“Quinten, I want you to deliver a message to Smoke Jensen. Under a flag of truce, naturally.”
“Sure, Boss. What do you want to say?”
Benton-Howell told him and sent the gang leader on his way. On the slow ride to the edge of town, Quint Stalker tied a strip of white petticoat to the barrel of his Winchester. He had torn it from the undergarment of a soiled dove he had encountered on the street. He reached the city limits only a minute before Smoke and the posse thundered up to the wooden bridge that crossed the dry creek. Quint hoisted his white flag, and showed himself in the middle of the road.
“I got a message for Smoke Jensen,” he called out.
Smoke edged forward on his roan stallion. “Spit it out.”
“Mr. Benton-Howell done told me to tell you that he’s turned Miz Tucker an’ her brats over to Miguel Selleres. Señor Selleres has orders to kill them slowly, starting with the youngest kid if you don’t give yourself up within one hour.”
Anger flared in Smoke’s chest. He dare not risk the lives of the Tuckers further, yet he had no intention of providing target practice for a bunch of second-rate pistoleros. He had to buy some time.
“Do you know what happened in the Middle Ages when a messenger brought bad news?” he asked Stalker.
“No, what?”
“They killed him.”
Stalker blanched. “Now, look, I’m under a flag of truce. You got no call to kill me. It ain’t fair,” he ended with a nervous titter.
“Very little is in this life,” Smoke returned.
Stalker knew enough about the gunfighter business to know Jensen wanted something, a deal, a way out. “You got that right. What are you after, Jensen?”
A bleak smile answered him for a long moment, and Quint Stalker felt a chill as the icy gray eyes of Smoke Jensen bored into him. “Time. I didn’t expect to find the Tuckers here, need to rethink things.”
Sensing he had regained the upper hand, Stalker snapped “You’ve got an hour, that’s what The Man said.” “I need more than that. Make it two hours. Tell Benton-Howell that if I see the Tucker family, alive and well, after that, I’ll come in alone.”
“No tricks?”
“Your boss has all the aces, Stalker,” Smoke Jensen replied in a disarming tone.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Smirking, Stalker turned on one boot heel. Then he threw over his shoulder, “If you hear a gunshot an hour from now, you’ll know Mr. Benton-Howell has rejected your terms.”
“Damn! What do we do now?” Jeff York exploded. “It’s a rigged deck, the way I see it,” Smoke told him bluntly. “It’s too obvious to mention what will happen, if I go in there alone. If I don’t go in, the Tuckers will die. Benton-Howell is a desperate man.”
“I can believe that,” Jeff allowed. “He has to see that his scheme is falling apart. Even if he gets you, there’s no way he can bring it off.”
“My thoughts, too, Jeff. So, here’s what we’ll do,” Smoke offered. Without hesitation he laid out his plans.
Ten minutes went by before Tallpockets Granger walked his mount down the main street of Socorro, a white shirt tied to the muzzle of his rifle. He stopped outside the Exchange Hotel and called out for Quint Stalker. When Quint appeared Tallpockets waved the white flag over his head to make it clear that he was under truce. Then he leaned forward and spoke eye to eye with Stalker.
“Smoke Jensen wants to talk to you again. He says he wants to spell out the manner of his surrender.”
“I’ll be right with you.” Stalker returned to the hotel, to walk back out in less than half a minute. “The Boss says that’s all right with him.”
They rode together to the edge of town. There, Stalker threw a look of contempt at Smoke Jensen and spoke in a crisp tone of command. “Mr. Benton-Howell said you were in no position to set terms. But he agreed to listen this time. What is it you have in mind?”
“I’ve decided to turn myself in. Provided that the Tuckers are unharmed. And I want to see them riding away from town, alone, or no deal. They go free before I reach the center of town. And no back-shooting, or the rest of my friends here will take Socorro apart, regardless of what happens to me or the Tuckers. Benton-Howell and Selleres will hang, and there won’t be a one of those two-bit pistoleros left alive.”
Anger rose to choke Stalker, so that he spluttered when he snapped “That’s bluster, Jensen, and you know it. You must be gettin’ old. Old and yellow, deep down in your core, or you’d not be runnin’ yer mouth instead of your gun.”
Fire replaced the ice in the eyes of Smoke Jensen. “You want to try me now?”
Quint Stalker hesitated a moment, and Smoke Jensen thought, gotcha! “Another time. I’ll take what you said to the Boss, and we’ll see.” He turned his mount and rode away.
Fifteen minutes later, he returned. “Mr. Benton-Howell agrees,” Quint Stalker shouted across the dry creek. “I’m to accompany you to the jail to see there are no tricks . . . from either side.”
“How noble of you,” Smoke responded sarcastically. Stalker looked hurt. “I insisted on it. I admire you for this, Jensen, and I wanted to make sure there was no hanky-panky on either side.”
Quint Stalker’s words raised Jensen’s assessment of the outlaw leader. He shrugged and cut his eyes to Jeff, “You know what to do.” To Stalker, “Let’s get on with it.” Smoke eased his roan onto the bridge.
From that first step, Smoke felt his gut tighten with sour tension. At each step the horses took, a spot between his shoulder blades grew warmer and tingled with anticipation of a bullet to rend and tear his flesh and end his life. Not one to fear death, the mountain man still had a healthy regard for living. By the end of the first block, with not a hard case in sight, Smoke began to gauge each building as the possible spot from which the assassin’s bullet would come.
Beside him, Quint Stalker appeared to be equally apprehensive. His eyes cut from side to side, suspicion deeply planted on his face. Sweat popped out on his brow, and he licked his lips continuously. Smoke suspicioned that Stalker’s palms oozed moisture inside the black leather gloves.
“Don’t you trust your masters?” Smoke taunted partly to break his own chain of anxiety.
“Of course—come to think of it, not a hell of a lot. It’s me that’s the target out here, not them.”
“Good thinking, Stalker.”
Another block further along, Stalker nodded toward the balcony of the Exchange Hotel. “Over there.” Smoke cut his eyes to three tiny figures standing there. Jimmy, Rose, and Tommy Tucker huddled close together, the older boy’s arms protectively around the shoulders of his siblings. They had all been crying, and began again at the sight of Smoke Jensen riding in a prisoner.
“Don’t let ’em do it to you, Smoke,” Jimmy’s high, thin voice cut through the dust haze to Smoke’s ears.
Smoke gave the boy a short, friendly wave. Lace curtains at a second-floor front window fluttered and drew apart. A Mexican pistolero stood beside Martha Tucker, a wicked grin whitening his face under a thick, drooping moustache. Smoke reined in. He jabbed a finger at the hostages and spoke harshly.
“Bring them down here. Now.”
Quint Stalker sighed heavily and shrugged. “This is the part makes me uneasy. They don’t get loose, until you’re locked in jail. The Boss ordered it that way.” Smoke Jensen started a curse, broke if off, knowing it to be futile. If the shooting started now, the Tuckers would die for certain. “Never could abide two-faced bastards like your Benton-Howell,” he growled bitterly.
“Truth to tell, I ain’t too fond of him, myself,” Stalker muttered.
Smoke eyed him thoughtfully. “Ever think of changing sides?” From the light that glowed in Stalker’s eyes, Smoke knew that he had planted a seed in fertile soil. “Let’s get on with it.”
At the jail, without a shot fired Stalker dismounted tied off his horse, then drew his six-gun. He covered Smoke while Jensen climbed from the saddle and let himself be led into the office. Wi
th Ferdie Biggs no longer among the living, a new jailer had been selected. His smirking grin revealed a missing front tooth and the yellow stain of an inveterate tobacco chewer. Quint Stalker removed Smoke’s cartridge belt and twin .44s and tossed them on the desk. Then the jailer revealed his nature to be much like his predecessor.
He took two quick steps forward and solidly punched Smoke Jensen in the ribs. Pain shot through Smoke from the bullet scrapes on both sides, as he rocked with the blows. He caught another pair in the gut, and fought the urge to double over from the effect. Carefully he sucked in fresh air.
“Are you any relation to Ferdie Biggs?” Smoke asked in as calm a voice as he could manage.
“Naw, I ain’t no kin of his.”
“Funny, there’s such a resemblance,” Smoke taunted.
Smoke’s taunt had the desired effect. With a roar the lout lunged forward again without any caution. Smoke’s hard looping left caught him on the point of his protruding jaw; the gunfighter put all his body behind it. He had the satisfaction of hearing a loud snap and feel the loose wobble of bone before the jailer dropped like a stone.
“Gawdamn!” Stalker blurted.
“He needed that.”
Awe filled the eyes of Quint Stalker, as he nodded his head in agreement. “I still gotta lock you up. You know the way.”
Down the corridor of the cellblock, Smoke found three of the missing Rangers, locked together in one large cell. No doubt the holding tank for drunks. They all had depression written on their faces.
“In you go,” Quint Stalker said with a wink.
He opened the cage, and Smoke joined his three allies. Without further comment, Stalker left the cellblock and the jail and returned to the Exchange Hotel.
Deft, brown fingers worked at the fastenings of the wire basket that enclosed the cork. With it pried open and removed two thumbs pried the cork until it popped loudly and flew to the ceiling of the men’s bar in the Exchange Hotel. A shower of bubbles followed. Laughing, Miguel Selleres turned to the four other men in the room.
“We have much to celebrate, Señores. Our good friend Sheriff Reno, is out of jail and . . . Smoke Jensen is inside!”
“Not to mention we still have the hostages, old boy,” Geoffrey Benton-Howell chortled as he presented his glass to be filled.
“More important, the Tuckers will not be released until the ranch is signed over to the three of us,” Dalton Wade crowed.
“They’ll not be released even then,” Benton-Howell stated quietly, instantly drawing the attention of Sheriff Reno, Dalton Wade, and Miguel Selleres.
“Whatever do you mean by that, Sir Geoffrey?” Dalton Wade asked concern creasing his brow.
“There’s no percentage in leaving behind any living witnesses. Surely you see the wisdom of that, Dalton.” “My word. I’d never given that problem any consideration. Isn’t it a bit savage to take the lives of women and children?”
Benton-Howell peered at his partner over the rim of his champagne glass. “We live in brutal times, my friend. We cannot afford to have anyone—outside of ourselves— left to bear tales of how we obtained all this property and the wealth of that gold field in the White Mountains. Oh, yes, I have been assured the transfer will take place as promised. You can see the importance now, can you not? Not even these troublesome Arizona Rangers must escape our little cleanup.”
“Yes,” Selleres agreed. “Which brings us to what means to use to dispose of Smoke Jensen.”
All four men remained silent with their thoughts a moment. Then a beatific smile spread on the face of Benton-Howell.
“I think the most demeaning, humiliating, degrading form of death should be applied to Smoke Jensen. Unfortunately, there is not a single guillotine to be had in this forsaken country. So, I suggest we hang him. How ignoble.”
Soft applause came from Dalton Wade and Miguel
Selleres. Sheriff Reno nodded approval. As did Quint Stalker, who had to fight to keep his face rigidly devoid of any expression. The plotters were convinced of the complete defeat of Smoke Jensen, only the outlaw leader felt no surprise when a cacophony of sound blasted into the elegant barroom, followed by the crumbling of stone and brickwork from the direction of the jail.
Following Smoke Jensen’s instructions, the Rangers watched until he disappeared into the jail, then drifted off in groups of threes and fours. They made their way out of sight of town at the slow pace of men who had reluctantly admitted their cause to be lost, vet unwilling to leave in a body. The ruse worked Jeff York realized half an hour later when no pursuit had begun against them.
At that point, Geoffrey Benton-Howell had as yet to pronounce their death sentences along with the rest. After the Rangers departed Quint Stalker had withdrawn the lookouts, leaving only some of the hungover dregs to keep watch, so that his men could join in the celebration. Before he had returned to the hotel, he noted a number of those who had come bounty hunting, drift off toward more promising fields. He would soon regret that.
Jeff York and six men had no difficulty in slipping unobserved into Socorro. They went directly to the jail, located the cell holding Smoke Jensen and the missing Rangers. They cut short any reunion for the business at hand.
“Get mattresses,” Jeff instructed curtly. “Sit down clear of this wall, cover yourselves, and hold your ears.”
“Awh, crap, Jeff, you ain’t gonna blow us outta here, are you?” one lanky, horse-faced Ranger complained.
“Come up with a better way, and I won’t have to,” Jeff quipped.
While he spoke, Jeff rigged a bundle of dynamite sticks to the wall, close to the small window, which he figured for the weakest point. With everything in readiness, he lit the fuse and cleared out with his Rangers. The blast reverberated all over town, bounced off the steep walls of the gorge in which the village had been built, punished ears for a quarter mile, and set dogs to howling hysterically
It didn’t do too much for the men in the cell, for that matter. The brick wall within the native fieldstone one pummeled them with chunks that would leave bruises the next day. Even with fingers in ears and mouths open, the pressure was enormous. Two Rangers lost consciousness, and Smoke Jensen discovered he had a bloody nose. A tad bit more dynamite, and they’d all be playing harps for St. Peter, he thought dazedly as the caustic fumes and mortar dust swirled around him. Only indistinctly did he hear the pound of hooves, as Jeff and his volunteers rushed back to extricate them from the jail.
Upright beside Jeff York, Smoke Jensen gestured to the ruined building they had just exited. “We have to get our weapons.”
“Already taken care of.”
Smoke frowned as the import of that struck him. “Then why in Billy blue hell did you try to turn us into red mush?”
“Thought it might scare hell out of some of these tender feet gunhawks.”
“You did a fair job of that on us.” Jeff gave a shrug, so Smoke continued “Give me my rig, and let’s go get these bastards who hide behind women and children.”
Twenty-four
Geoffrey Benton-Howell had no doubt as to the source of the explosion. He immediately sent Quint Stalker to organize the horde of gunslingers who milled about the streets of Socorro, most of them confused as to what was going on. Miguel Selleres went upstairs at once, to make sure the Tuckers remained secure in the Exchange Hotel. He spoke urgently to the guards outside the door to the room that held the children.
“No one gets in there, none of our own or any lawmen.”
“Si, Señor Selleres,” one Sonoran pistolero responded respectfully. “Not a soul will get past us.”
“See to it.” Selleres went on down the hall to where Mrs. Tucker had been kept. “Unlock it,” he demanded. Inside, he crossed to a small table where Martha Tucker sat taking her evening meal. He shaped his features to show pleading. “Señora, there is going to be a great deal of bloodshed. You can prevent it. Simply sign the ranch over to us . . .” Selleres ended with hands outstretched palms up in silent appe
al.
“I do not believe in fairy-tales, Señor Selleres. The moment I sign those papers, myself and my children are dead. On the other hand I can trust that for now, no stray bullet will strike any of us.”
Selleres hardened his face. “Can you trust that we will not kill you outright, rather than let you fall into the hands of Smoke Jensen?”
A chill-ran along Martha’s spine. She girded herself for the answer she knew she had to make. “If you are that thoroughly reprehensible, then I can only place my trust in the Lord . . . and Smoke Jensen.”
A burst of gunfire from down the street interrupted the hot retort that started from the lips of Miguel Selleres. He turned on one boot heel and started for the door.
Two gun-toting henchmen appeared high up in the windows of the feed mill. The tinkle of broken glass alerted those below. Smoke Jensen went to one knee and snugged the Winchester .44 carbine to his shoulder in one smooth motion. Jeff York raised his Colt, and put a .45 round through the corrugated metal skin of the grain elevator.
It expanded as it went its way, and slammed into flesh an inch above the buckle on the cartridge belt of one hard case. He jolted forward in reaction to his wound and lurched through the window sash. His startled companion had only a moment to hear the agonized scream, as Smoke Jensen put out his lights for all time with a hot lead snuffer. The sniper’s body jerked backward and out of view.
“That was close,” Jeff observed.
“They never got off a shot,” Smoke reminded him.
Halfway down the next block, four men ranged across the street. They had a variety of mismatched weapons, which spoke for their lack of expertise. What they lacked in knowledge they made up for in courage—or foolishness. All four entered the dance with blazing six-guns.
Smoke Jensen downed one easily, and heard the nearby crack of a bullet that sailed past his head. He lined his sights on another as two more weapons opened up through windows on the second floor above the general mercantile. He made a quick shot at his target, missed and swung the muzzle of the Winchester upward. Three rounds levered through the Winchester silenced one of the hidden assassins. From behind Smoke the six-gun of Tallpockets roared and spat flame.
Cunning of the Mountain Man Page 22
