Cunning of the Mountain Man (31 page)

Smoke brought his dazed opponent face to face, and went to work on the midsection. Feebly Benton-Howell tried to fend off the blows. Clearly this was not a fight, it was a beating, plain and simple. Every bit of the outrage and frustration of the last mountain man poured out on the source of it all. Benton-Howell doubled over, his air exhausted and Smoke Jensen straightened him up with a hard left.

The Englishman’s knees buckled and his head drooped. Still Smoke bore in. Blood ran from a cut on the cheek of Benton-Howell, from the corner of his mouth, and the corner of an eye swollen shut by severe battering. At last, Smoke Jensen took control of his anger and eased off. When the red haze left his eyes, he found Benton-Howell on his knees, thoroughly battered and defeated.

Disgust plain on her face at having witnessed the savaging of Benton-Howell, Martha Tucker hugged her children to her and spoke with unaccustomed chill to Smoke Jensen. “It’s over then?”

“Yes, All but the roundup of the trash and of course, the trial. I’ve no doubt Benton-Howell will be convicted of ordering your husband’s murder. And he
will
hang.” 

“Yes . . . of course,” she responded stiffly. “At least that way it will be done according to law.”

Her sudden, inexplicable disapproval stung Smoke Jensen. He started to make some sort of reply, thought better of it, and shrugged. He retrieved his hat from the ground dusted it off, and indicated the way back toward the hotel with it. Without further comment, Martha Tucker followed her children clustered at either side.

They had progressed only a third of the way down the alley, when a shot crashed overloud in the confined space, and little Tommy Tucker slammed forward out of the protective circle of his mother’s arm. Martha took one stunned look at the spreading red stain on the boy’s back, and began to wail hysterically. Young Rose Tucker screamed and dissolved into tears. Jimmy hit the ground.

Smoke Jensen reacted quickly also. He jumped to one side and looked beyond the frozen tableau of the Tuckers to where a wooden-faced Forrest Gore worked the lever of his Winchester in a frantic effort to chamber another round. Smoke’s hand dropped to the butt of his .44, and he freed it before the bolt closed on Gore’s rifle.

Smoke’s arm rose with equal swiftness and steadied only a fraction of a second to allow the hammer to drop. Quickly he slip-thumbed three more rounds. All four struck Forrest Gore in the chest and belly. The Winchester flew to the sky, and Gore jerked and writhed with each impact. A cloud of cloth bits, flesh, and blood made a crimson haze that circled his body. Jeff York turned in time to plunk two more slugs into the child-killer. Then he spun, pistol still smoking, toward Benton-Howell.

“That does it! No waiting for the hangman, damn you. It’s your scheming that brought it to this. Now you pay”

“No, Jeff!” Smoke Jensen barked harshly. “Let him sit and sweat and wait for that rope to be put around his neck. That way he’ll die a thousand times over.”

Jeff York’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right, Smoke. Sorry, I lost it for a moment.”

Martha Tucker drew out of her grief long enough to look up with a face drawn with anguish, and addressed Smoke Jensen with some of her former warmth. “Thank you, Smoke Jensen. Thank you for saving a fine lawman’s career and self-esteem. And thank you for avenging my husband and my—my son.”

All at once, Smoke Jensen felt as though he had been the one to take a beating. “I did what I had to do, Martha. Now, we have a lot yet to accomplish.”

Martha Tucker had been restored to her ranch. A week had gone by since the Arizona Rangers had cleared the streets of Socorro of saddle tramps and low-class gunfighters. They had ridden away after little Tommy Tucker’s funeral. Each one had expressed their deep sympathy for the courageous woman who had lost a husband and son within a month’s time. Even Cuchillo Negro and his Apache warriors left small, feather-decorated gifts on the raw earth of the grave. Then they, too, rode off to the west.

That left Smoke Jensen alone at the ranch. He recalled the tension and black grief at the burial of the small boy, and a sensation of relief flooded him as he watched Martha Tucker step from the kitchen, smiling and brushing at the swatch of flour on her forehead in a familiar gesture. She smiled up at him as she approached where he stood with his saddled roan.

“I’ve put a pie on. I—I sort of hoped that you would stay on, if not with your hands, at least yourself, for a while.”

“I really can’t, Martha. I’m long over due in returning to my ranch.”

“With it in the capable hands of men like Walt and Ty, I see no reason why a few days more would matter.”

Smoke sighed. “Truth is, I miss ’em. The High Lonesome, the Sugarloaf, and . . . my wife. It’s time I got back to them. Goodbye, and bless you, Martha Tucker. You’re a strong woman. Strong even if you were a man.”

“Why, I—I take that as the supreme compliment,” she said clearly flustered. Then Martha rose on tiptoe and kissed Smoke lightly on one cheek. “Goodbye, Smoke Jensen. You’ll be missed . . . awfully.”

Jimmy Tucker rushed forward and hugged Smoke Jensen around the waist. He was too deeply moved for words, but his silent tears spoke it all. That made it even more difficult for Smoke Jensen to take his leave, but he did.

Prying the lad’s arms from around him and giving a final tip of his hat to Martha, Smoke swung into the saddle and rode off. He didn’t look back until he reached the top of the ridge to the northeast. The backward glance did not last long, for his thoughts had already spanned the miles ahead to his secure nook in the Shining Mountains, the cozy log and stone home on the Sugarloaf, and his beloved Sally.