“We’ve got to keep this from spreading to other buildings. Remember what happened in Albuquerque last year. Three blocks in a row wiped out by what started as a small fire in a restaurant kitchen.”
“How do we go about it, Chief?” Fire Captain Taylor asked.
Chief Crowder produced a thoughtful expression. “Even though most of these buildings are made of adobe, they all have palm thatch roofs. Dry as it is, if sparks land in that, fire can sweep through as fast as the scorpions and other critters that live there. We have to knock down the flames now to keep that from happening. If we don’t, we’ll lose half of Taos.”
“How we gonna git it done?” another captain persisted.
Chief Crowder did not hesitate. He gestured to the twelve-foot adobe walls that surrounded the lumberyard. “We need to knock down these walls, make ’em fall inward and blow out the flames. Parker, go to the general store. That’s the only other source of dynamite in town. Oh, and you might send someone out to the mines. They’ll have some. But hurry.”
Captain Taylor stated the obvious. “Don’t we have to get Mike Sommers’ permission to blow up his walls?”
“Yeah, if we can find him. I haven’t seen him at all.” Chief Crowder paused a second, then directed Taylor. “Find Hub Yates, Mike’s foreman. I need to talk to him anyway.”
Five minutes later, Capt. Don Taylor returned with Hubbard Yates. “Hub’s not seen Mike, either, Chief.”
Quickly, Captain Crowder explained the situation to Yates. He concluded with an appeal. “We have to get someone’s permission to knock down these walls.”
Yates shook his head. “I don’t know if I can do that or not.”
“If you can’t, I do have the authority to do it anyway. Only thing is the city could be charged with the cost of rebuilding. But, if we don’t do it, like I said, we can lose half of the town.”
Hub Yates looked at the towering column of sparks. “Go ahead, then. I’ll take the chance and speak for Mike.”
“All right. Don, come with me. We’re going to set charges on both sides of the walls. The stronger ones on the inside. You take a crew that knows explosives and put them to it. And tamp them solid. We want to upend those adobe blocks and drop them inward. The blast should help blow out the flames, too.”
While volunteers and onlookers alike labored at the long pumper rails, other firefighters directed inadequate streams of water onto the burning stacks of raw pine and fir. Steam rose in gouts. The core of the fire glowed a dark magenta. Don Taylor and his men took cases of dynamite as they arrived and prepared charges. A shout of alarm rose when the roof of the building nearest the blaze caught fire from sparks and began to burn lustily.
At once, Chief Crowder directed the three hoses of one company onto the new hot spot. Hissing in protest, the flames slowly died. “Keep on wetting that one down,” Crowder directed. He sent two runners to instruct the other fire rigs to do the same.
“Why are you giving up?” a bystander demanded.
“We’re gonna lose the whole she-bang, that’s for certain. All we can hope for is to keep it from spreading.”
“I still say you oughta keep on fighting.”
Crowder eyed him coldly. “You’re not wearing this coal scuttle on yer head, either. Hell, you’re not even helping. I’d keep that mouth buttoned up tight, if I were you.
After half an hour, Captain Taylor reported to the chief. “We’re all set.”
“Then let her rip!”
At a signal from Taylor, fuses were ignited. The solid thump of explosions rippled along the walls, working outward from the center. Thick clouds of dust billowed and obscured the fire. With a muffled rumble, the tiers of adobe blocks leaned inward and began to fall. The initial blasts had dampened the flames considerably. Now, the four-sided curtains of disturbed air from the falling walls snuffed much more. The feeble streams from the hoses began to gain ground. From the far side a cheer went up.
Chief Crowder began an inspection tour of the fire site. He found that through some fluke, the building front had only been slightly charred. Taking two firemen with him, he picked his way gingerly through the smoldering coals and mounds of ash. Near the rear of the store portion, where the fire had been far hotter, he came upon a huddled mound. Crowder brushed at accumulated ash with a gloved hand and revealed a human shoulder.
“Give me a hand here,” he commanded.
His firemen bent to the task. Shortly, they recovered and revealed the severely burned corpse of the owner. A sickeningly sweet odor wafted up from the seared flesh. One of the firefighters, who had eaten mutton for supper, turned away and abruptly lost his supper. Fighting back his own rush of nausea, Chief Crowder issued yet another command.
“Get Doc Walters over here right away.”
* * *
In midmorning of the next day, a visibly troubled Dr. Adam Walters found Zeke Crowder in his saddlery shop. The volunteer fire chief sat at a bench, shaping strips of leather into the skirt of yet another of his excellent saddles. A steaming coffee cup rested to one side. He looked up as the bell over the door jingled and the doctor entered.
“’Morning, Doc. What news on Mike Sommers?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid, Zeke. That’s why I’m here. I also asked Hank Banner to join us. He should be along shortly.”
“The sheriff? What for? Mike died in an accident, didn’t he?”
“No. The fire was not an accident and Mike did not die from it.”
Right then the bell jingled again, and Sheriff Hank Banner entered. “Howdy, Adam, Zeke. Now, what was so all-fired important, Doc?”
Dr. Walters sighed heavily. “Maybe we should all have a cup of coffee at hand. I brought along some medicinal brandy.”
He remained silent while Crowder poured. Then the physician added brandy to all three mugs. He sighed heavily again before he made his revelation. “Mike Sommers was murdered. He had been shot twice. Once in the chest and once in the head. Whoever started that fire figured he would be too badly burned for us to find that out.”
“Any idea who might have done it?” the sheriff asked.
Dr. Walters hesitated. “I think you could guess the name I’d give you. Mike told me only last week that he had been approached with an offer to buy him out. He refused. Then three of the ruffians who have been moving into town of late roughed him up some on Saturday night. Now, this fire, and Mike is dead, killed by someone working for Clifton Satterlee, or I’ll eat my medical bag.”
With a grunt, the sheriff raised a restraining hand. “Be careful about unsubstantiated accusations, Doc. You know that particular gentleman would not hesitate to haul you into court on a slander suit.”
“But dang-bust it. What can we do about this? About everything?”
Again Hank Banner urged caution. “I must admit I share your suspicions that Satterlee is behind all that has happened, including the fire and the murder of Mike Sommers. But, I have no proof. Get me something positive and I’ll fling him in jail so fast his boots will take a week to catch up. You know, every day I see more hardcases moving into town. I’ve a feeling this is about to come to a head.”
* * *
Beyond the first line of trees that screened a small clearing beside the steep, winding grade that formed the eastern upslope to Palo Flechado Pass, Moose Redaker, Gabe Tucker, Buell Ormsley, and Abe Voss watched two riders walk their mounts past their observation point. When the pair, a young wet-behind-the-ears kid and an older man, had ridden well out of hearing range, Moose Redaker elbowed Buell Ormsley in the ribs.
“Didn’t I tell you? When I first seed them, I knew that bigger feller was Smoke Jensen. We’re lookin’ at better than five thousand dollars re-ward on the hoof.”
“You sure those flyers are still in force?” Abe Voss, the cautious one, asked.
Moose had a ready reply. “They ain’t been tooken up, have they?”
“That don’t mean someone will pay up after all this time.”
“Sure th
ey will. And even if they don’t, killin’ that holier-than-thou gunfighter will be pure satisfaction in itself.” Moose Redaker beamed at his companions. “He’s done collected too many bounties that should have been ours by rights. ’Sides, it’ll do a whole lot for our reputation, now ain’t that so, Gabe?”
Gabe Tucker showed a grin of crooked, green-fringed, yellow teeth. “Right as rain, Moose. Hey, how’er we goin’ about this?”
A shrewd light glowed in the eyes of Moose Redaker. “These flyers all say he’s wanted dead or alive, right?” He paused and put a hand to his wide chin, which hung below a lantern jaw. “Do any of you hanker to manhandle a live and kickin’ Smoke Jensen?”
Buell Ormsley scratched at his fringe of ginger hair that surrounded his bald crown. “Not this lad. My momma never raised no idiots.”
“She come mighty close,” Moose Redaker jibed. “Yep, I reckon we’d do best to jist shoot him in the back and haul his body up north, Montana way.”
Buell Ormsley squeezed his bulbous nose. “Won’t he get to stinkin’ a lot, we do that?” He had a valid point.
In his usual manner, Moose had an answer. “Not if we go by train and ice him down.”
Abe Voss rubbed his gloved hands together. “Then, let’s get at it.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry. We gotta do up a plan first.”
“What about the boy?” Gabe Tucker inquired.
“Kill him an’ leave him for the buzzards,” advised Moose.
* * *
Ian MacGreggor had dropped back to tighten a loose cinch and relieve a swollen bladder. His horse stood stubbornly sideways in the trail as he tried to mount it. When he swung aboard, he got a quick glimpse of four grim-faced men riding toward him at a fast pace. Swiftly, he turned the animal’s head and put spurs to its flanks. Behind him, the evil quartet put their mounts into a gallop. Rapid reaction by Moose Redaker prevented Abe Voss from firing a shot at the boy and revealing their presence for certain. As it happened, they might as well have shot anyway.
When Mac came within hailing distance of Smoke, he called out a warning. “Look out, Smoke. Four hard-looking guys headed our way.” Then he reined smartly to the side and disappeared behind a large boulder.
Redaker and his crew of ne’er-do-well bounty hunters crested a rise that had separated them from their quarry and found the boy gone from sight. The four of them faced a lone Smoke Jensen. Had their combined intelligence been anywhere near average, that fact might have given them more than a little pause to consider. Since it was not, they blundered on, drawing their six-guns as they came. Smoke waited patiently. The moment the first eager lout came within range, Smoke cut him down with a round from his Winchester Express rifle.
Abe Voss flew from the saddle, while still far out of revolver range. His companions could only curse. The deadly accurate rifle spoke again and a 500-grain .45 slug sped downrange. Moose Redaker had accurately gauged Smoke Jensen’s intentions and ducked low at the precise moment. A fraction of a second later, the bullet cracked past in the space formerly occupied by his head. The distance had decreased, which lent encouragement to the bounty hunters. Gabe Tucker jinked to the left and rode into the meadow to that side. He sought to flank Smoke Jensen and get in a good shot. He made it half the distance to his goal when an invisible fist slammed into his right side and knocked him out of the saddle. He hit in a shower of broken turf and rolled to a halt faced away from Smoke Jensen. The burning pain began to fade to the numbness of shock.
On the other side of Moose Redaker, Buell Ormsley angled toward the cluster of boulders. He watched as Smoke Jensen swung the muzzle of the Winchester toward Moose Redaker. When the express rifle bucked in Smoke’s grip, Buell swung the nose of his mount back toward the last mountain man and let fly with two fast rounds.
At first, he thought he had hit his target. Smoke Jensen reared back in his saddle and then bent forward. With a start, Buell realized that Smoke had merely put the rifle back in its scabbard. Jensen came up with a six-gun that looked right at him. A wild cry of denial and fright blew from Buell Ormsley’s thick lips as Smoke Jensen fired.
At a range of some thirty feet, the bullet had not the power to kill, but it did hurt like hell when it punched through the leather vest Ormsley wore and broke a rib. Reflex action sent him out of the saddle and onto the ground. He landed hard. More pain shot up his spine when his rump made contact with the soil. Temporarily out of the fight, he fought a wave of dizziness. Dimly he saw Moose Redaker close within killing distance of Smoke Jensen.
Smoke remained calm as he waited out his opponent. The only one still astride a horse, the scruffy-looking hill trash presented the only challenge Smoke could see. Both men fired at the same time, and their slugs missed. Smoke’s by so narrow a margin that a hot line burned along the rib cage of Moose Redaker. Moose yowled and fired again. The slug punched through the side panel of Smoke’s vest. That brought an instant response.
Another .45 round spat from the Peacemaker in Smoke’s hand. This one struck Moose in the chest with stunning force. Redaker reeled in the saddle and tried to put his own six-gun into action. A dark red curtain seemed to descend behind his eyes, and the world grew hazy. At last he triggered his Smith American. The .44 slug screamed off a rock and disappeared in the direction of Taos. Then the ground seemed to leap up and smack Moose in the face. He died wondering how that could happen.
Buell Ormsley scooted over the ground toward his dropped six-gun. He had quickly discovered that he had sprained an ankle in his fall from the horse. Buell reached the weapon while Smoke scanned the other three for any sign of continued resistance. Carefully he raised it, and sighted in on the broad back of Smoke Jensen. He eared back the hammer of the Merwin Hulbert .44 and sighted again. Buell heard the beginning of a loud report from a revolver close by an instant before an intense light washed through his brain, as the off side of his skull flew apart in gory shards.
Ian MacGreggor rode out onto the trail, smoke still curling from the barrel of the old Schofield Smith .44 in his left hand. “He was gonna back-shoot you, Smoke.”
Smoke masked his surprise and produced a grateful grin. “You done good, Mac. Saved my life, that’s for sure. I’m beholdin’ to you.”
With sincere modesty, Mac made small of it. “You’d a done the same for me.”
“Thanks all the same. I wonder if it’s worth the effort to take this trash along and see if there’s a bounty on any of them?”
“D’you think there might be?” Mac had not considered such a possibility.
“Never know.” Smoke searched the body of Moose Redaker and found the aged, out-of-date posters depicting his own face. Also a letter signed six years earlier giving a commission to one Albert Redaker to seek out wanted miscreants under the auspice of the sheriff of Denton County, Texas. “Still don’t mean they’re free of any head money.”
“I—ah—if it’s all the same, I’d just as soon not have them along for company.” Smoke noticed that Mac looked a little gray-green around the mouth.
“First time you killed a man?”
“First time I ever shot at one,” Mac admitted.
“Take it from me, Mac, it don’t get any easier. Only your reaction to it changes. We’d best cover them with rocks and mark ’em so the nearest law can find them.”
* * *
Back at the Sugarloaf, little Seth Gittings, Mary-Beth’s middle boy, had become a particular burden for Sally Jensen. Every bit as much a brat as his elder brother, he chose this afternoon to leave off the severe biting of his fingernails long enough to bite Bobby. His little jaws proved exceptionally strong as he crunched down on Bobby’s left forearm. Bobby instantly felt a jolt of hot pain run up his arm and spread in his chest. He wanted to cry out, to even shed a few tears of agony. Yet he shut his mind to such childish things and sought to remedy the situation.
His hard right fist cracked into the side of his tormentor’s head. Seth let go with a yowl and an instant flood of tears. “Ow! Owi
e! Billy, Billy, he hit me. He hit me,” quickly followed.
Bobby immediately pursued his advantage. Chin on his chest, shoulders rolled like Smoke had shown him, he waded in. Fast, solid rights and lefts rained on the chest and exposed belly of Seth Gittings. The ten-year-old back-pedaled and flailed uselessly with his stubby arms. Bobby changed his target and felt a flood of satisfaction as blood gushed from Seth’s nose. He continued to whale away on Seth until Billy arrived. At once the twelve-year-old took up for his brother and joined the fray in the form of an attack on Bobby Jensen’s turned back.
It staggered Bobby for a moment. Then, determined not to be deterred until he had taught them a lasting lesson, Bobby put his back to the outer wall of the bunkhouse and forced them to come at him from the front. His superior size and strength soon began to tell. First Seth, the cause of the altercation, gave up. He ran off, whining and crying, to find their mother. Billy battled on. The pain of his bite had been forgotten. Bobby never gave it thought until droplets of his own blood splashed in his face. Then he shook his arm in the astonished face of Billy.
“See this? See what that brat little brother of yours did to me?”
Stunned by this evidence, Billy gave off fighting with Bobby. “Yeah, he does get sorta wild at times. Bit the hell outta me once.”
Bobby, too, stopped exchanging blows. “What did you do?”
“I whipped his butt.”
“What do you think I was doin’?”
“Yeah, but he’s my brother.”
“So? It’s me he bit this time.”
“Yep, I guess so. Uh—you oughta get that fixed, Bobby.”
Quickly as that, the two boys dissolved their animosity. They had their differences amicably ironed out when Mary-Beth Gittings, led by a wailing Seth, and Sally Jensen descended upon them.
“What is the meaning of this, you monstrous, vicious little wretch?” she snarled at Bobby Jensen. Even her son looked shocked at her vehemence. Then she rounded on Sally Jensen. “Sally, you simply must punish that unruly boy.”
Live by the West, Die by the West Page 31
