Power of the Mountain Man Read online

  Although, to give herself credit, she also felt repelled by his reputation. There! She had said it all. Yet, he seemed sincere in what he said. What with Ranger York to vouch for him, what reason did she have to distrust Smoke Jensen? She suddenly realized that she had been asked a question, when Smoke repeated it.

  “How do you mean, Miz Tucker?”

  “Why, simply that there have been rumors about our Sheriff Reno. It’s said that he’s lazy, which I can vouch for. Also that to make work easy, he’s sent more than one innocent man to the gallows.”

  “That’s not true, ma’am,” Jeff York interjected. “The law don’t have anything to do with convictions and sentencing. That’s up to the judge and jury.”

  Martha’s eyes held a heretofore unseen twinkle. “Don’t their decisions rely a great deal on a lawman’s evidence and testimony?”

  Jeff knew when he had been bested. A light pink flush colored his fair cheeks. “You got me there, ma’am.”

  “I see that I haven’t been entirely clear. What I was getting at, is that Sheriff Reno is supposed to have created evidence out of whole cloth several times before, also withheld evidence or suppressed testimony that would have favored the accused person.”

  “Fits with the way he handled this case,” Smoke Jensen provided. “Last thing I remember, I was wearing my own guns. Then they showed up in Reno’s desk drawer. And I was supposed to be packin’ some hand-me-down, cast-off, conversion Remington. And if I had the money I was supposed to have taken, he would have bragged that up to me, too.”

  Martha, who had cast a nervous glance up at the loft, cut her eyes back to Smoke. “Of course, it would be argued that the sheriff, or that sticky-fingered jailer of his, could have relieved you of it while you were unconscious. For my part, I think there never was any money. Because I know that Larry had no intention of ever selling this ranch.”

  “So then, that’s what led you to believe me?” Smoke prodded.

  Martha took a deep breath, sighed it out. “Yes. At least enough to ask you, What do you intend to do about it?”

  “I intend to find the one who did it and why. That’ll clear my name.”

  “Then the next question has to be, What can I do to help?” It had taken Martha considerable effort to frame those words, yet the strain did not show on her lovely face.

  Smoke and Jeff exchanged smiles. “Well, Miz Tucker, I need a place to operate out of. Somewhere the sheriff and Quint Stalker’s men would never believe me to be.”

  “I can let you and your two hands and Ranger York move onto the ranch. They’ve tried so hard to make me believe you are guilty, no one would ever suspect you to be here.”

  Smoke beamed at her. “We’ll be settled in by morning. Then I’ll come let you know where we set up.”

  “Why, in the bunkhouse, of course. I read somewhere that if one wanted to hide something important, the best place would be in plain sight.”

  “Poe, I think,” Smoke offered. “The Purloined Letter.”

  More of her heavy mood sloughed off, and Martha clapped her hands together in delight. “I am impressed, Mr. Jensen. I never expected—”

  “A gunfighter to be well read? I had a good teacher.”

  “Who was that, Mr. Jensen?”

  “A man they called Preacher. He raised me up from about the age of your oldest. Taught me things that would astound a body. Some of ’em I never believed until I’d gotten around a bit. Walt and Ty are close at hand. We should be moved into the bunkhouse before midnight.”

  “Fine.” Martha rose, extended a hand in courteous fashion. “Then I’ll see you for breakfast at first light. We can start laying plans on how to expose the truth.”

  * * *

  Geoffrey Benton-Howell set aside the sheet of thick, creamy, off-white linen stationery. He could not restrain the smile of triumph that lighted his face, all except his malevolent, deep-set, blue eyes. He rose to his highly polished boots from behind the cherry wood secretary desk, and crossed the room to the tall, drape-framed window that overlooked the main street of Socorro. Backlighted by the searing sun, he struck a familiar pose, proud of his lean, hard body for all his fifty-one years.

  “They will be here, as expected. Train to Albuquerque, then on by carriage. I suggest we send one of ours. It will make a good impression. These politicians of yours seem to dote on such privileges.”

  Miguel Selleres took a deep sip from a glass of excellent port wine. “They are not my politicians, my friend. I am a citizen of Mexico.”

  “New Mexico, to be precise,” Benton-Howell thrust a sharp barb. “The country of your adopted nationality lost this territory to the United States in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. That was long before you were born.”

  “No, amigo, I was born in this part of Mexico in 1845, and to me and my family, the distinction of which country has claim to it on paper is not in dispute. It is a part of Mexico. It always will be. The day will come when we cast off the foreign occupation of our lands.”

  Lordy, Quint Stalker thought as he stared at Miguel Selleres in disbelief, this boy’s wagon’s got a busted wheel. One good thing—so far no one had asked him why they had come runnin’ back to Socorro with their tails between their legs. A moment later Benton-Howell destroyed Stalker’s sense of relief.

  “They will be entertained as planned. Now, tell me, Stalker, what brings you so hastily back to Socorro?”

  A pained expression preceded Stalker’s words. “Truth to tell, Mr. Benton-Howell, the Apaches runned us clear the hell an’ gone out of them mountains.”

  Benton-Howell’s tone mirrored his disbelief. “A few scruffy savages with bows and arrows? Surely you had enough firepower?”

  “Not for more ’an a dozen of them. Those Apaches is tough fighters, Sir Geoffrey.” Try a little flattery, Stalker told himself.

  “Perhaps your men have lost their cojones—¿es verdad?” Miguel Selleres sneered.

  “Don’t you get on my case, Señor.” Quint pronounced it sayn-yor. “What is it your people call them?”

  “Ah, yes,” Selleres replied, recalling. “La raza bronce que sabe morir. The bronze race that knows how to die. But they do die.”

  “Eventual.” To Benton-Howell, Stalker explained, “Oftentimes, their raiding parties are no more than five, six men. But they can tie up a platoon-sized army patrol for weeks at a time. All the while, they’re killin’, burnin’, an’ running off stock. Those stinkin’ Injuns kilt one of my boys, stuck arrows in three more. We was lucky to get out of it with our hair.”

  “Yes, I can appreciate that. The fact remains that we must keep control of those claims. I want you to gather in all of your men and head back to the White Mountains. This time, make certain you can hold off every red nigger there, man or boy.”

  “Mr. Benton—Sir Geoffrey,” Stalker protested through a series of gulps. “Thing is, we take in too many, and it attracts the attention of the soldier-boys an’ the Arizona Rangers. We can’t fight all of that at once. Besides, I need to leave a few men here, keep a lid on things.”

  “Very well, those who are out with Sheriff Reno on the posse can remain here to handle local matters. Take the rest and leave by noon tomorrow.”

  Chastened, Quint Stalker came to his boots, his head hung, and started for the door. “Yes, sir, if that’s what you want.” At the door he asked, “Does that mean you’re givin’ up the hunt for Smoke Jensen?”

  “Oh, no, my dear boy. Not at all. We have some other plans for your Mr. Smoke Jensen. Plans I’m sure he will find most unpleasant.”

  * * *

  They had left the Tucker ranch after this admonition: “Jeff, I want you and Walt to ride into Socorro. Hang around the saloons, the barbershop, and livery. I’m sure you know why,” he added, cutting his eyes to Jeff.

  “Any lawman knows that’s where you hear all the gossip,” Jeff replied with a grin.

  “Right. Go soak up all you can get on Quint Stalker, this Benton-Howell you mentioned in Show Low, an
d his partner, Selleres. Find out about the sheriff, too.”

  Jeff and Walt reached town as the swampers were dumping their mop buckets and tossing out the dirty sawdust from the previous day. Jeff, who sported a clean-shaven face and fresh haircut, opted for the livery. Walt ambled his mount down the street to the barbershop.

  He entered and settled himself in a chair. “Trim and shave. Trim the mustache, too.”

  “Right away, sir,” a mousey, pigeon-breasted individual with a pince-nez squeaked.

  “Hear there’s been some excitement in town since I left?” Walt probed gently.

  “Oh, yes, yes indeed. Were you here when Mr. Lawrence Tucker was murdered?”

  “Yep. Rode out the next day.”

  “Well, then, you don’t know about the jailbreak!”

  “What jailbreak?”

  “Three desperadoes broke that Smoke Jensen out of the jail.”

  Walt noted that the barber—Tweedy was the name on the fancy diploma above the sideboard, bevel-edged mirror—omitted to mention the lynch mob in his colorful rendition of Smoke’s escape. When he at last wound down, Walt remarked dryly, “That sounds like quite a tale, right enough. Are you sure those desperadoes weren’t part of the Stalker gang?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. Mr. Stalker lent his foreman and some of his hands to the posse the sheriff took out. He’s got more out with him now.”

  “Then . . . this Jensen is still on the loose?”

  “From what we’ve heard. Hold still now, I have to shear over your ears.”

  Scissorlike sounds came from the mechanical clippers in the hand of Tweedy. He shaped and trimmed in silence for a while, then bent Walt’s head the other direction. “One more now, and we’re almost through.”

  Two men entered and peered curiously at Walt. Under normal circumstances this constituted a serious insult to any man on the frontier. Well accustomed by his years on the dodge, Walt Reardon showed not a flicker of annoyance at the scrutiny. As it continued, though, another idea occurred to him.

  “You—ah—lookin’ for somebody you know, Mister?” he said, in a gravelly voice, to the nearer of the pair.

  “No—no, just thought I’d seen you around.”

  “Maybe you have, but what business is it of yours?”

  Tweedy, a nervous, flighty type, dithered in agitation. “Now, now, gentlemen. I’m sure these fellows meant no disrespect, sir.”

  “I ain’t heard from the other one yet,” Walt growled.

  A long second ticked by; then the smaller of the pair cut his eyes away from Walt Reardon’s riveting stare. “No offense, Mister. We was lookin’ for a friend.”

  “That’s right,” the other one blurted hastily, suddenly nervously conscious of the miles-long, gunfighter stare of Walt Reardon. “We expected him to be here ahead of us.”

  Walt sensed a pair of easy marks here, and produced a smile. “No offense taken, then. Tell you what. I’ll buy you a drink when we get through.”

  “That’s mighty white of you, Mister—ah?”

  “Walt—” He cut it off, well aware that the name Reardon still meant gunfighter to many. “Kruger.”

  “I’m Sam Furgeson. This is Gus Ehrhardt. We’ll just take you up on that drink, Walt. Say at the Hang Dog?”

  “I know where it is. I’ll be waitin’ for you there.”

  Hands still shaking, barber Tweedy knicked Walt’s left cheek with the straight razor. Wincing as though he had cut himself, the short, slender tonsorialist quickly dabbed with a towel and applied a piece of tissue paper to the tiny wound. “Sorry, there. Just a little slip.”

  “Make certain you don’t slip like that when you get to my neck.”

  “Oh, no! Why, I’d never—” Tweedy caught a glimpse of those gunfighter eyes in the mirror, and choked off his protest.

  * * *

  Three riders, looking the part of ranch hands, rode into the livery stable shortly after Jeff York arrived there. Jeff knew they were not wranglers when they turned their mounts into nearby stalls and called to the old codger who ran the place to take care of them, then walked down the alternating stretches of boardwalk and hard-pounded pathway into the center of town. A lifetime of observation had told Jeff York that real cowboys would never walk anywhere. They would straddle their horses to go from one saloon to another, even if only two doors apart.

  Jeff stood in the shade of the big livery barn and watched them ankle down the street. He marked the saloon they entered, then turned back to the liveryman. “They come in often?” he asked.

  “Right as rain.” He added a wink, a nod, and a sharp elbow in Jeff’s ribs. “Some of Quint Stalker’s randy crew. Real hard cases. Looks like they don’t bother you none.”

  “Oh, they do. It’s just I don’t show it all that much,” Jeff told him lightly.

  “There’s some things a feller could say about them, sure enough. The breed, if not them in partic’lar.”

  “Oh?” Jeff prompted gently.

  “Them three do their best work on wimmin an’ kids, way I hear it. Right tough hombres, when it comes to scarin’ the bejazus outta some ten-year-old.”

  “Sounds like you don’t hold them in great esteem?”

  “Nawsir. They’re lowlife trash, an’ that’s for sure.”

  Jeff gathered a few more tidbits and then made his way to the saloon the men had entered. The Blue Lantern turned out to be a dive, hardly more than a road ranch. Jeff York evaluated it, as he pushed through the hanging glass bead curtain that screened the interior from passersby. He had barely turned left toward the bar, when one of the trio spun around, his fingers closed on the butt of a big Colt in a left-hand holster.

  “You followin’ us, Mister?” Apparently with odds of three to one, they had no qualms about bracing a full-grown man.

  “No, not at all,” Jeff responded in his calming voice. “I only got in town a bit ahead of you.”

  “An’ waited all this time to come in here, huh?” The taunting tone turned to vicious challenge. “I say you’re snoopin’ around where you don’t belong. You smell of lawdog to me. You want to prove otherwise, you’ll have to do it with an iron in your hand.”

  Well, crap, Jeff York thought. Not in town a quarter hour, and already he had a gunfight on his hands.

  13

  In the split second that passed after Jeff York’s recognition of the situation facing him, he made a quick decision to follow a maxim of Smoke Jensen. “Let speed work for you, but remain in control,” the savvy gunfighter had advised Jeff during their sojourn in Mexico with Carbone and Martin. So, Jeff followed that suggestion now.

  Jeff’s Colt appeared in his hand in a blur. The sound of the hammer ratcheting back made a loud metallic clatter. Jaws sagged on the three gunnies, which drew their mouths into gaping ovals. They had not even made a move. The one with his hand on the grip of his six-gun released his hold instantly, his arm rising up and away from his body.

  “Did any of you ever see a lawdog haul iron that fast?” Jeff asked in a sneer.

  All three shook their heads in a negative gesture. Then the mouthy one recovered enough aplomb to get in a word or two. “Well, there is Elfego Baca.”

  “He don’t count,” one of his companions nervously blurted. “He’s over Texas way right now. Besides, Baca’s about half-outlaw anyway.”

  “Right. An’ Sheriff Reno runned him out of town after that dustup with McCarty an’ his crew down in Frisco,” the third hard case added.

  “So what will it be, fellers?” Jeff demanded.

  “Awh, hell, we was just a little proddy. We been out chasin’ some jackass who killed a rancher hereabout.”

  Jeff recalled that Stalker’s men were serving with the posse. If he could completely defuse this situation, he might learn something useful, he surmised. “All right by me. I’m just gonna ease this hammer back down, and then I’ll join you for a drink.”

  “Shore enough, Mister. Say, you got a name?”

  “It’s Jeff.”

>   “Good enough for me.” He made the introductions of his companions and the palpable tension in the room bled off in a relieved sigh from the bartender.

  * * *

  Walt Reardon had gone on ahead to the Hang Dog Saloon, where the two rough-edged wranglers from the barbershop joined him half an hour later. A short while before they arrived, a conversation at the bar drew his interest.

  “Say, I sure wouldn’t mind workin’ for the B-Bar-H right about now,” one obvious cowhand advised his friends.

  “Why’s that?” one of the latter asked.

  “Ain’t you heard, Yancy? That English feller that owns the place is fixin’ to throw a real fiesta. Gonna be the get-together of the season, from what some of his hands have been sayin’.”

  “What’s the occasion? He gettin’ hitched?” another one asked.

  “Maybe he found a place to sell beeves for more than twenty dollars a head,” suggested a third with a snorting laugh.

  “Way I got it, this here Benton-Howell is doin’ it to honor some big-shot politicians from Washington.”

  Mighty interesting, Walt thought to himself as he took another swig of beer. Might be we’ll hear more about that, he speculated hopefully. The gossipy one continued.

  “Gonna be in three days. Even the hands is invited. At least after the high mucky-mucks git their fill of vittles. They’re roastin’ a whole steer, doin’ some cabrito, too. There’ll be likker and music and dancing. Those are lucky boys to be workin’ for that English dude.”

  Yancy had another question. “What’s these politicians done to be honored for, Hank?”

  Hank smirked. “Don’t mean they done anything . . . yet. The way it is, politicians are always lookin’ for a little somethin’ extra, if you get my drift. So, it don’t harm nothin’ to have ’em in yer pocket, before you want a favor done.”

  Walt’s new, slightly nervous friends banged through the door at that point, and the interesting revelations got tuned out.

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen spent the day in a fruitless search for any sign that could lead him to the men who had been pestering the Tucker family. From the confession he had gotten out of the wounded rustler, he knew that Quint Stalker and his gang were involved in that job. Could he be responsible for all the other harassment?