William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

Captain Taylor stated the obvious. “Don’t we have to get Mike Sommers’ permission to blow up his walls?”

“Yeah, if we can find him. I haven’t seen him at all.” Chief Crowder paused a second, then directed Taylor. “Find Hub Yates, Mike’s foreman. I need to talk to him anyway.”

Five minutes later, Capt. Don Taylor returned with Hubbard Yates. “Hub’s not seen Mike, either, Chief.”

Quickly, Captain Crowder explained the situation to Yates. He concluded with an appeal. “We have to get someone’s permission to knock down these walls.”

Yates shook his head. “I don’t know if I can do that or not.”

“If you can’t, I do have the authority to do it anyway. Only thing is the city could be charged with the cost of rebuilding. But, if we don’t do it, like I said, we can lose half of the town.”

Hub Yates looked at the towering column of sparks. “Go ahead, then. I’ll take the chance and speak for Mike.”

“All right. Don, come with me. We’re going to set charges on both sides of the walls. The stronger ones on the inside. You take a crew that knows explosives and put them to it. And tamp them solid. We want to upend those adobe blocks and drop them inward. The blast should help blow out the flames, too.”

While volunteers and onlookers alike labored at the long pumper rails, other fire fighters directed inadequate streams of water onto the burning stacks of raw pine and fir. Steam rose in gouts. The core of the fire glowed a dark magenta. Don Taylor and his men took cases of dynamite as they arrived and prepared charges. A shout of alarm rose when the roof of the building nearest the blaze caught fire from sparks and began to burn lustily.

At once, Chief Crowder directed the three hoses of one company onto the new hot spot. Hissing in protest, the flames slowly died. “Keep on wetting that one down,” Crowder directed. He sent two runners to instruct the other fire rigs to do the same.

“Why are you giving up?” a bystander demanded.

“We’re gonna lose the whole she-bang, that’s for certain. All we can hope for is to keep it from spreading.”

“I still say you oughta keep on fighting.”

Crowder eyed him coldly. “You’re not wearing this coal scuttle on yer head, either. Hell, you’re not even helping. I’d keep that mouth buttoned up tight, if I were you.

After half an hour, Captain Taylor reported to the chief. “We’re all set.”

“Then let her rip!”

At a signal from Taylor, fuses were ignited. The solid thump of explosions rippled along the walls, working outward from the center. Thick clouds of dust billowed and obscured the fire. With a muffled rumble, the tiers of adobe blocks leaned inward and began to fall. The initial blasts had dampened the flames considerably. Now, the four-sided curtains of disturbed air from the falling walls snuffed much more. The feeble streams from the hoses began to gain ground. From the far side a cheer went up.

Chief Crowder began an inspection tour of the fire site. He found that through some fluke, the building front had only been slightly charred. Taking two firemen with him, he picked his way gingerly through the smoldering coals and mounds of ash. Near the rear of the store portion, where the fire had been far hotter, he came upon a huddled mound. Crowder brushed at accumulated ash with a gloved hand and revealed a human shoulder.

“Give me a hand here,” he commanded.

His firemen bent to the task. Shortly, they recovered and revealed the severely burned corpse of the owner. A sickeningly sweet odor wafted up from the seared flesh. One of the fire fighters, who had eaten mutton for supper, turned away and abruptly lost his supper. Fighting back his own rush of nausea, Chief Crowder issued yet another command.

“Get Doc Walters over here right away.”

* * *

In midmorning of the next day, a visibly troubled Dr. Adam Walters found Zeke Crowder in his saddlery shop. The volunteer fire chief sat at a bench, shaping strips of leather into the skirt of yet another of his excellent saddles. A steaming coffee cup rested to one side. He looked up as the bell over the door jingled and the doctor entered.

“’Morning, Doc. What news on Mike Sommers?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid, Zeke. That’s why I’m here. I also asked Hank Banner to join us. He should be along shortly.”

“The sheriff? What for? Mike died in an accident, didn’t he?”

“No. The fire was not an accident and Mike did not die from it.”

Right then the bell jingled again, and Sheriff Hank Banner entered. “Howdy, Adam, Zeke. Now, what was so all-fired important, Doc?”

Dr. Walters sighed heavily. “Maybe we should all have a cup of coffee at hand. I brought along some medicinal brandy.”

He remained silent while Crowder poured. Then the physician added brandy to all three mugs. He sighed heavily again before he made his revelation. “Mike Sommers was murdered. He had been shot twice. Once in the chest and once in the head. Whoever started that fire figured he would be too badly burned for us to find that out.”

“Any idea who might have done it?” the sheriff asked.

Dr. Walters hesitated. “I think you could guess the name I’d give you. Mike told me only last week that he had been approached with an offer to buy him out. He refused. Then three of the ruffians who have been moving into town of late roughed him up some on Saturday night. Now, this fire, and Mike is dead, killed by someone working for Clifton Satterlee, or I’ll eat my medical bag.”

With a grunt, the sheriff raised a restraining hand. “Be careful about unsubstantiated accusations, Doc. You know that particular gentleman would not hesitate to haul you into court on a slander suit.”

“But dang-bust it. What can we do about this? About everything?”

Again Hank Banner urged caution. “I must admit I share your suspicions that Satterlee is behind all that has happened, including the fire and the murder of Mike Sommers. But, I have no proof. Get me something positive and I’ll fling him in jail so fast his boots will take a week to catch up. You know, every day I see more hard cases moving into town. I’ve a feeling this is about to come to a head.”

* * *

Beyond the first line of trees that screened a small clearing beside the steep, winding grade that formed the eastern up-slope to Palo Flechado Pass, Moose Redaker, Gabe Tucker, Buell Ormsley and Abe Voss watched two riders walk their mounts past their observation point. When the pair, a young wet-behind-the-ears kid and an older man, had ridden well out of hearing range, Moose Redaker elbowed Buell Ormsley in the ribs.

“Didn’t I tell you? When I first seed them, I knew that bigger feller was Smoke Jensen. We’re lookin’ at better than five thousand dollars re-ward on the hoof.”

“You sure those flyers are still in force?” Abe Voss, the cautious one, asked.

Moose had a ready reply. “They ain’t been tooken up, have they?”

“That don’t mean someone will pay up after all this time.”

“Sure they will. And even if they don’t, killin’ that holier-than-thou gunfighter will be pure satisfaction in itself.” Moose Redaker beamed at his companions. “He’s done collected too many bounties that should have been ours by rights. ’Sides, it’ll do a whole lot for our reputation, now ain’t that so, Gabe?”

Gabe Tucker showed a grin of crooked, green-fringed, yellow teeth. “Right as rain, Moose. Hey, how’er we goin’ about this?”

A shrewd light glowed in the eyes of Moose Redaker. “These flyers all say he’s wanted dead or alive, right?” He paused and put a hand to his wide chin, which hung below a lantern jaw. “Do any of you hanker to manhandle a live and kickin’ Smoke Jensen?”