Triumph of the Mountain Man Read online

  “No, you’re not goin’ to your office,” the first one said again. “We’re gonna go have us a nice little talk.”

  He recognized them then. The one doing the talking was named Islip; the one with him they called Funk. Drawing a deep breath, Banner mustered his nerve. “Were I you, I’d go have a nice talk with a bed, Islip. You’re drunk. If you don’t want to face a charge of disorderly conduct, clear out of my way and let me pass.”

  Grinning like an imbecile, Funk, the second gunhand, shook his head and tapped a forefinger on the center of the badge worn by Hank Banner. “Can’t do that. We got our orders. You an’ us is gonna have that talk, an’ we’re gonna reach an understanding.”

  At once, the two thugs at his back grabbed the sheriff and pinned his arms to his sides. With a smooth move, they lifted him off his feet and carried him toward the mouth of a dark alley that led off of the plaza on the north side. Once within its shadowy confines, they put Banner’s boots on the ground and kept hold while the first pair caught up. Without preamble, Islip and Funk began to take turns, driving hard fists into the chest and stomach of Sheriff Banner.

  After a little preliminary softening up, Abner Islip started speaking in a low, insistent tone. “You’re gonna forget all about what’s happenin’ in Taos. No more backin’ those who get crosswise of Mr. Satterlee. In fact, you’re gonna take a nice little vacation. Go off and visit relatives somewhere, why not? Or go fishin’. I hear they’ve got some bodacious critters down in the Gulf of Mexico. A feller ought to try for ’em onest in his life, don’t you think? Maybe you can take up lawin’ in Georgia or Mississippi.

  “Any way you want it, Sheriff, yer gonna shake the dust of Taos offen yer boots and clear the hell an’ gone outta here by tomorrow morning.”

  Through the haze of pain, Sheriff Banner maintained his defiance. “You’ll be in hell long before I do that, you and Funk, too.”

  Funk shoved his sweaty face in close to that of the lawman. “In that case, we’ve got other orders. We ain’t to leave enough of you to do any fightin’.”

  With that, all four began to pound on the sheriff. Islip, his hands growing sore, switched to the use of his pistol barrel. He viciously pistol-whipped Banner until he drove the sheriff to the ground. Then all four formed a circle and began to kick him. Mercifully, blackness swarmed over Hank Banner, and he did not feel the last dozen gouges to his ribs, belly and back.

  * * *

  Bare soles made hardly a sound as Wally Dower scampered along outside the closed and unlighted business fronts on the north side of the Plaza de Armas. In another five minutes he would have completed his final rounds. Only the cantinas remained open. He still had to go back and escort old Laro Hurtado to his house. He would be drunk of course. If he had any money at all, or could cage drinks from some of the vaqueros, he would be falling down, piss-his-pants drunk. Oh, well, his wife always gave Wally a big, silver Mexican dollar for his mission of mercy. It was only worth about a dime American, but it felt nice in his pocket. When he neared the alley entrance, he heard the soft thuds and grunts that forewarned him that someone was in a fight. Wisely, Wally held back.

  After what seemed forever to the boy, the noises ended, and Wally heard the thump of boot heels fading in the distance, toward the opposite end of the alley. He edged closer and risked a quick peek down the alley. Nothing. No, that wasn’t right. He saw a darker lump in the blackness of the passageway. Wally watched for a long while, then hazarded to step into the opening. Five paces down the path, he came upon the huddled form of a body. Wally bent and rolled the man by his shoulder.

  At once his eyes went wide. It was Sheriff Banner. A low groan escaped from bloodied lips. Wally did not need prompting to know what to do. He came upright and sprinted from the alley, then settled into a dead run toward the office of Doctor Walters.

  16

  Their wounded captives in tow, neither the better for wear and tear, Smoke Jensen and Santan Tossa cantered along the wide, well-defined road between Santa Fe and Taos. The sun, slightly over the median, warmed their backs and chewed away at the last of a low ground fog that had given dawn a hazy, closed-in quality. They would reach Española by mid-afternoon. With the prisoners off their hands, they could make even better time. Smoke wanted to meet soon with Sheriff Banner and Diego Alvarado. The encounter with Clifton Satterlee had awakened several questions. He felt certain the lawman and the rancher could provide answers. Always conscious of his back trail, Smoke cast another glance in that direction as they crested a low swell.

  Immediately, he saw dust where none had been before. His eyes narrowed in concentration. It could be two, three or even more riders. No doubt men sent by Satterlee or Quinn to carry out the threats of yesterday. Smoke turned back and made a gesture to Tossa.

  “Behind us. We have company.”

  Santan Tossa’s thoughts traveled the same trail. “You think they are men sent by Satterlee?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.” Smoke thought a moment, eyes searching the surrounding terrain. “See that bend up there? I think we should wait for our friends around there, out of sight.”

  Tossa flashed a wide, white smile. “Who surprises who—er—whom?”

  Smoke nodded and laughed. A very bright young man, this Santan Tossa, he thought. He’s improving his English by simple exposure. “It’s the best way to be in an ambush . . . be the ambushers.”

  The dust plumes had grown noticeably closer by the time Smoke and Santan rounded the curve in the road. Shielded by the swell of a sandy mound, they reined in and walked their mounts off the road to either side. In moments, the faint thud of hooves could be heard. Smoke slid his .45 Peacemaker from the right-hand holster. Santan readied his stout bow, a triangular, obsidian point bright in the midday sun. Closer now, the hoofbeats became a regular drum roll.

  When the heads of the horses came into sight, the gunfighter and the Indian policeman made ready to fire. Immediately, Smoke Jensen checked himself. “Hold it!” he barked to Santan Tossa.

  Much to his surprise, Smoke had recognized the pretty face of Martha Estes over his gun sights. His command had the effect of halting her as well. She blinked in astonishment at sight of the drawn weapons. Beside her rode her maid, a young Zuni woman, whose carriage indicated that she would be capable of taking care of the both of them. On her other side rode Ian MacGreggor.

  Hand to her mouth, Martha reacted explosively. “Oh, I . . . you startled me, Mr. Jensen. This nice young man thought it might be you. We were trying to catch up.”

  “You caught us, all right. Well, Mac, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I was riding out to meet you like we arranged. She came to the barn while I was saddling. Said she wanted to go with me. That’s what delayed me.”

  Smoke gave Mac a sidelong squint “All night?”

  “I couldn’t get away last night. Ten of the gang rode out on Quinn’s orders. From what I overheard, they were to find you and kill you. The watch was doubled all around the hacienda. As it was, she—the lady helped me leave this morning.”

  “Yes,” Martha verified. “I told the men at the gate that he was accompanying me on my morning ride.”

  Smoke nodded to the maid. “What about her?”

  “Lupe always comes with me, unless I’m riding with Clifton.”

  “Humm. You’re here now, you might as well ride along.”

  Martha put a bite in her words. “You’re too, too kind.”

  Smoke removed his hat in a sweeping gesture and bowed low. “My pleasure entirely, madam.” Then to Mac, “Let’s you and me ride up ahead and you can tell me this news you have.”

  Martha leaned forward in the saddle to press her case. “Let me make something clear, Mr. Jensen. I gave a lot of thought to what the two of you told me, and I’ve decided to leave Clifton Satterlee. There isn’t any way he could have obtained that jewelry lawfully, is there?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “I only wish I could have ta
ken the rest.”

  Smoke smiled fleetingly. “We know where it is. We can come for it later. And . . . you are a welcome sight.”

  “Thank you. And I mean it, this time.”

  Smoke and Mac trotted on ahead while Tossa escorted the women. Mac’s jaunty expression changed as the distance between the parties widened. “Smoke, Quinn is bringing all of the gang north to Taos. Mr. Satterlee has ordered him to blockade the town until the people give in and turn over everything to him. Quinn will leave later today, and Satterlee will come along after. Wants to be there to gloat, I suppose.”

  A frown creased Jensen’s high forehead. “That don’t sound good. Any talk of burning down buildings, killing people?”

  “No. From what some of the gang said, I believe that Satterlee wants it to look all legal and proper. At least on paper. There were a lot of really important people at a party I was sent there to bodyguard for. Everyone but the governor, and he did send a representative. When things started calming down, they all went inside for a meeting. They seemed mighty pleased to be in Satterlee’s company. I got the feeling, when I heard about the siege at Taos, that if Satterlee had the papers all signed and in order, his friends in government would not ask any questions about how he went about getting folks to turn over their land and businesses.”

  Smoke nodded, well pleased. “You’ve got a good head on you, Mac. You’ll not be able to go back now, of course. Just sort of stay out of sight when we reach Taos.”

  “Hey, I’m not worried. I can out-shoot near all of them. And, you’ll need all the guns you can get on your side.”

  With a curt nod, Smoke sought to delay the inevitable. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  * * *

  Leaned back against rocks that reflected the heat of a hat-sized fire, Smoke Jensen listened while Martha Estes talked about her father. He was partners with Clifton Satterlee in a large firm that built houses back in the crowded East. Satterlee became involved because he had, or was going to get, large sources of timber. The lumber that came from the trees would be used to build houses. Some of them would be tenements, three or four stories, half a block deep, with limestone fronts.

  Smoke didn’t think there would be much of a demand for such expensive structures and said so. Martha informed him to the contrary. “Boats loaded with immigrants arrive at least three days of every week. Wealthy men will buy the tenements and rent apartments in them to the newcomers. With three or four to a floor, the profit will be enormous. The buyers won’t mind paying twenty or thirty thousand for the buildings. Clifton—Mr. Satterlee and my father will keep ownership of the land and receive a percentage for the use of it.”

  Considering that, Smoke scratched at an earlobe. When he spoke, his voice reflected the mystery. “Something seems out of kilter about that, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s sort of like having one’s cake and eatin’ it, too.”

  Martha’s eyes shined. “Exactly. Any time Cliff—er—C.S. Enterprises wants to raise the percentage, they can. After all, the owners can’t move their buildings off the ground.” The image gave her a new thought. “That does sound a little crooked—no—unethical, doesn’t it?”

  “I liked your first choice of words. That’s what bothered me before. Those rabbit hutches could be held up for ransom. And, from what I’ve gathered about Clifton Satterlee, he’d be likely to do it.”

  Martha gave him a puzzled look. “Is he really as awful as you make him sound?”

  “Worse, no doubt, Miss Martha. I’ve just learned that he plans to force everyone out of Taos and take over the whole town for himself. That don’t sound like someone who would refuse to squeeze the suckers who bought those houses.”

  “But, my father . . .” Martha started to protest when a muzzle flash bloomed brightly and a shot crashed out of the darkness.

  * * *

  Orin Lassiter smirked, unseen in the darkness. They’d had some difficulty finding the camp. The small fire, shielded all around by large boulders, gave off little light. He and the others had ridden through Española without finding the men they sought. Lassiter did learn that Jensen and the Indian had come through town about three in the afternoon. They now had three people with them. Two women and another man. One woman appeared to be that sweet thing the big boss was sporting with. How could that be? he asked himself.

  Then he put that behind him when he remembered that two of the gang now languished in the jail at Española. He had immediately tried to see them. The sheriff had refused. Angry, he had stomped from the office to be given the only good news for the day. One of his men had informed him that they were only two hours behind their quarry. They had set out at once. Even so, it had taken them until two hours after full darkness to locate this place. The time of month favored them, Orin noted as he moved closer to the camp. The moon would not rise for at least four more hours. Conscious of the men to either side of him, he motioned them to greater silence when reflected firelight made their faces visible.

  Then they were in position. Orin Lassiter raised his six-gun and fired at the figure of a man seated beside a woman at the base of a large, volcanic boulder. Dark, red-brown rock turned to powder six inches above the head of the man when the slug struck stone. Orin Lassiter watched as Smoke Jensen dived forward and took the woman with him. What he did not see, because it went too fast, was the big .45 Colt clear leather on the man’s hip and snap in his direction.

  He saw the muzzle bloom a split second before intense pain exploded in his left biceps as the bullet shattered his humerus. Dimly he was aware of the other boys opening up. The shock of his injury slowly numbed, and he remembered to move before another slug could find him. To his right, Baxter Young screamed horribly and clutched at a feathered shaft that protruded from his belly. Distantly, Orin heard the shouts as five of his men rushed the far side of the camp.

  “Stay down,” the man Orin Lassiter now believed to be Smoke Jensen shouted to the woman. A fraction of a second later, Jensen sprinted away from his exposed position by the fire.

  Biting back his agony, Orin fired again.

  * * *

  “Stay down,” Smoke Jensen commanded as he gave Martha Estes a shove on one shoulder. Before she could reply, he came to his boots and sprinted into the shadows away from the fire.

  A revolver blasted from a few feet away, and suddenly another man loomed over her. Martha Estes looked up and stiffened when she recognized Orin Lassiter. He reached down to her. “Come on, you’re going with me,” he growled.

  “No! Leave me alone.”

  Shock and pain ran through Martha as Lassiter slapped her with a solid, open palm. Her skin burned and tingled, and she could not prevent the sudden flow of tears that washed down her cheeks. Lassiter growled at her again. “Dry that up and do as I say.”

  Defeated, Martha raised a hand to be assisted upright. Automatically, Lassiter extended his left arm and immediately groaned at the new rush of agony. He spoke through gritted teeth as he holstered his six-gun. “Take my right arm.”

  She complied and hoisted herself to her high, black, narrow boots. At once, she heard the rustle of a full skirt that came from the darkness to her right. Lupe rushed at Lassiter with a knobby chunk of mesquite root held above her head with both hands. Hampered by Martha clinging to him, Lassiter could not completely dodge the blow. The hunk of wood slammed into his left shoulder, and he could not prevent the howl of agony that burst from his lips. Still aching, he pulled his good arm free of Martha’s grasp and dropped the Indian woman with a hard right to the jaw.

  Martha noticed the bloodstained shirtsleeve then, which evened the score somewhat for the slap. “He shot you—good.”

  Mustering his waning resources, Lassiter snarled at her. “Shut up, bitch.”

  Her courage nearly fully recovered, Martha risked a further taunt. “Or you’ll what? Kill me? Clifton wouldn’t like that.”

  Her barb found its mark, and Lassiter only grumbled under his breath as he dragged Martha off into th
e night. He found another of his henchmen and jerked his head in the direction of the camp. “Go get that Injun woman and bring her along.”

  A flurry of gunshots alerted him to the fierce resistance his other men had met, and Lassiter let go a shrill whistle. The signal was picked up by someone nearer the conflict and repeated. A third man echoed the call. Heeding the signal, the outlaws broke off their fight and faded into the darkness. Lassiter led the way to the horses and saw to securing Martha and Lupe on dead men’s mounts. Then they rode off into the darkness.

  * * *

  Ian MacGreggor counted the muzzle flashes and made note of their positions. Then he raised his .44 Marlin and pumped a round toward the black smear to the right of one red-orange blossom. The burning gasses ceased. To his left he heard the twang of a bow string, followed by the hideous shriek of the target. An outlaw staggered into the firelight, his hands clawing at the wooden shaft of an arrow that had sunk deep into his upper right chest. The Tua bow sang again, and he went down with a shaft through his heart.

  Three men tried to rush at that point, overconfident that no bowman could launch arrows quickly enough to hit them all. How quickly they forgot about him, Mac thought as he took aim and began to fire as rapidly as he could cycle the Marlin and take aim. Smoke Jensen’s .45 Colt opened up from Mac’s right, and another hard case left the earth. Then Mac heard a piercing whistle, repeated twice more close at hand, and the enemy fire ceased. Mac fired once more and then listened to the fading sound of boots thudding in retreat. It was all over. At least for now.

  * * *

  Yellow fingers of light reached through the second-floor window of the infirmary maintained by Dr. Adam Walters. They brushed invisibly on the eyelids of Sheriff Hank Banner. The lawman blinked and then abruptly opened his eyes. For the first moments everything registered as a blurred mass. Gradually individual objects came into focus. His head ached abominably. After three minutes of silent effort, he discovered that he could not see clearly out of his left eye. Only impressions of light and dark, all of it fuzzy. At last, he tried to move his arms.