Power of the Mountain Man Page 7

  York and his Henry had put half a dozen outlaws on the floor, dead, dying, or badly hurt.

  The huge saloon was filled with gunsmoke, the crying and moaning of the wounded, and the stink of relaxed bladders from the dead. Dark gray smoke from the black powder cartridges stung the eyes and obscured the vision of all in the room . . .

  Oh, that had been a high old time all right, Smoke reflected. But it hadn’t ended there. Smoke had gone on back to the East to reclaim his beloved wife, Sally, who was busy being delivered of twins in the home of her parents in Keene, New Hampshire. Jeff York and Louis Longmont had accompanied him. And a good thing, too. Rex Davidson and his demented followers had carried the fight to Smoke. And it finally ended in the streets of Keene, with Rex Davidson’s guts spilled on the ground.

  The twins, Louis Arthur and Denise Nichole, were near to full grown now. They lived and studied in Europe. But that was another story, Smoke reminded himself as he gazed upon a smoky smudge on the horizon, far out on a wide mountain vale, vast enough to be called a plain.

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen rode into Horse Springs quietly. He attracted little attention from the locals, mostly simple farmers of Mexican origin. The place had been called Ollas de los Caballos, before the white man came. Near the center of town was a rock basin, fed by cold, crystal-clear, deep mountain springs. This natural formation provided drinking water for everyone in town. Fortunately for the farmers, a wide, shallow stream also meandered through the valley and allowed for irrigation of crops of corn, beans, squash, chili peppers, and other staples.

  Smoke splashed through it at a rail-guarded ford and saw at once that it also accommodated as a place of entertainment. Small, brown-skinned boys, naked as the day they had been born, frolicked in the water, the sun striking highlights off their wet skin. Clearly, they lacked any knowledge of the body taboo that afflicted most whites Smoke knew. For, when they took notice of the stranger among them, they broke off their play to stand facing him, giggling like a flock of magpies, and making shy, though friendly, waves of their hands.

  Returning their greetings, Smoke rode on to the center of town. On the Plaza de Armas, he located what passed for a hotel in Horse Springs. POSADA DEL NORTE—Inn of the North—had been hand-lettered in red, now faded pink, and outlined in white and green over the arch in an adobe block wall that guarded the building’s front.

  He dismounted and walked his horse through the tall, double-hung, plank gates into a tree-shaded courtyard. A barefoot little lad, who most likely would have preferred to be out at the creek with his friends, took the reins and led Smoke’s big-chested roan toward a stable. Smoke entered a high-ceilinged, remarkably cool hallway. To his right, a sign, likewise in Spanish, with black letters on white tile, advised: OFICINA.

  Smoke stepped through into the office and had to work mightily to conceal his reaction. Behind a small counter he saw one of the most strikingly beautiful young women he had ever encountered. Her skin, which showed in a generous, square-cut yolk, a graceful stalk of neck and intriguing, heart-shaped face, was flawless. A light cast of olive added a healthy glow to the faintest of café au lait complexions. Her dress had puffy sleeves, with lace at the edges, and around the open bodice, also in tiers over her ample bosom, and in ruffled falls down to a narrow waist. There, what could be seen of the skirt flared in horizontal gathers that reminded Smoke of a cascade.

  Her youthful lips had been touched with a light application of ruby rouge, and were full and promised mysteries unknown to other women. For a moment, raw desire flamed in the last mountain man. Then, reason—and his unwavering dedication to his lovely and beloved Sally—prevailed. Those sweet lips twitched in a teasing smile as the vision behind the registration desk acknowledged his admiring stare.

  “¿Yes, Señor? Do you desire a room for the night?”

  Her voice, Smoke Jensen thought, sounded like little tinkling bells in a field of daisies. “Uh . . . ummm, yes. For a week, at least.”

  “We are happy to be able to accommodate you, Señor. If you will please to sign the book?” When Smoke had done so, she continued her familiar routine of hospitality. “The rooms down here are much cooler, but the second floor offers privacy.”

  Accustomed to the refreshingly cool summer days in the High Lonesome, Smoke Jensen opted for a first-floor room. The beautiful desk clerk nodded approvingly and selected a key. She turned back to Smoke and extended a hand comprised of a small, childlike palm and slender, graceful fingers.

  “When Felipe returns with your saddlebags, he will show you to your room.”

  “I think I can manage on my own.”

  Her smile could charm the birds from the trees. “It is a courtesy of the Posada del Norte. We wish that our guests feel they are our special friends.”

  “I’m sure they do. I know that I—ah—ummm—do.” Silently, Smoke cursed himself for sounding like an adolescent boy in the presence of his first real woman. He was spared further awkwardness by the return of the little boy, Felipe.

  “Come with me, Señor,” the youngster said with a dignity beyond his nine or ten years.

  After Felipe had unlocked the door to No. 12 with a flourish and ushered him inside, Smoke pressed a silver dime into the boy’s warm, moist palm. Although fond of children, Smoke Jensen preferred to watch them from a distance; he recalled his first impression of this little lad and curiosity prompted him to speak.

  “Do you work here every day?”

  “Oh, sí, Señor, after school is over at media dia. It is my father’s posada.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be out swimming with your friends at the creek?”

  An impish grin lighted Felipe’s face. “After my early chores, I get to go for a while. Until the people come for rooms, and my father rings the bell to call me back. Sometimes. . . when I’m supposed to be cleaning the stable, I slip away and also go on adventures.”

  Smoke had to smile. “You remind me of my sons when they were your age.”

  Felipe blinked at him. “Did you run a posada? And were your sons Mexican?”

  A chuckle rumbled in Smoke’s chest. “No to both questions. But they were every bit as ornery as you. Now, get along with you.”

  * * *

  After Smoke had settled in, he strolled out to the central courtyard. The corridor that served the second floor overhung the edges of the patio, to form alcoves where tables were being set for the evening meal. More pretty Mexican girls draped snowy linen cloths at just the proper angle, while others put in place napkins, eating utensils, and terracotta cups and goblets. Next came clay pitchers that were beaded on the outside from the chilled spring water they held, and bowls of fiery Southwestern salsa picante. Experience in Arizona, Texas, and Mexico had taught Smoke that prudent use of the condiment added a pleasant flavor to a man’s food.

  Beyond the alfresco dining arrangements, a fountain splashed musically in the center of the courtyard. Desert greenery had been arranged in profusion, in rock gardens that broke up the open space and gave an illusion of privacy. On the fourth side of the patio, opposite his room, Smoke found a small cantina. Tiny round tables extended onto the flagstone flooring outside its door. Smoke entered and ordered a beer.

  It came in a large, cool, dark brown bottle. Smoke flipped the hinged metal contraption that held a ceramic stopper in place, and a loud pop sounded. Hops-scented blue smoke rose from the interior. Smoke took his first swallow straight from the bottle, then poured the remainder into a schooner offered by the cantinero.

  “You are new in town,” the tavern keeper observed.

  “Yep. Just rode in today.”

  “If you have been on the trail awhile, Señor, perhaps you are hungry for word of what is happening in the world. I will bring you a newspaper.”

  “Thank you,” Smoke responded, surprised and pleased by this shower of conviviality.

  It turned out to be a week-old copy of the Albuquerque Territorial Sentinel. Most of the front-page articles had to do with t
he financial panic in the East, and events in and around the largest city in the territory. Smoke read on. The second page provided at least part of the answer to his dilemma, although he did not realize it at the time.

  SURVEYORS

  TO LAYOUT

  WESTWARD ROUTE

  Bold black letters spelled out the caption of the story. Smoke Jensen scanned it with mild interest. It revealed that survey crews would soon arrive to begin laying out the right of way for a new spur of the Southern Pacific Railroad. It would pass through Socorro and head westward to connect with Springerville, Arizona; Winslow; and the copper smelters being built south and west of Show Low.

  Interesting, Smoke considered. If one had stock in the railroad, or the right copper works. But it didn’t seem nearly as relevant as the small article on the third page, which featured an artist’s sketch of Smoke’s own likeness, and a story about the supposed murder of Mr. Lawrence Tucker.

  From it, he gleaned that Tucker had been a longtime and respected resident of the Socorro area, with a large ranch on the eastern slopes of the Cibola foothills. He was survived by a wife, Martha, and three children, boys aged thirteen and seven and a girl nine. Tucker had been outspoken about the prospects of dry land farming, and used the techniques of the Mexican and Indian farmers, longtime residents of the area. He also advocated the protection of those fields by the use of barbed wire.

  Not a very popular position for a rancher to take, Smoke mused. It had been enough to get more than half a hundred men killed over the past decade. Maybe Mr. Tucker had enemies no one knew of? Maybe someone, like Sheriff Reno, knew only too damn well who those enemies might be? Smoke put his speculations aside, along with the paper, and finished his beer. Leaving money on the mahogany for the barkeep, he left to stroll the streets and get a feel for the town.

  It might be well to have a hidey-hole. The inn seemed a good one. Although, Smoke allowed, with his face in the newspapers, and no doubt on wanted posters by now, it would be better to lay low in Arizona, until he could piece together more information. He had done well to scatter that posse. And it might be necessary to go back and scatter another, if he were to have that time of peace.

  * * *

  Early on the afternoon of the third day in Horse Springs, Smoke began to feel uneasy. A week had gone by since they had ridden out of Socorro. By now he should have heard from Walt Reardon and Ty Hardy. He would give them a couple of more days and then head west. With that settled, he turned in through the open doorway of a squat, square building with a white-painted, stuccoed exterior.

  The odor of stale beer and whiskey fumes tingled his nose. No matter where in the world, or what it was called, Smoke mused, a saloon was a saloon. A chubby, mustachioed Mexican stood behind the bar, a once-white apron tight around his appreciable girth. Two white-haired, retired caballeros sat at a table, drinking tequila and playing dominoes. Smoke Jensen relaxed in this congenial atmosphere and eased up to the bar.

  “Do you have any rye?” he asked.

  “Bourbon or tequila.”

  “Beer then.”

  A large, foam-capped schooner appeared before him a few seconds later. The glass felt pleasantly cool to the touch. Smoke had grown to understand the inestimable value of the icy deep rock springs the town had been named for. Smoke drank deeply of the cold beer, and a rumble from his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since early that morning. He’d finish this and find a place to have a meal.

  “Jeremy, you don’t have the sense God gave a goose.” The loud voice drew Smoke’s attention to the entrance.

  “There you go again, Zack, bad-mouthin’ me. I tell you, that feller made it sound so downright good, I jist had to trade horses with him.”

  “Only it done turned out that he had two gray horses, the other one all swaybacked and spavined. Which he hung around your dumb neck.”

  “Awh, Zack, tain’t fair you go bully-raggin’ me about that all the time. Hell, cousin, it happened a month ago! That’s old news.”

  “It’s an old bunko game, too,” Zack replied dryly.

  Smoke Jensen marked them to be local range riders. But with a few differences, that could make them dangerous. For instance, the way they wore their six-guns, slung low on their legs, holsters tied down with a leather thong. The safety loops had been slipped free of the hammers. The weapons were clean and lightly oiled, all the cartridges in their loops shiny bright. No doubt, they fancied themselves good with their guns, Smoke surmised. They had silver conchos around the sweat bands of their hats, sewn on their vests, and down the outside seam of their left trouser legs.

  A regretful sigh broke from Smoke’s lips. Almost a uniform in the Southwest for young, tough-guy punks. Smoke faced the bar, head lowered, and tried not to draw their attention. The one called Zack looked hard at the big-shouldered man at the bar and turned away. Smoke finished his beer, the taste nowhere near as pleasant as it had been, and pushed off from the bar.

  Outside, he headed toward an eatery he had seen earlier. He had noticed a sign, hand-lettered on a chalkboard, that advertised HOY CARNITAS. His limited Spanish told him that that meant they were serving carnitas today. He had become acquainted with the savory dish while in Mexico to help two of his old gunfighter friends, Miguel Martine and Esteban Carbone. Thoughts of the succulent cubes of pork shoulder, deep fried over an open, smokey fire, brightened Smoke’s outlook considerably.

  He had finished off a huge platter of the “little meats,” with plenty of tortillas and condiments, and another beer, when he looked up from wiping the grease from his face and saw the same pair of salty young studs again. They stood in the middle of the street, hands on the butts of their six-guns, eyes fixed on the doorway of the bean emporium.

  At first, Smoke didn’t know if they had gotten so drunk that they couldn’t figure how to get in the eatery. But when he rose from his table, paid the tab, and stepped out under the palm frond palapa that shaded the front, he soon learned that that was not to be the case.

  “B’god, yer right, Zack. It’s him, all right.”

  “Yeah, Smoke Jensen,” Zack sighed out. “An’ we’ve got us a tidy little re-ward comin’, Jeremy.”

  8

  Seems these boys had read the same newspaper he had seen, Smoke surmised. The reward was something new. Too bad about that. He spoke to them through a sigh.

  “Don’t believe everything you read, fellers.”

  “We believe this right enough. You’re Smoke Jensen, and they’s a thousand dollars on yer head.”

  “Not by the law. So there’s no guarantee you’d get the reward, if you lived to collect it.”

  “What you mean by that?”

  Smoke sighed again. “If I am Smoke Jensen, there’s not the likes of you two who can take me. Not in a face-on fight.”

  “I ain’t no back-shooter, an’ I think we can,” Zack blurted.

  Smoke let Zack and Jeremy get their hands on their irons, before he hauled his .44 clear of leather. Jeremy’s eyes widened; it caused him to falter, and he didn’t have his weapon leveled when he pulled the trigger.

  A spout of street mud fountained up a yard in front of Jeremy’s boot toe. Although a hard, violent man when he needed to be, Smoke Jensen took pity on the young gunny. He shot him in the hip. Jeremy went down with a yowl, the streamlined Merwin and Hulbert flew from his hand, and he clutched his wound with desperation. Smoke shifted his attention to Zack.

  Zack’s jaw sagged in disbelief. He hadn’t even seen Jensen draw, and already the gunfighter had let ’er bang. Shot Jeremy, too, and he was rattlesnake fast. His consternation held Zack for a fraction of a second, during which he saw eternity beckoning to him from the black muzzle of Smoke Jensen’s Colt.

  “Nooooo!” he wailed and tried feverishly to trigger a round.

  For this one, Smoke Jensen had no mercy. He had taken note earlier of the notches carved in the walnut grip of Zack’s six-gun. That told a lot about Zack. No real gunhawk notched his grips to keep score. Kill
ing men was not a game. They didn’t give prizes for the one with the most chips whittled out. The only thing that came from winning was the chance to live a little longer. Smoke Jensen knew that well. He’d been taught by an expert. So, he let fly with a .44 slug that punched a new belly button in Zack’s vulnerable flesh.

  Shock, and the impact, knocked Zack off his boots. He hit hard on his butt in the middle of the street. He had somehow managed to hold onto his Smith American, and let roar a .44 round that cracked past the left shoulder of Smoke Jensen. New pain exploded in the right side of Zack’s shoulder, as Smoke answered in kind with his Peacemaker.

  “Damn you to hell, Smoke Jensen.” Bitter pain tears welled up in Zack’s eyes and Smoke Jensen seemed to waver before him like a cattail in a stiff breeze. Supported on one elbow, he tried again to raise his weapon into position. His hand would not obey. It drooped at the wrist, the barrel of the Smith and Wesson canted toward the ground.

  “Y-you done killt me, Jensen,” he gasped past the agony that broiled his body.

  “It was your choice, Zack.”

  “I—I know.” Zack sucked in a deep breath and new energy surged through him.

  His gun hand responded this time, and he willed his finger to squeeze the trigger. The loud bang that followed came before his hammer had fallen. Zack couldn’t figure that one out. He understood better an instant later, when incredible anguish blossomed in his chest and a huge, black cavern opened up to engulf him.

  “You di’n’t have to kill him,” Jeremy sobbed from his place on the ground.

  “The way I see it, he pushed, I pushed back.” Smoke made a tight-lipped answer.

  Despite his misery, Jeremy had managed to work free his sheath knife. He held it now by the blade. A quick flick of his right arm as Smoke Jensen turned in his direction, and the wicked blade sped on its way. It caught Smoke low. The tip slid through the thick leather of his cartridge belt and penetrated a stinging inch into meat. Smoke’s .44 blasted reflexively.