“Then, let’s go see,” Jeff agreed, shoving fresh cartridges into his still-hot Colt.
Some twenty gunfighters and assorted saddle trash had banded together and taken over a bank building. Its thick fieldstone walls made it into a fortress. The structure stood alone, an island at an intersection, which allowed the Rangers to completely surround it. When Smoke Jensen and Jeff York arrived, the occupants hotly exchanged shots with those outside.
“I reckon they have the Tuckers in there,” Smoke allowed.
“Won’t they be in danger?” Jeff asked.
“Most likely they’ll be somewhere safe. Probably in the cellar, if there is one. Dead hostages don’t make good bargaining chips.”
On the roof, the head and shoulders of a hard case appeared. He apparently wore all black, and had a full-flowing walrus mustache in matching color. He put a Ranger down with a bullet in the side. While he ducked down behind the stone verge and cycled the action of his rifle, Smoke Jensen didn’t even break stride. His hand dropped smoothly to the .44 at his side, which came free of leather with a soft whisper. When his left boot sole next struck the street, the weapon barked in Smoke’s hand.
Above, behind the low stone parapet, the gunman’s hat took sudden flight, along with a gout of blood and brains. Jeff York stared at his friend in open amazement. Smoke pointed with the smoking barrel of his Peacemaker.
“There’s a narrow crack right . . . there. I just waited until his black hat blotted out the light.”
“That was one steady-handed shot,” Jeff complimented. Smoke merely shrugged and sought another target. When the volume of fire increased even more, Jeff looked toward the north end of town. “Any time now,” he observed.
“Them damn Rangers ain’t even supposed to be over here,” one lanky gunfighter from Arizona declared, as he fired an unaimed shot into the street. “They ain’t got no juri—jures—they ain’t the law in New Mexico!”
“You see that slowin’ down the lead they’re punching at us?” growled an exceptionally short, bushy-headed gunslick with thick, gold-rimmed glasses.
“Shut up, Bob,” the Arizonan snapped.
Glass tinkled like chimes as more windows took fire from the Rangers. Gradually, over the roar of gunfire from both sides, the men inside the bank heard the rumble of hooves and thin, high-pitched yelps. Bob cut his eyes upward at the slender Arizonan.
“What the hell’s that?”
“Sounds . . .” The gunfighter cocked his head and concentrated. “Sounds like Injuns.”
“What Injuns would that be?” Bob challenged.
“By god, it sounds like Apaches. I’ve heard enough of them to last a lifetime.”
“What are they doing over here?” Bob gulped. “Are they attacking the town?”
Arizona Slim edged to a window on the north side of the bank lobby and peered out. “No. Oh, hell no! I can’t believe this. They—they’ve joined the damned Rangers. They’re comin’ after us!”
Outside, the Rangers checked their fire as the Apaches swarmed through their cordon and flung themselves directly at the shot-out windows of the bank. The Arizona lawmen began reloading, while the men led by Cuchillo Negro raced closer, firing bent low over the necks of their mounts. Three dived through shattered sashes with stone-headed war clubs held high.
Muffled gunshots came from inside, and the screams of dying men. A second wave hit the stone building, and a lance hurtled through an opening to pin Bob to a desktop; bloody froth accompanied his screech of agony. With the Apaches rampaging inside, the Arizona Rangers charged the building.
Once the lawmen got in close and mixed it up with the gunhawks, all resistance ended quickly. When the survivors had been rounded up and secured in manacles, Smoke Jensen and Jeff York made a thorough search of the cellar. They came up with no sign of the Tucker family. But Smoke did find Payne Finney, hiding in a coal bunker.
“The Tuckers? Where are they?” he demanded of the thoroughly demoralized Finney.
“They aren’t here. Never have been. I don’t know where Stalker told Gore to take them,” Finney lied smoothly.
Smoke clasped Finney by one shoulder, his thumb boring into the entry wound from a .44-40 round. Finney squirmed and grunted. “You wouldn’t figure to try to run a lie past me now, would you?” he asked Finney in a calm, level tone.
“No—no. I’m serious. I don’t know where they took them. I’ve been here all the time.”
“He’s right,” a surly member of the Stalker gang supported Finney. “He’s been in town like the rest of us. We never heard anything about the Tuckers.”
Smoke cut his eyes from Payne Finney to Jeff York. “Case of the right hand not lettin’ the left know?” he asked.
“Could be. Where do we start from here?”
“Back at the ranch.” Jeff groaned as Smoke went on. “The trackers I set out should have something by now. It’s not your fault, Jeff. I figured, too, that they’d want to take ’em to some neutral ground to arrange terms.” Jeff brightened. “There’s only one place makes sense. We can save a lot of time, if we ride direct for the B-Bar-H.”
“That fits. But I want to hear what the trackers say first. And we do have these prisoners to take care of. After that, we’ll ride.”
Twenty
Half a dozen hard cases had ridden out of Socorro as the Rangers thundered into town. From a safe distance they had watched the roundup develop, heard the gunfire raise to a crescendo, and then watched in horror as a horde of Apaches swarmed into town. Then they lit out for the B-Bar-H.
They arrived on lathered, winded horses that trembled and walked weak-kneed to turns at the water trough. Charlie Bascomb, the nominal leader of the contingent that had escaped, reported to Quint Stalker and Geoffrey Benton-Howell. What he had to tell them did not get a warm reception.
“It’s the truth, Sir Geoffrey. I tell ya, the Apaches sided with those Arizona lawmen. My guess is they’ll be headed this way before long.”
Quint Stalker swore and smacked a balled fist into the opposite palm. “That’s the same lawmen that came after us. But they ain’t got authority in New Mexico.”
Frowning, Benton-Howell answered him, “I’m afraid they do. It’s called hot pursuit. If you are right, then they can keep coming until you are caught.”
“You ain’t gonna let them, are you?” Stalker all but pleaded.
“Of course not. You’ve served me well and faithfully—ah—with a few recent exceptions. I think it expedient to bid my friends from Washington and Santa Fe a fond adieu. We can hold off any force here, until the governor learns of my plight. I’m sure he can get the interloping Arizona lawmen out of his territory.”
“Hummm. That could be,” Stalker caught at the thin strand of hope.
“Meanwhile, I want you to organize the men we have here. Fortify the headquarters, and prepare to stand off a siege.”
“Do we got supplies for that?”
“Oh, my, yes. Ample food and ammunition, even some dynamite. Water might become a problem, if this becomes protracted.”
Stalker raised a brow. He knew the absolute importance of water in a desert. “Like how long?”
“Four or five days. All of the wells are out in the open. A marksman’s delight, don’t you know?”
“What about the Tucker woman? Can’t we use her and the brats to bargain with?”
Benton-Howell considered Stalker’s words a moment. “That was my intention, if the situation required it. More to the point, I want her signature on a bill of sale. That must come first. I’m going to see her now. See to the preparations.”
Martha Tucker looked up from her dark contemplations when Geoffrey Benton-Howell entered the small, bare pantry in which she had been confined. She had been separated from her children the moment they arrived at the ranch. That troubled her a good deal more than the constant insistence that she sign the ranch over to the Englishman. Jimmy would be all right, she felt certain, but little Rose and Tommy could be easily frighten
ed. When her eyes fixed on her visitor’s face, she noted at once that something seemed to have ruffled his usual icy composure.
“Mrs. Tucker, I’m afraid I really must insist on you signing the quit claim deed form I provided. Time is— ah—running short.”
“For you or for me?”
“For both of us, I regret to say.”
Again, Martha noted a flash of distress, and seized upon it at once. “What is it, Mr. Benton-Howell? Is Smoke Jensen closing in on you?”
Damn the woman, Benton-Howell thought furiously. Had she heard anything, even locked away here? He fought to retain his calm demeanor. “Smoke Jensen has nothing to do with the business between us. What I want is your ranch.”
“Smoke Jensen has everything to do with it,” Martha surprised herself by saying. “I see it now. You tried to frame Mr. Jensen for the murder of my husband.”
“Damnit, madam, I’ll not have that sort of talk from you. I had nothing whatever to do with that sorry incident.” He omitted mentioning Miguel Selleres and Quint Stalker. “The matter is plain and clear. I—want—that—ranch.”
“How much are you offering for it?”
Benton-Howell pinned her with icy eyes. “Your life, and the lives of your children.”
“I have had better offers than that,” Martha snapped.
“Which you chose to spurn. My patience is growing short. Perhaps I should have one of the youngsters brought here. I assure you my men have ways that are most persuasive when dealing with a child.”
Martha paled, then red fury shot through her cheeks. “You’d not dare harm one of them.”
“Ah, but I would, indeed. If my wishes are not acceded to. The form is on the counter there, and pen and ink. I recommend you sign now.”
“Why do you want our ranch so badly?”
“That’s none of your affair. Sign that paper, madam.”
“Or else?”
Benton-Howell thought a moment. “That younger boy of yours, ah, Tommy I believe. Is he a good scholar?”
“He does very well in school.”
A smirk twisted Benton-Howell’s aristocratic visage into a mask of ugliness. “He wouldn’t do so well missing a couple of fingers, would he?”
Outrage and horror choked Martha Tucker. She made no sound as she leaped to her feet. Her fingernails flashed like the talons of an eagle, as she raked them down the face of her tormentor. Benton-Howell cried out in an almost feminine shriek, and he pushed her roughly away. He stormed to the door and hurled his last threat over one shoulder.
“Sign it or suffer the consequences.”
By late afternoon, half a dozen hard-faced men had ridden in and tied horses at the Socorro livery. Smoke Jensen observed to Jeff York that there must be an inexhaustible supply of second-rate gunhawks in New Mexico. They decided to delay their departure from town. One of the hands who had volunteered to help was sent back to the Tucker spread to make contact with the trackers, and bring their discoveries to Smoke. Now, with twenty gunmen locked in jail, more than half of them wounded, the town began to fill up with more of the same.
“By this time tomorrow, it’ll be every bit as bad as it was when we rode in,” Jeff stated in disgust, as he sipped at a beer in the Hang Dog.
“Too bad we couldn’t keep the Apaches in town,” Smoke observed.
“The good people of Socorro would have died of heart failure left and right. Some of my own men were concerned about how Black Knife’s bucks would behave when they got the killin’ hunger on them.”
“They’re damn good fighters,” Smoke said tightly. “They’re that. They’re also savages. No different from any other tribe. They got. their ways; we’ve got ours. There isn’t often that the two meet and work well together, like we did here yesterday.”
Smoke lifted the corners of his mouth in a hint of a smile. “It worked well enough, I’d say. Of course, we had common cause. Some of those men you chased down were responsible for killing those Apache kids. I’ll give you that if we go into their country next week, there’s no guarantee they won’t lift our hair. Like Preacher used to say, ‘Injuns is changeable.’ ”
Boots clumped importantly on the porch outside. Sheriff Jake Reno bustled through the doorway and came directly to Jeff York. “I see you are still in town, Ranger. Maybe that’s a good thing. There’s more of that border trash drifting in every hour. I’m danged if I know what got them stirred up.”
Jeff York put on a big grin and hooked a thumb in Smoke Jensen’s direction. “Maybe it’s that big reward you put out on my friend here.”
Sheriff Reno turned to see whom the Arizona lawman meant. He came face-to-face with Smoke Jensen. His jaw sagged, and the color drained from his cheeks. He staggered back a few small steps. At first, no sound came. Then, a wheeze and squeak slid past rigid lips. A moment later, he found full voice, and bellowed, albeit with a quake.
“Goddamnit! It’s Smoke Jensen!”
“In person, Sheriff. How’s tricks?” Smoke asked with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Sheriff Reno choked over the words that rushed to spew from his lips. He reached for his Smith American and handcuffs at the same time. “S—sta—stand ri-right there, Jensen. You’re under arrest. Give up, or by God, I’m gonna gun you down right here.”
Smoke Jensen backhanded Jake Reno so swiftly the sheriff never saw Smoke’s big hand. The impact sounded like a shot. “You’re not arresting anyone, Sheriff,” Smoke told him in a flat, deadly tone.
No small man, Jake Reno balled huge, ham fists and swung at the taunting man before him. Smoke easily slipped the first blow and caught the second on the point of one shoulder. He brought his hands up and worked on the sheriff’s soft middle. The fat yielded easily and, to his surprise, Smoke found a hard slab of muscle beneath. Reno grunted and punched Smoke in the face. Smoke’s head snapped back and heat flared in his eyes, as he drove a hard left to the side of Reno’s jaw. Jake Reno backpedaled rapidly until he struck the bar. Smoke followed with hard rights and lefts to the sheriff’s ribs. He felt bone give under his pounding, and shifted to Reno’s gut. Stale whiskey breath gusted from behind yellowed teeth.
A hard right from Smoke stopped that when it cracked three of Reno’s teeth and mashed his lips. Blood flew through the room when Sheriff Reno shook his head violently in an effort to clear his fogged mind. He managed to get his guard up in time to parry two more solid swings, then Smoke broke through and did more damage to Reno’s mouth.
Jake Reno sagged slowly, desperately seeking his second wind. It came gradually as his vision dimmed. With a blink of his eyes, he saw everything clearly again. He lunged awkwardly for Smoke Jensen and planted a left on the gunfighter’s cheek. Smoke took it without a flinch. Smoke’s own knuckles stung—he had not had time to put on his gloves before handing out this lesson in restraint. He ignored it and planted another fist in Reno’s face.
Reno countered with a vicious kick aimed at Smoke’s crotch. With a slight bob, Smoke slapped the booted foot away and then yanked upward on it. A startled whoop came from Jake Reno as he fell flat on his butt. Smoke closed in and stood over the seated man, to pound blow after blow onto the top of Reno’s head. Reno began to gag and spit up blood. He must have bitten his tongue, Smoke considered.
With what would prove to be his final defiance, Jake Reno reached out with both arms and encircled Smoke Jensen’s legs. He hauled with rapidly dwindling strength. When he put a little shoulder in it, he dislodged Smoke’s boots from the plank floor and toppled the mountain man.
Smoke recovered quickly though, and popped Reno on one ear with a stinging open palm. It had the effect of a gun going off beside the sheriff’s head. Through the ringing, with eyes tearing, Jake Reno pawed uselessly at Smoke Jensen’s torso while Smoke drove hard, punishing blows into already weakened ribs. Without warning, Jake Reno uttered a small, shrill cry, arched his back, and fell over backward. His head thudded in the sawdust.
Panting, blood dripping from the cut under his left
eye, Smoke Jensen came slowly to his feet. He reached gratefully for the schooner of beer Jeff York offered him. He rinsed his mouth and spat pinkish foam into a brass gobboon.
“We’ve got enough evidence on the good sheriff to lock him up, don’t we, Jeff?”
“I’d say so. It’ll be up to the prosecutor if he’s tried for anything.”
“Then get this trash out of here. Put him in his own jail, and make sure he stays there.”
“We found sign about three miles from the ranch,” one of the trackers Smoke Jensen had sent out reported late the next day. “The Tuckers were taken to the B-Bar-H, sure enough. The closer they got, the less careful they were about covering their trail. An’ something else, Mr. Jensen. That place is being turned into a fort. Armed riders everywhere, fence lines are being raised higher, the windows of the main house are boarded up.”
Smoke considered this report while he sipped coffee. “Kevin, how many men do you figure are siding with Benton-Howell and Selleres?”
Kevin Noonan evaluated the quality of the gunmen they had seen. “I’d say twenty-five to thirty of them are average to good. They stay off the ridge lines, keep to the trees where they can, most don’t smoke at night. There’s another twenty or so who just don’t measure up; trash with a gun strapped on. And there’s more driftin’ in all the time, five to ten a day.”
Those numbers didn’t appeal to Smoke Jensen. Even a poor shot could hit someone sometime. He simply didn’t have enough men for a head-on fight. “It sounds like they’re getting ready to stand off an army.”
“Could be that this Englishman is trying to buy time,” Walt Reardon suggested.
“For what purpose?” Jeff York asked.
Smoke Jensen picked it up from there. “He did have all those politicians out there for a big party. While you were there, did you gather that they were being paid for favors already done?”
“More like Benton-Howell was courting them,” Jeff recalled. “It could be that they haven’t come through so far.”
Cunning of the Mountain Man Page 19
