Live by the West, Die by the West

by William W. Johnstone

  At once, Smoke and Diego joined up and went in pursuit of two of the hardcases who had chosen the roadway as the easiest route of escape. Diego hailed Smoke with a big smile on his face. “We have them trapped between us and the ranch. They will not get far, amigo.”

  “Might be, but will anyone be expecting them?”

  “We are close enough that the shots will have been heard. Someone will be watching. It is too bad the others got away.”

  Smoke thought on that. “Not for long if we get to question these two.”

  They picked up the pace then. Within ten minutes they rode through the low scud of red dust stirred up by the hooves of the horses ridden by the fleeing men. Moments later, the sound of gunfire came from ahead, and the pursuers urged their mounts into a gallop. At that ground-eating pace, Smoke and Diego soon saw the backs of the two outlaws. One was on the ground, drawn up in a fetal position. The other, his horse shot out from under him, used the fallen animal as a breastwork.

  Although wounded, he fired over the saddle at unseen adversaries as Smoke Jensen closed the gap between himself and the member of the Quinn gang. When Smoke and Diego came into clear view, whoever kept the outlaw pinned down ceased fire. In the silence that followed, the hardcase heard the hoofbeats behind him and turned to see Smoke and Diego less than twenty feet away. All resistance left him, and he laid down his revolver and raised his hands.

  “I’m givin’ up. Don’t shoot me.”

  “Seems as how you tried like hell to do just that to us,” Smoke growled.

  His feeble protest would echo down the halls of the future. “I was jist followin’ orders. Nothin’ personal, you understand?”

  Smoke snorted in contempt. “When someone throws lead at me, I take it right personal, y’hear?” Smoke dismounted as Alejandro Alvarado showed himself, along with three of the vaqueros.

  Beaming, Alejandro extended a hand. “It is good to see you again. Poppa said you would come.”

  “He made it sound irresistible. Let’s take a look at the fish you caught.”

  Roughly they searched the outlaw, supervised by Smoke Jensen. Two knives, a stubby-barreled Hopkins & Allen .38 Bulldog revolver, and a .41 rimfire derringer appeared from the voluminous clothing of the miscreant. For reasons known only to himself, Smoke found that amusing.

  “Looks like whatever you lack in skill, you make up for in sneaky armament.”

  “Who are you, mister? You tore through our ambush like a bull through a corral of steers.”

  “Folks call me Smoke. Smoke Jensen.”

  “Awh . . . dog pucky. That ain’t fair. It jist ain’t fair. How was we to know you were around here anywhere?”

  “Chalk it up to bad luck. Now, my good friend here, Don Diego, and I would like to know who you work for?”

  Defiance flared in his eyes. “You’ll never hear it from me.”

  Smiling, Smoke Jensen taunted the injured man. “I’ll hear it when I want to. Although I don’t think I really need to. Don Diego has told me all about your boss, Whitewater Paddy Quinn.”

  Ever so slightly, the gunman’s eyes narrowed and tension lines sprang up that did not come from the bullet wound in his thigh. He pressed his lips tightly together. Smoke shattered the man’s newfound resolve with one terse, ominous sentence.

  “If he won’t confirm that, Alejandro, kill him.”

  That broke the last of his bravado. “Yes—yes, you’re right, goddamn you, Jensen. And when Paddy Quinn finds out what you done to us, he’ll be down on you like stink on a skunk.”

  Drily, Smoke answered him. “I can hardly wait.”

  “Amigo, we still have a league to ride to the estancia,” Diego reminded Smoke.

  “Then, we’d best be going. I trust you can deal with this mess, Alejandro?”

  “Sí. Any day, Smoke.”

  They left Alejandro to clean up after the ambushers and to send vaqueros to town to deliver the dead and living one to the sheriff.

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen was met by the entire Alvarado flock. The youngest, a totally naked toddler of two, crawled up on Smoke’s knee and patted him on the cheek. Horrified by the overly familiar conduct of her infant son, Señora Alvarado, Lidia, rushed forward to pluck the squealing boy from his perch and apologized effusively to Smoke for the social gaffe. Smoke laughed about it and patted the youngster on the top of his head.

  “But, you are a caballero,” Lidia protested. “You should not be bothered by the prattling of children.”

  Smoke smiled to show his sincerity. “He’s no burden, Doña Lidia. I remember my own at that age.”

  Lidia Alvarado gave him a surprised look. “But they are all grown, yes?”

  “All but one my Sally and I adopted not long ago. He has thirteen years.”

  “A burdensome age. I will leave you gentlemen to your tequila and old campaigns.” With that, Lidia exited, her giggling youngster on her hip.

  Diego took up the subject of most interest to both men. “Let me tell you what I believe is behind Clifton Satterlee’s determination to secure all of the land for twenty miles around Taos. It is greed, plain and simple. Somehow he has found a way to make a profit out of land that sells for twenty-five cents an acre, due to its poor quality of soil. In its natural state, nothing much grows here, except for cactus and mesquite. Perhaps he has learned, as I have, of the value of irrigation. I do not believe that is the case. He means to plunder the land and leave it desolate.

  “There is gold in the mountains. Not much, but enough to attract a greedy man. There is also the cattle that I and others raise. The price of beef is going up, now that it has been made more tender and palatable to the eastern taste. Satterlee’s entire assets, at least those I have been able to discover, are not worth more than one hundred thousand dollars. The sale of our cattle would increase his holdings by tenfold. There is five times that value in the timber on the Tua reservation. Although the land is protected by your government in Washington, treaties have been broken in the past and will be again, given enough money changes hands.”

  Smoke smiled warmly. “You don’t put much trust in the United States government, amigo.”

  “No more than I did that in that of Ciudad de Mexico. Politicians are . . . politicians. It is the nature of government to become more intrusive, more controlling of people’s lives and their property. Yours, ours now, perhaps less than many others. But who knows what the future may hold? Satterlee is a law unto himself. Therefore, I believe that he is not so much empire building as empire looting.”

  Smoke gave that some thought. “That’s a strong accusation. Why would he want to acquire the town of Taos?”

  “It is the seat of power in this part of New Mexico. We are far removed, by mountains as well as distance, from the government in Santa Fe. Our governor is a good man. I regret that I cannot say the same for some of those around him. Recently there was an affair that is being called the Lincoln County War. Governor Wallace offered amnesty to those of both sides. Secretly, some of those in power put out the word that certain among the combatants were to be killed upon their surrender. It seems that their continued existence would prove an embarrassment to some of our politicians.

  “But, I digress, old friend. You are here to determine exactly what it is Satterlee intends, and if it is illegal or harmful to the best interests of the people, to put an end to it.” Diego paused to refill his clay cup with tequila. He prefaced his next words with a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “That sounds remarkably like a politician, does it not? Forgive me, you came here of your own accord. If I have burdened you with too great a load, it is only because of my great concern.”

  Smoke shrugged. “If you’d put too much on my plate, I’d be riding out now.”

  “It’s the people I am concerned about. Many of those who live around Taos work for me, or have sons and daughters who do. And Alejandro has business interests in the town. Then there are the Indians. Did you know that they rose up one time and slaughtered all the S
panish living around here? They are capable of doing so again. Now, let us go in to dinner. Fernando has roasted us a whole small pig. It will make excellent carnitas de puerco.” Diego added in explanation, “One of those traditional dishes that happened by accident the first time. Someone accidentally dropped chunks of pork into boiling oil. By the time they were fished out, the meat was crispy on the outside, juicy and tender inside. I’m sure you will enjoy it.”

  Smiling, Smoke emptied his cup of the maguey cactus liquor. “Anything Fernando cooks is an equal to my Sally’s best efforts. I’m sure I’ll like it.”

  Later, after the sumptuous meal, Smoke retired to a guest room for the night. As he lay on the comfortable bed, his thoughts strayed to the High Lonesome and to Sally. He fell asleep with visions of her in his mind.

  * * *

  Around noon the next day, Sheriff Monte Carson rode up to the main house on the Sugarloaf. He brought with him two dispirited, hang-dog youngsters atop a mule he led by a long rope. Seth and Sammy Gittings, although looking contrite, to Sally Jensen’s expert eye managed to reveal their confidence that they would escape punishment. Monte reined in and greeted the two women who were picking spring flowers to brighten the interior of the house.

  “Mornin’, Miz Sally. Mornin’, ma’am. These two belong to someone out here? Least they say they do.”

  Mary-Beth looked up with apprehension and surprise. “Why, they are my sons. Where did you find them?”

  “In town, ma’am.”

  A fleeting frown spread on Mary-Beth’s forehead. “Seth, Sammy, didn’t I tell you not to leave this place? It is wild and dangerous out there.”

  “There’s more to it than that, ma’am.”

  “Why, what do you mean—ah—Sheriff?”

  “I caught them in the general store, stealin’ horehound drops from a jar.”

  Predictably, Mary-Beth sprang to the defense of her sons. “That’s not possible. My sons never steal.”

  Monte nodded to the boys. “Unlike these two, I never lie, ma’am.”

  “They don’t lie, either.”

  “Oh? Then they are the sons of Johnny Ringo, and he and his gang will come get me if I don’t let them go?” Monte maintained a straight face as he related the wild tale the boys had spun.

  Shocked, her shoulders slumped with defeat, Mary-Beth Gittings resorted to a woman’s best defense—tears. She dropped her bouquet and covered her eyes with both hands. Her body shook with sobs.

  “Whatever am I to do? My hus-husband is nearly always away on business. And when he is home, he spoils the children abominably. I feel so helpless. Someone tell me how to deal with these things?”

  Unconvinced by her performance, Monte snorted in disgust. Sally, equally dubious, smiled sweetly. “It’s simple,” she spelled out for her guest. “First, you talk to them and explain that what they did was wrong. That such behavior by children or adults is not tolerated by society.”

  “What do I do then?”

  “Excuse me. I’ll be right back and tell you.”

  Sally went into the house and directly to one corner of her kitchen. Then she returned, one hand held behind her. “Now comes the part that has the most positive effect. You yank down their britches and smack the hell out of them,” she concluded, revealing the thin willow switch she had held behind her back.

  Monte Carson whooped with laughter. “Now, that sounds like jist the thing. I’ll haul them down and you do that, ma’am. You do that right now.”

  * * *

  Dohatsa tugged at his forelock and looked down at his moccasin-clad feet in the manner his people had been taught since the Spanish first came. He was not conscious of his hand extended with palm up. The small bag of coins that dropped into it felt heavy indeed. It made Dohatsa glow inwardly.

  “That’s me good lad, Dohatsa. Now you go back to yer mud houses and stir up some mischief for me, won’t ye now?” Paddy Quinn grinned at the young Tua warrior.

  With another nod, Dohatsa tucked the money behind the wide, yellow sash that he wore over his shirttail and loincloth. Then he turned and trotted off toward the distant Tua pueblo located north and a bit west of Taos. Whitewater Paddy Quinn turned his horse and walked away in the opposite direction. He had other errands to perform.

  There was that fat, stupid policeman in Taos who must be paid his monthly stipend, who reminded Paddy of another lawman he’d known, the reason Paddy had decided to come to America. Dead policemen, even a white pudding of a bobby in Dublin town, raised quite a row. In Boston he had quickly learned that the fine art of bribery got one far more benefit than did muscle. Not a copper, it had seemed, that wasn’t on the take. Inevitably, Paddy had encountered the exception to the rule. A lad from the old sod at that. John Preston Sullivan. Which was what had brought Patrick Michael Quinn to the West. No doubt Sullivan still searched the alleyways of Boston for him. Ten years to the day and Quinn was now the boss of the largest gang of cutthroats, highwaymen, and robbers on the frontier. Which reminded him that Garth Thompson and some of the lads had something on for later that afternoon. Sure ought to stir things up a mite.

  * * *

  Smoke Jensen rode at ease alongside Diego Alvarado. The hacienda had put out flankers and two men on point for protection even here on his own huge ranch. Those visible rode with their rifles across their thighs, and were in sight of others farther out. It had been so, Don Diego had explained, since the first raid by the rustlers. More likely, Smoke reckoned, it had been so since the first Alvarados came here in the fifteen hundreds. He suggested the possibility.

  “It was like this the last time I visited, if I recall correctly.”

  “Yes, los Indios were raiding.”

  Cougar whuffled softly, and Smoke popped his next question. “And in your father’s time?”

  Diego chuckled, a low, throaty sound. “There was a war. We had you gringos to combat, if you recall.”

  “And your grandfather?”

  “The revolution against the Spanish. My family fought for Mexico.”

  Smoke waved at the vaquero bodyguards. “So this arrangement is nothing new?”

  “I thought not to make you uncomfortable. This is a cruel, wild land. Most unforgiving. Not all of the danger comes from two-legged foes. Tell me, my friend, did you come to any conclusion as to how to deal with Satterlee?”

  A smile crinkled Smoke’s lips. “I slept too soundly. Too much tequila, I suppose. I’m not accustomed to much strong drink. Beer is more my style.”

  Diego appeared intrigued by this. “For a man who does not drink much, you show a lot of machismo, amigo.”

  Smoke avoided a response by a study of the distance. Up ahead, he saw a flock of sheep, herded by half a dozen small boys ranging from ten to twelve. It made him think of Ian MacGreggor. “Diego, I have a friend who is looking for work. He speaks Spanish and rides well. But . . . he’s a farmer’s son. I promised him I’d ask you if you had need of anyone like that on the ranch.”

  Diego considered that a moment. “Enrique Toledo is growing old. His bones ache him. Perhaps he would welcome a younger assistant. When would this young man want to start?”

  “After I’ve taken care of this business with Satterlee.”

  Diego cocked an eyebrow. “He is secretly involved in this?”

  Smoke pulled a droll face. “In a manner of speaking. He is looking into some things for me. I haven’t seen him in a couple of days.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Diego made his decision. “I will suggest something to Enrique. I am sure he will welcome the idea of help.”

  TEN

  A large mesquite bush toppled down a rocky slope to block the road, located twenty miles outside of Taos. Its sudden appearance did not rattle the driver of the Butterfield stage that ground its way along the narrow, rutted trace. He hauled in on the reins and worked the brake with his booted foot, the long wooden lever operated by an angle iron that jutted from the underside. Too late, he realized the purpose of the fallen bush.

/>   Swarming out of defiles and crevasses, a dozen men in the colorful, loose clothing and braided headbands of the Pueblo Indians closed around the coach. They wore high-top moccasins and long, black hair. All of them carried rifles or revolvers at the ready. With eyes keen and knowledgeable, the driver sized up these Indian highwaymen and reached a quick conclusion. He shared it in a whisper with the express guard.

  “Injuns don’t rob coaches.”

  At once, the shotgun rider brought up his short-barreled L.C. Smith 10-gauge and discharged a round. The shot splattered the shoulder of one pseudo-Indian, who howled involuntarily and cursed in English.

  “I tol’ you so,” the driver hollered as he reached for his six-gun. “Ain’t one of them’s an Injun.”

  An arrow thudded into his chest and skewered his heart. He folded sideways as the six-up team came to a halt before the prickly branches. Two revolvers cracked, and the guard dropped his shotgun. Blood spurted from his shattered shoulder. “I don’t believe a thing he said,” he babbled.

  They killed him anyway. While two of the Quinn gang held the headstalls of the lead team, another ambled his horse over to the coach and grunted in his best imitation of an Indian. “You get out. Put up hands. Give money. Much money.”

  “Make fast, squaw,” another demanded of a hefty dowager who whimpered and jiggled as she climbed from the stage.

  Quickly the outlaws gathered the valuables from the passengers while others released the draft team. After securing the strongbox, the members of the Quinn gang rode off, scattering the stage horses ahead of them. That left the frightened, demoralized passengers to fend for themselves. One of them, a portly man in a green checkered suit, expressed the astonishment of them all.

  “Well, I never. Indians actually robbing a stagecoach. We have to get to the way station and find help.”