“I’d say Smoke would be mighty interested,” Walt opined after they had exchanged information.
“What I think he’d be most likely to want to know, is what’s behind the festivities. I’m going to try to wangle you and me an invitation.”
“You think you can do it?” Walt sounded doubtful. “Should be easy. A rich, Arizona cattleman, interested in buying the seed bull I saw advertised at the feed mill. Inquiries to be addressed to Mr. Geoffrey Benton-Howell, of the B-Bar-H.”
Walt Reardon gave him a blank look. “I’ll be damned. I missed that one entire.”
Jeff York gave him a friendly chuckle. “You’ve got to have a lawman’s eye for small details, Walt. We’d best head for the Tucker place and fill in Smoke. Then I’ll outfit myself in expensive clothes, do up a flash-roll of currency, and head for the office of Benton-Howell. Might be we’ll find out what’s behind all this without any effort at all.”
Late the next afternoon, Geoffrey Benton-Howell effusively welcomed Steven J. York, of Flagstaff, Arizona, into his office. He ushered his visitor to a plush chair beside the huge cherrywood desk, and crossed to a sideboard where he poured brandy for two.
“This is the first personal inquiry I’ve received from such a distance,” the Englishman informed Jeff in dulcet tones. “May I ask what excited you sufficiently about Herefordshire Grand Expositor to pay me this visit?” Jeff York leaned back in the chair with a comfortable slouch, conveying his ease to an attentive Geoffrey Benton-Howell. “I know it’s common practice, and I don’t want you to take offense,” he drawled. “But I’ve learned that in horse trading and cattle buying, it’s best not to purchase sight unseen.” He chuckled softly and sipped the brandy to soften the implication of distrust.
“A wise man, indeed” Benton-Howell responded as he clapped one big hand on a thigh. “Of course, before any transaction was completed, I would urge the buyer to make a personal inspection of Expositor. He’s a fine Hereford bull, and I’m justifiably proud of him.”
He studied his visitor, while the Arizona cattleman framed a response. Geoffrey saw a well-dressed man, turned out in dustless boots. A hand-tooled, concho-deco-rated cartridge belt, of Mexican origin no doubt, fitted snugly around a lean waist. A shaft of magenta sunlight put a soft glow to well-cared-for gun metal in the leather pocket. The suit had a flavor of Mexico in its cut, sort of the haciendado style favored by Miguel Selleres. The 'flat-crowned Cordovan sombrero clinched it for Benton-Howell. He bought the man as genuine.
“I’ve heard good things about crossing these new, short-horn, polled Herefords with range cattle. Improves the stock remarkably,” Jeff spieled off from memory of conversations with the more progressive ranchers in Arizona Territory.
“More meat, more pounds, with less size. They’re all the rage back East.”
“Not many willin’ to take the risk out here, I’ll bet.” Benton-Howell nodded agreeably. “Not so far. Tunstil tried it, and some say that’s what got him in the Lincoln County War. Some people are slow to accept any change. Take barbed wire.”
Jeff made the expected nasty face at mention of the often lethal barriers. That encouraged Benton-Howell to risk planting yet another false lead to Smoke Jensen. “We had a fellow around here who loudly advocated the use of barbed wire. Said all the small Mexican farmers around Socorro needed it, to keep range cattle out of their fields. There’s some say that’s why a gunfighter named Smoke Jensen was hired to get rid of him.”
“Smoke . . . Jensen? I’ve heard of him. Did this happen recently?”
“Only a couple of weeks ago. Rancher’s name was Lawrence Tucker. He was thrown out of the Cattlemen’s Association because of his stand on barbed wire.” Benton-Howell chuckled lightly and took Jeff’s glass for a refill. “Might be someone took the whole matter a bit more personally than others. For my own part, I say live and let live. God knows there’s plenty of rocks around here. If the Mexicans want to protect their fields, let them busy themselves building stone walls. They’ve worked well enough in jolly old England, I dare say.”
“Quite,” Jeff responded, well aware of the irony of his sally. “Aah, thank you,” he acknowledged the excellent brandy handed to him. “Now, when can I get to examine Expositor?”
“How long did you intend to stay in Socorro?” Benton-Howell inquired.
“Two or three days. As long as it took to see this championship animal of yours.”
Benton-Howell thought for a long moment. “I’m having a rather gala soiree at the ranch two days hence. I would be honored, if you would attend. You can see Expositor, and I can introduce you to some gentlemen who might be of some benefit to you over in Arizona.” “Sounds good to me. I’ve always liked nice parties— enjoy good grub, good whiskey, and interesting company.” Jeff was enjoying himself, playing the role to the hilt.
“You’re staying at the hotel?” At Jeff’s nod Benton-Howell went on. “I’ll have one of my hands meet you there tomorrow, escort you to the ranch.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Benton-Howell. It’s sure nice doin’ business with a gentleman like yourself.” Jeff finished off the brandy and rose to his boots to leave. “Oh, I have ray foreman along with me. He’s a better judge of prime cattle than I am. Would you mind, if I bring him along?”
“Oh, not at all. He’ll be most welcome. Until tomorrow, then, Mr. York?”
“Hasta la vista.”
Pown on the street, as Jeff York strode away from the brick bank building, he congratulated himself on catching a mighty big fish. That, or he’d gotten himself into one damn dangerous situation.
Out at the Tucker ranch, Smoke Jensen made his own plans for the day of Benton-Howell’s big fiesta. He wanted to be on hand to inspect the layout firsthand. To do so, he would have to make a scout of the place. And that night seemed ideally suited to his needs. He asked Martha Tucker for directions and rode out an hour before sundown.
While midnight beckoned with stygian darkness, Smoke Jensen crested a pinon-studded ridge and started down the back slope. Only the scant, frosty light of stars illuminated his surroundings. Well and good, Smoke thought to himself. If Benton-Howell had night riders posted, he had a better chance of eluding them this night. What he had in mind could all go up in a flash, if some nighthawk stumbled on him prematurely.
Might be he was overcautious, Smoke decided, as he descended the eastern grade that formed the bowl valley which housed the B-Bar-H. The thicket of trees grew denser the further he drifted toward the distant ranch house. He wanted to check out sites within long-rifle range of the area where the fiesta would be held in the event he needed to make use of them.
Smoke had used this tactic with telling effect in earlier confrontations with some of the evil trash that infested the frontier. Not one to discard a useful strategy, he always considered employing it when presented the opportunity. Preacher had seen to it that a much younger Smoke Jensen had learned to be an effective fighter, even when entirely alone. Yet, he didn’t like being out of contact with Jeff York. No idea what might develop there. He had to live with it, though.
The widespread nature of this sinister business made it necessary to go at it from more than one direction at a time. He recalled situations in the past when it would have been convenient to be able to divide himself in two or even three parts. A sudden flare of yellow light alerted Smoke that Benton-Howell had put out sentries.
Not very smart ones, at that. The flare of a match not only gave away the position of a guard but destroyed his night vision long enough for him to lose his hair, if there were Indians about. One of the first lessons Preacher had taught him, Smoke thought grimly. Now he would have to find out how many there might be, and where.
Smoke combined his missions. He worked his way with great caution around the crescent face of the ridge through the long hours of early morning. A thin line of gray brightened the eastern horizon when he finished scouting the ranch. Another hour on foot took him away from the area far enough so that he could risk mou
nting and riding off toward the Tucker spread.
It would take some doing, but he could spoil Benton-Howell’s little party right easily. “And that’s the way I like it,” Smoke said aloud to himself.
“Viejo Dillon come to these mountains long time ago,” the’wrinkle-faced, Tuwa grandfather related to Ty Hardy, both men seated outside his summer brush lodge.
“I hear he was killed recently,” Ty prodded.
A curt nod answered him. The old man looked off a moment, then spoke in his lilting manner. “It’s supposed to look like a thief took things. But this one’s eyes saw the men who came.”
“Do you know them?” Ty hadn’t thought of getting this much so fast.
“Oh, yes. Very bad men—malos hombres. The big one . . . their chief . . . this one has seen him before. He is called Stalker.”
Ty’s eyes widened, and he fought to keep his expression calm. “You are sure of this? Did you tell the law about it?”
The Tuwa shrugged. “Why do this? This Stalker and the Jefe Reno are like two beans in a pod, this one is thinking.”
How many other unexposed secrets lay buried in this old gray head? And those of others like him. Ty had learned much about respect for Indians from Smoke Jensen. And, Ty considered, the old man sure had the sheriff down right.
“Thank you, Hears Wind. I will hold your words close to me.”
“You tell the Jefe Reno?” Anxiety lighted the obsidian eyes.
“I don’t think so. I work for another man. Smoke Jensen.”
Hear Wind’s expression changed to one of pleasure. “His name is known to our people. That one walks tall with honor. You are fortunate to be one of his warriors. Go with the sun at your back.”
Ty Hardy left with the certain knowledge that he had learned something important, and also that he had been honored simply for being one of Smoke Jensen’s hands. Powerful medicine, as the Injuns said.
Fourteen
Still done up as a wealthy rancher, Jeff York, along with Walt Reardon, arrived at the B-Bar-H mid-afternoon the next day. Not a lot of originality in that name, Jeff thought for the tenth time since discovering the notice of sale in the feed mill office. He was greeted by Geoffrey Benton-Howell in person; he had come out the day of their meeting to oversee final preparations.
“Glad you came,” the Englishman remarked abruptly. “I’ll introduce you to some of the other guests who journeyed out early. Then I’ll show you Expositor.”
“That’s my main interest,” Jeff replied.
On a wide, flagstone veranda, several portly men, dressed in the typical garb of Washington politicians, lounged in large wicker chairs. All had drinks in their hands, and it was obvious to Jeff York that these were not their first for the day.
Benton-Howell ushered Jeff and Walt from one to the next, making acquaintances. Uniformly, their handshakes were weak, soft, and insincere. Not a one of them has done a day’s work in his life, thought the Arizona Ranger. A white-jacketed servant shoved a cut crystal glass of bourbon into Jeff’s hand, and he took an obligatory pull.
After their first drinks had been drained, Walt acknowledged a signal from Jeff and excused himself. He wanted a good look around the ranch. Most of the next half-hour conversation centered around competing accounts of the importance of each man to the smooth functioning of the federal government. Jeff York endured it with less than complete patience. He felt genuine relief and expectation, when Benton-Howell announced that he intended to show off his prize stud bull.
“What do you think of them?” the corrupt rancher asked, once he and Jeff were out of earshot of the guests.
“They’re not long on sparkling conversation,” Jeff replied cautiously.
“Boors, the lot of them. Boobies, too,” Benton-Howell snapped. “Although, quite necessary, if one is to operate unhindered in your territory or mine. Well, then, here we are,” he concluded, directing Jeff into a small bam that contained a single stall.
Expositor had a slat-level back, his face, neck, and chest a creamy white mass of tight curly hair. The rest of him, except for the tip of his tail, was a dark red-brown with similar woolly appearance. The bull had one slab side turned toward them, and he regarded them over a front shoulder with a big, brown eye. Although a lawman, rather than a stockman, Jeff considered him to be a magnificent animal, and said so.
“I thought you’d be impressed. He’s barely four years old, and he’s already topped over three hundred heifers and cows.”
Jeff chuckled. “Wonder he isn’t worn down to a nubbin’.”
Geoffrey Benton-Howell had been away from England and on the frontier, long enough to understand. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with his equipment. Far from it. If I had a cow in season, I’d show you.”
They talked of the animal’s performances for a while, then Jeff moved in close to look at the confirmation of the huge beast. “He’s certainly blocky,” Jeff observed.
“That’s how you get the weight-to-size ratio to work out,” Benton-Howell advised. “The bloodline came originally from Herefordshire.” Benton-Howell pronounced the county name Hair-ford-sure. “They’ve revolutionized livestock raising back East. Even a man with a small farm can pasture thirty or forty head. Not like out here, where one needs a thousand acres for fifty head.”
For a moment, Jeff began to doubt Benton-Howell’s involvement in the murder of Lawrence Tucker, or anything else not above board. The man’s expert knowledge of animal husbandry, and his obvious rapt interest in it, argued that it must be his main concern. Yet, why the obvious allusions to bribing or otherwise obtaining a favorable connection with the slippery striped-trouser crowd? Jeff would have to wait and see if something important came out at the fiesta the next day.
“What time does this shindig start tomorrow?” “When the heat breaks over. About four o’clock, I would imagine,” Jeff’s host responded genially. Then he changed the subject. “Are you ready to buy Expositor right now?”
“He’s a handsome critter, I’ll allow. A lot bigger than I’d expected from the breed. I’d like to think on it awhile.” Benton-Howell clapped a hard hand on Jeff’s firm shoulder. “Sleep on it, if you want. Enjoy what the ranch has for diversions tomorrow, and then give me your answer at the fiesta.”
* * *
A festive atmosphere prevailed over the ranch headquarters the next morning from early on. Two huge, stone-lined pits had been stoked with wood long before dawn. With the contents reduced to glowing coals, half a steer turned slowly over each of them. Whole goats revolved on smaller spits on fires of their own. Ranch hands worked clumsily at unfamiliar tasks, erecting striped canvas awnings to provide shade and a pretense of coolness, setting up tables under them and laying out tableware and napkins. More guests began arriving shortly after an early breakfast. Jeff York took careful note of the occupants of each buggy, and consigned to memory the name and position of each visitor.
“And this is Senator Claypoole,” Benton-Howell introduced yet another to York. “He’s on the committee for Indian Affairs. Steven York from Arizona,” he concluded.
Claypoole had a politician’s, glad-hander shake, pale blue eyes dancing with merriment. “A pleasure, sir. Are you a cattle breeder, too?”
“No. I raise cattle for market.”
“I see.” The good senator cooled off, wondering why a common rancher had been invited. “Sparse vegetation over Arizona way, I’m told. How many hundred head can you feed?”
“Not hundreds,” Jeff exaggerated wildly, “thousands. I run five thousand head this time of year. And I hold most of the mountain pasture from Flagstaff to Globe in the Tonto Range.”
Claypoole warmed immediately. This was a big rancher. “I—ah—stand corrected. How do you manage such a vast area? Aren’t the Indians a constant threat?”
Jeff gave him a warm smile. “Not really. If all the Indians killed in the dime novels had been for real, there wouldn’t be an Apache left alive. I’ve found that the Eastern journalists tend to embellish
the truth.”
Another carriage, a mud-wagon stage coach hired for the occasion, rumbled in with more politicians. That ended the exchange between Jeff York and Senator Claypoole, much to Jeff’s relief. Benton-Howell took him in tow and made him acquainted with the newcomers. From the corner of one eye, Jeff noted that Claypoole made directly for the heavily laden liquor table.
The heavy drinking began around ten-thirty. Jeff held onto a single tumbler of whiskey and took sparing sips from it. He began to wonder what Smoke Jensen had in mind for this gala party. Knowing the gunfighter as he did, Jeff could not see Smoke passing up such an opportunity.
Noontime came, and still no sign of the fine hand of Smoke Jensen. Many of the ranch hands drifted in during the next hour. They all had the look of second-rate gun-hawks to Jeff. The rich aromas of cooking meat and pots of beans, field corn, and other delights filled the air. Jeff had emptied his glass and had turned back to the beverage table, when he found himself face-to-face with a man he knew only too well.
“What the hell you doin’ here, Ranger?” Concho Jim Packard growled in a low, menacing voice.
“Excuse me? You’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” Jeff tried hard to misdirect the desperado.
“Not a chance. No gawdamned Arizona Ranger kills three of my best friends and I don’t remember him.” Packard turned to search the crowd for his employer. “Hey, Boss,” he shouted over the buzz of conversation. “You done brought a rattlesnake into your nest.”
Geoffrey Benton-Howell came over at once. “What are you talking about?”
“This one,” Concho Jim snarled, pointing at Jeff. “Why, Mr. York’s my guest. He’s come to buy Expositor,” Benton-Howell spluttered.
Cunning of the Mountain Man Page 13