Triumph of the Mountain Man Read online

  Eyes narrowed in her rage, Martha spat, “When Clifton discovers how you have treated me, he’ll have you horsewhipped.”

  “Ye’ve got the right of it, lass. He’s not got the balls to do it hisself.” Realization that Jensen’s taunt had struck home made her reminder even more unwelcome. “It’s well an’ good, it is, that ye know I’ll never be for carryin’ out me threats against you. That was for those dogs from town. Let them be worrin’ over it. But, between you an’ me—ah, an’ Lord, there’s somethin’ I’d love to have between you an’ me, there is—before this is over, I intend to get to know you better. Intimately better, if ye catch me meanin’?”

  Martha twisted her face into an expression of disgust. “I’ll see you in hell before that happens.”

  His smile bright as ever, so disarming it did not lend credibility to his words, Paddy Quinn spoke lightly as he started for her. “Will ye now? An’ what’s to stop me? All I need do is hoist them skirts and have at you with a will.”

  A sudden clatter from a carriage outside halted Quinn. He stopped, then took two hasty back steps. The next moment, Clifton Satterlee stormed through the askew doorway. His face flushed, Satterlee pointed a glove-covered forefinger at Quinn.

  “That lout of yours out there tells me that you have Martha Estes in here as a prisoner, trussed up like a Christmas goose.”

  Paddy gestured to his prisoner. As though jerked by a string, Satterlee took two steps toward the young woman, then turned on Quinn. “Release her. At once!” Then to Martha, “My dear, this is inexcusable. I’ll have you freed in a moment. And I promise you nothing like this will ever happen again. Where is Lupe?”

  Martha turned her cobalt gaze on Clifton. “She’s . . . being held someplace else.”

  Ice formed around the words of Clifton Satterlee. “Quinn, you will finish untying this young lady; then you will go and fetch her maid. And be certain that she has with her everything needed to restore Miss Martha to her usual loveliness.”

  Paddy Quinn had recovered himself enough to bark back. “She ran away from you, did you know that? I didn’t send men to take her, I didn’t. She went off with none other than Smoke Jensen.”

  Satterlee cut his eyes from Quinn to Martha. “Is that true?”

  “Yes and no. I left on my own. I encountered Mr. Jensen on the road, and he was to escort me here to Taos.” Hurrying to get it out before her nerve failed, Martha added, “I felt so terrible when I learned that the jewelry you gave me had been stolen. And that they were sacred objects to the Indians here. I wanted to do what I could to make amends.”

  Satterlee’s anger found a new source. “Lies. Jensen must have told you that. It is not true. Trust me in that.”

  Martha clenched her jaw a moment, then braved it out. “I talked with a young Indian policeman who identified the necklace I wore . . . when they visited in Santa Fe.”

  “A copy perhaps,” Satterlee suggested.

  Martha held her own. “They do not make copies.”

  Satterlee took another tack. “Come, my dear. Let’s put all that behind us. I am so relieved to find you safe and sound.”

  “Not so safe, nor so sound, if that one had his way,” Martha challenged.

  Clifton Satterlee rounded on Quinn again. “I thought I gave you an order. Now do it.”

  “You may regret this, Mr. Satterlee,” Quinn muttered softly while he undid Martha’s bonds.

  Satterlee winced as though the threat had hit home. In that instant, after her release, Martha bounded upright and made a break for the door. Before Satterlee could react, Quinn passed him in a flash and snagged Martha by one arm.

  “Not so fast, me fine colleen.”

  Martha did not resign herself so easily. She clawed at Paddy Quinn, scratched his cheek and neck, kicked him in the shins and pounded one small fist on his chest. While she struggled, Clifton Satterlee took it in with an astonished, bemused expression. Martha tried to knee Paddy in the crotch, and he hurled her against a wall.

  All fight left her as she slammed painfully into the adobe blocks. Shoulders slumped, she faced the two men like an animal at bay. Her chest heaved from her exertion, and her face had turned a pale white. Clifton Satterlee studied her with new eyes.

  At last he spoke. “Perhaps I have been hasty. I may have misjudged you, Mr. Quinn. Yes, I think I far underrated Martha’s spirit. It seems that for the time being, you will have to detain her forcibly if she persists in such unbecoming activity.”

  Paddy Quinn touched fingers to his cheek. They came away bloody. Then he saluted his employer with a tap to the brim of his hat. “I’ll see to it right away, that I will.” Before departing, he added, “When that is done, there are some changes I want to discuss with you as to the taking of the town of Taos.”

  22

  Shortly before the hour deadline, Smoke Jensen came to Santan Tossa with a suggestion. “I want you to gather your warriors. Have them start to drum and sing, do a war dance out in plain view of Quinn’s gang.”

  A huge grin spread on the mahogany face of the Tua. “We haven’t done a war dance in fifty years. This will be a true pleasure. We’ll make it look very bloodthirsty indeed. Lots of howls, leaping in the air, swinging war clubs and knives.” He went off, gleefully listing loudly the terrorizing features they would use.

  Twenty minutes later, a drum began to throb in the outskirts of Taos. Tua warriors started to prance and stomp in a circle around a large fire. High, thin voices chanted the challenge to fight and die to all who could hear. Knife blades flashed in the sunlight. The drum beat louder. Some among the outlaws became visibly uncomfortable. Several exchanged knowing glances. They had heard the rumors about scalping.

  Some few did not want to test it further. Two drifters, who had joined up for the fun the siege promised, went for their horses. They rode off five minutes later. Five minutes later, three more, who were not part of the gang, held a whispered conference, nodded agreement and left for other parts.

  A grinning Santan Tossa waved a lighthearted farewell to Smoke Jensen as Smoke eased himself into the gorge that contained the streambed and set off to locate Martha Estes and her maid.

  * * *

  Smoke followed the creek upstream to the southwest until well past the ring of outlaws. Then he led Cougar up out of the ravine and mounted. Carefully he worked his way back toward the siege lines. He left Cougar behind a screen of young palo verdes and proceeded afoot. Bent double, he presented a far diminished profile to any eyes that might look outward, instead of toward town. There would be few places where Martha might be kept, he reasoned. With silent determination, he set about eliminating those.

  Ten minutes went by. Smoke found himself on a small produce farm. No doubt the Mexican owner sold to the general store in Taos, and to others who happened by. Yes, there, beyond the work sheds, barn and house, a palapa had been erected over a stairstepped set of shelves. Baskets of peppers and fresh vegetables lined them. Two small boys, under the age of thirteen or so, kept watch and called out to passersby.

  Making little sound in his moccasins, Smoke eased his way up to the side of one shed. The sound of splashing water came from within. Women’s voices came from inside, chattering in Spanish over the latest gossip. Smoke’s command of the language, slight at best, had not improved over years of non-use. Even so, he made out a number of juicy items.

  “Raquel is going to have a baby,” one woman revealed as she energetically sloshed a bowl of red and green jalapeno peppers in a tub of water to remove the red-brown dust.

  “How can that be?” asked a much younger, more innocent voice. “She is not even married.”

  “Sí, esto es verdad. She has no husband, but she has a baby.”

  “Padre Domingo says that is a sin.” Smoke could almost see the blush her words produced.

  “That is true, little one. And you will promise your mother that you will never, ever do what it takes to make a baby . . . until you are safely married.”

  Another woma
n brought a change of subject. “I hear that Juanita Sanchez is going to marry that Guerrero boy.”

  “Which one?” several asked.

  “Mateo, I think. Or is it Raul? No, it is Enrique.”

  “Carlos Guerrero has nine sons. How can you tell which one?”

  A titter came from the youngest. “It’s not Ricardo. He’s only ten.”

  A superior sounding voice discounted that. “What difference does that make? My sister, Esperanza, was married at twelve.”

  A snippy voice followed a nasty laugh. “Everyone knows she had to. It was that Dominguez boy, although she married Sancho Valdez.”

  A wounded squeal came from the defender of early weddings. “Cow.”

  “Pig.”

  “¡Bruja!” her target spat, then repeated, “Witch!”

  “Ladies, please,” a matronly woman commanded. “We are here to work, is that not true? Someone hand me some of those squash.”

  Grinning, Smoke moved on. Small wonder that men who owned businesses preferred not to hire women. The metallic screech of metal against stone directed Smoke to another shack. The farmer sat under a thatch palapa, working a peddle-power whetstone to sharpen a machete. Smoke coughed softly to attract the man’s attention.

  “¿Sí, señor?”

  “Have any of the ladrónes around Taos come around here?” Smoke asked. When the man shook his head in the negative, Smoke tried another. “Have you seen any of them taking a young woman somewhere?”

  Another shake of his head, then, “¡Ay, sí! Early this morning, I was turning water into my corn. Two men rode over toward the old Olivera place. They had a woman with them. She did not look happy.”

  Smoke nodded in satisfaction. “That’s the one. Thank you, señor.”

  Then Smoke asked for and was given directions to the Olivera farm. He headed that way on foot. He had covered half a mile when he came upon the first of several layers of lookouts. Smoke skirted the man easily and continued on. The second one proved not so simple to evade.

  He sat his mount, alertly searching the surrounding terrain. From time to time, he stood in his stirrups and peered beyond low obstructions. Smoke, clad in buckskin, hugged the ground. The man’s diligence and regularity became his undoing. After carefully timing the outlaw’s routine, Smoke was ready when a missed gaze beyond the low brow behind which Smoke waited signaled a change. He came up and moved out in a split second.

  Habit had outweighed diligence. The man had his head down, intent on rolling a cigarette. Smoke leaped and landed on him like a stone statue. Tobacco flakes flew everywhere. Dragged from the saddle, the outlaw landed heavily with Smoke on top. Rancid breath shot out of his twisted mouth. His lungs empty, it took only a hard right to the jaw by Smoke Jensen to put him asleep. Smoke quickly tied him and hurried on.

  Another watcher lounged in the doorway of a partially fallen in adobe house. Smoke froze and sank to the ground. For five long minutes he studied the man who leaned against the doorframe. He looked bored. He also looked sleepy. Another minute passed, and the thug abruptly jerked awake, stepped out of the shade and paced to each corner of the building, Winchester held at the ready. He looked around the wall and returned to his position. Once more he slouched.

  Such kind were dangerous, Smoke reasoned. If the hunch hit him at the wrong time, he might see someone sneaking up on him. Smoke inched his way behind a rock ridge and circled widely around the crumbling structure. He came at the adobe building from the rear.

  Through a small, high window he had a clear view of the interior. Across the single room, he saw a large loft, obviously where the family slept when they lived here. In the middle of the room he noted a small table. Seated at two sides of it were Martha and her maid. They had been tied tightly to their chairs. To one side, Smoke observed Paddy Quinn and two of his men in the room conferring quietly. The bad news became immediately obvious.

  There wouldn’t be time enough to take out Quinn and his fast guns and free both women. This small farm lay too close to the ring of outlaws. Any exchange of gunfire would draw two dozen gunmen in seconds. He could not free them, yet he had a firm belief that Satterlee would not want her harmed. What happened next reinforced that attitude. Quinn’s voice raised suddenly, and Smoke listened carefully to each word.

  “You’re right, Huber. These two are poison. I think we can get away with it if we do it that way, I do. We just take ’em out in the desert and lose them somewhere.”

  At once, Martha snapped hotly at him. “Clifton will have you gelded if you actually go through with killing me. You heard what he said when he had you bring my maid here.”

  That was news to Smoke. The criminal overlord was here now. That gave him some fresh ideas. Quietly he slipped away, headed back for Cougar and a ride to town.

  * * *

  Never one to take strict notice of exact time, Smoke Jensen found himself eying the big, octagonal face of the Regulator wall clock that hung on the wall of the sheriff’s office. When the hour deadline arrived, he strode out to where Quinn had confronted them earlier. It did not surprise Smoke when he found none of the outlaws present. Particularly, Smoke noted, no torturers and no Martha Estes. In the next instant, he learned why.

  Rifle fire broke out on two sides of town. With shouts and curses, the outlaw gang opened an attack on Taos in earnest. Smoke could not understand why the entire force that ringed the defenders did not press the engagement. He needn’t have speculated. Smoke had no sooner than reached the line of houses that defined the city limits than riders thundered down the slope where he and Diego had met with Quinn. They opened fire as the range closed.

  Immediately, Smoke ducked behind a low adobe wall and drew a .45 Colt. Two .44 slugs slammed into the outer face of the brown mud bricks, which sent a plume of dust upward to obscure Smoke’s vision. He triggered a round, and a hard case cried out in pain, his right arm limp and useless. That concentrated more fire on Smoke’s position. He could not stay in such an exposed place for long, Smoke reasoned.

  * * *

  Sheriff Hank Banner sat propped up in bed by rolled blankets and plump pillows. At his insistence, Dr. Walters had rolled the bed over close to a window. Now he stood in exasperation at his patient’s request.

  “I’ll do no such a thing, Hank Banner,” the physician snapped, his well-scrubbed hands clasped in front of him.

  “Awh, come on, Adam. We’ve got the fight of our lives goin’ on out there, and I ain’t in it. Hell, man, even you’ve got a six-gun strapped on.”

  “That’s to protect my patients and my medical equipment,” Dr. Walters responded testily.

  “You gave Pedro Alvarado a rifle. All I’m askin’ is you get me one, too.”

  Unmoved by the argument, Adam Walters answered primly. “Pedro is thirty years younger than you, Hank, and he’s ambulatory. Besides, how are you going to operate a Winchester from that bed?”

  Bushy eyebrows knit over his nose, Banner grumped at the doctor. “Easy if you’ll give me a rifle and open the damned window. I mean it now, Adam. I can see out of both eyes now, and things ain’t so fuzzy I’d shoot one of the town folks. I’m the sheriff, and by damn, it’s my duty to help defend the people out there.”

  Dr. Walters knew that Hank was right. But he was his friend, and Adam Walters did not want to see Hank Banner taking unnecessary risks in his weakened condition. While his thoughts roamed over that little dilemma, Dr. Walters heard a light smack and the musical tinkle of falling glass. The bullet cracked loudly when it struck the wall opposite the window.

  “Goldag it, Adam. That does it. If they’re shootin’ at me, I’ve got the right to shoot back.”

  Sighing, Dr. Walters turned from the infirmary and entered his treatment room. From there he proceeded to the office, where he picked up a Winchester and a box of cartridges. He returned to the room where the sheriff continued to fume at the attackers. Adam’s face wore a sheepish expression.

  “Here. And try not to shoot yourself in the leg.”
The doctor busied himself with opening the sash. From the end window, which faced the alley behind the building, a rifle barked in the hands of Pedro Alvarado.

  * * *

  For all the fury of their resistance, small groups of Quinn’s outlaw band penetrated the defenders’ barricades. Six of them from the west side of town headed directly for the center. They made their approach by way of one of the radiating alleys that formed an X based on the Plaza de Armas. To reach their goal, they had to go past the window where young Pedro Alvarado waited with a ready Winchester. The moment one of them came into view, he immediately regretted his hastiness.

  Fiery agony spread in his leg as Pedro put a round into his hip. The outlaw fell at once and painfully crawled, crablike, toward the shelter of a doorway. Pedro fired again, ending the thug’s movement forever. As his life ebbed from him, the hard case faintly heard the voices of his comrades.

  “Up there.”

  “Yeah, I see him. In that window.”

  Funny, the dying rogue thought, I didn’t hear any shots. He did not hear the return fire as his fellow outlaws opened up and darkness engulfed him.

  Up in the infirmary, Pedro Alvarado flattened himself on the floor as a rat-a-tat of slugs punched through the thin wall. Glass shattered in the window above him. The moment a lull came, Pedro popped up and sighted on one of the five. The .44 Winchester recoiled smoothly, and the target clutched his chest and slammed back against a wall. Pedro got off another round before he had to dive for the floor again.

  * * *

  Ian MacGreggor held his own from his second-floor room in the hotel. He had been on town patrol duty during the night and had returned to grab a few hours’ sleep only to have the attack break out after only forty minutes’ rest. Over his sights, he saw one hard case, who appeared to be directing the actions of a dozen others in a push to breach the defenses to the south of town. A long shot for a rifle, but Mac retained the confidence of youth.

  He elevated his aim to the maximum and fired. After what seemed a terribly long time, the section leader jerked in his saddle, then slowly folded forward at the waist. He clung to his horse for a moment, then dropped away to land in a puff of dust on the hard ground. Mac levered another round into his Winchester and sought another target. He found one much closer than he would have liked.