Triumph of the Mountain Man

8

Late in the afternoon, Don Diego Alvarado, accompanied by Miguel Armillita, arrived at the jail. He stormed in and confronted Hank Banner at his desk. The pencil line of black mustache on Diego’s upper lip writhed with his agitation.

“What is this that you have my good friend, Smoke Jensen, in jail? I insist that you release him at once.”

Banner remained obstinate. “Now, why should I do that? Two men have been killed. Your son has been shot.”

“First, because Smoke is a valued friend. I will vouch for him. And because I sent for him to look into the matters we have discussed. Clifton Satterlee owns the judges, half of the legislature and nearly as many lawmen. If not for you and Marshal Gates, there would be no one opposing him.”

Hank Banner came to his boots. “Then he’s as free as a bird, amigo.” Taking his keys, the sheriff went to release Smoke Jensen.

Diego greeted Smoke with an energetic abrazo, then turned to Banner. “His pistólas? I am sure he will have need of them.”

His weapons restored, and with the assurances of Diego Alvarado as to the honesty of Hank Banner, Smoke Jensen at last showed his badge and covered the reason for being in Taos. “I have to ask you to keep this an absolute secret between us, Sheriff.”

“You have my word on it. And I wish you luck. Whatever happens, let me advise that you had better not operate outside the law.”

“Sheriff, in my world, I’ve found it wise to always shoot the bear before the critter could wrap arms around me.”

Banner eyed him narrowly. “What does that mean?”

Smoke cheerfully mixed his metaphors in his reply. “When a feller is dealing with a rattler, he doesn’t pay much attention to any rules that protect the snake.”

“I . . . see.”

“I hope you do, Sheriff. Now, Don Diego and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

* * *

Diego went first to see his son. Then he directed Smoke around the town to proudly show off the improvements that had taken place in the absence of the last mountain man. He waved an arm expansively at an adobe building with a second story of clapboard siding. A large bell stood in the bare yard outside.

“We have a new school now. A secondary school, amigo. In my modest way I contributed to its construction and established an account in the bank, to which others contribute, to provide pay for the teachers.” Diego frowned slightly. “There are only four qualified ones now. The other three are volunteers from among the merchants. Alejandro teaches Spanish when he can get away from the rancho. It is all very exciting, no?”

“Of course it is. How is Alejandro and all your other children?”

“Healthy, thanks be to God. To my way of thinking, living in town robs a man of vigor and his years. My next to youngest, Lupe, who is eight, still breaks the thin spring ice from the riachuelo to swim, like her brothers before her. Gracias a Dios, she will live a long life. I, myself, have fifty-two years.”

“I don’t believe it, Don Diego,” Smoke spoke truthfully.

Diego Alvarado looked far from fifty-two, more like a young forty. His full mane of longish, black hair showed only thin streaks of gray at the temples, and his face remained unlined, save for the effects of sun, wind and cold. Trim and fit, he could not weigh more than a hundred fifty pounds, Smoke estimated. He wore his traje corto on a five-foot-nine frame with an elegance that made others appear common and shabby.

Dressed all in brown today, his cordovan sombrero sat his head at a rakish angle. The bolero jacket, adorned with small, silver conchos, rode the midline of a scarlet sash around his waist, above flared-cuff trousers, with wide gussets of satin in matching color to his girdle. A snowy shirt, with lace-trimmed pleats, appeared above his vest. His string tie stood out in starched erectness, rather than the usual limp droop. All together he represented a fine rendering of the man Smoke had known ten years earlier.

“I saw all the new houses to the east,” Smoke remarked.

Diego looked unhappy. “Yes. So many children being born and so few jobs on the ranches. They come to town to work in the fine homes of the rich gringos and Mexicans, and to make more babies.”

Smoke shrugged. “Nature has a way of doing such things. What else is new since my last visit?”

“Come, I will show you. We have a teatro, an opera house. Opened last year. At last I can hear my beloved music. Handel, Mozart, Bach. And, of course, the classic Spanish composers. We will stop by the theater first. Then we shall stop at La Comida Buena for something to eat before heading to the ranch.”

* * *

Seated at a rickety table in the Bloody Hills road ranch outside Taos, Whitewater Paddy Quinn listened in stony silence to the report of his lieutenant, Garth Thompson. Two men killed. Gunned down, according to Garth, by a saddle tramp who looked to be about forty or so. Impossible. He said as much to Garth.

“No. Norm Oppler and Hicky Drago weren’t exactly the fastest and best,” Garth advised. “I didn’t see the shooting myself. I came out of the saloon after it was over. Like to have knocked me out of my boots. He must have called them out with a gun already in his hand. Don’t see any other way.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed in curious speculation. “Now I’m wonderin’, what was it they were doin’ to get themselves killed?”

Garth Thompson studied the toes of his boots, uncomfortable with that question. “Young Pablo Alvarado came into the cantina and joined with some of his vaqueros. That Miguel Armillita was amongst them. You know the one?”

Paddy Quinn nodded. “Him that gives those disgusting bullfight demonstrations, is it?” At Garth’s nod, he went on. “Bloody damn barbarian, says I. Sure an’ cows is for givin’ milk and eatin’, not for bloody sport.”

“You’ve got to kill a cow to eat it, don’t you?” Garth brazened out.

Quinn sighed and cut his eyes to the ceiling. “An’ that’s a fact, Garth me boy.

“When this Armillita kills a bull, he gives the meat to the sisters at the mission to distribute to the poor. So it’s not a waste.”

Quinn cocked an eyebrow, and anger lines formed around his mouth. “Yer talkin’ like you approve of that deviltry, is it now?”

Thompson hastened to regain the respect of his superior. “No-no, it’s only the man’s courage that I admire. It takes a lot to stand out on the sand, with nothing but a cloth in yer hands, in front of a half a ton of raging animal that has two-foot-long horns.”

A twinkle in the eyes of Paddy Quinn betrayed his true opinion, contrary to that which he spoke. “Cowards, the lot of them greasers.”

Secure in his position once more, Garth Thompson hazarded a barb. “Would you do it?”

Quinn did not hesitate. “Hell no! D’ye think me a bloody fool?” Of a sudden, his mood grew serious again. “Still, I want to know what those two were up to.”

Garth swallowed. “You said to put pressure on Alvarado. So I sent Oppler and Drago to pick a fight with Pablo. They did, and they shot him, but he didn’t die.”

“Something has to be done about the shooting of our boys. This stranger has to be taught a lesson, made an example of, don’t ye see?”

“I’ll send Luke and Grasser to keep an eye on him. I heard before I left town that the sheriff let him out of jail. Seems he’s a friend of the Alvarados.”

Fire and ice warred in the black eyes of Paddy Quinn. “Sure an’ I’d not lose any sleep if something happened to old man Alvarado. Maybe you oughta get together enough of our lads to have a go at the both of them.”

Garth Thompson gave a steady look at his boss. Paddy Quinn had a deceptively cherubic Irish face. He was always smiling, even when he killed a man. He was big for a victim of the potato famine, standing 5’10”, with about 158 pounds behind his belt. His ears and nose were small, his mouth wide only when he smiled. A shock of glistening black hair hung over a high forehead. Without his brace of .45 Colt Peacemakers and the. 38 Smith and Wesson he carried for a hideout, he could easily pass for a shopkeeper. Garth knew better, though.

When on the prod, the fit, trim, hard-muscled Quinn virtually exploded into violent mania, calmed only by a frenzy of bloodletting. Odd, Garth speculated, that Quinn of all people would object to the violence and spectacle of bullfighting. But, then, the man who had hired the gang had a fondness for pussycats. No telling, Garth thought in dismissal of his reflections.

“Where do we wait for them?”

“Here to begin with. Then it depends on what Luke and Grasser report. Get on it, then, bucko.”

* * *

Smoke Jensen recognized the type the moment Luke Horner and Charlie Grasser tied off their horses at the tie rail outside the saloon across the street from La Comida Buena. As always, Diego Alvarado had shown impeccable taste in his choice of a place to eat. Contrary to usual Mexican custom, the thinly sliced steak turned out to be remarkably tender. It had been marinated and then quickly grilled over charcoal. The carne asada had come to their table on platters that held beans and rice, along with a bowl of freshly made pico de gallo. The salsa of tomato, onion, garlic, chile peppers and chopped cilantro was hot enough to blister the mouth of anyone of lesser fortitude than possessed by Smoke Jensen. He heaped it on everything and chewed with obvious enjoyment. Formal dinner, Smoke knew from experience, would come at around nine-thirty that night at the ranch. It would be preceded by a steady flow of tequila and beer, and served with fine wines from Pedro Domecq, a winery located in the high central valley in the Mexican state of Aguas Calientes. His pleasure diminished when the two hard cases arrived. He nodded to the street, and Diego paused in his mastication to look over his shoulder.

“See that pair? That’s more trouble on the hoof, or I miss my guess.”

“De veras. That’s true, my friend. Though they are obviously—how you say?—small fry.”

Smoke produced a wry expression. “Where the fingerlings swim, the bigger fishes are close behind.”

Worry clouded the face of Diego Alvarado. “Do you think they came to finish with Pablo?”

With a negative shake of his head, Smoke gave his surmise. “No. I think whoever sent the first two has someone else in mind.”

“Meaning you?” Diego prompted.

“Yes. And perhaps you. Well, old friend, let’s finish up. We don’t want to disappoint them.”

* * *

Smoke Jensen would have liked to follow, and perhaps question, the two hard cases. Proddy, and eager to impress his boss, Luke Horner didn’t give them the chance. He leaned against an upright four-by-four post that supported the canopy over the saloon front across from the restaurant where Smoke and Diego had eaten an early supper. Luke swiveled his head constantly, alert for a sight of the familiar figure of Diego Alvarado. When the subject of their surveillance appeared suddenly outside the restaurant, Luke turned his head away and alerted his companion.

“Grasser, there they are. Right across from us. I say we can take them right now. You game?”

Charlie Grasser came upright in the chair made from a small barrel and peered across at the two men. “I’m not so sure, Luke. Didn’t Garth say that feller was faster than greased lightning?”

Luke remained unimpressed. “So what? He caught the boys unaware. There’s two of us, an’ he can’t be all that fast. That old greaser won’t be able to shoot very well. I think we oughta do it.”

So saying, he pushed away from the post and stepped out into the street. Not nearly so eager, Charlie Grasser separated from his companion and did the same. Luke jabbed an extended left forefinger toward Smoke Jensen, his right hand already on the butt of his six-gun. “Hey, Mister, you killed two friends of mine. I don’t take kindly to that. I’m here to make you pay for it.”

With that, Luke Horner pulled his Colt.

Smoke Jensen bested him anyway. The .45 Peacemaker appeared in his hand as if by magic, the hammer fully cocked. As the muzzle leveled on the center of Luke’s body, Smoke triggered a round. The bullet struck Luke at the tip of his breastbone. He jolted backward and bent double. The barrel of his Colt had not yet cleared the holster. To the surprise of Charlie Grasser, Diego Alvarado had drawn with nearly equal speed.

Don Diego’s Obrigon cracked sharply, and the slug chewed a nasty trough across Grasser’s left shoulder, after breaking the collarbone. Charlie howled at the pain. To his right, Luke struggled feebly to free his six-gun and get off a shot. Alvarado’s .45 spat another chunk of hot lead, which missed Grasser only because he had spun to his left to distance himself from the fight. Diego cocked the Mexican-made weapon again as Grasser made his first long stride toward the welcome void of an alley.

Dying on his feet, Luke Horner managed to draw at last and distracted Diego Alvarado momentarily when he sent a bullet speeding toward the fastidious rancher. It missed, and the air filled with the hiss and crack of hot lead. Smoke Jensen fired a safety shot into the top of Luke Horner’s head, which blasted the second-rate gunfighter off this earth for all eternity. By then, Charlie Grasser had found the safety of the alley and sped off to inform Garth Thompson.

A scant minute later, Sheriff Banner arrived and took in the body of Luke Horner. “Shootin’ snakes again, Jensen?”

Smoke tipped back his Stetson. “You might say that. One got away.”

Diego Alvarado stepped forward, replacing his three expended cartridge casings. “I wounded him. Too bad he could run faster than I could shoot.”

“Do either of you think you could identify him?”

Both men nodded, and Diego spoke. “Oh, yes. He’ll have his left arm in a sling. I am positive I got him in the collarbone.”

Hank Banner listened to their account of how the shoot-out had begun and left them with another admonition. “Remember, you make good and sure that they force the action every time. I’d not like to lock up a friend . . . friends,” he amended.

* * *

On the road to Rancho de la Gloria, Smoke Jensen and Diego Alvarado discussed the possibility that there would be another personal attack upon them. Diego weighed all Smoke said about these sort of gunhawks and offered a prophesy.

“You are probably right. But, Satterlee has so far kept it rather quiet. He does not seem ready to force the issue. I think it will be some time before any more of his ladrónes come after you or I.”

Five minutes farther down the trail proved how wrong he had been.

A fine Andalusian, the horse ridden by Don Diego Alvarado shied a fraction of a second before a plume of white powder smoke spurted upward in a thicket of mesquite that had been cut and stacked for burning. In the next fraction of a second, a bullet cracked past so close to the rancher that it clipped the sombrero from his head. Half a dozen more rounds came from the ambush site.

To Diego’s right, Smoke had already fisted his .45 Colt and returned fire. He drubbed Cougar’s flanks with his round knob spurs and started away from the hidden gunmen, only to find the way blocked by more of their kind. In a swirl of dust, Smoke Jensen released his packhorse, Hardy, and charged the obstruction.