Oh, do, please do, Sally thought to herself.
7
On a hill overlooking Taos, New Mexico Territory, Smoke Jensen halted to consider their course of action from this point on. He turned to Ian MacGreggor. “We’ll enter town from different directions. Remember, Mac, when you see me, you don’t know me. Later, when this is over, I will definitely introduce you to Diego Alvarado.”
Somewhat sobered by the shoot-out on the trail, Mac nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand that, Smoke. Only, how do I make contact when I learn anything important?”
“If there is time, send a letter to Paul Jones, care of general delivery in Taos, giving a time and place. If not, break off from Satterlee’s men and ride like the wind for town.”
Mac pulled a dubious expression, but answered easily. “Sounds simple enough. Why Paul Jones?”
“More likely to slip past anyone Satterlee might have watching the mail.”
Mac pursed his lips. “Yeah—yeah, that makes sense. Did you learn all of this to be a marshal?”
Smoke had to chuckle over that. “No. A lot I figured out on my own, some Preacher taught me, and the rest I got from lawmen like our sheriff back in the high lonesome. Monte Carson is mighty savvy about such things.” For a moment, recollection of Monte brought a tightness to Smoke’s chest. “Now, get on your way. I’ll give you twenty minutes and then ride in.”
Smoke watched Mac ride away and could not help but reflect on himself at that age. He had been rough-edged, a bit wild and woolly, and had lived about a year with Preacher. The old mountain man—some people called Preacher the first mountain man—had proven to be incredibly knowledgeable about every aspect of life in the high lonesome. He could lecture for hours on the habits, love life, construction skills and market price of the beaver. Add in religion and fighting techniques and he could do the same for a good seven Indian tribes. A complete fascination with such subjects soon smoothed the rough edges, calmed the wildness and trimmed the wool of young Kirby Jensen.
At fifteen, Mac’s age, Smoke had received a special present from Preacher. It was a Colt, Model ’51 Navy revolver in .36 caliber. With it came grueling hours of drill and instructions in how to load and accurately fire the weapon. He had also learned the speed draw that had made Preacher famous as the first gunfighter. That had not come without a price. More than a dozen times Smoke had discharged blank loads with the revolver still in the pocket. The accidental discharges had burned like hellfire and scarred his leg. Preacher had found it amusing.
Chuckling each time it happened, he had reminded young Kirby, “Boy, you’ve gotta be quicker on the draw before you work on quick on the trigger.”
It had embarrassed the youth, but it made him work harder and become better. In later years, his speed and accuracy with a six-gun would excel even that of his mentor. If Mac was only a quarter as good as Smoke had become, he could for sure hold his own.
* * *
Pablo Alvarado, third son of Diego Alvarado, strolled into the cool interior of the Bajo el Cielo de Mexico cantina in Taos during the busy noon hour. The ever-present muslin sheeting dropped white bellies from the rafters, placed there to prevent unwelcome visits by the scorpions and other insects that inhabited the palm thatch roofing. Men lined the bar, gustily drinking down their cellar-cooled beer, while they munched industriously on plates of taquitos—rolled corn tortillas filled with roast, shredded goat meat and crisp fried. Others consumed small clay cups of caldo de camarón, a thick dark red chile-shrimp soup made of tiny dried shrimp, onions, garlic, tomato paste and hot chiles. All of them frequently dipped tortilla chips into bowls of fresh-made pico de gallo salsa, redolent with the aroma of chopped chiles, garlic, and fresh coriander. Nearly half of the patrons were Anglos. Pablo joined three vaqueros from his father’s estancia, Rancho de la Gloria. He soon had a tall, slender glass of beer, called a tubo, in one hand. With his other, Pablo lifted a taquito from a plate.
His presence was immediately noted by a trio of scruffy saddle trash seated at a corner table. They bent their heads together and the leader, Garth Thompson, spoke in a low voice. “That’s one of that stubborn greaser’s sons. I think you two ought to arrange a little entertainment for him outside this place.”
“That shines, Garth. What sort of party should we figger to throw?” Norm Oppler responded.
Thompson pursed his lips, then spread them in a nasty grin. “One that will leave him definitely hurting.”
Hicky Drago, the third hard case, flashed a toothy smile. “Now that sounds like fun. Do we leave him alive and hurtin’?”
Garth showed his own teeth. “That’s entirely up to you.”
Both downed their drinks and came to their boots. They left the busy saloon without attracting any attention. Over at the bar, Pablo gestured to an old woman in a plain polka dot dress, her head swathed in a black rebozo. “Una copa de caldo de camarón, por favor.”
Bearing a large, blue granite kettle, the seam-faced woman attendant came over and ladled out a cup of shrimp soup for the young caballero. Pablo took it and nodded his appreciation. “Gracias.” Then he turned to the ranch hands.
“We will have to start back to the ranch after we’ve eaten. There seems not to be enough hours in the day.”
“Especially to get the work done and for you to see Juanita, eh, patrón?” one of the cowboys remarked with a smile.
Pablo’s eyes twinkled as he thought of his current favorite. “Juanita is . . . worth making time for. We are going to be married. She doesn’t know that yet, but I do.”
“¡Que romantico!”
Pablo chided him in jest. “Do not mock true love, Arturo. Some day it will overwhelm you.”
“What, me? With a fat wife and three little ones?”
Garth Thompson watched them darkly as they laughed over that sally. He had been given his orders by Whitewater Paddy Quinn as to what to do about the family of the stubborn old fool, Diego Alvarado. The rancher refused to sell out, and his Mexican cowboys had already killed three and wounded eight of those sent to harass him. It was time to turn up the heat, Paddy had said. So be it, Garth mused. He watched while Pablo and the vaqueros downed a prodigious quantity of food and two glasses each of beer. Then they hitched up their belts and walked toward the door. Silver conchos along the outer seams of their pant legs sparkled even in the low light.
When they stepped outside, Garth strained to hear over the low rumble of conversation and laughter the challenge he expected. It came a moment later in an angry growl from Norm Oppler.
“Hey, watch where you’re goin’, greaser.”
* * *
Smoke Jensen walked Cougar and Hardy down the broad eastern avenue that led to the Plaza de Armas in the center of Taos. Palo verde trees had been planted in circular basins all along the residential section. Their pale, wispy, smokey green leaves fluttered in a light breeze, like the fine hair of a young woman. Most houses sat well back from the Spanish tile sidewalks, presenting high, blank walls to the passersby. Some had built-in niches where flowers had been planted or religious figures installed. Red tile roofs peeked over the blue and green shards of broken bottles plastered into the tops of these ramparts. The last block before the central square had been overtaken by shops, restaurants and cantinas. Smoke reached the midpoint when a harsh voice called out insultingly.
“Hey, watch where you’re goin’, greaser.”
A handsome, light-complexioned young man of Spanish/ Mexican descent took a step back and spoke soft words of apology. Then the import of the insult sank in. His eyes narrowed, and his full lips twisted in offense. “What did you call me?”
“I called you a bean-slurpin’, chile-chompin’ greaser.”
Smoke Jensen reined in to watch the exchange. The youth had a familiar appearance, though Smoke could not place a name with the face. Both men were armed, though the well-dressed Spanish youth chose to use his hands. With a suddenness that spoke well of his ability, he swung a balled fist that smashed in
to the jaw of the loud-mouthed saddle trash with enough force to knock him off his boots.
He hit the tile walk with a flat smack. At once the youth stepped over him. “I’ll accept your apology for that insult and there will be no harm done.”
“Like hell you will!” shouted the thug as he whipped out his six-gun and fired point-blank into the young man’s belly.
At once the other Anglo cleared leather. His bullet cut a searing path across the small of Pablo’s back. Smoke Jensen had time only for a hasty shout before his own hand filled with a .45 Colt. “Don’t!”
Three dark-complexioned vaqueros with the youth only then reacted, spreading apart with shock and surprise on their faces. One drew a knife. The Colt in the hand of the seated hard case roared again. He missed his attempt to shoot the knife wielder through the chest. His slug bit flesh out of the vaquero’s side.
“Drop the guns, both of you,” Smoke demanded.
When the Anglo opponents refused to comply, Smoke tripped the trigger of his Peacemaker and shot the seated one through the shoulder, breaking his scapula. The smoking revolver in his hand flew from his grasp. His companion spun on one boot heel to face Smoke Jensen. He raised his six-gun to shoulder height and took aim as Smoke cocked and fired his .45 a second time. His bullet took the gunman in the center of his chest. Behind Smoke, Hardy whinnied in irritation. Shouts came from inside the saloon. The man Smoke had shot looked down at his chest with a dumb expression of disbelief as he staggered forward. Slowly he released his grip on his weapon. The revolver thudded in the dirt of the street a moment before the body of the dead assailant.
By then, the wounded one seated on the tile walk had recovered his Colt and threw a shot at Smoke that cracked past the head of the last mountain man to bury itself deep in an adobe wall across the street. Without a flinch, Smoke returned fire. Hot lead punched a neat hole in the upper lip of the shooter, exposing crooked, yellowed teeth. He went over backward and twitched violently for a few seconds.
During that time, the three vaqueros recovered their composure and rushed to the side of their fallen companion. “Pablo, Pablo, can you hear me?” one spoke urgently.
Pablo? Keeping his Colt handy, Smoke Jensen dismounted and crossed to where two of the Mexican cowboys kneeled beside their employer’s son. “¿Con permiso?” Smoke addressed them in his rusty Spanish. “Is this Pablo Alvarado?”
Dark, angry faces turned toward him. “Why do you ask, gringo?”
Smoke answered simply. “I am a friend of his father.”
The surly one produced a sneer. “Ay, sí. And I am the pope in Rome. What is your name, gringo?”
“I am called Smoke Jensen.”
Surprise registered on the three faces. Embarrassment warred with it. At last, the angry vaquero spoke in an amiable tone. “Tengo mucho vergüenza, Señor Jensen. I should have known. No one else could have handled two gunmen so fast and so effectively. It is only that Don Pablo has been shot, and Ricardo, tambien. And it is forbidden us to carry our pistólas into town. We could do nothing.”
“And naturally that bothered you. That I can understand. One of you had better go for a doctor.” Smoke examined the wounded men. “Ricardo has only a scratch. Pablo is still breathing and he has a strong heartbeat,” Smoke observed as he examined the young man. “But he still needs help right away, inmediatamente, comprende?”
The embarrassed one spoke up. “I am called Miguel Armillita. I will go.”
“Good, Miguel. Another of you should ride to the ranch and tell Don Diego.”
“Uh—there is a wagon with supplies,” a young vaquero blurted.
Smoke spoke decisively. “Ricardo can drive that, after he is patched up. The other take a fast horse and head for Rancho de la Gloria.”
The town marshal and the sheriff of Taos County arrived at the same time. Pablo Alvarado remained unconscious, and two of the vaqueros had sped off on their assigned tasks. An angry and shaken Garth Thompson, who had only now come out of the saloon, leaned against the outside adobe wall of Bajo el Cielo de Mexico scowling at Smoke Jensen. When the lawmen pushed through a crowd of the cantina’s patrons, he spoke up in angry accusation.
“This stranger came along and shot two of my men for no reason at all. Shot the Mexican kid as well.”
“I’ll take that iron,” the marshal demanded as he and the sheriff drew their weapons. “You’ve got some tall explaining to do, mister. Since this involves folks from outside town, I’ll let you handle it, Hank. I’d better see to a doctor for young Alvarado.”
Smoke looked up at them. “I’ve already sent for a doctor.”
Hank Banner, the sheriff, spoke up then. “I’ll take that gun, feller, seein’ as how you’ve not handed it over.
Smoke complied, giving the sheriff both of his Colts, but insisted on waiting until a physician arrived. Miguel Armillita came with him and stood back, silent and respectful in the presence of such awesome authority as the marshal and sheriff. After the doctor had arranged to move Pablo to his office and bandaged Ricardo, and Hank Banner had taken Smoke Jensen off to jail, Miguel went to his horse and rode hastily off toward Rancho de la Gloria to inform Don Diego of this turn of events.
* * *
“Sit down and tell me something about yourself,” Sheriff Banner invited as he gestured to a chair beside his desk. “Do you regularly go around shooting men without the least provocation?”
Smoke Jensen declined the chair for the moment. Being uncertain as to which side the lawman happened to be on, he did not use his real name nor did he show his U.S. marshal’s badge, nor did he use the cover name he had given to Ian MacGreggor.
“Let’s get one thing straight first, Sheriff. I did not shoot Pablo Alvarado. My name is Frank Hickman, and I do go around shooting people who shoot friends of mine.”
Banner looked skeptical. “You are a friend of the Alvarados?”
“I am.”
Now the sheriff leaned forward, his expression turned hard. “Why is it I don’t believe you?”
Smoke gave him a cool, indifferent look. “I could give you a couple of reasons.”
Banner did not give in. “Try me.”
A frown momentarily creased Smoke’s forehead. “You could be one of those folks who dislikes people of Spanish or Mexican origin and is unwilling to believe any white man could be friends with them. Or, you could be one of those lawmen who has taken some consideration from a powerful man.”
Banner clenched his fists and made to swing on Smoke. Smoke raised a staying hand. “Sit down, Sheriff I apologize for baiting you that way. What is it you want to know?”
“Everything that happened out there. Start from the first.”
“I was riding into town when those two provoked a quarrel with Pablo Alvarado. At that time, I didn’t recognize Pablo, it has been quite a while since I last saw him.”
Banner still had not lost his suspicion. “People don’t often change that much.”
“They do if they were ten the last time someone saw them.”
“Ah—yes, yes, that makes sense. Go on.”
Smoke Jensen related the events surrounding the shooting of Pablo Alvarado. Then he described what he did. When he concluded, the two men sat a long while in silence. At last the sheriff spoke up.
“So you intervened in defense of Pablo Alvarado? He was armed, I saw that.”
“The one who shot him first didn’t even call him out, he just drew and fired away. The other one tried to back-shoot Pablo.”
“Yes, you said that. I think I understand. What I don’t follow is why you stepped in at all.”
Smoke sighed out his irritation. “Because I have a big problem with sneaks and back-shooters. Both of them drew on the boy. Pablo’s men were unarmed. I could do something about it, so I did.”
“Sheriff?” a squeaky voice called from the open doorway.
Smoke looked over to see a boy of ten or eleven standing there, his head crowned with a thick thatch of sandy brown hair. His g
ray-green eyes sparkled with intelligence above speckled cheeks and a wide, generous mouth. Oblivious of Smoke’s scrutiny, the lad concentrated on the lawman.
“What is it, Wally?”
“Doc Walters says Pablo Alvarado is con—con—awake now. He’s ready to make a statement. But you have to come over to Doc’s office.”
“Thank you, Wally.” Banner flipped a nickel to the boy and cut his eyes to Smoke. “I think you should come along. If Pablo can identify you, I’ll be satisfied with your account of what happened.”
Well, the Frank Hickman name was out of the barn with this, Smoke thought with irritation. He smiled evenly at Banner. “Whatever you say, Sheriff.”
Dr. Adam Walters had his office and infirmary on the entire second floor above a men’s haberdashery and a women’s clothier. Smoke Jensen followed Sheriff Hank Banner up the steep flight of stairs and through a white-painted door. The odor of ether and carbolic acid hung heavily in the still air of the interior. Dr. Walters greeted the men with surgical tools in hand, which he scrubbed at energetically.
“Pablo got lucky this time, Hank. It was a clean, through-and-through shot to the side. Missed his intestines and liver. He got just a scratch across his back. I cleaned the wounds, closed and sutured them. I’d say he’s a sure bet to recover. He’s awake now and asking for you. Oh, who is this?” The last accompanied a nod toward Smoke Jensen.
“Says he’s a friend of the Alvarados.”
“He can come in, then.”
They found Pablo Alvarado propped up on pillows, the sheet and quilt folded down to his waist. His bare middle was swathed in bandages. He looked up as they entered and broke out a big smile. “Smoke! You came like Poppa said you would. Sheriff, it’s good to see you.”
Smoke Jensen cut his eyes to the lawman and saw genuine affection for Pablo shining in his. Banner gave him a puzzled expression. “Smoke?”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely truthful with you, Sheriff. My name is Smoke Jensen.
Triumph of the Mountain Man Page 8