William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

“Now, Mr. Reierson, in order to save time, we’ll start this off the hard way. I am a deputy U.S. marshal, empowered to investigate the murder that happened on this train last night. I’m going to ask you some questions and I expect truthful answers.”

“Why, of course. Any—-” Reierson’s voice caught. “Anything I can do to help.”

While Smoke went through his routine questions, Reierson developed a nervous tic at the corner of his left eye. His trepidation increased the harder Smoke probed. More so when Smoke pointed out that his answers did not hold up with the observations of others.

Reierson tried bluster. “That’s preposterous. I know where I was and what I did. They must be mistaken.”

Smoke rounded on him suddenly, his voice a soft purr. “No they aren’t. You did it, all right. What I don’t know is why. What made you kill that lovely young woman?”

“I didn’t! Y-you’re falsely ac-accusing an innocent man.”

“No, I’m not, Reierson. You did it, right enough. How did it happen? Did she resist your demands? Struggle? Maybe claw at you with those long fingernails?”

His face alabaster with fright, Reierson made to bolt for the door. Smoke Jensen reached him in two swift strides. He grabbed Reierson by one shoulder, spun him around and shoved him into a chair. Panicked, the pathetic specimen of a craven killer groped under his coat and whipped out a small, four-shot, “clover-leaf” pocket revolver.

“Yes, I killed her, goddamn you. And I’ll kill you, too.” Sobbing in frustration, he fired wildly.

Smoke Jensen was a lot faster and much more accurate.

Stoddard burst through the vestibule door. “What happened?”

“He confessed. After he drew a gun on me. I’ll write up a complete report and you can give it—and the bodies—to the law in Walsenburg.”

* * *

Soft music floated through the huge dining room of a hilltop mansion outside Taos, New Mexico Territory. A string quartet in formal black sawed away at an opus by Brahms. Clifton Satterlee sat at the head of a long, shining, cherrywood table that would easily seat eighteen. A wide strip of white linen ran the length of the ruddy, glowing surface. Brice Noble sat to Clifton Satterlee’s right; to his left, Clifton’s wife, Emma. Noble’s wife, Mildred, sat to her husband’s right. At the far end were Patrick Quinn and a young woman of his acquaintance, Lettie Kincade. The other women at the table would have been scandalized and highly offended if they knew that until ensnaring the attentions of Quinn, Lettie had been the inmate of a deluxe Santa Fe bordello.

Soft, yellow light from three silver candelabra flattered the complexions of the older women, smoothing out wrinkles, while it put a light of naughty mischief into the pale blue eyes of Lettie Kincade. Cole Granger stood in front of the high double doors that gave into a high-ceilinged, vaulted corridor. Dinner had concluded and the last of the dishes cleared away. At a sign from her husband, Emma stood and addressed the other women.

“Ladies, I suggest that we retire to my sitting room for coffee and sweets. If you gentlemen will excuse us?”

Clifton nodded blandly, and all of the men came to their boots as the women left the room. When the side door closed behind them, Satterlee turned to the butler. “Pour cognac around, if you will, Ramon, then you are excused.”

Soft clinking followed while Ramon Estavez poured from a crystal decanter into three glasses. When he finished his task and lighted cigars for all three, he soundlessly departed from the room. Satterlee lifted his glass in a toast and mockingly paraphrased Shakespeare.

“We grow . . . we prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards.” They all laughed and drank; then Satterlee continued. “First, let me announce that my lovely Emma will be returning to Santa Fe with me the day after tomorrow. Now, Mr. Quinn, we would appreciate a report of your progress.”

Rising, Quinn set aside his cigar. “The Bar-Four now belongs to C.S. Enterprises, it does. So does the Obrigon ranch. We completed papers on the Suarez ranch this morning. Two stores on the Plaza de Armas now belong to your development company, with three others likely to fall in line within two days more, an’ that’s a fact.”

“Thank you, Paddy, my friend.” Satterlee beamed.

“Ah, but there’s more. The title on the Figueroa hacienda cleared the territorial land office late this afternoon.”

Satterlee shot to his feet in enthusiasm. “Splendid.”

“Here-here!” Brice Noble chimed in. “Though I must say, it was a blasted expensive undertaking. It cost a fortune to buy that mansion. Why not simply kill the old man? After all, the granddaughter could not inherit. The territorial government would appoint an executor to manage it until she reached her majority. And then”—he gestured widely—“through our connections in Santa Fe we could have gotten it for a song.”

Satterlee countered that at once. “To use our bought politicians on so trivial a matter would have unduly compromised them. The time might come when we need their influence much more. Now, let us move on to the next phase of our agenda.”

* * *

Railroad workers rolled a movable loading chute in place at the door to the stock car that held the horses Smoke Jensen had brought along. The last mountain man stood by patiently as a man led Cougar down the ramp onto solid ground. Smoke had been surprised by how much Raton had grown since he had last been in the northern New Mexico town. Low adobe houses now sprawled out for a good mile from the more settled part of the community near the depot, each with its familiar picket fence of ocotillo cactus rods. Smoke abandoned his reflections when Cougar let out a shrill squall and swayed drunkenly, unaccustomed to not having the surface below his hooves in constant motion. Smoke hurried to the heaving side of the big Palouse stallion.

“Easy, boy. Whoa, Cougar.” To the depot worker he added, “He’ll get his legs back in a bit. Don’t try to walk him around right now.”

When both animals had recovered, Smoke saddled them, then strapped the large panniers on the packsaddle. The sudden thought hit Smoke that in the years past, he had never needed a packhorse to accompany him. Nor had he dragged along all the comforts that the pouches of the panniers now contained. He would have laughed at the wrought-iron trestle, cast-iron skillet and Dutch oven, three-legged grill and cooking utensils. A coffeepot and a small, lidded skillet had been all he had ever needed. Yet, when the years go by, he mused with regret, one’s needs change. Mounted on Cougar, Smoke walked his way toward the main intersection, where he would take the east-west trail toward Taos. With the Santa Fe and Denver and Rio Grande both passing through Raton, the usual entrepreneurs and hustlers had flocked into the burgeoning city. Hawkers with carts stood on street corners, touting their wares. Hundreds of people thronged the streets. A low haze of red-brown dust hovered at first-floor level throughout. Stray dogs yapped at the hooves of his packhorse, and the animal snorted its irritation and flicked one iron shoe. A yellow bitch yelped and slunk off. As he passed a saloon, a loud shout attracted Smoke’s attention.

“Hey, let me go!” A young man stumbled out onto the street, as though propelled by eager hands.

Following him came three scraggly ruffians who spread out across the thoroughfare. To Smoke they had the seedy look of low-grade wanna-bes. The one in the middle raised an arm and pointed in a taunting manner. “Yer wearin’ a gun, you little shit. Now yer gonna have to use it.”

With a start, Smoke Jensen recognized the speaker as Tully Banning, a two-bit gunfighter more renowned for the number of his back shootings than he was for face-to-face shoot-outs. In the next instant, as he reined in, Smoke realized that the challenged youth could not be more than fifteen. A beardless, frightened boy. Smoke quickly sized up the two louts with Banning. What his read gave him he did not like. The boy did not have a chance. Smoke stepped right in the middle of it.