Power of the Mountain Man Read online

  It didn’t do too much for the men in the cell, for that matter. The brick wall within the native fieldstone one pummeled them with chunks that would leave bruises the next day. Even with fingers in ears and mouths open, the pressure was enormous. Two Rangers lost consciousness, and Smoke Jensen discovered he had a bloody nose. A tad bit more dynamite, and they’d all be playing harps for St. Peter, he thought dazedly as the caustic fumes and mortar dust swirled around him. Only indistinctly did he hear the pounding of hooves, as Jeff and his volunteers rushed back to extricate them from the jail.

  Upright beside Jeff York, Smoke Jensen gestured to the ruined building they had just exited. “We have to get our weapons.”

  “Already taken care of.”

  Smoke frowned as the import of that struck him. “Then why in Billy blue hell did you try to turn us into red mush?”

  “Thought it might scare hell out of some of these tenderfeet gunhawks.”

  “You did a fair job of that on us.” Jeff gave a shrug, so Smoke continued, “Give me my rig, and let’s go get these bastards who hide behind women and children.”

  24

  Geoffrey Benton-Howell had no doubt as to the source of the explosion. He immediately sent Quint Stalker to organize the horde of gunslingers who milled about the streets of Socorro, most of them confused as to what was going on. Miguel Selleres went upstairs at once, to make sure the Tuckers remained secure in the Exchange Hotel. He spoke urgently to the guards outside the door to the room that held the children.

  “No one gets in there, none of our own or any lawmen.”

  “Sí, Señor Selleres,” one Sonoran pistolero responded respectfully. “Not a soul will get past us.”

  “See to it.” Selleres went on down the hall to where Mrs. Tucker was being kept. “Unlock it,” he demanded. Inside, he crossed to a small table where Martha Tucker sat taking her evening meal. He shaped his features to show pleading. “Señora, there is going to be a great deal of bloodshed. You can prevent it. Simply sign the ranch over to us . . .” Selleres ended with hands outstretched, palms up in silent appeal.

  “I do not believe in fairy-tales, Señor Selleres. The moment I sign those papers, myself and my children are dead. On the other hand, I can trust that for now, no stray bullet will strike any of us.”

  Selleres hardened his face. “Can you trust that we will not kill you outright, rather than let you fall into the hands of Smoke Jensen?”

  A chill ran along Martha’s spine. She girded herself for the answer she knew she had to make. “If you are that thoroughly reprehensible, then I can only place my trust in the Lord . . . and Smoke Jensen.”

  A burst of gunfire from down the street interrupted the hot retort that started from the lips of Miguel Selleres. He turned on one boot heel and started for the door.

  * * *

  Two gun-toting henchmen appeared high up in the windows of the feed mill. The tinkle of broken glass alerted those below. Smoke Jensen went to one knee and snugged the Winchester .44 carbine to his shoulder in one smooth motion. Jeff York raised his Colt, and put a .45 round through the corrugated metal skin of the grain elevator.

  It expanded as it went its way, and slammed into flesh an inch above the buckle on the cartridge belt of one hard case. He jolted forward in reaction to his wound, and lurched through the window sash. His startled companion had only a moment to hear the agonized scream, as Smoke Jensen put out his lights for all time with a hot lead snuffer. The sniper’s body jerked backward and out of view.

  “That was close,” Jeff observed.

  “They never got off a shot,” Smoke reminded him.

  Halfway down the next block, four men ranged across the street. They had a variety of mismatched weapons, which spoke for their lack of expertise. What they lacked in knowledge they made up for in courage—or foolishness. All four entered the dance with blazing six-guns.

  Smoke Jensen downed one easily, and heard the nearby crack of a bullet that sailed past his head. He lined his sights on another as two more weapons opened up through windows on the second floor above the general mercantile. He made a quick shot at his target, missed, and swung the muzzle of the Winchester upward. Three rounds levered through the Winchester silenced one of the hidden assassins. From behind Smoke the six-gun of Tallpockets roared and spat flame.

  “They ain’t gonna do any back-shootin’,” the lanky Arizona Ranger remarked casually.

  “We have to get to the Exchange Hotel fast,” Smoke urged. “Every minute puts the Tuckers in more danger.”

  “Was I doin’ it,” Tallpockets drawled, “I’d get me away from here an’ come at ’em from behind. Let me an’ the boys take care of Main Street.”

  Smoke smiled broadly. “I appreciate the offer, Tallpockets. And I’ll take you up on it. Jeff, Walt, and I will take this alley and come at the hotel from the back door.”

  “Three of you gonna be enough?” Tallpockets asked, then he looked over the trio indicated, grunted, and answered his own question. “I reckon so.”

  The street fighting grew fiercer as the outlaw scum and bounty-hungry drifters realized a major push was on against them. The way they saw it, they had to stand their ground; they simply had no way to go and no money to take them there. While they hotted up the battle, Smoke, Jeff, and Walt darted down an alleyway and turned into the one that paralleled the main street. Three blocks to the hotel, and no way of knowing how many of Benton-Howell’s gunhands they would encounter.

  They made it only a block, and ran into half a dozen desperate men forted up in the rear of the saddler’s shop. Lead flew thick and fast. Smoke Jensen felt a searing pain just below the point of his right shoulder, and cut his eyes to a ragged tear in the cloth of his shirt. Another fraction of an inch, and he’d be dripping blood again. Suddenly one of the defenders showed enough head for a clear shot.

  Smoke took it with his old .44. The hat of the hard case flew off as his head snapped back. His eyes glazed as he sagged to the floor. A pair of boot heels could be heard pounding on the floorboards, headed for the front. That slackened the fire enough for Jeff York to dart along the alley, past the shop. From that angle, he poured fire into the back of the saddlery. Smoke and Walt did the same.

  A couple of yowls of pain came from the interior. Then the firing lessened. A table, hastily put in place to barricade the back door, slid noisily across the floor. Nervous sounding, a voice called to them.

  “That does it. We give up! We’re coming out.”

  Smoke Jensen knew the darkness served as an ally to the dangerous men inside. He set himself and responded, “Come out one at a time. Hands in sight.”

  “Sure—sure. Don’t shoot us, huh?”

  A moment later the door opened, and a man’s silhouette appeared in the frame. He advanced, hands at shoulder height, palms forward. So far, so good. Another man followed a moment later. When the body of the first to surrender blocked the view, the second man reached forward and yanked a hidden six-gun from the small of his partner’s back. He threw a shot in the general direction of Smoke Jensen.

  And died for his treachery. Smoke drilled him through the left eye. Bleating his nonexistent innocence, the first man went to his knees. The three lawmen ignored him for the moment, and concentrated on the others. A trio of rounds sped through the doorway, and the others came out so docile that one would think they were in church.

  “That’s more like it,” Jeff York growled.

  They quickly trussed up their prisoners and left them for the other Rangers to tend to. Of one accord, Smoke and his companions started off toward the hotel. Smoke found the back door first. He tried it, found it latched, and pondered their problem.

  “This isn’t going to be as easy as we thought,” he advised the others. “If we make any noise going in there, they just might kill Martha and the children.”

  * * *

  Whether by chance or design, the beleaguered gunfighters in the streets of Socorro drew back on the Exchange Hotel and the few build
ings immediately around it. There they rallied and put up a determined resistance. Without a foolish risk of life, the Arizona Rangers could not expose themselves to make a frontal assault. Gradually it became obvious to everyone that the battle had degenerated into a standoff.

  By one-thirty in the morning, only a few of the more aggressive individuals took potshots at their counterparts. Another problem presented itself, brought to the attention of Smoke Jensen by Walt Reardon.

  “We’ve got more prisoners than places to put them. Blowin’ out that wall weren’t such a good idea. That drunk tank could hold an easy twenty, twenty-five.”

  Smoke thought a moment. “Go to the Tinto Range Supply. There should be some barbed wire there. Use all you need to crisscross that opening like a spiderweb. Then put some men to guarding it. Some of the Tucker hands should be fine for that. They aren’t getting paid to be shot at. Jeff and I will hold the fort here.”

  “Mighty interestin’ idea. Just might work.” Walt scooted out of there.

  Within half an hour, prisoners had begun to be shifted from the grain bins of the livery into the holding cell of the jail. The first ones inside stared in stunned disbelief at what appeared to be a gaping hole in the wall.

  “C’mon, boys, let’s make a break for it,” Wink Winkler muttered to those nearest to him. He made a dash for the opening, only to be caught in midair on the all but invisible strands of barbed wire. He howled in agony and thrashed awhile, until he realized he only made it worse.

  “Never did like that damned stuff,” one hard-faced gunman remarked.

  “Been more than one war fought over it,” another agreed.

  “Git me down offa here,” Winkler wailed.

  “Sure, but it’ll smart some.”

  “You get close to that wire, and I’ll blow your head off,” a voice from outside said.

  “Do something, get me off of here!” Wink Winkler wailed on the verge of hysteria.

  “Reckon I could shoot you, to put you out of your misery,” the Tucker wrangler suggested.

  * * *

  Morning brought no change in the stalemate. It also did not provide any easy access into the hotel. Smoke Jensen left Jeff York and three Arizona Rangers to watch the back exit to the Exchange Hotel, while he scouted for ideas. He found a possible solution within a block of the two-story structure.

  He also received some bad news. Simms, one of the Rangers, came upon Smoke while he was trying to drag a tall ladder out of a litter of barrels and boxes outside the back of a store. The bantam rooster of a lawman announced that he sought Jeff York.

  “Jeff ’s at the Exchange Hotel back door.”

  “We’ve got more troubles,” Simms replied. “Durin’ the night, more of this border scum drifted into town. Seems as how they got us caught between the ones we’ve corralled, and themselves.”

  Smoke Jensen gave it only a moment’s thought. Using the ladder to scale to the second floor windows at the back of the hotel would have to wait. “When you’re surrounded, there’s only one thing to do.”

  “Surrender?” Simms asked doubtfully.

  “Where’ve you been all your life? What we’re going to do is attack in both directions at once.” Smoke set off immediately to inform Jeff.

  * * *

  Eyes glazed with blood lust, the newcomers to Socorro sensed an easy kill. They moved in on the thin line of Rangers with weapons in hand. Their shock was complete then, when half of the lawmen turned on them and opened fire, while the remainder yelled chillingly and charged buildings to either side of a large hotel. The rapid-fire crackle of rifles and six-guns drowned out the exclamations of consternation.

  Three of the hard cases went down in a hail of bullets. Two ran toward the partial shelter of an alleyway, only to be met with the flat report of a shotgun. A scythe of buckshot kicked them off their boots. Writhing in the dirt, their multiple wounds gradually went numb.

  Few among their fellow gunfighters took notice, as the downed gunhawks lost their struggle to hold on to life. After a moment of stunned inactivity, the remaining fast guns released a ragged volley of their own. By then the astonished defenders inside the buildings nearest the Exchange Hotel found themselves overwhelmed by the surprise assault. Smoke Jensen led the way into the dry goods store.

  Smoke’s .44 barked with authority, as he jumped through a shattered window and pushed aside a mannequin in the display case. It bounced off a rack of dresses, and a member of Quint Stalker’s gang used its distracting motion to cover his move to get Smoke Jensen.

  Rising up, he swung the muzzle of his Colt into line with Smoke, only to find himself staring down a long, black tunnel to the afterworld. Smoke Jensen fired first. Hot lead released a thunderous pain in the chest of the outlaw, who slammed backward to upend over an island of discounted women’s shoes. High-top button creations in uniform black flew in three directions.

  When the powder smoke cleared, Smoke Jensen saw his man lying still in death. “Put some men in place to hold this window,” Smoke told the nearest Ranger.

  Numbers began to tell. Doing the unexpected had gained the Rangers the dubious shelter of two wooden frame buildings, only to be pinned down by concentrated fire from outside. Several of the lawmen gave fleeting thought to how Benton-Howell’s defenders in the hotel must have felt. Smoke Jensen took a quick mental inventory.

  It didn’t look good. Not counting those who broke through the ring of guns in the hands of the newly arrived hard cases, he could account for only some seven men not wounded or dead among the Rangers. They still faced some thirty or more guns. He had to find a way into the hotel. In memory, the ladder beckoned.

  “Can you hold them here?” Smoke asked of Tallpockets.

  He received a curt nod. “Don’t know how long, but we’ll do our best. Jeff an’ the other boys should be hittin’ ’em from behind soon. What’er you gonna do?”

  “Get in that hotel.” Not waiting for a response from the Arizona Ranger, Smoke headed for the rear of the shop.

  A small loading dock behind the dry goods store could be accessed by three heavy plank steps. Smoke Jensen didn’t waste time on them. A small shock ran up his legs when his boots hit the ground. He turned right and soon located the ladder. Fighting a sense of being too late, he lugged the heavy wooden object back to the hotel. Smoke leaned it against the clapboard siding of the hotel under a window. Colt in one hand, he started upward.

  When he reached a position below the sash, Smoke Jensen crouched and removed his hat. He held it in his left hand, while he raised his head and six-gun to peer inside. The room was empty. Smoke suddenly realized that he had been holding his breath. Stale air gusted out of his lungs, and he drew in a fresh draught. He tried the window, but it had been secured by a slide latch.

  No time for finesse. Smoke cracked the lower center pane of glass, and reached through to slide the bar out of place. Then he raised up the lower half of the sash. He climbed into the room without incident. He crossed the room in four long strides, and paused at the door.

  Smoke strained his keen hearing to gauge the unknown surroundings outside. At first he heard nothing, yet caution urged him to open the door only a crack. His first glance of the hallway showed him some ten gunmen lounging around, worried looks on their faces. Then all hell broke out on the street in front of the hotel.

  25

  Jeff York levered rounds through the Winchester in a blur of speed, as he advanced on the hard cases milling in the street. One of the steadier of the band of thugs placed a round close enough to put Jeff down behind a full watering trough. He hunched forward on his elbows and took aim at one gunhawk’s left kneecap. The Winchester bucked, and the man screamed as he went down.

  But he was not out of the fight. His six-gun cracked and brought a shower of splinters from the trough. Stinging pinpricks on his face told Jeff that the man could definitely shoot. His next round ended the contest with the border ruffian doubled over his perforated intestines. Jeff sought another target.
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  He had all too many, Jeff reflected on the situation. Enough that they were no longer intimidated by gunfire from the Rangers. They gathered their ranks and actually began to advance. A shirtless ruffian bounded out of the barbershop two doors down from Jeff, and raised a Smith and Wesson American to blast the life from the Arizona Ranger.

  Jeff saw him first and put the last round from his Winchester through the small white button, third down on the front of the thug’s red, longhandle underwear top. His mouth formed a black oval in his shaving cream–lathered face, and he did a pratfall on the boardwalk. His weapon discharged upward and shattered one square pane of glass in a streetlight. Dead already, he didn’t feel the shards that pierced his scalp and chest. Three more popped up seemingly out of nowhere.

  Screams of rage reached Jeff ’s ears a moment before he heard the distinctive yowl of a coyote. The voices of several desert birds joined, then came the thunder of hooves. Jeff York looked behind him to see seven riders, hugging low on the necks of their horses, rumbling toward the center of the fight.

  Bands of red and yellow cloth fluttered from the fore-stocks of three rifles, and he saw the sharp curve of a bow a moment before an arrow flashed overhead and buried its point in the stomach of a would-be gunfighter not five feet from where Jeff lay.

  Cuchillo Negro and six of his warriors had come through at a crucial time. They pounded down on the suddenly disorganized outlaws, and brought swift death with them. Several of the wiser among the hirelings of Benton-Howell took off running toward the nearest empty saddle. They took flight in utter panic, leaving all possessions behind. Others chose to fight it out.

  They got a poor bargain for it. Hot lead laced the street from both Ranger positions. Black Knife operated his trapdoor Spencer with cool, smooth expertise. Round after round of lethal .56 caliber slugs smacked into flesh. One gunhawk went down with two Apaches swarming over him, knives flashing silver, then crimson in the sunlight.