Triumph of the Mountain Man

19

When the news the boys carried got out, it quickly changed a lot of minds. First to scurry into the sheriff’s office was the banker, Elwell. “You’re the undersheriff. Do something,” he bleated. “We need all of the protection we can get.”

Smoke Jensen could not resist a final tweak of this whining hypocrite. “You’ve changed your mind about arming the Tuas with modern weapons?”

“Yes—yes, anything. Just save us from those vandals out there.”

“Well, then, I’d suggest you go home, get your rifle, and help us.”

Elwell eyed him with suspicion. “Sheriff Jensen, I’ve not fired a rifle in years.”

Smoke gave him a grin. “It’s like ridin’ a horse, Elwell. You never forget.” To Santan Tossa he suggested, “Let’s go out and take a look at the new arrivals.”

What they found, as they made their rounds, stunned even the usually unflappable Smoke Jensen. Instead of the expected forty-five to seventy outlaws, Smoke counted fully two hundred border trash, drifters and genuine hard cases spread out around the town. All of them seemed to be cold, grim-faced, hardened killers. Smoke turned to a deputy who stood nearby nervously fingering his Winchester.

“Hardly what we counted on, is it? I want you to go back into town and get those volunteers to speed up filling sandbags. Tell them I want stacks built to line the outer walls of all wooden buildings to the height of a kneeling man. Then come back here and take charge.”

The lawman gulped and broke his fixed stare at the outlaws. “Right away, Sheriff.” Grateful to be away from there, if only for a few minutes, he hurried off.

Then Smoke advised Tossa and all the men within hearing, “Now all we have to do is wait and find out what the enemy has in mind.”

* * *

Back at the Sugarloaf, Mary-Beth Gittings worked industriously to load the valises they had brought into the fancy carriage. Her sons, red-eyed from yet another switching, dragged their own packed luggage from the house. Her face drawn, and tight-lipped, she remained ominously silent as she walked past Sally Jensen, who stood on the porch and watched. Sally’s face revealed a poorly restrained expression of pleasure.

When the last piece had been loaded, Mary-Beth advanced on Sally, fists on hips, her face a study in self-righteous indignation. Her cheeks burned, not only with her umbrage, but from humiliation. She had allowed this woman to dictate to her how she should deal with the minor infractions her darling children committed. She was the first to admit they were not perfect. All children did naughty things from time to time. But to spank them? To viciously punish and degrade them—and one’s self—in such a barbaric fashion? It would have never occurred to her that when on another person’s property, and under their roof, one should abide by their rules. She should have never listened to Sally, her angry thoughts continued. Especially after she learned what she knew now.

It had come out only an hour ago, while she once again reluctantly put the switch to the boys up in the room they shared. Wailing in hurt and fright, their bottoms a cherry red, they had sobbed out how that monstrous creature had threatened their lives. Horrified, Mary-Beth had decided on the spot to leave. Now she let all her outrage boil out.

With a visible effort, she restrained most of her dudgeon as she addressed her hostess for the final time. “I never believed that such a dear old friend would be so shamelessly protective of such an ill-bred child.”

Her patience exhausted, Sally glowered back. “What is it this time, Mary-Beth?”

Mary-Beth let it spill out. “Why, it is about murder. My precious sons revealed to me not an hour ago that Bobby threatened to hang Seth and Sammy when they ran away.”

That banished the last of Sally’s sense of obligation. “Mary-Beth, don’t you recall that after all they had stolen horses. Horse thieves are hanged out here.”

Sally might as well have smacked Mary-Beth in the middle of her forehead. Shock silenced her to a small squeak. Then she hoisted her skirts and turned away. Briskly she walked to the carriage and boarded the driver’s seat. She picked up the reins and snapped them. Without a farewell or a backward look, she and her troublesome children rolled down the long lane. At the last moment, only Billy Gittings turned back and gave a friendly, forlorn wave to Bobby Jensen.

Soberly, Bobby returned the gesture. The next instant, Sally and Bobby fell into one another’s arms in relief and joy. “They’re gone. They’re finally gone,” Sally shouted happily.

* * *

For the defenders of Taos, the wait to see what Quinn had in mind proved a long one. Both sides restlessly eyed one another from across the separating distance. Tenseness increased among the besiegers when the faint drumming of many horses came from the southwest. Paddy Quinn and a dozen of his immediate subordinates lingered on the far side of a bridge that spanned a narrow creek in a deep, red rock gorge. They conversed quietly there with the men assigned to operate the roadblock. It was toward them that a party of eleven men, dressed as vaqueros, cantered in mid-afternoon.

Quinn trotted forward a few lengths and raised a hand in a gesture to halt. “Turn back. No one enters town without our leave.”

Several seconds went by before their identity became clear to Quinn. Then he shouted over his shoulder. “B’God, it’s that Diego Alvarado’s outfit. Turn about, boys, an’ give ’em hell.”

Miguel and the vaqueros had anticipated that. At once their weapons blasted in a volley. They fired again, and three of the outlaws left their saddles. Paddy Quinn barely escaped with his life. Bullets cracked past his head, and one grazed the shoulder of his mount. He turned first left, then right, only to see a swarm of more cowboys appear on both sides of the road. Determined to salvage what he could of his subordinate leaders and the men, he put spurs to his horse as he shouted to his underlings.

“Follow me! It ain’t worth it; let ’em in.” Then he cut off at an oblique angle between the hostile forces.

At once, the vaqueros converged on the road and cantered into town in a column three wide. Diego and Alejandro waited at the side until the last of the cowboys got through. He halted six of them.

“Stay here and keep the road open,” Diego commanded.

One of the younger vaqueros looked nervously over his shoulder. “Sí, patrón. But you saw what they did when we rode in. There are so many of them.”

Diego nodded. “They cannot all come against you. They are here to close the town. When some of them come back, use your rifles. Keep them at a distance.”

With that Diego rode on into town. He stopped at the sheriff’s office and was greeted by Smoke Jensen. “It’s good you’re here, Diego. How many men did you bring?”

“Thirty-eight, and two of my sons.”

Smoke laughed and wrung Diego’s hand. “Make that three. Pedro insists he is healed enough to take part. He wants a rifle.”

Diego nodded his understanding. Then he asked the question foremost on his mind, “How many of them are there?”

“By my count, close to two hundred.”

Diego frowned. “That is a formidable force.”

A smile bloomed on Smoke’s face. “We have nearly as many, thanks to you and our Tua friends. Come, I’ll show you how we’re set up.”

Smoke Jensen set off on a tour of town, explaining the defenses to Diego Alvarado. They had covered two sides of town when a flurry of gunshots broke out.

* * *

Being run off from the barricade rankled some of the gang. A dozen of the outlaws on the east side received a blistering lecture from their section leader on holding their place at all costs. Being of the criminal class, they saw any orders, especially those couched as criticism, as an affront. It made them restless, and eventually their patience wore out.

One hothead gave his opinion. “I say we can take that town full of sissies just by ourselves.”

Another slightly more intelligent one disagreed. “Those Mezkin cowboys are in there now.”

“Don’t matter. Mezkins is dumb like Injuns. They think it’s the noise that knocks a man down, so they don’t aim.”

A third piece of trash had news that slowed them for a while. “These must; they done knocked two of the boys outten their saddles.”

“Lucky shots,” the first insisted. He kept on for another ten minutes, until he had them all convinced.

They trotted their horses to the east road and passed through the blockaders without restraint. Then the reckless hard cases spurred their mounts to a gallop and, with six-guns out and ready, rode like a whirlwind into Taos. They met immediate opposition. A hail of lead came from the second-floor windows in buildings near the center of town. Rifle fire, they soon learned to their regret. Two of the frontier trash left their perches and sprawled in the dirt of the street. A third gritted teeth and clapped a hand to a hole in his shoulder.

From closer at hand, more guns sought out the survivors. Bullets clipped through the air around them. For all that the defenders had been instructed to take good aim, the fact remained that there was more air out there than meat. Nine of the outlaws managed to reach the Plaza de Armas, which they proceeded to ride around, firing into the building fronts. They had made half the circuit when Smoke Jensen and Diego Alvarado arrived on the scene. The situation changed abruptly.

* * *

“That shooting is coming from the Plaza.” Diego Alvarado announced something that Smoke Jensen already knew.

“We’d best get there the fastest way,” the last mountain man opined.

Diego pointed to an alley that cut through several blocks at a sharp angle “Take this callejón.”

They set out at a fast trot, both men with six-guns in hand. At the far end, Smoke could now see the fountain in the center of the square. A horseman obscured his view a moment as he rode by in the Plaza de Armas, firing into buildings as he went. Another followed, then another. One block to go. Smoke held his fire as another of the Quinn gang—he figured it could be none other—rode by the alley mouth. In another three seconds they came out into the open.

“Here’s a couple of ’em,” a strange voice brayed from behind Smoke Jensen.

He crouched and whirled in the same move. The Colt in his right hand bucked, and the outlaw who had called to his friends took a bullet in the right side of his chest. To Smoke’s other side, the Obrigon in the hand of Diego Alvarado belched flame, and a .45 slug struck another bandit in the gut. His eyes bulged, but he kept coming. The odd, foreign-looking revolver—the barrel, cylinder and frame had not been blued—in his hand raised to line up on the chest of Diego Alvarado.

Diego fired again and put his bullet in the brain of the man with the 11mm Mle. ’74 Saint Etienne, French-made six-gun. He died before the shock of his first wound faded. The heavy, soft-gray steel weapon fell from his hand. Immediately more of the outlaws came at them. By then, a scattering of defenders had reacted to the sudden appearance of the enemy. The volume of fire raining on the intruders grew rapidly. It soon had an effect.

Three more went down, and Smoke Jensen found himself nearly run over by a riderless horse. He jumped to one side, tripped over the body of a hard case, and fell to the red tile walkway around the base of the fountain.

“I’ve got you now,” a triumphant voice shouted from above Smoke.

Instantly, Smoke Jensen rolled to his left and brought up his Peacemaker. He fired the moment he saw a human form. By the sheer perversity of chance, the slug struck the front of the outlaw’s revolver cylinder. The thug screamed and dropped his now useless weapon while Smoke rolled again. This time, Smoke took better aim.

“Dutch!” the dying man screamed, in spite of the hole in his throat. “He got me, Dutch. Did me good.” Then he groaned softly and fell across the neck of his mount. The frightened horse carried the corpse away from the plaza.

Smoke rounded the base of the fountain, forced to dodge bullets from both sides. Inexorably the numbers mounted. Suddenly Dutch Volker found himself and only two others cursing and firing defiantly at the defenders. He opened his mouth and bellowed loudly enough to carry above the tumult of gunfire.

“Get out of here! We’re all that’s left.”

Swiftly, they clattered away through a low screen of powder smoke. Diego Alvarado, his face grimed with black smudges, walked over to where Smoke Jensen stood with the loading gate of his .45 Colt open for reloading. “If they are all as stupid as those were, we should have an easy time, ¿no, amigo?”

Smoke gazed at the litter of the dead. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

* * *

Soft shafts of yellow lanced through the wrought-iron barred windows set high in the outer wall of the second-floor master bedroom. This side of the Satterlee hacienda outside Santa Fe faced the south. It provided a slight, though noticeable, temperature advantage during the winter months. Clifton Satterlee selected articles of clothing from a large armoire, which he handed to an Indian woman servant, who diligently folded and packed them into a large carpetbag.

Satterlee spoke aloud to himself as he decided on his wardrobe. “I think something elegant, perhaps a morning coat. For the formal capitulation of Taos nothing less would do.” A soft rap sounded on the open door, and he looked up.

His majordomo stood there, a sparkle of expectation in his ebony eyes. “A rider just in from Taos, señor.”

The expression on the face of Satterlee reflected that of his servant. “Show him up.”

In two minutes the official greeter of the house returned with a smiling Yank Hastings. The young outlaw did not dwell on formalities. “Ever’thing’s goin’ fine, Mr. Satterlee. Paddy Quinn says there’s no need for you to hurry up there. We’ll have ’em flushed out by tomorrow morning. That’s his guarantee.”

Satterlee stretched his thin lips to even narrower proportions. “Mr. Quinn may well want his hour in the sun, but I have no intention of being denied my triumph. I will be ready within the hour. You will accompany me and my personal retinue to Taos at that time.”

* * *

Sundown lingered only a quarter hour away. Rich orange light bathed the bowl in which Taos lay. It painted the red, yellow, and brown buttes, mesas and volcanic mountains in muted shadow. Following the ill-thought-out charge of the hotheads, the gang had settled down to strengthen their stranglehold on the town and its occupants. On the three sides not influenced by the creek and its deep gorge, the bandits edged in close enough to be well within range of their weapons. They opened up in a fury.

Windows became the first targets. Every visible pane ceased to exist in a wildfire storm that lasted twelve minutes. By then, the town custodian, whom no one had thought to inform to the contrary, had begun to light the street lamps. They quickly became the objects of punishment for the outlaws.

Glass flew into the street first, followed by thin streams of kerosene. It did not take long for one burning wick to be dislodged from the body of a lamp and fall into a pool of the flammable liquid that formed at the base of the post. Flickering blue at first, to be reduced to yellow-white, the flames swept the length of one block, then a second. At once the alarm sounded at the fire station, and volunteers had to abandon their fighting positions to answer the call. Always a curse, fire could reduce the city as surely as the outlaws who had caused its release.

Chief Ezekial Crowder directed his firemen from the shelter of a doorway. Bullets from the gang continued to be a hazard. One young fire fighter suddenly dropped his length of hose and yowled as he grabbed at his ear. Blood trickled between his fingers.

“At least it ain’t like fightin’ a structural fire,” Crowder observed to Smoke Jensen, who had come at the first alarm. “So far, that is,” Barnes amended.

His volunteers quickly spread out to beat down the flames. To Smoke it appeared the very earth burned. Black smoke vaulted the sky above town, and the outlaws cheered and shouted in derision. Gradually, the blazes subsided. After ten hard minutes the last one went out.

Encouraged by the diversion the fires had created, half a dozen scum charged the vaqueros who had been holding the west road. One of the Mexican cowboys reached to the saddlebag at his feet, grabbed up a bottle and used his hand-rolled cigarette to ignite the fuse that protruded from the cork in its mouth. When it began to sputter, he counted to three, stood and threw it out the open window.

It turned end-for-end four full times before it exploded violently at shoulder level in the midst of the gang members. All six screamed piteously and went down in a heap. That quickly changed the minds of those who thought of joining them. The effect on those who had witnessed the grenade became obvious as the fire it had caused began to dwindle. The last shots came from the outlaws only minutes after nightfall.

* * *

Half an hour later, Smoke Jensen finished off a piece of pie, sent over by one of the restaurants, and licked his lips. “I think that ends it for today. Diego, I’d keep a few people on the lookout for any effort to test our strength. The rest can get a little sleep, at least until an hour before daylight.”

“And you, amigo, what will you be doing?”

Smoke gave him a wicked grin. “I’m going to go out and raise a little hob.”