A stray slug shattered a decanter and sent shards of thick crystal shrapnel flying. They in turn broke half a dozen cheaper bottles, and inundated the bartender’s apron with bourbon, rye, and tequila. Taking a bath in booze came with the territory also, Diego Sanchez knew from experience. ¡Por Dios! His Conchita would make him sleep in the hammock between the palo verdes again.
Suddenly it got eerily silent in the saloon. Not a boot sole scraped the floor. No one could be heard breathing. No glass shards tinkled. Even the echoes of gunshots had died out. Slowly, Diego Sanchez sucked in air. He raised himself slowly until his eyeballs came above the top of the bar. Four men faced one another from opposite ends of the mahogany. Two he knew: Logan and Sloane, gunfighter trash that had drifted into town three days ago. The other pair wore badges, a U.S. Marshal and an Arizona Ranger.
“It’s your choice,” the Marshal said tightly.
Jesus, Maria y Jóse, he was a big one. Diego moved back from the bar, until he pressed against the shelf behind.
“You ran that thing dry,” Logan drawled nastily. “Now I’m gonna ventilate that tin star of yours.”
“You know, I think you’re right,” Smoke Jensen told him, as he threw the .44 in the air and instantly snatched the second one from its left-hand holster. The hammer dropped on the primer before Logan could react and yank his trigger. Smoke caught the flying six-gun left-handed, at the same moment his bullet punched a hole through Logan’s chest. The gun in the Ranger’s hand blasted a second later and downed his man.
“Jesus, Smoke, I didn’t think anyone could do that,” Jeff York said in awed tones.
Smoke? Smoke Jensen? Diego Sanchez sucked in air and crossed himself. Then he slowly lowered his head below the bar. As though spoken from far away, his words reached the ears of Smoke Jensen.
“Vereso nada, Señor Jensen.”
“He said, ‘I saw nothing,’” Jeff translated.
“Yeah. I caught that. I think we’re through here, Jeff.” Then, with a chuckle, “Adios, Señor cantinero.”
“Conosco nada, nada,” was the weak reply.
* * *
Diego Sanchez might have been willing to see and know nothing, but that didn’t go for the swarm of hard cases and two-bit gunslingers who thronged the streets of town. They damn well wanted to know what was going on in the Cantina La Merced. They didn’t like what they found when the batwings swung outward. Smoke Jensen and Jeff York had reloaded, and met the gathered gunslicks with six-guns roaring.
“This town is out of bounds for your kind from this minute on,” Jeff York bellowed over the sound of gunmen panicking. Half a dozen of them were foolhardy enough to resist. Two of them died instantly. One of them shot the hat off Smoke Jensen’s head and bought an early grave for his efforts.
“On the balcony over there, Smoke,” Jeff shouted.
Smoke pivoted to his left and sent another wannabe gunfighter off to hell. The gunman staggered forward and tripped over the railing. He did a perfect roll in the air on the way down. The other lawmen had spread out along the main street, and began herding surprised hard cases off benches and out of saloons, prodding them toward the jail. By that time, Jeff had drilled a second resister in the shoulder.
“Jeff, drop!” Smoke shouted the warning as a gunhand popped up from behind a rail barrel and aimed at Jeff York’s back.
Jeff went down, and the bullet fanned air where he had been standing. A fraction of a second later, a .44 slug from Smoke Jensen’s iron flattened the back-shooter against the wall of the Mercy Cantina. The corpse left a long, red smear down the whitewashed stucco, as he slumped beside a cactus in a large terracotta pot.
Hot lead cracked through the air around Smoke then. He moved swiftly across the street, charging the shooter instead of fleeing. The mountain man’s six-gun bucked one. The gunslinger stiffened, then his knees buckled. Smoke had already turned away.
None of the original, six foolish gunslingers remained on their feet. Smoke cut his eyes to Jeff and nodded down the block to where the volume of fire had increased noticeably. “I think Tallpockets and the boys could use some help,” Smoke suggested.
“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. “Anytime 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 while 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.”
20
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 frightened. 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 we
ll 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.
Power of the Mountain Man Page 19
