Soft, yellow light from three silver candelabra flattered the complexions of the older women, smoothing out wrinkles, while it put a light of naughty mischief into the pale blue eyes of Lettie Kincade. Cole Granger stood in front of the high double doors that gave into a high-ceilinged, vaulted corridor. Dinner had concluded and the last of the dishes cleared away. At a sign from her husband, Emma stood and addressed the other women.
“Ladies, I suggest that we retire to my sitting room for coffee and sweets. If you gentlemen will excuse us?”
Clifton nodded blandly, and all of the men came to their boots as the women left the room. When the side door closed behind them, Satterlee turned to the butler. “Pour cognac around, if you will, Ramon, then you are excused.”
Soft clinking followed while Ramon Estavez poured from a crystal decanter into three glasses. When he finished his task and lighted cigars for all three, he soundlessly departed from the room. Satterlee lifted his glass in a toast and mockingly paraphrased Shakespeare.
“We grow . . . we prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards.” They all laughed and drank; then Satterlee continued. “First, let me announce that my lovely Emma will be returning to Santa Fe with me the day after tomorrow. Now, Mr. Quinn, we would appreciate a report of your progress.”
Rising, Quinn set aside his cigar. “The Bar-Four now belongs to C.S. Enterprises, it does. So does the Obrigon ranch. We completed papers on the Suarez ranch this morning. Two stores on the Plaza de Armas now belong to your development company, with three others likely to fall in line within two days more, an’ that’s a fact.”
“Thank you, Paddy, my friend.” Satterlee beamed.
“Ah, but there’s more. The title on the Figueroa hacienda cleared the territorial land office late this afternoon.”
Satterlee shot to his feet in enthusiasm. “Splendid.”
“Here-here!” Brice Noble chimed in. “Though I must say, it was a blasted expensive undertaking. It cost a fortune to buy that mansion. Why not simply kill the old man? After all, the granddaughter could not inherit. The territorial government would appoint an executor to manage it until she reached her majority. And then”—he gestured widely—“through our connections in Santa Fe we could have gotten it for a song.”
Satterlee countered that at once. “To use our bought politicians on so trivial a matter would have unduly compromised them. The time might come when we need their influence much more. Now, let us move on to the next phase of our agenda.”
* * *
Railroad workers rolled a movable loading chute in place at the door to the stock car that held the horses Smoke Jensen had brought along. The last mountain man stood by patiently as a man led Cougar down the ramp onto solid ground. Smoke had been surprised by how much Raton had grown since he had last been in the northern New Mexico town. Low adobe houses now sprawled out for a good mile from the more settled part of the community near the depot, each with its familiar picket fence of ocotillo cactus rods. Smoke abandoned his reflections when Cougar let out a shrill squall and swayed drunkenly, unaccustomed to not having the surface below his hooves in constant motion. Smoke hurried to the heaving side of the big Palouse stallion.
“Easy, boy. Whoa, Cougar.” To the depot worker he added, “He’ll get his legs back in a bit. Don’t try to walk him around right now.”
When both animals had recovered, Smoke saddled them, then strapped the large panniers on the packsaddle. The sudden thought hit Smoke that in the years past, he had never needed a packhorse to accompany him. Nor had he dragged along all the comforts that the pouches of the panniers now contained. He would have laughed at the wrought-iron trestle, cast-iron skillet and Dutch oven, three-legged grill and cooking utensils. A coffeepot and a small, lidded skillet had been all he had ever needed. Yet, when the years go by, he mused with regret, one’s needs change. Mounted on Cougar, Smoke walked his way toward the main intersection, where he would take the east-west trail toward Taos. With the Santa Fe and Denver and Rio Grande both passing through Raton, the usual entrepreneurs and hustlers had flocked into the burgeoning city. Hawkers with carts stood on street corners, touting their wares. Hundreds of people thronged the streets. A low haze of red-brown dust hovered at first-floor level throughout. Stray dogs yapped at the hooves of his packhorse, and the animal snorted its irritation and flicked one iron shoe. A yellow bitch yelped and slunk off. As he passed a saloon, a loud shout attracted Smoke’s attention.
“Hey, let me go!” A young man stumbled out onto the street, as though propelled by eager hands.
Following him came three scraggly ruffians who spread out across the thoroughfare. To Smoke they had the seedy look of low-grade wanna-bes. The one in the middle raised an arm and pointed in a taunting manner. “Yer wearin’ a gun, you little shit. Now yer gonna have to use it.”
With a start, Smoke Jensen recognized the speaker as Tully Banning, a two-bit gunfighter more renowned for the number of his back shootings than he was for face-to-face shoot-outs. In the next instant, as he reined in, Smoke realized that the challenged youth could not be more than fifteen. A beardless, frightened boy. Smoke quickly sized up the two louts with Banning. What his read gave him he did not like. The boy did not have a chance. Smoke stepped right in the middle of it.
“Banning! Tully Banning.”
Banning turned only his head. “Who th’ hell wants to know?”
“That’s not important. What I want to know is why you don’t pick on someone your own age or older?”
Banning uttered a string of curses, and concluded with, “Maybe you’d be interested in taking this punk kid’s place. If so, I’ll deal with you first, then kill Momma’s little boy anyway.”
Smoke pulled a face. “I don’t think so. Keep your stray curs off me while I step down so I can accommodate you.”
“You’ve got that, old man.”
Old man? Smoke never thought of himself as old. He climbed from the saddle and tied off Cougar and his packhorse, Hardy. Then he walked out to stand beside the youth who had been challenged. “Step out of the street, son. You didn’t ask for this, and there’s no reason you take any harm for it.”
With an expression of mingled relief and frustration, the sandy-haired boy angled off the street to stand by Smoke’s horses. Then Smoke looked up at Banning. “I’m ready any time you are.”
Tully Banning’s shoulders hunched, and his right hand twitched; but he did not go for his six-gun at once. It had been a signal, one old and familiar, to his companions. The challenged individual could be expected to focus his attention and anticipation upon the challenger. That’s the way it had worked for Tully Banning time and again. So, when the cheat and sneak made the little jerk and arrest movement, his henchmen immediately drew their revolvers.
One small miscalculation marred their perfect ambush. Although the trio had often heard of the exploits of Smoke Jensen, none of them had ever met with him face-to-face. Now that they had, it was entirely too late. Smoke expected some sort of dirty work, so he readied himself accordingly. When all three louts drew, Banning last of all, Smoke already had their demise planned.
Drawing with his usual blinding speed, Smoke killed the one on the left first. Then he swung past Banning in the middle to take on the right-hand gunhawk. The poor soul never had a chance. He did get off one wild shot that split the air high above the head of Smoke Jensen. Then the hammer of Smoke’s .45 Peacemaker fell, and a hot slug ripped into the ruffian’s gut. It burned a trail of agony through his liver before it ripped out a piece of his spine and tore a hole in his back. Rapidly dying, he went to his knees as Tully Banning attempted to level his six-gun.
To his horror, Tully Banning saw the calm expression and faint smile of the man facing him an instant before flame and smoke spewed from the muzzle of the Colt and a wrenching agony exploded in his chest. Staggered, he took two feeble, uncertain steps to the right and triggered his piece. Banning’s slug kicked up dirt between the wide-spread legs of Smoke Jensen.
Then Smoke shot again. Another terrible hammer blow smashed into the chest of Tully Banning. His legs went out from under him, and he dropped on his backside in the dusty street. Dimly he heard the shouts of amazement from the onlookers who had assembled well out of the line of fire. This couldn’t be happening. The trap had always worked before. It would take the best gunfighter in the world to best the three of them, Banning’s spinning mind fought to reject his mortality.
Blood bubbled on his lips as he asked weakly, “Who are you?”
Smiling that ghost of a smile again, Smoke Jensen told Tully Banning, who turned even whiter before he died. Suddenly, the freckle-faced, sandy-haired boy appeared at Smoke’s side. “I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Jensen.”
“Don’t reckon they did, either.”
“You sure saved my life. Uh—my name’s Ian MacGreggor. Most folks call me Mac. It’s an honor to meet you. And, thank you, thank you for getting me out of that fix. They never gave me a chance to say no.”
Smoke nodded understanding. “Their kind never do. And, they never, ever pick on anyone capable of defending themselves. Remember that.”
“Yes, sir, I will. Thank you again.”
It took Smoke Jensen an uncomfortable fifteen minutes with the town constable to explain what he had accomplished in two seconds. Given the assurance it would be recorded as self-defense, Smoke at last got on the trail to Taos.
* * *
Thick-foliaged palo verde trees made silver-green smoke clouds against the horizon of red earth and cobalt sky. Cattle grazed on the sparse grass of Rancho de la Gloria. Throughout the prairie lands, from Texas to Montana, cattlemen talked of cows per acre. Not so here. Don Diego Alvarado had learned at his father’s knee to think in terms of acres per cow. In future times, the elegant Diego Alvarado often told himself, irrigation would make this harsh desert into a veritable garden place. Not in his lifetime, though. So he did not share his dream with his friends and fellow ranchers. His vaqueros knew of it, and believed him. Three of them had been given the assignment of tending a herd of two hundred that grazed through a high meadow on the north end of the ranch property.
They found their work peaceful and pleasing. Not far off lay a connected chain of tanques where the beasts would water and they could take their almuerzo. Each had a cloth bag in his saddlebag, provided that morning by his wife, that contained a burrito—beans and onion rolled in a flour tortilla—a savory tamale, and fresh, piquant chile peppers to add flavor and spice. Arturo had even brought along some cornmeal sugar cookies baked by his wife. Arturo Gomez and Hector Blanco had promised their younger sons they could bring lunches and join the men at the tanks, the lads taking a noontime swim. That would get them out from under their mothers’ feet. The older boys all tended goat herds during the day and could always find ways to get cool and wet. As a newlywed, Umberto Mascarenas, the third vaquero, only dreamed of the day when he would have sturdy sons like his companions. He looked up at the sound of pounding hooves. Could it be the niños already?
Caught unaware, Umberto Mascarenas did not hear the first gunshot, or any of those that followed. A bullet struck him in the right side of his head, an inch above his ear, and blew out the other hemisphere. He pitched from his horse in a welter of gore.
“Git them other greasers,” a harsh voice shouted.
More gunfire sounded across the plateau. Arturo Gomez returned fire with his Obrigon copy of a .45 Colt and had the satisfaction of watching an Anglo ladrón spill from his saddle at the third round. Then pain burned the life from him as three bullets struck him in half a second. To his right, Hector Blanco dismounted and drew his rifle. The Marlin cracked sharply, and the hat flew from another rustler’s head. Hector shot again, and the thief threw up his hands and fell backward off his mount.
By that time, the reports of the weapons had registered on the dim brains of the cattle. They reacted at once and broke into a shambling run. Controlling the cattle became the primary objective of the rustlers, yet one took the time to ride down on Hector Blanco and steal his life with a bullet through the brain. Then the killer galloped ahead to join the others in a V-shaped formation in front of the stampeded herd and direct it off Alvarado land toward a waiting holding pen in a blind canyon.
Twenty minutes later, the horrified and grief-stricken sons of Arturo and Hector found the bodies of all three vaqueros. The Whitewater Paddy Quinn gang had struck again.
5
An hour short of sundown, with long, golden and carmine shafts of light spilling through the canyons, Smoke Jensen made night camp on a bluff above the Canadian River. He staked out his horses to graze and prepared a fire ring. Then he gathered dry windfall and laid a fire. With seemingly calm indifference to his surroundings, he went about setting up his cooking equipment. Constantly, though, he kept his ears tuned to the sound of soft footfalls that grew steadily nearer. Smoke’s surprise registered on his face when the source of that noise came up within thirty feet of the campsite and hailed him.
“Hello, Mr. Jensen. It’s me, Mac.”
Smoke looked up from the task of slicing potatoes into a skillet to study the gangly youth. Mac’s shoulders were broad and his arms long, the promise of a fair-sized man when he got his growth. He was slim, though, and narrow-hipped, and with that boyish face, he looked a long way from reaching that maturity. Smoke motioned him in.
“Howdy, Mac. What brings you along?”
“Well, Mr. Jensen, I wanted to thank you again for saving my life. Really, though, I sort of got to thinking. I wondered if—if you’d welcome me to ride along with you. Seein’ we’re headed the same direction, that is.”
So much earnestness shone from his freckled face that Smoke had to turn away to keep control of his laughter. He fished an onion from a pan of water and began to slice it onto a tin plate to add to the potatoes. “Now, what direction would that be?”
“Why, to Taos, of course.”
Smoke feigned doubtfulness. “I’ll have to think on that one. But, step down. Least you can do now is share my eats. I’ve got some fatback, taters, and I’ll make some biscuits.”
Memory of the boiled oatmeal, twice a day, that had sustained him between his home and Raton prodded Ian MacGreggor. “Gosh, you sure eat well, Mr. Jensen.”
“Call me Smoke, Mac.”
Caught off balance by this, Mac gulped his words. “Yes, sir, ah, Smoke.”
“Now, to eatin’ well, it’s only common sense. In this climate, a man has to use up his fresh stuff right at the start. By the time we reach Taos it’ll be spare enough.” Smoke turned his attention to the food for a while, then asked, “You have family in Taos?”
“No, sir, I’m leavin’ home for good. I’m my pap’s third son, so there’s nothin’ for me around the farm. We have a little dirt-scrabble place over in Texas. Whole lot of Scots folks around Amarillo. The farm’ll go to my oldest brother, Caleb. Dirk is hot for workin’ on the railroad. Wants to be an engineer. The apprenticeship and schoolin’ costs money, so there was not much left for me.”
“Then, I gather you are looking for work in Taos?”
“That’s right, Smoke. I heard there was plenty work being offered out Taos way. There was even a notice in the Amarillo paper. A man named Satterlee. He’s lookin’ for cowhands, timber fallers, all sorts of jobs.”
Smoke’s frown surprised Mac. “Ah—Mac, I don’t want to disappoint you, but do you know anything about this Satterlee?”
“No, no I don’t. What’s the matter?”
Smoke did not want the boy to go bad. He seemed to have some promise. So, he told Mac what he knew of Clifton Satterlee from the letter sent by Diego Alvarado. As he spoke, the youngster’s eyes grew big, and he produced an angry expression. When Smoke concluded, Mac shook his head.
“I sure don’t want anything to do with someone like that. Sounds like he’s puredee crook.” Then he took on a sad expression. “But now I’ve burned my bridges, what am I gonna do to make a livin’?”
�
�Taos is growing. And I have a friend. A man who owns a large ranch. Do you happen to speak Spanish? His name is Diego Alvarado; he’s a real Spanish gentleman.”
Mac nodded enthusiastically. “Sure do. Learned it from the sons of our hired hand. I growed up with them.”
“Then, if Don Diego takes you on, you’ll have lots of use for it. All of his ranch hands are Mexican.”
Mac frowned. “I don’t know much about cows. We planted mostly hay, sold it to the ranchers, put in some wheat, corn. Pap wanted to try watermelons. They grow real good in Texas.”
“As I recall, Diego has some fields down by a creek that runs behind his house which he uses to irrigate them. He grows several kinds of melons, as well as corn, onions, beans, chile peppers, and a little cotton. He provides nearly all the needs for the entire ranch.”
“How—how big is this place?”
“Three or four thousand acres, I’m not sure which.”
Mac looked at Smoke in awe. “That’s the biggest spread I ever heard of. All we have is a quarter section.”
Smoke took pity on Mac, though not much. “Diego has more land under irrigated cultivation than that. I’m willin’ to bet he could use an experienced farmer.”
Over their meal, Smoke worried around another idea in his head. When Mac offered to wash up after supper, Smoke poured a cup of coffee and spoke his mind. “If Diego has no need for a farmer, there might be something else you can do. Something for me. Though it might prove risky.”
Triumph of the Mountain Man Page 5