William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

“Help me! Momma, help me! Get him off, get him off.”

The sudden commotion reached the ears of Sally Jensen and Mary-Beth Gittings where they sat on the porch, sipping at cups of jasmine tea. Mary-Beth’s face went blank, then white a moment, and she clutched at her heart. Half rising, she put her cup aside.

“I think that’s Billy. Whatever could be happening?”

Sally listened to the uproar a moment and picked out Bobby’s voice. “Yer a liar and a trespasser. Git the hell outta here.”

Dryly she remarked to Mary-Beth, “I think he has met our youngest. We had better go see.”

Together they headed in the direction of the wash house. The sight they saw made Sally Jensen ache, though inwardly she burned with pride for her adopted son. Bobby Jensen remained astride Billy Gittings, pounding him rhythmically. Billy was getting his tail kicked right properly. One eye showed the beginnings of a splendid mouse, and his nose had been bloodied. He sobbed wretchedly with each punch Bobby delivered. She could not let that go on, Sally realized at once. She hurried to the boys.

“Bobby, you stop that at once. Get off Billy this instant.” Embarrassment filled Sally Jensen as she dragged Bobby Jensen off Billy Gittings.

Mary-Beth Gittings harbored entirely different emotions. Her voice became accusative and filled with indignation. Her son and Bobby each gave his version of what had started the fight. Her face red, she turned with hands on hips to lash out at Sally.

“Billy is correct. No one has the right to own a gun except the police. I would certainly never allow a child of mine to have one.”

Bobby remained defiant. “Then why did he try to steal mine?”

Surly, though in control of his sobs and tears, Billy answered truculently. “I was gonna take it away from you and do what’s right and give it to Mother.”

Sally stepped in. “Bobby is correct. Taking another person’s property, whether you think he has a right to it or not, is stealing. There will be no more of that around here. Now, both of you go in there and get yourselves washed up. You’re a couple of mud balls. And shake hands and try to be nice.”

Thoroughly mollified, Bobby put out a hand. “My name’s Bobby, what’s yours?”

“Billy,” the other boy answered, still offended. Then he drew himself up. “William Durstan Gittings. But you can call me Billy.”

They released their grip and turned away from the adults. With an arm around each other’s shoulders, they walked toward the bath that awaited them. Sally breathed a sigh of relief, only to learn that Mary-Beth had not finished.

“One thing you must accept, dear Sally. My son was right in what he did. He certainly did not deserve anything like the beating he got.”

Sally groaned inwardly at the thought of the ensuing month, saddled with this now former friend.

* * *

In a large, adobe mansion outside of Santa Fe, Clifton Satterlee and four of his associates from back east sat in a sumptuous study, two walls lined floor to ceiling with books in neat rows on their shelves. Long, thick, maroon brocade drapes covered the leaded glass windows, with the usual wrought-iron bars covering them from outside. A small, horseshoe-shaped desk occupied the open space directly in front of the limestone casement. That was where Satterlee held court. The tall back of a large, horsehair-stuffed chair loomed over his six-foot-plus height. He wore a blue velvet smoking jacket and open front shirt of snowy perfection, riding trousers and calf-length boots. His guests clothed themselves with all the formality of eastern evening wear. Brass lamps provided illumination, and the yellow rays of the kerosene flames struck highlights off the cut crystal decanter and five glasses on a low table around which the visitors sat. The topic of conversation had turned to their plans for the conquest of Taos and its environs.

“We already have a good foothold,” Satterlee reminded his associates. “C.S. Enterprises has the timber rights to a thousand acres on the eastern slopes of the Sangre de Cristo range. By selective cutting, we can clear a way to allow passage of the logs we harvest from the land currently held by those Tua vermin. We can pass them off as coming from our legally held property.”

Durwood Pringle cocked an eyebrow. “Do you think that will fool any inspectors the Interior Department sends out here?”

“Of course, they are the same kind of trees. We will continue to log off the eastern slopes so that an inspector will see cutting activity. And, we will have ample advance warning of any surprise visit. Besides, when it comes to the local officials, we have already bought them.”

Pringle still lacked assurance. “Yes, but are they honest politicians?”

Satterlee snorted in impatience. “What do you mean? We paid them off, didn’t we?”

“I understand that, Clifton, old fellow, what I mean is that an honest politician is one that once he’s been bought, he stays bought.”

They shared a good laugh at this levity. Then Satterlee moved on to the next subject. “The merchants and residents of Taos remain stubborn for some reason. Although we have added to our cattle holdings recently with two hundred head from the Alvarado ranch.”

A frown creased the forehead of Durwood Pringle. “That’s excellent, Clifton. But what we want to know is what is being done to encourage these reticent merchants in Taos to sell out?”

Clifton Satterlee took a long pull on his cognac and produced a warm smile. “Have no fear, Durwood. That is being taken care of as we speak.”

6

Bright orange tendrils of flame coiled through the black night sky over Taos, New Mexico. The intensity of the inferno paled the thin crescent of moon and dampened the starshine. A horse-drawn fire wagon, its bell clanging frantically, sped through the streets. Men in light blue cotton shirts tugged at the suspenders of their bright yellow, water-proof, oil-skin trousers. A cold hand clutched their minds as one. The worst possible disaster had actually happened.

“Where’s the blaze, Cap?” a late arrival volunteer fireman asked of his captain.

Captain Taylor pointed to the south. “Couldn’t be worse, Clem. The lumberyard is on fire.”

Seconds later, their red-and-black lacquered fire engine stormed down the street toward the lumberyard, which had become an orange ball. The chief of the volunteer fire department, Zeke Crowder, directed them to the south side of the block-square enterprise. Flames and showers of sparks shot fifty feet into the air. Zeke Crowder studied this condition with a grim expression. After several seconds, he called his captains together.

“We’ve got to keep this from spreading to other buildings. Remember what happened in Albuquerque last year. Three blocks in a row wiped out by what started as a small fire in a restaurant kitchen.”

“How do we go about it, Chief?” Fire Captain Taylor asked.

Chief Crowder produced a thoughtful expression. “Even though most of these buildings are made of adobe, they all have palm thatch roofs. Dry as it is, if sparks land in that, fire can sweep through as fast as the scorpions and other critters that live there. We have to knock down the flames now to keep that from happening. If we don’t, we’ll lose half of Taos.”

“How we gonna git it done?” another captain persisted.

Chief Crowder did not hesitate. He gestured to the twelve-foot adobe walls that surrounded the lumberyard. “We need to knock down these walls, make ’em fall inward and blow out the flames. Parker, go to the general store. That’s the only other source of dynamite in town. Oh, and you might send someone out to the mines. They’ll have some. But hurry.”