Triumph of the Mountain Man (7 page)

Smoke remained calm as he waited out his opponent. The only one still astride a horse, the scruffy-looking hill trash presented the only challenge Smoke could see. Both men fired at the same time, and their slugs missed. Smoke's by so narrow a margin that a hot line burned along the rib cage of Moose Redaker. Moose yowled and fired again. The slug punched through the side panel of Smoke's vest. That brought an instant response.

Another .45 round spat from the Peacemaker in Smoke's hand. This one struck Moose in the chest with stunning force. Redaker reeled in the saddle and tried to put his own six-gun into action. A dark red curtain seemed to descend behind his eyes, and the world grew hazy. At last he triggered his Smith American. The .44 slug screamed off a rock and disappeared in the direction of Taos. Then the ground seemed to leap up and smack Moose in the face. He died wondering how that could happen.

Buell Ormsley scooted over the ground toward his dropped six-gun. He had quickly discovered that he had sprained an ankle in his fall from the horse. Buell reached the weapon while Smoke scanned the other three for any sign of continued resistance. Carefully he raised it, and sighted in on the broad back of Smoke Jensen. He eared back the hammer of the Merwin and Hulbert .44 and sighted again. Buell heard the beginning of a loud report from a revolver close by an instant before an intense light washed through his brain, as the off side of his skull flew apart in gory shards.

Ian MacGreggor rode out onto the trail, smoke still curling from the barrel of the old Schoffield Smith .44 in his left hand. “He was gonna back-shoot you, Smoke.”

Smoke masked his surprise and produced a grateful grin. “You done good, Mac. Saved my life, that's for sure. I'm beholdin' to you.”

With sincere modesty, Mac made small of it. “You'd a done the same for me.”

“Thanks all the same. I wonder if it's worth the effort to take this trash along and see if there's a bounty on any of them?”

“D'you think there might be?” Mac had not considered such a possibility.

“Never know.” Smoke searched the body of Moose Redaker and found the aged, out-of-date posters depicting his own face. Also a letter signed six years earlier giving a commission to one Albert Redaker to seek out wanted miscreants under the auspice of the sheriff of Denton County, Texas. “Still don't mean they're free of any head money.”

“I—ah—if it's all the same, I'd just as soon not have them along for company.” Smoke noticed that Mac looked a little gray-green around the mouth.

“First time you killed a man?”

“First time I ever shot at one,” Mac admitted.

“Take it from me, Mac, it don't get any easier. Only your reaction to it changes. We'd best cover them with rocks and mark 'em so the nearest law can find them.”

* * *

Back at the Sugarloaf, little Seth Gittings, Mary-Beth's middle boy, had become a particular burden for Sally Jensen. Every bit as much a brat as his elder brother, he chose this afternoon to leave off the severe biting of his fingernails long enough to bite Bobby. His little jaws proved exceptionally strong as he crunched down on Bobby's left forearm. Bobby instantly felt a jolt of hot pain run up his arm and spread in his chest. He wanted to cry out, to even shed a few tears of agony. Yet he shut his mind to such childish things and sought to remedy the situation.

His hard right fist cracked into the side of his tormentor's head. Seth let go with a yowl and an instant flood of tears. “Ow! Owie! Billy, Billy, he hit me. He hit me,” quickly followed.

Bobby immediately pursued his advantage. Chin on his chest, shoulders rolled like Smoke had shown him, he waded in. Fast, solid rights and lefts rained on the chest and exposed belly of Seth Gittings. The ten-year-old backpedaled and flailed uselessly with his stubby arms. Bobby changed his target and felt a flood of satisfaction as blood gushed from Seth's nose. He continued to whale away on Seth until Billy arrived. At once the twelve-year-old took up for his brother and joined the fray in the form of an attack on Bobby Jensen's turned back.

It staggered Bobby for a moment. Then, determined not to be deterred until he had taught them a lasting lesson, Bobby put his back to the outer wall of the bunkhouse and forced them to come at him from the front. His superior size and strength soon began to tell. First Seth, the cause of the altercation, gave up. He ran off, whining and crying, to find their mother. Billy battled on. The pain of his bite had been forgotten. Bobby never gave it thought until droplets of his own blood splashed in his face. Then he shook his arm in the astonished face of Billy.

“See this? See what that brat little brother of yours did to me?”

Stunned by this evidence, Billy gave off fighting with Bobby. “Yeah, he does get sorta wild at times. Bit the hell outta me once.”

Bobby, too, stopped exchanging blows. “What did you do?”

“I whipped his butt.”

“What do you think I was doin'?”

“Yeah, but he's my brother.”

“So? It's me he bit this time.”

“Yep, I guess so. Uh—you oughta get that fixed, Bobby.”

Quickly as that, the two boys dissolved their animosity. They had their differences amicably ironed out when Mary-Beth Gittings, led by a wailing Seth, and Sally Jensen descended upon them.

“What is the meaning of this, you monstrous, vicious little wretch?” she snarled at Bobby Jensen. Even her son looked shocked at her vehemence. Then she rounded on Sally Jensen. “Sally, you simply must punish that unruly boy.”

Mutely, Bobby held up his arm to show the tooth marks and the blood that ran from them. Always slow to anger, Sally suppressed a hot outburst and spoke sweetly. “Since it was two on one, and Seth obviously bit Bobby, perhaps your little darlings share some of the blame.”

To the surprise of the Jensens, it was Billy Gittings who came to the defense of Bobby. “He bit me, too, Mother. Remember?”

Mary-Beth pulled an expression of horror. “The very idea!” Thus dismissing her son's revelation, she turned on Sally and snapped, “Seth would never do a thing like that. My precious children are learning such terrible, ruffian ways out here on the frontier. This—-this cast-off child of yours is nothing short of a savage. If it weren't so intolerable in Denver, I would return at once.”

Oh, do, please do,
Sally thought to herself.

7

On a hill overlooking Taos, New Mexico Territory, Smoke Jensen halted to consider their course of action from this point on. He turned to Ian MacGreggor. “We'll enter town from different directions. Remember, Mac, when you see me, you don't know me. Later, when this is over, I will definitely introduce you to Diego Alvarado.”

Somewhat sobered by the shoot-out on the trail, Mac nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand that, Smoke. Only, how do I make contact when I learn anything important?”

“If there is time, send a letter to Paul Jones, care of general delivery in Taos, giving a time and place. If not, break off from Satterlee's men and ride like the wind for town.”

Mac pulled a dubious expression, but answered easily. “Sounds simple enough. Why Paul Jones?”

“More likely to slip past anyone Satterlee might have watching the mail.”

Mac pursed his lips. “Yeah—yeah, that makes sense. Did you learn all of this to be a marshal?”

Smoke had to chuckle over that. “No. A lot I figured out on my own, some Preacher taught me, and the rest I got from lawmen like our sheriff back in the high lonesome. Monte Carson is mighty savvy about such things.” For a moment, recollection of Monte brought a tightness to Smoke's chest. “Now, get on your way. I'll give you twenty minutes and then ride in.”

Smoke watched Mac ride away and could not help but reflect on himself at that age. He had been rough-edged, a bit wild and woolly, and had lived about a year with Preacher. The old mountain man—some people called Preacher the
first
mountain man—had proven to be incredibly knowledgeable about every aspect of life in the high lonesome. He could lecture for hours on the habits, love life, construction skills and market price of the beaver. Add in religion and fighting techniques and he could do the same for a good seven Indian tribes. A complete fascination with such subjects soon smoothed the rough edges, calmed the wildness and trimmed the wool of young Kirby Jensen.

At fifteen, Mac's age, Smoke had received a special present from Preacher. It was a Colt, Model '51 Navy revolver in .36 caliber. With it came grueling hours of drill and instructions in how to load and accurately fire the weapon. He had also learned the speed draw that had made Preacher famous as the first gunfighter. That had not come without a price. More than a dozen times Smoke had discharged blank loads with the revolver still in the pocket. The accidental discharges had burned like hellfire and scarred his leg. Preacher had found it amusing.

Chuckling each time it happened, he had reminded young Kirby, “Boy, you've gotta be quicker on the draw before you work on quick on the trigger.”

It had embarrassed the youth, but it made him work harder and become better. In later years, his speed and accuracy with a six-gun would excel even that of his mentor. If Mac was only a quarter as good as Smoke had become, he could for sure hold his own.

* * *

Pablo Alvarado, third son of Diego Alvarado, strolled into the cool interior of the Bajo el Cielo de Mexico cantina in Taos during the busy noon hour. The ever-present muslin sheeting dropped white bellies from the rafters, placed there to prevent unwelcome visits by the scorpions and other insects that inhabited the palm thatch roofing. Men lined the bar, gustily drinking down their cellar-cooled beer, while they munched industriously on plates of
taquitos
—rolled corn tortillas filled with roast, shredded goat meat and crisp fried. Others consumed small clay cups of
caldo de camarón,
a thick dark red chile-shrimp soup made of tiny dried shrimp, onions, garlic, tomato paste and hot chiles. All of them frequently dipped tortilla chips into bowls of fresh-made
pico de gallo
salsa, redolent with the aroma of chopped chiles, garlic, and fresh coriander. Nearly half of the patrons were Anglos. Pablo joined three vaqueros from his father's
estancia,
Rancho de la Gloria. He soon had a tall, slender glass of beer, called a
tubo,
in one hand. With his other, Pablo lifted a
taquito
from a plate.

His presence was immediately noted by a trio of scruffy saddle trash seated at a corner table. They bent their heads together and the leader, Garth Thompson, spoke in a low voice. “That's one of that stubborn greaser's sons. I think you two ought to arrange a little entertainment for him outside this place.”

“That shines, Garth. What sort of party should we figger to throw?” Norm Oppler responded.

Thompson pursed his lips, then spread them in a nasty grin. “One that will leave him definitely hurting.”

Hicky Drago, the third hard case, flashed a toothy smile. “Now that sounds like fun. Do we leave him alive and hurtin'?”

Garth showed his own teeth. “That's entirely up to you.”

Both downed their drinks and came to their boots. They left the busy saloon without attracting any attention. Over at the bar, Pablo gestured to an old woman in a plain polka dot dress, her head swathed in a black rebozo.
“Una copa de caldo de camarón, por favor.”

Bearing a large, blue granite kettle, the seam-faced woman attendant came over and ladled out a cup of shrimp soup for the young
caballero.
Pablo took it and nodded his appreciation.
“Gracias.”
Then he turned to the ranch hands.

“We will have to start back to the ranch after we've eaten. There seems not to be enough hours in the day.”

“Especially to get the work done and for you to see Juanita, eh,
patrón?”
one of the cowboys remarked with a smile.

Pablo's eyes twinkled as he thought of his current favorite. “Juanita is . . . worth making time for. We are going to be married. She doesn't know that yet, but I do.”

Pablo chided him in jest. “Do not mock true love, Arturo. Some day it will overwhelm you.”

“What, me? With a fat wife and three little ones?”

Garth Thompson watched them darkly as they laughed over that sally. He had been given his orders by Whitewater Paddy Quinn as to what to do about the family of the stubborn old fool, Diego Alvarado. The rancher refused to sell out, and his Mexican cowboys had already killed three and wounded eight of those sent to harass him. It was time to turn up the heat, Paddy had said.
So be it,
Garth mused. He watched while Pablo and the vaqueros downed a prodigious quantity of food and two glasses each of beer. Then they hitched up their belts and walked toward the door. Silver conchos along the outer seams of their pant legs sparkled even in the low light.

When they stepped outside, Garth strained to hear over the low rumble of conversation and laughter the challenge he expected. It came a moment later in an angry growl from Norm Oppler.

“Hey, watch where you're goin', greaser.”

* * *

Smoke Jensen walked Cougar and Hardy down the broad eastern avenue that led to the Plaza de Armas in the center of Taos. Palo verde trees had been planted in circular basins all along the residential section. Their pale, wispy, smokey green leaves fluttered in a light breeze, like the fine hair of a young woman. Most houses sat well back from the Spanish tile sidewalks, presenting high, blank walls to the passersby. Some had built-in niches where flowers had been planted or religious figures installed. Red tile roofs peeked over the blue and green shards of broken bottles plastered into the tops of these ramparts. The last block before the central square had been overtaken by shops, restaurants and cantinas. Smoke reached the midpoint when a harsh voice called out insultingly.

“Hey, watch where you're goin', greaser.”

A handsome, light-complexioned young man of Spanish/ Mexican descent took a step back and spoke soft words of apology. Then the import of the insult sank in. His eyes narrowed, and his full lips twisted in offense. “What did you call me?”

“I called you a bean-slurpin', chile-chompin' greaser.”

Smoke Jensen reined in to watch the exchange. The youth had a familiar appearance, though Smoke could not place a name with the face. Both men were armed, though the well-dressed Spanish youth chose to use his hands. With a suddenness that spoke well of his ability, he swung a balled fist that smashed into the jaw of the loud-mouthed saddle trash with enough force to knock him off his boots.

He hit the tile walk with a flat smack. At once the youth stepped over him. “I'll accept your apology for that insult and there will be no harm done.”

“Like hell you will!” shouted the thug as he whipped out his six-gun and fired point-blank into the young man's belly.

At once the other Anglo cleared leather. His bullet cut a searing path across the small of Pablo's back. Smoke Jensen had time only for a hasty shout before his own hand filled with a .45 Colt. “Don't!”

Three dark-complexioned vaqueros with the youth only then reacted, spreading apart with shock and surprise on their faces. One drew a knife. The Colt in the hand of the seated hard case roared again. He missed his attempt to shoot the knife wielder through the chest. His slug bit flesh out of the vaquero's side.

“Drop the guns, both of you,” Smoke demanded.

When the Anglo opponents refused to comply, Smoke tripped the trigger of his Peacemaker and shot the seated one through the shoulder, breaking his scapula. The smoking revolver in his hand flew from his grasp. His companion spun on one boot heel to face Smoke Jensen. He raised his six-gun to shoulder height and took aim as Smoke cocked and fired his .45 a second time. His bullet took the gunman in the center of his chest. Behind Smoke, Hardy whinnied in irritation. Shouts came from inside the saloon. The man Smoke had shot looked down at his chest with a dumb expression of disbelief as he staggered forward. Slowly he released his grip on his weapon. The revolver thudded in the dirt of the street a moment before the body of the dead assailant.

By then, the wounded one seated on the tile walk had recovered his Colt and threw a shot at Smoke that cracked past the head of the last mountain man to bury itself deep in an adobe wall across the street. Without a flinch, Smoke returned fire. Hot lead punched a neat hole in the upper lip of the shooter, exposing crooked, yellowed teeth. He went over backward and twitched violently for a few seconds.

During that time, the three vaqueros recovered their composure and rushed to the side of their fallen companion. “Pablo, Pablo, can you hear me?” one spoke urgently.

Pablo?
Keeping his Colt handy, Smoke Jensen dismounted and crossed to where two of the Mexican cowboys kneeled beside their employer's son.
“¿Con permiso?”
Smoke addressed them in his rusty Spanish. “Is this Pablo Alvarado?”

Dark, angry faces turned toward him. “Why do you ask,
gringo?”

Smoke answered simply. “I am a friend of his father.”

The surly one produced a sneer.
“Ay, sí.
And I am the pope in Rome. What is your name,
gringo?”

“I am called Smoke Jensen.”

Surprise registered on the three faces. Embarrassment warred with it. At last, the angry vaquero spoke in an amiable tone.
“Tengo mucho vergüenza,
Señor Jensen. I should have known. No one else could have handled two gunmen so fast and so effectively. It is only that Don Pablo has been shot, and Ricardo,
tambien.
And it is forbidden us to carry our
pistólas
into town. We could do nothing.”

“And naturally that bothered you. That I can understand. One of you had better go for a doctor.” Smoke examined the wounded men. “Ricardo has only a scratch. Pablo is still breathing and he has a strong heartbeat,” Smoke observed as he examined the young man. “But he still needs help right away,
inmediatamente, comprende?”

The embarrassed one spoke up. “I am called Miguel Armillita. I will go.”

“Good, Miguel. Another of you should ride to the ranch and tell Don Diego.”

“Uh—there is a wagon with supplies,” a young vaquero blurted.

Smoke spoke decisively. “Ricardo can drive that, after he is patched up. The other take a fast horse and head for Rancho de la Gloria.”

The town marshal and the sheriff of Taos County arrived at the same time. Pablo Alvarado remained unconscious, and two of the vaqueros had sped off on their assigned tasks. An angry and shaken Garth Thompson, who had only now come out of the saloon, leaned against the outside adobe wall of Bajo el Cielo de Mexico scowling at Smoke Jensen. When the lawmen pushed through a crowd of the cantina's patrons, he spoke up in angry accusation.

“This stranger came along and shot two of my men for no reason at all. Shot the Mexican kid as well.”

“I'll take that iron,” the marshal demanded as he and the sheriff drew their weapons. “You've got some tall explaining to do, mister. Since this involves folks from outside town, I'll let you handle it, Hank. I'd better see to a doctor for young Alvarado.”

Smoke looked up at them. “I've already sent for a doctor.”

Hank Banner, the sheriff, spoke up then. “I'll take that gun, feller, seein' as how you've not handed it over.

Smoke complied, giving the sheriff both of his Colts, but insisted on waiting until a physician arrived. Miguel Armillita came with him and stood back, silent and respectful in the presence of such awesome authority as the marshal and sheriff. After the doctor had arranged to move Pablo to his office and bandaged Ricardo, and Hank Banner had taken Smoke Jensen off to jail, Miguel went to his horse and rode hastily off toward Rancho de la Gloria to inform Don Diego of this turn of events.

* * *

“Sit down and tell me something about yourself,” Sheriff Banner invited as he gestured to a chair beside his desk. “Do you regularly go around shooting men without the least provocation?”