Triumph of the Mountain Man

25

Smoke, Alejandro and Mac rode out of Taos at the head of a twenty-three-man force. Even pushing to the limit, they would not reach Santa Fe until early morning of the next day. Smoke used the time to review how they should go about cornering Satterlee. His options were limited; that he accepted. He had no way of knowing how many gunhands Satterlee might have at the large estancia outside the territorial capital. Whatever the count, he wanted to keep the number of injuries and deaths small among his volunteers. Most of all he wanted to give Mac a chance at building a satisfying life for himself. All such considerations aside, he wanted to end it quickly. Could he count on the sheriff in Santa Fe?

That question remained with him as they rode through Española. False dawn caught them still two miles from Satterlee’s lair. To Smoke that answered his preoccupation with the sheriff. They simply did not have time to ride past the road that led to the ranch and into Santa Fe. They would have to do it on their own.

Half a mile from the estancia, Smoke halted his small force and informed them of what they would do. “Mac, I want you to take charge of everyone but Alejandro and myself. Take on any gunhands Satterlee has at the ranch and keep them busy. Alejandro and I will go in to find Martha. Also to get Satterlee.” Then he added with a crooked smile, “If something happens to let us open the gates for you, we will.”

“I want to go with you, Smoke,” Mac protested.

“Not this time. Keep in mind, youngster, that you are only fifteen years old. I’m not going to coddle you, but I want you in a responsible position, doing something that has to be done. Something that keeps you out of the center of most danger.”

Mac blurted his objection. “But I want to be there, to help.”

“Hell, boy, you’re gonna get shot at anyway. Why make it worse?”

Grudgingly, Mac saw his point. “I’ll do my best, Smoke. Count on it.”

Alejandro nodded silent approval. He couldn’t help but like this boy/man. “I think my father will find it impossible to continue his food production without you, young Mac. We want you around to make our gardens more productive.”

Mac flushed and put on a foolish grin to hide his elation at this praise. “Yes, sir—uh—Alejandro. Do they—ah—ever call you Alex?”

Alejandro flashed white teeth in his olive face. “Only my gringo friends. So, I suppose you can, too.”

Smoke concluded his strategy session. “Let’s get to it, then. Mac, circle wide around and hit the place from the rear. Once you have their attention, we’ll come at ’em from the front.”

* * *

A short while later, Mac and his mixed force invested the walls around three sides of the hacienda. Under cover of darkness, Smoke and Alejandro approached the front gate in the twelve-foot wall that surrounded the compound. Smoke had a little surprise that he had not mentioned to the others. With the battle raging around them, he quickly went to work sheltered by the inset of the massive portals.

“Alejandro, gather up all the big rocks you can find. Bring them here.”

Diego’s eldest son went to work with a twinkle in his eyes from sight of the cylindrical sticks in Smoke’s hands. By the time Alejandro returned for the sixth time, Smoke had attached a bundle of five sticks of dynamite to the center of the gate, where the crossbar would be.

“Mix some mud,” Smoke commanded as he bent to place more dynamite against one of the hinges.

Alejandro found water in a horse trough and plenty of desert soil right where they needed it. He carried the liquid in his hat to make a quagmire under the sheltering lip above them. When he thought he had it right, he stopped to watch Smoke packing rocks against the charge on the hinge.

“Smoke, it is ready.”

Studying the consistency of the mud, Smoke passed judgment. “Thicker. Make it sticky.”

When it reached the desired texture, Smoke began to pack it around the explosives in the middle of the gate, then poured more over the rocks. That completed, he cut his eyes to Alejandro. “We’ll let that dry awhile.”

The volume of gunfire rose and fell as the outlaws traded shots with the men from Taos. It served well to keep attention off Smoke and Alejandro. After ten minutes, the surface had returned to its natural color, and cracks began to appear in the mud. Smoke nodded approvingly and bent with a lucifer in his hand.

“You light that one and I’ll get this. Then we get out of here . . . fast.”

With the fuses sputtering, Smoke and Alejandro ran from the gateway and flattened their backs against the wall to either side. Three minutes went by, and then a tremendous roar shattered the sporadic gunfire from within the hacienda. Dirt and acrid smoke billowed out of the arched opening. Splinters of flaming wood mingled with them. The ground shook, and Alejandro smelled the nauseous fumes of the burned dynamite. In the numbing silence that followed, Smoke and Alejandro heard a shrill shriek, followed by an enormous crash.

“Let’s go,” said Smoke tautly.

Quickly they rounded the corners that had sheltered them. Alejandro’s jaw sagged at sight of the damage the explosives had wrought. One side of the thick gate hung askew. The other lay flat on the ground, blown out from the bottom. Smoke jumped on top of it and ran into the courtyard. They met with no resistance until they reached the main entrance to the hacienda. Two dumbfounded thugs with bestubbled jaws stood inside. They gaped at the damage until the figures of Smoke Jensen and Alejandro Alvarado filled the range of their vision.

“Lutie, it’s him. It’s Smoke Jensen,” babbled one.

“Then git him, Frank, git him.”

Each man made the fateful mistake of reaching for his six-gun. Smoke beat them both, with Alejandro not far behind. The Colt in Smoke’s hand bellowed, and Lutie doubled over, shot through the liver. Frank fired a round before Alejandro ended his life with a bullet in the head. Side-stepping the dying men, Smoke and Alejandro pushed on into the house. Cole Granger and three men waited for them in the inner courtyard.

“There they are,” shouted one piece of human debris as Smoke became visible at the inner opening of the corridor.

Smoke, the .45 still in his hand, shot him through the heart. Two others dived for cover behind the cheerily splashing fountain. Granger dropped behind a huge clay olla that held a stunted banana tree. From there he triggered a round that ripped along the left ribs of Alejandro Alvarado.

Face grimaced in agony, the young grandee spun to one side and leaned back against the wall of the arched corridor that connected the front door to the patio. “Go on, Smoke. I’ll be all right.”

Alejadro extended his right arm along the wall and took aim at a pale face that appeared above the lip of the fountain. Biting his lip, he squeezed his trigger. The slug slammed into the edge of the marble basin. Water and stone chips showered into the air. The face disappeared, an irregular hole in the center of its forehead. At once, Smoke was on the move.

He bounded to his left and dropped behind a long, earth-filled planter. Three slugs pounded into the opposite surface. Smoke inched along to the end and hazarded a quick look. Granger had come to his boots, peering across the open garden in a attempt to get a sight on Smoke. It would be all too easy.

Smoke raised his arm and fired at the center line of Granger’s body. The bullet smashed into Granger’s belly, and he staggered backward. Smoke came to his boots and jinked off another direction. He learned that he had miscalculated Granger’s strength a moment later when Alejadro shouted from behind him.

“Smoke, look out!”

Cole Granger fired his six-gun with less than acceptable accuracy. A hot tunnel opened in Jensen’s left arm an instant before he discharged his Colt and put another bullet in Cole Granger’s chest. To his surprise Granager absorbed the punishment and turned his gun on Alejandro.

This time he wavered unsteadily so that the slug struck the stucco-plastered, adobe wall before it plowed into the chest of Alejandro Alvarado. Cursing his bad luck, Smoke raised his point of aim. He fired at Granger’s face and blasted the life out of his assailant. Quickly he bound his arm and chaged his empty Colt for the freash one. Then Smoke began to search for the final hard case.

Sagged to his knees, Alejandro called out to Smoke “He’s gone. Ran out to the others.”

“What about you?” Concern rang in Smoke’s voice.

“It’s . . . not bad. Go on. Find Satterlee and get the girl to safety.”

Smoke Jenson started for the stairway that led to the second floor. Behind him a door flew open. Smoke spun on one heel and snapped off a shot. Another of Satterlee’s henchmen died. Halfway up the stairs, he paused to look back. Alejandro sat spread-legged against the wall, his face pale, but his breathing regular. The bullet must not have reached his lung, Smoke speculated.

He took time then to reload, then ascended to the open-sided hallway that ran around the upper story. Now the search turned serious. Smoke stepped to the first door and kicked it in. A starled hard case turned from the window where he had been exchanging rounds with Mac and the attackers, who had swarmed into the compound through the damaged gate. Smoke shot him in the shoulder, took his weapons and locked the door behind as he left. The next two rooms were empty. Smoke worked his way out into the open.

From below, Alejandro spoke to Smoke, his words light and breathy. “I can cover you from here.”

Smoke nodded and went on. The next door he found locked from the inside. His .45 Peacemaker at the ready, Smoke lined up and kicked the center panel beside the lock case. It hurt like hell. Made of stout manzanita, the door did not yield. Smoke kicked again, with the other foot. Wood splintered in the frame. Dimly, from behind and below, Smoke noted the arrival of Mac and some of the vaqueros. They swarmed through the courtyard as Smoke lashed out with his boot a third time. The door flew open to reveal a frightened and startled Lupe and a bulldog-faced hard case.

“Down,” Smoke shouted to the maid.

She dropped without hesitation. Smoke popped a cap on the outlaw at close range. The slug pierced a forearm and entered a vulnerable chest. Smoke shot him again, and the thug’s six-gun flew upward out of his hand. It discharged when it struck the ceiling. The bullet went through the thin plaster and exited the building by way of the tin roof. A stunned expression washed over the dying gunnman’s features, and he fell face-first to the floor.

Smoke pointed to Lupe. “Stay here.”

Footsteps pounded in the stairwell as Smoke faced the next door. It was also locked. Smoke reared back for a good blow with his boot as Mac and three of Diego’s cowboys ran toward him.

“We got ’em all, Smoke. Most just gave up.”

“Stay back,” Smoke cautioned. Then he slammed his boot sole against the door.

It happeded in a blur. Smoke saw a thick-shouldered gunman facing the door and fired instinctively. The lout dropped his revolver and clasped his belly with both hands. Smoke shot him again. At once her looked to his left.

With a long-legged stride, Clifton Satterlee moved across the carpet toward ta wide-eyed, visibly shaken Martha Estes. He had a .44 Colt Lightning in his left hand. Too, late, and knowing it, Smoke swung his Peacemaker toward Satterlee and fought to gain time with his voice.

“Don’t move!”

“Stop where you are.” Mac’s voice broke as he stormed into the room, eyes fixed on Satterlee.

Satterlee swung his Lightning away from Martha and fired double-action. His bullet hit Mac in the notch of at the bottom of his throat. Quickly, Satterlee shot again. This .44 slug punched through Mac’s right lung and ripped out his back. Instantly, Clifton Satterlee grabbed Martha Estes and pulled her in front of him. Driven backward by the agony of his wounds, Ian MacGreggor stumbled into the corridor. He teetered on the bainister for a precarious moment. Then his legs went out from under him, and he caught himself with his elbows.

Smoke did not have time to check the youngster and knew it. He faced Satterlee, who now held the muzzle of his Colt to Martha’s temple. “I’ll kill her. So help me, I will. Holster your iron and get out of my way. Let me go and she won’t be harmed.”

Reluctantly, Smoke complied. Then he heard a miserable groan from Mac, and his eyes narrowed to furious slits. “You’re a dead man Satterlee. There’s no way you are getting out of here.”

Satterlee cut his eyes to a large carpetbag on the floor. It bulged with his portable wealth. Two finely wrought pieces of Tua jewelry spilled from the open top. “I’m taking that and her and leaving.

Smoke eyed the loot and returned his attention to Satterlee. “You killed that boy for nothing, Satterlee. More than for any other reason, I’m going to kill you for that.”

Clifton Satterlee forced a nasty chuckle. “Not likely, Jensen. I’ve worked too hard for that.” Again his eyes shifted to his ill-gotten gains. “You make a try and the girl dies.”

Suddenly, Martha Estes moaned and uttered a huge sigh. She went limp in the arms of Clifton Satterlee. The instant her head fell away from the gun barrel, Smoke Jensen drew with blinding speed and triggered a round. The slug hit Satterlee at the top of his nose and pulped the empire builder’s brain. He did not have time to send a signal to his trigger finger. He flew away from Martha Estes and sprawled across the bed.

At once, Martha straightened and opened her eyes. A big smile adorned her face. “I thought you might do that,” she told Smoke a moment before she rushed to him and gave him a big hug.

Gently Smoke disengaged her. “You’re safe now, Miss Martha. I’ll arrange for passage to your home. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Smoke stepped out into the hall and gazed down at the bloody, sweating, pale-faced Mac. Ian MacGreggor worked his throat, and his lips moved. He spoke in a low, wheezy voice. “I—I guess I’ll not be needing that gardening job.”

Something stung Smoke’s eyes, and he blinked rapidly. “That was fool thing to do, Mac. But you did save a girl’s life. I’m proud of you.” No reason to hide the obvious from the boy. “I’ll see that your family gets your pay.”

“Th—thank you, Smoke. It was—was an honor to fight at . . . your side.” That said, Mac heaved a mighty sigh and died.

Eyes wet and burning, Smoke Jensen turned away to discover that Don Diego Alvarado and his remaining vaqueros had arrived. Smoke went to his friend. “Alejandro took a couple of bad ones.”

“Yes, I saw. What about you?”

“I’ll live. But . . . Mac didn’t make it. I’ll have to see that the Marshal’s Office sends his pay to his parents.”

“It’s a beatiful day,” Martha Estes opined as she joined the two men.

Still deeply moved by the death of Ian MacGreggor, Smoke looked across the early morning vista. The rising sun cast a pink hue on the white caps of the Sangre de Cristo range. No matter the cost, peace could return to Taos and the Tua pueblo. He nodded to Martha.

“Yes, it is right nice day.” She’s right, it’s beautiful, Smoke mused. Almost as beautiful as the Sugarloaf.

* * *

Sally and Bobby Jensen greeted Smoke’s triumphant return to the Sugarloaf with unbounded joy. After a long, energetic embrace, Smoke looked around and then kissed Sally on one cheek.

“It doesn’t look like anything has changed. What did you do while I was gone?”

Sally pursed her lips, fought to banish her sour memories, then answered. “I had a visit fron an old school friend.”

“That’s nice. Did you have a good time?”

“Like heck,” Bobby put in. “Her kids sure are a bunch of brats.” In spite of Sally’s sharp look, Bobby went on. It’s the truth. And you’re always after me to tell the truth, Smoke. An’ to be man enough to stand up for it.”

Smoke put and arm around each of his family and started for the porch, hugging them tightly. “So, tell me about this friend of yours, Sally. And don’t forget the brats.”