Triumph of the Mountain Man

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?”

“Dang you for a rascal, Wally. But this time you can be of some good use. I want you to ride out to Rancho de la Gloria. Ask for Smoke Jensen and tell him to please come in. Say I have something interesting for him to look into.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do it right now.”

“Good. There’ll be two bits in it for you.”

“Gosh. That much? I never get more than a nickel.”

“You will this time. There’s a lot of trouble brewin’ out there. Now, get along.”

* * *

Wally Gower led an ideal life for a kid. He was footloose and, for the most part, unsupervised. His father had been injured in a mining accident several years ago in Colorado. While his father remained unable to work and stayed at home to care for the seven children, his mother did custom alterations and general sewing for Señora Montez, the fashionable Spanish lady who owned a large women’s clothing store in Taos. When school let out for the summer, Wally gleefully abandoned studies, shoes, and often shirt, to hang around town doing odd jobs for the money it brought in for the family. A lot of his time went to swimming with friends at the many tanques outside the town, or in pulling slippery rainbow trout from the icy creeks fed by snowmelt in the Sangre de Cristo range. He liked it most when the sheriff had something for him to do. The lawman paid better than anyone else. Wally was glad he had a pony he could use for this present assignment.

It was a small, shaggy mustang and only partly broken to saddle. But Wally loved Spuds with all his heart. He went to the small stable house behind their adobe home and saddled Spuds. He led the snorting half-wild animal from its stall, plucked a parsnip from last winter’s garden and fed it to Spuds. Chomping pleasurably, the pony ground the pungent root vegetable into a mash which it swallowed. Wally put one bare foot in the stirrup and swung aboard. He angled Spuds toward the alleyway behind the Gower home. Had it been anyone else atop the little horse, it would have exploded into crow hops and sunfishing that would have unseated any but the most expert horse breakers.

Wally trotted toward the western edge of town and the trail southwest to the Alvarado ranch. He reached the scattered fringe of small, poor Mexican adobe homes when he found out that life in Taos had drastically changed for the foreseeable future.

Three hard cases leaned against a low adobe wall, with two split rails atop. When Wally approached, the lean, tallest one eased upright and stepped into the road. He raised a hand and spoke in a low, menacing voice.

“Whoa-up, sonny. Where do you think yer goin’?”

A quick thinker, Wally invented something he hoped would be believed. “Out to where my paw works.”

“Where’s that?”

“Uh—-the Bradfords’ B-Bar-X.”

Eyes narrowed in accusation, the clipped words challenged Wally. “He ain’t come through here since we’ve been here.”

“Oh, no. He goes out before dawn.”

“Well, there ain’t nobody goin’ out of town from now on without our say-so.”

Wally pulled another appeal from his ingenuity. “Bu—but my paw will beat my tail if I don’t bring him his coat. He’s got night guard tonight.”

A nasty sneer answered him. “That’s your problem, kid. If you’re smart, you’ll do what you are told. You go on back now, get lost and tell that sheriff friend of yours nothing.”

“Yes, sir. I suppose you’re right, sir.”

Being a plucky lad, Wally turned on the first side street, cut his way through several blocks and went directly to Hank Banner’s office. He made his report with wide-eyed excitement. Hank listened to him with a growing frown. Then he made a suggestion that appealed to the adventurous nature of the boy.

“Well, then, why don’t you ride out the other side of town?”

“Sure enough, Sheriff. Right away.”

Wally dusted out the door and swung into the saddle. He drubbed bare heels into the flanks of Spuds and started for the east end of town. He made it half a mile out of Taos this time. Four of the biggest, meanest-looking men Wally had ever seen in his eleven years blocked the entire road. A line of people on foot, in wagons and on horseback had formed in front of them. The surly fellows allowed free entry to town, but denied departure to all except for the poorest campesinos and mission Indians. Patiently, though with mounting apprehension, Wally waited his turn. He tried his “taking a coat to Paw” story again and was again turned back.

On his own, Wally tried the south road out of town. This time he believed he had it all figured out. When he saw an angry-looking farmer and his family headed back for town in a wagon, Wally hailed them and asked if the road was closed.

“Why, yes, son, how did you know?” the wife asked.

Wally worked his shoulders up and down. “I got turned back two places already. What is goin’ on?”

“Some bad folks up there, boy,” the farmer told Wally. “Best thing for you to do is turn around and go back now.”

Wally scrunched his freckle-speckled button nose. “How far to where they are?”

Scratching his head, the farmer figured on that. “Quarter mile, maybe a little more. Beyond that bend yonder.”

“Thank you, sir,” Wally replied politely.

He turned Spuds’ nose to the west and cut across a field in the direction of Pacheca Creek. Keeping constantly alert, Wally looked to the threat on his left as he progressed through a corn field and into a pasture beyond. He did not see the men who he now knew to be nothing more than outlaws, so he felt confident they could not see him. A line of cottonwoods and aspen marked the course of the creek. He pulled up inside the screen and leaned down to pat Spuds on the neck.

“You’re gonna get cold, Spuds. So am I. We gotta swim our way around those fellers. When we git outta the crick, I’ll rub you down and dry off, then we’ll cut to the southwest and head for the Alvarado spread.” Wally reached in his hip pocket and produced another parsnip, which he fed to Spuds.

Dismounting, Wally led his pony to the creek bank and stepped gingerly out on the sand and pebble-strewn streambed. They stayed in the shallows for a while, the water frigid and hip-high on Wally. When he gauged they had come close to being opposite the hard cases, he urged Spuds out into the current, and they both swam past, gooseflesh forming under Wally’s shirt.

When he reached a spot he considered safe, Wally swam cross-current until he gained footing. Spuds reached solid underpinning first and surged forward past the boy’s slim shoulders. Wally stumbled behind. On the bank at last, boy and beast stood shivering.

“That was colder than I thought, boy,” Wally admitted through chattering teeth. “Gotta strip and warm up.”

With that he pulled off his wet clothes and threw himself down on a sun-warmed rock. Before long, the chill subsided, Wally’s eyelids drooped and he fell into a light sleep.