Diego fired again and put his bullet in the brain of the man with the 11mm Mle. ’74 Saint Etienne, French-made six-gun. He died before the shock of his first wound faded. The heavy, soft-gray steel weapon fell from his hand. Immediately more of the outlaws came at them. By then, a scattering of defenders had reacted to the sudden appearance of the enemy. The volume of fire raining on the intruders grew rapidly. It soon had an effect.
Three more went down, and Smoke Jensen found himself nearly run over by a riderless horse. He jumped to one side, tripped over the body of a hardcase, and fell to the red tile walkway around the base of the fountain.
“I’ve got you now,” a triumphant voice shouted from above Smoke.
Instantly, Smoke Jensen rolled to his left and brought up his Peacemaker. He fired the moment he saw a human form. By the sheer perversity of chance, the slug struck the front of the outlaw’s revolver cylinder. The thug screamed and dropped his now useless weapon while Smoke rolled again. This time, Smoke took better aim.
“Dutch!” the dying man screamed, in spite of the hole in his throat. “He got me, Dutch. Did me good.” Then he groaned softly and fell across the neck of his mount. The frightened horse carried the corpse away from the plaza.
Smoke rounded the base of the fountain, forced to dodge bullets from both sides. Inexorably the numbers mounted. Suddenly Dutch Volker found himself and only two others cursing and firing defiantly at the defenders. He opened his mouth and bellowed loudly enough to carry above the tumult of gunfire.
“Get out of here! We’re all that’s left.”
Swiftly, they clattered away through a low screen of powder smoke. Diego Alvarado, his face grimed with black smudges, walked over to where Smoke Jensen stood with the loading gate of his .45 Colt open for reloading. “If they are all as stupid as those were, we should have an easy time—¿no, amigo?”
Smoke gazed at the litter of the dead. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
* * *
Soft shafts of yellow lanced through the wrought-iron barred windows set high in the outer wall of the second-floor master bedroom. This side of the Satterlee hacienda outside Santa Fe faced the south. It provided a slight, though noticeable, temperature advantage during the winter months. Clifton Satterlee selected articles of clothing from a large armoire, which he handed to an Indian woman servant, who diligently folded and packed them into a large carpetbag.
Satterlee spoke aloud to himself as he decided on his wardrobe. “I think something elegant, perhaps a morning coat. For the formal capitulation of Taos nothing less would do.” A soft rap sounded on the open door, and he looked up.
His majordomo stood there, a sparkle of expectation in his ebony eyes. “A rider just in from Taos, señor.”
The expression on the face of Satterlee reflected that of his servant. “Show him up.”
In two minutes the official greeter of the house returned with a smiling Yank Hastings. The young outlaw did not dwell on formalities. “Ever’thing’s goin’ fine, Mr. Satterlee. Paddy Quinn says there’s no need for you to hurry up there. We’ll have ’em flushed out by tomorrow morning. That’s his guarantee.”
Satterlee stretched his thin lips to even narrower proportions. “Mr. Quinn may well want his hour in the sun, but I have no intention of being denied my triumph. I will be ready within the hour. You will accompany me and my personal retinue to Taos at that time.”
* * *
Sundown lingered only a quarter hour away. Rich orange light bathed the bowl in which Taos lay. It painted the red, yellow, and brown buttes, mesas, and volcanic mountains in muted shadow. Following the ill-thought-out charge of the hotheads, the gang had settled down to strengthen their stranglehold on the town and its occupants. On the three sides not influenced by the creek and its deep gorge, the bandits edged in close enough to be well within range of their weapons. They opened up in a fury.
Windows became the first targets. Every visible pane ceased to exist in a wildfire storm that lasted twelve minutes. By then, the town custodian, whom no one had thought to inform to the contrary, had begun to light the streetlamps. They quickly became the objects of punishment for the outlaws.
Glass flew into the street first, followed by thin streams of kerosene. It did not take long for one burning wick to be dislodged from the body of a lamp and fall into a pool of the flammable liquid that formed at the base of the post. Flickering blue at first, to be reduced to yellow-white, the flames swept the length of one block, then a second. At once the alarm sounded at the fire station, and volunteers had to abandon their fighting positions to answer the call. Always a curse, fire could reduce the city as surely as the outlaws who had caused its release.
Chief Ezekial Crowder directed his firemen from the shelter of a doorway. Bullets from the gang continued to be a hazard. One young firefighter suddenly dropped his length of hose and yowled as he grabbed at his ear. Blood trickled between his fingers.
“At least it ain’t like fightin’ a structural fire,” Crowder observed to Smoke Jensen, who had come at the first alarm. “So far, that is,” Barnes amended.
His volunteers quickly spread out to beat down the flames. To Smoke it appeared the very earth burned. Black smoke vaulted the sky above town, and the outlaws cheered and shouted in derision. Gradually, the blazes subsided. After ten hard minutes the last one went out.
Encouraged by the diversion the fires had created, half a dozen scum charged the vaqueros who had been holding the west road. One of the Mexican cowboys reached to the saddlebag at his feet, grabbed up a bottle, and used his hand-rolled cigarette to ignite the fuse that protruded from the cork in its mouth. When it began to sputter, he counted to three, stood and threw it out the open window.
It turned end-for-end four full times before it exploded violently at shoulder level in the midst of the gang members. All six screamed piteously and went down in a heap. That quickly changed the minds of those who thought of joining them. The effect on those who had witnessed the grenade became obvious as the fire it had caused began to dwindle. The last shots came from the outlaws only minutes after nightfall.
* * *
Half an hour later, Smoke Jensen finished off a piece of pie, sent over by one of the restaurants, and licked his lips. “I think that ends it for today. Diego, I’d keep a few people on the lookout for any effort to test our strength. The rest can get a little sleep, at least until an hour before daylight.”
“And you, amigo, what will you be doing?”
Smoke gave him a wicked grin. “I’m going to go out and raise a little hob.”
TWENTY
Smoke Jensen chose to leave town by way of the road controlled by the vaqueros from Rancho de la Gloria. The ranch hand on watch gave him a silent salute as he crossed the bridge on foot. Thick coatings of burlap muffled the hooves of his stallion, Cougar. They would remain on until Smoke slipped past the pickets of the outlaw army. So skilled was the last mountain man that when the vaquero lookout who watched him depart blinked, Smoke had completely disappeared.
It did not take long after that for Smoke to find targets for his night’s mischief. Silently he wormed his way in among the outlaws at one campfire. One look at his gunfighter rig and they accepted him as one of their own. He was offered coffee, which Smoke accepted.
“Thanks, I needed that. Maybe it’ll settle my nerves.”
“What are you gittin’ at—er . . . ?”
Smoke dropped into the loose grammar and dialect of his mentor, the old mountain man called Preacher. “They call me Jagger. An’ what I’m gettin’ at is that there’s Injuns in among the folks in town.”
“Naw,” another hardcase disputed. “They’re Mezkins, Jagger. You’ve jist caught a case of the spooks.”
Smoke played the trump in his rumor hand. “Mezkins wearin’ moccasins, loincloths, and floppy shirts? Hair down to their shoulders? Believe it. I’ve seen ’em myself. They’re all sharpenin’ scalpin’ knives.”
A shiver passed over his audience. Sm
oke added more to their unease. “There must be as many fightin’ men in thar as out here.”
The doubtful one again challenged his statement. “Not accordin’ to Whitewater Paddy.”
Smoke cracked a grin. “Mr. Quinn don’t know ever’thing. I’ve seed ’em. There’s Injuns, an’ Mezkin cowboys, and a whole lot of townies.”
Smoke answered a string of troubled questions with inventions calculated to fan the blaze of fear he had introduced. After ten minutes of yarn spinning, Smoke drank off his coffee, came to his boots, and drifted on.
* * *
“I’m makin’ the rounds, checkin’ if anyone needs anything,” Smoke explained at the next fire. Using the names he had acquired at the first gathering, he deepened his cover. “Are you Zeke? Well, Rupe told me to tell you howdy for him. He’s holdin’ his own. ’Cept for what he found out about the Injuns in Taos.”
Zeke eyed Smoke. “What’s this about Injuns?”
Smoke launched into his tall tale about scalping. Then he added another log to the overloaded wagon. “That’s not all. A feller who’s been in close to town tells me that this Smoke Jensen has put up a hundred-dollar bounty on every one of us who gets killed.”
Zeke denied that at once. “I don’t believe it. Nobody, especially a rovin’ gunfighter, has that kind of money.”
Smoke ignored him. “Somethin’ more about those Injuns. Jensen’s armed them with rifles and shotguns.”
“No!” Agitated, Zeke came to his boots. “Ain’t no way them townies would stand for that. It’s fools’ work givin’ guns to Injuns.”
“Makes no never-mind. That’s what I saw with my own eyes. Injuns runnin’ around with Winchesters. An’ that’s not all of it. Not by half.” Smoke went on to add yet another burden to the worried outlaws. Then he quietly left the uneasy souls to these imaginings.
* * *
After three more such visits, Smoke decided that his rumors would take sprout and grow with satisfactory speed. Crouched low, he worked his way in among the horses of those who ringed the town between roads. With a cautious hand, he reached for the cinch ring of one animal. He kept the other on the nose of the animal to calm it.
Ever so slowly, Smoke eased the leather end free of the ring and loosened the cinch. Next time the owner tried to straddle his mount, he would wind up with a lap full of saddle. Smiling to himself, Smoke completed the task and moved on to another critter to do the same. He repeated the loosening of cinch straps a dozen times, then switched tactics.
Along the west side, he fitted front hooves into black leather hobbles on ten other horses. He started to come upright from the last one when a voice challenged him from the darkness. “What are you doin’ here?”
Smoke had a ready explanation. “Cleanin’ the frog on the right forehoof of my horse. On the way out here he come up lame. Figgered it wouldn’t do for us to jump up a fight and me unable to ride.”
“Good thinking.” The speaker moved closer. “Say, I don’t think I—”
Prepared for that, Smoke had already slid his left-hand Colt from its pocket and gripped it tightly around the cylinder with his left hand. He swung the weapon now and connected the butt with the outlaw’s temple. The alert section leader went down without a sound. Smoke bent and checked him, then tied the man’s wrists and ankles and dragged him off toward the rear. His night vision in perfect condition, Smoke sought a place to stash his burden.
He found it in the form of a small ravine. He lined up the bandit parallel to the gully and rolled him down, out of sight. During his brief search, Smoke had come upon a secondary ring of campfires. These had not as yet been ignited. He carefully marked their location for later attention. For now, he moved on to find more who had straggled away from the picket line.
* * *
Nate Carver had his mind on a glass of whiskey, a hand of winning cards, and a pretty bit of fluff to sit on his lap. He eased his cartridge belt upward and unbuttoned his fly in order to relieve himself. While he fumbled with one stubborn button, visions of the sort of celebration he would have once this was over danced behind his eyes.
That whiskey would sure taste good. His mouth watered at the thought of it. And a nice big steak, well done, the way he had learned to eat it in Texas. And four of the stupidest fellers to ever hold pasteboards in a poker game to play against. Yeah. And then that tingling feeling that came every time a feller walked up them stairs with a floozy on his arm. The small room, the soft bed, the tender flesh. His self-distraction prevented him from sighting the ghostly movement against the lighter darkness of a star-lit horizon. All too late, he sensed another presence an instant before Smoke Jensen smacked him on the side of the head.
Nate would have rather died than be found by his friends in the condition that resulted from sudden unconsciousness and a full bladder. Smoke Jensen trussed him up and set him in the center of a collection of large, fat, barrel cactus. There were bound to be more, Smoke told himself.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Smoke found the reason for the second ring of firepits. An outlaw wearing a cook’s apron gathered dry mesquite branches and stacked them beside a chuck wagon. Well beyond rifle range, this would provide a safe place for breakfast. Smoke quickly thought out a way to spoil the meal for them. Ghosting in on moccasined feet, he closed with the belly robber. Smoke’s lips thinned to a grim line of disapproval when he saw the curly gray hair on the head he intended to thump. A feller his age should know better than to run with outlaws.
Smoke’s regret was not tempered by mercy. He eased up behind the unsuspecting rascal and put him to sleep with a solid blow from his Colt. Quickly he grabbed the man and eased him to the ground. He pulled another prepared strip of latigo leather from a pocket and bound the bean burner’s wrists. Then he pulled off the man’s boots and removed a sock. After binding the ankles, he stuffed the dirty, smelly wool stocking into an open mouth, careful to remove a poorly fitted set of dentures first, and used another pigging string to secure it in place.
“Time to get to work,” Smoke muttered to himself.
He went directly to the rear of the chuck wagon, where the oversized tailgate/worktable had been lowered into place. He opened the drawer that contained about five pounds of salt. This he poured into a bowl for the time being and refilled the receptacle from the sugar bin. The salt then went in to replace the sugar. A quick search under a rising moon located an anthill. Using a tin plate, Smoke scooped up a generous number of the busybody insects and delivered them to the flour barrel.
Half a dozen road apples, from the team of mules that pulled the wagon, completed his sabotage when he dropped them into the liquid that covered the corned pork. Then he hoisted the supine cook over one shoulder and carried him off a goodly distance to where he would not be found for some time. Someone else would be fixing breakfast for the Quinn gang. Someone Smoke felt confident would not have the skill to recognize the change in the ingredients. That attended to, he began a round of the prelaid fires.
Into each of ten, he inserted a capped and fused stick of dynamite. Being careful to cover them well with dirt, he replaced the kindling and larger wood, then faded off into the night. He reflected on what he had done and counted it a good night’s work.
* * *
Clifton Satterlee fumed over the delay. A wheel had broken on his surrey not thirty miles north of Santa Fe. Fortunately there had been a posada close by. One that did not have vermin swarming in the mattresses and climbing the walls of the kitchen, he noted grudgingly. The food had been good, for a change. Not the excellent meals his cook prepared, yet flavorful and generous in quantity. Much against his best instincts, Brice Noble had come with him. They sat now at a small table in the alcovelike cantina off the lobby of the inn. Noble poured for both of them from a green glass bottle of Domeq Don Pedro brandy. Not so good as his preferred cognac, but it would do, Satterlee considered.
Taking a sip, he spoke to Brice Noble. “This delay is inexcusable. A spare wheel should be broug
ht along at all times.”
“It’s your carriage, Cliff.” Noble did not mention that the damage had been done as a result of Satterlee’s insistence that they travel at the fastest possible speed.
Satterlee cued on his partner’s tone. “Meaning?”
“You are the one who has to order a spare being lashed on the surrey.”
With a snort, Satterlee took a long pull on the amber liquid. “I hate people who ooze practicality.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “We may have some difficulty with some of the people in Taos. They are a stubborn lot. But our time is running out. Quinn has assured me he has rounded up enough gunfighters and rough types to overcome any objections. We’ll have about two hundred men.”
Noble winced. “That’s going to cost a lot of money.”
“Yes, but it is necessary. We may have to take the town by force.” He paused, sighed heavily. “Although I would prefer not to resort to that. It might affect our credibility when it comes to filing for new deeds. No matter what, we will have Taos, and we will log that Indian land. That is all vital to our project. I think I’ve had enough of this.” He nodded to a quartet of mariachis playing to a Mexican couple at a corner table. “I’m going to retire. Hastings has assured me that they will have the wheel fitted by morning. Good night, Brice.”
* * *
Smoke Jensen returned to Taos, linking up with the route he had used to depart only at the last moment. His keen night vision, augmented now by a hazy full moon, allowed him to pick out the significant differences from when he had left town. Seven darker lumps stood out against a background of twinkling pinpoints of light in a black velvet sky. Slowly they resolved into human figures. All faced inward toward the community they invested. Smoke had already dismounted. Now he clapped a hand over Cougar’s muzzle and eased the big Palouse off the roadway. He ground reined his horse and slid off into the night once again.
Live by the West, Die by the West Page 45
