William Johnstone: Triumph of the Mountain Man

“First tell me, how is Monte?”

Doc Simpson sighed tiredly “It was close. I had to clean the wound channel first off. Then, when I got the bullet hole plugged, and closed the two holes in his lung, the Almighty musta smiled on me, ’cause the lung reinflated. He’s healthy. he should heal that up in good time. I’ve given him enough laudanum that he will sleep through to evening. That should aid the healing process. But, the bullet is lodged in the thick muscle only a fraction of an inch from his spine. After having to open his chest to work on his lung, no one can go in there after it right now.”

“When can you?”

Doc Simpson read the strain in Smoke’s voice. “Provided the sheriff heals as expected, I’d say someone could operate within six weeks, if that lead don’t shift and paralyze him in the meantime.”

“That could happen?”

With a hesitant nod Simpson replied, “I’m not a master surgeon, but right or wrong, it is taught in medical school that foreign objects in the body can shift under certain circumstances. That’s why I don’t want to operate on him. I’ll send for a special surgeon from Denver.”

That information did not sit well with Smoke. While Dr. Simpson worked on him, he kept at the physician to give a more accurate description of what damage had been done to Monte Carson. He remained dissatisfied when the doctor cut the last piece of tape and handed him two laudanum pills.

“Take half of one of these now. If the pain persists, take another half every six hours.”

“I don’t think I’ll be needing them, Doctor,” Smoke informed him, handing back the medicine. “How much do I owe you?”

“The county will pay for it. You were working as a deputy at the time.”

With that settled, Smoke shrugged into his bloodied shirt, put on his vest and hat and headed to the door. It would be a long, uncomfortable ride back to the Sugarloaf.

2

Halfway back to the Sugarloaf, Smoke started to regret his rash decision to reject the opium-based medicine. He also thought darkly about the morning’s events. Why did it have to be Monte Carson who caught that bullet? Although Monte had the constitution of an ox, he was nearing sixty. People didn’t heal so quickly then. Smoke knew from experience that a lung shot often led to pneumonia, which more often killed the victim than the bullet itself. In his moody thoughts, Smoke castigated himself for not having gone along with Monte. Better still, gone in his place.

No, Smoke admitted to himself, Monte had too much pride. It would have robbed him of his self-respect to acknowledge that age might be slowing his gunhand, delaying the proper read of a situation. Yet, the results spoke for themselves. Monte lay unconscious in the small infirmary off Doc Simpson’s office. Smoke had a slight bullet burn on his shoulder. They had both gone about it wrong. Admitting it did not mollify Smoke in the least.

Once he had turned Cougar into the corral, in the hands of Bobby Jensen to cool him out, Smoke took the mail to the main house. Sally greeted him with a spoon dripping melted lard in one hand. “Hello, handsome. I’m fixing a batch of doughnuts. My, what a lot of mail.”

“Yep. There’s a Sears catalogue for you.”

Sally clapped her hands. “Oh, goody, I get to buy things.”

Smoke answered her with a sidelong glance. “No, you don’t. And a letter from a woman named Mary-Beth Gittings.”

“Who?”

“That’s what it says. I’ll give it to you inside.”

Seated at the kitchen table, Smoke distributed the mail into neat piles. While Sally chattered on and added more lard to the heated deep skillet for the doughnuts, he turned his attention to the intriguing letter from New Mexico. He opened it to find a disturbing difference in his old friend. Instead of the usual bubbling enthusiasm of this jovial grandee, who so loved to entertain, it was a gloomy account of growing difficulties. High in the Sangre de Cristo range of the Rocky Mountains, things were not right, Don Diego Alvarado informed Smoke Jensen. He went on to illustrate:

“There is an Anglo named Clifton Satterlee, who covets all of the land around Taos. He is powerful and wealthy. He has a hacienda outside Santa Fe and is believed to have the ear of many of his fellow Anglos in the territorial government. It is also said that he has many interests and much influence in the East. He has surrounded himself with some most unsavory men, who aid him in achieving his goals by any means necessary. Amigo,” the letter went on, “there have been some incidents of violence. Men have been driven out, Anglos as well as Mejicanos.”

Absently Smoke reached to the plate holding the doughnuts. He let go of one quickly enough the moment he touched it. “They’re hot,” Sally reminded him with a laugh.

Smoke went back to the letter for the final paragraph. “No one here seems capable of dealing with the man. So, forgive my presumption in asking this, old friend, but I feel that I must appeal to you to come out here and get the feel of what is going on.” Only reluctantly, it seemed to Smoke, did Don Diego add his personal difficulties. “I, myself, have lost some cattle and the lives of some of my vaqueros.” His missive concluded with some of his usual flourish. Smoke put it aside in thoughtful silence.

* * *

They rode up quietly, five beefy, hard-faced, tough men, and tied off their horses to a stone-posted tie rail outside the high-walled hacienda on Calle Jesus Salvador in Taos, New Mexico Territory. Beyond the wall they could see the red tile roof of a Spanish colonial style, two-story house. Nestled in a large valley, surrounded by the Sangre de Cristo range, the residence had an air of peacefulness. That was quickly broken when the leader, Whitewater Paddy Quinn, spoke to his henchmen.

“Remember, we ain’t here to break him up, just to get him to sign.”

One of the thugs, a man named Rucker, responded with a snigger. “Right, boss.”

“Sure, I mean that, Rucker. Not a bruise. Now, let’s get in there.”

Quinn stepped up to a human-sized doorway inset in the tall, double gate, and raised a large brass knocker. The striker plate bolted to the portal gave off a hollow boom as he rapped it. He kept at it until a short, swarthy servant in a white cotton pullover shirt and trousers opened the door. “¿Sí, señores?”

“We’re here to see Mr. Figueroa.”

“¿Qué? Lo siento, no hablo Ingles.”

Paddy Quinn struggled to put his request into Spanish. “Es necesario a hablamos con Señor Figueroa.” His grammar might not be perfect, but he conveyed the idea.

Figueroa’s majordomo brightened. “Ay, sí! Vengan.” His leather sandals made soft, scraping noises as he led the visitors across the cobbled courtyard to the main entrance.

Through a wrought-iron gate and a pair of tall double doors, a tunnellike passageway led to a lushly planted open square. A large saguaro cactus filled one corner. In the center, a fountain splashed musically. Standing beside it was a slim gentleman of medium height, his white hair combed straight back in two large wings from his temples. He wore the costume of another age, tight, black trousers, trimmed with gray stripes along the outer seams, matching cut-away coat with gray lapels. His shirt was snowy, with a blizzard of lace and a wing collar. Calf-length boots had been burnished until they shone like polished onyx. From beyond him, practice scales on a piano tinkled from an open, curtained window. He turned at their entrance, and a dark scowl quickly replaced the smile of welcome he had prepared.

“You are not welcome in this house,” he declared.

Paddy Quinn put a wide smile on his Irish face. “Sure, I’m sorry you see it that way, Mr. Figueroa. We will try to be brief, we will. I have come to arrange for the sale of this property to Mr. Satterlee.”