William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

“Hello, Mr. Jensen. It’s me, Mac.”

Smoke looked up from the task of slicing potatoes into a skillet to study the gangly youth. Mac’s shoulders were broad and his arms long, the promise of a fair-sized man when he got his growth. He was slim, though, and narrow-hipped, and with that boyish face, he looked a long way from reaching that maturity. Smoke motioned him in.

“Howdy, Mac. What brings you along?”

“Well, Mr. Jensen, I wanted to thank you again for saving my life. Really, though, I sort of got to thinking. I wondered if—if you’d welcome me to ride along with you. Seein’ we’re headed the same direction, that is.”

So much earnestness shone from his freckled face that Smoke had to turn away to keep control of his laughter. He fished an onion from a pan of water and began to slice it onto a tin plate to add to the potatoes. “Now, what direction would that be?”

“Why, to Taos, of course.”

Smoke feigned doubtfulness. “I’ll have to think on that one. But, step down. Least you can do now is share my eats. I’ve got some fatback, taters, and I’ll make some biscuits.”

Memory of the boiled oatmeal, twice a day, that had sustained him between his home and Raton prodded Ian MacGreggor. “Gosh, you sure eat well, Mr. Jensen.”

“Call me Smoke, Mac.”

Caught off balance by this, Mac gulped his words. “Yes, sir, ah, Smoke.”

“Now, to eatin’ well, it’s only common sense. In this climate, a man has to use up his fresh stuff right at the start. By the time we reach Taos it’ll be spare enough.” Smoke turned his attention to the food for a while, then asked, “You have family in Taos?”

“No, sir, I’m leavin’ home for good. I’m my pap’s third son, so there’s nothin’ for me around the farm. We have a little dirt-scrabble place over in Texas. Whole lot of Scots folks around Amarillo. The farm’ll go to my oldest brother, Caleb. Dirk is hot for workin’ on the railroad. Wants to be an engineer. The apprenticeship and schoolin’ costs money, so there was not much left for me.”

“Then, I gather you are looking for work in Taos?”

“That’s right, Smoke. I heard there was plenty work being offered out Taos way. There was even a notice in the Amarillo paper. A man named Satterlee. He’s lookin’ for cowhands, timber fallers, all sorts of jobs.”

Smoke’s frown surprised Mac. “Ah—Mac, I don’t want to disappoint you, but do you know anything about this Satterlee?”

“No, no I don’t. What’s the matter?”

Smoke did not want the boy to go bad. He seemed to have some promise. So, he told Mac what he knew of Clifton Satterlee from the letter sent by Diego Alvarado. As he spoke, the youngster’s eyes grew big, and he produced an angry expression. When Smoke concluded, Mac shook his head.

“I sure don’t want anything to do with someone like that. Sounds like he’s puredee crook.” Then he took on a sad expression. “But now I’ve burned my bridges, what am I gonna do to make a livin’?”

“Taos is growing. And I have a friend. A man who owns a large ranch. Do you happen to speak Spanish? His name is Diego Alvarado; he’s a real Spanish gentleman.”

Mac nodded enthusiastically. “Sure do. Learned it from the sons of our hired hand. I growed up with them.”

“Then, if Don Diego takes you on, you’ll have lots of use for it. All of his ranch hands are Mexican.”

Mac frowned. “I don’t know much about cows. We planted mostly hay, sold it to the ranchers, put in some wheat, corn. Pap wanted to try watermelons. They grow real good in Texas.”

“As I recall, Diego has some fields down by a creek that runs behind his house which he uses to irrigate them. He grows several kinds of melons, as well as corn, onions, beans, chile peppers, and a little cotton. He provides nearly all the needs for the entire ranch.”

“How—how big is this place?”

“Three or four thousand acres, I’m not sure which.”

Mac looked at Smoke in awe. “That’s the biggest spread I ever heard of. All we have is a quarter section.”

Smoke took pity on Mac, though not much. “Diego has more land under irrigated cultivation than that. I’m willin’ to bet he could use an experienced farmer.”

Over their meal, Smoke worried around another idea in his head. When Mac offered to wash up after supper, Smoke poured a cup of coffee and spoke his mind. “If Diego has no need for a farmer, there might be something else you can do. Something for me. Though it might prove risky.”

New hope bloomed on Mac’s face. “Anything, so long as it’s legal, Smoke.”

“I assure you it’s that. Don Diego asked me to come out and take a look at this Satterlee’s operation. I could use some help in doing that.”

“How can you poke into something crooked? That’s a job for the law.”

Smiling, Smoke produced his badge and showed it to Mac. “So happens, I’m a deputy U.S. marshal. What I have in mind is that if Diego does not take you on, you go ahead and take that job with Satterlee. Only, don’t break the law yourself. Look around, keep your ears open. See what kind of sign you cut on his operation. Then, make arrangements to report anything you learn to me. You’d get regular deputy marshal pay, provided by the U.S. Marshal’s Office. That should give you a good stake after the job is over.”

“What about the risk you mentioned?” Mac asked soberly.

No fool this one, Smoke reflected. “If you are caught, Satterlee or one of his henchmen will try to kill you. Or at least hurt you pretty bad.”

Mac cut his eyes to the six-gun in the holster on his hip. “I ain’t as fast or accurate as you, Smoke. An’ I never caught on to the trap of those three in Raton. But I am good with a gun.”

“You’ll have to be. What d’you say?”

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

Smoke looked Mac levelly in the clear, blue eyes. “Done, then. But you may not live to regret it,” he told the boy ominously.

* * *

A refreshing spring shower had brightened the yellow bonnets of the jonquils and purple-red tulip globes in the wide beds planted at the front of the main house on the Sugarloaf. A rainbow hung on the breast of the Medicine Bow Mountains to the northeast. Sally Jensen gave up on her industrious dusting program at the clatter of narrow, steel-tired wheels on the ranch yard. She removed the kerchief which covered her raven locks, abandoned her smudged rag and straightened the apron as she walked to the door. She opened the portal to an astonishing sight.

A woman, vaguely familiar, and four children sat on the spring-mounted seats of a sparkling, brightly lacquered carriage. The three boys, their soft, brown hair cut in bang-fringed pageboy style, wore manly little suits of royal blue, Moorish maroon and emerald green, with identical flat-crowned, wide-brimmed hats. The small girl sat primly beside her mother, in a matching crushed velvet cape and gown of a puce hue, feathered bonnets to match. The young males quarreled loudly and steadily among themselves.

Sally took three small steps to the edge of the porch. She paused then as she put a name to the face, remembering the letter she had received three days earlier. Mary-Beth Whipple. No, Sally corrected herself, her married name was Gittings. Obviously when Mary-Beth had written asking to make a brief visit, she had taken for granted that the answer would be yes. How typical of Mary-Beth, Sally thought ruefully.

“Sally, dearest,” Mary-Beth burbled happily as she reined in.

“Mary-Beth?” Sally responded hesitantly. “I—didn’t expect you so soon.”

Mary-Beth simply ignored that and gushed. “It’s so good to see you again. You have no idea how much I’ve missed my dear schoolmate.” She raised her arms and flung them wide to encompass the whole of the Sugarloaf. “We’re here at last.”