Live by the West, Die by the West

by William W. Johnstone

  Several among the young men of the pueblo made as though to come over, among them three of his tribal policemen. They hesitated, though, at a scowl from Dohatsa, who had begun to climb the ladder to the outside. Santan Tossa turned back to the shaman.

  “Be patient, and hopeful, Grandfather. I will soon bring the rest of the sacred objects. With enough men, the white outsiders can be defeated, and I can go with my friends to get the holy dolls and the masks.”

  “Yes, Santan Tossa, but which outsiders are the real enemy?”

  Tossa paused at the foot of the ladder. “Why, the gang led by the one called Quinn, of course.”

  With a mocking smile almost identical to the one worn by Dohatsa, Whispering Leaves nodded once. Santan Tossa continued out of the kiva. In a steady line behind him, the other young men followed. Tossa found Dohatsa waiting for him on the ground below.

  “I will kill you if I have to,” Dohatsa stated flatly.

  “It is forbidden, you know that.”

  Dohatsa shrugged. “It does not matter. Take off that white man’s weapon.”

  “Naturally.”

  While the other occupants of the kiva formed a loose circle around them, more men and a number of small boys of the pueblo gathered to watch. Santan Tossa untied the pegging string of his holster and slipped the buckle. He let the six-gun drop as he instantly launched himself at Dohatsa. The renegade had expected that and easily sidestepped Tossa. Dohatsa drove an elbow into the small of Tossa’s back, smashing him to the ground, his strength robbed by the burst of pain in his kidneys. Some among the onlookers cheered. At once, Dohatsa whirled and kicked Tossa in the stomach. Renewed agony exploded in the tender parts of Tossa’s body. He gasped for air and fought to get purchase.

  Failing that, he scooped up a handful of dirt and hurled it in the face of Dohatsa.

  “There is no honor in that,” shouted two of Dohatsa’s partisans.

  Fire erupted behind the eyelids of the traitor, and he clawed at his face. Tossa fought back the debilitating effects of the blows he had absorbed and came unsteadily upright. He took two shaky steps forward and engulfed Dohatsa in a bear hug. Flexing his knees, Tossa tried to throw his opponent.

  Heavier by far, Dohatsa did not move at first. Then, slowly, his moccasins rose into the air. Tossa swiveled his hips and threw his enemy to the ground. Dohatsa did not land flat. He hit his head first and his shoulders next as Tossa landed on top of him. Now Tossa dimly heard men cheering him. A spectacular nighttime shower of stars filled Dohatsa’s’s head. He fought to suck air into his restricted lungs. When his chest moved, he dimly heard the brittle snap of three ribs. Fiery torment seared his chest cavity. Tossa had greater strength than he had expected. If he did not break this soon, he would not fight on this day, let alone win. As though from a distance, he commanded his legs to rise.

  When the soles of his moccasins rested flat on the ground, he flexed powerful thighs and heaved upward. Although the burden of weight upon him shot up into the air, Dohatsa failed to dislodge Tossa. When the wiry young tribal policeman came down, he buried one knee in the slightly paunchy gut of Dohatsa.

  Sour bile and the remains of his morning meal erupted from Dohatsa’s mouth, preceded by a heavy gust of air. His head swam and his limbs went slack. In desperation, Dohatsa rallied his flagging resources and went for the knife in his bright orange sash. When it came free, he made a swift slash at Tossa.

  Nimbly, the young Tua avoided the blade and sprang to his feet. A quick kick sent the knife spinning brightly in the sunlight. Then Tossa had the arm pinned. He rolled the offending hand of Dohatsa over, palm down, and stamped on it with a moccasined foot until he heard bones crack. Howling, Dohatsa doubled up, nursing his injured extremity. Tossa stepped behind him and knelt. He took a large hank of black hair and yanked back the head of his enemy.

  “I could, I should, cut your throat. Instead, what I want from you is the truth. Tell me all about our stolen sacred articles.”

  Dohatsa surrendered all of his arrogance, along with his resistance. He had been in the pay of Satterlee for nearly a month. He knew that his confession would mean certain exile, if not death, under tribal law. Shamefacedly, he turned his head to look at the man who had bested him. “What you accused me of before is true. I have taken money from the white outsiders, Satterlee and Quinn, for a moon now. It is I who stole the religious objects and gave them to Quinn. What he did with them I do not know.”

  Disgust at such betrayal twisted the face of Santan Tossa. He came upright and turned to address the gathering of Tua men. “You heard what this disgraced one said. Confine him somewhere until the council can attend to his crimes. Now, who will join me? Come, it is a thing of honor. Without the help of the white lawman I would never have found the necklace.”

  Two young Tua men stepped forward. Three more joined them. Then half a dozen. One spoke for the others. “If you will have us, Santan Tossa, we will fight with you for the white men.”

  Before he left for Taos, Santan Tossa had acquired a force of twenty-eight.

  * * *

  Shortly before nightfall, Deputy Sheriff Sammy Jennings cantered up to the casa grande at Rancho de la Gloria. The majordomo greeted him politely and hailed a boy to lead the lathered horse to the stableyard, to be cooled out, watered, and rubbed down. He showed the lawman into the central courtyard.

  Don Diego Alvarado sat there, on a white-painted wrought-iron bench, smoking a cigar. He roused himself to welcome his visitor. Jennings made it short and to the point.

  “I’ve come from Smoke Jensen, Don Diego. He is undersheriff in Taos now.”

  Jennings, an uncomplicated man, missed the sardonic note of irony in the grandee’s chuckle and words. “My friend Smoke is coming up in the world. I gather that there is something of importance that I should know?”

  “Yes, sir. Smoke sent me to tell you that the Quinn gang intends to lay siege to Taos. Shut off the town and starve out the occupants. He asks that if it is possible you send as many vaqueros as you can.”

  “I can fill forty saddles within the hour. Will that do?”

  Jennings swallowed hard. “Oh, Lordy, sure. Fine as frog’s hair, señor.”

  “Excellent.” He raised his voice and called to his eldest son. “Alejandro! Come out here and round up the vaqueros. I want forty of the best.”

  Alejandro appeared in a doorway of a room on the second floor. “What is it, Father? Have the rustlers returned?”

  “No. We ride to Taos. Smoke Jensen has need of our firepower.” He turned back to his visitor. “As I say, this will take an hour. You must be in need of refreshment. Come, I’ll have Maria prepare food and get you something to drink.” Steering the young deputy toward the doorway to the detached kitchen, Don Diego shouted ahead to his cook to fix some meat and cheese and tortillas. Also to have Pepe bring up three beers from the springhouse.

  * * *

  After sending off his last messenger, Smoke Jensen settled down in the sheriff’s office to a plate of beef stew from the corner eatery. This being Taos, the stew had potatoes right enough, but with tomatoes, onions, garlic and chile peppers instead of turnips, carrots and garden peas. The gravy was rich and thick, which he scooped up with folded flour tortillas. A soupy bowl of beans came with it, and a side dish of some mashed, yellow-green substance. Guacamole, he had been told. Avocado, Wally Gower had informed him. Again with the ever-present tomato, garlic, onion, and chiles. It had been flavored with some pungent, green herb and it tasted delightful. Smoke had just finished wrapping his lips around another bite of it when a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass summoned him from the office. From the knot of excited onlookers in the street, he learned the disturbance came from La Merced, one of the more unsavory saloons in town.

  Smoke headed that way at once. He had to shove his way through a cluster of brown-faced spectators who crowded the boardwalk and entranceway. Three steps led to a grime-coated tile floor. Again, Smoke had to grab shoulders and heave men ou
t of the way. This time, he noted that the faces wore expressions of anxiety and concern. He soon learned the reason.

  A quartet of white thugs worked systematically at breaking up the place. Their apparent leader snarled at the bartender, who cringed in the far corner of the back bar. “You damn greasers like to have poisoned two of my men last night. We’re takin’ over this town, so you might as well get an idea of what happens to folks who put funny powders in drinks for the Quinn gang. You understand? ¿Comprende?”

  Bobbing his head frantically, the barkeep, who knew not the least word of English, and could not understand a thing being growled at him, covered his eyes as a wrought-iron legged chair went hurtling toward the mirror behind the bar. The big plate of glass shattered into a million shards on impact. The complaining hardcase yanked a jug-eared, slightly built fellow from his chair and flung him after. Two of his henchmen turned to check out the disturbance between them and the doorway. In the next instant, Smoke came face-to-face with them. Neither ruffian suffered from being slow. As one, they balled fists, and the nearer one drove a hard-knuckled hand toward the face of Smoke Jensen.

  EIGHTEEN

  Smoke Jensen jerked his head to one side and let the fist whistle past. Then he brought one up from the cellar that connected with the brute’s jaw. Teeth clopped shut, and the yellowish whites of his eyes showed as his pupils rolled upward. Smoke closed in and gave him two hard shots to the heart for good measure. Then he felt a sharp jolt as the second thug caught him in the gut. Smoke took a step back and braced himself.

  At once, the brawler came on. Smoke let him get in close. Then he flexed his knees, fired his best right cross, and put shoulder and hips into it. The outlaw’s boots left the floor. Squalling like a cinch-galled horse, he pitched face-first across a nearby table. The legs broke and went four directions, as did the stacks of coins and bills. By that time, the first one to assault Smoke had recovered himself enough to launch another attack.

  He came in low, intent on taking Smoke off his feet. Smoke stood his ground and, at the last instant, smartly raised his right knee. Face met knee and the face lost. Blood flew in a shower from a mashed nose. Three teeth snapped loudly, and more crimson ribbons streamed from the damaged mouth. The legs stopped churning and the eyes gradually crossed. The would-be tough dropped two feet in front of Smoke Jensen. Which left the other assailant to tend to.

  Smoke turned to face him as the member of the Quinn gang put himself back on his boots. He had lost his cocksure smirk. His eyes glazed, he took an unsteady step toward Smoke Jensen. Blindly, he tripped over the broken table and sprawled again on the green baize. One of the men, who’d had his game disrupted and his winnings scattered, boxed the outlaw’s ears. Which got him up right smartly. He spat a curse at Smoke Jensen and came on.

  Smoke snapped a right-left combination to the head, then lowered his point of aim to work on the chest and gut. His elbows churned back and forth while he delivered short, punishing blows. When the ruffian’s guard disappeared entirely, Smoke took a quick back step and launched a solid left jab that rocked his opponent to the toes. He spun half left and shuddered while still erect. Then he wilted like a stalk of grass before a prairie fire and thudded on the floor. Seeing the pair so hastily dispatched, the leader and his remaining henchman went for their guns.

  Smoke did not even change stance. His right arm already across his body for counterbalance, he simply grabbed at the butt of his second Colt and hauled it from the horizontal leather. He snapped back the hammer and tripped the trigger. By that time, and much to his later regret, the subordinate section leader of the gang had cleared leather. He had not, however, leveled his weapon when a hot poker jabbed him in the belly and his six-gun discharged into the floor. Beside him he heard his underling utter a boast he knew could not be fulfilled.

  “I got him! I got him—got him!”

  What he got was the center of the forehead of a big black bull that hung on the wall behind Smoke Jensen, as the bullet of the last mountain man smacked into his chest and burst his heart. Smoke crossed the short space between him and the dying man and kicked the Colt from his grasp. Then he turned on the gut-shot leader.

  Plucking the Merwin Hulbert from his numb fingers, Smoke observed, “You won’t survive that. So, I’ll let you go. I have a message for Paddy Quinn. Tell him to keep the hell away from town or I’ll bring down a firestorm of hurt on him.”

  Gasping, the hardcase observed, “You’ve got a mouth on you. Who are you?”

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  “Awh . . . shit, shit, shit.” With that, he passed out.

  Smoke turned to the customers. “Will four of you bring those two to the jail. La carcel, ¿comprende?”

  Volunteers nodded their heads eagerly. They roughly grabbed up the unconscious hardcases and dragged them from the saloon. Smoke faced the bartender. “Whatever money you find on those two, I’ll add what I get from the others to help offset damages.”

  One vaquero at the bar translated. It brought a beaming smile from the worried brow. Smoke had earned his gratitude.

  * * *

  On a small mesa to the west of town, Whitewater Paddy Quinn listened to the sound of gunfire in Taos. All of his section leaders sat horses around him. All except Slim Vickers and three of his henchmen. From what he had learned from one of the seven who did report on time, Slim had remained behind to teach a lesson to some greasers who had poisoned some of them the previous night. Now, hearing the gunfire, Paddy Quinn beckoned to one of the hardcases who waited farther away with many of the gang. The man walked his horse up.

  “What do you want, boss?”

  “Baker, tell me about this poisoning, will ye?”

  Baker looked embarrassed. “Awh, well, boss, it wasn’t poison for real. Jist some green beer. It was right skunky. Bunch of us wound up squirting through the eye of a needle at ten paces. Two of the boys got sick. Threw up over everything.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  Baker frowned. “Some place called La Merced. Don’t know what it means.”

  Paddy gave him a patronizing smile. “It means, ‘the mercy.’ Though I don’t reckon ye got much mercy from them, eh, bucko?”

  “That’s right, boss.”

  “Sure an’ what did Slim have in mind to do about it?”

  Surprised that Quinn would take it further, Baker blinked. “Uh—well, ah, he and three of the boys was gonna go back and bust up the place. Kick some greaser butt.”

  “He say anything about shootin’ them?”

  That set Baker back. “Uh—no. Jist wanted to cause some damage.”

  Quinn’s face went hard, his eyes narrowed and he gazed at the distant town. “Then it’s that damned Smoke Jensen doin’ the shootin’. An’ I’ve no doubt that the boys will not be comin’ back. I don’t.”

  “Rider comin’,” called out one of the outlaws.

  Slim Vickers came on slowly, slumped in his saddle, one arm supporting him on the neck of his horse. When he drew nearer, Quinn saw that the man’s face had turned a ghostly white. A green tinge surrounded his mouth. Then he saw the red stain on Slim’s belly.

  “Awh, saints above. What’s happened to ye, darlin’ boy? Where’s the rest of the boys?”

  “Two’s in jail. One’s dead. An’ Smoke Jensen has done killed me.” With that he fell off his horse and into eternity.

  “Awh, damn Jensen’s black heart.” Quinn threw up his hands. “Nothin’ for it, then. We’ll be leavin’ now, we will. Spread out, boys. An’ hold back until the rest of the lads arrive. When they do, we’ll be takin’ our positions. This time it will be a regular siege,” he told them. “Ye have your assignments. Ye are to pursue them and show no quarter.”

  * * *

  Merchants and townsmen alike turned out to not be so hot for the prospects of standing off a siege. Feeding all of the volunteers became a problem long before Don Diego Alvarado and his vaqueros reached town. Several other ranchers had brought cowboys in to supplement
the defenses. The opposition became even more vociferous when the new undersheriff strode through town with a bundle of posters, which he attached to the door of every cantina and saloon.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” one unhappy saloon owner demanded. “You can’t take the opportunity away from us to make a nice profit.”

  Smoke Jensen stared at him with disdain. “The last thing we need is a lot of boozed-up men with guns on their hips. We won’t have time to round up drunks when Quinn and his gang get here. The flyers mean exactly what they say. You will restrict yourselves to the sale of beer only. Any violators will have their establishments locked and spend the duration in jail. It would be a good idea to limit your customers’ intake, also. I’ve known men to get fallin’-down drunk on good, strong beer.”

  Bristling, the owner offered defiance. “You ain’t no dictator. What if we refuse?”

  Smoke snorted. “Are you volunteering to be the first to get locked up?”

  Short and stout, with the flabby muscles of a man unaccustomed to hard work, the bar owner gauged the look in the eyes of Smoke Jensen and rightly read his expression. “Well—ah—well, no. I reckon I’ll do what you say, but I don’t have to like it.”

  “No, you don’t.” Smoke moved on.

  When that task had been completed, Smoke had to hurry to the town hall for a meeting he had scheduled with the women of the community and the restaurant owners. In the public meeting room, Smoke stepped to the lectern and addressed the gathering.

  “Ladies, we have a good fifty outsiders in town. None of them have the facilities to feed themselves. And there will be more coming. I have been assured that the eating places in town cannot handle the increase except on a continuous operation basis. What we need to do is set up a cookhouse here at city hall. I’m asking for volunteers to cook and serve.”