“Well, Ike, they’ve gone missing. Would you please take a good look around and see if you can come up with anything that might indicate where they got off to?”
“Sure, Miz Sally. Glad to be of help.”
Ike completed leveling the hinge, doused it in a tub of water and laid it aside to cool. Then he plunged both hands into another container of clean water and washed the charcoal smudges from his face. He rolled down his sleeves and started off to examine various parts of the headquarters ranch yard. Sally put a hand on Mary-Beth’s arm.
“This is likely to take some time. Come back to the house and I’ll make us some tea. We can let Ike work at his own pace.”
Three-quarters of an hour later, a stern-faced Ike Mitchell presented himself at the kitchen door. Hat in hand, he knocked briskly. Although clearly uncomfortable, he presented his findings in a crisp flow.
“I reckon they done lit a shuck outta here, Miz Sally. I cut their sign west of the big corral. Tracks led northwest across the pastures. I followed them to the edge of tall timber. They kept goin’. Then I came back here and went over the stock. It appears they took two of the young Morgans, blankets and saddles, and high-tailed it early this morning. Don’t look like they reckon to come back. We’d best get some of the boys together an’ go after them.”
“I should say so,” Mary-Beth blurted. Then the realization of the danger her children might face struck her. “My babies!” she wailed.
Blunt as usual, Ike had the last word. “They ain’t babies anymore, ma’am. They’re horse thieves.”
14
Jorge Banderes escorted Smoke Jensen and Santan Tossa into the high, curved-ceiling passageway that separated the main entrance of the house from the gardenlike atrium at the center. Smoke found it to be cool and dark. Everyone blinked when they stepped out into the bright sunlight that washed the tiled central courtyard. A burly man stood beside the central fountain, his face a square mask that failed to conceal the boiling anger beneath the surface. Although Smoke had not seen him before, he surmised this to be Patrick Quinn. Leave it to a two-bit, gunslinging thug to choose as pretentious a moniker as Whitewater, Smoke thought.
Smoke Jensen had seen real whitewater on the Rogue River and sincerely doubted that Quinn had the stuffing to ride on it under any conditions. Paddy Quinn took a single step forward and extended both arms, palms up. “The guns. I’ll take them now.”
Smoke scowled, and his eyes went cold and flat, narrowed slightly. “That’ll be the day,” he growled.
Quinn proved himself no fool to Smoke’s reckoning when he did not choose to press the matter. “Suit yerselves. An’, sure ye’d not mind if me an’ a couple of the boys stood close at hand while ye have yer little talk with Mr. Satterlee, would ye?”
Smoke could not resist the opportunity to tweek his enemy. “Not at all, a-tall.”
For a flash, Quinn’s expression grew even more furious. His eyes widened and revealed black centers that glittered malevolently. With obvious effort he reined in his emotion. “Come this way, then.”
Framed by lush vegetation, an attractive young woman took her ease on a white-painted, wrought-iron settee near one side of the patio. Her silver-blond hair and fair, peaches-and-cream complexion glowed in the leaf-filtered sunbeams. She smiled warmly at the visitors and greeted them in a musical contralto. “Welcome to Hacienda Colina del Sol. I am Martha Estes, another guest of Clifton’s. I trust we will be together for dinner tonight?”
Always appreciative of a good-looking woman, Smoke spoke his regrets with sincerity. “I doubt that such a pleasure will be possible. We must meet with Mr. Satterlee and then attend to other urgent matters.
Now here was a man who could make her knees weak. Martha breathed deeply, expanding her firm, medium-sized bosom, and gave him a melting smile. “What a pity. I—ah—don’t believe I caught your name?”
“It’s Jensen, Miss Martha. Smoke Jensen.”
Martha raised an ivory Spanish fan to her lips and spread it in an agitated motion. “Oh, my. A regular celebrity where I come from. An honor, Mr. Jensen.”
“Thank you. Now, if you will excuse us?”
No such warm welcome awaited Smoke Jensen and Santan Tossa when they entered the presence of Clifton Satterlee. The master of the house turned from his affected pose of gazing out the tall windows of his library and spoke with a petulant, condescending tone. “Don’t you find it a bit presumptuous to be calling on me like this?”
Although not entirely certain of the meaning of the word, Smoke considered “presumptuous” to be insulting. So he accepted that the best defense would be a good offense. “Not at all. But I do consider it presumptuous of you to have sent men to follow us and attempt to kill us. Likewise to put up roadblocks to cut off all commerce and other traffic into or out of the town of Taos. And I am sure my friend here, a tribal policeman from the Taos Pueblo, sees it as presumptuous of you to inveigle someone among his people to steal certain religious articles from their kiva.”
Clifton Satterlee affected a hurt expression, colored somewhat by indignation, and undertook to talk down to them like foolish boys who had been caught in some schoolyard prank. “Oh, come now. That’s all quite preposterous. You can’t possibly believe I would deign to stoop to such brigandish endeavors? I am a man of influence and substance in the territory. What flightiness could bring you to believe that anyone in my employ might be responsible for the difficulties in and around Taos. Dismiss the thought, gentlemen.”
With that, Satterlee took Tossa by one elbow and began to steer the both of them toward the door to his library. Smoke Jensen set his boots and did not move. “One minute, if you please, Mr. Satterlee. You have not heard the full extent of our complaints, let alone our opinion of your condescending, self-serving response.”
Satterlee stopped, rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed heavily. “Then, I suppose I must.”
“You may have influence, and this layout proves your substance,” Smoke told him levelly. “But in my book, you are just a grasping, greedy, lying son of a bitch. If you continue to send your third-rate gunfighters to enforce your will and to harm the people around Taos, I will have no choice but to keep on putting them in the campo santo. ¿Comprende?”
With that, Smoke allowed himself and Tossa to be escorted from the presence of the great man. In the garden, Martha Estes gave them a light-hearted wave as they passed by on their way to the outside. At the tall, double doors of the main entrance, Paddy Quinn drew closer to Smoke Jensen and spoke heatedly, though softly, through a sneer.
“You’re dead meat, Jensen.”
Smoke gave Quinn a bleak, thousand-mile, gunfighter stare. “I’ll remember that. I trust that you will?”
* * *
Riding away from Hacienda Colina del Sol, in the direction of Santa Fe, the two lawmen who had become friends on the ride south remained silent until well away from Satterlee’s lair. Then Santan Tossa spoke what was on his heart.
“You really aren’t afraid of Satterlee and his gunmen, are you, Smoke?”
Smoke held a moment before replying. “As a matter of fact, I am. Any man who faces death from so many enemies and says he is not afraid is a fool or a liar. But, knowing that, you can use that healthy fear to help you decide which enemy you are going to knock down first. Say you are facing three armed men. One is good, cool under fire and fast with a gun. Another is a common thug with a gun. The third is edgy and unsure of himself. Which one do you go against first?”
Tossa rubbed his lantern jaw, absorbed in thought. “You take the easiest one first, right?”
“You might think that, but it is absolutely necessary to get rid of the greatest threat first. So you go for the best gun. Take him out while you are fresh and unharmed. Then go after the weakest one, because he’s likely to do something cowardly. Save the average feller for last.”
Santan Tossa stared at his companion. “I would never have thought of that.”
Smoke Jensen gave Tossa a smile
that reached all the way to the crinkle lines at the corners of his eyes. “No one does, first time out.”
“All right, I’ll accept that. Now, I have one for you. Did you see that squash blossom necklace that Miss Estes was wearing?”
Smoke nodded. “Yes, I did. It’s the most beautiful piece of its kind I’ve ever seen.”
“It should be. It is one of the stolen sacred objects.”
“You are sure?”
“Positive, Smoke. I have worn it in ceremonies a dozen times.”
Smoke gave that only a second’s reflection. “I think we ought to return later tonight and have a private talk with that young woman.”
* * *
Santan Tossa stared in astonishment as they entered the outskirts of the territorial capital. Tiny Taos was the largest community he had ever seen. By the time they reached the business district of Santa Fe, which extended two blocks in all four directions from the Plaza de Armas, his head swam.
“So many outsiders,” he gasped, then recovered himself. “Sorry. It is how we think of those who are not of the Pueblo people. And I have come to not think of you as an outsider, Smoke.”
“I’m flattered,” responded Smoke dryly. “We’ll find a saloon and start to ask around about Satterlee.”
“I cannot enter any place that sells the white man’s crazy water—uh—liquor.”
“That’s right, you can’t. What do you reckon to do?”
“There are signs in Spanish on the walls that tell of a Charrida ring. There I will find others of my Pueblo people. I will ask questions among them about Satterlee.”
“Good idea. We’ll meet—ah—there.” Smoke pointed to a small restaurant on a corner at right angles to the cathedral. “Say, two hours before sundown?”
Tossa nodded and rode off. Smoke turned the other way and reined in outside an arcade formed of plastered adobe arches. From the cool shade created by the sidewalk overhang, the door of a cantina invited him. Smoke dismounted and handed Cougar’s reins to a small, brown-skinned boy with big, shiny, black eyes.
“The livery stable, señor?”
“No. Take him into the Plaza jardín and get him watered. Then bring him back and tie him off here.” He handed the boy a coin.
Eying the silver U.S. quarter dollar, the lad’s face glowed. “Gracias, señor.”
Smoke touched him on a thin shoulder. “That is to insure he is here when I come out. You understand?”
“Comprendo, señor. Muchas gracias.”
Inside the cantina, Smoke stood at the bar, beside two white cowboys, and ordered a beer. He nodded to the men and their nearly empty tubos. “Buy you a refill?”
The older ranch hand smiled under a well-groomed walrus mustache. “Don’t mind if you do. Thank you kindly. I’m Eric, this is Rob.”
“Jensen,” Smoke said shortly, then observed, “You two have the look of working stockmen.”
Eric found that grimly amusing. “Working ain’t the half of it. You must be new in these parts not to know that graze is so sparse we’ve gotta keep the cattle on the move all the time or they’ll starve. Weren’t half this bad in Texas. Used to be I could sit all night and play poker. Now I’ve got so many calluses on my butt I stand up to eat.”
Smoke affected to consider that a moment, then put on a sorrowful expression. “Maybe I came out here on a snipe hunt?”
“How’s that?” Eric asked.
“I got let out by the last outfit I worked for. There was this posting in our local paper about someone hiring out here. All sorts of jobs, including cattle work.”
“What newspaper was that?”
“The Amarillo Star,” Smoke replied, using the name of Mac’s source.
Eric nodded. “Don’t want to pry, but what’s the name of this man who can spend so much money to get hands?”
“Didn’t give a man’s name. Some outfit called C.S. Enterprises.”
“Cliff Satterlee.” Eric spat the name as though it had a foul taste. Then he turned fully to Smoke and gave him a long, cool study from head to boot toe. “You look to be a straight shooter. I figger you’re on the right side of the law. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll give you some good advice. Were I you, Jensen, I’d steer as far clear of Satterlee, an’ any of those around him, as I could.”
Pleased with what he had heard, Smoke pressed his luck. “He’s crossed horns with the law, has he?”
Eric nodded. “More’n once. Nothin’ ever proved, of course. Money talks. Though it’s said by more than one that Satterlee’s drovers throw wide loops.”
Smoke knew what that meant. In cowmen’s talk, throwing a wide loop implied that a man rustled most of his stock, or at the least, claimed more than his share of unbranded cattle. “There’s more?”
“Some fellers have died of a sudden,” Eric confided. “Satterlee has him a so-called foreman, name o’ Paddy Quinn, who’s prone to be quick to use his Colts. The rest of them that rides for the brand are jist as proddy.”
“What brand is that?”
Rob added his bit. “C-Bar-S. There’s some say it stands for his ranch, Colina del Sol. But it’s for Clifton Satterlee and his C.S. Enterprises, you can be damn sure. Leastwise, it’s an easy brand to use to blot another one with a runnin’ iron.”
“Thank you, Eric, Rob. I’ll sure keep distance between me and Satterlee.” Smoke downed the last of his beer and strode to the bead-curtained doorway.
Outside, Cougar waited for him, the reins in the patient hands of the small boy. Smoke looked left and right and located another saloon only three doors down. He spoke to the boy. “You keep him here. I’m going to walk down to the Cinco de Mayo.”
Surprise raised black eyebrows. “Walk? You are not a vaquero, señor, ¿es verdad?”
“That’s right, son. I guess you could call me un ranchero, un hacendado.”
“¡Por Dios! It is an honor to serve you, señor.”
Smoke ruffled the lad’s thatch of black hair and started off to continue his information gathering mission.
* * *
Santan Tossa sat on the top of the low, plastered adobe wall that separated the callejón from the performance ring at the Charrida plaza. Elongated, like a hippodrome or the Circus Maximus, the Mexican rodeo ground lacked the circular symmetry of a Plaza de Toros. To one side and in front of Tossa, a young vaquero from the San Vincente Pueblo leaned his back against the wall, one leg elevated, knee cocked, boot resting against the inner surface of the barrier. The youth longed to be a recognized Charro, but knew of the prejudice harbored by the Spanish-blooded Mexicans against anyone of pure Indian origins. Tossa understood this and used it to loosen the fellow’s tongue.
“You will ride in the Charrida this Sunday?”
A glum expression darkened the wide, Indian face. “I will clean stalls, saddle horses, and maybe, just maybe, ride as a header—to set up the bulls for the Charros to rope. It is dangerous, but it lets people see what you can do. Another year . . two years, who knows?”
Tossa tried to be encouraging. “Chosteen, you will one day wear the Sombrero Grande of a Charro. This is part of the land of the White Father in Washington now. He will not let the Mexicans keep our people out of the Asociacion Nacional de Charros.”
Chosteen turned to him. “And why not? Its headquarters is in Mexico . . . the old Mexico. The white eyes’ laws do not apply there.”
With a shrewd expression, Tossa offered his bait. “If you worked for C.S. Enterprises, perhaps the Charros would accept you as an Americano.”
Suddenly, Chosteen’s features clouded. “I would rather work for Soul Eater. At last you expect Him to be evil.” His eyes quickly narrowed as he thought of something. “Do you work for Satterlee? Are you here to try to get others to sell their Spirits to that outsider demon?”
“No—no,” Tossa hastened to object. “I am interested in him, only. We believe that he, or someone he used, has stolen sacred objects from our kiva.”
Chosteen spat on the sand. “Then he is as
evil as I have been told.”
“You know something of this Satterlee, Chosteen?”
“I do.” For the next twenty minutes the two Pueblos spoke earnestly and intensely about Clifton Satterlee.
When they concluded their talk, Santan Tossa made his way to an outdoor barbecue pit where a small calf, which had been crippled in the day’s practice, had been dressed out and put on a spit to roast. He watched the small carcass turn for a while, his stomach rumbling, prompted by the aroma. Mostly his people ate sheep, or wild meat. Over the years as a policeman, Tossa’s frequent visits to the white man’s town had given him a taste for beef. He pushed temptation aside to ask among the Pueblo men about Clifton Satterlee. One lean, young man, not yet in his twenties, gave him confirmation of a suspicion of his own.
“I have heard it said that he wants the land where your pueblo stands. He would cut the trees. All of them. He would lay our Earth Mother bare and let the rains wash gullies and ravines in her breast.”
“Is nothing sacred to these pale skins?” another asked.
The first to speak went on. “They care nothing for the land. There is more, always more, to be taken, laid waste and then move on to yet more. Their god is formed of those circles of gold that they treasure so much.”
Yet another advised, “Do not speak ill of the white outsider, Satterlee. He is a dangerous man.”
Through the afternoon, Tossa heard much the same, and more, from those he questioned. He reached the conclusion that none of them admired or trusted Clifton Satterlee, and that most feared him. He ate some of the roasted veal, wrapped in flat, cornmeal cakes, and seasoned by a thick sauce of chile peppers and garlic. Then he made his farewells and left to join Smoke Jensen.
* * *
Smoke Jensen had finished his first swallow of beer in the Cinco de Mayo cantina and had settled down to weighing up the other occupants when Ian MacGreggor pushed aside the strings of glass beads and entered the saloon. Mac ambled to the bar and elbowed a place beside Smoke. He ordered a beer and drank deeply before speaking in a low tone, his lips not moving.
Triumph of the Mountain Man Page 15
