Triumph of the Mountain Man

2

Halfway back to the Sugarloaf, Smoke started to regret his rash decision to reject the opium-based medicine. He also thought darkly about the morning’s events. Why did it have to be Monte Carson who caught that bullet? Although Monte had the constitution of an ox, he was nearing sixty. People didn’t heal so quickly then. Smoke knew from experience that a lung shot often led to pneumonia, which more often killed the victim than the bullet itself. In his moody thoughts, Smoke castigated himself for not having gone along with Monte. Better still, gone in his place.

No, Smoke admitted to himself, Monte had too much pride. It would have robbed him of his self-respect to acknowledge that age might be slowing his gunhand, delaying the proper read of a situation. Yet, the results spoke for themselves. Monte lay unconscious in the small infirmary off Doc Simpson’s office. Smoke had a slight bullet burn on his shoulder. They had both gone about it wrong. Admitting it did not mollify Smoke in the least.

Once he had turned Cougar into the corral, in the hands of Bobby Jensen to cool him out, Smoke took the mail to the main house. Sally greeted him with a spoon dripping melted lard in one hand. “Hello, handsome. I’m fixing a batch of doughnuts. My, what a lot of mail.”

“Yep. There’s a Sears catalogue for you.”

Sally clapped her hands. “Oh, goody, I get to buy things.”

Smoke answered her with a sidelong glance. “No, you don’t. And a letter from a woman named Mary-Beth Gittings.”

“Who?”

“That’s what it says. I’ll give it to you inside.”

Seated at the kitchen table, Smoke distributed the mail into neat piles. While Sally chattered on and added more lard to the heated deep skillet for the doughnuts, he turned his attention to the intriguing letter from New Mexico. He opened it to find a disturbing difference in his old friend. Instead of the usual bubbling enthusiasm of this jovial grandee, who so loved to entertain, it was a gloomy account of growing difficulties. High in the Sangre de Cristo range of the Rocky Mountains, things were not right, Don Diego Alvarado informed Smoke Jensen. He went on to illustrate:

“There is an Anglo named Clifton Satterlee, who covets all of the land around Taos. He is powerful and wealthy. He has a hacienda outside Santa Fe and is believed to have the ear of many of his fellow Anglos in the territorial government. It is also said that he has many interests and much influence in the East. He has surrounded himself with some most unsavory men, who aid him in achieving his goals by any means necessary. Amigo,” the letter went on, “there have been some incidents of violence. Men have been driven out, Anglos as well as Mejicanos.”

Absently Smoke reached to the plate holding the doughnuts. He let go of one quickly enough the moment he touched it. “They’re hot,” Sally reminded him with a laugh.

Smoke went back to the letter for the final paragraph. “No one here seems capable of dealing with the man. So, forgive my presumption in asking this, old friend, but I feel that I must appeal to you to come out here and get the feel of what is going on.” Only reluctantly, it seemed to Smoke, did Don Diego add his personal difficulties. “I, myself, have lost some cattle and the lives of some of my vaqueros.” His missive concluded with some of his usual flourish. Smoke put it aside in thoughtful silence.

* * *

They rode up quietly, five beefy, hard-faced, tough men, and tied off their horses to a stone-posted tie rail outside the high-walled hacienda on Calle Jesus Salvador in Taos, New Mexico Territory. Beyond the wall they could see the red tile roof of a Spanish colonial style, two-story house. Nestled in a large valley, surrounded by the Sangre de Cristo range, the residence had an air of peacefulness. That was quickly broken when the leader, Whitewater Paddy Quinn, spoke to his henchmen.

“Remember, we ain’t here to break him up, just to get him to sign.”

One of the thugs, a man named Rucker, responded with a snigger. “Right, boss.”

“Sure, I mean that, Rucker. Not a bruise. Now, let’s get in there.”

Quinn stepped up to a human-sized doorway inset in the tall, double gate, and raised a large brass knocker. The striker plate bolted to the portal gave off a hollow boom as he rapped it. He kept at it until a short, swarthy servant in a white cotton pullover shirt and trousers opened the door. “¿Sí, señores?”

“We’re here to see Mr. Figueroa.”

“¿Qué? Lo siento, no hablo Ingles.”

Paddy Quinn struggled to put his request into Spanish. “Es necesario a hablamos con Señor Figueroa.” His grammar might not be perfect, but he conveyed the idea.

Figueroa’s majordomo brightened. “Ay, sí! Vengan.” His leather sandals made soft, scraping noises as he led the visitors across the cobbled courtyard to the main entrance.

Through a wrought-iron gate and a pair of tall double doors, a tunnellike passageway led to a lushly planted open square. A large saguaro cactus filled one corner. In the center, a fountain splashed musically. Standing beside it was a slim gentleman of medium height, his white hair combed straight back in two large wings from his temples. He wore the costume of another age, tight, black trousers, trimmed with gray stripes along the outer seams, matching cut-away coat with gray lapels. His shirt was snowy, with a blizzard of lace and a wing collar. Calf-length boots had been burnished until they shone like polished onyx. From beyond him, practice scales on a piano tinkled from an open, curtained window. He turned at their entrance, and a dark scowl quickly replaced the smile of welcome he had prepared.

“You are not welcome in this house,” he declared.

Paddy Quinn put a wide smile on his Irish face. “Sure, I’m sorry you see it that way, Mr. Figueroa. We will try to be brief, we will. I have come to arrange for the sale of this property to Mr. Satterlee.”

Figueroa glowered at him. “Then you have come on a mistaken mission, señor. I have no intention of selling.”

Beaming happily, Quinn ventured to disagree. “Oh, yes, you do.”

“No, I do not. I have told you that five times before. I have not changed my mind. Now, leave or I shall send for some of my retainers.”

At that, Paddy Quinn gave a signal to two of his henchmen. They crossed the space separating them from Ernesto Figueroa and grabbed the elderly gentleman by the arms. Quinn gestured toward the open window. With little effort, they frog-marched him to the lace-curtained window from which the music came. Quinn came up behind and shoved Figueroa’s head through the opening. The scales had given over to a piece by Mozart now, played by a sweet-faced little girl.

“A nice girl, your granddaughter, she is,” Quinn observed. “Lovely, innocent, vulnerable. You’d not be wanting anything to happen to her, now would you?”

A shudder of revulsion passed through Figueroa a moment before the thugs abruptly swung him around to face their leader. He fought for the words. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Quinn gave him a smile. “You’re right, I would not. But I cannot account for every minute of my men’s time. Come, señor. You will be more than generously compensated, an’ that’s a fact. You can take your lovely, expensive furniture and possessions elsewhere, anywhere you wish, and live to see her grow to womanhood. And a lovely figure she will make, it is.”

Wincing from the painful grip on his arms, Ernesto Figueroa remained defiant. “What will happen if I still refuse?”

Paddy Quinn’s face changed from beaming benignity to harsh evil. “Then I will let my men have their way with her and kill her before your eyes. But not you,” he went on. “We’ll be leaving you to live with what your stubbornness caused. Think about it, bucko.”

Ernesto Figueroa hesitated only a scant two seconds before his head sagged in resignation and he made a hesitant gesture to indicate he would accept. Paddy Quinn handed him the papers and even produced a travel pen and brass inkwell so the defeated man could sign.

* * *

After due consideration, Smoke Jensen decided to go to Taos. His reasoning was simple. The foaling season, from February through April, was over and the first of May not far away. Besides, he owed Diego Alvarado. He left the hands busy with the new colts and went to talk it over with Sally.

“I expected this since you first told me what the letter contained. I’ll not beg you to stay here, Smoke. I know better, and you would be disappointed in me if I did. How long do you expect to be gone?”

Smoke considered it. “Ten days. Two weeks at the most.”

Sally’s chuckle held a hint of irony. “I’ve heard that before. How are you going to travel, Smoke?”

“I’ll take the Denver and Rio Grande south to Raton, then go by horseback through the Palo Flechado Pass to Taos.”

A light of mischief glowed in Sally’s eyes as though she particularly liked the thought that burst on her. “That sounds easy enough. I think I’ll come with you; it will be nice to see Don Diego again.”

Smoke shook his head rejecting the idea. “Who’ll run the ranch and look out for Bobby?”

“Ike can run the ranch, and Bobby is grown enough to bunk with the hands and take care of himself.”

Smoke remained unconvinced. “Think about what you just said.”

“About Ike running the ranch?”

“No. About Bobby. He’s thirteen, Sally. Do you remember what our others were like at that age?”

Fresh worry lines formed on Sally’s forehead. “Yes . . . unfortunately I do.”

“I think you should reconsider.”

Sally stood in silence a long two minutes, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder with Smoke. “All right, you win this one. I’ll be realistic and not start to worry until three weeks have gone by.”

“Nice of you,” Smoke jested, giving her a swift hug. “I will write you when I reach Taos.”

“Send a telegram instead. It will get here sooner.”

“All right.”

“Now, let me ask only one thing. What are you going to do when you have to keep your promise to that boy about taking him along on one of these trips?”

Smoke affected a groan. “I’ll figure that out when the time comes. Now, dear wife, will you pack me something suitable to wear at Diego Alvarado’s?”

* * *

With an impatient twist to his lips, Clifton Satterlee gazed from the narrow window of the mud wagon stagecoach that rattled and swayed along the narrow dirt roadway that led from Santa Fe to Taos. “One would think,” he muttered under his breath, “that since our nation has conquered this country, the government would put down proper paving stones.” If they did not reach the relay station soon, he swore he would leave his breakfast on the floor of the coach. Across from him, his chief partner in C. S. Enterprises, Brice Noble, sat beside Satterlee’s bodyguard, Cole Granger. To the increase of his discomfort, Satterlee realized that Granger actually liked this trip. He seemed to thrive on the discomfort. Suddenly Clifton’s stomach lurched, and a fiery gorge rushed up his throat. He turned sideways and hastily flung aside the leather curtain.

“Oh, God,” Satterlee groaned as he thrust his head out the window. With explosive force, he vomited into the rising plume of dust that came from under the iron-tired right front wheel. He could feel Granger’s amused gaze resting on him. Damn the man!

When he recovered himself, Clifton Satterlee crawled limply back inside. Cole Granger held out a canteen for him, which he took eagerly and he rinsed his mouth. Then Granger extended a silver flask. “Here you go, Mr. Satterlee. It’s some of your fine, French brandy.”

Irritation crackled in Satterlee’s voice. “It’s cognac, Cole. C-O-G-N-A-C.”

Hastily, Satterlee seized the container and swallowed down a long gulp. Immediately his stomach spun like a carousel. Then the warm, soothing property of the liquor kicked in, and his nausea subsided somewhat. From outside, above on the box, came a welcome cry.

“Whoa, Tucker, whoa, Benny, whoa-up, Nell. Wheel right.” He called out the rest of the team, and the momentum of the stagecoach slackened.

Satterlee addressed the rest of the occupants. “About damned time. You know, that little upset of mine has left me ravenously hungry. Or maybe it is the cognac.” He took another swig.

Cole Granger checked the stage itinerary. “There’ll be a meal stop here, Mr. Satterlee.”

Brice Noble looked balefully out the window. “I certainly hope the food will be better than we had this morning. That must have been what caused your discomfort, Cliff.”

Satterlee nodded his gratitude for his partner’s cover-up of his motion sickness. He hated any sign of weakness, as did Noble. Clifton Satterlee studied his partner. A man in his late forties, ten years senior to himself, Brice Noble had a bulldog face with heavy jowls. For all his youth, Noble was completely gray, his hair worn in long, greasy strands. Shorter by three inches, Noble weighed around one hundred seventy pounds and had the hard hands of a working cowboy, although Satterlee knew he had been a wealthy man for a long time. Brice had never given up his habit of carrying a brace of revolvers, in this instance, Merwin and Hulbert .44s. Satterlee knew only too well how good he could be with them. His pale blue eyes had a hard, silver glint when angered.

For his own part, Clifton made certain he never infuriated Brice. Even at six feet, two inches with longer, once stronger, arms and barrel chest, Satterlee readily acknowledged that he was no match for Noble. He sighed as he glanced down at the beginnings of a potbelly. He would have to get out and do more riding, Satterlee admonished himself. Although a lean man, Satterlee’s left armpit felt chafed by the shoulder holster he wore there, and more so from the weight of the .44 Colt Lightning double-action that fitted it. Recalling its presence brought a laugh to the lips of Clifton Satterlee. He had not had occasion to draw it in anger or even self-defense in the three years since he bought it.

“What’s funny, Cliff?”

“I was thinking about my gun, Brice. Do you realize I have not used it, except for practice, in the past three years?”

Noble nodded to Granger. “That’s what Cole is here for. But, I can tell you I’m looking forward to whatever food they have for us.”

With a shriek of sand caught between brake shoe and wheel, the stage jolted to a stop. The station agent brought out a four-step platform with which the passengers could dismount. “Welcome to Española, folks. We’ve got some red chili, chicken enchilada and beans inside for you.”

“Sounds good,” Cole Granger told him with a big smile.

Clifton Satterlee saw it differently. “By all that’s holy, don’t you have any white man’s food?”

“Nope. Not with a big, fat Mexican cooking for me. She cooks what she knows how to.”

Satterlee appealed to his partner. “Do you know what that will do to my stomach, Brice?”

“Fill it, no doubt.” Then, to the agent, “Do you have any flour tortillas?”

“Yep. An’ some sopapillas with honey to finish off with.”

Stifling a groan, Clifton Satterlee instructed, “I’ll start with those.”

Inside, over savory bowls of beef stewed with onions, garlic, and red chili peppers, corn tortillas stuffed with chicken, onions, black olives, cheese, sauce, the driver and guard joined in demolishing the ample food laid out for the occupants of the coach. Satterlee morosely doused the fried dough in an amber pool of honey. After devouring four of the sopapillas, he spoke low to Noble.

“I want you to stay a few days, up to a week, in Taos. Look around, make contact with our people. Make certain they are getting things done. My wife and I will return to Santa Fe two days from now.”

Brice Noble chewed on the flavorful cubes of meat. He washed them down with beer that had been cooled in the well. “What do you propose doing next?”

“Our people have to accelerate their efforts. We need that timber and damned soon. Our whole lumber business depends upon it. Go after those blasted savages.”

* * *

Smoke Jensen stopped in on Monte Carson the next day, before he took the afternoon train south to Denver, where he would change for the run to Raton. He could have taken the AT&SF to Santa Fe, but he wanted to catch what word there might be running up and down the trail. Monte was awake when Smoke entered the infirmary. His skin held a pallor, and his response when he turned his head and saw Smoke was weak.

“Smoke, good you came. Maybe you can talk sense to the man.”

“What’s that about?”

“That croaker, Simpson, says I have to stay here for two, maybe three weeks. Then some kind of operation by a doctor from Denver.”

Smoke nodded. “You’ve got a bullet in you, Monte. I’ll tell you what he probably won’t. It’s near your spine. There’s the chance . . . for permanent injury.”

Monte cut his eyes away from Smoke. “Damn. If that happens, I won’t be fit for anything. Old before my time and stove up. Not a fittin’ end.”

“No,” Smoke agreed. “At least you would be alive.”

“You call that alive? Ask me, it’d be nothin’ more than livin’ hell.”

Smoke decided on a change of subject. “I came to tell you what was in that letter from Don Diego.”

That brightened the lawman somewhat. “Really? What did the old grandee have to say?”

Smoke’s fleeting frown framed his words. “There’s trouble brewing out in the Sangre de Cristo. Some feller named Satterlee has it in mind to build himself a little empire. According to Don Diego, he’s not shy about the sort of persuasion his men use to get what he wants. Alvarado’s lost some stock and some cowboys. He asked if I’d come take a look.”

“And are you?”

Smoke nodded. “Leavin’ today, Monte. Train to Raton, then trail it from there. But, I feel bad about leaving you here all bunged up.”

Monte tried to make little of it. “Not much happens in Big Rock anymore. My deputies can handle it.”

“After that list you gave me yesterday, and what we ran into, I’d say your ‘not much’ is a bit of an exaggeration.” Smoke tipped back the brim of his Stetson. “Well, I have to get to the depot. Look out for yourself, Monte. And do what the doctor says.”

Monte scowled, then gave a feeble wave. “Watch yer back trail.”

Smoke turned for the door. “I have a feelin’ I’m going to have to.”