Triumph of the Mountain Man

15

Smoke Jensen saw their moves from the corner of one eye. He filled his own hand with a .45 Peacemaker in a blur of speed. One cut-rate gunfighter had time to gasp in astonishment before a 230 grain slug smashed into his left shoulder and he went flailing into a table, which collapsed under his weight. His six-gun, only partly out of the holster, fell to the floor at his side. Already, Smoke had swung his Colt to bear on the second gunman.

That unfortunate fellow had time enough to pull his barrel clear of leather and began to level the muzzle on the midsection of Smoke Jensen. His misfortune came from that fact which caused Smoke to put a bullet through his heart rather than shoot to wound. The gunhawk slammed back against the bar and slid to a sitting position. It had all happened so fast that only now did the bartender react with a shout to his other customers as he ducked below the bar.

“Tengan cuidado! Los pistoleros.”

A third gang member unlimbered his six-gun as Smoke swung his Colt that direction. He stopped the move instantly when Smoke raised his point of aim and the man could look down the black tunnel of the barrel. A thin curl of powder smoke rose from the muzzle. Smoke remained motionless while bar patrons dived for cover and the rest of the Satterlee partisans showed open, empty hands. A tense three minutes went by in which the only sound to be heard came from the wounded hard case. Smoke lowered his revolver only when the law arrived.

Face a fierce mask, the town marshal entered the saloon with drawn six-gun. He cut his eyes from the downed men to the bartender, and then to Smoke. “All right, who started all of this?”

No one seemed eager to reply, so Smoke Jensen holstered his Colt and stepped into the breach. “They did.” He indicated the wounded gunman and the dead one. “First off, three of those fellers over at the bar took offense to something I said and threw punches at me. When I knocked a couple of them flat, those two drew on me.”

A skeptical raise of eyebrow projected the lawman’s mood. “And you just happened to be faster.”

“That’s right. I was . . . or should I say am?”

“Do you have a name to go with all that speed?”

“I do. Could we talk about it at your office, Marshal?”

“You’ll get there soon enough, I’d say. What’s wrong with here?”

Smoke nodded at the gang members. “There are—other ears. What I have to say is for you alone.”

With a shrug, and another dubious look, the marshal turned to one of his subordinates. “Nate, take care of things here. You, mister, come with me.”

The marshal marched Smoke Jensen cattycorner across the Plaza de Armas to his office. Inside, the lawman took a seat behind a scarred, water-stained desk. “If it hadn’t been some of Clifton Satterlee’s hirelings, you’d be answering questions from inside a cell. So, speak your piece.”

Smoke dug into his vest pocket and produced his badge. “I’m glad to hear that, marshal. My name’s Smoke Jensen. I’m a deputy U.S. marshal. At the request of a friend, I am here to look into Satterlee and his dealings.”

“Who is this friend?”

“Don Diego Alvarado, of Rancho de la Gloria, outside Taos.”

“It’s about time,” the marshal snapped. “Governor Lew Wallace will be glad to hear that Satterlee is being investigated. By the way, I know your friend, Alvarado, and m’name’s Ambrose . . . Dave Ambrose.”

Smoke Jensen appeared more amused than relieved. “Well, Marshal Ambrose, I’m not here to investigate Satterlee. My job is to eliminate him.”

Marshal Ambrose had a sudden change of mood. He snorted with contempt. “Another hired gun hidin’ behind a badge.”

Smoke immediately put him straight. “Nothing of the sort. What I should have said is that Satterlee has broken several federal laws, or at least arranged for others to break some for him. I’m here to bring down his business and put him away for a good long time.”

Ambrose shot Smoke a disgusted look. “What if he chooses not to cooperate? Hell, man, he owns the judges.”

Smoke gave the marshal a cold, hard smile. “Then I’ll just have to eliminate him.”

* * *

A bloated, red-orange ball hung over the snow-capped peaks to the west. Cold air rising off the white mantle distorted it into the wavy shape of an egg. Dark, purple shadows lay across the ground. Sammy Gittings sat on a fallen tree trunk, tears sliding silently down his chubby, round cheeks. They were lost. They had wandered off the Sugarloaf and no one would ever find them. He knew it, no matter what Seth said.

Seth looked up now from the pile of dry wood he had gathered. “Don’t just sit there. Help me. We need to get a fire started.”

“What good will that do?” Sammy pouted. “We don’t have anything to cook.”

Seth stood, grubby hands on his hips. “You come down here and build a fire and I’ll get us something to eat.”

“How? You can’t hit anything you shoot at.”

“Shut up! Jist shut up. I’ll get something this time.”

A squirrel chattered alarmingly as it suddenly darted away through the tree limbs above. Seth looked up. “Maybe a squirrel.”

Sammy made a face. “Ugh! They look like rats when they’re skinned.”

“Are you hungry or not?”

Sammy paused before replying to his brother. “Not that hungry.”

“Then don’t eat. I’ll have it all.”

Lower lip protruded in a pout, Sammy challenged Seth. “Won’t either. I get my share. It’s only right.”

Seth started to laugh at his little brother, only to have it cut off by a harsh primordial cough. His face went chalk white. “What was that?”

Right then, the wily old cougar that had been stalking them uttered another hoarse hack, flexed its powerful hind legs, and with a strident snarl, launched itself. Sammy screamed at the sight of the tawny blur and fell backward off the tree trunk. Seth let go a yowl and scampered backward. He tripped over an exposed root and landed on his round bottom. His arm stretched out as he desperately searched the ground. His fingers found the cold steel of a rifle barrel, and he closed around it in desperation. The mountain lion missed Sammy by a foot when the boy toppled away from its spring and now whirled in the small clearing under large, overgrown branches. It lunged again at the terrified, smaller lad.

In that split second, Seth brought up Bobby Jensen’s little .32-20 rifle and fired at point-blank range. By sheer chance, the slug hit the cougar in the right ear and plowed a ragged furrow through its brain. It leaped into the air and fell back dead. One needle-clawed paw twitched three inches from the soft belly of Sammy Gittings.

“You got him! You got him, Seth,” Sammy shouted.

Unfortunately for the boys, the ferocious charge and odor of the puma thoroughly frightened the horses. Neighing in terror, both animals slipped their insecure ties off and ran away. Only a haze of dust and pine needles marked their course as their rumps disappeared down the trail.

Seth stared after them in consternation. Sammy came to him then, wailing between great sobs. “What—are—we gonna—do? What are we—gonna do? We’ll die out here all alone.”

* * *

The moon would not rise until after midnight. It provided ideal conditions for Smoke Jensen and Santan Tossa to penetrate the security around the hacienda of Clifton Satterlee. Thanks to the information he had received from Ian MacGreggor, Smoke could pick the right place to scale the wall and be the least exposed to any of the watchers. The cabana occupied by Martha Estes was located close to the east wall of the compound, well away from the main house. Smoke had not come prepared to scale a high wall. Particularly he had not planned for the rows of jagged-edged, broken bottles that lined the top.

With gloves in place, moccasins on his feet, Smoke Jensen balanced himself on the shoulders of Santan Tossa. Cautiously, he reached up and felt his way between the blue ranks of dragon’s teeth and found purchase. Smoke flexed his knees, then launched himself. He swung one leg upward to nudge against the outer row of bottle shoulders. He held on to the inside of the wall until his balance returned, then dropped the bite end of the rope around his neck to Tossa. Levering himself upward, Smoke went over the wall and dropped to the ground below.

Quickly he secured the loop of the rope to a post and gave the line a little tug. At once, it tightened and began to vibrate. On the far side, Tossa literally walked up the adobe palisade. In brief seconds he joined the last mountain man on the ground. Smoke pointed to a low, square adobe cabin to one side. A yellow square picked out a window, and indicated that someone occupied the premises. Silently, the two men moved in that direction.

Smoke eased to the corner of the building and peered around to take in the outer courtyard. Nothing moved, and he saw no sign of sentries. He beckoned to Tossa, and they went directly to the only door. Smoke put his ear to the panel and listened for ten long seconds, then grasped the latch, threw it and swung the portal inward.

Startled, Martha Estes looked up from the book she had been reading, her expression showing her to be a bit frightened. “Wha—what are you doing here, Mr. Jensen?”

“I’ve come to see you, ask a few questions, Miss Estes.”

Martha took a deep breath, reaching up with her hand. “This is—rather irregular.”

Smoke made a pacifying gesture. “I apologize for that, but I have learned something of importance that I want you to explain for me.”

Martha gathered herself. “I—I’ll try to help if I can.”

“Good. What it is . . .” Smoke hesitated, then went on. “That squash blossom necklace you were wearing this morning. Where did you get it?”

“Why, Cliff—er—Clifton gave it to me. He has some other lovely pieces in the safe in the library.”

Smoke eyed her levelly. “Are you aware that those are stolen property?”

Martha started an immediate protest. “That can’t be. Clifton is a respected businessman, an enterprising investor.”

Santan Tossa took over then. “Miss Estes, that necklace and the other items are religious objects, stolen from my people at the Taos pueblo. They are sacred to our kiva.”

Martha’s face twisted in a war between disbelief and outrage. “Why, that’s—that’s terrible. However could Clifton have gotten ahold of them? Perhaps he purchased them, not knowing their origin?”

Smoke Jensen shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Miss Estes. Santan Tossa here is a tribal policeman, investigating the theft. All of his leads have taken him to Clifton Satterlee. For all his mighty reputation around Santa Fe, Miss Estes, Satterlee is not what he appears to be.”

“But . . . my father is a business associate. Surely he cannot be involved in such nefarious schemes.”

Deciding to ease her mind, at last for the moment, Smoke offered a suggestion. “To get away with what he is planning, Satterlee needs the cover of honorable, legitimate businessmen. By reflection, you see, it makes him seem the same. Your father is most likely one of those.”

Martha became more agitated. “No matter how he acquired the jewelry, it is simply unforgivable that your sacred items not be returned.”

She rose and crossed to a large, walnut armoire against one wall. There she kneeled and slid open a drawer. From it, she took the necklace. A look of anger had replaced her earlier confusion and shock. “Here, take this back and put it where it rightfully belongs.”

A thought occurred to Smoke Jensen. “What will you tell Satterlee if he notices it is gone?”

“I’ll think of something. We women have our ways.” Martha smiled for the first time since they had entered the room.

Tossa accepted the silver and turquoise work of art and folded it into a strip of purple velvet. “Thank you, Miss Estes. I will keep it secret for a while that the necklace has been recovered.”

“I thank you, too,” Smoke added. “Now we’ll say good night. It would be prudent if you did not let anyone know we have been here.”

“Of course. Good night, Mr. Jensen.”

Smoke built her a smile. “Call me Smoke.”

* * *

Clifton Satterlee had stayed up late also. He paced the confines of his library, hands clasped behind his back. Thick, rich velvet drapes covered the leaded glass windows so that not a hint of light escaped. A small fire crackled in the beehive fireplace set into one wall. These early spring nights remained chill. Seated in a large, wing chair, his long legs sprawled carelessly across the Kermint oriental rug, Paddy Quinn sipped appreciatively at the Irish whiskey his employer had thoughtfully provided for him. At last, Satterlee stopped his measured tread, poured himself an inch of cognac in a snifter and sighed heavily as he turned back to his guest.

“Obviously the men I sent to deal with Jensen failed in their task. He knew too much when he came here to warn me. Warn me! What impudence.”

Quinn waggled a finger at his boss. “Every rooster likes to make his cock-a-doodle-doo before he gets his head lopped off for the stew pot, he does. Ye ask me, Mr. Satterlee, this Smoke Jensen is runnin’ scared. He was flexin’ muscles he don’t have. He’s tryin’ to buy hisself some time.”

Satterlee sipped the liquor and breathed out its aroma. “Somehow I don’t quite believe that. There’s more to the man than we saw in this room today. Are you familiar with his reputation?”

Quinn dismissed that with a curt gesture. “Reputations amongst the gunfighting brotherhood are gen’rally tall tales blown out of all proportions, they are.”

“Even your own?”

For a long moment Quinn studied Satterlee until he decided the remark had been made in jest. He responded then with joviality. “Far be it from me to disabuse anyone of my ferocious nature.”

Satterlee smiled tightly. “The same applies to Smoke Jensen. He is dangerous. I want you to send more men, enough this time to get the job done.”

“An’ what is it ye have in mind?”

“I want them to follow and finish off that inquisitive Smoke Jensen and the savage he had with him this morning. Then they are to continue on to Taos and join in the blockade Garth Thompson is conducting.”

Quinn looked uncomfortable with the news he had to impart. “It might be more of a task than you think. Some of the boys had a brush with Smoke Jensen in town this afternoon. They came out the losers. Two dead.”

“Damn that man. Neither you nor I can afford his arrogance. Too much of it will make us look bad. Perhaps I will have to take care of this personally.”

* * *

Sheriff Hank Banner thoroughly enjoyed getting together with Doc Walters and several of the Taos businessmen once a week for a few hands of poker. This particular night had been especially satisfying, considering the step-up in pressure from the Quinn gang. To top it off, Banner had played only with other men’s money after the third hand. Matter of fact, he had come away from the table about twenty dollars to the good. Not bad for a dime ante, quarter limit game. His boot heels echoed hollowly on the red tile sidewalk as he turned the corner and started to cross the Plaza de Armas to his office. Two men suddenly stepped out of the well-tended shrubs to block his path.

One of them worked his mouth in a nasty sneer under a poorly kept mustache. “Goin’ somewhere, Lawman?”

“If it’s any of your business, I’m headed back to my office.”

“Unh-uh. Oh, no.”

“Nope, you ain’t,” the second man added.

So far, neither man had done anything serious enough to justify drawing a weapon, but Sheriff Banner sensed the very real menace they exuded. His hand twitched to close on the butt of his Colt. Right then, two more hard cases stepped onto the crushed rock path behind the sheriff.

“No, you’re not goin’ to your office,” the first one said again. “We’re gonna go have us a nice little talk.”

He recognized them then. The one doing the talking was named Islip; the one with him they called Funk. Drawing a deep breath, Banner mustered his nerve. “Were I you, I’d go have a nice talk with a bed, Islip. You’re drunk. If you don’t want to face a charge of disorderly conduct, clear out of my way and let me pass.”

Grinning like an imbecile, Funk, the second gunhand, shook his head and tapped a forefinger on the center of the badge worn by Hank Banner. “Can’t do that. We got our orders. You an’ us is gonna have that talk, an’ we’re gonna reach an understanding.”

At once, the two thugs at his back grabbed the sheriff and pinned his arms to his sides. With a smooth move, they lifted him off his feet and carried him toward the mouth of a dark alley that led off of the plaza on the north side. Once within its shadowy confines, they put Banner’s boots on the ground and kept hold while the first pair caught up. Without preamble, Islip and Funk began to take turns, driving hard fists into the chest and stomach of Sheriff Banner.

After a little preliminary softening up, Abner Islip started speaking in a low, insistent tone. “You’re gonna forget all about what’s happenin’ in Taos. No more backin’ those who get crosswise of Mr. Satterlee. In fact, you’re gonna take a nice little vacation. Go off and visit relatives somewhere, why not? Or go fishin’. I hear they’ve got some bodacious critters down in the Gulf of Mexico. A feller ought to try for ’em onest in his life, don’t you think? Maybe you can take up lawin’ in Georgia or Mississippi.

“Any way you want it, Sheriff, yer gonna shake the dust of Taos offen yer boots and clear the hell an’ gone outta here by tomorrow morning.”

Through the haze of pain, Sheriff Banner maintained his defiance. “You’ll be in hell long before I do that, you and Funk, too.”

Funk shoved his sweaty face in close to that of the lawman. “In that case, we’ve got other orders. We ain’t to leave enough of you to do any fightin’.”

With that, all four began to pound on the sheriff. Islip, his hands growing sore, switched to the use of his pistol barrel. He viciously pistol-whipped Banner until he drove the sheriff to the ground. Then all four formed a circle and began to kick him. Mercifully, blackness swarmed over Hank Banner, and he did not feel the last dozen gouges to his ribs, belly and back.

* * *

Bare soles made hardly a sound as Wally Dower scampered along outside the closed and unlighted business fronts on the north side of the Plaza de Armas. In another five minutes he would have completed his final rounds. Only the cantinas remained open. He still had to go back and escort old Laro Hurtado to his house. He would be drunk of course. If he had any money at all, or could cage drinks from some of the vaqueros, he would be falling down, piss-his-pants drunk. Oh, well, his wife always gave Wally a big, silver Mexican dollar for his mission of mercy. It was only worth about a dime American, but it felt nice in his pocket. When he neared the alley entrance, he heard the soft thuds and grunts that forewarned him that someone was in a fight. Wisely, Wally held back.

After what seemed forever to the boy, the noises ended, and Wally heard the thump of boot heels fading in the distance, toward the opposite end of the alley. He edged closer and risked a quick peek down the alley. Nothing. No, that wasn’t right. He saw a darker lump in the blackness of the passageway. Wally watched for a long while, then hazarded to step into the opening. Five paces down the path, he came upon the huddled form of a body. Wally bent and rolled the man by his shoulder.

At once his eyes went wide. It was Sheriff Banner. A low groan escaped from bloodied lips. Wally did not need prompting to know what to do. He came upright and sprinted from the alley, then settled into a dead run toward the office of Doctor Walters.