Triumph of the Mountain Man (12 page)

* * *

Smoke Jensen watched the approach of the reinforcements and made a quick decision. He turned aside and cantered back a hundred yards to where Wally Gower had hunkered down in a pile of boulders. He leaned forward and spoke urgently to the boy.

“Wally, I want you to ride like lightning back to where we cleaned out that first roadblock. Then skedaddle into town and go to the sheriff. Tell him what we are doing and to get some men here right now.”

“Yes, sir, I can do that.”

Wally sprinted off on his pony before Smoke could wish him good luck. Smoke turned back to the battle that had developed in his absence. The vaqueros appeared to hold their own. They kept moving, making difficult targets of themselves. Smoke located one outlaw, who had climbed high on the rocks and now took careful aim with a Winchester at Alejandro Alvarado. Smoke settled Cougar with a pat on the neck and sighted in on the exposed target. When he had what he wanted, he gave a sharp whistle and shouted to the hard case.

“Over here!”

Obligingly the man turned, so that Smoke caught him in the upper left chest with his first round. Quickly Smoke cycled the action of his Express rifle and fired again. A shower of volcanic rock chips formed a plume behind the thug after the bullet exited along the midline of his body. He flopped back down and lay still. Smoke sought another target. He had no lack of them, he soon discovered.

Outlaws milled everywhere. The new arrivals had been slow in taking to the rocks. Diego's vaqueros made a good harvest among them. Bodies sprawled in the grotesque postures of the dead and dying. Smoke saw another man seeking a vantage point high in the rocks. Quickly he raised his Winchester. The discharge of a heavy .44 revolver close by caused Cougar to flinch and side-step at the moment the weapon fired. A torrent of dark, red-brown, porous rock exploded in the face of the gunman.

His sharp cry of pain sounded over the tumult of battle. Smoke levered a fresh round into the chamber and felt the hot breath of a bullet kiss his cheek. Unflinching, he raised the sights into line and shot the author of that close call through the breastbone. Smoke made a quick count. They had taken a hefty toll of the gang. The advantage of numbers had shifted to their side. Only one vaquero showed signs of having taken a wound. And that, Smoke noted, seemed slight. Smoke was about to call to the Mexican cowboys to rally and storm the rocks when more of the outlaw gang closed in, led by Garth Thompson.

* * *

Santan Tossa kneeled at the edge of the sacred sand painting and examined the evidence. Someone had come again to the kiva and stolen several of the religious articles stored there. The footprint of the culprit was distinctive. Much wider than usual, longer also, it served as a signature. Santan Tossa knew to whom the splayed foot belonged. He and several others had been most vocal about raising up the entire male population of the tua pueblo and striking at the outsiders who had invaded their land. And he thought he knew who it was that they worked for.

There was a white man, a round-eye, named Satterlee. This would be the one. He had come to the pueblo to talk the elders into giving him permission to cut trees, a whole lot of trees, on their land. It had been refused, of course. Many of the trees were very old, older than the memories of the Tua. So old as to have shaded the Anasazi, those mysterious dwellers of the time of legends. Santan Tossa had noted the glow of greed in Satterlee's eyes as he had looked upon the sacred amulets, bracelets and necklaces in their niches. Now, fully half of them had disappeared. How much, he wondered, had Dohatsa taken to become a thief?

No matter the reason or the reward, this required help from outside the pueblo. Although he didn't like it, Tossa knew he must take his findings to the white lawman in Taos. He was powerless to investigate anyone not of the pueblo, but the sheriff would know how to go about it. Thus decided, Santan Tossa made a quick examination of the remainder of the kiva and exited through the hole in the roof. He went directly to the small corral on the southeast side of the compound and caught up one of his ponies.

Tossa rode the short three miles to the low adobe wall that surrounded the outsider town of Taos. There he went directly to the sheriff's office. To his surprise, he found it empty. He would wait. Now that he had committed himself to this course, he might as well see it through. While he bided his time, Tossa reflected on conditions at the pueblo.

Theft of the religious objects had been a shock to those who knew—and not all did—and also a source of much justified anger. As a tribal policeman, he kept his own counsel, but Santan Tossa did not question the rightness of his suspicions. Some of the hotheads among the young warriors had been most vocal in demanding retribution against the whites, whom they felt certain had stolen the object. Particularly Dohatsa, who had called a meeting of his warrior society in the kiva the previous night. After the meeting would have been an ideal time to steal the missing items. Santan Tossa had attended the gathering, although he had not been made to feel welcome. Now he recalled what had happened....

Firelight flickered off the bare, bronze shoulders of Dohatsa as he addressed the Puma Society members. “Brothers, we all know that precious articles of our religion have been stolen. It is clear to me who is responsible. It is white men. Not the Mexicans, not even the Spanish before them, would touch any of our holy relics. They considered them heathen and forbidden. Their lust was for gold not silver. So they discounted even the value of our most treasured works.

“I know that somewhere, our sacred squash blossoms and shells decorate the body of a white woman, maybe more than one. We must ask our mothers and sisters who work in the houses of the whites to look for them. Only they must do this carefully and quietly. And caution them not to say anything of this to anyone.”

A young warrior raised a hand in protest. “Our women have never seen the sacred objects. How will they know what to look for?”

Dohatsa produced a wicked smile. “We will describe them, only not tell of their meaning and purpose. When they are found, we will move silently and swiftly. Our knives and lances will taste white blood. Not a one of the guilty shall live.”

Santan Tossa could not keep silent. “If you do such a thing, outside the pueblo, you will bring much trouble to us.”

Dohatsa turned a scornful sneer to Tossa. “What do you know? A policeman? You have already sold yourself to the whites. This is the best way.”

Santan Tossa knew better. He believed it to be wrong that night....

And he believed it today as he awaited the return of Sheriff Hank Banner. More so for knowing now that the thief had been Dohatsa.

12

Another five minutes and they would be as dead as King Sol, Smoke Jensen thought to himself as the fresh wave of bandits rolled toward them. He took time to aim carefully and knocked another outlaw from the saddle. Still they came. Around him, the vaqueros from Rancho de la Gloria made the switch from a near victory to furious defense with smooth unconcern. Their expressions did not change as they pumped round after round into the advancing gang members.

Truth was, Smoke realized, they seemed to enjoy it. With a violent forward surge by the gang, little more than two dozen yards separated the contending forces. Any time now Smoke and the vaqueros would have to break and run or be annihilated. The outlaw leader sensed it also.

With a triumphant whoop, he urged his men on. They closed the gap by five yards. Suddenly a stutter of shots erupted behind them. It rapidly grew to a ragged volley. Confused, fully half of the bandits turned about. Smoke Jensen seized the moment to charge.

“At them!
¡Cuchillos y machettes!”
he yelled, calling for knives and the deadly long blades used for chopping jungle and high grass.

“Yiiiiiiii!” several vaqueros shouted in unison.

With bared blades in one hand, revolvers in the other, reins between their teeth or looped over the large, flat pommels of their saddles, the Mexican cowboys broke clear and thundered down on the astonished Anglo outlaws. The appearance of keen-edged steel unnerved many among the gang. They would gladly face down four or more blazing six-guns, but the thought of deep, gaping wounds, of severed limbs, or decapitation filled them with dread. Pressed from both sides, they abandoned all effort at resistance and fled in panicked disarray.

In no time, the posse led by Sheriff Banner and the vaqueros joined up. The field had been abandoned by Quinn's rogues so swiftly that the wounded had been left behind. Smoke and the sheriff rode among them. None of them appeared capable of further fight.

“It's over,” the sheriff opined.

Smoke did not share Banner's confidence. “For now.”

* * *

Back in the sheriff's office, Banner showed surprise to find Santan Tossa waiting. “It is good to see you, Santan. May I ask what brings you to Taos?”

“I wanted to check in. See what is going on in town.”

Banner sensed the young Tua policeman's hesitation and decided to change the subject. “Oh, by the way, this is a very famous man among my people. His name is Smoke Jensen. Smoke, Santan Tossa, one of the Tua tribal police.”

A smile bloomed on the dark copper face of Santan Tossa. To Smoke's surprise, he spoke excellent English. “Smoke Jensen. I have heard much about you. You have fought our brothers among the Kiowa, the Cheyenne, the Sioux, Blackfeet and Shoshone. But you were always fair. You've had a lot of run-ins with white men also. I had some of your exploits read to me by one of our people who understands English better than I do.”

Smoke gave him a deprecating grin. “All lies, Santan. If I had shot at, let alone killed, as many men as the dime novels say, there would be an ammunition shortage in the country to this day.”

They laughed together. When the sheriff joined them, the tension eased some. Banner decided to get to the point. “Now, what is it that brought you here?”

“We have had some thefts at the pueblo. Religious articles.” He went on to explain about the stolen objects, and the desecration. He did not reveal the possibility of an uprising.

“Do you have any suspects?”

Tossa shook his head, looking unhappy. “Yes, I do. It had to be one of our own who entered the kiva. No Mexican or white man could get away with it. The one I think took the relics is Dohatsa. I think he stole them for a man named Clifton Satterlee.”

“But why?”

“To cause trouble between our two people. I think he wants us to do something that will result in our being driven out. Satterlee wants the land. The trees most of all.”

Smoke, who had listened with intense concentration to the conversation, looked up then and spoke what was on his mind. “I suggest that it might be time for me and this young man to pay a visit to Satterlee's hacienda in Santa Fe. Who knows what we might spook him into doing?”

Sheriff Banner snorted and shook his head. “That's it exactly. Who knows? I don't like it. There's too much can go wrong. But, I suppose there's no other choice. Be careful, Smoke.”

Smoke gave him a curt nod. “Now that I will do.”

* * *

Rapid, strident notes shivered brassily from the bell of a sliver-plated trumpet. The short, thin, dapper mariachi who played it had a pencil line of mustache that writhed above the mouthpiece as he articulated each tone. To his right, a big man with a huge bass guitar plucked the strings with gusto, rhythmic vibrations that directly strummed the heart. To the trumpeter's left, a standard guitar and two violins played out the melody. Under their wide-brimmed
charro
sombreros, three of the quartet sang lustily. The song was “Sonora Querrida.” Clifton Satterlee looked with pride over the milling guests at his hacienda outside Santa Fe. Seated at the table on the palm frond shaded dais with him, his three partners and several of his eastern connections ate and drank to their hearts' content.

Across the patio, on which some of the guests danced to the music, two small, barefoot boys, dressed in loosely fitted white cotton shirts and knee-length pants, turned a spit over a large bed of oak and piñon coals. Their eyes shone with the excitement generated by the fiesta that swirled around them. Steam and smoke rose from the fat and juices that dripped off the split side of beef the youngsters tended. The aroma of the roasting flesh kept everyone in a constant state of hunger. Large, glazed clay bowls of beans were emptied and promptly refilled. Others of delicate saffron rice, mixed with onions, green peas and tomatoes, suffered deep inroads. Mountains of freshly made tortillas, both flour and corn, disappeared with regularity. Beer, tequila and bourbon flowed freely. The happy laughter of women tinkled from every quarter.

Obviously enjoying all of this, one huge-bellied, overdressed man with pink pate showing through thinning hair leaned toward Satterlee and patted him on the forearm. “I have to hand it to you, Cliff, you know how to throw a party. All of this must cost a fortune.”

“Not at all, Findley. Labor is cheap. Back when the Spanish, then the Mexicans, ruled this land, the law had it that when a man owned the ground, he owned everything on it. That included villages and the people in them. Of course, he was required to provide a livelihood for the peons, see that they had a roof over their heads, food to eat, even paid a small amount of money. The patron had responsibility for their well-being, but to all intent and purpose, they were his property. When I took over, they had nowhere else to go, so they stayed. I provide and maintain their houses in the village, employ them to run the stores and the cantina. I even support their church, although it is the Popish Roman rite.”

“Rather like slavery,” Findley Ashbrook said with a chuckle.

Satterlee affected shock and abhorrence. “Heaven forbid, Findley. They are nothing of the sort. After all, they get paid. Ten dollars a month is tops.”

“You crafty devil,” burbled Quinton Damerest, a burly man with a hang-dog face seated beside Findley Ashbrook. “You've gotten around that demagog Lincoln and his emancipation, damned if you haven't. I admire you for it. Is that how you intend to log out lumber way out here, ship it all the way back east and sell at a profit?”

Satterlee nodded, sipping from a clay mug of beer. “Precisely, Quinton. Once we have the workers living in company houses, buying only from the company store, getting their work clothes from the company commissary, just like my peons here at Santa Fe, then we wait until they are deeply in debt to the company and cut their wages by half, then half again. Before long, they'll also be making only ten dollars a month, like these Mexican peons.”

Findley Ashbrook spoke up next. “What says they have to stay here?”

“The law, Ashbrook my friend, the law. We'll be their employer, and also the local law. If they try to get away from here, we'll take them in front of our tame justice of the peace, get an easy conviction for some trumped-up charge, then slap them and their whole family into jail. A little of that and they'll see the light, have no fear.”

“What about the unions?” Findley asked darkly.

Satterlee smirked. “They'll never get a start here. If they try, or if they organize a strike, we have Paddy Quinn and his men to take care of such annoyances.” He nodded to a slender, young, boyish-faced individual at one of the trestle tables, helping himself to another plate of
carnitas de puerco, carne de res barbacóa
and all the fixings. “You see that one over there? He is a prime example of what I'm talking about. He looks like a baby, but Patrick Quinn assures me he is one of the fastest, most accurate gunhands he has ever witnessed.”

Eyes wide, his cheeks gone pale, Quinton Damerest spoke in an awed tone. “Is that William Bonney?”

Satterlee chuckled indulgently. “Not at all, Quinton. He calls himself Mac. A Texas boy named MacGreggor. But he's hell-fire with a six-gun. I've seen him in action.”

* * *

Unaware that he had become the topic of conversation on the dais, Ian MacGreggor went about filling his plate. He had grown up on the spicy foods of the Southwest. The barbecued beef, with its hot, sweet, red sauce and the carnitas with the wide variety of condiments were among his favorites. He had consumed two plates so far. He could eat at least that much more.

“A growing boy,” his mother had often said in mock irritation.

Well, it was true. For the last two years he had always felt hungry. At least being with the Quinn gang had that advantage. The food was good and plentiful. It had surprised Ian when he had been told he would be going along with a part of the gang to act as bodyguards at a fancy do put on by the Big Boss, Clifton Satterlee. The prospect excited him. He would get a chance for a closeup study of the man. He might also overhear something useful to Smoke Jensen. His plate loaded, Mac picked up a squatty clay pot of
jugo de tamarindo,
the savory extract of tamarind pods sweetened with honey and cut with water.

He could have had all the beer he wanted. No one would have questioned him. But he felt it wiser to remain alert and sober. His wisdom proved itself fifteen minutes later when Cole Granger rode in on a lathered, foaming-mouthed horse. Granger knocked the dust from his clothing and came directly to where Mac sat chewing industriously at his meal.

“Where's the boss?”

“Mr. Quinn? He's over there with the ‘important' people on that platform,” Ian responded between bites.

Granger was abrupt. “Thanks.”

Mac sensed something important came with Granger. “Hey, what's up?”

Cole Granger made an all-encompassing gesture. “Big trouble. You'll find out soon enough.”

With a sigh and a regretful backward glance at his abandoned plate, Ian MacGreggor drifted along behind Cole Granger. The latter stopped at the bottom of the three steps that led to the dais. There he waited to catch the eye of Paddy Quinn. Mac held back and turned away to avoid recognition. At last Paddy looked up and saw the agitated Granger standing on the edge of the tile patio.

“Sure an' what is it ye are lookin' so exercised over, Cole, me lad?”

“We've got some big trouble up in Taos, Paddy.”

“Ouch, now, that's such fresh news, it is.” Paddy had been hitting the tequila heavily. It showed clearly to an attentive Mac.

“No, really. We had the roadblocks busted up by a posse and some vaqueros who work for Diego Alvarado. About nine of the guys dead, some others near to death. Shot all to doll rags. An' I—well, I recognized someone fighting with the Mezkin cowboys.”

“An' who might that be?”

“Maybe we ought to move away a bit before I tell you?” Cole Granger suggested, as he cut his eyes nervously to Clifton Satterlee and his partners.

Grumbling under his breath, Paddy Quinn grabbed a fresh shot of tequila and a lime wedge from the tray of a waiter and climbed from the platform. Ian MacGreggor had moved off, though not out of hearing. Granger led Paddy over by a palo verde. There he spoke in a low tone.

“It was none other than Smoke Jensen.”

Shock and surprise registered on the face of Paddy Quinn. “Th' hell. I thought him to be dead and buried long ago.”

“Not so. He's taken a hand in what's goin' on in Taos.”

Quinn looked grim. “I'll have to tell Mr. Satterlee.”

He went at once to where Satterlee sat and asked to speak alone with him. Off the dais, the head of C.S. Enterprises listened while Quinn explained. From the thunderous expression that shaped Satterlee's face, Mac could tell he liked the news even less. At last, Satterlee spoke in a low tone.

“The presence of Smoke Jensen could prove a major threat. Quinn, I want you to select some men and do something about Jensen. And do it fast.”

* * *

Riding side by side, Smoke Jensen and Santan Tossa felt the warm sun on their right cheeks and shoulders. Santa Fe remained a full thirty-five miles away. They would not reach the bustling territorial capital until the next morning. As they neared a steep saddle, Smoke noted a large red-tailed hawk, its wings extended, tips down-curved, riding stationary on the strong breeze that blew through the opening.

Abruptly a shrill squeal came from a small, young rabbit crouched on the ground. Frightened beyond endurance by the hawk that hovered above it, it broke cover and sent spurts of red dust from under its hind feet. Instantly, the hawk folded its wings and dived like an arrow. Legs suddenly extended, claws flexed, the red-tail snatched the tiny creature from the earth and soared away toward its lair. The pitiful cry of its victim faded as it gained distance. Smoke Jensen watched unperturbed. He never forgot that nature was indeed a harsh mistress.