Cunning of the Mountain Man (24 page)

They arrived on lathered, winded horses that trembled and walked weak-kneed to turns at the water trough. Charlie Bascomb, the nominal leader of the contingent that had escaped, reported to Quint Stalker and Geoffrey Benton-Howell. What he had to tell them did not get a warm reception.

“It’s the truth, Sir Geoffrey. I tell ya, the Apaches sided with those Arizona lawmen. My guess is they’ll be headed this way before long.”

Quint Stalker swore and smacked a balled fist into the opposite palm. “That’s the same lawmen that came after us. But they ain’t got authority in New Mexico.”

Frowning, Benton-Howell answered him, “I’m afraid they do. It’s called hot pursuit. If you are right, then they can keep coming until you are caught.”

“You ain’t gonna let them, are you?” Stalker all but pleaded.

“Of course not. You’ve served me well and faithfully—ah—with a few recent exceptions. I think it expedient to bid my friends from Washington and Santa Fe a fond
adieu
. We can hold off any force here, until the governor learns of my plight. I’m sure he can get the interloping Arizona lawmen out of his territory.”

“Hummm. That could be,” Stalker caught at the thin strand of hope.

“Meanwhile, I want you to organize the men we have here. Fortify the headquarters, and prepare to stand off a siege.”

“Do we got supplies for that?”

“Oh, my, yes. Ample food and ammunition, even some dynamite. Water might become a problem, if this becomes protracted.”

Stalker raised a brow. He knew the absolute importance of water in a desert. “Like how long?”

“Four or five days. All of the wells are out in the open. A marksman’s delight, don’t you know?”

“What about the Tucker woman? Can’t we use her and the brats to bargain with?”

Benton-Howell considered Stalker’s words a moment. “That was my intention, if the situation required it. More to the point, I want her signature on a bill of sale. That must come first. I’m going to see her now. See to the preparations.”

Martha Tucker looked up from her dark contemplations when Geoffrey Benton-Howell entered the small, bare pantry in which she had been confined. She had been separated from her children the moment they arrived at the ranch. That troubled her a good deal more than the constant insistence that she sign the ranch over to the Englishman. Jimmy would be all right, she felt certain, but little Rose and Tommy could be easily frightened. When her eyes fixed on her visitor’s face, she noted at once that something seemed to have ruffled his usual icy composure.

“Mrs. Tucker, I’m afraid I really must insist on you signing the quit claim deed form I provided. Time is— ah—running short.”

“For you or for me?”

“For both of us, I regret to say.”

Again, Martha noted a flash of distress, and seized upon it at once. “What is it, Mr. Benton-Howell? Is Smoke Jensen closing in on you?”

Damn the woman
, Benton-Howell thought furiously. Had she heard anything, even locked away here? He fought to retain his calm demeanor. “Smoke Jensen has nothing to do with the business between us. What I want is your ranch.”

“Smoke Jensen has
everything
to do with it,” Martha surprised herself by saying. “I see it now. You tried to frame Mr. Jensen for the murder of my husband.” 

“Damnit, madam, I’ll not have that sort of talk from you. I had nothing whatever to do with that sorry incident.” He omitted mentioning Miguel Selleres and Quint Stalker. “The matter is plain and clear. I—want—that—ranch.”

“How much are you offering for it?”

Benton-Howell pinned her with icy eyes. “Your life, and the lives of your children.”

“I have had better offers than that,” Martha snapped.

“Which you chose to spurn. My patience is growing short. Perhaps I should have one of the youngsters brought here. I assure you my men have ways that are most persuasive when dealing with a child.”

Martha paled, then red fury shot through her cheeks. “You’d not dare harm one of them.”

“Ah, but I would, indeed. If my wishes are not acceded to. The form is on the counter there, and pen and ink. I recommend you sign now.”

“Why do you want our ranch so badly?”

“That’s none of your affair. Sign that paper, madam.” 

“Or else?”

Benton-Howell thought a moment. “That younger boy of yours, ah, Tommy I believe. Is he a good scholar?” 

“He does very well in school.”

A smirk twisted Benton-Howell’s aristocratic visage into a mask of ugliness. “He wouldn’t do so well missing a couple of fingers, would he?”

Outrage and horror choked Martha Tucker. She made no sound as she leaped to her feet. Her fingernails flashed like the talons of an eagle, as she raked them down the face of her tormentor. Benton-Howell cried out in an almost feminine shriek, and he pushed her roughly away. He stormed to the door and hurled his last threat over one shoulder.

“Sign it or suffer the consequences.”

By late afternoon, half a dozen hard-faced men had ridden in and tied horses at the Socorro livery. Smoke Jensen observed to Jeff York that there must be an inexhaustible supply of second-rate gunhawks in New Mexico. They decided to delay their departure from town. One of the hands who had volunteered to help was sent back to the Tucker spread to make contact with the trackers, and bring their discoveries to Smoke. Now, with twenty gunmen locked in jail, more than half of them wounded, the town began to fill up with more of the same.

“By this time tomorrow, it’ll be every bit as bad as it was when we rode in,” Jeff stated in disgust, as he sipped at a beer in the Hang Dog.

“Too bad we couldn’t keep the Apaches in town,” Smoke observed.

“The good people of Socorro would have died of heart failure left and right. Some of my own men were concerned about how Black Knife’s bucks would behave when they got the killin’ hunger on them.”

“They’re damn good fighters,” Smoke said tightly. “They’re that. They’re also savages. No different from any other tribe. They got. their ways; we’ve got ours. There isn’t often that the two meet and work well together, like we did here yesterday.”

Smoke lifted the corners of his mouth in a hint of a smile. “It worked well enough, I’d say. Of course, we had common cause. Some of those men you chased down were responsible for killing those Apache kids. I’ll give you that if we go into their country next week, there’s no guarantee they won’t lift our hair. Like Preacher used to say, ‘Injuns is changeable.’ ”

Boots clumped importantly on the porch outside. Sheriff Jake Reno bustled through the doorway and came directly to Jeff York. “I see you are still in town, Ranger. Maybe that’s a good thing. There’s more of that border trash drifting in every hour. I’m danged if I know what got them stirred up.”

Jeff York put on a big grin and hooked a thumb in Smoke Jensen’s direction. “Maybe it’s that big reward you put out on my friend here.”

Sheriff Reno turned to see whom the Arizona lawman meant. He came face-to-face with Smoke Jensen. His jaw sagged, and the color drained from his cheeks. He staggered back a few small steps. At first, no sound came. Then, a wheeze and squeak slid past rigid lips. A moment later, he found full voice, and bellowed, albeit with a quake.

“Goddamnit! It’s Smoke Jensen!”

“In person, Sheriff. How’s tricks?” Smoke asked with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Sheriff Reno choked over the words that rushed to spew from his lips. He reached for his Smith American and handcuffs at the same time. “S—sta—stand ri-right there, Jensen. You’re under arrest. Give up, or by God, I’m gonna gun you down right here.”

Smoke Jensen backhanded Jake Reno so swiftly the sheriff never saw Smoke’s big hand. The impact sounded like a shot. “You’re not arresting anyone, Sheriff,” Smoke told him in a flat, deadly tone.

No small man, Jake Reno balled huge, ham fists and swung at the taunting man before him. Smoke easily slipped the first blow and caught the second on the point of one shoulder. He brought his hands up and worked on the sheriff’s soft middle. The fat yielded easily and, to his surprise, Smoke found a hard slab of muscle beneath. Reno grunted and punched Smoke in the face. Smoke’s head snapped back and heat flared in his eyes, as he drove a hard left to the side of Reno’s jaw. Jake Reno backpedaled rapidly until he struck the bar. Smoke followed with hard rights and lefts to the sheriff’s ribs. He felt bone give under his pounding, and shifted to Reno’s gut. Stale whiskey breath gusted from behind yellowed teeth.

A hard right from Smoke stopped that when it cracked three of Reno’s teeth and mashed his lips. Blood flew through the room when Sheriff Reno shook his head violently in an effort to clear his fogged mind. He managed to get his guard up in time to parry two more solid swings, then Smoke broke through and did more damage to Reno’s mouth.

Jake Reno sagged slowly, desperately seeking his second wind. It came gradually as his vision dimmed. With a blink of his eyes, he saw everything clearly again. He lunged awkwardly for Smoke Jensen and planted a left on the gunfighter’s cheek. Smoke took it without a flinch. Smoke’s own knuckles stung—he had not had time to put on his gloves before handing out this lesson in restraint. He ignored it and planted another fist in Reno’s face.

Reno countered with a vicious kick aimed at Smoke’s crotch. With a slight bob, Smoke slapped the booted foot away and then yanked upward on it. A startled whoop came from Jake Reno as he fell flat on his butt. Smoke closed in and stood over the seated man, to pound blow after blow onto the top of Reno’s head. Reno began to gag and spit up blood. He must have bitten his tongue, Smoke considered.

With what would prove to be his final defiance, Jake Reno reached out with both arms and encircled Smoke Jensen’s legs. He hauled with rapidly dwindling strength. When he put a little shoulder in it, he dislodged Smoke’s boots from the plank floor and toppled the mountain man.

Smoke recovered quickly though, and popped Reno on one ear with a stinging open palm. It had the effect of a gun going off beside the sheriff’s head. Through the ringing, with eyes tearing, Jake Reno pawed uselessly at Smoke Jensen’s torso while Smoke drove hard, punishing blows into already weakened ribs. Without warning, Jake Reno uttered a small, shrill cry, arched his back, and fell over backward. His head thudded in the sawdust.

Panting, blood dripping from the cut under his left eye, Smoke Jensen came slowly to his feet. He reached gratefully for the schooner of beer Jeff York offered him. He rinsed his mouth and spat pinkish foam into a brass gobboon.

“We’ve got enough evidence on the good sheriff to lock him up, don’t we, Jeff?”

“I’d say so. It’ll be up to the prosecutor if he’s tried for anything.”

“Then get this trash out of here. Put him in his own jail, and make sure he stays there.”

“We found sign about three miles from the ranch,” one of the trackers Smoke Jensen had sent out reported late the next day. “The Tuckers were taken to the B-Bar-H, sure enough. The closer they got, the less careful they were about covering their trail. An’ something else, Mr. Jensen. That place is being turned into a fort. Armed riders everywhere, fence lines are being raised higher, the windows of the main house are boarded up.”

Smoke considered this report while he sipped coffee. “Kevin, how many men do you figure are siding with Benton-Howell and Selleres?”

Kevin Noonan evaluated the quality of the gunmen they had seen. “I’d say twenty-five to thirty of them are average to good. They stay off the ridge lines, keep to the trees where they can, most don’t smoke at night. There’s another twenty or so who just don’t measure up; trash with a gun strapped on. And there’s more driftin’ in all the time, five to ten a day.”

Those numbers didn’t appeal to Smoke Jensen. Even a poor shot could hit someone sometime. He simply didn’t have enough men for a head-on fight. “It sounds like they’re getting ready to stand off an army.”

“Could be that this Englishman is trying to buy time,” Walt Reardon suggested.

“For what purpose?” Jeff York asked.

Smoke Jensen picked it up from there. “He did have all those politicians out there for a big party. While you were there, did you gather that they were being paid for favors already done?”

“More like Benton-Howell was courting them,” Jeff recalled. “It could be that they haven’t come through so far.”

“Yes. So he has to stall us, until whatever he is doing becomes legal,” Smoke completed the thought. “Which means we should do a little pushing right soon. We have to force the issue before he can get whatever he’s after out of the politicians.”

“How soon?” Walt Reardon asked.

Smoke thought on it. “In a day or two. First we have to make Socorro unpopular with the sort Benton-Howell is attracting to town.”

Walt Reardon lightly touched the grips of his six-gun. “We’d best do that before the place fills up again.”

“Right about now should be a good time to start,” Smoke announced, rising to his boots.

Orin Banning turned away from the lace curtains that covered the window of the parlor in Fanny Mae’s Residence for Refined Young Women. “I never saw a town with so many badge-toters in it,” he grumbled.

Beyond him, in the street, Arizona Rangers busily nailed up small, neat posters. One of the six men who had ridden with Banning to Socorro to answer the call put out by Benton-Howell made his way toward the brothel, eyes fixed on the industrious lawmen. After one had fastened a notice to a lamppost, he ripped it down and made his way quickly to the front door.

“Hey, Orin, lookie at this. We’re being posted out of town.”

“You mean
us?
” the would-be gang leader demanded.

“Well, yeah. Us an’ everybody else. It says here that, ‘Everyone not a resident of Socorro, New Mexico Territory or its environs’—whatever that means—‘is hereby ordered to be out of town by noon Tuesday.’ That’s tomorrow.”

“Who is going to be doin’ the throwin’?”

“Them Rangers, I reckon. Oh, an’ I heard a funny thing down at the Hang Dog. A feller said Smoke Jensen was in town.”

Banning frowned. “Jensen would never mix into something like this. Thinks he’s too damned good to work for another man.”