Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  From less than three feet away, hot lead punched a thumb-sized hole between Jeremy’s eyebrows, mushroomed, and blew off the back of his head. Smoke eased up, let his shoulders sag. A sudden voice from behind him charged Smoke with new energy.

  “¡Tien cuidado, Señor! They have a frien’.” Black pencil line of mustache writhing on his brown upper lip, the owner and cook of the cafe where Smoke had eaten stood in the doorway. He pointed a trembling finger toward the balcony of the saloon across the street. Smoke followed the gesture and saw a man kneeling behind the big wooden sign, a rifle to his shoulder.

  Fool, Smoke thought. If he thinks that sign will stop a bullet, he’s in for a surprise. The Winchester cracked once, and cut the hat from Smoke’s head as he returned the favor. Two fast shots from the pistol in the hand of Smoke Jensen put a small figure-eight hole in the sign and the chest of the sniper. With a clatter, the hidden assassin sprawled backward on the floor planks of the balcony.

  In the silence that followed, Smoke Jensen surveyed the carnage he had created. Damnit, he didn’t need to be caught knee-deep in corpses. This spelled more complications than he wanted to think about. He reloaded swiftly.

  “No question of it, I’m in more trouble than before,” he muttered to himself. To the Mexican cook, he added, “The law will be coming soon. Tell them the man who did this is long gone.”

  The smiling man shrugged. “There is very little law in this town, Señor. Only the alcalde—the mayor—who is also the jefe—the marshal, an’ also the juez . . . el magistrado, ¿comprende?”

  “I reckon I do. You’re saying you have a one-man city administration?”

  “Seguro, sí.” In his excitement over the confrontation in the street, the man had forgotten most of his English.

  “Where do I find this feller?”

  A broad, warm smile bloomed on the man’s face. He tapped his chest with a brown, chili-stained finger. “It is I, Señor.”

  That made matters considerably less complicated for Smoke Jensen. Smoke recounted where he had first seen the would-be hard cases, and gave his opinion of what had sparked the attempt on his life. The mayor/police/chief/judge—his name turned out to be Raphael Figuroa—didn’t even ask if they had the right man. He looked at the human garbage in the street and shrugged.

  “They are no loss. This is not the first time they have provoked trouble. Usually with tragic consequences for the other party. This is the first time they have been on the receiving end. You are free to go, or stay as long as you wish, Señor.”

  “I’m fixin’ to pull out tomorrow morning,” Smoke informed him. He did not give a destination.

  * * *

  Forty-six miles into Arizona, Smoke Jensen discovered why he had not been joined by his companions. Walt and Ty waited for him in Show Low, along with Jeff York. Smoke and the Arizona Ranger had a rousing, back-pounding reunion, and the four men retired to the saloon made famous by the poker game that had given the new name to what had once been Copper Gulch.

  A drifter had played cards all through one night with the local gambler and owner of the town. His luck had run well and, on the turn of a card in a game of Low Ball, he had won title to Copper Gulch, which he promptly renamed Show Low in honor of his accomplishment. Or so the story goes.

  “What’s this about you being wanted for killing a man, Smoke?” Jeff inquired, his pale bluish gray eyes alighted with interest. “Don’t sound like the Smoke Jensen I know.”

  “It’s a long story, Jeff. Just yesterday, I found out there’s a price on my head. A big one.” Smoke went on to explain what he faced. He concluded with, “So with a reward out, I had to figure that sheriff would be out hunting me again, and decided Arizona would be a safer place to stay while I worked it all out.”

  Jeff York sat in silence a moment before responding to all Smoke had told him. “I’ll cover for you here in Arizona, of course. And I’d like to help. As much as I can.”

  “How’s that? The governor got his hand cinched up to your belt?”

  “Not so’s it chafes. I was up this way to check out something when Walt and Ty came along. So far it’s only rumors. Still an’ all, the ones puttin’ them around are considered reliable men. ’Pears there’s some scallywags that have their eyes on a land grab on the White Mountain Apache reservation.”

  “Do tell,” Smoke prompted.

  “The word is that some high-rollers are fixin’ to bring a number of the big tickets in Washington out to be wined and dined—and bribed—to get them to cut a big chunk out of the res for the benefit of those same local money men.”

  “Why in the world would anyone want to move in next door to the Apaches?”

  Jeff gave Smoke a bleak smile. “Perhaps it’s because Chief Cuchillo Negro and some of his braves have found gold on that land. And, of course, it might be that these good ol’ boys has gotten a serious dose of religion, and only want to make better the lot of their less fortunate red brothers.”

  “I’ll believe that when pigs fly,” Smoke grunted.

  Smoke Jensen had fought and killed any number of Indians over the years, and he was not considered one to stomp lace-edged hankies into the mud over the wretched plight of the Noble Red Men. Yet, he respected them as brave men and fierce fighters. The Apaches, most of all. He acknowledged the Indians’ right to a place in this world. After all, it was Indian land before the white man came to take it away from them. Indians and the white men had different ways, neither one better than the other, to Smoke’s way of seeing things. Truth to tell, he sometimes thought the Indian way came out a bit on top. They sure had more respect for nature and the land. And they used to live in harmony with all its creatures.

  It wasn’t the coming of the white man that spoiled all that, Smoke acknowledged. It was too many of them coming, too fast and too soon. Set in their own ways, and pig-head stubborn against change, they never considered the differences beyond the Big Muddy. Civilization ended at the Mississippi, and white folks stupidly refused to admit that.

  Sharing that all too human trait, most of the Indians would not make any effort to accommodate to white people’s ways. They preferred to fight a losing battle to preserve their way of life. Those tribes lost, too. Now only the Apaches and a passel of Sioux and Cheyenne remained any sort of threat to the tens of thousands of white men overwhelming the vast frontier. Smoke Jensen shook his head, saddened by his sour reflections. “There’s six more Rangers headed this way. I’m supposed to direct it all, and also get a man inside this consortium,” Jeff went on.

  “You wouldn’t be electin’ me to that position, would you, Jeff?”

  “No,” Jeff York shrugged. As tall as Smoke and nearly as broad, that gesture moved a lot of hard-muscled flesh. His big hands spread on the table, and thick fingers reached for a fish-eye whiskey glass. “I reckoned to do that myself.”

  “I recall the last time I knew you went undercover.”

  York smiled at Smoke’s remark. “We sure shot hell out of Rex Davidson’s Dead River, didn’t we.”

  “And you damned near got yourself killed, before you could get to the doin’,” Smoke reminded him.

  “Water under the bridge. We’re still here, both of us. Now, maybe I had oughta make myself useful,” York changed the subject. “First off, I’ll fill you in on who is who around Socorro.”

  “You Rangers keep an eye on folks from another territory?” Smoke asked.

  “Good practice to know the influential folks. Also the bad hombres and riffraff—all part of the job.”

  “Then tell me about them,” Smoke prompted.

  “First off, there’s the Culverts and the Mendozas. About the richest ranchers around. Old Myron Culvert’s son is mayor.” He went on to list the power structure of Socorro, New Mexico. Then Jeff’s voice changed, took on a tightness. “Then there’s some who are sort of on the edge. There’s an Englishman; folks say he’s a lord or something. They call him Sir Geoffrey Benton-Howell. He owns a couple of large ranches, two saloon
s, a women’s millinery store, and a number of houses he rents out to the Mexican workers. He’s partnered up with Miguel Selleres. Selleres looks like one of those bullfighter fellers. Neat and trim, a handsome dog. But we’ve heard word he’s got a mean streak.”

  “What about hard cases?”

  “Comin’ to that, Smoke. Big frog in the pond over that way is Quint Stalker. Supposed to be a gunfighter from Nevada.”

  “I’ve heard of him. He crossed my path one time. I should have killed him then.”

  “He’s for sure bad news, then?”

  “Bet on it, Jeff.”

  “All right. He’s got a gang of maybe thirty fast guns. There’s talk he takes his pay from Benton-Howell. If that’s so, we could be in heavy trouble. The lord and Selleres have been buying up parcels of land in New Mexico and Arizona for some time now. Most of them are out in the middle of nowhere. With the money, land, and the guns to back them up, they could become a power to reckon with. Only, why pick such remote spots?”

  Smoke recalled the article he had read about surveyors for the Southern Pacific. “Would those parcels be anywhere near the proposed right of way of the new Southern Pacific spur line?”

  It was as though a lamp had been lit behind the eyes of Jeff York. “They sure would.”

  “Water and coaling stops make great places for towns to be built,” Smoke pointed out. “The man or men who own one—or in this case, all of those—will get mighty rich.”

  “Where did you come up with that?”

  “I read about it in the Albuquerque newspaper,” Smoke told him. “I wonder now, if the railroad intends to cross land owned by the late Mr. Tucker?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it any. I think you waiting out more developments here might be a mistake, Smoke.”

  “I’m way ahead of you. I reckon we should all head back to Socorro and dig into the affairs of Sir Geoffrey Benton-Howell.”

  * * *

  “Maw, there’s someone movin’ around out there,” Jimmy Tucker informed his mother from the small, circular window in the loft.

  “Can you make out who?” Martha Tucker asked her son, as she climbed from the bed in the room off the central part of the house.

  “No, ma’am.” Jimmy had a cold chill down his spine, though, that told him the mysterious figures were up to no good. He had an itch, too, that made him want to snug the butt-plate of his little Stevens .30-30 up against his right shoulder.

  Martha crossed the living/dining area of her home in darkness, every inch familiar to her. She took up the Greener and slung a leather bag of shot shells over one shoulder. She reached a window just as a yellow-orange brightness flared in the barnyard. Jimmy also saw it, and the mop of snowy hair fairly rose straight up on his head.

  He propelled himself off the pallet that served as a bed and flew down the ladder, his bare feet flashing below the hem of his nightshirt. He, too, went unerringly to the gun-rack on the near wall. Martha saw the movement and gasped. She almost blurted out a refusal, then drew her lips into a thin line.

  “You be careful, son,” she urged him.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Jimmy took his rifle and a spare box of shells and went back to the loft. The window that overlooked the barnyard had been installed on a pivot, with latches to both sides. Jimmy undid them and turned the sash sideways. Slowly he eased the barrel of his Stevens out into the night. Then he remembered his father’s training. He stuck a small finger in the loading gate and felt the base of a cartridge. Satisfied, he slowly worked the action, to keep as quiet as he could.

  Three more torches burned now, and so far none of the nightriders had noticed anything happening in the house. At a muffled grunt of command, the torchbearers started toward the barn. By the light of the firebrands, Martha and Jimmy saw that they wore hoods that covered the entire head. When they reached a point fifty feet from the barn, the shotgun boomed, with the bright crack of the Stevens right behind.

  One arsonist yowled and pitched off his mount, one arm and shoulder peppered with No. 2 goose shot. Another grunted softly, swayed in his saddle a moment, then sank forward to lay along the neck of his horse. For some unexplainable reason, Jimmy Tucker found his breath awfully short and tears filled his eyes. He had to swallow hard to drive down the sour bile that rose in his throat.

  He took one deep gulp of breath and levered another round into the .30-30. Good thing he did, because a second later two of the hooded thugs turned toward the house and fired at the ground-floor windows. Jimmy shot one of them through the shoulder, and heard a thin wail answer his defense. From downstairs, he heard his maw’s shotgun belch in anger.

  “I’m hit! Oh, God, I’m hit, Smoke,” one of the outlaws sobbed.

  The use of that name had been a clever contribution by Quint Stalker. He figured it would direct any suspicion away from him, and particularly his bosses. Unseen by the hard cases in the yard, it had the intended effect, as Martha Tucker’s face hardened and she swiftly reloaded the shotgun.

  “Burn that barn, goddamnit! You boys, go after the corral. Turn out that livestock,” the leader said.

  “We’re bein’ shot at,” another thug complained.

  “I’ll take care of that,” the leader responded.

  He turned toward the house in time to catch the side edge of a column of shot in his left biceps and shoulder. Grunting, he fired his six-gun dry and wheeled away. Another man took his place and got blown out of the saddle for his determination.

  Flames began to flicker in the barn.

  Jimmy brushed more tears from his big, blue eyes and sighted in on another man with a torch. At the last moment, the outlaw darted forward and to his left, the. 30-30 round shattering his hand. It sent the blazing torch flying from his grasp to land harmlessly on the ground. A dozen young heifers bellowed in terror from the corral, then made thunder with their hooves as others of the nightriders swung open the gate and ran them off.

  “We’ve done enough for now. Let’s pull out,” was the command.

  While they raced off into the darkness, mother and son discharged several rounds each to give wings to their flight. Several ranch hands, who had been held impotent at gunpoint, rushed out and began hurling buckets of water on the blazing barn. But Martha knew it would do no good. A fine, beautiful building, destroyed by that bastard Smoke Jensen.

  Then a smile broke through her outrage. At least she’d gotten some pellets in him. He’d be bandaged up after this, and not so cocky anymore. Next time she saw him, she’d kill Smoke Jensen, she swore.

  9

  A hot, dry wind blew steadily across the mesa even at this early hour. A low pole frame sat well back from the rim, protected from the view of unwelcome eyes. It consisted of a lattice framework covered with the thick, green leaves of the agave, what the whites called the century plant. Already five of the lesser chiefs of the White Mountain Apaches had gathered. They waited in patient silence for the arrival of their principal chief, Cuchillo Negro—Black Knife.

  Long before their composure had been well tested, ten of the best warriors among the Tinde approached soundlessly from as many directions. At last, when the sun rode high overhead, Cuchillo Negro appeared. With him was Ho-tan, his most trusted advisor. He greeted the assembled council in the harsh gutturals of their language.

  “Why do the white men come into our land?” Broken Horn asked of the chief.

  Cuchillo Negro considered the question in silence a long time before he answered. “It is true that many Pend-dik-olye come to our mountains. Words spoken on the winds say that they covet what little they left to us.”

  “That could be true,” Ho-tan mused aloud. “It is the best of any of our agencies.”

  “The whites, who are always greedy, must think it is too good for us,” Spirit Walker observed with tart humor. “They seek to send us back to San Carlos.”

  Angry mutters rose over that. Black Knife silenced them with a stern look. The breeze fluttered the long, obsidian wings of his hair, held
in place by a calico headband. He rose to his moccasins from where he squatted on a blanket.

  “You are right to be angry, my brothers. But we must be cautious, while we go about finding out what is behind this.”

  “No,” Bright Lance, one of the senior warriors, growled. “I say we drive them off the agency. I say we follow those who survive and take the warpath to all whites.”

  “Like Geronimo?” Cuchillo Negro asked sarcastically.

  They all knew the fate of the famed and feared warrior chief. He was said to be rotting in a stinking, white man’s prison in a far-off land called Florida. Obsidian eyes cut from one face to another. Broken Horn rose to speak.

  “I am of a mind with Bright Lance. For us to meekly let the whites push us out, to be returned to San Carlos, is to die. Sickness will waste away our women and children, and we will catch the mosquito fever and die slaving in bean fields. I hate bean fields.”

  A loud murmur of agreement ran through the assembled council. Cuchillo Negro made a quick evaluation of the change in heart. “No. We cannot do that. I, too, hate bean fields, my old friend,” he admitted with warm humor in his voice. “We must not take the fight to the whites off the reservation. That will bring the pony soldiers as certainly as Father Sun follows the night.”

  Clever man that he had to be to have achieved his paramount position, Cuchillo Negro shifted gears and spoke in laudatory tones of conciliation. “Yet, our good brother, Bright Lance, has some wisdom in what he says. If we hope to keep in our beloved mountains, we must not anger the soldiers. We must not leave the agency to fight.” A beaming smile lighted the face of Cuchillo Negro, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “But Bright Lance speaks well when he says we must punish those who trespass on our land. For now, we must satisfy ourselves with that.”

  To his surprise and satisfaction, he had no trouble achieving a consensus. The war societies of the White Mountain Apaches would soon ride to take retribution on the interlopers.

  * * *