Triumph of the Mountain Man (10 page)

With another nod, Dohatsa tucked the money behind the wide, yellow sash that he wore over his shirttail and loincloth. Then he turned and trotted off toward the distant Tua pueblo located north and a bit west of Taos. Whitewater Paddy Quinn turned his horse and walked away in the opposite direction. He had other errands to perform.

There was that fat, stupid policeman in Taos who must be paid his monthly stipend, who reminded Paddy of another lawman he'd known, the reason Paddy had decided to come to America. Dead policemen, even a white pudding of a bobby in Dublin town, raised quite a row. In Boston he had quickly learned that the fine art of bribery got one far more benefit than did muscle. Not a copper, it had seemed, that wasn't on the take. Inevitably, Paddy had encountered the exception to the rule. A lad from the old sod at that. John Preston Sullivan. Which was what had brought Patrick Michael Quinn to the West. No doubt Sullivan still searched the alleyways of Boston for him. Ten years to the day and Quinn was now the boss of the largest gang of cutthroats, highwaymen and robbers on the frontier. Which reminded him that Garth Thompson and some of the lads had something on for later that afternoon. Sure ought to stir things up a mite.

* * *

Smoke Jensen rode at ease alongside Diego Alvarado. The hacienda had put out flankers and two men on point for protection even here on his own huge ranch. Those visible rode with their rifles across their thighs, and were in sight of others farther out. It had been so, Don Diego had explained, since the first raid by the rustlers. More likely, Smoke reckoned, it had been so since the first Alvarados came here in the fifteen hundreds. He suggested the possibility.

“It was like this the last time I visited, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes,
los Indios
were raiding.”

Cougar whuffled softly, and Smoke popped his next question. “And in your father's time?”

Diego chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “There was a war. We had you gringos to combat, if you recall.”

“And your grandfather?”

“The revolution against the Spanish. My family fought for Mexico.”

Smoke waved at the vaquero bodyguards. “So this arrangement is nothing new?”

“I thought not to make you uncomfortable. This is a cruel, wild land. Most unforgiving. Not all of the danger comes from two-legged foes. Tell me, my friend, did you come to any conclusion as to how to deal with Satterlee?”

A smile crinkled Smoke's lips. “I slept too soundly. Too much tequila, I suppose. I'm not accustomed to much strong drink. Beer is more my style.”

Diego appeared intrigued by this. “For a man who does not drink much, you show a lot of machismo, amigo.”

Smoke avoided a response by a study of the distance. Up ahead, he saw a flock of sheep, herded by half a dozen small boys ranging from ten to twelve. It made him think of Ian MacGreggor. “Diego, I have a friend who is looking for work. He speaks Spanish and rides well. But . . . he's a farmer's son. I promised him I'd ask you if you had need of anyone like that on the ranch.”

Diego considered that a moment. “Enrique Toledo is growing old. His bones ache him. Perhaps he would welcome a younger assistant. When would this young man want to start?”

“After I've taken care of this business with Satterlee.”

Diego cocked an eyebrow. “He is secretly involved in this?”

Smoke pulled a droll face. “In a manner of speaking. He is looking into some things for me. I haven't seen him in a couple of days.”

Drawing a deep breath, Diego made his decision. “I will suggest something to Enrique. I am sure he will welcome the idea of help.”

10

A large mesquite bush toppled down a rocky slope to block the road, located twenty miles outside of Taos. Its sudden appearance did not rattle the driver of the Butterfield stage that ground its way along the narrow, rutted trace. He hauled in on the reins and worked the brake with his booted foot, the long wooden lever operated by an angle iron that jutted from the underside. Too late, he realized the purpose of the fallen bush.

Swarming out of defiles and crevasses, a dozen men in the colorful, loose clothing and braided headbands of the Pueblo Indians closed around the coach. They wore high-top moccasins and long, black hair. All of them carried rifles or revolvers at the ready. With eyes keen and knowledgeable, the driver sized up these Indian highwaymen and reached a quick conclusion. He shared it in a whisper with the express guard.

“Injuns don't rob coaches.”

At once, the shotgun rider brought up his short-barreled L.C. Smith 10-gauge and discharged a round. The shot splattered the shoulder of one pseudo-Indian, who howled involuntarily and cursed in English.

“I tol' you so,” the driver hollered as he reached for his six-gun. “Ain't one of them's an Injun.”

An arrow thudded into his chest and skewered his heart. He folded sideways as the six-up team came to a halt before the prickly branches. Two revolvers cracked, and the guard dropped his shotgun. Blood spurted from his shattered shoulder. “I don't believe a thing he said,” he babbled.

They killed him anyway. While two of the Quinn gang held the headstalls of the lead team, another ambled his horse over to the coach and grunted in his best imitation of an Indian. “You get out. Put up hands. Give money. Much money.”

“Make fast, squaw,” another demanded of a hefty dowager who whimpered and jiggled as she climbed from the stage.

Quickly the outlaws gathered the valuables from the passengers while others released the draft team. After securing the strongbox, the members of the Quinn gang rode off, scattering the stage horses ahead of them. That left the frightened, demoralized passengers to fend for themselves. One of them, a portly man in a green checkered suit, expressed the astonishment of them all.

“Well, I never. Indians actually robbing a stagecoach. We have to get to the way station and find help.”

Her cheeks ashen, the dowager suggested, “Someone should go on to Taos.”

“Lady, we're on foot. It's too far to Taos. We'll find someone at the relay post with a horse. Then we'll report these Indians to the law.”

* * *

On a low knoll, beyond his palatial hacienda outside Santa Fe, shaded by an ancient cottonwood, Clifton Satterlee watched the convolutions of an attractive young woman. Martha Estes was his house guest, the daughter of one of his business associates. That did not serve as a deterrent for Satterlee, whose lust guided him. His wife had decided to return east and visit her family, so he knew himself to be free to pursue and conquer the lovely Martha. To do so, he had set forth on a subtle seduction.

From her position, where she exercised her horse, Martha Estes studied Clifton Satterlee from under the brim of a rakishly cocked, feminine version of a man's top hat. The bright green, crushed-velvet head adornment with its scarlet feather contrasted nicely with the red cape and riding skirt of the same material. She had become well aware that Satterlee was engaged in a skillful seduction, and it amused her. But why all the elaborate preamble, when all he need do was ask?

He needn't have given her pearls, or the promise of a luxurious house in Taos. She would have happily fallen into bed with him on the afternoon of her arrival. Her loins ached and throbbed with desire. Clifton represented power, raw, naked strength, and the willingness to employ it. Martha had hungered for him since her eleventh year, when he and her father had become associated in some slightly shady enterprises. Now, eight years later, her craving had not diminished. If anything, it had grown to unbearable dimension. She abandoned her musings to give Clifton a cheery wave and rode up to join him.

“You are a magnificent horsewoman, Martha.”

“Thank you, Clifton. It is one of my . . . lesser accomplishments.” She lowered long, silver-blond lashes over cobalt eyes in a coy invitation.

“Let's proceed on, shall we? There is a charming little place I want to show you.”

“We'll picnic there?”

“Yes, my dear Martha. And while away the hotter part of the afternoon. The natives call it
siesta,
and I heartily recommend it.”

Half an hour's ride brought them to the reverse slope of a larger knob. There stately, ancient palo duro trees shaded a trio of deep tanks which had formed in depressions of solid rock. Martha clapped her hands in delight. Clifton Satterlee dismounted and helped her from the cumbersome sidesaddle. He held the heavy picnic basket while Martha spread a blanket. He came to kneel beside her then, and put out their repast. Martha's eyes sparkled as she took in the elaborate fare.

“Is that really a
paté de fois en brochet?”

“Yes, it is, Martha. Goose liver at that. And we have sliced ham, roast beef, pickled tongue. Oh, so many things.”

Martha Estes affected an insincere pout. “You'll make me fat and unattractive.”

Clifton patted one gloved hand. “Never, my dear. Many men are strongly enamored of full-figured women. I am, myself, I have to admit. Though I will say that you wear svelteness to perfection.”

A trill of pleased laughter came from Martha. “You flatter me shamelessly. Um, I am hungry. A morning's ride always stimulates my appetite.”

“I brought wine,” Clifton offered.

“How thoughtful. I hope you brought a corkscrew.”

Clifton produced the tool with a flourish. “I thought of everything.”

Martha began filling her plate while Clifton opened the bottle. Then he availed himself of the splendid viands and poured wine for both of them. Sunlight sparkled off the clear water of the tanks. Overhead, cactus wrens twittered in domestic harmony while they sought grubs to feed their young. After some thoughtful chewing, Martha brought up the subject of the house in Taos.

“When do I get to see my house in Taos?”

“Soon. Within three days, I should think.”

“Wasn't it once owned by a Mexican family?”

“Yes, it was. A family named Figueroa. They named a price I could hardly refuse.”

* * *

Affecting a jaunty swagger he did not recognize as his own, Ian MacGreggor pushed through the glass-beaded curtain that formed the entryway of Cantina Jalisco, in Taos. Half a dozen hard-faced men had gathered at one end of the bar. They drank beer from glazed clay pots. Even to Mac's untutored eyes, they all appeared to pay deference to a burly, barrel-chested man at the center of the group. Mac walked up near them and ordered a beer. The bartender took in the six-gun at Mac's hip and served him without question. Mac lifted the foam-capped container in salute to the Irish-looking, beefy man and pulled off a long swallow.

It nearly choked him, but he did not let on since he felt all eyes turned to him. After another swallow, he walked closer to the hard cases and addressed the man in the bowler. “Might you be a gentleman known as Paddy Quinn?”

Eyes narrowed, Whitewater Paddy Quinn fired a question of his own. “Who might it be that is askin', is it now?”

“I'm known as Mac. Ian MacGreggor.”

Quinn smiled. “A fellow celt, as I live and breathe. It is said that the clan MacGreggor defended Queen Mary and the faith. Would ye be of those MacGreggors?”

Mac tilted his beer pot to Quinn. “Aye.”

“And for what is it ye'd be wantin' Paddy Quinn?”

“I hear you are hiring gunhands for a man named Satterlee.”

Paddy held up a cautionary hand. “Sure an' we don't be mentionin' certain names in so public a place. Say, rather, that I be hirin' for mesel', ye should.”

“Well, then, for yourself?”

“What if I be? You don't look dry behind the ears.”

Mac eyed Quinn levelly. “You have heard of Billy Bonney?”

That gave Quinn a good laugh. “Sure an' it's a lot of horse dung if yer tryin' to pass yerself off as Billy the Kid.”

“No, I'm not. But, Billy was not yet dry behind his ears when he killed his sixth man. I'm not in his class, but I'm good with a gun.”

“Are you now? Suppose we go out behind this place and you show me.”

“I'm not calling you out, Mr. Quinn. All I say is that I am fast and I hit what I shoot at.”

Quinn stepped forward, away from the bar, and patted Mac on one shoulder. “Nah—nah, don't fash yerself, lad. I was thinkin' of whiskey bottles, or better still beer bottles. They make smaller targets. One o' me boys could throw them up, say two at a time, and you draw and break them both before one hits the ground.”

When there had been money enough for powder and lead to make reloads, Mac had practiced at that often enough to feel confident. “I think I can do that.”

“Come along, then.” Quinn turned to the bartender.
“Oye,
Paco. We're gonna take some of your empties out and make little pieces of glass out of them.”

Paco shrugged. “Whatever you say, Señor Quinn.”

Behind the saloon, the gunmen stood to one side, except for one, who reached to a stack of wooden cartons and extracted two beer bottles. He faced quarter front to Ian MacGreggor. Paddy Quinn gave his instructions at Mac's side. “When I nod, Huber there will throw the bottles in the air. You draw and fire at will.”

With that, Quinn stepped behind Mac, so the youth could not see him give the signal. Not hesitating for a second, Paddy nodded to Huber. Two beer bottles sailed into the air. The moment they came into Mac's line of sight, he made his move. Before the two containers reached the apex of their arc, he had his six-gun halfway out of the holster. His first shot blasted a bottle to fragments a heartbeat later. The second clear glass cylinder seemed to hover at the peak, then turned to a bright shower of slivers as a second bullet struck. The gun was back in Mac's holster before Quinn could recover from his involuntary blink.

Quinn scowled, unconvinced. “Try that again.”

Mac did, with the same results.

“One more time, lad.”

Both bottles broke this time before either had reached the apex. “B'God, it's fast ye are. Only one little thing, there is. I wonder how you would perform if the target was shootin' back at ye?”

Mac considered that a moment, then decided to answer with a cleaned-up version of the truth. “A friend of mine and I were jumped on the way here to Taos. Four men. I killed one of them, and Joe took care of the others.”

Quinn cocked an eyebrow. “Who'd you say that was?”

“You wouldn't know him. Joe Evans, from over Texas way, where I come from.”

“He your age?”

Mac kept his gaze cool and level. “No, sir. He's older. Around twenty-five.”

“Would he be lookin' for the same thing you came after?”

“No, sir, Mr. Quinn. He rode on to Santa Fe.”

“Well, then,” Quinn boomed with a hearty clap on Mac's shoulder. “It looks like we got us only one more good gunhand. You'll do, young MacGreggor. At first, I'll be puttin' you with someone more experienced. At least until ye get yer feet wet, so's to speak. You'll be paid sixty dollars a month. Ammunition bought for you. Later, there'll be a share of any spoils we bring in. Now, then, go settle up with wherever ye've been stayin' an' meet us ten miles out on the road to Questa.”

* * *

Their rumps sore from unaccustomed hours in the saddle, two frightened and wounded survivors of the Butterfield Stage Line robbery trotted their borrowed mounts into Taos in late afternoon. They asked for directions to the sheriff's office and for water to drink in that order. Next the two men stopped at a public horse trough and refreshed their flagging animals, industriously working the pump to bring up fresh for themselves. The sheriff's office came next.

“Sheriff,” one blurted as they stumbled through the door. “The stage from Albuquerque got robbed outside town about twenty miles. We were on it. Owens here took a nick in the shoulder. All I got's a scratch. But the guard and driver are both dead. It was Injuns done it, sure's you're born.”

Sheriff Banner had strong doubts that the Tua, or any of the Pueblo Indians, had taken to robbing stages. “You got a good look at these highwaymen?”

“That's what we just told you, Sheriff. Long black hair, head bands, floppy clothing. Swarthy skin and mean as hell. Oh, they was Injuns right enough.”

Banner remained unconvinced. “What way did they ride when they left?”

“To the west.”

“Toward San Vincente?”

“What's that? We don't know the area.”

“It's a pueblo and mission out that way. But the San Vincente Pueblos are even more peaceful than the Tuas.”

“They talked funny English and rode bareback,” Owens added helpfully.

“Anyone can talk funny and ride bareback. Did they speak any Spanish or Indian tongue?”

Owens cut his eyes to his companion. “Nope. Come to think, all they did speak was English.”

Banner rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “Well, gentlemen, I think you have been had. Sounds to me like white road agents done up to look like Indians. At last, that's the way I'm going to look into it.” Banner turned to the door and called out. “Wally, come in here.”

Wally Gower, who had been lurking outside the door to learn any gems of news he could sell to the editor of the Taos
Clarion,
popped around the door frame and darted to the sheriff's desk. “Yes, sir?”