William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

Figueroa glowered at him. “Then you have come on a mistaken mission, señor. I have no intention of selling.”

Beaming happily, Quinn ventured to disagree. “Oh, yes, you do.”

“No, I do not. I have told you that five times before. I have not changed my mind. Now, leave or I shall send for some of my retainers.”

At that, Paddy Quinn gave a signal to two of his henchmen. They crossed the space separating them from Ernesto Figueroa and grabbed the elderly gentleman by the arms. Quinn gestured toward the open window. With little effort, they frog-marched him to the lace-curtained window from which the music came. Quinn came up behind and shoved Figueroa’s head through the opening. The scales had given over to a piece by Mozart now, played by a sweet-faced little girl.

“A nice girl, your granddaughter, she is,” Quinn observed. “Lovely, innocent, vulnerable. You’d not be wanting anything to happen to her, now would you?”

A shudder of revulsion passed through Figueroa a moment before the thugs abruptly swung him around to face their leader. He fought for the words. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Quinn gave him a smile. “You’re right, I would not. But I cannot account for every minute of my men’s time. Come, señor. You will be more than generously compensated, an’ that’s a fact. You can take your lovely, expensive furniture and possessions elsewhere, anywhere you wish, and live to see her grow to womanhood. And a lovely figure she will make, it is.”

Wincing from the painful grip on his arms, Ernesto Figueroa remained defiant. “What will happen if I still refuse?”

Paddy Quinn’s face changed from beaming benignity to harsh evil. “Then I will let my men have their way with her and kill her before your eyes. But not you,” he went on. “We’ll be leaving you to live with what your stubbornness caused. Think about it, bucko.”

Ernesto Figueroa hesitated only a scant two seconds before his head sagged in resignation and he made a hesitant gesture to indicate he would accept. Paddy Quinn handed him the papers and even produced a travel pen and brass inkwell so the defeated man could sign.

* * *

After due consideration, Smoke Jensen decided to go to Taos. His reasoning was simple. The foaling season, from February through April, was over and the first of May not far away. Besides, he owed Diego Alvarado. He left the hands busy with the new colts and went to talk it over with Sally.

“I expected this since you first told me what the letter contained. I’ll not beg you to stay here, Smoke. I know better, and you would be disappointed in me if I did. How long do you expect to be gone?”

Smoke considered it. “Ten days. Two weeks at the most.”

Sally’s chuckle held a hint of irony. “I’ve heard that before. How are you going to travel, Smoke?”

“I’ll take the Denver and Rio Grande south to Raton, then go by horseback through the Palo Flechado Pass to Taos.”

A light of mischief glowed in Sally’s eyes as though she particularly liked the thought that burst on her. “That sounds easy enough. I think I’ll come with you; it will be nice to see Don Diego again.”

Smoke shook his head rejecting the idea. “Who’ll run the ranch and look out for Bobby?”

“Ike can run the ranch, and Bobby is grown enough to bunk with the hands and take care of himself.”

Smoke remained unconvinced. “Think about what you just said.”

“About Ike running the ranch?”

“No. About Bobby. He’s thirteen, Sally. Do you remember what our others were like at that age?”

Fresh worry lines formed on Sally’s forehead. “Yes . . . unfortunately I do.”

“I think you should reconsider.”

Sally stood in silence a long two minutes, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder with Smoke. “All right, you win this one. I’ll be realistic and not start to worry until three weeks have gone by.”

“Nice of you,” Smoke jested, giving her a swift hug. “I will write you when I reach Taos.”

“Send a telegram instead. It will get here sooner.”

“All right.”

“Now, let me ask only one thing. What are you going to do when you have to keep your promise to that boy about taking him along on one of these trips?”

Smoke affected a groan. “I’ll figure that out when the time comes. Now, dear wife, will you pack me something suitable to wear at Diego Alvarado’s?”

* * *

With an impatient twist to his lips, Clifton Satterlee gazed from the narrow window of the mud wagon stagecoach that rattled and swayed along the narrow dirt roadway that led from Santa Fe to Taos. “One would think,” he muttered under his breath, “that since our nation has conquered this country, the government would put down proper paving stones.” If they did not reach the relay station soon, he swore he would leave his breakfast on the floor of the coach. Across from him, his chief partner in C. S. Enterprises, Brice Noble, sat beside Satterlee’s bodyguard, Cole Granger. To the increase of his discomfort, Satterlee realized that Granger actually liked this trip. He seemed to thrive on the discomfort. Suddenly Clifton’s stomach lurched, and a fiery gorge rushed up his throat. He turned sideways and hastily flung aside the leather curtain.

“Oh, God,” Satterlee groaned as he thrust his head out the window. With explosive force, he vomited into the rising plume of dust that came from under the iron-tired right front wheel. He could feel Granger’s amused gaze resting on him. Damn the man!

When he recovered himself, Clifton Satterlee crawled limply back inside. Cole Granger held out a canteen for him, which he took eagerly and he rinsed his mouth. Then Granger extended a silver flask. “Here you go, Mr. Satterlee. It’s some of your fine, French brandy.”

Irritation crackled in Satterlee’s voice. “It’s cognac, Cole. C-O-G-N-A-C.”

Hastily, Satterlee seized the container and swallowed down a long gulp. Immediately his stomach spun like a carousel. Then the warm, soothing property of the liquor kicked in, and his nausea subsided somewhat. From outside, above on the box, came a welcome cry.

“Whoa, Tucker, whoa, Benny, whoa-up, Nell. Wheel right.” He called out the rest of the team, and the momentum of the stagecoach slackened.

Satterlee addressed the rest of the occupants. “About damned time. You know, that little upset of mine has left me ravenously hungry. Or maybe it is the cognac.” He took another swig.

Cole Granger checked the stage itinerary. “There’ll be a meal stop here, Mr. Satterlee.”

Brice Noble looked balefully out the window. “I certainly hope the food will be better than we had this morning. That must have been what caused your discomfort, Cliff.”

Satterlee nodded his gratitude for his partner’s cover-up of his motion sickness. He hated any sign of weakness, as did Noble. Clifton Satterlee studied his partner. A man in his late forties, ten years senior to himself, Brice Noble had a bulldog face with heavy jowls. For all his youth, Noble was completely gray, his hair worn in long, greasy strands. Shorter by three inches, Noble weighed around one hundred seventy pounds and had the hard hands of a working cowboy, although Satterlee knew he had been a wealthy man for a long time. Brice had never given up his habit of carrying a brace of revolvers, in this instance, Merwin and Hulbert .44s. Satterlee knew only too well how good he could be with them. His pale blue eyes had a hard, silver glint when angered.

For his own part, Clifton made certain he never infuriated Brice. Even at six feet, two inches with longer, once stronger, arms and barrel chest, Satterlee readily acknowledged that he was no match for Noble. He sighed as he glanced down at the beginnings of a potbelly. He would have to get out and do more riding, Satterlee admonished himself. Although a lean man, Satterlee’s left armpit felt chafed by the shoulder holster he wore there, and more so from the weight of the .44 Colt Lightning double-action that fitted it. Recalling its presence brought a laugh to the lips of Clifton Satterlee. He had not had occasion to draw it in anger or even self-defense in the three years since he bought it.