Triumph of the Mountain Man (15 page)

Tossa tried to be encouraging. “Chosteen, you will one day wear the
Sombrero Grande
of a
Charro.
This is part of the land of the White Father in Washington now. He will not let the Mexicans keep our people out of the
Asociacion Nacional de Charros.”

Chosteen turned to him. “And why not? Its headquarters is in Mexico . . . the old Mexico. The white eyes' laws do not apply there.”

With a shrewd expression, Tossa offered his bait. “If you worked for C.S. Enterprises, perhaps the
Charros
would accept you as an Americano.”

Suddenly, Chosteen's features clouded. “I would rather work for Soul Eater. At last you expect Him to be evil.” His eyes quickly narrowed as he thought of something. “Do you work for Satterlee? Are you here to try to get others to sell their Spirits to that outsider demon?”

“No—no,” Tossa hastened to object. “I am interested in him, only. We believe that he, or someone he used, has stolen sacred objects from our kiva.”

Chosteen spat on the sand. “Then he is as evil as I have been told.”

“You know something of this Satterlee, Chosteen?”

“I do.” For the next twenty minutes the two Pueblos spoke earnestly and intensely about Clifton Satterlee.

When they concluded their talk, Santan Tossa made his way to an outdoor barbecue pit where a small calf, which had been crippled in the day's practice, had been dressed out and put on a spit to roast. He watched the small carcass turn for a while, his stomach rumbling, prompted by the aroma. Mostly his people ate sheep, or wild meat. Over the years as a policeman, Tossa's frequent visits to the white man's town had given him a taste for beef. He pushed temptation aside to ask among the Pueblo men about Clifton Satterlee. One lean, young man, not yet in his twenties, gave him confirmation of a suspicion of his own.

“I have heard it said that he wants the land where your pueblo stands. He would cut the trees. All of them. He would lay our Earth Mother bare and let the rains wash gullies and ravines in her breast.”

“Is nothing sacred to these pale skins?” another asked.

The first to speak went on. “They care nothing for the land. There is more, always more, to be taken, laid waste and then move on to yet more. Their god is formed of those circles of gold that they treasure so much.”

Yet another advised, “Do not speak ill of the white outsider, Satterlee. He is a dangerous man.”

Through the afternoon, Tossa heard much the same, and more, from those he questioned. He reached the conclusion that none of them admired or trusted Clifton Satterlee, and that most feared him. He ate some of the roasted veal, wrapped in flat, cornmeal cakes, and seasoned by a thick sauce of chile peppers and garlic. Then he made his farewells and left to join Smoke Jensen.

* * *

Smoke Jensen had finished his first swallow of beer in the Cinco de Mayo cantina and had settled down to weighing up the other occupants when Ian MacGreggor pushed aside the strings of glass beads and entered the saloon. Mac ambled to the bar and elbowed a place beside Smoke. He ordered a beer and drank deeply before speaking in a low tone, his lips not moving.

“I have something important. We need to talk soon. And it's getting too hot for me here. There's nothing much for us to do and too much time for the others to ask questions.”

Smoke did not look at the young undercover deputy when he replied. “Find some excuse to get away for a while. Ride out from the estancia and join us on the road to Taos. We'll be there early tomorrow.

“I can do it. And, Smoke, you're not going to believe what I found out.” Lapsing into silence, Mac finished his beer, then turned away from the bar. Smoke stopped him with a hand on one shoulder.

“There's one thing you can tell me now. Which room is Miss Estes using?”

Mac frowned slightly. “She's not. Not in the main house, anyway. She has a small cabin outside the place, near the north wall. It's the one on the south end of a row of three.”

“Thanks.” Smoke released Mac and the young man walked out the door.

* * *

In every saloon and eating place Smoke Jensen visited, he encountered someone who had heard of either Clifton Satterlee or Paddy Quinn or both. Not until the fourth cantina he looked into, did he run into the first men to have anything good to say. In fact, they took immediate exception to Smoke even asking questions. Thrown from a blind spot, when he least expected it, a fist whistled past Smoke's head.

Smoke dodged it and spun on a boot heel. A hard-knuckled right fist drove up from waist level. Off balance from the missed blow, the pig-faced brawler caught Smoke's punch full in the gut. A loud grunt exploded from his lips. Eyes bulging, he bent double in time to take Smoke's swiftly upraised knee in the nose. Bright lights flashed in his eyes, to be swiftly followed by a blanket of blackness. He keeled over and struck his bloodied chin on the tile floor. At once, two others grabbed Smoke from behind and sought to yank him around.

Smoke Jensen set his powerful legs and twisted at the waist. One of the thugs went flying. The other hung on.
This shouldn't be happening,
Smoke thought. All he had asked was, “Anyone here know a feller named Satterlee? I hear he's hiring.”

The others said nothing. Instead, they started swinging. They still remained silent as another one jumped into the brawl. Smoke rolled a punch off his shoulder and popped the hard case who held him under the chin. His eyes rolled up, he blinked and tried to kick Smoke in the crotch. Smoke turned slightly and hit him again. He gave a shudder and let go of Smoke to sprawl with his face in the urinal trough that fronted the bar in most Mexican saloons.

Right then the fight took on a far more serious tone as two of the Quinn gang went for their six-guns.

15

Smoke Jensen saw their moves from the corner of one eye. He filled his own hand with a .45 Peacemaker in a blur of speed. One cut-rate gunfighter had time to gasp in astonishment before a 230 grain slug smashed into his left shoulder and he went flailing into a table, which collapsed under his weight. His six-gun, only partly out of the holster, fell to the floor at his side. Already, Smoke had swung his Colt to bear on the second gunman.

That unfortunate fellow had time enough to pull his barrel clear of leather and began to level the muzzle on the midsection of Smoke Jensen. His misfortune came from that fact which caused Smoke to put a bullet through his heart rather than shoot to wound. The gunhawk slammed back against the bar and slid to a sitting position. It had all happened so fast that only now did the bartender react with a shout to his other customers as he ducked below the bar.

A third gang member unlimbered his six-gun as Smoke swung his Colt that direction. He stopped the move instantly when Smoke raised his point of aim and the man could look down the black tunnel of the barrel. A thin curl of powder smoke rose from the muzzle. Smoke remained motionless while bar patrons dived for cover and the rest of the Satterlee partisans showed open, empty hands. A tense three minutes went by in which the only sound to be heard came from the wounded hard case. Smoke lowered his revolver only when the law arrived.

Face a fierce mask, the town marshal entered the saloon with drawn six-gun. He cut his eyes from the downed men to the bartender, and then to Smoke. “All right, who started all of this?”

No one seemed eager to reply, so Smoke Jensen holstered his Colt and stepped into the breach. “They did.” He indicated the wounded gunman and the dead one. “First off, three of those fellers over at the bar took offense to something I said and threw punches at me. When I knocked a couple of them flat, those two drew on me.”

A skeptical raise of eyebrow projected the lawman's mood. “And you just happened to be faster.”

“That's right. I was . . . or should I say am?”

“Do you have a name to go with all that speed?”

“I do. Could we talk about it at your office, Marshal?”

“You'll get there soon enough, I'd say. What's wrong with here?”

Smoke nodded at the gang members. “There are—other ears. What I have to say is for you alone.”

With a shrug, and another dubious look, the marshal turned to one of his subordinates. “Nate, take care of things here. You, mister, come with me.”

The marshal marched Smoke Jensen cattycorner across the Plaza de Armas to his office. Inside, the lawman took a seat behind a scarred, water-stained desk. “If it hadn't been some of Clifton Satterlee's hirelings, you'd be answering questions from inside a cell. So, speak your piece.”

Smoke dug into his vest pocket and produced his badge. “I'm glad to hear that, marshal. My name's Smoke Jensen. I'm a deputy U.S. marshal. At the request of a friend, I am here to look into Satterlee and his dealings.”

“Who is this friend?”

“Don Diego Alvarado, of Rancho de la Gloria, outside Taos.”

“It's about time,” the marshal snapped. “Governor Lew Wallace will be glad to hear that Satterlee is being investigated. By the way, I know your friend, Alvarado, and m'name's Ambrose . . . Dave Ambrose.”

Smoke Jensen appeared more amused than relieved. “Well, Marshal Ambrose, I'm not here to investigate Satterlee. My job is to eliminate him.”

Marshal Ambrose had a sudden change of mood. He snorted with contempt. “Another hired gun hidin' behind a badge.”

Smoke immediately put him straight. “Nothing of the sort. What I should have said is that Satterlee has broken several federal laws, or at least arranged for others to break some for him. I'm here to bring down his business and put him away for a good long time.”

Ambrose shot Smoke a disgusted look. “What if he chooses not to cooperate? Hell, man, he owns the judges.”

Smoke gave the marshal a cold, hard smile. “Then I'll just have to eliminate him.”

* * *

A bloated, red-orange ball hung over the snow-capped peaks to the west. Cold air rising off the white mantle distorted it into the wavy shape of an egg. Dark, purple shadows lay across the ground. Sammy Gittings sat on a fallen tree trunk, tears sliding silently down his chubby, round cheeks. They were lost. They had wandered off the Sugarloaf and no one would ever find them. He knew it, no matter what Seth said.

Seth looked up now from the pile of dry wood he had gathered. “Don't just sit there. Help me. We need to get a fire started.”

“What good will that do?” Sammy pouted. “We don't have anything to cook.”

Seth stood, grubby hands on his hips. “You come down here and build a fire and I'll get us something to eat.”

“How? You can't hit anything you shoot at.”

“Shut up! Jist shut up. I'll get something this time.”

A squirrel chattered alarmingly as it suddenly darted away through the tree limbs above. Seth looked up. “Maybe a squirrel.”

Sammy made a face. “Ugh! They look like rats when they're skinned.”

“Are you hungry or not?”

Sammy paused before replying to his brother. “Not that hungry.”

“Then don't eat. I'll have it all.”

Lower lip protruded in a pout, Sammy challenged Seth. “Won't either. I get my share. It's only right.”

Seth started to laugh at his little brother, only to have it cut off by a harsh primordial cough. His face went chalk white. “What was that?”

Right then, the wily old cougar that had been stalking them uttered another hoarse hack, flexed its powerful hind legs, and with a strident snarl, launched itself. Sammy screamed at the sight of the tawny blur and fell backward off the tree trunk. Seth let go a yowl and scampered backward. He tripped over an exposed root and landed on his round bottom. His arm stretched out as he desperately searched the ground. His fingers found the cold steel of a rifle barrel, and he closed around it in desperation. The mountain lion missed Sammy by a foot when the boy toppled away from its spring and now whirled in the small clearing under large, overgrown branches. It lunged again at the terrified, smaller lad.

In that split second, Seth brought up Bobby Jensen's little .32-20 rifle and fired at point-blank range. By sheer chance, the slug hit the cougar in the right ear and plowed a ragged furrow through its brain. It leaped into the air and fell back dead. One needle-clawed paw twitched three inches from the soft belly of Sammy Gittings.

“You got him! You got him, Seth,” Sammy shouted.

Unfortunately for the boys, the ferocious charge and odor of the puma thoroughly frightened the horses. Neighing in terror, both animals slipped their insecure ties off and ran away. Only a haze of dust and pine needles marked their course as their rumps disappeared down the trail.

Seth stared after them in consternation. Sammy came to him then, wailing between great sobs. “What—are—we gonna—do? What are we—gonna do? We'll die out here all alone.”

* * *

The moon would not rise until after midnight. It provided ideal conditions for Smoke Jensen and Santan Tossa to penetrate the security around the hacienda of Clifton Satterlee. Thanks to the information he had received from Ian MacGreggor, Smoke could pick the right place to scale the wall and be the least exposed to any of the watchers. The cabana occupied by Martha Estes was located close to the east wall of the compound, well away from the main house. Smoke had not come prepared to scale a high wall. Particularly he had not planned for the rows of jagged-edged, broken bottles that lined the top.

With gloves in place, moccasins on his feet, Smoke Jensen balanced himself on the shoulders of Santan Tossa. Cautiously, he reached up and felt his way between the blue ranks of dragon's teeth and found purchase. Smoke flexed his knees, then launched himself. He swung one leg upward to nudge against the outer row of bottle shoulders. He held on to the inside of the wall until his balance returned, then dropped the bite end of the rope around his neck to Tossa. Levering himself upward, Smoke went over the wall and dropped to the ground below.

Quickly he secured the loop of the rope to a post and gave the line a little tug. At once, it tightened and began to vibrate. On the far side, Tossa literally walked up the adobe palisade. In brief seconds he joined the last mountain man on the ground. Smoke pointed to a low, square adobe cabin to one side. A yellow square picked out a window, and indicated that someone occupied the premises. Silently, the two men moved in that direction.

Smoke eased to the corner of the building and peered around to take in the outer courtyard. Nothing moved, and he saw no sign of sentries. He beckoned to Tossa, and they went directly to the only door. Smoke put his ear to the panel and listened for ten long seconds, then grasped the latch, threw it and swung the portal inward.

Startled, Martha Estes looked up from the book she had been reading, her expression showing her to be a bit frightened. “Wha—what are you doing here, Mr. Jensen?”

“I've come to see you, ask a few questions, Miss Estes.”

Martha took a deep breath, reaching up with her hand. “This is—rather irregular.”

Smoke made a pacifying gesture. “I apologize for that, but I have learned something of importance that I want you to explain for me.”

Martha gathered herself. “I—I'll try to help if I can.”

“Good. What it is . . .” Smoke hesitated, then went on. “That squash blossom necklace you were wearing this morning. Where did you get it?”

“Why, Cliff—er—Clifton gave it to me. He has some other lovely pieces in the safe in the library.”

Smoke eyed her levelly. “Are you aware that those are stolen property?”

Martha started an immediate protest. “That can't be. Clifton is a respected businessman, an enterprising investor.”

Santan Tossa took over then. “Miss Estes, that necklace and the other items are religious objects, stolen from my people at the Taos pueblo. They are sacred to our kiva.”

Martha's face twisted in a war between disbelief and outrage. “Why, that's—that's terrible. However could Clifton have gotten ahold of them? Perhaps he purchased them, not knowing their origin?”

Smoke Jensen shook his head. “I'm afraid not, Miss Estes. Santan Tossa here is a tribal policeman, investigating the theft. All of his leads have taken him to Clifton Satterlee. For all his mighty reputation around Santa Fe, Miss Estes, Satterlee is not what he appears to be.”

“But . . . my father is a business associate. Surely he cannot be involved in such nefarious schemes.”

Deciding to ease her mind, at last for the moment, Smoke offered a suggestion. “To get away with what he is planning, Satterlee needs the cover of honorable, legitimate businessmen. By reflection, you see, it makes him seem the same. Your father is most likely one of those.”

Martha became more agitated. “No matter how he acquired the jewelry, it is simply unforgivable that your sacred items not be returned.”

She rose and crossed to a large, walnut armoire against one wall. There she kneeled and slid open a drawer. From it, she took the necklace. A look of anger had replaced her earlier confusion and shock. “Here, take this back and put it where it rightfully belongs.”

A thought occurred to Smoke Jensen. “What will you tell Satterlee if he notices it is gone?”

“I'll think of something. We women have our ways.” Martha smiled for the first time since they had entered the room.

Tossa accepted the silver and turquoise work of art and folded it into a strip of purple velvet. “Thank you, Miss Estes. I will keep it secret for a while that the necklace has been recovered.”

“I thank you, too,” Smoke added. “Now we'll say good night. It would be prudent if you did not let anyone know we have been here.”

“Of course. Good night, Mr. Jensen.”

Smoke built her a smile. “Call me Smoke.”

* * *

Clifton Satterlee had stayed up late also. He paced the confines of his library, hands clasped behind his back. Thick, rich velvet drapes covered the leaded glass windows so that not a hint of light escaped. A small fire crackled in the beehive fireplace set into one wall. These early spring nights remained chill. Seated in a large, wing chair, his long legs sprawled carelessly across the Kermint oriental rug, Paddy Quinn sipped appreciatively at the Irish whiskey his employer had thoughtfully provided for him. At last, Satterlee stopped his measured tread, poured himself an inch of cognac in a snifter and sighed heavily as he turned back to his guest.

“Obviously the men I sent to deal with Jensen failed in their task. He knew too much when he came here to warn me.
Warn me!
What impudence.”

Quinn waggled a finger at his boss. “Every rooster likes to make his cock-a-doodle-doo before he gets his head lopped off for the stew pot, he does. Ye ask me, Mr. Satterlee, this Smoke Jensen is runnin' scared. He was flexin' muscles he don't have. He's tryin' to buy hisself some time.”

Satterlee sipped the liquor and breathed out its aroma. “Somehow I don't quite believe that. There's more to the man than we saw in this room today. Are you familiar with his reputation?”

Quinn dismissed that with a curt gesture. “Reputations amongst the gunfighting brotherhood are gen'rally tall tales blown out of all proportions, they are.”

“Even your own?”

For a long moment Quinn studied Satterlee until he decided the remark had been made in jest. He responded then with joviality. “Far be it from me to disabuse anyone of my ferocious nature.”