Triumph of the Mountain Man

24

His face twisted in anger and contempt, Clifton Satterlee rounded on Paddy Quinn. “What do you mean you had the town taken, and then got pushed out? How can that happen?”

Whitewater Paddy’s answer came low and meek. “Smoke Jensen. That’s how it happened. He killed Garth, he did, an’ he near to finished me in the bargain. He found out somehow where we were and came after us with some of those Mezkins.”

Satterlee paced the confined space in the ruined adobe farmhouse. “Better that you and a dozen like you die than that I lose Taos.”

Stung by the insult, Paddy’s eyes narrowed. “Pardon me, Mr. Satterlee, sir. There’s no denyin’ yer smart an’ all that. But, truth to tell, your chances of takin’ Taos without me are somewhere between slim an’ none, they are.”

Face florid with his fury, Clifton Satterlee raised a fist as though to strike the gang leader and bellowed up close in Quinn’s face. “Then get out there, gather up what men you have left and go back. And keep on going back until their resistance crumbles. Brice, you’re going with them.”

Brice Noble gaped at his partner. He knew himself to be good with his guns, better than most of the petty criminals in Quinn’s gang. Yet, he realized he was not any sort of gunfighter like Smoke Jensen. The man was entirely too good. “You’re not serious. What could I possibly do?”

Sarcasm dripped from Satterlee’s words. “You could be like a famous general. An inspiration to the men.”

“That’s uncalled for. There’s simply no reason for me to go there.”

Satterlee turned even nastier. “But there is . . . because I insist. Now, get going, Quinn, and bring me back a town on its knees.”

* * *

Shortly after noon, the gang came back to Taos. Those in the lead met with a shower of wine-bottle grenades. The black-powder bombs exploded with sharp cracks and bright flashes. The shards of their containers, and the scraps of metal within, whizzed through the air. Many pieces bit into vulnerable flesh, both equine and human. One went off so close to two hard cases that both of them and their horses were disemboweled. Their shrieks of agony engendered pity even among those they attacked.

Soon their distressed wailing faded under the tumult as the fighting rose toward a crescendo. Paddy Quinn had centered nearly all of his men on one side of town. Only a few snipers and riders kept the defenders on the other three sides occupied. As the volume of fire increased at the center of the offensive, a voice rose from the assailants.

“They broke! They broke! They’re running.”

It was quickly picked up. The shouts merged into a roar as the allies could no longer withstand the onslaught. Outlaws poured into the gap in the line and spread out through the streets of Taos. Pushed to the forefront of the vanguard, Brice Noble found himself the first to enter the small town. When the resistance melted away his confidence soared. This might be easier than he had expected. His horse trotted down the narrow avenue toward the center of town.

At the Plaza de Armas, Noble found a tall, broad-shouldered man directing the fight. He forcefully snatched demoralized residents off their feet and shoved them into a position from which they could engage the invaders. His calm demeanor told Brice Noble that if they were to succeed, this man must be eliminated. He edged closer and formed the words of a challenge as he raised his revolver to accomplish that. Off to the side, someone yelled the gunfighter’s name.

“Smoke! Smoke Jensen. I’ve got ten men here ready to fight.” Then, sighting Noble, he pointed out the menace, “Look out, Smoke!”

Smoke Jensen turned his cold gaze on the man who sought to kill him. He backed it up with the muzzle of a. 45 Colt. Instantly, fear eroded his guts, and Brice Noble swallowed his provocation. He lowered his right arm and released the six-gun. It dropped to the grass with a thud while Noble raised his hands over his head.

“I surrender. I’ve not fired my weapon. Don’t shoot me, Mr. Jensen.”

“Get down.” Smoke’s command moved Noble with alacrity. He swung a leg over and dismounted while Smoke walked up to him “Who are you?”

“I—I’m Brice Noble, a business associate of Clifton Satterlee.”

“Umm.” Smoke swung from the belt line. His hard fist connected with the lantern jaw of Brice Noble. When the arch criminal crumbled, Smoke reached out and caught a townsman by one arm. “Drag this piece of dog dung to the jail.”

* * *

Diego Alvarado sought a single man among the outlaws. His wide experience in fighting a variety of enemies told him that the majority of these vermin would flee if they lost their leader. Smoke Jensen had killed Garth Thompson that morning. That left only Paddy Quinn. He left Alejandro and Miguel in charge of the vaqueros and started off to locate the gang boss. Mayor Arianas, an old friend, approached him as Diego crossed the Plaza de Armas.

“Diego, I am astonished at the valor of the Tua warriors. They fight for us as though this was their town.”

Alvarado gave him a wry smile. “They know that if Taos falls, their pueblo will be right behind. Satterlee wants everything around here. I, for one, am grateful for their aid.”

“As am I, amigo.” Arianas paused a moment, uncertain of the propriety of his question. “May I ask, where are you going? Most of your men are on the east side.”

“Don’t worry, my friend. I am looking for Paddy Quinn. When I find him, I am going to kill him and end this madness.”

Arianas clapped Diego on one shoulder. “Buena suerte, then.”

“Gracias. I can use all the good luck I can manage.”

Diego Alvarado strode off, headed north. As he went by the flight of granite steps that fronted the church on the plaza, he automatically crossed himself and cast a reverent glance at the impressive structure. Suddenly the bells began to toll. Padre Luis threw wide the tall, oak doors and stepped out onto the wide flagstones at the top of the stairs.

“Men of Taos, rally your strength. Fight for your freedom,” he exhorted the confused and demoralized defenders who huddled in the plaza. “Remember your women and children. Drive out the invaders.”

A gunshot cracked across the plaza, seemingly louder than all of the others. Father Luis jerked at the impact and swayed, a large red stain spreading on the shoulder of his cassock. Diego Alvarado looked in the direction from which the shot had come. Seated on his horse was the man he sought. Paddy Quinn had a smoking six-gun in his hand and a nasty sneer on his face.

“Easy for you to say, priest. You who hides behind his own skirt,” the apostate outlaw snarled. Oblivious to Diego Alvarado, Paddy Quinn started to raise his revolver for another shot.

Diego Alvarado filled his hand with his Obrigon .45 with all the smoothness and almost the speed of Smoke Jensen. He cocked and fired in one even motion. The bullet took Quinn in the belly. He winced, but seemed otherwise unaffected. His icy black eyes turned on Diego.

“So, cowherder, you defy me one last time, is it now? The priest can wait. This is between you an’ me, bucko.”

Before the last word left his mouth, Quinn fired the Colt in his hand. The slug cut a deep, painful gouge across the top of Diego’s left shoulder. Then Alvarado fired the Obrigon again. His aim off because of his wound, he nailed Quinn in the right thigh. That proved enough to unhorse the gang leader. He fell and sprawled on the cobbles that paved the street in front of the church. Immediately Paddy Quinn learned how mistaken he had been in shooting the priest.

Rather than demoralizing the residents of Taos, his blasphemous act served to electrify the defenders. A great roar of outrage filled the plaza from Protestant, Catholic and pagan alike. Suddenly the peons, who did not possess firearms, swarmed over the fallen outlaw. Sunlight glinted off the well-honed edges of their machetes. Their arms rose and fell in a steady rhythm while Paddy Quinn shrieked and screamed his way into oblivion.

Blood streaming from his own wound, Diego Alvarado hurried to the injured priest. “Padre, you are hurt. I will get the doctor.”

Gentle brown eyes settled on Alvarado. “Care for your own wound, Diego. God will tend to my needs.”

Diego would not back down so easily. “Dr. Walters can give Him a lot of help. Let me take you inside. Then I will go for the doctor.” Diego Alvarado cut his eyes to the mutilated corpse of Paddy Quinn. “He has answered for his crimes here, now I hope he burns in the hottest corner of hell.”

* * *

Word quickly spread about the demise of Paddy Quinn. It restored the fighting spirit of those who protected Taos, especially when they learned how and why he had died. It proved to have the opposite affect on the outlaws. Leaderless, and with no assurance of being paid, the hangers-on deserted in droves. Harried by the emboldened townsmen, they streamed out of the city and made tracks toward Raton. The first two dozen to desert opened the flood gates.

Fighting continued for another twenty minutes while the headlong flight reduced the number of outlaws by more than half. Three of Quinn’s subordinate leaders held a hasty meeting in the shelter of an adobe house on the west edge of town.

Yank Hastings came right to the point. “We have to get out of here. Those gutless cowards have left us in a fine fix.

Vic Tyson nodded, his face a grim mask. “Tell us something we don’t know.”

Hastings faced the sarcasm without a reaction. “The boss was right about puttin’ all our force on one place. We got in, didn’t we? I say we can do the same to get back out.”

“Then what?”

“We run like hell for someplace else, Vic.”

“What about our share of the loot?”

“There ain’t gonna be anything to share. We can rob a couple of banks if we need money. Only I ain’t stayin’ around here any longer. You with me?”

“We’ll do it,” the other two agreed.

* * *

It did not take long. Hungry for revenge, the guardians of Taos roamed from building to building, street to street. Those outlaws who offered resistance they gunned down. The wiser ones they drove ahead of them. Smoke Jensen and Diego Alvarado led two thirds of them, Santan Tossa the remainder. Within half an hour the streets had been cleared.

“Now what?” a tired, powder-grimed Diego Alvarado asked over the top of a tubo of beer. A thick bandage bulged under his coat.

“Do you think they will be back?” Alejandro Alvarado queried.

Smoke Jensen had been thinking along those lines. “There’s always the chance that they will. Though I hope not. We’ve lost fifteen men killed, and twice that wounded. If there’s none of them left except the original gang, they can overwhelm us, given the right leader. To keep that from happening, I reckon to go out late tonight and cut off the head of the snake. That’ll end it once and for all.”

Alejandro looked eagerly at the big man. “I want to go along.”

A smile spread on Smoke’s face. “Welcome you’ll be, Alejandro. Now, let’s drink up and get something to eat. We need to rest before going out there.”

* * *

Vic Tyson’s concern over losing their pay proved baseless. While the remains of the gang fought its way out of Taos, Clifton Satterlee and his bodyguard, Cole Granger, rounded them up and persuaded them to listen. Reluctantly, others joined the gathering.

“Listen to me, men. We have to control Taos in order for our development scheme to succeed. You will all be rewarded. And most generously, I might add. In fact, I will offer you a bonus of one half your original share if you will agree to do what must be done. You will remain here, deny the people in town any contact with the outside. Cut off their food supply. Shoot any armed man you see on the streets. In short, maintain the siege until more men can be recruited and sent here to make the final push.” Satterlee paused and let his gaze sweep over the assembled outlaws. “Do you understand what I’m saying? The whole project now depends upon you. You have good leaders in Yank Hastings, Vic Tyson and Coop Ellis.”

Coopersmith Ellis flushed slightly at that praise. Satterlee continued his harangue. “What I want is for you to do this. Return to positions well out of rifle range, and encircle the town again. Concentrate on the roads. Roving patrols can take care of anyone who tries to slip away across the fields. That’s simple, isn’t it? When enough men reach here for another attack, go at it with a will. Don’t let anything stop you.”

His stirring words brought a ragged cheer. But not enough to change Satterlee’s mind on a matter of some considerable importance. When the remotivated gunmen started out to take their new positions, Clifton Satterlee huddled with Cole Granger and explained what he had in mind.

* * *

Darkness had covered Taos three hours earlier when Smoke Jensen and Alejandro Alvarado left town to spy out the enemy. It had taken that long for the gang to settle down. Some of them still had strong reservations about staying there. Several voiced their opinions loudly while Smoke and Alejandro slipped quietly through their line, headed for the adobe ruin where Smoke had earlier seen Martha.

“I think this is damn foolishness,” one tough spared no effort in informing those near the fire where they prepared a meal and a pot of coffee.

“Biggs is right,” another put in. “Without Whitewater Paddy, we’ve got no one to stand up to this Satterlee. Who says he’ll for real pay us when it’s over?”

“I’m glad you agree,” Biggs included the man. “I say we walk our horses out of here right now, hit the high road to Santa Fe and don’t look back.”

“Hell yes. Those Injuns could be out there, sneakin’ around with their scalpin’ knifes right this minute.”

“Don’t even mention that,” a third hard case replied. “It gives me cold chills.”

Smoke and Alejandro crept on in the moonless night. When they reached the spot where Smoke thought the building should be, they found nothing. Smoke motioned for Alejandro to separate from him and look for the adobe. Quietly, both men went about finding the place.

Smoke located it first and saw that the farmhouse was unlighted. Had everyone gone to sleep? Somehow he doubted that. Moments later, Alejandro joined him, having made a wide, half circle. Smoke leaned close and whispered in the young ranchero’s ear.

“I want to get a look inside. But if you were to ask me, I’d say the place is deserted. No light, no guards.”

Smoke’s speculation proved correct. He cautiously entered the structure through a crumbled rear wall. There he quickly discovered that Martha and Lupe no longer occupied the chairs. The table where they had sat had been overturned. He saw no sign of Clifton Satterlee either. Back outside, Smoke suggested they check along the line of fires where the watchers remained at the roadblocks.

A careful search among them revealed no sign of Martha Estes, her maid, or Clifton Satterlee. When they approached the last of the barricades, Smoke suddenly realized that Alejandro’s appearance would give them away. Smoke made an abrupt signal that told the youthful caballero to wait outside the firelight and cover him while he went in to talk with the outlaws. Alejandro disappeared into the night, and Smoke continued to the fireside.

“Quiet as a graveyard,” Smoke observed as he walked up.

“You coulda picked something better to say about it,” grumbled one of the saddle trash. “What you doin’ here?”

“You’ve got coffee goin’, I smelled it. So, here I am.”

His earlier jitters forgotten in light of no forays from town, the outlaw chuckled. “Pour yourself a cup.”

Smoke took a blue granite tin cup and filled it. “Where’s the big boss? He was so hot for us stayin’ here,” Smoke probed casually.

A low curse answered him. “Didn’t have the grit to stay here himself. A little while after that pep talk, he took the women an’ Granger and they high-tailed it outta here. Off to Santa Fe, I reckon.”

One of his companions spoke up in support of Satterlee. “He’s goin’ to get more men. Remember what he said about sending us some fresh blood?”

“Yeah. And blood is what it’ll be, you ask me.”

Smoke let them talk for a while, then drained his coffee and handed back the cup. “Thanks for the brew. I’d best get back to rovin’ from place to place or someone will have a hissy.”

“Yeah, that’s right. So, you’re with Vic Tyson’s crew, eh?”

“Yep. For better or for worse. See you fellers.”

Reunited with Alejandro Alvarado, Smoke Jensen and the ranchero made a rapid return to town. On the way, Smoke weighed the alternatives facing him. Not unusual, he did not like any of them. Back in the sheriff’s office, he sent loungers to summon a war council. This would be a long night, Smoke knew.

* * *

“There’s nothing for it but that I go after them,” Smoke announced after relaying what he had learned beyond the town.

Mayor Fidel Arianas nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand that. But how are you going to go about it?”

Smoke Jensen had his answers ready. “First we have to break this siege. They are mighty spooked over two defeats in one day. And we’ve not attacked them at night before. What we are going to do is organize an assault force from the local volunteers and Diego’s vaqueros and wipe out their roadblocks, scatter the patrols around the town and plain raise a lot of hell.”

Diego Alvarado’s eyes glowed. “Muy bien, amigo. Naturally, all of my men will volunteer.”

Smoke shook his head. “We only need half of them. Someone has to hold the fort. Gather five groups of ten each, and meet me in the Plaza de Armas in half an hour. One bunch will take each road out of town. The fifth will make a sweep of the roving patrols. Tonight we’re going to kick hell out of these scum.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, grim-faced men gathered in the plaza. All were heavily armed. Every man had a horse. Smoke quietly gave them their assignments and moved out himself with those going after the mobile pickets. When everyone had gotten into position, they watched the hands on one of the clocks located on the four sides of the church steeple. The minute hand closed on 10:45, and the deadly bands moved out.

Three hundred yards from the roadblocks they urged their mounts to a gallop. Weapons out and ready, they opened fire at seventy-five yards.

With Quinn and Thompson dead and Satterlee gone, the attack quickly became a rout. Already demoralized by the turn of the day’s events, the outlaw trash had little heart for a fight. Muzzle flashes in the night, followed by the crack of bullets and roar of weapons, undid even the most courageous among them. Men seemed to be shooting at them from all directions. Riderless horses ran past, and those securely picketed whinnied in the mad desire to join their fellows.

“To hell with this, I’m gettin’ outta here,” the hard case known as Rucker spat as he ankled over the ground to his horse.

He slipped on a bridle and swung up bareback. No time for the niceties. Too many guns out there. He drummed his heels into the flanks of his horse and broke clear of the melee behind him. His mount nearly ran into the chest of a big, gray, spotted-rump ’Palouse. Veering at the last instant, he caught a glimpse of the rider.

“Oh, God, Smoke Jensen,” he wailed aloud.

Then Smoke shot him.

In twenty minutes the last of the vermin had been exterminated or surrendered. Diego’s vaqueros herded them back toward town. At the jail, Smoke confronted the leaders of the resistance. “Thank you all for what you’ve done. You’ve saved your town. The end of this is up to me. I’m going after Clifton Satterlee. Mac, Alejandro, I’d like you to come with me. We’ll take about twenty-five men to handle any opposition Satterlee can muster. Even with them, it’s gonna be mighty hard to end this.”