Triumph of the Mountain Man

22

Shortly before the hour deadline, Smoke Jensen came to Santan Tossa with a suggestion. “I want you to gather your warriors. Have them start to drum and sing, do a war dance out in plain view of Quinn’s gang.”

A huge grin spread on the mahogany face of the Tua. “We haven’t done a war dance in fifty years. This will be a true pleasure. We’ll make it look very bloodthirsty indeed. Lots of howls, leaping in the air, swinging war clubs and knives.” He went off, gleefully listing loudly the terrorizing features they would use.

Twenty minutes later, a drum began to throb in the outskirts of Taos. Tua warriors started to prance and stomp in a circle around a large fire. High, thin voices chanted the challenge to fight and die to all who could hear. Knife blades flashed in the sunlight. The drum beat louder. Some among the outlaws became visibly uncomfortable. Several exchanged knowing glances. They had heard the rumors about scalping.

Some few did not want to test it further. Two drifters, who had joined up for the fun the siege promised, went for their horses. They rode off five minutes later. Five minutes later, three more, who were not part of the gang, held a whispered conference, nodded agreement and left for other parts.

A grinning Santan Tossa waved a lighthearted farewell to Smoke Jensen as Smoke eased himself into the gorge that contained the streambed and set off to locate Martha Estes and her maid.

* * *

Smoke followed the creek upstream to the southwest until well past the ring of outlaws. Then he led Cougar up out of the ravine and mounted. Carefully he worked his way back toward the siege lines. He left Cougar behind a screen of young palo verdes and proceeded afoot. Bent double, he presented a far diminished profile to any eyes that might look outward, instead of toward town. There would be few places where Martha might be kept, he reasoned. With silent determination, he set about eliminating those.

Ten minutes went by. Smoke found himself on a small produce farm. No doubt the Mexican owner sold to the general store in Taos, and to others who happened by. Yes, there, beyond the work sheds, barn and house, a palapa had been erected over a stairstepped set of shelves. Baskets of peppers and fresh vegetables lined them. Two small boys, under the age of thirteen or so, kept watch and called out to passersby.

Making little sound in his moccasins, Smoke eased his way up to the side of one shed. The sound of splashing water came from within. Women’s voices came from inside, chattering in Spanish over the latest gossip. Smoke’s command of the language, slight at best, had not improved over years of non-use. Even so, he made out a number of juicy items.

“Raquel is going to have a baby,” one woman revealed as she energetically sloshed a bowl of red and green jalapeno peppers in a tub of water to remove the red-brown dust.

“How can that be?” asked a much younger, more innocent voice. “She is not even married.”

“Sí, esto es verdad. She has no husband, but she has a baby.”

“Padre Domingo says that is a sin.” Smoke could almost see the blush her words produced.

“That is true, little one. And you will promise your mother that you will never, ever do what it takes to make a baby . . . until you are safely married.”

Another woman brought a change of subject. “I hear that Juanita Sanchez is going to marry that Guerrero boy.”

“Which one?” several asked.

“Mateo, I think. Or is it Raul? No, it is Enrique.”

“Carlos Guerrero has nine sons. How can you tell which one?”

A titter came from the youngest. “It’s not Ricardo. He’s only ten.”

A superior sounding voice discounted that. “What difference does that make? My sister, Esperanza, was married at twelve.”

A snippy voice followed a nasty laugh. “Everyone knows she had to. It was that Dominguez boy, although she married Sancho Valdez.”

A wounded squeal came from the defender of early weddings. “Cow.”

“Pig.”

“¡Bruja!” her target spat, then repeated, “Witch!”

“Ladies, please,” a matronly woman commanded. “We are here to work, is that not true? Someone hand me some of those squash.”

Grinning, Smoke moved on. Small wonder that men who owned businesses preferred not to hire women. The metallic screech of metal against stone directed Smoke to another shack. The farmer sat under a thatch palapa, working a peddle-power whetstone to sharpen a machete. Smoke coughed softly to attract the man’s attention.

“¿Sí, señor?”

“Have any of the ladrónes around Taos come around here?” Smoke asked. When the man shook his head in the negative, Smoke tried another. “Have you seen any of them taking a young woman somewhere?”

Another shake of his head, then, “¡Ay, sí! Early this morning, I was turning water into my corn. Two men rode over toward the old Olivera place. They had a woman with them. She did not look happy.”

Smoke nodded in satisfaction. “That’s the one. Thank you, señor.”

Then Smoke asked for and was given directions to the Olivera farm. He headed that way on foot. He had covered half a mile when he came upon the first of several layers of lookouts. Smoke skirted the man easily and continued on. The second one proved not so simple to evade.

He sat his mount, alertly searching the surrounding terrain. From time to time, he stood in his stirrups and peered beyond low obstructions. Smoke, clad in buckskin, hugged the ground. The man’s diligence and regularity became his undoing. After carefully timing the outlaw’s routine, Smoke was ready when a missed gaze beyond the low brow behind which Smoke waited signaled a change. He came up and moved out in a split second.

Habit had outweighed diligence. The man had his head down, intent on rolling a cigarette. Smoke leaped and landed on him like a stone statue. Tobacco flakes flew everywhere. Dragged from the saddle, the outlaw landed heavily with Smoke on top. Rancid breath shot out of his twisted mouth. His lungs empty, it took only a hard right to the jaw by Smoke Jensen to put him asleep. Smoke quickly tied him and hurried on.

Another watcher lounged in the doorway of a partially fallen in adobe house. Smoke froze and sank to the ground. For five long minutes he studied the man who leaned against the doorframe. He looked bored. He also looked sleepy. Another minute passed, and the thug abruptly jerked awake, stepped out of the shade and paced to each corner of the building, Winchester held at the ready. He looked around the wall and returned to his position. Once more he slouched.

Such kind were dangerous, Smoke reasoned. If the hunch hit him at the wrong time, he might see someone sneaking up on him. Smoke inched his way behind a rock ridge and circled widely around the crumbling structure. He came at the adobe building from the rear.

Through a small, high window he had a clear view of the interior. Across the single room, he saw a large loft, obviously where the family slept when they lived here. In the middle of the room he noted a small table. Seated at two sides of it were Martha and her maid. They had been tied tightly to their chairs. To one side, Smoke observed Paddy Quinn and two of his men in the room conferring quietly. The bad news became immediately obvious.

There wouldn’t be time enough to take out Quinn and his fast guns and free both women. This small farm lay too close to the ring of outlaws. Any exchange of gunfire would draw two dozen gunmen in seconds. He could not free them, yet he had a firm belief that Satterlee would not want her harmed. What happened next reinforced that attitude. Quinn’s voice raised suddenly, and Smoke listened carefully to each word.

“You’re right, Huber. These two are poison. I think we can get away with it if we do it that way, I do. We just take ’em out in the desert and lose them somewhere.”

At once, Martha snapped hotly at him. “Clifton will have you gelded if you actually go through with killing me. You heard what he said when he had you bring my maid here.”

That was news to Smoke. The criminal overlord was here now. That gave him some fresh ideas. Quietly he slipped away, headed back for Cougar and a ride to town.

* * *

Never one to take strict notice of exact time, Smoke Jensen found himself eying the big, octagonal face of the Regulator wall clock that hung on the wall of the sheriff’s office. When the hour deadline arrived, he strode out to where Quinn had confronted them earlier. It did not surprise Smoke when he found none of the outlaws present. Particularly, Smoke noted, no torturers and no Martha Estes. In the next instant, he learned why.

Rifle fire broke out on two sides of town. With shouts and curses, the outlaw gang opened an attack on Taos in earnest. Smoke could not understand why the entire force that ringed the defenders did not press the engagement. He needn’t have speculated. Smoke had no sooner than reached the line of houses that defined the city limits than riders thundered down the slope where he and Diego had met with Quinn. They opened fire as the range closed.

Immediately, Smoke ducked behind a low adobe wall and drew a .45 Colt. Two .44 slugs slammed into the outer face of the brown mud bricks, which sent a plume of dust upward to obscure Smoke’s vision. He triggered a round, and a hard case cried out in pain, his right arm limp and useless. That concentrated more fire on Smoke’s position. He could not stay in such an exposed place for long, Smoke reasoned.

* * *

Sheriff Hank Banner sat propped up in bed by rolled blankets and plump pillows. At his insistence, Dr. Walters had rolled the bed over close to a window. Now he stood in exasperation at his patient’s request.

“I’ll do no such a thing, Hank Banner,” the physician snapped, his well-scrubbed hands clasped in front of him.

“Awh, come on, Adam. We’ve got the fight of our lives goin’ on out there, and I ain’t in it. Hell, man, even you’ve got a six-gun strapped on.”

“That’s to protect my patients and my medical equipment,” Dr. Walters responded testily.

“You gave Pedro Alvarado a rifle. All I’m askin’ is you get me one, too.”

Unmoved by the argument, Adam Walters answered primly. “Pedro is thirty years younger than you, Hank, and he’s ambulatory. Besides, how are you going to operate a Winchester from that bed?”

Bushy eyebrows knit over his nose, Banner grumped at the doctor. “Easy if you’ll give me a rifle and open the damned window. I mean it now, Adam. I can see out of both eyes now, and things ain’t so fuzzy I’d shoot one of the town folks. I’m the sheriff, and by damn, it’s my duty to help defend the people out there.”

Dr. Walters knew that Hank was right. But he was his friend, and Adam Walters did not want to see Hank Banner taking unnecessary risks in his weakened condition. While his thoughts roamed over that little dilemma, Dr. Walters heard a light smack and the musical tinkle of falling glass. The bullet cracked loudly when it struck the wall opposite the window.

“Goldag it, Adam. That does it. If they’re shootin’ at me, I’ve got the right to shoot back.”

Sighing, Dr. Walters turned from the infirmary and entered his treatment room. From there he proceeded to the office, where he picked up a Winchester and a box of cartridges. He returned to the room where the sheriff continued to fume at the attackers. Adam’s face wore a sheepish expression.

“Here. And try not to shoot yourself in the leg.” The doctor busied himself with opening the sash. From the end window, which faced the alley behind the building, a rifle barked in the hands of Pedro Alvarado.

* * *

For all the fury of their resistance, small groups of Quinn’s outlaw band penetrated the defenders’ barricades. Six of them from the west side of town headed directly for the center. They made their approach by way of one of the radiating alleys that formed an X based on the Plaza de Armas. To reach their goal, they had to go past the window where young Pedro Alvarado waited with a ready Winchester. The moment one of them came into view, he immediately regretted his hastiness.

Fiery agony spread in his leg as Pedro put a round into his hip. The outlaw fell at once and painfully crawled, crablike, toward the shelter of a doorway. Pedro fired again, ending the thug’s movement forever. As his life ebbed from him, the hard case faintly heard the voices of his comrades.

“Up there.”

“Yeah, I see him. In that window.”

Funny, the dying rogue thought, I didn’t hear any shots. He did not hear the return fire as his fellow outlaws opened up and darkness engulfed him.

Up in the infirmary, Pedro Alvarado flattened himself on the floor as a rat-a-tat of slugs punched through the thin wall. Glass shattered in the window above him. The moment a lull came, Pedro popped up and sighted on one of the five. The .44 Winchester recoiled smoothly, and the target clutched his chest and slammed back against a wall. Pedro got off another round before he had to dive for the floor again.

* * *

Ian MacGreggor held his own from his second-floor room in the hotel. He had been on town patrol duty during the night and had returned to grab a few hours’ sleep only to have the attack break out after only forty minutes’ rest. Over his sights, he saw one hard case, who appeared to be directing the actions of a dozen others in a push to breach the defenses to the south of town. A long shot for a rifle, but Mac retained the confidence of youth.

He elevated his aim to the maximum and fired. After what seemed a terribly long time, the section leader jerked in his saddle, then slowly folded forward at the waist. He clung to his horse for a moment, then dropped away to land in a puff of dust on the hard ground. Mac levered another round into his Winchester and sought another target. He found one much closer than he would have liked.

Two hard cases ran out of the mouth of an alley and randomly discharged their weapons upward toward second-floor windows. Mac pulled a quick bead and let fly another. 44 slug. One of the outlaws continued to run forward while the other did a crazy little jig and crashed blindly into a rain barrel. He died before he hit the tile walk.

Mac charged his rifle again and sighted on the remaining gunman. The Winchester bucked, and Mac remembered this time to shove three fresh cartridges through the loading gate. He ejected the empty and chambered a loaded one. If this kept up, they could easily reduce the enemy by half, he speculated.

* * *

Someone else had figured out the same thing. Shouts to pull back went from one outlaw to the next. Slowly they began to withdraw from town, yet they continued to pour a withering fire on the defenders from a distance outside Taos. Whitewater Paddy Quinn sought out his second in command.

“We’ll give it a little time, then go back again. I want to get that bastid Smoke Jensen in me sights, an’ that’s a fact.”

Garth Thompson did not sound so eager. “I’ve heard he is hard to kill. So far, I have no reason to doubt that. How many did we lose?”

Quinn raised a hand and swept the hillside. “That’s what I want you to find out, boy-o. Didn’t seem to me that half the lads what went in there came back. With losses like that, we can’t keep this up for long. Whether Mr. Satterlee likes it or not, we may have to use fire to drive those stubborn folk out.”

“He’ll have a fit if we do. But, I agree with you. We can’t let them whittle us down like that much longer. When do we go back?”

Quinn rubbed a powder-grimed hand across his brow. “Find out where we stand an’ we’ll give it an hour.”

* * *

Ezekial Crowder and Ed Hubbard had taken positions on the south side of town, close to Smoke Jensen. They looked first to the sky when they heard a distant rumble. When they found it to be clear and bright, they lowered their gaze to observe the ominous approach of a large body of outlaws. They exchanged a worried glance and tightened the grip on their weapons. Over the growing thunder of hooves, they could hear the voice of Smoke Jensen, low and calm.

“Steady . . . hold it . . . let ’em come in real close. Make every shot count.”

Smoke knew it would not happen that way. Excitement or fear would make the inexperienced men fire carelessly. They would rush their aim and no doubt jerk the trigger. It would only get worse when the outlaws opened fire. Some, though, he knew would make good account of themselves. Like young Mac, who had shouted to him during the brief respite.

“Hey, Smoke, I got three of them. Those two down there and another on his horse outside town.”

“Good shootin’,” Smoke praised. He continued on his way to check the other defenses. His inspection gave him the impression that some twenty outlaws had gotten inside the town. Perimeter defenses had to be shored up. He had arranged for that, though only just in time.

They were going to have to keep the gang from entering town this time, Smoke thought as he watched the outlaws close once again. A few seconds later, Ed Hubbard proved a better gunhand than expected when he cleared two saddles in rapid succession.

“Did ya see that?” Hubbard called out, surprised by his own success. He took aim again.

With a loud crash, the hard cases opened up. It drowned out Ed’s third shot, which hit Dutch Volker in the side. It was a severe enough wound to put him out of the action. With a blistering backward look and a hot curse, Dutch steered his mount away from the conflict. He would get patched up and come back, Dutch thought.

Smoke Jensen had other ideas for him. Careful aim with his .45-70-500 Winchester Express paid a dividend to Smoke. For enough time to make it count, the head of Dutch Volker sat like a hairy ball on the top of the front blade sight. The upright post rested in the notch of the rear, buckhorn sight. Smoke squeezed the trigger. Volker’s head snapped forward and back as the bullet bore through his brain and exited the front, taking with it his entire forehead. A fountain of gore splashed on his horse. Without a controlling hand, it went berserk.

Crow hopping and squealing in fright over the smell of blood and brain tissue, the animal cut crossways to the advance, scattered several other riders and at last dislodged its odious burden in a thicket of mesquite. Already, Smoke Jensen tracked another outlaw. The volume of defending fire increased from other points as Smoke concentrated on his aim. He discharged a round that missed one hard case by a finger’s width and drove into the shoulder of the man behind him. Smoke risked a quick glance toward Hubbard and Crowder while he cycled his lever action.

Both men so far remained calm. They took time to aim, worked the action of their rifles in a controlled manner and shoved fresh cartridges into the magazine between shots. Hubbard spoke up loudly enough for Smoke to hear him above the rattle of gunfire.

“You’re doin’ all right for a fireman.”

Crowder grinned. “So are you . . . shopkeeper. I’d sell my soul for a shot of whiskey and a cool beer.”

“If I was the devil, I’d take you up on that.” Hubbard broke off to fire his Winchester again. “Got another one,” he commented.

“The way they’re comin’, this could last until sundown,” opined Zeke Crowder.

Hubbard blinked and swallowed hard. “It had better not.”

* * *

Sheriff Banner thought much the same as Chief Crowder. From his vantage point he watched the huge gang swirl around Taos. Here and there, one would slump in the saddle or fall to the ground. Not nearly enough, though, the lawman concluded. He watched as three of them charged a barricade made of two overturned wagons.

Their mounts easily cleared the obstacle, and he had one of the men in his sights before the hooves touched ground. An easy squeeze and the sheriff’s rifle fired. His bullet drilled the outlaw through the chest. Quickly Banner worked the action and sighted in on another. Before he could fire, one of Diego Alvarado’s vaqueros dashed into the street. He carried a large yellow and magenta cape. Swiftly he unfurled it and billowed it out into a fat curve; the skirt flapped in the breeze his motion created.

At once the horses sat back on their haunches and reared. One rider fell off; the second barely hung on. And then not for long. Another rippling pass put the animal in a walleyed frenzy. The rider had all he could do to regain control. While thus occupied, Sheriff Banner shot the hard case through the heart.

* * *

Fierce fighting continued through the afternoon. Smoke Jensen made periodic visits to the defenders positioned on the outer edges of Taos. He always had a word of encouragement and usually replacement ammunition. Braving the chance of a bullet, the older boys of the town, organized by Wally Gower, brought food and water to the fighting men. The fury promised to go on forever.

When night fell, the gang withdrew, much to the relief of everyone. To their immediate discomfort, the defenders of Taos soon discovered that the enemy had not gone far enough so that anyone could escape.

Smoke Jensen’s words were not greeted with enthusiasm when he made his dark prediction. “They’ll be back tomorrow.”