Cunning of the Mountain Man (14 page)

“You could have took that damn thing out of my eyes a little sooner,” Jeff York complained as he rode up to where Smoke bent over to add more fatback to a second skillet.

“Wanted to make sure you knew it was me. Might have been you Arizona boys don’t know that trick,” Smoke teased.

“Hell, the Apaches have been usin’ mirrors to signal with since the Spanish brought them way back. That smells good.”

“Step down and pour coffee. You two as well. What’s the news?”

“We can’t find anything of Sheriff Reno or Quint Stalker, nor any of Stalker’s hard cases,” Jeff declared.

“Everything is set up with the widder for two nights from now,” Walt added his good news.

Smoke nodded. “Small wonder you didn’t see any of Stalker’s men. I had a run-in with five of them yesterday in San Antonio. That’s why I’m out here waiting for you.” Jeff snorted and ran a hand through his sandy blond locks. “Did you stick around to explain to the local law?” Smoke gave him a blank look of innocence. “I didn’t know there was any. Didn’t overstay my welcome by finding out. Not when one of them got away. My guess, our friend Sheriff Reno is in charge around here anyway.”

“Losing five of his prize possemen will sure enough make his day for him,” Walt said drolly. “Uh . . . one thing we did find out, the sheriff is usin’ Stalker’s outlaws on the posse. There’s some folk around Socorro don’t take too fondly to that. Includin’ the Widow Tucker.”

“Then I am even more inclined to meet with the good woman.” Smoke’s eyes twinkled with suppressed merriment, as he continued “I seem to recall you mentioned she was some looker, Walt. There any chance of you making a place for yourself?”

“You hurt me to the core, Smoke. You know I ride for the Sugarloaf an’ no one else.”

“Sometimes the heart has a way of changing the mind. Whatever,” Smoke summed up, “eat hearty and sleep with a packed outfit. Tomorrow we ride to the Tucker ranch.”

Smoke Jensen stared down into the black pool in his coffee cup. It struck him powerfully to realize how long it had been since he had last drank strong, dark brew from a delicate china cup like this. Of course, it had been back home, on the Sugarloaf. For all her ability to rough it like a man, Sally Jensen insisted on her finery in the large, log building that housed the headquarters of Smoke’s horse-breeding ranch. Only there, he noted, the tension didn’t grow so thick it could be felt and tasted.

After Jeff York had made the introductions, Martha Tucker sat across from Smoke Jensen, at the core of that tension. From her viewpoint, Smoke allowed she had ample cause to radiate so much distrust and suspicion. Might as well get on with it and see how much of that he could boil away. Sighing, Smoke cut his eyes to the woman across the table. His eyes locked with her sky blue ones. In a soft, steady voice, pitched low, Smoke described what he knew of events surrounding the death of Lawrence Tucker.

She listened hands in her lap, palms up, like opening flowers. Her face remained impassive, until he recounted the discovery of their cattle on the trail outside of Datil. Suddenly strained muscles tightened her face into deep, shadowed lines. She drew a sharp breath, recalling when and how the livestock had been driven off the ranch.

“Those cattle were stolen more than a week ago,” she stated in a hollow voice. “The men who did it called their leader Smoke.”

Smoke Jensen looked sharply at her. “Someone was being cute. My guess, based on what the survivor of that encounter told us, is that Quint Stalker thought that one up.” He sighed and paused. “It couldn’t have been Stalker. He’s not been seen around Socorro for a good two weeks.”

“Where might he be?” Martha asked.

“We . . . don’t know,” Jeff York inserted.

“Wherever he is, he’ll be up to no good you can be sure of that.”

Smoke first picked up on this change in Martha’s attitude. “Pardon me, Mrs. Tucker, but could you tell us more about what has happened here, to you and your children? Jeff has filled me in on part of it, though surely not everything.”

Smoke’s prompting opened the flood gates. “First, a man came from town, Elert Cousins it was, to tell me tha—that Lawrence had been killed. He said the sheriff had caught the man who had done it. That it was . . Her voice faltered lowered “Smoke Jensen.”

“And now, maybe you’re not so sure?” Smoke urged. “You can count on what Smoke told you,” Jeff York jumped in. “Like I said before, Smoke is on the right side of the law, a straight shooter.” A sudden pained expression of embarrassment twisted the Arizona Ranger’s handsome features. “Sorry. Poor choice of words.”

“I understand,” Martha said softly. Then she continued to recount the efforts to force her and the children to abandon the ranch. When she had ended her account, she added, “At first they claimed that you had taken the money and bill of sale when you killed Larry. After that, when I insisted on seeing the transfer of title and sale bill, they stopped even mentioning that.

“Lately, I’ve been giving it some thought,” Martha continued. “Especially after talking with your hands, who were quite gentlemanly, though with a few rough edges. Then, Ranger York, who spoke on your behalf. I got to wondering how it could be that you were found unconscious, beside my hus—beside his body, and they didn’t find the money and bill of sale on your person?”

Smoke Jensen studied her calm demeanor. Certainly a powerfully attractive woman. Her heart-shaped face revealed a firm, though not stem mouth, wide-set, clear, blue eyes, and a high brow. Her hands, worn by years at the washboard and cookstove, still retained a semblance of youthful elegance. Carried herself well, too. Even the hostility she had directed toward him at the outset had been muted by an inner disposition toward true justice, rather than revenge. Her children, quiet and polite, showed good upbringing. They had been clean and wore neat clothing. They had gone off to their loft beds shortly after Smoke and Jeff arrived.

Most of all, as he had just discovered, her mind worked rather well. No one else had come up with that particular question, let alone an explanation.

“Score one for the lady,” Smoke announced to break his contemplation. “I asked the sheriff that very question when he came into my cell to—ah—arrange a confession. He didn’t have an answer.”

“Neither do I,” Martha allowed. “That’s what perplexes me.”

Much as she disliked the direction of her thoughts, Martha Tucker had to admit that this trim-waisted, broad-shouldered man was far more handsome than either of his hands. His hair, cut a bit longish for current fashion, had a natural curl in the ends, that turned inward to brush at his earlobes. His eyes had turned a soft, comforting gray. Martha had no way of knowing that they could take on the color of glacial ice when angered. To her dismay, Martha Tucker found herself comparing him with her husband with Smoke Jensen coming out ahead in most attributes. She chastised herself for the strong, though unwanted attraction she felt toward the rugged mountain man-gunfighter.

Although, to give herself credit, she also felt repelled by his reputation. There! She had said it all. Yet, he seemed sincere in what he said. What with Ranger York to vouch for him, what reason did she have to distrust Smoke Jensen? She suddenly realized that she had been asked a question, when Smoke repeated it.

“How do you mean, Miz Tucker?”

“Why, simply that there have been rumors about our Sheriff Reno. It’s said that he’s lazy, which I can vouch for. Also that to make work easy, he’s sent more than one innocent man to the gallows.”

“That’s not true, ma’am,” Jeff York interjected. “The law don’t have anything to do with convictions and sentencing. That’s up to the judge and jury.”

Martha’s eyes held a heretofore unseen twinkle. “Don’t their decisions rely a great deal on a lawman’s evidence and testimony?”

Jeff knew when he had been bested. A light pink flush colored his fair cheeks. “You got me there, ma’am.”

“I see that I haven’t been entirely clear. What I was getting at, is that Sheriff Reno is supposed to have created evidence out of whole cloth several times before, also withheld evidence or suppressed testimony that would have favored the accused person.”

“Fits with the way he handled this case,” Smoke Jensen provided. “Last thing I remember, I was wearing my own guns. Then they showed up in Reno’s desk drawer. And I was supposed to be packin’ some hand-me-down, castoff, conversion Remington. And if I had the money I was supposed to have taken, he would have bragged that up to me, too.”

Martha, who had cast a nervous glance up at the loft, cut her eyes back to Smoke. “Of course, it would be argued that the sheriff, or that sticky-fingered jailer of his, could have relieved you of it while you were unconscious. For my part, I think there never was any money. Because I know that Larry had no intention of ever selling this ranch.”

“So then, that’s what led you to believe me?” Smoke prodded.

Martha took a deep breath, sighed it out. “Yes. At least enough to ask you, what do you intend to do about it?”

“I intend to find the one who did it and why. That’ll clear my name.”

“Then the next question has to be, what can I do to help?” It had taken Martha considerable effort to frame those words, yet the strain did not show on her lovely face.

Smoke and Jeff exchanged smiles. “Well, Miz Tucker,

I need a place to operate out of. Somewhere the sheriff and Quint Stalker’s men would never believe me to be.” “I can let you and your two hands and Ranger York move onto the ranch. They’ve tried so hard to make me believe you are guilty, no one would ever suspect you to be here.”

Smoke beamed at her. “We’ll be settled in by morning. Then I’ll come let you know where we set up.”

“Why, in the bunkhouse, of course. I read somewhere that if one wanted to hide something important, the best place would be in plain sight.”

“Poe, I think,” Smoke offered. “
The Purloined Letter
.” 

More of her heavy mood sloughed off, and Martha clapped her hands together in delight. “I am impressed Mr. Jensen. I never expected—”

“A gunfighter to be well read? I had a good teacher.” “Who was that, Mr. Jensen?”

“A man they called Preacher. He raised me up from about the age of your oldest. Taught me things that would astound a body. Some of ’em I never believed until I’d gotten around a bit. Walt and Ty are close at hand. We should be moved into the bunkhouse before midnight.” “Fine.” Martha rose, extended a hand in courteous fashion. “Then I’ll see you for breakfast at first light. We can start laying plans on how to expose the truth.”

Geoffrey Benton-Howell set aside the sheet of thick, creamy, off-white linen stationery. He could not restrain the smile of triumph that lighted his face, all except his malevolent, deep-set, blue eyes. He rose to his highly polished boots from behind the cherry wood secretary desk, and crossed the room to the tall, drape-framed window that overlooked the main street of Socorro. Backlighted by the searing sun, he struck a familiar pose, proud of his lean, hard body for all his fifty-one years.

“They will be here, as expected. Train to Albuquerque, then on by carriage. I suggest we send one of ours. It will make a good impression. These politicians of yours seem to dote on such privileges.”

Miguel Selleres took a deep sip from a glass of excellent port wine. “They are not my politicians, my friend. I am a citizen of Mexico.”

".New Mexico, to be precise,” Benton-Howell thrust a sharp barb. “The country of your adopted nationality lost this territory to the United States in the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. That was long before you were born.”

“No,
amigo
, I was born in this part of Mexico in 1845, and to me and my family, the distinction of which country has claim to it on paper is not in dispute. It is a part of Mexico. It always will be. The day will come when we cast off the foreign occupation of our lands.”

Lordy
, Quint Stalker thought as he stared at Miguel Selleres in disbelief, this boy’s wagon’s got a busted wheel. One good thing—so far no one had asked him why they had come runnin’ back to Socorro with their tails between their legs. A moment later Benton-Howell destroyed Stalker’s sense of relief.

“They will be entertained as planned. Now, tell me, Stalker, what brings you so hastily back to Socorro?”

A pained expression preceded Stalker’s words. “Truth to tell, Mr. Benton-Howell, the Apaches runned us clear the hell an’ gone out of them mountains.”

Benton-Howell’s tone mirrored his disbelief. “A few scruffy savages with bows and arrows? Surely you had enough firepower?”

“Not for more ’an a dozen of them. Those Apaches is tough fighters, Sir Geoffrey.” Try a little flattery, Stalker told himself.

“Perhaps your men have lost their
cojones
, 
¿
es verdad?” Miguel Selleres sneered.

“Don’t you get on my case,
Señor
.” Quint pronounced it
sayn-y
or. “What is it your people call them?”

“Ah, yes,” Selleres replied recalling. “
La raza bronce que sabe morir.
The bronze race that knows how to die. But they
do
die.”

“Eventual.” To Benton-Howell, Stalker explained “Oftentimes, their raiding parties are no more than five, six men. But they can tie up a platoon-sized army patrol for weeks at a time. All the while, they’re killin’, burnin’, an’ running off stock. Those stinkin’ Injuns kilt one of my boys, stuck arrows in three more. We was lucky to get out of it with our hair.”

“Yes, I can appreciate that. The fact remains that we must keep control of those claims. I want you to gather in all of your men and head back to the White Mountains. This time, make certain you can hold off every red nigger there, man or boy.”

“Mr. Benton—Sir Geoffrey,” Stalker protested through a series of gulps. “Thing is, we take in too many, and it attracts the attention of the soldier-boys an’ the Arizona Rangers. We can’t fight all of that at once. Besides, I need to leave a few men here, keep a lid on things.” “Very well, those who are out with Sheriff Reno on the posse can remain here to handle local matters. Take the rest and leave by noon tomorrow.”