“How—how big is this place?”
“Three or four thousand acres, I’m not sure which.”
Mac looked at Smoke in awe. “That’s the biggest spread I ever heard of. All we have is a quarter section.”
Smoke took pity on Mac, though not much. “Diego has more land under irrigated cultivation than that. I’m willin’ to bet he could use an experienced farmer.”
Over their meal, Smoke worried around another idea in his head. When Mac offered to wash up after supper, Smoke poured a cup of coffee and spoke his mind. “If Diego has no need for a farmer, there might be something else you can do. Something for me. Though it might prove risky.”
New hope bloomed on Mac’s face. “Anything, so long as it’s legal, Smoke.”
“I assure you it’s that. Don Diego asked me to come out and take a look at this Satterlee’s operation. I could use some help in doing that.”
“How can you poke into something crooked? That’s a job for the law.”
Smiling, Smoke produced his badge and showed it to Mac. “So happens, I’m a deputy U.S. marshal. What I have in mind is that if Diego does not take you on, you go ahead and take that job with Satterlee. Only, don’t break the law yourself. Look around, keep your ears open. See what kind of sign you cut on his operation. Then, make arrangements to report anything you learn to me. You’d get regular deputy marshal pay, provided by the U.S. Marshal’s Office. That should give you a good stake after the job is over.”
“What about the risk you mentioned?” Mac asked soberly.
No fool this one, Smoke reflected. “If you are caught, Satterlee or one of his henchmen will try to kill you. Or at least hurt you pretty bad.”
Mac cut his eyes to the six-gun in the holster on his hip. “I ain’t as fast or accurate as you, Smoke. An’ I never caught on to the trap of those three in Raton. But I am good with a gun.”
“You’ll have to be. What d’you say?”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
Smoke looked Mac levelly in the clear, blue eyes. “Done, then. But you may not live to regret it,” he told the boy ominously.
* * *
A refreshing spring shower had brightened the yellow bonnets of the jonquils and purple-red tulip globes in the wide beds planted at the front of the main house on the Sugarloaf. A rainbow hung on the breast of the Medicine Bow Mountains to the northeast. Sally Jensen gave up on her industrious dusting program at the clatter of narrow, steel-tired wheels on the ranch yard. She removed the kerchief which covered her raven locks, abandoned her smudged rag, and straightened the apron as she walked to the door. She opened the portal to an astonishing sight.
A woman, vaguely familiar, and four children sat on the spring-mounted seats of a sparkling, brightly lacquered carriage. The three boys, their soft, brown hair cut in bang-fringed pageboy style, wore manly little suits of royal blue, Moorish maroon and emerald green, with identical flat-crowned, wide-brimmed hats. The small girl sat primly beside her mother, in a matching crushed velvet cape and gown of a puce hue, feathered bonnets to match. The young males quarreled loudly and steadily among themselves.
Sally took three small steps to the edge of the porch. She paused then as she put a name to the face, remembering the letter she had received three days earlier. Mary-Beth Whipple. No, Sally corrected herself, her married name was Gittings. Obviously when Mary-Beth had written asking to make a brief visit, she had taken for granted that the answer would be yes. How typical of Mary-Beth, Sally thought ruefully.
“Sally, dearest,” Mary-Beth burbled happily as she reined in.
“Mary-Beth?” Sally responded hesitantly. “I—didn’t expect you so soon.”
Mary-Beth simply ignored that and gushed. “It’s so good to see you again. You have no idea how much I’ve missed my dear schoolmate.” She raised her arms and flung them wide to encompass the whole of the Sugarloaf. “We’re here at last.”
“Uh—yes, so you are. Won’t you come in?”
“Of course. Right away. Can you get someone to take care of these dreadfully stubborn animals?”
For a moment Sally wondered if she meant the snorting, lathered horses or her three sons. The volume of their altercation had risen to the shouting stage. Sally recalled her school chum only too well. The daughter of a wealthy New England mill owner, she had always been a petulant, spoiled young woman. One who proved woefully empty-headed. Sally had been compelled to drag Mary-Beth’s grades upward at the Teachers’ Seminary. Worse, she absolutely, positively refused to eat meat. Yet those were not her only eccentricities, Sally recalled as Mary-Beth spoke again.
“These abominable horses, of course. They have made our journey from Denver absolutely miserable. So tedious. Well,” she declared, releasing the reins and standing upright in the carriage. “We’re here now. And we can look forward to not having to deal with these fractious creatures for a whole month.”
A month? Sally thought sinkingly. That was Mary-Beth’s idea of a brief stay? “I’m afraid we’re not . . . prepared for such a long stay.”
Mary-Beth’s face clouded up, and she produced a girlish pout. “But, we simply must. My husband is doing business-y things in Denver, and it is frightfully boring.”
“But . . . my husband is not here. He has been called away.”
“Oh, bother the men. They are all alike. Born to neglect. I sometimes regret that I gave birth to even a single male. Little Francine here is all my life.”
Her words chilled Sally, who instantly saw the confusion and hurt in the expressions and suddenly flat eyes of the boys. For all of that, Sally’s inborn hospitality compelled her to welcome them. She opened her arms in an inviting gesture. “Come on in, then. I’ll fix coffee. And I have a sponge cake. Your boys will like that, I’m sure.”
Three bright, happy faces shined out on her. “Cake, yah!” they chorused.
Inside, with the boys gulping down slice after slice of the cake Sally had planned to have for herself and Bobby for supper, Mary-Beth returned to her earlier topic. “Ever since you described this heavenly place to me, I’ve dreamed of visiting. And we simply must stay the whole month. Grantland will be tied up in dull meetings every day for a full thirty days. Lawyers have such a dreary life. Besides, Denver is so depressing, with its heavy pall of smelter smoke hanging over everything. And, such rough, unlettered people swarming everywhere, with absolutely no control over them.” Mary-Beth paused and looked at her cup.
“Actually, I prefer tea. Could you arrange to have tea from now on?”
Sally curbed her temper. “I have some tea. When it’s gone, it’s gone.”
Mary-Beth reached over and patted Sally’s forearm. “Fine, dear, I understand.” She looked over to where her sons had started to squabble noisily over the last slice of cake. “Boys, you go outside with that. You’ve eaten quite enough. It will spoil your supper.”
Grumbling, the three little louts jumped from the table and trudged outside. Mary-Beth picked up again. “At what hour do you serve dinner? We are accustomed to eight.”
“Well, Mary-Beth, we are accustomed to six. If you’ll pardon me, we will stick to that schedule.” Gloomy images of a month of this flashed through Sally’s mind.
* * *
Bobby Jensen first encountered the newcomers when he came up to the main house from the foaling barn where he had been mucking out stalls. He went directly to the wash house, where he had laid out clean clothes before beginning his task, to clean himself of the stink of blood, manure, and horse urine. Bobby had barely eased himself into the big, brass bathtub and shuddered in pleasure at the feel of the warm water when he heard a sound like rats in the rafters. He looked around and saw nothing, so he went to his ablutions. The sound came again.
Bobby paused in the vigorous scrubbing of his hands and arms and let his gaze slide from corner to corner. Again he could find no source. He ducked his head of white-blond hair below the surface and began to lather it when he came up. The rustling persisted. Bobby rinsed hi
s hair and pushed up on one arm.
“Who’s there?” When no reply came to his demand, he gave careful examination to the interior for a third time, then returned to his bath. When he was satisfied with his degree of cleanliness—he had not washed behind his ears—Bobby climbed from the tub and stepped under the sprinkler can nozzle attached to a length of lead pipe. Lukewarm water cascaded down on the crown of his head and his thin shoulders when he pulled a chain attached to a spring valve. While he rinsed, he caught sight of furtive movement over by the chair where he had laid his fresh clothing.
A small, pale white hand reached slowly around the obstruction of the chair and headed for the parrot bill grip of Bobby’s .38 Colt Lightning. Bobby took three quick steps toward the hidden person and called out in as hard a voice as he could muster.
“Get your hand off my gun.”
Suddenly, a boy somewhat smaller than Bobby popped up behind the chair. His appearance would have made Bobby laugh if he were not so angry. He wore a funny blue suit, with a big old flowery tie done in a bow under his chin, and had hair only a few shades more yellow than Bobby’s, done in a sissy cut. Ribbons tied the bottoms of his trouser legs just below the knees. Full, bee-stung lips that were made for pouting formed a soft, Cupid’s-bow mouth. He screwed those lips up now and spoke in a snotty, superior tone.
“You can’t have a gun. You’re only a kid. Besides, nobody has a right to have a gun, except a policeman. And even they shouldn’t have them. My mother says.”
Although naked as a jaybird, Bobby immediately snapped out his verbal defense. “The hell I can’t. Smoke Jensen gave me this six-gun himself. I’ve got a rifle, too.”
“Liar. My mother says no one has the right to a gun. That they are the most evil things on earth.”
Bobby bristled further. “You’re the liar. You ever hear of the Constitution? Smoke taught me real good. There’s a part of it that says, ‘. . . the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.’ So there.”
Mary-Beth’s eldest, Billy, narrowed his eyes and balled his small fists. “Think you’re one of those dirty, back-shootin’, coward gunfighters like Smoke Jensen?”
That proved too much for Bobby. He swiftly closed the distance between himself and the other boy and gave his antagonist a two-handed shove to the chest. Rocked off his heels, twelve-year-old Billy stumbled backward. Bobby came right after him. Another push and Billy went sprawling out of the wash house. Bobby watched the other boy flail in the dirt a moment, then turned back and shrugged into his trousers. He came out of the building as Billy scrambled to his feet.
Billy made the mistake of swinging the moment he saw Bobby. Young Jensen ducked and threw a punch of his own. It smacked Billy under the left eye. He cried out at the pain and then rushed Bobby. Bobby sidestepped and tripped Billy. At once, the older boy dropped down on his knees, astraddle the small of Billy’s back. Bobby began to drub his opponent on the shoulders. Billy made squealing, yelping sounds and kicked the toes of his boots against the ground. At last he found purchase enough to thrust upward and throw Bobby off him.
“Damn you, you don’t fight fair,” Billy sobbed, his dirt-smeared cheeks streaked with tears. He dived on Bobby before the older boy could get up.
From there their fight degenerated into a lot of rolling around in the dirt. Bobby got a couple of good punches to Billy’s ribs. Then he clouted his opponent on the ear, which brought a howl of agony from Billy. Bobby wrestled himself around on top and began to drive work-hardened fists into Billy’s midriff. All pretense of toughness deserted Billy, and he began to wail in a pitiful voice.
“Help me! Momma, help me! Get him off, get him off.”
The sudden commotion reached the ears of Sally Jensen and Mary-Beth Gittings where they sat on the porch, sipping at cups of jasmine tea. Mary-Beth’s face went blank, then white a moment, and she clutched at her heart. Half rising, she put her cup aside.
“I think that’s Billy. Whatever could be happening?”
Sally listened to the uproar a moment and picked out Bobby’s voice. “Yer a liar and a trespasser. Git the hell outta here.”
Drily she remarked to Mary-Beth, “I think he has met our youngest. We had better go see.”
Together they headed in the direction of the wash house. The sight they saw made Sally Jensen ache, though inwardly she burned with pride for her adopted son. Bobby Jensen remained astride Billy Gittings, pounding him rhythmically. Billy was getting his tail kicked right properly. One eye showed the beginnings of a splendid mouse, and his nose had been bloodied. He sobbed wretchedly with each punch Bobby delivered. She could not let that go on, Sally realized at once. She hurried to the boys.
“Bobby, you stop that at once. Get off Billy this instant.” Embarrassment filled Sally Jensen as she dragged Bobby Jensen off Billy Gittings.
Mary-Beth Gittings harbored entirely different emotions. Her voice became accusatory and filled with indignation. Her son and Bobby each gave his version of what had started the fight. Her face red, she turned with hands on hips to lash out at Sally.
“Billy is correct. No one has the right to own a gun except the police. I would certainly never allow a child of mine to have one.”
Bobby remained defiant. “Then why did he try to steal mine?”
Surly, though in control of his sobs and tears, Billy answered truculently. “I was gonna take it away from you and do what’s right and give it to Mother.”
Sally stepped in. “Bobby is correct. Taking another person’s property, whether you think he has a right to it or not, is stealing. There will be no more of that around here. Now, both of you go in there and get yourselves washed up. You’re a couple of mud balls. And shake hands and try to be nice.”
Thoroughly mollified, Bobby put out a hand. “My name’s Bobby, what’s yours?”
“Billy,” the other boy answered, still offended. Then he drew himself up. “William Durstan Gittings. But you can call me Billy.”
They released their grip and turned away from the adults. With an arm around each other’s shoulders, they walked toward the bath that awaited them. Sally breathed a sigh of relief, only to learn that Mary-Beth had not finished.
“One thing you must accept, dear Sally. My son was right in what he did. He certainly did not deserve anything like the beating he got.”
Sally groaned inwardly at the thought of the ensuing month, saddled with this now former friend.
* * *
In a large, adobe mansion outside of Santa Fe, Clifton Satterlee and four of his associates from back east sat in a sumptuous study, two walls lined floor to ceiling with books in neat rows on their shelves. Long, thick, maroon brocade drapes covered the leaded glass windows, with the usual wrought-iron bars covering them from outside. A small, horseshoe-shaped desk occupied the open space directly in front of the limestone casement. That was where Satterlee held court. The tall back of a large, horsehair-stuffed chair loomed over his six-foot-plus height. He wore a blue velvet smoking jacket and open-front shirt of snowy perfection, riding trousers, and calf-length boots. His guests clothed themselves with all the formality of eastern evening wear. Brass lamps provided illumination, and the yellow rays of the kerosene flames struck highlights off the cut crystal decanter and five glasses on a low table around which the visitors sat. The topic of conversation had turned to their plans for the conquest of Taos and its environs.
“We already have a good foothold,” Satterlee reminded his associates. “C.S. Enterprises has the timber rights to a thousand acres on the eastern slopes of the Sangre de Cristo range. By selective cutting, we can clear a way to allow passage of the logs we harvest from the land currently held by those Tua vermin. We can pass them off as coming from our legally held property.”
Durwood Pringle cocked an eyebrow. “Do you think that will fool any inspectors the Interior Department sends out here?”
“Of course, they are the same kind of trees. We will continue to log off the eastern slopes so th
at an inspector will see cutting activity. And, we will have ample advance warning of any surprise visit. Besides, when it comes to the local officials, we have already bought them.”
Pringle still lacked assurance. “Yes, but are they honest politicians?”
Satterlee snorted in impatience. “What do you mean? We paid them off, didn’t we?”
“I understand that, Clifton, old fellow, what I mean is that an honest politician is one that once he’s been bought, he stays bought.”
They shared a good laugh at this levity. Then Satterlee moved on to the next subject. “The merchants and residents of Taos remain stubborn for some reason. Although we have added to our cattle holdings recently with two hundred head from the Alvarado ranch.”
A frown creased the forehead of Durwood Pringle. “That’s excellent, Clifton. But what we want to know is what is being done to encourage these reticent merchants in Taos to sell out?”
Clifton Satterlee took a long pull on his cognac and produced a warm smile. “Have no fear, Durwood. That is being taken care of as we speak.”
SIX
Bright orange tendrils of flame coiled through the black night sky over Taos, New Mexico. The intensity of the inferno paled the thin crescent of moon and dampened the starshine. A horse-drawn fire wagon, its bell clanging frantically, sped through the streets. Men in light blue cotton shirts tugged at the suspenders of their bright yellow, water-proof, oil-skin trousers. A cold hand clutched their minds as one. The worst possible disaster had actually happened.
“Where’s the blaze, Cap?” a late arrival volunteer fireman asked of his captain.
Captain Taylor pointed to the south. “Couldn’t be worse, Clem. The lumberyard is on fire.”
Seconds later, their red-and-black lacquered fire engine stormed down the street toward the lumberyard, which had become an orange ball. The chief of the volunteer fire department, Zeke Crowder, directed them to the south side of the block-square enterprise. Flames and showers of sparks shot fifty feet into the air. Zeke Crowder studied this condition with a grim expression. After several seconds, he called his captains together.
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