Power of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  In that mad, swirling instant, what had been certain defeat for the Arizona Rangers turned into a promise of victory.

  * * *

  Boot heels thumped along the carpeted upstairs hall in reaction to the rattle of gunfire. Smoke Jensen watched the retreating backs of the hard cases, as they responded to the increased fighting outside. When all but two started down the wide staircase, Smoke Jensen stepped out of the room he had entered moments before and took stock.

  A pair of men stood at the door to each of two rooms. Guarding the bosses? Smoke pondered a moment. At the far end, one gunhand was mostly out the door of the balcony that fronted the establishment. Another waited his turn. That meant five guns against Smoke. Six in the worst case. An arrow thudded into the wooden panel of the balcony door with enough force to wrest it from the hand of the youthful outlaw. A moment later he went to his knees, hands clutched to the shaft of the projectile that protruded from his chest.

  Only five guns now. Considering who Smoke Jensen suspected had been confined behind those guarded portals, he could not simply leave well enough alone. When he opened up on the gunmen below, they would no doubt kill the hostages at once. He walked up to the Anglo pair guarding the center door.

  “Benton-Howell said for me to relieve you two. He needs more guns in the fight downstairs.”

  Suspicion shined in the eyes of the nearer outlaw. “How’d he tell you that with you up here?”

  “Don’t you know anything about this place? There’s a brass speaker from the desk connected to every room.” Smoke had noticed the device beside the door as he had exited, and took the chance that everyone was aware of them. “He just blew into it, and it whistled in my room. I answered and got told what to do.”

  “Yeah. I guess I did see them things. Looked like a pipe organ behind the counter.”

  “That’s the one. Now go on, before those damned Rangers get inside the building.”

  They turned away with a dubious look, then joined the third white man at the top of the stairs. “I ain’t gonna go out there. Damn Injuns have ridden in,” he told them. “I’ll go with you boys.”

  Once the three were out of sight, Smoke turned his attention to the two sombrero-wearing bandidos at the other door. He walked up to them, displaying a casual manner. A smile and his poor and rusty Spanish should help put them off guard, Smoke reckoned.

  “Oye, my Spanish she is not so good,” Smoke greeted in mixed language. “Your jefe, he says for me to tell you that they need more guns—más pistolas—downstairs. You are to go at once.”

  “Don Miguel ordered us to stay here, not to leave unless he told us,” the burlier of the pair protested in rapid-fire Spanish.

  “¿Como? You speak too fast for me.”

  “Not too fast for me,” a heavy voice rumbled from the head of the stairs.

  A sharp crack of a .44 round from his Merwin and Hulbert punctuated Quint Stalker’s statement. The bullet burned along the meaty portion of the small of Smoke Jensen’s back. Smoke sprang across the hallway, out of reach of the two Mexican bandits, and spun to face Stalker.

  “I see you got out of jail.”

  “Damn right, Jensen. You an’ me got a score to settle.”

  “Words are cheap. Let’s get to it,” Smoke grated, hand on the grip of his pistol.

  “I don’t think so. Ramon, Xavier, grab him.”

  For all the girth of Xavier, he moved like a startled cat. As his ham hands closed on the arm of Smoke Jensen, he left his ample belly open to ready attack. Smoke did not overlook it. He drove two hard, fast rights into the swell of gut before him. Xavier grunted and yanked Smoke toward him. By then, Ramon had Smoke’s other arm. Smirking, Quint Stalker advanced along the hall. The Merwin and Hulbert drooped indolently in his gunhand, but even with his victim held captive, he took no chances with Smoke Jensen.

  When he reached an arm’s length from Smoke, Stalker cocked a solid left and drove knuckles into Jensen’s face. “Hold him up,” Stalker commanded. Another punch to the cheek, and Smoke Jensen went slack in their grasp.

  Quint Stalker leered at the apparently dazed Smoke Jensen. “I’m gonna make this last, Jensen. Go real slow, give you a lot of pain . . . before I kill you.”

  Smoke gasped as he imperceptibly tightened his muscles, positioned now with his weight supported by the Mexican outlaws. His ears caught a distinct sound from outside. “You . . . may not... have time, Stalker. Those Apaches still want to get their hands on you.”

  The word “Apaches” galvanized Quint Stalker. He turned his attention away from his intended victim to listen to the war whoops that drifted through the open doorway. Then he saw the dying hard case with the arrow in his chest. Time to move, Smoke Jensen judged. Swiftly shifting his weight, Smoke drove the pointed toe of his boot into Stalker’s groin.

  A banshee shriek ripped from the throat of Quint Stalker. Following it came a wet, sucking sound, as the hurting outlaw leader fought to pull air into his body and stop the misery. He doubled over until his chin touched his knees. Before the Mexican bandits could react, Smoke kicked Stalker in the face. Then, his feet planted firmly on the carpet runner in the hall, Smoke Jensen flexed powerful muscles in his shoulders and slammed Ramon and Xavier together face to face.

  Their foreheads met with a klonk!, and Ramon went slack-legged to the floor. Quint Stalker lay twitching on the carpet strip. Smoke Jensen had no desire to trade punches with Quint Stalker, let alone the massive Xavier. He had his. 44 halfway out of the holster when Xavier spotted the motion and, still dazed by the ramming, groped for his Mendoza .45 copy. He freed it and fired too soon. The slug zipped between the legs of Smoke Jensen and ploughed into a floorboard. Vibration from the hammer blow partly revived Quint Stalker.

  He squinted and blinked his eyes to fuzzily see that Smoke Jensen had his Colt leveled. Smoke fired while Xavier tried desperately to cock his six-gun again. The slug slammed into Xavier’s hip; he staggered and finished cocking. Eyes tearing in pain, he sought to sight in on the insubstantial target of Smoke Jensen.

  Eyes fixed on Xavier, Smoke brought his pistol to bear and tripped the trigger. Ramon’s hand closed on Smoke’s ankle, and he yanked as the hammer fell. The .44 bullet went wide of its intended mark. With his attention now divided between the Mexican bandits, Smoke did not notice Stalker’s stealthy, crablike crawl away from the conflict.

  His strength rapidly waning, Xavier sent a round over Smoke’s left shoulder. Smoke Jensen had had enough of this. His next round shattered Ramon’s shoulder, and the grip on his leg released at once. He turned back to Xavier, as the pudgy Sonoran went white-faced and sagged back against the opposite wall. Internal bleeding had sapped him of all his strength. He slithered to a sitting position and sighed regretfully before he passed out.

  That’s when Quint Stalker regained reason enough to take a shot.

  * * *

  Quint Stalker’s bullet cracked past Smoke Jensen’s head close enough for the gunfighter to feel its hot breath. One thing he knew for certain: he did not want Stalker to reach the ground floor and bring the news of Smoke’s presence in the hotel. Far too many guns awaited him down there, and what little element of surprise remained was all Smoke had going for his plan to free the Tuckers. Quint Stalker had already negotiated the top three treads, his weight borne by the banister, over which the outlaw leader had draped himself heavily.

  A quick memory check told Smoke that he had emptied his right-hand gun. He holstered it and went for his second. 44. The time lapse got Stalker to the upper landing, where he paused, gasped, and looked upward. He was out of sight of Smoke Jensen and glad of it. Determined not to let Stalker get away, Smoke advanced down the hallway toward the head of the stairs.

  When he reached his goal, the wooden ball on top of the newel post exploded in a shower of splinters. Several stung and bit into Smoke’s cheeks. Ignoring them, he threw a quick shot down the stairwell. Hot lead brought forth a yelp of alarm, when it tugged at the shoulder piece of Stalk
er’s vest. At once, Smoke bounded down four steps.

  Stalker fired again and, with his strength returning, retreated downward before he could check the results. There were none, except for a hole in the plaster high over Smoke Jensen’s right shoulder. Smoke came after him at once. At the central landing, feet planted squarely on the level, Quint Stalker’s bullet caused Smoke Jensen to dive to one side to avoid a mortal wound.

  Crying out at this near-triumph, Stalker started off down the final flight of stairs. Smoke Jensen reached the platform seconds behind Quint Stalker. He steadied his arm and took aim. Stalker looked back, spun on a boot heel, and tried again to blast Smoke out of existence. Smoke Jensen fired first.

  Smoke’s slug took Quint in the chest, to the right of his sternum. The outlaw boss rose on tiptoe and a thin whine came through his lips. He tried to raise his gun barrel . . . and failed. Smoke’s shot hit in the center of the chest.

  Stalker teetered backward and cartwheeled down four treads. His body went slack, and he rolled the rest of the way to the bottom of the staircase. Smoke Jensen was already heading upward. He took the steps two at a time. Excited voices followed him.

  “Have the savages gotten in?” Benton-Howell’s English accent floated upward.

  “Someone has,” another voice answered, as he spotted the body of Quint Stalker.

  “Then go after them,” Benton-Howell commanded.

  Half a dozen hard cases started for the stairway. At the same moment, chunks of plaster showered into the room from the wall dividing the hotel from the dry goods store. Another crash drove the heavy metal base of a display rack through the lath. The barrels of rifles and shotguns followed.

  A few of the hired guns made instant response, only to be cut down in a hail of lead. Not bound by years of loyalty, the majority saw the inevitable end for their kind, and deserted the cause. They rushed out into the street to surrender, hope filling them that the Indians had ridden on to other depredations.

  There the Arizona Rangers began to disarm and handcuff the demoralized mob of shootists. Jeff York detached himself from his men and made for the hotel. Upstairs, Smoke Jensen caught a glimpse of a flat-crowned Cordovan sombrero disappearing down the back stairway. Suspecting defeat, he hurried to the first of the two rooms that had been guarded.

  He threw open the door . . . and found the stark cubicle empty.

  * * *

  “Selleres has them,” Smoke Jensen shouted to Jeff York, when the Arizona Ranger’s head topped the stairs. “He went down the back.”

  Jeff didn’t waste time asking if Smoke was sure. Smoke Jensen rarely made such a statement if he didn’t know for certain. Instead, Jeff strode rapidly to where Smoke stood at the top of the back staircase. As he did, Jeff passed two open doors, the rooms behind them gaping emptily.

  “We’re going after them?” Jeff asked.

  “Just you and me. I don’t want to frighten Selleres into killing any of them.”

  They started down, only to find the way blocked by three of Quint Stalker’s loyalest men: Vern Draper, Marv Fletcher, and Charlie Bascomb. Bascomb fired first. His bullet cut the air between Smoke and Jeff. Smoke got a slug into the leg of the young gunslinger, and sent him tumbling back down the stairs. That bought Smoke and Jeff half the flight, before a muzzle appeared around the corner of the hallway and sent a bullet winging upward.

  Hunkered down, Smoke and Jeff duck-walked uncomfortably down the next five treads. A six-gun blazed in their direction, and Smoke put a round through the wall. A soft grunt answered him. No more shots came, and they made it to the bottom. A quick look showed Charlie Bascomb sprawled on the floorboards of the rear hallway in a pool of blood. He wouldn’t be holding them up anymore.

  “Out back,” Smoke prompted.

  He made his way cautiously to the open back door. The moment Smoke Jensen’s head appeared around the jamb, Vern Draper and Marv Fletcher opened up. Smoke jerked back in time. The slugs whistled down the corridor. Smoke saw that Jeff had wisely flattened himself against the far wall, out of the line of fire.

  “We’ll lose too much time going around the long way,” Smoke figured aloud. “Nothing for it but to rush them.” At that moment he would have given anything for Walt Reardon’s 10 gauge L.C. Smith.

  Both he and Jeff took time to reload. Then, with a six-gun in each hand—something Preacher had told Smoke never, ever to do—he crouched low and went through the doorway, his matched pistols leading him. They blasted alternately in a steady rhythm. From behind he heard Jeff York join the dance. Marv Fletcher cried out and spun to one side, hit by two slugs at the same time. He fell like wet wash. That left only one.

  Vern Draper backed up in the direction obviously taken by the fleeing Miguel Selleres and the hostages. He fired repeatedly as he gained what speed he could in his ungainly walk. Beyond him, near the mouth to the alley farthest from the activity around the hotel, Smoke caught sight of Jimmy Tucker’s towhead flashing white in a ray of sunlight. Geoffrey Benton-Howell yanked the boy by his collar. Another man, whose identity Smoke Jensen did not know, dragged the other children along. Miguel Selleres roughly shoved Martha Tucker in the desired direction.

  Unwilling to risk their lives, Smoke Jensen holstered his right-hand .44 and drew his coffin-handle Bowie. He hefted it and closed fingers around the grips. A swift up and down motion of his arm, and he released the blade. It turned one full time in the air, and buried half its length in the chest of a surprised Vern Draper.

  The six-gun fell from numbed fingers, and Vern’s eyes bugged at the enormous, hot pain in his chest. Draper went rubber-legged and staggered to one side. Smoke Jensen pushed past him, and only faintly heard the thump of Jeff York’s six-gun when it ended the life of the snaggle-toothed outlaw. Smoke started running, with Jeff pounding along behind.

  Beyond the fleeing conspirators and their captives, a coach had rumbled into place. The armored carriage of Miguel Selleres.

  * * *

  At the direction of the corrupt haciendado, three burly Mexican bandits, who had accompanied the coach, stepped between their leader and the two lawmen. Each wore the wide, floppy sombrero of a charro, with bandoliers of ammunition crossed over their chests. Beneath the cartridge belts they wore short, open bolero jackets, white shirts with string ties and lots of lace ruffles. They were large men, but not with puffy fat, yet their bellies protruded over the belts that supported their holsters.

  Each had a brace of Mendoza .45s, canted forward so as to provide easy reach to a man in the saddle. Their tight trousers, the outer seams trimmed with silver conchos, pegged down to slender tubes where they met the tall boots. They all sported flowing, long, thick mustaches that drooped to their jawlines. Without comment, they swiftly drew their weapons.

  Jeff York killed the one opposite him before the bandido could squeeze his trigger. Beside him, he heard the steady bang of Smoke’s .44. Jeff’s target flopped on the ground and raised a cloud of dust. The two Smoke had shot staggered forward a step, fired wildly in the general direction of the lawmen they faced, and then took another bullet each.

  Impact turned them inward, facing each other, their foreheads rebounded off one another, and they spun away, arms hooked together in a macabre do-si-do. Meanwhile, Benton-Howell energetically shoved Jimmy Tucker into the coach. He gestured impatiently to his second partner, Dalton Wade, to pass him the other two children.

  By then, Selleres’ three bandits had been dispatched. Slowly, the cloud of expended powder began to clear. Miguel Selleres found himself facing Smoke Jensen and Jeff York, smoking Colts in their hands.

  “It’s over, Selleres. Let your hostages go,” Smoke Jensen demanded.

  Swiftly, Selleres grabbed Martha Tucker under one arm and laid his wrist tightly across her throat, the muzzle of his Mendoza pressed to the soft flesh behind her chin. “Put up your pistolas, Señores, or I will kill her before your eyes.”

  26

  The sneer on Miguel Selleres’s face portrayed more fear than
contempt. “We are leaving here. All is lost—¿como no? We’ll take the woman and these brats for safe passage. Do not come after us.”

  “Why not? You’ll kill them eventually,” Smoke challenged.

  Selleres shrugged. “Que obvio. Pero no es importante para té.”

  “It’s sure as hell important to the woman and her kids,” Jeff York growled.

  “Holster your guns or she dies,” said Selleres coldly.

  Jeff York cut his eyes to Smoke Jensen. Smoke considered only for a brief second, then gave a small nod. Both lawmen slid iron into leather. Miguel Selleres began to back toward the armored coach.

  Madness glittered in his eyes. “We’re leaving now. But we’ll be back. Everyone will be made to pay for what they’ve done to us. The whole damned world will tremble before us!”

  At that moment, Martha Tucker managed to dip her chin low enough to get a mouthful of the arm holding her. She sank her teeth in and ground them.

  With a howl of anguish, Miguel Selleres jerked his head upward in reflexive response to the pain. His grip loosened, Martha opened her mouth and fell to one side. Smoke Jensen drew his left-hand .44

  “No, we won’t,” Smoke Jensen barked, as his bullet popped a hole in the forehead of Miguel Selleres.

  The Mendoza Colt dropped from a lifeless hand. Selleres had overlooked one vital requirement. He had not cocked his weapon. Driven by desperation, Dalton Wade made the terrible mistake of unlimbering the age-worn, 5-shot Her-ington and Richards .38 from its long, soft pouch holster. To do so, he had to release the hand of Tommy Tucker. It did him no good, though. A bullet each from Smoke Jensen and Jeff York struck his chest at the same moment. Screaming, Rose Tucker ran after her little brother. A major transformation had come over Benton-Howell. He sank to his knees, hands upraised in supplication, tears streaming down his full cheeks, face ruddy.

  “Please, don’t kill me. I don’t want to die. None of this was my idea. You—you can’t kill me,” a sudden hope rising in his quaking body. “I’m a peer of the realm! And, after all, no one important got hurt.”