Live by the West, Die by the West

by William W. Johnstone

That tripped Curly’s hair-trigger temper. “Goddamn you, Smoke Jensen, kiss your tail goodbye.”

  Curly Lasher drew then, confident that he had beaten Smoke Jensen by a good half second. Not until a stunning force slammed into his chest did he realize how terribly mistaken he had been. His lips formed a perfect O, and his legs went rubbery. Enormous pain spread through his body, followed instantly by a frightening numbness. Try as his brain might to send signals to his heart, they never arrived. A fat, 230-grain .45 slug had destroyed that vital organ.

  His eyes rolled up in their sockets, Curly discharged a round into the street and fell in a crumpled heap. In the moment after he fired, Smoke Jensen moved. He waved at the astonished townies to follow him.

  “Come on, let’s get in that saloon.”

  “B’God, that was fast,” Warren Engals muttered. “I never seen his hand move.”

  “Neither did that cocky gunhawk,” Buell Spencer snorted in satisfaction.

  * * *

  Midmorning came and went. Still the fighting lingered, as Smoke Jensen and five of the men from town entered La Cantina del Sol. Theirs could hardly be called a conventional means of entry. Smoke sent four vaqueros around to the rear to make a show of breaking in through the service door. He gave them enough time to be convincing, then dived low through the front doorway. Smoke hit the floor and did a roll, to come up with his Colt blazing. He got immediate results.

  One hardcase slammed into the bar, his back arched to the point of breaking his spine. Smoke fired again and the bones cracked. The outlaw dropped to flop on the floor like a headless chicken. A townsman and one of Diego’s vaqueros entered behind the last mountain man. Flame gushed from the muzzles of their six-guns.

  Another hardcase died in their hail of lead. A third had dived for cover behind the bar when Smoke first entered. He popped up now and shot Ransom Clover between the eyes. The feedstore proprietor died on his feet. But not before Smoke Jensen sent the killer off to eternity with a similar wound. Terrible discordance came from the upright piano in one corner as another thug hastily fired a bullet at Smoke’s back.

  Smoke ducked and spun on one boot heel. The muzzle of his Peacemaker tracked with him, and he squeezed off a round the moment the back shooter came into view. Hot lead punched through thick leather and then did awful damage to the hip bone of the man. By then, Smoke had cocked his. 45 and put a second slug into the chest of his assailant. Restricted by the muslin safeguards suspended below the ceiling, viscous layers of powder smoke undulated in the room, obscuring the whereabouts of other enemies.

  Ears ringing from the enclosed gunfire, Smoke made for the stairway. There had to be some reason why a fairly reliable gunfighter like Curly Lasher and eight men had been guarding this place. He had reached the first riser with a boot toe when another of the gunmen appeared at the top of the stairs. Smoke acted at once.

  So close to the wall, the force of his gun blast nearly ruptured Jensen’s eardrum. Yet he did not even flinch as he recocked his six-gun and sent another .45 round winging upward to seal the fate of the hardcase who menaced him. Hit twice in less than half a minute, the outlaw staggered back and rammed slack shoulders into the wall of the upper hallway. Smoke paused at the landing and called back to the ground floor to one of the vaqueros.

  “Joaquin, come up here with me.” When the slender, boyish-faced cowboy reached the top of the stairs, Smoke gave terse instructions. “Stay here. Watch my back.”

  Smoke set off to search the rooms in the rear portion of the second floor. Someone of importance had to be up here, his gut feeling told him. He readied himself at the first door, cocked his leg, and planted a boot beside the doorknob. A loud crack followed and the panel flew inward. Following his six-gun, Smoke entered the room in a crouch.

  Empty. He turned on one heel and started for the next. His explosive entry caught two outlaws with their backs to him, taking shots at Taos residents in the street below. The slam of the door against the inner wall brought one around in a blur of movement. His eyes went wide as he gazed at Death with a outstretched hand. The six-gun in that hand fired a second later, and reflex drove the bandit backward to crash through the window, taking both sashes with him as he fell to the ground. The second hardcase wisely released his revolver and threw up his hands. Smoke Jensen stepped up close and rapped him on the skull with the barrel of a Colt. That left three more rooms to check.

  The next proved even more empty than the first. It did not even have furniture. Smoke moved on to the next in line.

  His vicious kick surprised Garth Thompson and Paddy Quinn in the act of reloading. Thompson swung his six-gun up first and fired at Smoke. The man from the Sugarloaf had already fired a round which ripped into the body of Garth Thompson a fraction of an instant before the outlaw’s bullet punched a neat hole in the left side of Smoke Jensen’s waist. It burned like hellfire, but it did not even stagger him. Thompson tried to fire again, not realizing he looked at his target with a dead man’s eyes.

  His bullet cut air beside Smoke Jensen’s left ear as the legs of Garth Thompson gave way. Smoke gave him a safety round and turned his attention to Paddy Quinn.

  Stunned by the swiftness of action by Smoke Jensen, Paddy Quinn only belatedly closed the loading gate of his Colt Peacemaker. Instinctively, he knew he did not have time for a shot. Not if he wanted to continue living. Instead, he diverted his energy to his legs and sprinted past the wounded Jensen out into the hall. Smoke bit back the pain that burned in his side and turned in pursuit.

  Out in the hall, Paddy Quinn raced toward the far end of the building. A window in the center of the corridor there bore a sign above it that read Escalera de Incendios. “Fire Escape” for those who could read Spanish. Smoke Jensen pounded down the bare board floor behind Quinn. The outlaw leader made better time.

  Without a break in his stride, Paddy Quinn threw his arms up to cover his face and hurtled through the glass partition. Fragments of the sashes clung to him as he hit the small, square projection that served as a platform for a ladder. Legs still churning, Paddy cleared the railing in a single bound and dropped out of sight before Smoke reached the shattered window casement.

  Quinn landed flat-footed and hard on the packed earth below. Pain shot up his leg from a broken heel bone. His horse, and those of Thompson and another hardcase, had been tied off at the rear door earlier in the day. So unexpected and precipitous had been his arrival from above that the vaqueros sent to break in the rear stood in immobile surprise while Paddy limped to his mount, retrieved the reins and swung into the saddle.

  Smoke Jensen sent a bullet after Paddy Quinn as the latter called out to his men. “Pull back. Get clear of town. We’ve lost it for now.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  His face twisted in anger and contempt, Clifton Satterlee rounded on Paddy Quinn. “What do you mean you had the town taken, and then got pushed out? How can that happen?”

  Whitewater Paddy’s answer came low and meek. “Smoke Jensen. That’s how it happened. He killed Garth, he did, an’ he near to finished me in the bargain. He found out somehow where we were and came after us with some of those Mezkins.”

  Satterlee paced the confined space in the ruined adobe farmhouse. “Better that you and a dozen like you die than that I lose Taos.”

  Stung by the insult, Paddy’s eyes narrowed. “Pardon me, Mr. Satterlee, sir. There’s no denyin’ yer smart an’ all that. But, truth to tell, your chances of takin’ Taos without me are somewhere between slim an‘ none, they are.”

  Face florid with his fury, Clifton Satterlee raised a fist as though to strike the gang leader and bellowed up close in Quinn’s face. “Then get out there, gather up what men you have left, and go back. And keep on going back until their resistance crumbles. Brice, you’re going with them.”

  Brice Noble gaped at his partner. He knew himself to be good with his guns, better than most of the petty criminals in Quinn’s gang. Yet, he realized he was not any sort of gunfighter like Smoke Jensen. The man
was entirely too good. “You’re not serious. What could I possibly do?”

  Sarcasm dripped from Satterlee’s words. “You could be like a famous general. An inspiration to the men.”

  “That’s uncalled for. There’s simply no reason for me to go there.”

  Satterlee turned even nastier. “But there is . . . because I insist. Now, get going, Quinn, and bring me back a town on its knees.”

  * * *

  Shortly after noon, the gang came back to Taos. Those in the lead met with a shower of wine-bottle grenades. The black-powder bombs exploded with sharp cracks and bright flashes. The shards of their containers, and the scraps of metal within, whizzed through the air. Many pieces bit into vulnerable flesh, both equine and human. One went off so close to two hardcases that both of them and their horses were disemboweled. Their shrieks of agony engendered pity even among those they attacked.

  Soon their distressed wailing faded under the tumult as the fighting rose toward a crescendo. Paddy Quinn had centered nearly all of his men on one side of town. Only a few snipers and riders kept the defenders on the other three sides occupied. As the volume of fire increased at the center of the offensive, a voice rose from the assailants.

  “They broke! They broke! They’re running.”

  It was quickly picked up. The shouts merged into a roar as the allies could no longer withstand the onslaught. Outlaws poured into the gap in the line and spread out through the streets of Taos. Pushed to the forefront of the vanguard, Brice Noble found himself the first to enter the small town. When the resistance melted away his confidence soared. This might be easier than he had expected. His horse trotted down the narrow avenue toward the center of town.

  At the Plaza de Armas, Noble found a tall, broad-shouldered man directing the fight. He forcefully snatched demoralized residents off their feet and shoved them into a position from which they could engage the invaders. His calm demeanor told Brice Noble that if they were to succeed, this man must be eliminated. He edged closer and formed the words of a challenge as he raised his revolver to accomplish that. Off to the side, someone yelled the gunfighter’s name.

  “Smoke! Smoke Jensen. I’ve got ten men here ready to fight.” Then, sighting Noble, he pointed out the menace, “Look out, Smoke!”

  Smoke Jensen turned his cold gaze on the man who sought to kill him. He backed it up with the muzzle of a .45 Colt. Instantly, fear eroded his guts, and Brice Noble swallowed his provocation. He lowered his right arm and released the six-gun. It dropped to the grass with a thud while Noble raised his hands over his head.

  “I surrender. I’ve not fired my weapon. Don’t shoot me, Mr. Jensen.”

  “Get down.” Smoke’s command moved Noble with alacrity. He swung a leg over and dismounted while Smoke walked up to him “Who are you?”

  “I—I’m Brice Noble, a business associate of Clifton Satterlee.”

  “Umm.” Smoke swung from the belt line. His hard fist connected with the lantern jaw of Brice Noble. When the arch criminal crumpled, Smoke reached out and caught a townsman by one arm. “Drag this piece of dog dung to the jail.”

  * * *

  Diego Alvarado sought a single man among the outlaws. His wide experience in fighting a variety of enemies told him that the majority of these vermin would flee if they lost their leader. Smoke Jensen had killed Garth Thompson that morning. That left only Paddy Quinn. He left Alejandro and Miguel in charge of the vaqueros and started off to locate the gang boss. Mayor Arianas, an old friend, approached him as Diego crossed the Plaza de Armas.

  “Diego, I am astonished at the valor of the Tua warriors. They fight for us as though this was their town.”

  Alvarado gave him a wry smile. “They know that if Taos falls, their pueblo will be right behind. Satterlee wants everything around here. I, for one, am grateful for their aid.”

  “As am I, amigo.” Arianas paused a moment, uncertain of the propriety of his question. “May I ask, where are you going? Most of your men are on the east side.”

  “Don’t worry, my friend. I am looking for Paddy Quinn. When I find him, I am going to kill him and end this madness.”

  Arianas clapped Diego on one shoulder. “Buena suerte, then.”

  “Gracias. I can use all the good luck I can manage.”

  Diego Alvarado strode off, headed north. As he went by the flight of granite steps that fronted the church on the plaza, he automatically crossed himself and cast a reverent glance at the impressive structure. Suddenly the bells began to toll. Padre Luis threw wide the tall, oak doors and stepped out onto the wide flagstones at the top of the stairs.

  “Men of Taos, rally your strength. Fight for your freedom,” he exhorted the confused and demoralized defenders who huddled in the plaza. “Remember your women and children. Drive out the invaders.”

  A gunshot cracked across the plaza, seemingly louder than all of the others. Father Luis jerked at the impact and swayed, a large red stain spreading on the shoulder of his cassock. Diego Alvarado looked in the direction from which the shot had come. Seated on his horse was the man he sought. Paddy Quinn had a smoking six-gun in his hand and a nasty sneer on his face.

  “Easy for you to say, priest. You who hides behind his own skirt,” the apostate outlaw snarled. Oblivious to Diego Alvarado, Paddy Quinn started to raise his revolver for another shot.

  Diego Alvarado filled his hand with his Obrigon .45 with all the smoothness and almost the speed of Smoke Jensen. He cocked and fired in one even motion. The bullet took Quinn in the belly. He winced, but seemed otherwise unaffected. His icy black eyes turned on Diego.

  “So, cowherder, you defy me one last time, is it now? The priest can wait. This is between you an’ me, bucko.”

  Before the last word left his mouth, Quinn fired the Colt in his hand. The slug cut a deep, painful gouge across the top of Diego’s left shoulder. Then Alvarado fired the Obrigon again. His aim off because of his wound, he nailed Quinn in the right thigh. That proved enough to unhorse the gang leader. He fell and sprawled on the cobbles that paved the street in front of the church. Immediately Paddy Quinn learned how mistaken he had been in shooting the priest.

  Rather than demoralizing the residents of Taos, his blasphemous act served to electrify the defenders. A great roar of outrage filled the plaza from Protestant, Catholic, and pagan alike. Suddenly the peons, who did not possess firearms, swarmed over the fallen outlaw. Sunlight glinted off the well-honed edges of their machetes. Their arms rose and fell in a steady rhythm while Paddy Quinn shrieked and screamed his way into oblivion.

  Blood streaming from his own wound, Diego Alvarado hurried to the injured priest. “Padre, you are hurt. I will get the doctor.”

  Gentle brown eyes settled on Alvarado. “Care for your own wound, Diego. God will tend to my needs.”

  Diego would not back down so easily. “Dr. Walters can give Him a lot of help. Let me take you inside. Then I will go for the doctor.” Diego Alvarado cut his eyes to the mutilated corpse of Paddy Quinn. “He has answered for his crimes here, now I hope he burns in the hottest corner of hell.”

  * * *

  Word quickly spread about the demise of Paddy Quinn. It restored the fighting spirit of those who protected Taos, especially when they learned how and why he had died. It proved to have the opposite affect on the outlaws. Leaderless, and with no assurance of being paid, the hangers-on deserted in droves. Harried by the emboldened townsmen, they streamed out of the city and made tracks toward Raton. The first two dozen to desert opened the flood gates.

  Fighting continued for another twenty minutes while the headlong flight reduced the number of outlaws by more than half. Three of Quinn’s subordinate leaders held a hasty meeting in the shelter of an adobe house on the west edge of town.

  Yank Hastings came right to the point. “We have to get out of here. Those gutless cowards have left us in a fine fix.”

  Vic Tyson nodded, his face a grim mask. “Tell us something we don’t know.”

  Hastings fa
ced the sarcasm without a reaction. “The boss was right about puttin’ all our force on one place. We got in, didn’t we? I say we can do the same to get back out.”

  “Then what?”

  “We run like hell for someplace else, Vic.”

  “What about our share of the loot?”

  “There ain’t gonna be anything to share. We can rob a couple of banks if we need money. Only I ain’t stayin’ around here any longer. You with me?”

  “We’ll do it,” the other two agreed.

  * * *

  It did not take long. Hungry for revenge, the guardians of Taos roamed from building to building, street to street. Those outlaws who offered resistance they gunned down. The wiser ones they drove ahead of them. Smoke Jensen and Diego Alvarado led two thirds of them, Santan Tossa the remainder. Within half an hour the streets had been cleared.

  “Now what?” a tired, powder-grimed Diego Alvarado asked over the top of a tubo of beer. A thick bandage bulged under his coat.

  “Do you think they will be back?” Alejandro Alvarado queried.

  Smoke Jensen had been thinking along those lines. “There’s always the chance that they will. Though I hope not. We’ve lost fifteen men killed, and twice that wounded. If there’s none of them left except the original gang, they can overwhelm us, given the right leader. To keep that from happening, I reckon to go out late tonight and cut off the head of the snake. That’ll end it once and for all.”

  Alejandro looked eagerly at the big man. “I want to go along.”

  A smile spread on Smoke’s face. “Welcome you’ll be, Alejandro. Now, let’s drink up and get something to eat. We need to rest before going out there.”

  * * *

  Vic Tyson’s concern over losing their pay proved baseless. While the remains of the gang fought its way out of Taos, Clifton Satterlee and his bodyguard, Cole Granger, rounded them up and persuaded them to listen. Reluctantly, others joined the gathering.

  “Listen to me, men. We have to control Taos in order for our development scheme to succeed. You will all be rewarded. And most generously, I might add. In fact, I will offer you a bonus of one half your original share if you will agree to do what must be done. You will remain here, deny the people in town any contact with the outside. Cut off their food supply. Shoot any armed man you see on the streets. In short, maintain the siege until more men can be recruited and sent here to make the final push.” Satterlee paused and let his gaze sweep over the assembled outlaws. “Do you understand what I’m saying? The whole project now depends upon you. You have good leaders in Yank Hastings, Vic Tyson, and Coop Ellis.”