“Get in here, you idiot!” Miguel Selleres growled from the open doorway.
Grateful for the protection of those armored walls, Quint Stalker did so with alacrity. Once secure, he found himself the target of unanswerable questions.
“What happened out there?”
Quint Stalker gaped at Miguel Selleres. “I . . . don’t know. Someone shot my horse out from under me.”
“Who? How many? I don’t see anyone,” Selleres rattled off, while squinting out the firing loop of one window. “It can’t be los indios,” he added to himself. “That’s what I thought, and you’re right. It can’t be.”
“Then who?”
Stalker’s first attempt at an answer got drowned out by the loud slam of bullets into the side of the coach. In a brief lull, he tried again. “Smoke Jensen.”
“¡Bastante, no mas!” Selleres barked. “We have enough men to finish him for all time.”
He came to his feet and leaned over the seated outlaw. A hinged panel in the back of the coach opened, and Selleres shouted through it. “Get over there and find who’s shooting at us.”
At once the gunmen spread out, and jumped their horses toward the lip of the ravine. Withering fire challenged them, yet they pushed on. One hard case yowled and clutched at his arm, where a bloodstain began to spread. Another doubled over, lips to the neck of his mount, as though kissing it. The remainder drew off, seeking cover behind the carriage.
“¡Cobardes! ¡Pendejos! Get out there and kill those men! I see only two guns against you. ¡Adalante, pronto!” With obvious reluctance, the outlaws charged again. This time they fired steadily at the noted gun positions. Their heavy volume of fire forced Smoke and Jeff to pull down below the lip of the bank. Selleres watched with growing satisfaction. The riders reached the edge of the gully.
Then a gunhawk from Albuquerque threw up his hands and fell backward off his horse. Smoke Jensen had switched to his .44 and blasted upward into the man’s face. Jeff York opened up also. Bullets gouged the ground and cracked through the air. Another gunhawk grunted in pain, as one of Smoke’s slugs pierced his left leg, front to rear, right below the knee. Suddenly they had had enough.
Huddling behind the armored coach, they heard a muffled string of curses from inside. The shutters opened on one window, and they saw the face of Quint Stalker. “Get over there and finish it, you sonsabitches.”
“Give us some covering fire, damn you,” Charlie Bascomb snarled.
“Yeah—yeah, good idea. Spread out, hit them from two sides. We’ll keep their heads down.”
It worked even better than Miguel Selleres expected from the thoroughly demoralized gunmen. He and Quint Stalker opened fire first, the riders charged out from behind the carriage, and streaked for the arroyo ahead of and behind the position of the ambushers. Victory lay only fractions of a second away.
Then Selleres and Stalker learned how deceptive the desert terrain could be to eyes accustomed to a fifteen-mile horizon. Around the bend in the road that masked the back trail, swarmed some twenty Apache warriors and a dozen Arizona Rangers. Rapidly closing ground they opened fire immediately. Miguel Selleres weighed the outcome quickly and accurately.
“Get us out of here,” he snapped to the driver at his side.
Tallpockets Granger saw the coach stopped in the road ahead. A dead horse lay on its side behind the armor-plated vehicle. Someone had ambushed them. He knew that someone had to be Capt. Jeff York. At once he turned in the saddle, waved an arm over his head, and pointed forward.
“Unlimber your irons, boys. It looks like ol’ Jeff’s bit a bear in the butt.”
They crashed into the nearer trio of outlaws with rifles and six-guns blazing. One man fell without a sound, shot through the head. Another took two bullets in his side and dropped from the saddle. The last threw up his hands. The Apaches accompanying the Rangers streamed on by, intent on taking on the child-killers beyond the coach. Suddenly the vehicle bolted forward, the horses straining to pull the heavy load.
Terror blanched the faces of the Pen-dik-olye as Cuchillo Negro and his warriors raced toward them. One had self-control enough to steady his mount and take careful aim. Smoke Jensen rose up slightly and put a slug through his chest. The gunhawk made a gurgling cry as he fell sideways off his saddle.
His companions started dying seconds later, hard and slowly, as the Apaches swarmed over them. It took some time to stop them. While the Rangers did what they could to drag the vengeful warriors off the outlaws, Tallpockets Granger pounded boots to the edge of the draw.
“Thought it might be you, Cap’n,” he drawled through a grin. A nod toward Smoke. “Mr. Jensen, good to see you again. Them horses you brought us worked real good. Let us run the hell out of those ladrones.”
Smoke came up onto the level. “Glad you like them. What brings you over this way?”
“We decided to wipe out that Stalker gang once and for all. Besides, I sort of figgered ol’ Jeff here might need some help.”
“And the Apaches?” Jeff asked with a nod toward Cuchillo Negro.
“They’re my deputies.” At Jeff’s astonished gape, he added, “We’re after the same enemy, Cap’n.”
Smoke clapped a hand on one shoulder of Granger. “Then they are as welcome as can be. Only thing that bothers me, is that coach got away. I thought we’d shot it to doll rags.”
“Wouldn’t have done no good,” Tallpockets informed Smoke. “That belongs to Miguel Selleres. It’s all made of boiler plate under thin wood.”
“That ties everything together,” Smoke allowed, after hearing an account of the battle in the White Mountains. “I think the time has come to move directly on Benton-Howell and his partner.”
* * *
Tallpockets Granger volunteered his posse of deputy Arizona Rangers. That gave them an effective force of fifteen. To Smoke’s surprise, the Apaches led by Cuchillo Negro offered to continue as deputies to Tallpockets. At the suggestion of Smoke Jensen, they rode first to the Tucker ranch to enlist any others who wanted to join the fight.
“A good place to start is in Socorro. We can clean out the trash that Benton-Howell has been gathering, then close in on the ranch,” Smoke declared.
When they reached the Tucker ranch two hours later, a wounded hand, Sean Quade, gave them the bad news. “They killed Hub and Carter,” he concluded “and took Miz Tucker and the kids.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know all of them. Some of the trash that’s been showin’ up in town. Forrest Gore led them. I saw him clear.”
“Which way did they go?” Smoke asked with winter in his voice.
Quade scratched an isolated circle of sandy hair that hung down his forehead. “Southwest, toward Socorro.”
Shock at learning of the abduction had turned to cold, controlled anger in Smoke Jensen. “Then that’s the way we’re going. We’ll send a doctor out to take care of that leg, Sean,” Smoke advised the wounded man.
“Damned right,” Jeff agreed.
“I’m goin’, too,” Sean Quade stated flatly.
Jeff York tried to reason with Quade. “You wouldn’t be much use with a bullet in your leg.”
“I can sit on my butt in a buckboard, and use a shotgun,” Sean defended his decision.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Smoke Jensen told the man. “The ride in could knock you out, or worse.” Quade could not argue with that. “All right. I’ll stay here and wait for the doc. Good luck . . . and keep your heads down.”
Nineteen
Socorro literally burst at the seams with gunfighters and wannabes. From beyond rifle range, Smoke Jensen studied the crowded streets through field glasses. When he had worked out in his mind how it should be done, he turned to Cuchillo Negro and spoke, with Tallpockets translating.
“I want to save you as a nasty surprise for the gun-hawks in there.”
The Apache chief pulled his full lips into a grim smile. “These white men will have no heart for the fight when we attack.�
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“That’s what I’m thinking. They won’t think much of the rest of us riding in. We can take a few by surprise. But the best of them will fort up somewhere. When that happens, and we get bogged down, you hit them from the far side of town.”
Cuchillo Negro cut his eyes to Tallpockets. “This one thinks like a Tinde.”
Tallpockets rendered it in English. Smoke nodded in acceptance of the compliment. “I learned most of my fighting skills from a man named Preacher.”
Eyes widened Cuchillo Negro grunted harshly. “My father knew such a man and spoke of him often. We Tinde called him Gray Wolf. No other man could move so silently, or fight so ferociously. I do not say that lightly.”
“He’d be proud to know you folks thought so highly of him,” Smoke returned.
Black Knife smiled around his eyes. “Many Chiricahua, Mescaleros, and Tinde died before we learned to respect him.”
That could go on Preacher’s headstone, if he had one, Smoke thought. “They had plenty company,” he told the Apache chief.
A second later, the Apaches left for their position. They seemed to dissolve into the empty terrain. One moment they were in plain view, the next, only faint puffs of dust showed where their horses had walked. And they had this great respect for his mentor. For perhaps the thousandth time, Smoke saw Preacher in yet a new light.
“We’ll give them half an hour, then ride in,” Smoke informed the others.
Two second-rate hard cases sat their horses at a point where wood rail fences and a cattle guard kept livestock from wandering the streets of Socorro. One of them jolted out of a doze at the sound of approaching riders. He tipped up the brim of his hat and peered into the wavery heat shimmer of midday.
“More guns on the way,” he remarked to his companion. “You’d think we were going after an army.”
“Hell, Mike, for twenty dollars a day I’d take on ol’ Gen’ral Sherman hisself.”
“No denyin’ the money’s good.” Suddenly Mike’s spine stiffened him upright, and his hand went to his gun.
“Damn! That one in front’s Smoke Jensen!”
“Yer seein’ things,” his partner contradicted. He just knew Smoke Jensen would never be within ten miles of Socorro.
Mike whipped his six-gun clear of leather. In the time it took for him to reach the hammer, his intended target had spoken and drawn his gun.
“Your friend’s right, you know.”
“Awh, hell.”
The last thing Mike saw was the beginning of a spurt of smoke from the barrel of the .44 aimed at him. He died so quickly, he didn’t fall off his horse. Smoke Jensen’s second bullet hit the other would-be gunfighter somewhat lower. It ruined his liver and spine on the way out. He pitched to one side and landed with a heavy plop.
“So much for taking anyone by surprise,” Smoke complained as he and the Rangers rode past the dead men.
Halfway down the block, a trio of lean, gaunt-faced men stepped into the street to block the way. “That something personal between you an’ Mike?” the one in the middle asked. Then he saw the silver badge on the vest of Jeff York. “Awh, damnitall,” he bemoaned his fate as he drew against the Arizona Ranger.
Jeff shot him with the Winchester in his right hand. The other two scattered. They threw wild rounds behind them, as they made for the nearest saloon. Jeff grunted and put his free hand to his left shoulder. It came away bloody-fingered. Jeff brought the rifle to his right shoulder then, and took careful aim. His bullet shattered the offender’s ankle and put him on the ground.
Smoke’s second slug shattered a kerosene lamp beside the door through which the last gunman dodged. The Rangers spread out, weapons at the ready. Smoke and Jeff continued toward the barroom. Jeff York stuffed a neckerchief under his shirt front, to sop up the blood from the deep gouge cut in the meat of his shoulder point. Glass crunched under their boot soles, when they dismounted and stepped up on the boardwalk. Smoke and Jeff entered through the batwings together. They found themselves facing nine outlaw guns.
Five of those roared at once. Showers of splinters erupted from the door frame and lintel. One bullet went by so close to the ear of Smoke Jensen, that it made more of a hum than a crack. Smoke already had one of the shooters on the floor, doubled over the hole in his belly. Jeff York had a second gunhand down, crying really sincere tears over his ruined left hip. Then the remaining four six-guns exploded into life.
Smoke Jensen had dived to one side and flattened a felt-covered poker table, scattering chips, cards, and players in all directions. He did a forward roll before the table came to rest, then bounced to one knee, flame spitting from the muzzle of his six-gun. At short range, a .44 slug does truly awful damage to human flesh. Smoke’s round hit a thick, hard-muscled belly, with a splat like a baseball bat striking a whole ham.
His target gave a hard grunt and looked down stupidly at the hole where his fifth shirt button used to be. “Jeez, Mister, who is it killed me?” he asked weakly.
“Smoke Jensen,” the owner of the name told him.
Then Smoke was on the move again. He jumped over a man who had only then come off the sawdust from his upset chair. The move saved his life. The hard case they had chased into the saloon leveled a round at where Smoke had knelt. All it killed was a fly on the faded, pale green wall. The gunhawk gaped at his act of minor mayhem, and paid for it with his life as Jeff York shot him down.
One of his comrades in murder reeled backward into the bar, blood gushing from a neck wound he had received courtesy of Smoke Jensen. The bodies continued to pile up at an incredible rate, the bartender, Diego Sanchez, noted. He sat on the floor behind two full beer barrels, and watched the slaughter in reverse through the mirror. It was a technique barkeeps learned early on in their profession, or they didn’t have long careers.
A stray slug shattered a decanter and sent shards of thick crystal shrapnel flying. They in turn broke half a dozen cheaper bottles, and inundated the bartender’s apron with bourbon, rye, and tequila. Taking a bath in booze came with the territory also, Diego Sanchez knew from experience. ¡Por Dios! His Conchita would make him sleep in the hammock between the palo verdes again.
Suddenly it got eerily silent in the saloon. Not a boot sole scraped the floor. No one could be heard breathing. No glass shards tinkled. Even the echoes of gunshots had died out. Slowly, Diego Sanchez sucked in air. He raised himself slowly until his eyeballs came above the top of the bar. Four men faced one another from opposite ends of the mahogany. Two he knew; Logan and Sloane, gun-fighter trash that had drifted into town three days ago.
The other pair wore badges, a U.S. Marshal and an Arizona Ranger.
“It’s your choice,” the Marshal said tightly.
Jesus, Maria y Jose, he was a big one. Diego moved back from the bar, until he pressed against the shelf behind.
“You ran that thing dry,” Logan drawled nastily. “Now I’m gonna ventilate that tin star of yours.”
“You know, I think you’re right,” Smoke Jensen told him, as he threw the .44 in the air and instantly snatched the second one from its left-hand holster. The hammer dropped on the primer before Logan could react and yank his trigger. Smoke caught the flying six-gun left-handed, at the same moment his bullet punched a hole through Logan’s chest. The gun in the Ranger’s hand blasted a second later and downed his man.
“Jesus, Smoke, I didn’t think anyone could do that,” Jeff York said in awed tones.
Smoke? Smoke Jensen? Diego Sanchez sucked in air and crossed himself. Then he slowly lowered his head below the bar. As though spoken from far away, his words reached the ears of Smoke Jensen.
“Vereso nada, Señor Jensen.”
“He said ‘I saw nothing,’ ” Jeff translated.
“Yeah. I caught that. I think we’re through here, Jeff.” Then, with a chuckle, “Adios, Señor cantinero.”
“Conosco nada, nada,” came a weak reply.
Diego Sanchez might have been willing to see and know nothing, but that
didn’t go for the swarm of hard cases and two-bit gunslingers who thronged the streets of town. They damn well wanted to know what was going on in the Cantina La Merced. They didn’t like what they found when the batwings swung outward. Smoke Jensen and Jeff York had reloaded and met the gathered gun-slicks with six-guns roaring.
“This town is out of bounds for your kind from this minute on,” Jeff York bellowed over the sound of gunmen panicking. Half a dozen of them were foolhardy enough to resist. Two of them died instantly. One of them shot the hat off Smoke Jensen’s head and bought an early grave for his efforts.
“On the balcony over there, Smoke,” Jeff shouted.
Smoke pivoted to his left and sent another wannabe gunfighter off to hell. The gunman staggered forward and tripped over the railing. He did a perfect roll in the air on the way down. The other lawmen had spread out along the main street, and began herding surprised hard cases off benches and out of saloons, prodding them toward the jail. By that time, Jeff had drilled a second resister in the shoulder.
“Jeff, drop!” Smoke shouted the warning as a gunhand popped up from behind a rail barrel and aimed at Jeff York’s back.
Jeff went down, and the bullet fanned air where he had been standing. A fraction of a second later, a .44 slug from Smoke Jensen’s iron flattened the back-shooter against the wall of the Mercy Cantina. The corpse left a long, red smear down the whitewashed stucco, as he slumped beside a cactus in a large terracotta pot.
Hot lead cracked through the air around Smoke then. He moved swiftly across the street, charging the shooter instead of fleeing. The mountain man’s six-gun bucked one. The gunslinger stiffened, then his knees buckled. Smoke had already turned away.
None of the original, six foolish gunslingers remained on their feet. Smoke cut his eyes to Jeff and nodded down the block to where the volume of fire had increased noticeably. “I think Tallpockets and the boys could use some help,” Smoke suggested.
Cunning of the Mountain Man Page 18
