Power of the Mountain Man Page 5

  “Considerin’ your fondness for ornery tricks, Walt, it couldn’t be that maybe you thought up some of those nasty traps?”

  Walt Reardon pulled a face. “Rip, you wound me. Though I confess, it was my idea to gather up them yeller-jacket nests in the night whilst they was restin’, and flang gunnysacks full in among the sleepin’ outlaws.” He clapped his hands in approval. “They folks danced around right smartly.”

  Under the direction of Smoke and Walt, several large snares and a deadfall were rigged on the trail they left. “We’ll cut south a ways now,” Smoke suggested. “If I was making a way through these hills, I reckon I’d pick me a way through that pair of peaks yonder. Looks like a natural pass to me.”

  “You’ve got a hell of an eye, Smoke,” said Walt admiringly.

  * * *

  Sheriff Jake Reno heard a faint twang, a second before a leafy sapling made a swishing rush through the air and cleaned two possemen off their mounts. One’s boot heel caught in the stirrup, and the frightened horse he had been riding set off at a brisk run along the trail. The man’s screams echoed off the high sandstone walls that surrounded them.

  Not for long, though, as his head plocked against a boulder at the side of the narrow passageway, and he lost consciousness. Wide-eyed and pale, the sneering clerk lost some of his cockiness. He cut his eyes to the sheriff and worked a mouth that made no sound for a moment.

  “What was that?”

  “A trap, you dummy. Nobody move an inch, hear?” The sheriff’s advice proved wise indeed. The riders cut their eyes around the terrain and located two more of Smoke Jensen’s surprises: a deadfall and another swing trap. Reno ordered the men to dismount and search on foot. That worked well enough, until a second swoosh of leaves and a startled scream froze them in place.

  Jake Reno found himself looking up at a man suspended some ten feet off the ground, his ankles securely held in a rope snare. “Just like a damn rabbit,” the lawman grumbled. “Some of you get him down. We’ll stick to the center of the trail. Walk your mounts. And . . . keep a sharp eye, or you’ll be swingin’ up there next . . . or worse.”

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen stood looking south at the summit of a natural pass through the Cibola Range, and studied the land beyond. “I figure that bought us a good three hours. It appears to me there’s a small box canyon about a half hour’s ride along this trail. We’ll camp there for the night.”

  From that point on, Smoke and his wranglers took care to hide their tracks. Walt Reardon took the rear slot with a large clump of sagebrush, which he used to wipe out their prints on soft ground. They reached the overgrown entrance to the side canyon in twenty minutes. Smoke went ahead and made sure they could navigate the narrow passage without leaving obvious signs of their presence. At the back of the small gorge, they found a rock basin of water, cool and clear. Called a tank in these parts, from the original Spanish designation of tanque, this natural water reservoir had saved many a life on the barren deserts of the Southwest.

  Some, like this one, were even big enough to swim in. Of course, Smoke advised his ranch hands, that would have to wait until they and the horses had drunk their fill, and used all they needed for cooking.

  “Though I don’t mind leavin’ behind some dirt for the good Sheriff Reno to swallow,” he concluded with a chuckle.

  Ty Hardy and Walt Reardon set about locating pine cones and dry wood to make a nearly smokeless fire. Smoke figured they had a good three hours in which to prepare food for that night and the next morning. Once well accustomed to the outlaw life, Walt Reardon had prepared well, stuffing their saddlebags with coffee beans, flour, sugar, salt, side pork, and dry beans. Smoke got right down to mixing dough for skillet bread. Resembling a giant biscuit, baked over coals in a cast-iron skillet, and sealed with the lid of a Dutch oven, it was served in pie wedges. Not as tasty as the flaky biscuits Smoke’s lovely wife, Sally, made, but it would serve, and could be eaten hot or cold. Rip Banning watched intently, until Smoke sent him for water for the Dutch oven to soak beans. Rip returned with a broad, boyish grin.

  “Found me a bee tree. It’s jam-packed with honey. Reckon it’ll go good on that skillet bread.”

  Smoke cocked an eye on him. “How you reckon on getting that honey without having an argument with the bees?”

  “Why, I’ll just smoke . . . uh . . . dumb of me, huh? Can’t drowse ’em out with a big ol’ puff of pearly white that’d let the sheriff know where we’d gone.”

  “You’re learnin’. We’ll just have to forego the honey tonight. And,” Smoke continued, “I’m appointin’ you to make sure all fires are well out before sundown.”

  “Make the lesson stick, huh?”

  “You got the right of it, Rip.”

  Walt returned from his last trip for wood with four plump squirrels. Excitement filled Rip Banning. “We’re gonna feast. How’d you git ’em without firing a shot, Walt?”

  Walt made light of it, but could not avoid a tiny brag. “I come up on them, frolickin’ on the ground. So I just locked eyes and mesemer . . . mesariz . . .”

  “Mesmerized,” Smoke provided.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I done stared them down.”

  Rip nodded with youthful enthusiasm, then produced a frown over his green eyes. “Squirrels are hard to dress out.”

  Walt gestured with his russet-furred contribution to dinner. “That’s why you’re cleaning all of ’em.”

  “Awh, Walt—”

  “You fixin’ to sink a tooth into one of ’em, you can do the honors.”

  They tasted delicious, roasted over the fire, helped along with skillet bread, thick beans, wild onions, and watercress from the tank. Half an hour before sundown, Rip poured water on the fire, raked the ashes, and distributed the stones that had formed the fire ring. With muttered good-nights, Smoke and the two older hands rolled up in their blankets and fell into deep sleep. Rip, being youngest, had the first watch. He would wake Walt for second shift, who in turn would roll out Ty Hardy. Smoke took the last trick, usually the most likely for a surprise attack.

  * * *

  Setting down the empty tin cup, Sheriff Jake Reno wiped a drop of coffee off one thick lip and rested the hand on the swell of his belly. He was beginning to suspect that they had taken the wrong trail. This one led nowhere, if he recollected correctly. It would take them half a day to cross south over the ridges between them and the pass that led to the great inner valley of the Cibola Range. There they could get reinforcements and resupply at Datil, or further on at Horse Springs.

  Provided, of course, that Smoke Jensen didn’t get there first and tie up with some local guns. That could get nasty. The heavy breakfast the sheriff had eaten rumbled in his gut. Oh, lord, all he needed was to work up a burnin’ stomach. Those damned traps set out by Jensen had cost them half a day. Just thinking about them put him in a stew.

  “Herkermer, I want you to round up a dozen of the boys and take the shortest route to Cristoforo Pass. I got me a feelin’ we’re in the wrong part of the Cibolas.”

  “The trail led us northwest,” Herkermer protested. “Besides, the shortest way is the longest. All them ridges to climb.”

  “You’ll pick up speed goin’ down the other sides,” Reno snapped back.

  “What’ll you be doing in the meantime?”

  “Look, Herkermer, I’m runnin’ this posse, not you. We’ll be havin’ a look-see at this trail; the canyons yonder link up, make for hard goin’, but a body can get through. We have to be certain which way Jensen went. Then we’ll join you in Datil. I’ve a hunch Jensen is makin’ for the main part of the range.”

  “He’d sure have to know a hell of a lot about the country for him to figger that out,” Payne Finney said obstinately, the pain in his side making him more irritable than usual.

  “What’s to say he don’t have a map, you ninny? Those buckshot holes is makin’ you dizzy-headed. Truth to tell, you ain’t in fit condition to ride with us. I think I’m goin’ to s
end you back to Socorro with a message for some certain gentlemen.”

  “Our mutual employers, you mean,” Payne prompted nastily. “Suits me. I ain’t feelin’ all that whippy, nohow.”

  “You tell ’em where we are and what we’re doin,” was the sheriff’s command.

  You’re splittin’the posse, an’ makin’ a fool of yerself, Payne Finney thought silently. He knew only too well how damned dangerous Smoke Jensen could be. Goddamn you, Smoke Jensen, Payne Finney vowed to himself, I’m gonna fix your clock sure as shootin’.

  * * *

  Geoffrey Benton-Howell and his partners already knew of the fiasco in the jail. Miguel Selleres and Dalton Wade fumed, while Geoffrey Benton-Howell tried to calm his partners and get some positive thoughts out of them about a bit of news just delivered. The bearer of the good tidings, Axel Gundersen, watched the two would-be tycoons vent their spleens with mild amusement. At last, he spoke into the silence after their tirade.

  “Ja, sure, Sir Geoffrey, it’s exactly like I say. The gold is there, true enough, hufda. Make no mistake about that. Some of it is exposed on the surface. The problem is getting it out.”

  Miguel Selleres rounded on him. “Hijo de la chingada! Make sense, Señor! Didn’t you just say that gold was to be found on the surface? What’s to make it difficult getting it out?”

  Gundersen drew a straight face and called on his ample knowledge of English idioms. “About eight hundred angry White Mountain Apache warriors, ja, sure.”

  “Ah . . . ummm, yes, Miguel. There is a small difficulty to get around the Apaches.”

  “What’s the problem in that?” Dalton Wade snapped.

  “The gold is on their land,” Geoffrey Benton-Howell reminded his listeners.

  “Land they’ve got no goddamned right to,” Wade thundered. “What do those stupid savages know about gold?”

  Benton-Howell tried a soft approach. “That we white men desperately want the yellow rocks, as they call the gold. That we go absolutely mad over possessing it.”

  Wade’s lip curled downward in a parody of a pout. “There you go. To those stinking Apaches, they are just rocks. If people can’t appreciate what they have on their land, it should be taken from them.”

  “Which we are in the process of doing. Here, take some brandy and relax. Well, Gundersen, you’ve done a fine job. Your compensation will be in keeping with your achievements.”

  “Ja, sure, I expected no less. Now all you need to do is follow through with the politicians.”

  * * *

  During the lonely hours of his watch, Smoke Jensen had thought through the situation in which he found himself. The previous day had been given over to surviving long enough to examine conditions and options. He announced the result of his deliberations over breakfast the next morning.

  “We’re going to split up.”

  “We done anything that don’t suit you?” Walt Reardon asked cautiously.

  “No, nothing like that. We can stick together and run that posse ragged, but in a way, that’s spinnin’ a wagon wheel over a gorge. Someone needs to get word to the Sugarloaf. Ty, I’m going to leave that up to you.”

  “I’d rather ride beside you, Smoke.”

  “I know you would. But Sally has to hear about this from someone on our side. Besides, it might be we’ll need help from the other hands, before this is over. Or from Monte Carson. He knows you; so does Sally. Walt, I want you and Rip to head back to Arizona. Contact Jeff York, the Ranger captain we sold those horses to. Tell him what’s going on, and ask if he knows what’s behind it.”

  “Want us to bring him here?”

  “Out of his jurisdiction, Walt. But if he offers, carry him along.”

  “I’ve got the feeling there’s gonna be hell to pay ’fore long.”

  Smoke came to his boots, put a hand on Walt’s shoulder. “You’re right. And I aim to see the ones payin’ it are Sheriff Reno and his posse. I’m headin’ on. Lead your horses up the trail a ways in the direction you’re going, then wipe out every sign of this camp.”

  Walt nodded curtly. “Keep a wall to your back, Smoke.”

  “I will, whenever I can, Walt.”

  * * *

  “Hell, this ain’t gettin’ us anywhere, Sheriff,” a disgruntled posseman complained.

  Jake Reno considered that a moment. “You’re right, Jim. We ain’t seen a sign of them in hours. Might be we’re following the wrong trail. What we need to do is fan out, follow ev’ry game and people path heading south. I know it in my bones that Smoke Jensen is headed toward Horse Springs. There’s a telegraph there, and he can get help if he wants it.”

  “What would any wanted man go into a town for?” Jim asked.

  “It’s not like he really kilt—” Reno realized what he was about to say and bit off the words.

  Two of the citizens of Socorro exchanged nervous glances. Doubt wrinkled the brows of several others.

  “Now, I want you to keep this in mind. This whole affair has gone too damn far. Check out everything that moves, and if you see Jensen, shoot to kill.”

  6

  Smoke Jensen ghosted through the trees in a low ground mist that had drifted in around three in the morning. Only his wranglers had left the northern slopes of the Cibola Range. Smoke had kept his place, expecting to catch Sheriff Jake Reno off guard. And he had.

  A crackle of brush made Smoke Jensen cut his eyes to the left. Only a second passed before he heard soft, murmured words from that direction. His keen vision marked the shapes of two heads, close together. The sheriff had been smart enough to put out pickets, but he hadn’t been too smart about who he had assigned the duty, Smoke reckoned. The mountain man had exchanged boots for moccasins earlier, and now moved with utter silence.

  Half a dozen carefully placed strides brought him up behind the unwary pair. One of the possemen had just fished the makin’s out of a vest pocket. When he started to roll a quirley, Smoke Jensen reached out with two big, hard hands to the sides of the duo’s heads, and slammed them together. He made quick work of binding their hands and feet with short lengths cut from a rope he had taken off another inattentive sentry earlier.

  Smoke stuffed the neckerchiefs of the unconscious men into their mouths. Satisfied with his work, he moved on. A surprisingly short distance inside the camp, he came upon a line of picketed horses. A reassuring pat on the muzzles of the critters gained their silence, while Smoke undid their reins from the tightly stretched lariat that served as an anchor. A sudden, cold thought speared at him: This was entirely too easy.

  “I figgered you’d come lookin’ for us. So, I left you a few tidbits to whet your appetite,” said Sheriff Reno, as he clicked back the hammer of his Smith and Wesson .44 American.

  Smoke Jensen turned his way and made a draw in one smooth motion. Jake Reno had never seen anything like it. One second he was looking at Smoke Jensen’s back; a split-second later, Jensen faced him, the black hole of a .44 muzzle settling in on the lawman’s belly. Without conscious direction, Reno’s body took over, flexed at the knees, and he flew backward into the sharp thorns of a clump of blackberry bushes. Smoke’s .44 roared and spat fire, before Reno could even think to trigger his.

  Hot lead cut a shallow trail across the upper curve of the sheriff’s buttocks. With wild squalls, the horses took off at a run, and so did Smoke Jensen.

  “Goddamnit, he’s shot me! Smoke Jensen’s shot me,” Jake Reno roared, more angry than hurt.

  Bent double, the famous gunfighter streaked along, parallel to the camp and at a right angle to the direction taken by the frightened critters. From behind, Smoke heard new, painful yelps from the sheriff, who was learning why any man with good sense sent his woman and kids out to pick berries.

  Sleepy cries of alarm rose from the disturbed camp. Men began to curse hotly, when they realized what the sound of pounding hooves meant. Smoke Jensen ignored them and forced his way through the underbrush to where he had left his mount. He’d give them some time to settle down
, he reasoned, then hit again about midnight.

  * * *

  Five of Quint Stalker’s gang, who had ridden with the posse, paused at the dark entrance to a side canyon. Not even the full moonlight could penetrate the gorge. Under the frosty starlight, they cut uncertain glances at one another.

  “Don’t know why the hell the sheriff wants us checkin’ this out in the middle of the night,” one complained.

  “Says he’s got a hunch. You ask me, it’s a little indigestion proddin’ his belly.”

  “Or his sore butt stingin’,” another opined.

  At the rear of the loose formation, the last man saw a brief flicker of movement right before his eyes. Then he let out a short, startled yelp, as the loop tightened and pinned his arms to his sides above the elbows. The others turned in time to see him disappear from the saddle.

  “What the hell!” the nominal leader exploded. “Hub! Where the hell are you?”

  But Hub wasn’t saying anything. He was too busy sucking on the barrel of a .44 in the hand of Smoke Jensen. Smoke gave an unseen nod of satisfaction and bent low to whisper in Hub’s ear.

  “You want to stay alive, you keep real quiet.” Smoke removed the steel tube from Hub’s mouth at the man’s energetic nod of agreement. “I’m going to tie your legs together and string you up in that tree.”

  “You said I could live,” Hub blurted in confusion and fear.

  “Upside down, idiot. And you will live, if you give me five minutes to get clear of this place. Then you can yell your fool head off.”

  Hub Peters had no problem believing everything Smoke Jensen told him. He felt the rope circle his ankles and the tension increase. The tight band around his chest eased off, and he swung free of the ground. His fear somewhat abated, he could again hear his companions.

  “D’you see that? Where in hell did he go?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s some more bad news from Smoke Jensen, count on it.”

  “We goin’ in after Hub?”