Live by the West, Die by the West

by William W. Johnstone

  One of those who attempted to reestablish the roadblock under cover of night had taken a position some fifty feet from the verge of the road. He had hunkered down, the stock of his rifle used as a prop. He constantly cut his eyes from side to side and up and down to enable him to better see what lay across the deep gully and its creek that divided him from the outermost houses. He had no way of knowing that Alvarado’s’s vaqueros knew to do the same and had picked out his position to within an inch. Had he known so, it would not have done him any good. He lost consciousness before they could do anything about his presence.

  Smoke Jensen eased up behind the gunman and slammed the butt of a Colt Peacemaker into the side of his head. With a soft grunt, the outlaw fell over onto the sandy red soil. Smoke quickly tied him and moved on.

  Another of Quinn’s ragtag army sat cross-legged with his back against a low palo verde. Smoke Jensen found him and decided upon a little trickery. “Hey,” he whispered harshly. “Over here. We’ve got a problem.”

  Almost dozed off, the response sounded quarrelsome. “What’s the matter. Ground too hard?”

  “Come here. An’ be quiet.”

  Roused from his near snooze, the outlaw came to his boots and duckwalked over. “Now, what’s this problem?”

  “I am,” Smoke told him before he clouted him on the temple with the barrel of one .45. The thug went rigid and then dropped face-first to the ground.

  Smoke moved on in an instant. He suddenly realized that he had allowed himself to grow overconfident when a voice growled at him from the side. “Hold it right there.”

  Moving slowly, so as not to startle the speaker into shooting, Smoke faced his challenger. “What do you mean? I was only goin’ down to bum a smoke offa Hank.”

  Suspicion thickened in the outlaw’s voice. “There ain’t no Hank with this outfit, an’ I ain’t seen you before.” He beckoned with the muzzle of his rifle. “Come over here an’ let me get a look at you.”

  Smoke complied, easing his left hand around out of sight. When he got within a long arm’s reach, he stopped. The distrustful hardcase peered closely at Smoke’s face. “Nope. Never saw you with the gang before. Who are you?”

  Smoke came out with his Greenriver sheath knife in his left hand and, with a short lunge, drove it horizontally through the costal region between the fifth and sixth ribs on the left side. The pointed tip penetrated the heart and sank the blade deep into the pulsing organ. Then Smoke jerked the haft to rip sideways. The man died without a sound. Smoke maneuvered to hold the dead man between him and any outlaw bullets and called out loudly to the defenders across the way.

  “¡Oigan, vaqueros de la Gloria! Ayudenme!”

  He got his help right away as the Mexican cowboys opened fire on the hardcases they had previously located. Smoke gave a shrill whistle, and Cougar trotted toward him. Quickly he flung the body away from him and swung into the saddle. With heels drumming into his sides, Cougar jumped to a fast canter and sprinted across the bridge and into the shelter of the buildings on the outskirts of Taos.

  * * *

  Smoke had thoughts only for sleep. But he found a delegation waiting for him at the sheriff’s office. The mayor, Fidel Arianas, and Dr. Walters occupied chairs, along with Santan Tossa and Ed Hubbard. All except Tossa wore worried expressions.

  Arianas opened the session. “How long do we have to hold them off?”

  Smoke studied on that. “Three or four days, however long it takes for the militia to get here.”

  Arianas turned pale. “¡Chingada! There’s not maybe fifty hombres in the militia. And that’s on a good day. This ladrón has four times that many.”

  “Not anymore. I took care of a few. And tomorrow’s sure to do in more.”

  Dr. Walters addressed a more serious problem. “We cannot hold out for more than four days. There is not enough food. There are too many mouths to feed.”

  Smoke frowned. “Make sure the vittles at the town hall get served only to the fighting men. The townspeople will have to fend for themselves.”

  Horrified at that prospect, the mayor thought first of votes. “The people will not stand for that. They’ll blame me.”

  Smoke Jensen cut hot, angry eyes to the politician. “They’ll have to live with it, if they don’t want Paddy Quinn campin’ on their doorstep.” He had not the slightest concern over the mayor’s reelection possibilities.

  Dr. Walters had another idea. “What about the water supply? If they poison the creek we have only a few cisterns, fewer wells.”

  Smoke looked to Tossa for a solution. “Can you have some of your warriors slip out of town and make sure Quinn’s men do not put anything in the water?”

  Santan Tossa smiled. “That will be easy. They will never be seen.”

  “Then that’s settled. Reduce rations all around and guard the water that is in town. No matter how this goes, we’ll all have to tighten our belts to survive. And . . . you can expect another attack in the morning. I reckon those scum will be spoilin’ for a fight.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Four o’clock in the morning was entirely too dang early to get up and get around, the swamper for the missing cook complained as he trudged through the darkness toward the chuck wagon. All around him, the tiny flames twinkled as men struck lucifers to ignite their fires. They would boil their own coffee. It was up to him and old Snuffy to turn out the grub. Where was Snuffy? he wondered as he reached the wagon and did not find the belly robber anywhere. By now he usually had a lantern going and the first rollout of biscuit dough ready to cut.

  “Snuffy! Where are you? Come on, we’re fallin’ behind.”

  Right then, at a firepit not far away, flame hit the split and frazzled end of a length of fuse. It sputtered and hissed gustily, consumed the powder train that ran down its middle, and reached the detonator cap. A bright flash drew the swamper’s eyes as a stick of dynamite let go with a tremendous roar. An instant later a shower of dirt and burning kindling mushroomed over the fire ring nearest the chuck wagon. Concussion knocked men rolling. One, who had leaned over, blowing gently to encourage the flames, died instantly.

  Five seconds later another buried stick let go. Then a third. The sound of the eruptions echoed off the walls of buildings in Taos. Reverberations had not died out when a fourth fire ring erupted in a gout of dirt. A fifth followed on its heels. By then, the swamper had dived to the ground and hugged red-brown clods of earth in a forlorn hope that a similar fate would not overtake him. Light the cook fire? Not very damn likely.

  Two more blasts shattered the predawn quiet. An eerie silence followed. Then the swamper heard the cries and moans of the injured. Gradually his heartbeat began to slow. Then an anguished shout chilled him anew.

  “Don’t light that! Nooooo!”

  BLAM!

  No, there was no way he would light that fire. Two more explosions quickly dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s of that decision. No matter what Snuffy might say, he would absolutely, positively never even strike a match.

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen stood in a second-floor window, an old pair of brass army field glasses to his eyes. Ignited by the exploding dynamite, tufts of prairie grass had burst into flame, along with mesquite bushes and greasewood. The conflagration illuminated the disordered ranks of the enemy enough to let him clearly see the results of his night’s work. It turned out to be better than he had expected.

  Those outlaws already awake and not injured took to their horses. Shouts and curses blistered the air when some of them put a boot in a stirrup and wound up flat on their backsides. Several forked their mounts only to pitch face forward to the ground when their hobbled beasts jerked to sudden stops. Some rode off in the direction of Raton without a backward glance. Yet other hardcases ran around in confusion, their horses scattered in fright by the explosions.

  More men helplessly stood in place to shout curses and shake their fists. Dust thrown into the air by the dynamite explosions began to settle and obscure the enti
re scene. Acrid smoke from the explosives hung in undulating waves over the former fire sites. The others who had crowded into the room with him were laughing and slapping one another on the back. Smoke Jensen felt no such elation. Men had died, and others had been maimed by his actions. If it served to break the resolve of the outlaws, well and good.

  “What happened to them?” Diego Alvarado asked Smoke.

  Smoke lowered the field glasses. “That’s what I’m here for anyway, isn’t it? I prepared a little wake-up call for them.”

  Don Diego studied Smoke’s handiwork in awe. “It looks . . . devastating.”

  “Who was it said something about omelets and eggs?” Smoke asked aloud.

  He shifted the glasses again as a pearlescent ribbon silhouetted the jagged mountain peaks to the east. There. He had found him. Paddy Quinn stood on a knoll, the reins of his horse in one hand. His expression was one of disbelief. What next? he seemed to be asking himself. If need be, Smoke Jensen decided, he would show Quinn what.

  * * *

  “Begorrah, there’s a blackhearted bastard at work here,” an enraged Paddy Quinn exclaimed as Garth Thompson approached to report on their condition.

  “You’ll think it is Old Nick himself when I tell you where we stand right now.”

  Quinn cut his eyes to Thompson. His black orbs, which usually twinkled in harmony with his perpetual smile, had become flat mirrors. The beaming expression had melted away. “What is it yer sayin’, boy-o, what is it?”

  Garth had never seen his boss like this. He noted the black smudge of unshaven jaws, the little mouth set in an angry slash, high forehead furrowed, the muscles of his head so rigid that his small ears literally twitched. To Garth, Quinn looked ready to explode like one of their firepits.

  “We’ve had fifteen men killed. There’s another twenty injured. Twenty-five men just plain rode off. I don’t reckon they’ll be coming back. Old Snuffy, our cook, and his swamper have plain disappeared.”

  A foul stream of curses gushed from Paddy’s mouth. At last he curbed his fury. “By damn, this is the doing of Smoke Jensen. I’ve got to talk to whoever is in charge in Taos. He’s got to curb his mad dog. And, he’s got to see reason, he does. Even with our losses, we’ve enough men to wipe out the entire town. There’s other places to live, an’ men start over all the time, they do.” Paddy went on for a good five minutes, as though rehearsing his presentation to the leader of the defenders. When he wound down, he issued his orders to Garth Thompson.

  “Rig a white flag. Then ride down there and tell them I want to meet and talk with whoever is in charge. We’ll meet after break—awh, hell, we don’t have a cook, ye say. How am I gonna get some breakfast?”

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen and Diego Alvarado rode out to the meeting with Paddy Quinn later that morning. As they swung into their saddles, Smoke offered a word of caution. “I think it would be wise to have some of your vaqueros keep a close eye on every hardcase in rifle range of our meeting.”

  Diego cut a knowing eye to Smoke. “You suspect that Señor Quinn will not honor his own flag of truce?”

  “That’s putting it mildly. I’ll keep watch on Quinn. You do the talking.”

  Smoke’s arrangement worked out excellently. Paddy Quinn knew Diego Alvarado from previous encounters and naturally addressed him as the leader. He chose to ignore Smoke Jensen, whom he also recognized. The snub was wasted on Smoke.

  “Don Diego, it’s good to see you again, it is.”

  Diego’s black hair and mustache and chiseled features gave him a sardonic appearance. “Somehow I doubt that. What is it you want, Quinn?”

  “Ah, no time for pleasantries, is it? A busy man ye are, no doubt. Well, then, we might as well get to it.” Quinn paused and drew a deep breath, which he sighed out before he continued. “There’s no denyin’ that ye hurt me some. An’ Mr. Satterlee will be sore distressed over that, an’ that’s a fact. But, it’s also a fact, it is, that we’ve the strength to wipe out any resistance ye might choose to put up. So, me fine grandee, I’ve come to discuss the terms of your surrender. Not just the town, but that grand ranch of yers.”

  Diego Alvarado swallowed the rising anger to request in a cold, grave tone, “In return for what?”

  Paddy Quinn leaned back in the saddle, as though considering that question, then produced his usual cherubic smile. “Now, Mr. Satterlee was perfectly willing to pay fair market price for all the property he desires. But . . .” His expression changed to the mask of deadly fury witnessed earlier by Garth Thompson. He nodded toward Smoke Jensen. “Then the devilment wrought overnight by this hired cur of yours changed all that, it did. So, Señor Alvarado, here’s what we’ll be havin’. All hostilities will end immediately. We will be allowed into town at once, without hindrance, to select which properties Mr. Satterlee desires.”

  To Paddy Quinn’s surprise, it was Smoke Jensen who answered. “You’ll be dancing with the devil before that happens.”

  Quinn masked his reaction and raised an arm to make a curt gesture. Two of his henchmen appeared over a low rise. Between them they held Martha Estes. They brought her forward until Smoke could plainly see the fear in her eyes. Quinn openly gloated over his prize, his voice a velvet purr.

  “So, then, unless we are allowed into Taos, and the people are lined up eager and ready to sign over their property to C.S. Development Company, a division of C.S. Enterprises, Miss Martha here will be slowly killed right out here before your eyes.”

  Smoke Jensen’s face took on a rock-hard stillness, his amber eyes and expression thunderous. “I sincerely doubt that’s true. Clifton Satterlee would not be at all pleased.”

  Quinn appeared not at all affected by that judgment. To further prove he did not bluff, he made another signal. Four houses on the edge of town, which belonged to some of the poorer Mexican farmers, suddenly burst into flames. The dry thatch of their roofs burned rapidly. Women and small children ran screaming from their fiery homes. In the distance, the fire bell began to clang. Smoke and Diego looked on, unable to do anything.

  Paddy Quinn watched with them for a while, then turned his horse and spoke over his shoulder. “You have one hour.” Then he posed a question for Smoke Jensen. “Tell me, Smoke Jensen? How does it feel to at last meet your better?”

  Smoke Jensen’s flat, level gaze pierced Paddy Quinn and fixed him in place. “I don’t think I have.”

  For a long, tense moment Paddy Quinn did nothing. Then he turned about and rode swiftly away without another word.

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen looked up from the lists of preparations that had so far been completed. A delegation of some eight local merchants stood in the sheriff’s office. He clearly read the fear on their faces. Smoke erased the frown that had creased his brow and forced a smile.

  “Something bothering you gentlemen?”

  He noted that they were among those he had rated as the most timid among the businessmen of Taos. They fidgeted now, like schoolboys caught in some naughty act. One ran an index finger around the interior of his celluloid collar. Two shifted their feet in an uneasy manner. All eight clearly wished to be elsewhere.

  “Come on, no need to hold back.”

  Charlie Lang, the haberdasher, cleared his throat and bobbed his Adam’s apple. “Well, ah . . . we—that is, it’s gotten around that we have an hour before those brigands just come in and take what they want. Is that true?”

  Smoke shook his head. “No. We have an hour before they supposedly murder a young woman before our eyes and then come in and take what they want.”

  “Oh. That—ah—that makes a difference.”

  Smoke’s face registered his discontent. “Mr. Lang, I was trying to be sarcastic. I chose the wrong words. The facts are that they cannot take this town no matter how hard they try. A lot of them are along out of curiosity. They have no real loyalty to Paddy Quinn or Clifton Satterlee. When they get a taste of our firepower, a lot of them will drift away. More than twenty of them ran
out this morning before sunup.”

  “What about the young woman?”

  Again, Smoke made a negative gesture. “Quinn will never kill her, not even hurt her in a serious way. He believes she is still the lady friend of his boss. With all the gunfighters he commands, Quinn would never buck Satterlee.”

  Lang persisted. “Why is that?”

  “Mr. Lang, do you pay your employees at the start of the week or at the end?”

  Charlie Lang frowned. The question puzzled him. “Why, at the end of the week, for all that it matters.”

  “My point. You don’t pay them until they have performed the work for which they are being compensated. I firmly doubt that Satterlee has paid Quinn, and won’t until the job is done. If Quinn and Satterlee got at odds, and Quinn didn’t get paid, he’d have a whole lot of angry, broke gunhawks to contend with.”

  Lang thought on that awhile. “That makes sense. Even so, we’ve been talking about the danger we’re in, what those outlaws can do to us. We have families, investments, roots in the community. We don’t want to risk harm to our wives and children and lose everything we have. This Clifton Satterlee has offered to compensate us fairly for our property. It seems wise for us to accept what he is proposing.”

  “Not anymore. Quinn says our resistance has changed all that. Satterlee is going to take what he wants, and that’s all of Taos. As to protecting what you have at stake, I suggest that all of you grow a pair of stones and fight for what’s yours.”

  Lang and three others began jabbering as one. “But some of us will get injured.” “We’ll be killed.” “We have a right to be protected.”

  Smoke Jensen’s disgust spilled over. “Listen to me, you yellow-bellied rabbits,” he thundered. “You are going to have to fight for your rights; we’ll be too busy protecting the town as a whole. Here’s my final word. Not a one of you will give in to such cheap intimidation. If I need to, I’ll put a Tua warrior in every store, eatery, and saloon to prevent your surrender. Now, get out of here.”

  * * *