* * *
Geoffrey Benton-Howell had learned one thing from the attack on his headquarters. Smoke Jensen located the first night guard while a magenta band still lay on the mountains to the west. He signaled Jeff to ride on to their chosen spot, and put a gloved index finger to one eye to sign to keep a lookout for more sentries. Then he walked his roan right up to the guard.
“Who are you?” the surly hard case asked, a moment before Smoke Jensen drew with blinding speed and smacked the hapless man in the side of his head.
Well, perhaps they weren’t all that much smarter than those he had encountered before. At least this one recognized a stranger when he saw one. Smoke dragged the unconscious outlaw from the saddle and trussed him up. He pulled the man’s boots off and stuffed a smelly sock in a sagging mouth. Then, with the empty boots fastened in the stirrups, he smacked the rump of the gunhawk’s mount and sent it off away from the house.
A short distance further, he found another one, similarly done up by Jeff York. Smoke smiled grimly and rode on. A roving patrol of two came into sight next. Smoke Jensen eased himself out of the saddle and slid through the tall grass. When the horsemen drew nearer, Smoke rose to the side of one silent as a wraith. Sudden movement showed him Jeff York likewise engaged.
One startled yelp came from an unhorsed hard case before Jeff had him on the ground and thoroughly throttled. Smoke’s man made not a sound. Smoke came to his boots after tying the sentry, and waggled a finger at Jeff.
“Sloppy. He made a noise.”
“Sorry, teacher,” Jeff jibed back. “I’ll do better next time.”
“Might not be a next time before we’re in position. I’d like to put them all down, before we start shooting.”
“That’ll take some time,” Jeff observed.
“That’s why we came early.”
Smoke drifted off to recover his horse. Jeff York swore to himself that he had not even seen his friend start away. For a moment he had a flash of pity for the men they would encounter this night. Then he said softly to himself, “Nawh.”
A quarter hour went by before Smoke found another night guard. The man sat with his back to a tree, eyes fixed on the higher ground away from the ranch house. Somewhat brighter than the others, Smoke reasoned. He had no reason to suspect someone coming from behind him. Too bad.
Easing up to the tree, Smoke bent around its rough bark and popped the unaware sentry on the head with a revolver barrel. It took only seconds to secure tight bonds. Then Smoke Jensen slipped on through the night. There would be a moon tonight. Smoke had taken that into consideration.
He and Jeff would fire and move, fire and move, until each had exhausted a full magazine load. Then time to leave, before the silver light of the late-rising half-moon made them too easy to see. All in all, he anticipated making life even more miserable for Geoffrey Benton-Howell.
* * *
Windows had been reglazed in most of the downstairs portion of the two-story frame house. Yellow lamplight spilled from one, as Smoke Jensen eased into a prone firing position on the slope above. He sighted in carefully, with the bright blue-white line of the burning wick resting on the top of his front sight. Slowly he drew a deep breath, let out half, and squeezed the trigger.
With a strong jolt, the steel butt-plate shoved his shoulder as the Winchester Express went off. While Smoke came to his boots, he listened for the tinkle of glass. It came seconds later, followed at once by sudden darkness within the house as the lamp exploded into fragments. An outraged voice wailed after it.
“Goddamnit! Jensen’s back,” Geoffrey Benton-Howell raged in the darkness.
While Smoke moved to his second location, Jeff let off a round from the opposite side of the house. Yells of consternation came from the bunkhouse, as the thin wall gave little resistance to a .44-40 slug. Grinning in the starlit night, Smoke dropped into a kneeling stance.
“Get in here, somebody! Damnit, this place is on fire,” came a yelp from a now frightened Benton-Howell.
“Tien paciencia, amigo,” Miguel Selleres called out.
“Have patience, hell! I’ll bum up in here.”
An eerie new light glowed in the ruined window. It flickered and grew in intensity as Smoke Jensen sighted in once more, this time on the door across the room. He put a round about chest-high through the oak partition. A muffled scream came from the hall beyond. It served to notify Benton-Howell that he had a fat chance of getting out that way.
Smoke Jensen was already at a steady lope through the trees, when the remaining glass in the sash tinkled and Geoffrey Benton-Howell dived through to escape the flames. Smoke stopped abruptly and fired a round into the pool of darkness directly below the window. A howl that blended into a string of curses told him he had come close, but not close enough. Jeff York shot twice this time, and dumped a man in the doorway of the bunkhouse with a bullet in one leg.
“Don’t get overconfident, Jeff,” Smoke whispered to himself.
From the position he had selected earlier, Smoke put a .45-70-500 round through a second floor window. At once, he heard the alarmed bellow of a man, nearly drowned out by the terrified shriek of a woman. His shoulder had begun to tingle. He knew from experience that it didn’t take too many cartridges run through the big Winchester, to change that sensation to one of numbness. Three rounds left in the magazine tube.
Smoke wanted to make them count, so he swiftly changed positions. On an off chance, he put the next bullet through the outhouse at about what he estimated would be an inch or two above head high on an average man. He was rewarded with a howl of sheer terror as a man burst out the front of the chicksale, his trousers at half-mast. Legs churning, the Levis tripped the hard case and sent him sprawling. Two cartridges to go, then Smoke would meet Jeff where they had left their horses.
Unexpectedly a target presented itself in Smoke’s field of fire. A huge man, barrel-chested, thick-shouldered, arms like most men’s thighs, hands like hams, barreled around the corner of the house and snapped a Winchester to his shoulder. He fired blindly, the slug nowhere near Smoke Jensen or Jeff York. Cursing, he worked the lever rapidly and expended all eleven .44-40 rounds.
Sprayed across the hillside, the next to the last found meat in horseflesh. Jeff York’s mount squealed in pain and fright, reared, and fell over dead on its side. Anger clouded Smoke Jensen’s face.
“Damn, I hate a man who’d needlessly kill a horse,” Smoke grunted.
He took aim and, as the last bullet sped from the Winchester in the giant’s hand, discharged a 500 grain slug that pinwheeled the shooter and burst his heart. Only twenty yards from his horse, Smoke put out another light in a downstairs window and hurried to the nervous roan.
Jeff York joined him a moment later, and began to strip the saddle off his dead mount. Smoke had the bridle and reins in one hand. “We’ll double up,” he informed Jeff.
“Make it easier to track and catch us,” Jeff complained. “I’ll walk out.”
“No. I brought you here; I’ll get you back. They aren’t going anywhere for a while.”
Jeff looked back toward the house. A bucket brigade had formed to douse the flames that roared from two rooms of the ranch house. With a whinny, a horse-drawn, two-wheel hand-pumper rolled up from a small carriage house next to the barn. A pair of hard cases ran with a canvas hose to the creek bank, and plunged the screened end into the water. At once four volunteers began to swing the walking arms up and down. An unsteady stream spurted from the nozzle.
“No, I guess you’re right,” he told Smoke.
Even so, Smoke Jensen wasted no time, nor spared any caution in departing from the B-Bar-H. He left behind a cursing, shrieking, livid Geoffrey Benton-Howell.
After the large number of recent disasters, Benton-Howell had been forced to send for reinforcements. The nine men who had been patrolling the slope behind the house on the previous night had quit first thing after being found the next morning. Smoke Jensen had nearly succeeded in burning down his
house. His study was a ruin. All meals were being prepared in the bunkhouse; the kitchen had burned out completely. Now he confronted one of the men he considered responsible for his current calamity.
Sheriff Jake Reno stood across the cherry wood desk in Benton-Howell’s office above the bank. With him was the mayor of Socorro. Both wore sheepish expressions. Benton-Howell had poured copious amounts of his deep-seated vitriol over them. Only now had he begun to wind down.
“I didn’t spend the money to get you two elected to hear a constant stream of reports of failure. I expected competence. I expected success. Now, I’m going to get it. I want your full cooperation. No complaints, no excuses, no lectures on why it can’t be done. I’m putting out the word for every available gunhand in the Southwest, to come here to put an end to Smoke Jensen.”
“I thought you wanted it all done legally,” the sheriff protested.
“I wanted results!” Benton-Howell snapped.
Mayor Ruggles looked stricken. “You’ll fill the streets of Socorro with saddle tramps and every two-bit gunslick
around,” he whined. “Think of the good people of the community.”
“I am thinking of the good people—Miguel Selleres and myself.”
“Why don’t you simply offer a larger reward?” Jake Reno suggested.
Too tightfisted to raise the ante on Smoke Jensen’s head, Geoffrey Benton-Howell spluttered a minute, then focused his disarrayed thoughts on a new proposition. “Without gunmen to collect it, that would only tie up more of my money. What’s going to happen, is that the city is going to add a thousand dollars to the reward.” “What?” the mayor and sheriff echoed together.
“If you think it such a good idea for me to put out more funds for the purpose, then surely it behooves you to do it.” To Mayor Ruggles he added, with a roguish wink, “Sort of putting your money where your mouth is, eh, old boy?”
In that quick, pointed thrust, Mayor Ruggles lost his head of steam. “If that’s what you want, we’ll see about it right away. Only let me appeal to you to keep the gun trash out of town.”
“It’s your posterior they’ll be saving, as well as mine. You and Sheriff Eagle Eye here. Now, get out of here and run your errands like good little lads. I want fifty— no a hundred guns in here, and Smoke Jensen stretched over his saddle shortly thereafter.”
Sixteen
Socorro became a busy place as the word went out for fast guns. Mayor Ruggles stewed and dithered, his anxious eyes scanning the rough-edged characters who swarmed the streets. The new posters came out with the wording: “$2000 Reward Offered for Capture Dead or Alive of the Killer of Lawrence Tucker.” No mention was made of Smoke Jensen. It sounded good that way, all agreed.
Some of the gunfighters and wannabes who came to Socorro to search for the “killer,” left suddenly when they learned the identity of the accused. Sheriff Jake Reno noted with some smugness that eleven no-reputation young pretenders departed in a group shortly after the mention of the name Smoke Jensen.
“Perhaps they decided that it was safer to travel in numbers,” he confided to Morton Plummer at the Hang Dog shortly after they blew out of town.
“Considerin’ who it is they were expected to run to ground, I’d say they’re right smart fellers,” Mort responded with a grin. He loved to tweak this pompous ass of a sheriff.
Reno scowled. “Watch that lip, Mort.” He quickly downed his shot and beer and stormed out of the saloon.
Being on the payroll of Benton-Howell and Selleres had other drawbacks, Sheriff Jake Reno considered as he directed his boots toward the jail. Those politicos who remained behind had been frightened almost witless by that second visit from Smoke Jensen. Only an hour ago, Benton-Howell had summoned him to the office to demand that he put men on the ranch to keep the politicians there, until an agreement could be reached on his White Mountain project.
“Like he’d bought all my deputies, too,” Reno complained aloud, as he hurried to round up men to guard the B-Bar-H.
He returned to the world around him in time to meet the cold, hard stare of one of a pair of gaunt- and narrow-faced men with the look of gunfighters about them. Their square chins jutted high in arrogance, and the mean curl of their lips had to come from hours of practice before a mirror. The one with black leather gloves folded over his cartridge belt spoke, revealing yellowed, crooked teeth.
“Sheriff. Just the man we wanted to see. How are we supposed to find this feller done killed your Mr. Tucker, if we don’t know his name? Who is he, or do you know?”
“Oh, I know all right. The name is Smoke Jensen.”
“Not the Smoke Jensen?” the sneering one blurted as his face grew pale.
“The only Smoke Jensen I know,” Sheriff Reno replied, as he laughed inwardly at the discomfort his words sparked.
The sneer gone from his face, the gunhawk cut his eyes to his partner. They appeared to reach wordless agreement that concluded with a nod. “Do you happen to have any idea where he might be found?” The question seemed to lack conviction of being acted upon.
“Yep. He’s hangin’ out in the Cibolas, last I heard.”
“Why ain’t you got a posse out?” the taller of the two challenged.
“I already lost a dozen good men to that bastard. I don’t reckon to reduce the whole population of Socorro to bring him outta there.” It was a lie. Smoke Jensen had killed only three of the posse, wounded six or seven more. Also some twenty had quit all together. What Sheriff Reno wouldn’t admit was that he couldn’t get anyone to go after Smoke Jensen. Not even Quint Stalker’s men.
“Bein’ we’re from Texas, which way is these Cibolas?”
Suspecting what would come next, Sheriff Reno waved his arm expansively. “All around here. To the east, north, and mostly to the west. That’s where Smoke Jensen can be found, west of here, I’m certain of it.”
“Thank you kindly, Sheriff,” the tall one replied.
Together they crossed the boardwalk and mounted their horses, while Sheriff Reno watched in silence. They touched reins to necks and pointed the animals south. Face alight with quivering amusement, Sheriff Reno pointed out their error.
“West’s that way, fellers.”
“We know it,” the second-string hard case with the black gloves replied in a low, gruff voice.
They barely cleared the business district of Socorro, down in its canyonlike draw, before they fogged out of town in a lather. Behind them, Sheriff Jake Reno bent double with a torrent of laughter that rose from deep within. He kept on until the tears ran, then laughed even more . . . until he counted score and realized that that made a record of twenty-two for one day, and left him with that many less to stand between him and Smoke Jensen.
Senator Claypoole examined the certificate authorizing him to draw on the Philadelphia mint for the sum of twenty thousand dollars in gold bullion. Carefully he folded it and placed it reverently in an inside coat pocket. He gave a beatific smile to Geoffrey Benton-Howell, and patted over the spot where he had deposited the draft.
“You are a gentleman and a scholar, Sir Geoffrey. Likewise a man of his word. Nice, anonymous gold has always appealed to me. It can be used anywhere.” Benton-Howell pushed back his castored desk chair and lit a fat cigar. The rich aroma of a Havana Corona-Corona filled the study at the B-Bar-H. “I dare say, if you fail to use your usual, impeccable, diplomatic skill in this, you might have need of somewhere else to spend that.”
“I know. My colleagues and I shall invent some sort of reason why that land has to be separated from the reservation. Heaven forbid that we ever mention gold being found there. Too many others would want a piece of the pie, and spoil your project all together.”
“You understand only too well, Chester. Now, then, I suggest a small tot of brandy to seal the bargain, and then I have others to see.”
“Certainly.”
Ten minutes later, Chester Claypoole had departed, and the leather chair opposite Benton-Howell had been occupied by His Hono
r, Judge Henry Thackery of the Federal District Court for the Territory of Arizona. His Honor didn’t seem the least bit pleased. A heavy scowl furrowed his high, shiny forehead.
“You’ve handled this Smoke Jensen affair miserably, Geoff,” he snapped, accustomed to being the ranking person in any gathering.
“I will admit to having erred slightly in regard to the security of my ranch headquarters,” Benton-Howell answered with some asperity.
“It’s a great deal more than that, Geoff. If it ever comes out that your man, Quint Stalker, arranged the scene of the crime to indicate the guilt of Smoke Jensen, you may find yourself seeking the life of a grandee down in Mexico, or even South America. Or worse still, standing on the gallows in Santa Fe. I certainly do not intend to be there beside you.”
Benton-Howell fought to recover some of his sense of well-being. “And you shall not be, my friend. Judge, everything is arranged as you asked. Seven thousand, five hundred in gold coin, mostly fifties and twenties. It is right there in my safe. A like amount to be paid, whenever you are called upon to hear any challenge to our claim of the White Mountain reservation land.”
Judge Thackery pondered a moment, pushed thin lips in and out to aid his musing. “That’s satisfactory. However, Geoff, I must caution you. Smoke Jensen has to be dealt with swiftly and finally . . . or the consequences will fall on you.”
Jeff York and Walt Reardon rode into Socorro with Smoke Jensen. They had come for supplies for the Tucker ranch. Martha’s idea of hiding in plain sight seemed to have worked so far. Recently, Smoke began chafing at the inactivity, and expressed a willingness to test how anonymous he had become. Walt halted the buckboard at the rear loading dock of the general mercantile, and dismounted.
“Jeff and I are going to amble over and visit with Mort Plummer at the Hang Dog, while the order is filled.”
Cunning of the Mountain Man Page 15
