His stirring words brought a ragged cheer. But not enough to change Satterlee’s mind on a matter of some considerable importance. When the remotivated gunmen started out to take their new positions, Clifton Satterlee huddled with Cole Granger and explained what he had in mind.
* * *
Darkness had covered Taos three hours earlier when Smoke Jensen and Alejandro Alvarado left town to spy out the enemy. It had taken that long for the gang to settle down. Some of them still had strong reservations about staying there. Several voiced their opinions loudly while Smoke and Alejandro slipped quietly through their line, headed for the adobe ruin where Smoke had earlier seen Martha.
“I think this is damn foolishness,” one tough spared no effort in informing those near the fire where they prepared a meal and a pot of coffee.
“Biggs is right,” another put in. “Without Whitewater Paddy, we’ve got no one to stand up to this Satterlee. Who says he’ll for real pay us when it’s over?”
“I’m glad you agree,” Biggs included the man. “I say we walk our horses out of here right now, hit the high road to Santa Fe and don’t look back.”
“Hell yes. Those Injuns could be out there, sneakin’ around with their scalpin’ knifes right this minute.”
“Don’t even mention that,” a third hard case replied. “It gives me cold chills.”
Smoke and Alejandro crept on in the moonless night. When they reached the spot where Smoke thought the building should be, they found nothing. Smoke motioned for Alejandro to separate from him and look for the adobe. Quietly, both men went about finding the place.
Smoke located it first and saw that the farmhouse was unlighted. Had everyone gone to sleep? Somehow he doubted that. Moments later, Alejandro joined him, having made a wide, half circle. Smoke leaned close and whispered in the young ranchero’s ear.
“I want to get a look inside. But if you were to ask me, I’d say the place is deserted. No light, no guards.”
Smoke’s speculation proved correct. He cautiously entered the structure through a crumbled rear wall. There he quickly discovered that Martha and Lupe no longer occupied the chairs. The table where they had sat had been overturned. He saw no sign of Clifton Satterlee either. Back outside, Smoke suggested they check along the line of fires where the watchers remained at the roadblocks.
A careful search among them revealed no sign of Martha Estes, her maid, or Clifton Satterlee. When they approached the last of the barricades, Smoke suddenly realized that Alejandro’s appearance would give them away. Smoke made an abrupt signal that told the youthful caballero to wait outside the firelight and cover him while he went in to talk with the outlaws. Alejandro disappeared into the night, and Smoke continued to the fireside.
“Quiet as a graveyard,” Smoke observed as he walked up.
“You coulda picked something better to say about it,” grumbled one of the saddle trash. “What you doin’ here?”
“You’ve got coffee goin’, I smelled it. So, here I am.”
His earlier jitters forgotten in light of no forays from town, the outlaw chuckled. “Pour yourself a cup.”
Smoke took a blue granite tin cup and filled it. “Where’s the big boss? He was so hot for us stayin’ here,” Smoke probed casually.
A low curse answered him. “Didn’t have the grit to stay here himself. A little while after that pep talk, he took the women an’ Granger and they high-tailed it outta here. Off to Santa Fe, I reckon.”
One of his companions spoke up in support of Satterlee. “He’s goin’ to get more men. Remember what he said about sending us some fresh blood?”
“Yeah. And blood is what it’ll be, you ask me.”
Smoke let them talk for a while, then drained his coffee and handed back the cup. “Thanks for the brew. I’d best get back to rovin’ from place to place or someone will have a hissy.”
“Yeah, that’s right. So, you’re with Vic Tyson’s crew, eh?”
“Yep. For better or for worse. See you fellers.”
Reunited with Alejandro Alvarado, Smoke Jensen and the ranchero made a rapid return to town. On the way, Smoke weighed the alternatives facing him. Not unusual, he did not like any of them. Back in the sheriff’s office, he sent loungers to summon a war council. This would be a long night, Smoke knew.
* * *
“There’s nothing for it but that I go after them,” Smoke announced after relaying what he had learned beyond the town.
Mayor Fidel Arianas nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand that. But how are you going to go about it?”
Smoke Jensen had his answers ready. “First we have to break this siege. They are mighty spooked over two defeats in one day. And we’ve not attacked them at night before. What we are going to do is organize an assault force from the local volunteers and Diego’s vaqueros and wipe out their roadblocks, scatter the patrols around the town and plain raise a lot of hell.”
Diego Alvarado’s eyes glowed. “Muy bien, amigo. Naturally, all of my men will volunteer.”
Smoke shook his head. “We only need half of them. Someone has to hold the fort. Gather five groups of ten each, and meet me in the Plaza de Armas in half an hour. One bunch will take each road out of town. The fifth will make a sweep of the roving patrols. Tonight we’re going to kick hell out of these scum.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, grim-faced men gathered in the plaza. All were heavily armed. Every man had a horse. Smoke quietly gave them their assignments and moved out himself with those going after the mobile pickets. When everyone had gotten into position, they watched the hands on one of the clocks located on the four sides of the church steeple. The minute hand closed on 10:45, and the deadly bands moved out.
Three hundred yards from the roadblocks they urged their mounts to a gallop. Weapons out and ready, they opened fire at seventy-five yards.
With Quinn and Thompson dead and Satterlee gone, the attack quickly became a rout. Already demoralized by the turn of the day’s events, the outlaw trash had little heart for a fight. Muzzle flashes in the night, followed by the crack of bullets and roar of weapons, undid even the most courageous among them. Men seemed to be shooting at them from all directions. Riderless horses ran past, and those securely picketed whinnied in the mad desire to join their fellows.
“To hell with this, I’m gettin’ outta here,” the hard case known as Rucker spat as he ankled over the ground to his horse.
He slipped on a bridle and swung up bareback. No time for the niceties. Too many guns out there. He drummed his heels into the flanks of his horse and broke clear of the melee behind him. His mount nearly ran into the chest of a big, gray, spotted-rump ’Palouse. Veering at the last instant, he caught a glimpse of the rider.
“Oh, God, Smoke Jensen,” he wailed aloud.
Then Smoke shot him.
In twenty minutes the last of the vermin had been exterminated or surrendered. Diego’s vaqueros herded them back toward town. At the jail, Smoke confronted the leaders of the resistance. “Thank you all for what you’ve done. You’ve saved your town. The end of this is up to me. I’m going after Clifton Satterlee. Mac, Alejandro, I’d like you to come with me. We’ll take about twenty-five men to handle any opposition Satterlee can muster. Even with them, it’s gonna be mighty hard to end this.”
25
Smoke, Alejandro and Mac rode out of Taos at the head of a twenty-three-man force. Even pushing to the limit, they would not reach Santa Fe until early morning of the next day. Smoke used the time to review how they should go about cornering Satterlee. His options were limited; that he accepted. He had no way of knowing how many gunhands Satterlee might have at the large estancia outside the territorial capital. Whatever the count, he wanted to keep the number of injuries and deaths small among his volunteers. Most of all he wanted to give Mac a chance at building a satisfying life for himself. All such considerations aside, he wanted to end it quickly. Could he count on the sheriff in Santa Fe?
That question remaine
d with him as they rode through Española. False dawn caught them still two miles from Satterlee’s lair. To Smoke that answered his preoccupation with the sheriff. They simply did not have time to ride past the road that led to the ranch and into Santa Fe. They would have to do it on their own.
Half a mile from the estancia, Smoke halted his small force and informed them of what they would do. “Mac, I want you to take charge of everyone but Alejandro and myself. Take on any gunhands Satterlee has at the ranch and keep them busy. Alejandro and I will go in to find Martha. Also to get Satterlee.” Then he added with a crooked smile, “If something happens to let us open the gates for you, we will.”
“I want to go with you, Smoke,” Mac protested.
“Not this time. Keep in mind, youngster, that you are only fifteen years old. I’m not going to coddle you, but I want you in a responsible position, doing something that has to be done. Something that keeps you out of the center of most danger.”
Mac blurted his objection. “But I want to be there, to help.”
“Hell, boy, you’re gonna get shot at anyway. Why make it worse?”
Grudgingly, Mac saw his point. “I’ll do my best, Smoke. Count on it.”
Alejandro nodded silent approval. He couldn’t help but like this boy/man. “I think my father will find it impossible to continue his food production without you, young Mac. We want you around to make our gardens more productive.”
Mac flushed and put on a foolish grin to hide his elation at this praise. “Yes, sir—uh—Alejandro. Do they—ah—ever call you Alex?”
Alejandro flashed white teeth in his olive face. “Only my gringo friends. So, I suppose you can, too.”
Smoke concluded his strategy session. “Let’s get to it, then. Mac, circle wide around and hit the place from the rear. Once you have their attention, we’ll come at ’em from the front.”
* * *
A short while later, Mac and his mixed force invested the walls around three sides of the hacienda. Under cover of darkness, Smoke and Alejandro approached the front gate in the twelve-foot wall that surrounded the compound. Smoke had a little surprise that he had not mentioned to the others. With the battle raging around them, he quickly went to work sheltered by the inset of the massive portals.
“Alejandro, gather up all the big rocks you can find. Bring them here.”
Diego’s eldest son went to work with a twinkle in his eyes from sight of the cylindrical sticks in Smoke’s hands. By the time Alejandro returned for the sixth time, Smoke had attached a bundle of five sticks of dynamite to the center of the gate, where the crossbar would be.
“Mix some mud,” Smoke commanded as he bent to place more dynamite against one of the hinges.
Alejandro found water in a horse trough and plenty of desert soil right where they needed it. He carried the liquid in his hat to make a quagmire under the sheltering lip above them. When he thought he had it right, he stopped to watch Smoke packing rocks against the charge on the hinge.
“Smoke, it is ready.”
Studying the consistency of the mud, Smoke passed judgment. “Thicker. Make it sticky.”
When it reached the desired texture, Smoke began to pack it around the explosives in the middle of the gate, then poured more over the rocks. That completed, he cut his eyes to Alejandro. “We’ll let that dry awhile.”
The volume of gunfire rose and fell as the outlaws traded shots with the men from Taos. It served well to keep attention off Smoke and Alejandro. After ten minutes, the surface had returned to its natural color, and cracks began to appear in the mud. Smoke nodded approvingly and bent with a lucifer in his hand.
“You light that one and I’ll get this. Then we get out of here . . . fast.”
With the fuses sputtering, Smoke and Alejandro ran from the gateway and flattened their backs against the wall to either side. Three minutes went by, and then a tremendous roar shattered the sporadic gunfire from within the hacienda. Dirt and acrid smoke billowed out of the arched opening. Splinters of flaming wood mingled with them. The ground shook, and Alejandro smelled the nauseous fumes of the burned dynamite. In the numbing silence that followed, Smoke and Alejandro heard a shrill shriek, followed by an enormous crash.
“Let’s go,” said Smoke tautly.
Quickly they rounded the corners that had sheltered them. Alejandro’s jaw sagged at sight of the damage the explosives had wrought. One side of the thick gate hung askew. The other lay flat on the ground, blown out from the bottom. Smoke jumped on top of it and ran into the courtyard. They met with no resistance until they reached the main entrance to the hacienda. Two dumbfounded thugs with bestubbled jaws stood inside. They gaped at the damage until the figures of Smoke Jensen and Alejandro Alvarado filled the range of their vision.
“Lutie, it’s him. It’s Smoke Jensen,” babbled one.
“Then git him, Frank, git him.”
Each man made the fateful mistake of reaching for his six-gun. Smoke beat them both, with Alejandro not far behind. The Colt in Smoke’s hand bellowed, and Lutie doubled over, shot through the liver. Frank fired a round before Alejandro ended his life with a bullet in the head. Side-stepping the dying men, Smoke and Alejandro pushed on into the house. Cole Granger and three men waited for them in the inner courtyard.
“There they are,” shouted one piece of human debris as Smoke became visible at the inner opening of the corridor.
Smoke, the .45 still in his hand, shot him through the heart. Two others dived for cover behind the cheerily splashing fountain. Granger dropped behind a huge clay olla that held a stunted banana tree. From there he triggered a round that ripped along the left ribs of Alejandro Alvarado.
Face grimaced in agony, the young grandee spun to one side and leaned back against the wall of the arched corridor that connected the front door to the patio. “Go on, Smoke. I’ll be all right.”
Alejadro extended his right arm along the wall and took aim at a pale face that appeared above the lip of the fountain. Biting his lip, he squeezed his trigger. The slug slammed into the edge of the marble basin. Water and stone chips showered into the air. The face disappeared, an irregular hole in the center of its forehead. At once, Smoke was on the move.
He bounded to his left and dropped behind a long, earth-filled planter. Three slugs pounded into the opposite surface. Smoke inched along to the end and hazarded a quick look. Granger had come to his boots, peering across the open garden in a attempt to get a sight on Smoke. It would be all too easy.
Smoke raised his arm and fired at the center line of Granger’s body. The bullet smashed into Granger’s belly, and he staggered backward. Smoke came to his boots and jinked off another direction. He learned that he had miscalculated Granger’s strength a moment later when Alejadro shouted from behind him.
“Smoke, look out!”
Cole Granger fired his six-gun with less than acceptable accuracy. A hot tunnel opened in Jensen’s left arm an instant before he discharged his Colt and put another bullet in Cole Granger’s chest. To his surprise Granager absorbed the punishment and turned his gun on Alejandro.
This time he wavered unsteadily so that the slug struck the stucco-plastered, adobe wall before it plowed into the chest of Alejandro Alvarado. Cursing his bad luck, Smoke raised his point of aim. He fired at Granger’s face and blasted the life out of his assailant. Quickly he bound his arm and chaged his empty Colt for the freash one. Then Smoke began to search for the final hard case.
Sagged to his knees, Alejandro called out to Smoke “He’s gone. Ran out to the others.”
“What about you?” Concern rang in Smoke’s voice.
“It’s . . . not bad. Go on. Find Satterlee and get the girl to safety.”
Smoke Jenson started for the stairway that led to the second floor. Behind him a door flew open. Smoke spun on one heel and snapped off a shot. Another of Satterlee’s henchmen died. Halfway up the stairs, he paused to look back. Alejandro sat spread-legged against the wall, his face pale, but his breathing reg
ular. The bullet must not have reached his lung, Smoke speculated.
He took time then to reload, then ascended to the open-sided hallway that ran around the upper story. Now the search turned serious. Smoke stepped to the first door and kicked it in. A starled hard case turned from the window where he had been exchanging rounds with Mac and the attackers, who had swarmed into the compound through the damaged gate. Smoke shot him in the shoulder, took his weapons and locked the door behind as he left. The next two rooms were empty. Smoke worked his way out into the open.
From below, Alejandro spoke to Smoke, his words light and breathy. “I can cover you from here.”
Smoke nodded and went on. The next door he found locked from the inside. His .45 Peacemaker at the ready, Smoke lined up and kicked the center panel beside the lock case. It hurt like hell. Made of stout manzanita, the door did not yield. Smoke kicked again, with the other foot. Wood splintered in the frame. Dimly, from behind and below, Smoke noted the arrival of Mac and some of the vaqueros. They swarmed through the courtyard as Smoke lashed out with his boot a third time. The door flew open to reveal a frightened and startled Lupe and a bulldog-faced hard case.
“Down,” Smoke shouted to the maid.
She dropped without hesitation. Smoke popped a cap on the outlaw at close range. The slug pierced a forearm and entered a vulnerable chest. Smoke shot him again, and the thug’s six-gun flew upward out of his hand. It discharged when it struck the ceiling. The bullet went through the thin plaster and exited the building by way of the tin roof. A stunned expression washed over the dying gunnman’s features, and he fell face-first to the floor.
Smoke pointed to Lupe. “Stay here.”
Footsteps pounded in the stairwell as Smoke faced the next door. It was also locked. Smoke reared back for a good blow with his boot as Mac and three of Diego’s cowboys ran toward him.
Triumph of the Mountain Man Page 26