Triumph of the Mountain Man

17

Wally Gower took the reins of the horse ridden by Smoke Jensen. The moment the tall, rangy man stepped down from the saddle on Cougar, the boy piped up with the news he had been bursting to convey. “Did you hear that the sheriff got beaten up the other night?”

Smoke gazed down at the boy. “No, Wally—Wally is it?” The lad nodded and Smoke went on. “Tell me about it, Wally.”

Wally went on to describe what he had seen of the attack, mainly the results. He concluded with an unhappy expression. “I didn’t see any of them, so I can’t say who it was. But Doc Walters and the sheriff say it was some of the Quinn gang.”

“Where is the sheriff now?”

“Over at Doc’s, Mr. Jensen.”

“Then I suppose the thing to do is pay him a visit.”

Wally trailed along, hopeful of being allowed inside. At the foot of the stairs, Smoke turned to him. “You’d best wait here, Wally. If the sheriff has any message for you, I’ll bring it to you.”

Disappointment clouded Wally’s face. “Awh, I wanted to talk to him.”

“Maybe later.”

Up in the office, Dr. Walters took Smoke in to Sheriff Banner. The man looked terrible, Smoke noted at once. “You look like you’ve been run down by a buffalo stampede,” Smoke advised the lawman.

Banner made a sour face as best he could. “I feel like it, too.”

“Tell me what happened?”

“First off, that stray, Wally Gower, saved my life right enough. I sure want to see him and thank him in person.”

Smoke grinned. “He’s downstairs, waitin’ on word on your condition.”

Hank Banner actually managed a smile. “Bring him up, bring him up. That boy’s got him a double eagle waitin’ for what he did. He come here right away and brought Doc to me. Hell, we’d jist finished playin’ poker half an hour before. Next thing I know, I’m wakin’ up in this bed, hurtin’ like damn all. But I know who did it. Recognized two of em.” Then he went on to identify the men and describe the beating he took before he lost consciousness.

Smoke Jensen listened with growing anger while the sheriff outlined the boot stomp he had received. When the lawman finished, Smoke spoke softly. “I’ll go get Wally now. I don’t think he needed to hear what you just told me.”

Wally nearly wept when he saw the condition of the sheriff. But he was manly in fighting back the huge tears that welled in his gray-green eyes. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Sheriff. You’re—you’re the best man I know. Please get well.”

“C’m’ere, Wally.”

Obediently, Wally scuffed bare, callused soles across the wooden floor as he approached the bed. Hank Banner reached with his good hand and took a hinge-clasp leather purse from the table. He snapped it open and dug inside with thumb and forefinger. He withdrew a twenty-dollar gold piece.

“Here. This is yours. It’s for saving my life.”

Eyes huge with awe, the eleven-year-old gulped as he stammered out, “Twen—twenty dollars? I can’t—can’t take that much.”

“You’ve got to, Wally. It’s a reward. That’s right, ain’t it, Smoke? No one can refuse a reward.”

Smoke reached out and tousled the lad’s sandy brown hair. “That’s right, Wally. Buy your mother a new dress with some of it, if you want.”

“Really? I can do that? Oh, boy!”

Doc Walters cleared his throat. “Time’s up, Wally. You’d best scoot on and do something like that. You’re gettin’ Sheriff Banner all exercised.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. Thank you, thank you.” With that, Wally scampered from the room and thundered down the outside staircase.

“Now, I have some news for you, Sheriff,” Smoke Jensen announced.

“Give it.”

“Don’t tax him too much,” warned the doctor.

Quickly Smoke related what he had learned from Mac and told the peace officer that he had proof Satterlee had the stolen Tua religious paraphernalia. Finally he added the abduction of Martha Estes. The sheriff digested it a moment, then spoke brusquely. “That does it, then. Smoke; considerin’ the shape I’m in, I want you to become undersheriff. Take over for me. And, you can have a free hand dealing with Satterlee.”

Smoke hesitated only a second. “I’ll agree to it, Sheriff. Provided I can make Santan Tossa a deputy.”

Distress displaced the pain etched on the lawman’s face. “But, he’s an Injun. Oh, I know, they’ve been peaceable for more’n a hundred years and the Pueblos are civilized and organized. But . . . he’d have to carry a gun.”

“Have any of your deputies been effective against Quinn so far? Tossa has killed at least five of them, and with a bow and arrow.”

Banner frowned. “You’ve got a point. If the governor gets wind of this, he’ll have a fit. Armin’ an Injun is serious business. There’s some places it’s still against the law to provide a firearm to any Injun.”

“But not here, I gather?”

Banner nodded. “That’s right. Okay, go ahead and fit him out from the rack in my office. Then I’ll swear the both of you in.”

“Not today you won’t,” Doc Walters interjected.

Banner scowled. “C’mon, Doc. I’m feelin’ fitter every hour. If this town is gonna get besieged, we’ve gotta move fast.”

Smoke agreed with that. “Just so. First thing, I’m going to send to Diego Alvarado for all the gunhands he can spare. Then, can you give me names of men in town who are loyal to the local government and willing to fight?” At the sheriff’s nod, Smoke went on. “I think it would be a good idea for Tossa to try to recruit some help from among his tribal police.”

Banner’s good eye widened. “You really like to flirt with wrath from above, don’t you, Smoke? All right, Smoke. You’re undersheriff, so it’s your ball game, as that feller Abner Doubleday would say. Now, you can start by askin’ Ezekial Crowder, Marshal Gates, Warren Engals . . .” He went on to name two dozen more.

Sighing heavily, Sheriff Banner lay back on the bed as Smoke Jensen left the room. Within seconds he lapsed into a deep, though troubled, sleep. Even with help from the Tuas and Diego Alvarado, he knew Smoke faced a terrible dilemma.

* * *

A small drum tapped a staccato rhythm, and smoke rose from the square opening in the roof of the Tua kiva. Santan Tossa handed the reins of his pony to his younger brother, who looked up at the tribal policeman with an expression of hero worship. He climbed the single rail ladder and washed his hands and face before taking the descending steps to the floor of the religious center. He saw immediately that a dozen young men had gathered, seated on the circular, shelflike ledges that ringed the domed, circular structure. At the altar, sweet grass, pine needles and sage gave off their pleasant aroma as they smoldered on a small bed of coals.

Using an eagle-wing fan, the gray-haired shaman wafted the thin, gray tendrils of pungent smoke over the empty altar. Silently, Santan Tossa approached and kneeled before the medicine man. From his sash he produced the folds of velvet cloth and opened them.

“Grandfather, I have recovered one part of our stolen sacred heritage.” Quickly he revealed the necklace.

For the first time since the theft, Whispering Leaves smiled. “You have done well, my son. Have you any idea where the . . .” Hope flared a moment in the old man’s eyes. “The others might be?”

Torn nodded. “Yes. It is known to me.”

“If he knows that, it is he who stole them,” came the grating voice of Dohatsa from behind and to one side of Tossa.

Tossa whirled as he bounded to his moccasins. The muscles of his neck and arms corded. “You should guard your tongue, traitor.”

Aware from childhood, as with all of them, that this was no place for anger or violence, Dohatsa did not respond to the challenge, merely shrugged and turned away. Inwardly, a striking sensation gripped his heart. Exactly how much did Santan know? He relaxed some as the soft words of the shaman came to his ears.

“This is not the place for hot hearts, Santan,” he gently chided the younger man.

Santan Tossa lowered his eyes and nodded. “That is a true thing. I have come for another reason also.” He turned to take in his fellow Tuas. “You all know of the gang of white outsiders who have tried to take our land. They work for a man named Satterlee. While I recovered the necklace from the house of Satterlee, I learned that the white gang is going to ring Taos, like the Spanish did our Pueblo in the first days of their coming. The gringos call it a siege. The purpose is to prevent anyone from entering or leaving, and to starve the people inside into surrender. The star man, the sheriff, has asked us for help. I am made a dep—u—ty of the star man. I want any who will join me to gather outside the kiva with their ponies. We must ride swiftly back to Taos.”

His precarious situation forgotten in a flush of anger over this outrageous suggestion, Dohatsa snarled his challenge and contempt. “You are a fool, Santan Tossa. The white outsiders are using you. You will get no thanks from those people. And it is shameful that you ask we give any help to them.”

“In other circumstances I would agree with you, Dohatsa. But this is different. These outlaw whites will only come here next. They want all the land, and they can take it if we do not fight.”

Goaded by this, Dohatsa lost his composure and his reason. “You lie! Satterlee and his first warrior, Quinn, are our friends. I have spoken with them. To stop you, I will fight you.”

Automatically, Santan Tossa’s hand went to the unfamiliar butt of the six-gun at his hip. “Will you now? That is interesting. But, as Whispering Leaves says, this is no place for anger, or fighting. If I must fight you, I will. Wait for me outside this sacred place.” He turned to the others. “Now, who will join me?”

Several among the young men of the pueblo made as though to come over, among them three of his tribal policemen. They hesitated, though, at a scowl from Dohatsa, who had begun to climb the ladder to the outside. Santan Tossa turned back to the shaman.

“Be patient, and hopeful, Grandfather. I will soon bring the rest of the sacred objects. With enough men, the white outsiders can be defeated, and I can go with my friends to get the holy dolls and the masks.”

“Yes, Santan Tossa, but which outsiders are the real enemy?”

Tossa paused at the foot of the ladder. “Why, the gang led by the one called Quinn, of course.”

With a mocking smile almost identical to the one worn by Dohatsa, Whispering Leaves nodded once. Santan Tossa continued out of the kiva. In a steady line behind him, the other young men followed. Tossa found Dohatsa waiting for him on the ground below.

“I will kill you if I have to,” Dohatsa stated flatly.

“It is forbidden, you know that.”

Dohatsa shrugged. “It does not matter. Take off that white man’s weapon.”

“Naturally.”

While the other occupants of the kiva formed a loose circle around them, more men and a number of small boys of the pueblo gathered to watch. Santan Tossa untied the pegging string of his holster and slipped the buckle. He let the six-gun drop as he instantly launched himself at Dohatsa. The renegade had expected that and easily side-stepped Tossa. Dohatsa drove an elbow into the small of Tossa’s back smashing him to the ground, his strength robbed by the burst of pain in his kidneys. Some among the onlookers cheered. At once, Dohatsa whirled and kicked Tossa in the stomach. Renewed agony exploded in the tender parts of Tossa’s body. He gasped for air and fought to get purchase.

Failing that, he scooped up a handful of dirt and hurled it in the face of Dohatsa.

“There is no honor in that,” shouted two of Dohatsa’s partisans.

Fire erupted behind the eyelids of the traitor, and he clawed at his face. Tossa fought back the debilitating effects of the blows he had absorbed and came unsteadily upright. He took two shaky steps forward and engulfed Dohatsa in a bear hug. Flexing his knees, Tossa tried to throw his opponent.

Heavier by far, Dohatsa did not move at first. Then, slowly, his moccasins rose into the air. Tossa swiveled his hips and threw his enemy to the ground. Dohatsa did not land flat. He hit his head first and his shoulders next as Tossa landed on top of him. Now Tossa dimly heard men cheering him. A spectacular nighttime shower of stars filled Dohatsa’s head. He fought to suck air into his restricted lungs. When his chest moved, he dimly heard the brittle snap of three ribs. Fiery torment seared his chest cavity. Tossa had greater strength than he had expected. If he did not break this soon, he would not fight on this day, let alone win. As though from a distance, he commanded his legs to rise.

When the soles of his moccasins rested flat on the ground, he flexed powerful thighs and heaved upward. Although the burden of weight upon him shot up into the air, Dohatsa failed to dislodge Tossa. When the wiry young tribal policeman came down, he buried one knee in the slightly paunchy gut of Dohatsa.

Sour bile and the remains of his morning meal erupted from Dohatsa’s mouth, preceded by a heavy gust of air. His head swam and his limbs went slack. In desperation, Dohatsa rallied his flagging resources and went for the knife in his bright orange sash. When it came free, he made a swift slash at Tossa.

Nimbly, the young Tua avoided the blade and sprang to his feet. A quick kick sent the knife spinning brightly in the sunlight. Then Tossa had the arm pinned. He rolled the offending hand of Dohatsa over, palm down, and stamped on it with a moccasined foot until he heard bones crack. Howling, Dohatsa doubled up, nursing his injured extremity. Tossa stepped behind him and knelt. He took a large hank of black hair and yanked back the head of his enemy.

“I could, I should, cut your throat. Instead, what I want from you is the truth. Tell me all about our stolen sacred articles.”

Dohatsa surrendered all of his arrogance, along with his resistance. He had been in the pay of Satterlee for nearly a month. He knew that his confession would mean certain exile, if not death, under tribal law. Shamefacedly, he turned his head to look at the man who had bested him. “What you accused me of before is true. I have taken money from the white outsiders, Satterlee and Quinn, for a moon now. It is I who stole the religious objects and gave them to Quinn. What he did with them I do not know.”

Disgust at such betrayal twisted the face of Santan Tossa. He came upright and turned to address the gathering of Tua men. “You heard what this disgraced one said. Confine him somewhere until the Council can attend to his crimes. Now, who will join me? Come, it is a thing of honor. Without the help of the white lawman I would never have found the necklace.”

Two young Tua men stepped forward. Three more joined them. Then half a dozen. One spoke for the others. “If you will have us, Santan Tossa, we will fight with you for the white men.”

Before he left for Taos, Santan Tossa had acquired a force of twenty-eight.

* * *

Shortly before nightfall, Deputy Sheriff Sammy Jennings cantered up to the case grande at Rancho de la Gloria. The majordomo greeted him politely and hailed a boy to lead the lathered horse to the stableyard, to be cooled out, watered and rubbed down. He showed the lawman into the central courtyard.

Don Diego Alvarado sat there, on a white-painted, wrought-iron bench, smoking a cigar. He roused himself to welcome his visitor. Jennings made it short and to the point.

“I’ve come from Smoke Jensen, Don Diego. He is undersheriff in Taos now.”

Jennings, an uncomplicated man, missed the sardonic note of irony in the grandee’s chuckle and words. “My friend Smoke is coming up in the world. I gather that there is something of importance that I should know?”

“Yes, sir. Smoke sent me to tell you that the Quinn gang intends to lay siege to Taos. Shut off the town and starve out the occupants. He asks that if it is possible you send as many vaqueros as you can.”

“I can fill forty saddles within the hour. Will that do?”

Jennings swallowed hard. “Oh, Lordy, sure. Fine as frog’s hair, señor.”

“Excellent.” He raised his voice and called to his eldest son. “Alejandro! Come out here and round up the vaqueros. I want forty of the best.”

Alejandro appeared in a doorway of a room on the second floor. “What is it, Father? Have the rustlers returned?”

“No. We ride to Taos. Smoke Jensen has need of our firepower.” He turned back to his visitor. “As I say, this will take an hour. You must be in need of refreshment. Come, I’ll have Maria prepare food and get you something to drink.” Steering the young deputy toward the doorway to the detached kitchen, Don Diego shouted ahead to his cook to fix some meat and cheese and tortillas. Also to have Pepe bring up three beers from the spring house.

* * *

After sending off his last messenger, Smoke Jensen settled down in the sheriff’s office to a plate of beef stew from the corner eatery. This being Taos, the stew had potatoes right enough, but with tomatoes, onions, garlic and chile peppers instead of turnips, carrots and garden peas. The gravy was rich and thick, which he scooped up with folded flour tortillas. A soupy bowl of beans came with it, and a side dish of some mashed, yellow-green substance. Guacamole, he had been told. Avocado, Wally Gower had informed him. Again with the ever-present tomato, garlic, onion and chiles. It had been flavored with some pungent, green herb and it tasted delightful. Smoke had just finished wrapping his lips around another bite of it when a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass summoned him from the office. From the knot of excited onlookers in the street, he learned the disturbance came from La Merced, one of the more unsavory saloons in town.

Smoke headed that way at once. He had to shove his way through a cluster of brown-faced spectators who crowded the boardwalk and entranceway. Three steps led to a grime-coated tile floor. Again, Smoke had to grab shoulders and heave men out of the way. This time, he noted that the faces wore expressions of anxiety and concern. He soon learned the reason.

A quartet of white thugs worked systematically at breaking up the place. Their erstwhile leader snarled at the bartender, who cringed in the far corner of the back bar. “You damn greasers like to have poisoned two of my men last night. We’re takin’ over this town, so you might as well get an idea of what happens to folks who put funny powders in drinks for the Quinn gang. You understand? ¿Comprende?”

Bobbing his head frantically, the barkeep, who knew not the least word of English, and could not understand a thing being growled at him, covered his eyes as a wrought-iron legged chair went hurtling toward the mirror behind the bar. The big plate of glass shattered into a million shards on impact. The complaining hard case yanked a jug-eared, slightly built fellow from his chair and flung him after. Two of his henchmen turned to check out the disturbance between them and the doorway. In the next instant, Smoke came face-to-face with them. Neither ruffian suffered from being slow. As one, they balled fists, and the nearer one drove a hard-knuckled hand toward the face of Smoke Jensen.