“Get something heavier,” came advice from the mob.
“Hell, get some dynamite.”
That sent Ferdie Biggs on a staggered course to the shuttered window. He shouted through the thick wooden covers and closed the lower sash. “Oh, Jeeezus, don’t do that. I’m still in here.”
“Who cares?” a laughing voice told Ferdie.
“Great friends you’ve got.” Smoke Jensen added a cold, death-rattle laugh to increase the effect of his words.
From a drawer in the sheriff’s desk, Smoke took a very familiar pair of cartridge belts. One had the pocket slung low, for a right-hand draw. The other rode high on the left, with the butt of a .44 pointing forward canted at a sharp angle.
Smoke cut his eyes to a thoroughly shaken Ferdie. “And here the sheriff told me they found no sign of my own guns. Now they show up in his desk. Wonder how that happened?”
“Don’t ask me. All I saw was that old .45.”
Smoke hastily strapped himself into the dual rigs. His hand had barely left the last buckle, when the door gave a hollow boom and the cross-bar splintered apart and fell to the floor. Another slam and the thick oak portal swung inward. Three men spilled into the room. The one in the lead held a rope, already tied into a hangman’s knot.
To his left stood another, who looked to Smoke Jensen to be a saddle tramp. His wooden expression showed not the slightest glimmer of intelligence. The rifle he held at hip level commanded all the respect he needed. To the other side, Smoke saw a pigeon-breasted fellow, who could have been the grocery clerk at the general mercantile. Indeed, the fan of a feather duster projected from a hip pocket.
Triumph shone on their faces for only a second, until they took in the scattergun competently held in the hands of Smoke Jensen. Payne Finney reacted first. He let go of the noose and dived for the six-gun in its right-hand pocket.
“For godsake, shoot him, Gore,” he yelled.
“You shoot him, Payne,” came a wailed reply.
Smoke Jensen had only one chance. He swung the barrels of the L. C. Smith into position between the two gunmen, so that the shot column split its deadly load into two bodies. The deafening roar filled the room. A scream of pain came from the suddenly animated man named Gore. A cloud of gray-white powder smoke obscured the view for a moment. Smoke Jensen had already moved and gazed beyond the huge puffball.
His finger had already found the second trigger; Smoke guided the shotgun unerringly to the next largest threat. When that man made no move to carry on the fight, he sought out the two he had shot. Both lay on the floor.
Payne Finney had taken the most of the 00 pellets, and bled profusely from five wounds. Gore had at least three pellets in his side and right forearm. He lay silent and still now. Shock had knocked him unconscious. A third man, who had been unlucky enough to be in the open space between Finney and Gore, was also down, his kneecap shot away. He writhed and whined in agony. Smoke’s keen sight also took in something else.
Sputtering trails of sparks arched over the heads of the mob, who stood stunned on the stoop and in the street. Instinctively, Smoke dived away from the open door, expecting a shattering blast of dynamite. Instead the red cylinders fell among the members of the lynch mob and went off with thunderous, though relatively harmless roars. Starbursts of red, white, and green fountained up to sting and burn the blood-hungry crowd. Immediately, three six-guns opened up from behind the startled men of Socorro. Yells of consternation rose among the would-be hangmen.
More shots put wings to the feet of the least hearty of them. Movement away from the jail became epidemic when Smoke Jensen stepped into the doorway, shotgun ready. Laughing, yelling, and shooting, Smoke Jensen’s three missing ranch hands, Banning, Hardy, and Reardon, dusted some boot heels with lead to speed the lynchers on their way.
“Hey, Walt,” Ty Hardy shouted over the tumult. “I told you those Mezkin fireworks I bought in Ary-zona would come in handy.”
Walt Reardon looked upon Smoke Jensen with a nearworshipful expression. “Kid foolishness I called them. Reckon I was wrong. Smoke, good to see you.”
“Alive, you mean,” Smoke returned dryly.
Reardon brushed that aside. “What the hell happened? You disappeared and the next thing we know, folks are sayin’ you killed a man; back-shot him—which means it sure as the devil weren’t you.”
“What took you so long?” Smoke smiled to take the sting out of his words.
“We had to have a plan. You should have seen them. Half a hunnerd at least.” Reardon tipped back the brim of his hat and wiped a sweaty brow. “What now?”
“I suggest we leave the lovely town of Socorro for better parts,” Smoke advised.
“Suits,” Reardon agreed. “We—ah—took the precaution to get your horse saddled and ready. It’s down the block.”
All four started that way. Behind them, Ferdie Biggs tottered out onto the stoop. “What about me? What’s gonna happen to me?”
Smoke Jensen swiveled his head and gave Ferdie Biggs a deathly grin. “You’ll have quite a story to tell the sheriff now, won’t you, Ferdie?”
* * *
Through no fault of their own, Geoffrey Benton-Howell, Miguel Selleres, and Dalton Wade erroneously toasted the demise of Smoke Jensen when they heard the commotion coming from the jail. Beaming heartily, Benton-Howell refilled their glasses and raised his again.
“And here’s to our prospects of becoming very wealthy men.”
“Here, here!” Dalton Wade responded.
“I think it is fortuitous that our man found Quint Stalker so quickly,” Miguel Selleres remarked. “Now that he is rounding up his men, we can put our next phase in operation.”
“I’d like to see Smoke Jensen swinging from a tree.” Bitterness rang in Wade’s words.
Benton-Howell gave him a hard look. “It would be more politic for us to remain here, out of the sight of others. If you would be so kind, why is it you have such a hatred for Smoke Jensen?”
Dalton Wade considered a moment before answering. “Three close friends are in their graves because of that damned Smoke Jensen.”
Geoffrey Benton-Howell said, “They were all good friends?”
“Yes, they were. Two of them were doing quite well, running a small town up in Montana with iron fists. Some of their henchmen stepped on the toes of someone related to Smoke Jensen. Jensen took exception to it. When Jensen finished, fifteen men were dead, another twenty-seven wounded. Among them, my friends.”
“What about the third?” Benton-Howell asked.
“Jeremy and I were very close friends. He fancied himself a good hand with a gun. Fast, exceptionally fast in fact. But . . . not fast enough. He braced Smoke Jensen one day. Jensen was actually a bit slower on the draw, but oh, so much more accurate. Jeremy didn’t have a chance.”
“I see. So all along this has been personal with you, not just a means to an end. For my part, and Don Miguel’s, when our involvement in this is known, we’ll be considered clever heroes to many people. It will make what comes after . . . ah . . . more palatable to them.” His smile turned nasty. “From now on, events are going to turn rather rough. It’s necessary that they are blamed on a mythical Smoke Jensen gang, seeking retribution for his death.”
Benton-Howell poured more brandy, and his laughter filled the room.
Sheriff Jake Reno rode into a town oddly quiet for the scene of a lynching. Socorro slumbered under the hot New Mexico sun. A deep uneasiness grew when he saw no signs of a dead Smoke Jensen hanging from any tree on the northern edge of town. He found the jail door open, as expected, though no sign of Ferdie Biggs. He dismounted and entered.
Ferdie Biggs lay slumped on the daybed used by the night duty jailer. He had a fist-sized lump on the side of his head—bandaged in yards of gauze—a fat, swollen lip, and more tape and bandage around his ribs.
“What the hell happened to you?” Reno blurted.
“Smoke Jensen’s what happened. He kicked the crap out of me and escaped
. Had three fellers with him, outside the jail when the mob came. Set off some kind of explosives, shot up the place, and they all got away.” Rage burned in the sheriff’s chest as he saw his five-hundred-dollar bonus flying away. He crossed to where Biggs lay and grabbed a double handful of shirt, yanking the slovenly jailer upright. “Goddamnit, can’t you do anything right?”
“Ow! Oh, damn, I hurt! I meant what I said, Jensen kicked me.”
“I suppose because he was in handcuffs?” Reno said scornfully.
Ferdie gulped. “Yep. I had him cuffed, right enough.” “But you got too close. Pushed your luck, right?” “Uh-huh. I wanted to punch him up a little, have some fun before they hung him. Next thing I knew, he was usin’ them of his boots on me.”
“Idiot. Get that lard butt of yours out there and round up some men to form a posse. We’re going after Jensen.” Sheriff Reno’s decision came automatically, without a thought of consulting the men who had bought his cooperation.
There’d be hell to pay when they found out his means of disposing of Smoke Jensen had failed, he reckoned. Best to put that off for a while. Chances were he’d run Jensen to ground easily, and come back to collect his five hundred. Sure, Reno’s growing self-confidence told him, Smoke Jensen or no, the man was on the run in strange territory. It would be easy.
It would take all of the cunning of the last mountain man to evade the posse Smoke knew would be sent to pursue him and his hands. Ten miles out of town, Smoke had called a halt and sincerely thanked his men for the rescue. He saw clearly now, that they had laid low in order not to become ensnared in whatever skullduggery had put him in line for a lynching. He also explained the options open to them.
“. . . so that’s about it. You can all take off for the Sugarloaf, or take your chances with me.”
“What do you reckon to do?” Walt Reardon asked. “I’m going to find out who killed Tucker, and why. That should clear my name in these parts.”
Reardon, used to being a wanted man, nodded soberly. “Might be a big undertakin’. I allow as how you could use some help.”
“Same for me,” Ty Hardy chimed in.
“I’ll stick it out with you, Smoke,” Rip Banning added. “It can get rough. There’s a chance some of us will draw a bullet.”
“Way I see it, Smoke, that’s an everyday experience. Long as it’s not a stacked deck, count me in for the game.”
Smoke Jensen looked hard at Walt Reardon, appreciating his staunch support and his knowledge. Smile lines crinkled around Smoke’s slate-gray eyes, and he nodded curtly. “Best I could come up with is to head for the nearest mountains. Wear the posse down, confuse them. Sooner or later they’ll give up and go home.”
Walt grinned. “Now, that shines. I ’member the time me an’ old Frisco Johnny Blue did just that up in Dakota Territory. Worked fine as frog hair. Is there . . . ah . . .somethin’ else we could be doin’, while givin’ that posse the slip?”
“Maybe. I’ll think on it. Now, let’s put some distance between us and them. Next stop’s the Cibola Range.”
Five
Sheriff Jake Reno trotted his blotched gray along the main trail leading north out of Socorro. The posse had covered eight miles at a fast trot, then slowed the pace to look for tracks. They found them easily. Reno held them to a leisurely pace from then on.
“My guess is they’ll be cuttin’ west soon,” he advised the man on his left.
“Why’s that?” the uncomfortable store clerk asked.
“Smoke Jensen’s got him a rep’tation of bein’ a mountain man. The last mountain man. I reckon he’d feel more at home in the hills. Too open to keep on north toward the Rockies. Those three saddle bums is wanted for jail break, along with Jensen, an’ you can add murder on Jensen’s head. No, they won’t want to run into a lot of folks.”
Snorting doubt through a nose made red by whiskey, the clerk issued his own opinion. “If he wanted mountains, there’s plenty around Socorro.”
“But too close to town for his likin’. Smoke Jensen’s nothin’ if he ain’t clever. If he was to sneak around outside town, we could keep resupplied forever and wear him down. Now, you be for keepin’ a close eye out for where they turn off.”
They almost missed it, as it was. A bare, wide slab of rock led into the bed of an intermittent stream, presently made liquid by heavy rains in the mountains. A fresh scrape, made by the iron shoe of a heavy horse, told the story to the sheriff’s favorite scout. He waved the posse down as they approached.
“They went into the water.”
“Not too smart under the best of conditions,” Jake Reno opined.
“It will run dry in an hour or two,” the scout suggested.
“Or it’ll come a flash flood gushin’ down on us. We’ll ride the banks, let them take the risk. Jensen and his trash friends’ll come out sooner than later, I figger.”
Five miles to the west, the posse came upon the spot where four horses began to walk on wet sand. Sheriff Reno halted the men and tipped back the wide brim of his hat. A blue gingham bandanna mopped at the sweat that streaked down his temples and brow.
“Yep. They’re headin’ into the Cibolas. Eb, you an’ Sam head back for town. Get us some pack animals and lots of grub. This is gonna be a long hunt.”
“Like I said boys. This ain’t like the High Lonesome, but at least it’s mountains.” Smoke Jensen dismounted and continued to speak his observations aloud. “I’d say the sheriff is a good ten miles behind. Time to fix up something for him to remember us by.”
“How’s that?”
“Walt, you were with the Sugarloaf back when those
Eastern dudes tried to attack the place. Perhaps you could enlighten young Rip here.”
“Sure, Smoke.” Walt proceeded to tell Ripley Banning about the deadfalls, pits, and the great star-shaped log obstacles that had so befuddled the army of Eastern thugs, who had been sicked on the Sugarloaf hands only a year past. Rip started to grin early on, and his eyes danced with mischief by the time the tale had been told.
“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, these natural water reservoirs 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.
Cunning of the Mountain Man Page 4