Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  More than likely, Smoke considered as he headed his big roan back to the ranch headquarters. Ty Hardy cut his trail some ten minutes later.

  “What did you find?” Hardy asked Smoke.

  “From the look on your face, the same as you.”

  Hardy grunted. “A whole lot of nothin’.”

  “Too much time has gone by. We can’t sift any strange tracks from those of the hands. I’ve been hearin’ about a lot of little incidents around the valley from Mar—ah—Miz Tucker. One of them is a trading post owner who got himself killed back a couple of weeks. From what I figure, it happened the same day I got away from that lynch mob. I know this might be just chasin’ another whirlwind, but I’d like you to ride over that way and find out what you can.”

  The younger man nodded. “I can do that, Smoke. What was the man’s name, and where do I find this trading post?” “Ezekial Dillon. He ran his outpost at the far side of the valley, north and east of Socorro.”

  “I’ll set off first thing in the morning.”

  When they returned to the barnyard, Jimmy Tucker met them with an enthusiastic welcome. “Mom says we got fried chicken, smashed taters an’ gravy, an’ cole slaw for supper. An’ a pie. She also said that if it holds off hot like this after, Tommy an’ me can go down to the crick for a swim. You want to come along?”

  Grinning in recollection of his own sons’ boyish exuberance, Smoke Jensen declined. Still close enough in age to be vulnerable to the call of such youthful enticements, Ty Hardy agreed to accompany the boys.

  After a sumptuous spread of savory food, Smoke Jensen took his last cup of coffee out onto the porch and lit up a cigar. Pale, blue-white spirals rose from the glowing tip. The rich tobacco perfumed the air. Sniffing appreciatively, Martha Tucker joined him a short while later.

  “My father smoked cigars. I always liked the aroma. I suppose that’s one reason I married a cigar smoker,” she informed Smoke in an unexpected burst of candor. “Have you been married long, Mr. Jensen?”

  Smoke flushed slightly. “Many years,” he answered. “How’d you reckon I was a married man?”

  Martha did not need to think about her answer. “The way you are with the children; affectionate, but not overbearing. Also, I might add, the remarkable restraint you show in my presence.” She blushed furiously.

  Half-amused, and uncomfortably aware of her alluring presence, Smoke answered with some evasion. “Not long ago you believed I had murdered your husband. But, I’ll thank you for considering a more noble motive. Yes, Sally has been my treasure for most of my grown life. We have a daughter of marrying age and three younger.”

  “You must miss them?”

  “I do. This is a far piece from the High Lonesome,” Smoke admitted.

  “The High—? Oh, I understand,” Martha went on quickly. “Your hands said your ranch was in the heart of the Rockies. It must be beautiful. So much variety, compared to the desert sameness everywhere one looks around here.”

  “You’re right about that.” Smoke took a long draw on the dark brown tobacco roll.

  For all her determination, and her grief, Martha could not help herself, she realized. She found herself strongly attracted to the big, handsome, soft-spoken man from the mountains. He’s as closemouthed as he is strong, she mused, then put her thoughts to words.

  “You’re not very talkative, Mr. Jensen. Don’t take that as a criticism. What I mean is, that you may not say a lot, but your words are filled with meaning. It takes a wise man to conduct himself like that.”

  “I’m flattered,” Smoke said, finishing his coffee. He came to his boots. “I’ll be headin’ to the bunkhouse now. Ty’s headin’ out early in the morning, and I want a few words with him before he turns in. Provided, of course, your boys don’t drown him down there at the creek.”

  Martha laughed with an ease that surprised her. “Goodnight, Mr. Jensen.”

  * * *

  By nightfall, liquor had loosened plenty of tongues in the saloons of Socorro. Jeff York and Walt Reardon had each obtained several independent confirmations of the big fiesta to be held at the B-Bar-H. When they met in the Comidas La Jolla for a meal of carne con chili verde, they quickly discovered this.

  “I’d say Smoke would be mighty interested,” Walt opined after they had exchanged information.

  “What I think he’d be most likely to want to know, is what’s behind the festivities. I’m going to try to wangle you and me an invitation.”

  “You think you can do it?” Walt sounded doubtful.

  “Should be easy. A rich, Arizona cattleman, interested in buying the seed bull I saw advertised at the feed mill. Inquiries to be addressed to Mr. Geoffrey Benton-Howell, of the B-Bar-H.”

  Walt Reardon gave him a blank look. “I’ll be damned. I missed that one entire.”

  Jeff York gave him a friendly chuckle. “You’ve got to have a lawman’s eye for small details, Walt. We’d best head for the Tucker place and fill in Smoke. Then I’ll outfit myself in expensive clothes, do up a flash-roll of currency, and head for the office of Benton-Howell. Might be we’ll find out what’s behind all this without any effort at all.”

  * * *

  Late the next afternoon, Geoffrey Benton-Howell effusively welcomed Steven J. York, of Flagstaff, Arizona, into his office. He ushered his visitor to a plush chair beside the huge cherrywood desk, and crossed to a sideboard where he poured brandy for two.

  “This is the first personal inquiry I’ve received from such a distance,” the Englishman informed Jeff in dulcet tones. “May I ask what excited you sufficiently about Herefordshire Grand Expositor to pay me this visit?”

  Jeff York leaned back in the chair with a comfortable slouch, conveying his ease to an attentive Geoffrey Benton-Howell. “I know it’s common practice, and I don’t want you to take offense,” he drawled. “But I’ve learned that in horse trading and cattle buying, it’s best not to purchase sight unseen.” He chuckled softly and sipped the brandy to soften the implication of distrust.

  “A wise man, indeed,” Benton-Howell responded as he clapped one big hand on a thigh. “Of course, before any transaction was completed, I would urge the buyer to make a personal inspection of Expositor. He’s a fine Hereford bull, and I’m justifiably proud of him.”

  He studied his visitor, while the Arizona cattleman framed a response. Geoffrey saw a well-dressed man, turned out in dustless boots. A hand-tooled, concho-decorated cartridge belt, of Mexican origin no doubt, fitted snugly around a lean waist. A shaft of magenta sunlight put a soft glow to well-cared-for gun metal in the leather pocket. The suit had a flavor of Mexico in its cut, sort of the haciendado style favored by Miguel Selleres. The flat-crowned Cordovan sombrero clinched it for Benton-Howell. He bought the man as genuine.

  “I’ve heard good things about crossing these new, shorthorn, polled Herefords with range cattle. Improves the stock remarkably,” Jeff spieled off from memory of conversations with the more progressive ranchers in Arizona Territory.

  “More meat, more pounds, with less size. They’re all the rage back East.”

  “Not many willin’ to take the risk out here, I’ll bet.”

  Benton-Howell nodded agreeably. “Not so far. Tunstil tried it, and some say that’s what got him in the Lincoln County War. Some people are slow to accept any change. Take barbed wire.”

  Jeff made the expected nasty face at mention of the often lethal barriers. That encouraged Benton-Howell to risk planting yet another false lead to Smoke Jensen. “We had a fellow around here who loudly advocated the use of barbed wire. Said all the small Mexican farmers around Socorro needed it, to keep range cattle out of their fields. There’s some say that’s why a gunfighter named Smoke Jensen was hired to get rid of him.”

  “Smoke . . . Jensen? I’ve heard of him. Did this happen recently?”

  “Only a couple of weeks ago. Rancher’s name was Lawrence Tucker. He was thrown out of the Cattlemen’s Association because of his stand on barbed wire.” Benton-Ho
well chuckled lightly and took Jeff’s glass for a refill. “Might be someone took the whole matter a bit more personally than others. For my own part, I say live and let live. God knows there’s plenty of rocks around here. If the Mexicans want to protect their fields, let them busy themselves building stone walls. They’ve worked well enough in jolly old England, I daresay.”

  “Quite, ” Jeff responded, well aware of the irony of his sally. “Aah, thank you,” he remarked on the excellent brandy handed to him. “Now, when can I get to examine Expositor?”

  “How long did you intend to stay in Socorro?” Benton-Howell inquired.

  “Two or three days. As long as it took to see this championship animal of yours.”

  Benton-Howell thought for a long moment. “I’m having a rather gala soirée at the ranch two days hence. I would be honored, if you would attend. You can see Expositor, and I can introduce you to some gentlemen who might be of some benefit to you over in Arizona.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ve always liked nice parties—enjoy good grub, good whiskey, and interesting company.” Jeff was enjoying himself, playing the role to the hilt.

  “You’re staying at the hotel?” At Jeff’s nod, Benton-Howell went on. “I’ll have one of my hands meet you there tomorrow, escort you to the ranch.”

  “Much obliged, Mr. Benton-Howell. It’s sure nice doin’ business with a gentleman like yourself.” Jeff finished off the brandy and rose to his boots to leave. “Oh, I have my foreman along with me. He’s a better judge of prime cattle than I am. Would you mind, if I bring him along?”

  “Oh, not at all. He’ll be most welcome. Until tomorrow, then, Mr. York?”

  “Hasta la vista.”

  Down on the street, as Jeff York strode away from the brick bank building, he congratulated himself on catching a mighty big fish. That, or he’d gotten himself into one damn dangerous situation.

  * * *

  Out at the Tucker ranch, Smoke Jensen made his own plans for the day of Benton-Howell’s big fiesta. He wanted to be on hand to inspect the layout firsthand. To do so, he would have to scout the place. And that night seemed ideally suited to his needs. He asked Martha Tucker for directions and rode out an hour before sundown.

  While midnight beckoned with stygian darkness, Smoke Jensen crested a piñon-studded ridge and started down the back slope. Only the scant, frosty light of stars illuminated his surroundings. Well and good, Smoke thought to himself. If Benton-Howell had night riders posted, he had a better chance of eluding them this night. What he had in mind could all go up in a flash, if some nighthawk stumbled on him prematurely.

  Might be he was overcautious, Smoke decided, as he descended the eastern grade that formed the bowl valley which housed the B-Bar-H. The thicket of trees grew denser, the further he drifted toward the distant ranch house. He wanted to check out sites within long-rifle range of the area where the fiesta would be held, in the event he needed to make use of them.

  Smoke had used this tactic with telling effect in earlier confrontations with some of the evil trash that infested the frontier. Not one to discard a useful strategy, he always considered employing it when presented the opportunity. Preacher had seen to it that a much younger Smoke Jensen had learned to be an effective fighter, even when entirely alone. Yet, he didn’t like being out of contact with Jeff York. No idea what might develop there. He had to live with it, though.

  The widespread nature of this sinister business made it necessary to go at it from more than one direction at a time. He recalled situations in the past when it would have been convenient to be able to divide himself in two or even three parts. A sudden flare of yellow light alerted Smoke that Benton-Howell had put out sentries.

  Not very smart ones, at that. The flare of a match not only gave away the position of a guard, but destroyed his night vision long enough for him to lose his hair, if there were Indians about. One of the first lessons Preacher had taught him, Smoke thought grimly. Now he would have to find out how many there might be, and where.

  Smoke combined his missions. He worked his way with great caution around the crescent face of the ridge through the long hours of early morning. A thin line of gray brightened the eastern horizon when he finished scouting the ranch. Another hour on foot took him away from the area far enough so that he could risk mounting and riding off toward the Tucker spread.

  It would take some doing, but he could spoil Benton-Howell’s little party right easily. “And that’s the way I like it,” Smoke said aloud to himself.

  * * *

  “Viejo Dillon come to these mountains long time ago,” the wrinkle-faced, Tuwa grandfather related to Ty Hardy, both men seated outside his summer brush lodge.

  “I hear he was killed recently,” Ty prodded.

  A curt nod answered him. The old man looked off a moment, then spoke in his lilting manner. “It’s supposed to look like a thief took things. But this one’s eyes saw the men who came.”

  “Do you know them?” Ty hadn’t thought of getting this much so fast.

  “Oh, yes. Very bad men—malos hombres. The big one . . . their chief... this one has seen him before. He is called Stalker.”

  Ty’s eyes widened, and he fought to keep his expression calm. “You are sure of this? Did you tell the law about it?”

  The Tuwa shrugged. “Why do this? This Stalker and the Jefe Reno are like two beans in a pod, this one is thinking.”

  How many other unexposed secrets lay buried in this old gray head? And those of others like him. Ty had learned much about respect for Indians from Smoke Jensen. And, Ty considered, the old man sure had the sheriff down right.

  “Thank you, Hears Wind. I will hold your words close to me.”

  “You tell the Jefe Reno?” Anxiety lighted the obsidian eyes.

  “I don’t think so. I work for another man. Smoke Jensen.”

  Hear Wind’s expression changed to one of pleasure. “His name is known to our people. That one walks tall with honor. You are fortunate to be one of his warriors. Go with the sun at your back.”

  Ty Hardy left with the certain knowledge that he had learned something important, and also that he had been honored simply for being one of Smoke Jensen’s hands. Powerful medicine, as the Injuns said.

  14

  Still done up as a wealthy rancher, Jeff York, along with Walt Reardon, arrived at the B-Bar-H at mid-afternoon the next day. Not a lot of originality in that name, Jeff thought for the tenth time since discovering the notice of sale in the feed mill office. He was greeted by Geoffrey Benton-Howell in person; he had come out the day of their meeting to oversee final preparations.

  “Glad you came,” the Englishman remarked abruptly. “I’ll introduce you to some of the other guests who journeyed out early. Then I’ll show you Expositor.”

  “That’s my main interest,” Jeff replied.

  On a wide, flagstone veranda, several portly men, dressed in the typical garb of Washington politicians, lounged in large wicker chairs. All had drinks in their hands, and it was obvious to Jeff York that these were not their first for the day.

  Benton-Howell ushered Jeff and Walt from one to the next, making acquaintances. Uniformly, their handshakes were weak, soft, and insincere. Not a one of them has done a day’s work in his life, thought the Arizona Ranger. A white-jacketed servant shoved a cut crystal glass of bourbon into Jeff’s hand, and he took an obligatory pull.

  After their first drinks had been drained, Walt acknowledged a signal from Jeff and excused himself. He wanted a good look around the ranch. Most of the next half-hour’s conversation centered around competing accounts of the importance of each man to the smooth functioning of the federal government. Jeff York endured it with less than complete patience. He felt genuine relief and expectation, when Benton-Howell announced that he intended to show off his prize stud bull.

  “What do you think of them?” the corrupt rancher asked, once he and Jeff were out of earshot of the guests.

  “They’re not long on sparklin
g conversation,” Jeff replied cautiously.

  “Boors, the lot of them. Boobies, too,” Benton-Howell snapped. “Although, quite necessary, if one is to operate unhindered in your territory or mine. Well, then, here we are,” he concluded, directing Jeff into a small barn that contained a single stall.

  Expositor had a slat-level back, his face, neck, and chest a creamy white mass of tight curly hair. The rest of him, except for the tip of his tail, was a dark red-brown with similar woolly appearance. The bull had one slab side turned toward them, and he regarded them over a front shoulder with a big, brown eye. Although a lawman, rather than a stockman, Jeff considered him to be a magnificent animal, and said so.

  “I thought you’d be impressed. He’s barely four years old, and he’s already topped over three hundred heifers and cows.”

  Jeff chuckled. “Wonder he isn’t worn down to a nubbin’.”

  Geoffrey Benton-Howell had been away from England, and on the frontier, long enough to understand. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with his equipment. Far from it. If I had a cow in season, I’d show you.”

  They talked of the animal’s performances for a while, then Jeff moved in close to look at the confirmation of the huge beast. “He’s certainly blocky,” Jeff observed.

  “That’s how you get the weight-to-size ratio to work out,” Benton-Howell advised. “The bloodline came originally from Herefordshire.” Benton-Howell pronounced the county name Hair-ford-sure. “They’ve revolutionized livestock raising back East. Even a man with a small farm can pasture thirty or forty head. Not like out here, where one needs a thousand acres for fifty head.”

  For a moment, Jeff began to doubt Benton-Howell’s involvement in the murder of Lawrence Tucker, or anything else not aboveboard. The man’s expert knowledge of animal husbandry, and his obvious rapt interest in it, argued that it must be his main concern. Yet, why the obvious allusions to bribing or otherwise obtaining a favorable connection with the slippery striped-trouser crowd? Jeff would have to wait and see if something important came out at the fiesta the next day.