of flame coiled through the black night sky over Taos, New Mexico. The intensity of the inferno paled the thin crescent of moon and dampened the starshine. A horse-drawn fire wagon, its bell clanging frantically, sped through the streets. Men in light blue cotton shirts tugged at the suspenders of their bright yellow, water-proof, oil-skin trousers. A cold hand clutched their minds as one. The worst possible disaster had actually happened.

“Where's the blaze, Cap?” a late arrival volunteer fireman asked of his captain.

Captain Taylor pointed to the south. “Couldn't be worse, Clem. The lumberyard is on fire.”

Seconds later, their red-and-black lacquered fire engine stormed down the street toward the lumberyard, which had become an orange ball. The chief of the volunteer fire department, Zeke Crowder, directed them to the south side of the block-square enterprise. Flames and showers of sparks shot fifty feet into the air. Zeke Crowder studied this condition with a grim expression. After several seconds, he called his captains together.

“We've got to keep this from spreading to other buildings. Remember what happened in Albuquerque last year. Three blocks in a row wiped out by what started as a small fire in a restaurant kitchen.”

“How do we go about it, Chief?” Fire Captain Taylor asked.

Chief Crowder produced a thoughtful expression. “Even though most of these buildings are made of adobe, they all have palm thatch roofs. Dry as it is, if sparks land in that, fire can sweep through as fast as the scorpions and other critters that live there. We have to knock down the flames now to keep that from happening. If we don't, we'll lose half of Taos.”

“How we gonna git it done?” another captain persisted.

Chief Crowder did not hesitate. He gestured to the twelve-foot adobe walls that surrounded the lumberyard. “We need to knock down these walls, make 'em fall inward and blow out the flames. Parker, go to the general store. That's the only other source of dynamite in town. Oh, and you might send someone out to the mines. They'll have some. But hurry.”

Captain Taylor stated the obvious. “Don't we have to get Mike Sommers' permission to blow up his walls?”

“Yeah, if we can find him. I haven't seen him at all.” Chief Crowder paused a second, then directed Taylor. “Find Hub Yates, Mike's foreman. I need to talk to him anyway.”

Five minutes later, Capt. Don Taylor returned with Hubbard Yates. “Hub's not seen Mike, either, Chief.”

Quickly, Captain Crowder explained the situation to Yates. He concluded with an appeal. “We have to get someone's permission to knock down these walls.”

Yates shook his head. “I don't know if I can do that or not.”

“If you can't, I do have the authority to do it anyway. Only thing is the city could be charged with the cost of rebuilding. But, if we don't do it, like I said, we can lose half of the town.”

Hub Yates looked at the towering column of sparks. “Go ahead, then. I'll take the chance and speak for Mike.”

“All right. Don, come with me. We're going to set charges on both sides of the walls. The stronger ones on the inside. You take a crew that knows explosives and put them to it. And tamp them solid. We want to upend those adobe blocks and drop them inward. The blast should help blow out the flames, too.”

While volunteers and onlookers alike labored at the long pumper rails, other fire fighters directed inadequate streams of water onto the burning stacks of raw pine and fir. Steam rose in gouts. The core of the fire glowed a dark magenta. Don Taylor and his men took cases of dynamite as they arrived and prepared charges. A shout of alarm rose when the roof of the building nearest the blaze caught fire from sparks and began to burn lustily.

At once, Chief Crowder directed the three hoses of one company onto the new hot spot. Hissing in protest, the flames slowly died. “Keep on wetting that one down,” Crowder directed. He sent two runners to instruct the other fire rigs to do the same.

“Why are you giving up?” a bystander demanded.

“We're gonna lose the whole she-bang, that's for certain. All we can hope for is to keep it from spreading.”

“I still say you oughta keep on fighting.”

Crowder eyed him coldly. “You're not wearing this coal scuttle on yer head, either. Hell, you're not even helping. I'd keep that mouth buttoned up tight, if I were you.

After half an hour, Captain Taylor reported to the chief. “We're all set.”

“Then let her rip!”

At a signal from Taylor, fuses were ignited. The solid thump of explosions rippled along the walls, working outward from the center. Thick clouds of dust billowed and obscured the fire. With a muffled rumble, the tiers of adobe blocks leaned inward and began to fall. The initial blasts had dampened the flames considerably. Now, the four-sided curtains of disturbed air from the falling walls snuffed much more. The feeble streams from the hoses began to gain ground. From the far side a cheer went up.

Chief Crowder began an inspection tour of the fire site. He found that through some fluke, the building front had only been slightly charred. Taking two firemen with him, he picked his way gingerly through the smoldering coals and mounds of ash. Near the rear of the store portion, where the fire had been far hotter, he came upon a huddled mound. Crowder brushed at accumulated ash with a gloved hand and revealed a human shoulder.

“Give me a hand here,” he commanded.

His firemen bent to the task. Shortly, they recovered and revealed the severely burned corpse of the owner. A sickeningly sweet odor wafted up from the seared flesh. One of the fire fighters, who had eaten mutton for supper, turned away and abruptly lost his supper. Fighting back his own rush of nausea, Chief Crowder issued yet another command.

“Get Doc Walters over here right away.”

* * *

In midmorning of the next day, a visibly troubled Dr. Adam Walters found Zeke Crowder in his saddlery shop. The volunteer fire chief sat at a bench, shaping strips of leather into the skirt of yet another of his excellent saddles. A steaming coffee cup rested to one side. He looked up as the bell over the door jingled and the doctor entered.

“'Morning, Doc. What news on Mike Sommers?”

“Nothing good, I'm afraid, Zeke. That's why I'm here. I also asked Hank Banner to join us. He should be along shortly.”

“The sheriff? What for? Mike died in an accident, didn't he?”

“No. The fire was not an accident and Mike did not die from it.”

Right then the bell jingled again, and Sheriff Hank Banner entered. “Howdy, Adam, Zeke. Now, what was so all-fired important, Doc?”

Dr. Walters sighed heavily. “Maybe we should all have a cup of coffee at hand. I brought along some medicinal brandy.”

He remained silent while Crowder poured. Then the physician added brandy to all three mugs. He sighed heavily again before he made his revelation. “Mike Sommers was murdered. He had been shot twice. Once in the chest and once in the head. Whoever started that fire figured he would be too badly burned for us to find that out.”

“Any idea who might have done it?” the sheriff asked.

Dr. Walters hesitated. “I think you could guess the name I'd give you. Mike told me only last week that he had been approached with an offer to buy him out. He refused. Then three of the ruffians who have been moving into town of late roughed him up some on Saturday night. Now, this fire, and Mike is dead, killed by someone working for Clifton Satterlee, or I'll eat my medical bag.”

With a grunt, the sheriff raised a restraining hand. “Be careful about unsubstantiated accusations, Doc. You know that particular gentleman would not hesitate to haul you into court on a slander suit.”

“But dang-bust it. What can we do about this? About everything?”

Again Hank Banner urged caution. “I must admit I share your suspicions that Satterlee is behind all that has happened, including the fire and the murder of Mike Sommers. But, I have no proof. Get me something positive and I'll fling him in jail so fast his boots will take a week to catch up. You know, every day I see more hard cases moving into town. I've a feeling this is about to come to a head.”

* * *

Beyond the first line of trees that screened a small clearing beside the steep, winding grade that formed the eastern up-slope to Palo Flechado Pass, Moose Redaker, Gabe Tucker, Buell Ormsley and Abe Voss watched two riders walk their mounts past their observation point. When the pair, a young wet-behind-the-ears kid and an older man, had ridden well out of hearing range, Moose Redaker elbowed Buell Ormsley in the ribs.

“Didn't I tell you? When I first seed them, I knew that bigger feller was Smoke Jensen. We're lookin' at better than five thousand dollars re-ward on the hoof.”

“You sure those flyers are still in force?” Abe Voss, the cautious one, asked.

Moose had a ready reply. “They ain't been tooken up, have they?”

“That don't mean someone will pay up after all this time.”

“Sure they will. And even if they don't, killin' that holier-than-thou gunfighter will be pure satisfaction in itself.” Moose Redaker beamed at his companions. “He's done collected too many bounties that should have been ours by rights. 'Sides, it'll do a whole lot for our reputation, now ain't that so, Gabe?”

Gabe Tucker showed a grin of crooked, green-fringed, yellow teeth. “Right as rain, Moose. Hey, how'er we goin' about this?”

A shrewd light glowed in the eyes of Moose Redaker. “These flyers all say he's wanted dead or alive, right?” He paused and put a hand to his wide chin, which hung below a lantern jaw. “Do any of you hanker to manhandle a live and kickin' Smoke Jensen?”

Buell Ormsley scratched at his fringe of ginger hair that surrounded his bald crown. “Not this lad. My momma never raised no idiots.”

“She come mighty close,” Moose Redaker jibed. “Yep, I reckon we'd do best to jist shoot him in the back and haul his body up north, Montana way.”

Buell Ormsley squeezed his bulbous nose. “Won't he get to stinkin' a lot, we do that?” He had a valid point.

In his usual manner, Moose had an answer. “Not if we go by train and ice him down.”

Abe Voss rubbed his gloved hands together. “Then, let's get at it.”

“Don't be in such a hurry. We gotta do up a plan first.”

“What about the boy?” Gabe Tucker inquired.

“Kill him an' leave him for the buzzards,” advised Moose.

* * *

Ian MacGreggor had dropped back to tighten a loose cinch and relieve a swollen bladder. His horse stood stubbornly sideways in the trail as he tried to mount it. When he swung aboard, he got a quick glimpse of four grim-faced men riding toward him at a fast pace. Swiftly, he turned the animal's head and put spurs to its flanks. Behind him, the evil quartet put their mounts into a gallop. Rapid reaction by Moose Redaker prevented Abe Voss from firing a shot at the boy and revealing their presence for certain. As it happened, they might as well have shot anyway.

When Mac came within hailing distance of Smoke, he called out a warning. “Look out, Smoke. Four hard-looking guys headed our way.” Then he reigned smartly to the side and disappeared behind a large boulder.

Redaker and his crew of ne'er-do-well bounty hunters crested a rise that had separated them from their quarry and found the boy gone from sight. The four of them faced a lone Smoke Jensen. Had their combined intelligence been anywhere near average, that fact might have given them more than a little pause to consider. Since it was not, they blundered on, drawing their six-guns as they came. Smoke waited patiently. The moment the first eager lout came within range, Smoke cut him down with a round from his Winchester Express rifle.

Abe Voss flew from the saddle, while still far out of revolver range. His companions could only curse. The deadly accurate rifle spoke again and a 500 grain .45 slug sped downrange. Moose Redaker had accurately gauged Smoke Jensen's intentions and ducked low at the precise moment. A fraction of a second later, the bullet cracked past in the space formerly occupied by his head. The distance had decreased, which lent encouragement to the bounty hunters. Gabe Tucker jinked to the left and rode into the meadow to that side. He sought to flank Smoke Jensen and get in a good shot. He made it half the distance to his goal when an invisible fist slammed into his right side and knocked him out of the saddle. He hit in a shower of broken turf and rolled to a halt faced away from Smoke Jensen. The burning pain began to fade to the numbness of shock.

On the other side of Moose Redaker, Buell Ormsley angled toward the cluster of boulders. He watched as Smoke Jensen swung the muzzle of the Winchester toward Moose Redaker. When the express rifle bucked in Smoke's grip, Buell swung the nose of his mount back toward the last mountain man and let fly with two fast rounds.

At first, he thought he had hit his target. Smoke Jensen reared back in his saddle and then bent forward. With a start, Buell realized that Smoke had merely put the rifle back in its scabbard. Jensen came up with a six-gun that looked right at him. A wild cry of denial and fright blew from Buell Ormsley's thick lips as Smoke Jensen fired.

At a range of some thirty feet, the bullet had not the power to kill, but it did hurt like hell when it punched through the leather vest Ormsley wore and broke a rib. Reflex action sent him out of the saddle and onto the ground. He landed hard. More pain shot up his spine when his rump made contact with the soil. Temporarily out of the fight, he fought a wave of dizziness. Dimly he saw Moose Redaker close within killing distance of Smoke Jensen.