Cunning of the Mountain Man (8 page)

Their pockets bulging with extra cartridges, York carrying a Henry and Smoke carrying the sawed-off express gun, they looked at each other.

“You ready to strike up the band, Ranger?”

“Damn right! ” York said with a grin.

“Let’s do it.”

The men slipped the thongs off their six-guns and eased them out of leather a time or two, making certain the oiled interiors of the holsters were free.

York eased back the hammer on his Henry, and Smoke jacked back the hammers on the express gun.

They stepped inside the noisy and beer-stinking saloon. The piano player noticed them first. He stopped playing and singing and stared at them, his face chalk-white. Then he scrambled under the lip of the piano.

“Well, well!” an outlaw said, laughing. “Would you boys just take a look at Shirley. [Smoke had been using the outrageous moniker of Shirley DeBeers, a sissyfied portrait painter, for his penetration of the outlaw stronghold.] He’s done shaven offen his beard and taken to packin ’ iron. Boy, you bes’ git shut of them guns, fore you hurt yourself!’

Gridley stood up from a table where he d been drinking and playing poker—and losing. “Or I decide to take ’em off you and shove ’em up your butt, lead and all, pretty-boy. Matter of fact, I think I’ll jist do that, right now.”

“The name isn’t pretty-boy, Gridley,” Smoke informed him.

“Oh, yeah? Well, may haps you right. I’ll jist call you shit! How about that?”

“Why don’t you call him by his real name? ” York said, a smile on his lips.

“And what might that be, punk?” Gridley sneered the question. “Alice?”

“First off” York said, “I’ll tell you I’m an Arizona Ranger. Note the badges we’re wearing? And his name, you blow-holes, is Smoke Jensen! ”

The name dropped like a bomb. The outlaws in the room sat stunned, their eyes finally observing the gold badges on the chests of the men.

Smoke and York both knew one thing for an ironclad fact: The men in the room might all be scoundrels and thieves and murderers, and some might be bullies and cowards, but when it came down to it, they were going to fight.

"Then draw, you son of a bitch!” Gridley hollered, his hands dropping to his guns.

Smoke pulled the trigger on the express gun. From a distance of no more than twenty feet, the buckshot almost tore the outlaw in two.

York leveled the Henry and dusted an outlaw from side to side. Dropping to one knee, he levered the empty out and a fresh round in, and shot a fat punk in the belly.

Shifting the sawed-off shotgun, Smoke blew the head off another outlaw. The force of the buckshot lifted the headless outlaw out of one boot and flung him to the sawdust-covered floor.

York and his Henry had put half a dozen outlaws on the floor, dead, dying, or badly hurt.

The huge saloon was filled with gunsmoke, the crying and moaning of the wounded, and the stink of relaxed bladders from the dead. Dark gray smoke from the black powder cartridges stung the eyes and obscured the vision of all in the room . . .

Oh, that had been a high old time all right, Smoke reflected. But it hadn’t ended there. Smoke had gone on back East to reclaim his beloved wife, Sally, who was busy being delivered of twins in the home of her parents in Keene, New Hampshire. Jeff York and Louis Longmont had accompanied him. And a good thing, too. Rex Davidson and his demented followers had carried the fight to Smoke. And it finally ended in the streets of Keene, with Rex Davidson’s guts spilled on the ground.

The twins, Louis Arthur and Denise Nichole, were near to full grown now. They lived and studied in Europe. But that was another story, Smoke reminded himself as he gazed upon a smoky smudge on the horizon, far out on a wide mountain vale, vast enough to be called a plain.

Smoke Jensen rode into Horse Springs quietly. He attracted little attention from the locals, mostly simple farmers of Mexican origin.
Ollas de los Caballos
, the place had been called before the white man came. Near the center of town was a rock basin, fed by cold, crystal-clear, deep mountain springs. This natural formation provided drinking water for everyone in town. Fortunately for the farmers, a wide, shallow stream also meandered through the valley and allowed for irrigation of crops of corn, beans, squash, chili peppers, and other staples.

Smoke splashed through it at a rail-guarded ford and saw at once that it also accommodated as a place of entertainment. Small, brown-skinned boys, naked as the day they had been bom, frolicked in the water, the sun striking highlights off their wet skin. Clearly, they lacked any knowledge of the body taboo that afflicted most whites Smoke knew. For, when they took notice of the stranger among them, they broke off their play to stand facing him, giggle like a flock of magpies, and make shy, though friendly waves of their hands.

Returning their greetings, Smoke rode on to the center of town. On the Plaza de Armas, he located what passed for a hotel in Horse Springs. POSADA DEL NORTE—Inn of the North—had been hand-lettered in red, now faded pink, and outlined in white and green over the arch in an adobe block wall that guarded the building front.

He dismounted and walked his horse through the tall, double-hung, plank gates into a tree-shaded courtyard. A barefoot little lad, who most likely would have preferred to be out at the creek with his friends, took the reins and led Smoke’s big-chested roan toward a stable. Smoke entered a high-ceilinged remarkably cool hallway. To his right, a sign, likewise in Spanish, with black letters on white tile, advised; OFICINA.

Smoke stepped through into the office and had to work mightily to conceal his reaction. Behind a small counter he saw one of the most strikingly beautiful young women he had ever encountered. Her skin, which showed in a generous, square-cut yolk, a graceful stalk of neck and intriguing, heart-shaped face, was flawless. A light cast of olive added a healthy glow to the faintest of
cafe au lait
complexions. Her dress had puffy sleeves, with lace at the edges, and around the open bodice, also in tiers over her ample bosom, and in ruffled falls down to a narrow waist. There, what could be seen of the skirt flared in horizontal gathers that reminded Smoke of a cascade.

Her youthful lips had been touched with a light application of ruby rouge, and were full and promised mysteries unknown to other women. For a moment, raw desire flamed in the last mountain man. Then, reason— and his unwavering dedication to his lovely and beloved Sally—prevailed. Those sweet lips twitched in a teasing smile as the vision behind the registration desk acknowledged his admiring stare.

“Yes,
Señor
? Do you desire a room for the night?” Her voice, Smoke Jensen thought, sounded like little tinkling bells in a field of daisies. “Uh . . . ummm, yes. For a week, at least.”

“We are happy to be able to accommodate you,
Señor
. If you will please to sign the book?” When Smoke had done so, she continued her familiar routine of hospitality. “The rooms down here are much cooler, but the second floor offers privacy.”

Accustomed to the refreshingly cool summer days in the High Lonesome, Smoke Jensen opted for a first-floor room. The beautiful desk clerk nodded approvingly and selected a key. She turned back to Smoke and extended a hand comprised of a small, childlike palm and slender, graceful fingers.

“When Felipe returns with your saddlebags, he will show you to your room.”

“I think I can manage on my own.”

Her smile could charm the birds from the trees. “It is a courtesy of the Posada del Norte. We wish that our guests feel they are our special friends.”

“I’m sure they do. I know that I—ah—ummm—do.” Silently, Smoke cursed himself for sounding like an adolescent boy in the presence of his first real woman. He was spared further awkwardness by the return of the little boy, Felipe.

“Come with me,
Señor
,” the youngster said with a dignity beyond his nine or ten years.

After Felipe had unlocked the door to No. 12 with a flourish and ushered him inside, Smoke pressed a silver dime into the boy’s warm, moist palm. Although fond of children, Smoke Jensen preferred to watch them from a distance; he recalled his first impression of this little lad and curiosity prompted him to speak.

“Do you work here every day?”

“Oh, si,
Señor
, after school is over at
media dia
. It is my father’s
posada
.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be out swimming with your friends at the creek?”

An impish grin lighted Felipe’s face. “After my early chores, I get to go for a while. Until the people come for rooms, and my father rings the bell to call me back. Sometimes . . . when I’m supposed to be cleaning the stable, I slip away and also go on adventures.”

Smoke had to smile. “You remind me of my sons when they were your age.”

Felipe blinked at him. “Did you run a posada? And were your sons Mexican?”

A chuckle rumbled in Smoke’s chest. “No to both questions. But they were every bit as ornery as you. Now, get along with you.”

After Smoke had settled in, he strolled out to the central courtyard. The corridor that served the second floor overhung the edges of the patio, to form alcoves where tables were being set for the evening meal. More pretty Mexican girls draped snowy linen cloths at just the proper angle, while others put in place napkins, eating utensils, and terracotta cups and goblets. Next came clay pitchers that beaded on the outside from the chill spring water they held and bowls of fiery Southwestern salsa picante. Experience in Arizona, Texas, and Mexico had taught Smoke that prudent use of the condiment added a pleasant flavor to a man’s food.

Beyond the alfresco dining arrangements, a fountain splashed musically in the center of the courtyard. Desert greenery had been arranged in profusion, in rock gardens that broke up the open space and gave an illusion of privacy. On the fourth side of the patio, opposite his room, Smoke found a small cantina. Tiny round tables extended onto the flagstone flooring outside its door. Smoke entered and ordered a beer.

It came in a large, cool, dark brown bottle. Smoke flipped the hinged metal contraption that held a ceramic stopper in place, and a loud pop sounded. Hops-scented blue smoke rose from the interior. Smoke took his first swallow straight from the bottle, then poured the remainder into a schooner offered by the cantinero.

“You are new in town,” the tavern keeper observed.

“Yep. Just rode in today.”

“If you have been on the trail a while,
Señor
, perhaps you are hungry for word of what is happening in the world. I will bring you a newspaper.”

“Thank you,” Smoke responded, surprised and pleased by this shower of conviviality.

It turned out to be a week-old copy of the Albuquerque
Territorial Sentinel
. Most of the front page articles had to do with the financial panic back East, and events in and around the largest city in the territory. Smoke read on. The second page provided at least part of the answer to his dilemma, although he did not realize it at the time.

SURVEYORS 

TO LAY OUT 

WESTWARD ROUTE

Bold black letters spelled out the caption of the story. Smoke Jensen scanned it with mild interest. It revealed that survey crews would soon arrive to begin laying out the right of way for a new spur of the Southern Pacific Railroad. It would pass through Socorro and head westward to connect with Springerville, Arizona, Winslow, and the copper smelters being built south and west of Show Low.

Interesting, Smoke considered. If one had stock in the railroad or the right copper works. But it didn’t seem nearly as relevant as the small article on the third page, which featured an artist’s sketch of Smoke’s own likeness, and a story about the supposed murder of Mr. Lawrence Tucker.

From it, he gleaned that Tucker had been a long and respected resident of the Socorro area, with a large ranch on the eastern slopes of the Cibola foothills. He was survived by a wife, Martha, and three children, boys aged thirteen and seven and a girl nine. Tucker had been outspoken about the prospects of dry land farming, and used the techniques of the Mexican and Indian farmers, long time residents of the area. He also advocated the protection of those fields by the use of barbed wire.

Not a very popular position for a rancher to take,

Smoke mused. It had been enough to get more than half a hundred men killed over the past decade. Maybe Mr. Tucker had enemies no one knew of? Maybe someone, like Sheriff Reno, knew only too damn well who those enemies might be? Smoke put his speculations aside, along with the paper, and finished his beer. Leaving money on the mahogany for the barkeep, he left to stroll the streets and get a feel for the town.

It might be well to have a hidey-hole. The inn seemed a good one. Although, Smoke allowed with his face in the newspapers, and no doubt on wanted posters by now, it would be better to lay low in Arizona, until he could piece together more information. He had done well to scatter that posse. And it might be necessary to go back and scatter another, if he were to have that time of peace.

Early on the afternoon of the third day in Horse Springs, Smoke began to feel uneasy. A week had gone by since they had ridden out of Socorro. By now he should have heard from Walt Reardon and Ty Hardy. He would give them a couple of more days and then head west. With that settled, he turned in through the open doorway of a squat, square building with a white-painted, stuccoed exterior.

The odor of stale beer and whiskey fumes tingled his nose. No matter where in the world or what it was called, Smoke mused, a saloon was a saloon. A chubby, mustachioed Mexican stood behind the bar, a once-white apron tight around his appreciable girth. Two white-haired, retired Caballeros sat at a table, drinking tequila and playing dominoes. Smoke Jensen relaxed in this congenial atmosphere and eased up to the bar.

“Do you have any rye?” he asked.

“Bourbon or tequila.”

“Beer then.”

A large, foam-capped schooner appeared before him a few seconds later. The glass felt pleasantly cool to the touch. Smoke had grown to understand the inestimable value of the icy deep rock springs that had named the town. Smoke drank deeply of the cold beer, and a rumble from his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since early that morning. He’d finish this and find a place to have a meal.