“Thank you kindly, Sheriff,” the tall one replied.
Together they crossed the boardwalk and mounted their horses, while Sheriff Reno watched in silence. They touched reins to necks and pointed the animals south. Face alight with quivering amusement, Sheriff Reno pointed out their error.
“West’s that way, fellers.”
“We know it,” the second-string hard case with the black gloves replied in a low, gruff voice.
They barely cleared the business district of Socorro, down in its canyonlike draw, before they fogged out of town in a lather. Behind them, Sheriff Jake Reno bent double with a torrent of laughter that rose from deep within. He kept on until the tears ran, then laughed even more . . . until he counted score and realized that that made a record of twenty-two for one day, and left him with that many less to stand between him and Smoke Jensen.
* * *
Senator Claypoole examined the certificate authorizing him to draw on the Philadelphia mint for the sum of twenty thousand dollars in gold bullion. Carefully he folded it and placed it reverently in an inside coat pocket. He gave a beatific smile to Geoffrey Benton-Howell, and patted over the spot where he had deposited the draft.
“You are a gentleman and a scholar, Sir Geoffrey. Likewise a man of his word. Nice, anonymous gold has always appealed to me. It can be used anywhere.”
Benton-Howell pushed back his castored desk chair and lit a fat cigar. The rich aroma of a Havana Corona-Corona filled the study at the B-Bar-H. “I daresay, if you fail to use your usual, impeccable, diplomatic skill in this, you might have need of somewhere else to spend that.”
“I know. My colleagues and I shall invent some sort of reason why that land has to be separated from the reservation. Heaven forbid that we ever mention gold being found there. Too many others would want a piece of the pie, and spoil your project all together.”
“You understand only too well, Chester. Now, then, I suggest a small tot of brandy to seal the bargain, and then I have others to see.”
“Certainly.”
Ten minutes later, Chester Claypoole had departed, and the leather chair opposite Benton-Howell had been occupied by His Honor, Judge Henry Thackery of the Federal District Court for the Territory of Arizona. His Honor didn’t seem the least bit pleased. A heavy scowl furrowed his high, shiny forehead.
“You’ve handled this Smoke Jensen affair miserably, Geoff,” he snapped, accustomed to being the ranking person in any gathering.
“I will admit to having erred slightly in regard to the security of my ranch headquarters,” Benton-Howell answered with some asperity.
“It’s a great deal more than that, Geoff. If it ever comes out that your man, Quint Stalker, arranged the scene of the crime to indicate the guilt of Smoke Jensen, you may find yourself seeking the life of a grandee down in Mexico, or even South America. Or worse still, standing on the gallows in Santa Fe. I certainly do not intend to be there beside you.”
Benton-Howell fought to recover some of his sense of well-being. “And you shall not be, my friend. Judge, everything is arranged as you asked. Seven thousand, five hundred in gold coin, mostly fifties and twenties. It is right there in my safe. A like amount to be paid, whenever you are called upon to hear any challenge to our claim of the White Mountain reservation land.”
Judge Thackery pondered a moment, pushed thin lips in and out to aid his musing. “That’s satisfactory. However, Geoff, I must caution you. Smoke Jensen has to be dealt with swiftly and finally . . . or the consequences will fall on you.”
* * *
Jeff York and Walt Reardon rode into Socorro with Smoke Jensen. They had come for supplies for the Tucker ranch. Martha’s idea of hiding in plain sight seemed to have worked so far. Recently, Smoke began chafing at the inactivity, and expressed a willingness to test how anonymous he had become. Walt halted the buckboard at the rear loading dock of the general mercantile, and dismounted.
“Jeff and I are going to amble over and visit with Mort Plummer at the Hang Dog, while the order is filled.”
“Fine with me. I’ll meet you there when it’s loaded,” Smoke replied.
“We’ll be waitin’, Kirby,” Jeff drawled, a light of mischief in his eyes.
Being a purloined letter did not include speaking Smoke’s name in public. Jeff had wormed Smoke’s given name out of him for just such events as this. From the pained expression on the face of the gunfighter, Jeff gathered that Kirby was not Smoke’s favorite handle. Walt untied his saddle horse from the tailgate of the wagon, and stepped into a stirrup. Together, he and Jeff rode to the mouth of the alley and turned left on the main street.
Business was sparse in the saloon at this early hour. Only a handful of barflies lined the mahogany, shaky hands grasping the first eye-opener of the day. Walt and Jeff ordered beers and settled at a table near the banked and cold potbelly stove. Walt started a hand of patience.
“You ever play two-handed pitch?” he asked Jeff.
“Yeah. About as exciting as watching grass grow.”
“Now, I don’t know about that,” Walt defended the game. “If it’s four-point, a feller’s got a whole lot of guessin’ to do to figure out what his opponent is holdin’.”
“For me, I like to have all the cards out. Seven players is my sort of game.”
“What about that fancy game all the hoity-toity Eastern dudes play—whist?”
“Not for me,” Jeff declined. “I’m a five-card-stud man myself.”
Walt chuckled. “Now yer talkin’. I ain’t had a good hand of poker for nigh onto six months. Nobody on the Sugarloaf will play with me anymore.”
“You win too much?”
“You got it, Jeff. And honest, too. No dealing seconds or off the bottom, either. Never stacked a deck in my life.”
Two young wranglers stomped into the saloon. They turned to the bar at once, and did not take notice of the pair in conversation at the table. Jeff York had a good look at them, though. He grew visibly tense and sat quite still.
When they had sipped off their first shots and chased them with beer, the tall, lanky blond turned from the bar and peered into the shadowed corner that contained Jeff York and Walt Reardon. His face took on an expression of extreme distaste.
“I’ll be goll-damned, Sully. It’s that no-account Ranger from back home.”
“You’re seein’ things, Rip. We’s in New Mexico now.”
“Nawh, I’m right. Turn around an’ see for yourself. I know an asshole, when I see one.”
Walt Reardon cut his eyes to Jeff York’s muscle-tightened face. Jeff knows this pair, that’s a fact, he reasoned. This could get deadly in about a split second. He scooted back his chair, came to his boots, and started for the rear.
“Got to hit the outhouse,” he announced to Jeff, but cut his eyes toward the location of the general store. Jeff nodded.
“Hey, Rip, you’re right,” Sully declared as he turned to look Jeff’s way. “It’s the same lawdog that locked us away in Yuma prison for three years. Like to have kilt me, heavin’ all them big rocks onto the levee. Bit far from your stompin’ grounds, ain’tcha, Ranger?”
“You’re making a mistake, Sullivan,” Jeff grated out.
“Nope. Way I sees it, it’s you’ve made a big mistake. They’s two of us . . . and this time our backs ain’t turned.”
Jeff rose slowly, shook his head in sad recollection. “Never could abide a liar, Sully. You two were facing me that day in Tombstone. Didn’t either one of you clear leather before I had you cold. I did it then, I can do it now.”
“You’ve got older now, slower, Sergeant York.”
“No. It’s Captain now, and I’m not getting older... only better.”
Two more second-rate fast guns stepped through the batwings and took in the action. “Sully, Rip, you got some fun lined up?” the chubby one asked.
“That we have, Pete. Just funnin’ with an old acquaintance from Arizona. Ain’t that right, Ranger York?”
“Can w
e get a piece of him, too, Sully?” the skinny teen next to Pete asked eagerly.
“Sorry, Lenny. When I get through, I don’t reckon there’ll be enough left to go around,” Sully said in refusing the offer, a sneer aimed at Jeff York.
“You’re forgetting the Ranger here has a friend along,” Mort Plummer said from behind the bar. He hoped to delay the inevitable. To at least get the killing started out in the street, not in his bar.
“He run out at the git-go. Plumb yellow,” Sully brayed.
“I don’t think so,” the bar owner countered. “I sort of recognize him from a while back. Never asked him personal, understand? But I figger him to be Walt Reardon, the gunfighter from Montana.”
“No wonder he ran. I hear he lost his belly a long while ago.”
“Not so’s you’d notice,” Walt Reardon announced, as he pushed his way between Pete and Lenny. He was followed a second later by Smoke Jensen.
“I’m gonna go get the rest,” Lenny declared, as he moved his boots quickly through the door.
Mort Plummer chose that moment to avoid damage to his property. “Get out. The bar’s closed.”
Sully turned back to him. “I don’t think so. Pour me another shot, and set up the boys, too, when they come.”
“Get out of my saloon.”
“You pushin’ for a bullet all your own, barkeep?”
Mort Plummer tried to stare Sully down, but it was Smoke Jensen who answered. “You’ve got a nasty mouth. Too bad you don’t have a brain to go with it.”
Two of the town drunks, who blearily recognized Smoke Jensen from the day of the lynch mob, beat a hasty retreat. One literally dived through the space below the spring-hinged batwings. He collided with the legs of five proddy outlaw trash. Lenny led the way as they entered. Mort Plummer had gone white with fear. The hard case quintet spread out and faced off against three coldly professional guns. Eight to three. Pretty good odds, the way Sully figured it.
“You boys have no part of this,” Jeff told the newcomers. “Walk out now, and no harm will come of it.”
Sully’s eyes never left Jeff. “You boys have a drink on me, then I’ll open this dance.”
“No. I will,” Smoke Jensen contradicted. Smoke’s .44 leaped into his hand, leveled at Sully’s belt buckle, before the wannabe gunhawk’s hand could even reach his. Smoke forced a sneer to his lips. “You’re too easy.”
The humiliation of having been tossed back, like an undersized fish, pushed Sully to unwise desperation. He foolishly completed his draw.
“Goddamn ya, I’ll kill ya all.”
Smoke Jensen didn’t even bother with him. Jeff York had iron in motion, and completed the life of the petty outlaw with a round to the heart. Sullivan never even fired a shot. Three of the gang of outlaws turned bounty hunters had their own six-guns in play. Smoke shot one of them in the upper right chest, and put another down with a .44 slug in the thigh.
When that one went down, three of the remaining shooters pounded boots on the floor in an effort to widen the space between them all. Walt Reardon tracked one, and took him off his boots with a bullet in the side. Jeff accounted for another. But the third had disappeared. Sudden motion behind Smoke Jensen’s back ripped a warning from Mort Plummer, who had ducked below the thick front of his bar and had seen the reflection in the mirror.
“Look out, Smoke!”
“Smoke Jensen!” Pete and Rip yelled at the same time.
“Oh, my God! I give up,” Lenny wailed. “Don’t shoot me, Mr. Jensen, please. Ranger,” he appealed to Jeff, “I give up.” He raised his arms skyward, the Smith American dangling from one finger by the trigger guard.
“Yeller belly,” Rip growled at Lenny as he swung his six-gun on Smoke Jensen. “Kiss your butt good—”
Smoke Jensen drove the last word back down Rip’s throat with a sizzling .44 slug. Mort Plummer moaned in anguish. Glass exploded outward in a musical shower from one of the paint-decorated front windows, as two of the remaining hard cases dived through it to escape certain death.
Pete found himself alone, facing the guns of Smoke Jensen, Jeff York, and Walt Reardon. Pete’s momma had always considered him a bright little boy. He proved her right when his Colt thudded in the sawdust that covered the plank floor. He raised trembling hands above his head.
“All righty, I call it quits. After all, Sully said we was only funnin’ with y’all.”
Smoke cut his eyes to Jeff. “Do you want him, or shall I?”
“My pleasure,” Jeff York announced as he reholstered his. 45 Colt.
He took a pair of thin, pigskin leather gloves from his hip pocket and slid them on his hands, his eyes never off of Pete for a second. Slowly he advanced on the frightened two-bit gunhawk.
“Eight to three. Is that the way you boys usually play it? Now it’s just one-on-one,” Jeff taunted. “You got a choice. You can pick up that gun on the floor and try me . . . or you can use your fists.”
“I ain’t got no quarrel with you, Ranger. Ain’t no fight in me,” Pete pleaded.
“No backbone, either,” Jeff retorted. “Do something, even if it’s wrong. I’m getting tired of waiting.”
Pete’s eyes widened suddenly, then swiftly narrowed. He lunged at Jeff with a knife that seemed to spring from behind his back. Jeff popped Pete solidly in the mouth. Lips mashed and split, Pete’s face sprayed blood in a rosy halo.
Jeff sidestepped the blade and grabbed the wrist and upper arm of the knife hand. He brought it down, as he quickly raised a knee. The elbow broke with an audible pop. Pete went down, to howl his agony in a fetal position in the spit-and-beer-stained sawdust. Jeff silenced him with a solid kick to the head.
“Sneaky bastard, wasn’t he?” Jeff rhetorically asked the silent room.
“The supplies are loaded,” Smoke Jensen said dryly.
“Then I suppose we’re through in town,” Jeff said in an equal tone.
“You weren’t never here, Mr. Jensen,” Mort Plummer swore from behind his bar. “Wouldn’t do to confuse our good sheriff as to who shot up my place.”
“Take whatever you can find in their jeans to cover your loss,” Smoke suggested.
“Right. And I’ve never seen you in my borned days. Good luck.”
“We’ll need that,” Smoke advised him. “Used up a bit here today.”
17
He didn’t like going to Arizona to take charge of the turnover of the White Mountain land. He felt even worse when the lacquered carriage he rode in jolted to an unexpected halt.
“Woah up, Mabel, woah, Henry, hold in,” the driver crooned to his team. “What the hell do we have here?” he asked next.
“Yes,” Miguel Selleres called from the interior of the coach. “What do we have? Why did you stop out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“It’s—it’s . . . I think it’s Quint Stalker and some of his boys.”
“They are supposed to be in Arizona,” Selleres shot back.
“Well, we’re here,” spoke the familiar voice of Quint Stalker, noticeably weakened.
Selleres poked a head out of the curtained window. Four men, without horses, all wounded, all dirty and powder-grimed, stood at the side of the road. Astonishment painted Selleres’s face. He had never seen the proud, gamecock Stalker so bedraggled. “How did this happen?” Selleres demanded. “Why are you not in Arizona?”
“We were headed there,” Stalker related glumly. “Those damned Apaches waited around and hit us a second time. Killed all but us four. And we’re all wearin’ fresh wounds.”
“You have had a hard time. There are some tanques not far ahead. Climb on the top and we’ll ride there. After you’ve cleaned up, you can ride inside with me,” Selleres told them grandly.
“Well, thanks so damned much, Señor Selleres,” the aching Quint Stalker replied sarcastically. “Only we ain’t gonna go back out there. No way, nohow.”
“Oh, I disagree, Señor Stalker.”
His patience tried beyond any semblance of
his usual cool nature, Miguel Selleres reached under his coat and drew out a Mendoza copy of the .45 Colt Peacemaker. Slowly he racked back the hammer, as he leveled the weapon on the tip of Quint Stalker’s nose. “You will go back to that Apache reservation with me, or I will shoot you down for the cowardly dog you are.”
Nervously, Quint cut his eyes to his three remaining men. Slowly he shrugged and outstretched both hands, palms up. “Who can argue with such logic?”
* * *
Martha Tucker looked at the mound of supplies being carted into the kitchen and the bunkhouse with eyes that shined. The ranch had run dangerously low of nearly everything in the three weeks since her husband’s murder. She clapped her hands in delight, and made much of the small, tin cylinder cans of cinnamon, ground cloves, allspice, and black pepper.
“Now I can bake pies again! What would you like?” That she directed to Smoke Jensen.
“Anything would be fine. I’m pleased you approve of my shopping. It’s not often I do such domestic chores.”
“And I’ll bet your Sally doesn’t have to send along a list,” Martha praised him delightedly.
Color rose in the cheeks of Smoke Jensen. “No, Mrs. Tucker, but then, Sally usually comes along with me. Watchin’ her is how I learned to pick the best.”
They had ambled off during this exchange. Horizontal purple bars filled the western quarter of the sky, layered with pink, orange, and pale blue. At this altitude, stars already twinkled faintly in the east. Martha Tucker led the way to a circular bench, built around the bole of a huge, old cottonwood. There she turned to face Smoke Jensen.
“I feel that Mr. Jensen and Mrs. Tucker are rather stiff after so much time. May I call you Smoke?”
“If you wish, Martha.” Smoke produced a rueful grin. “You know, it’s funny, but I’ve been thinking of you by your given name for several days now.”
They sat, and each resisted the urge to take the other by the hand. “I don’t wish to seem prying, but could you tell me about your life before now,” Martha urged.
Power of the Mountain Man Page 16
