William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

More men helplessly stood in place to shout curses and shake their fists. Dust thrown into the air by the dynamite explosions began to settle and obscure the entire scene. Acrid smoke from the explosives hung in undulating waves over the former fire sites. The others who had crowded into the room with him were laughing and slapping one another on the back. Smoke Jensen felt no such elation. Men had died, and others had been maimed by his actions. If it served to break the resolve of the outlaws, well and good.

“What happened to them?” Diego Alvarado asked Smoke.

Smoke lowered the field glasses. “That’s what I’m here for anyway, isn’t it? I prepared a little wake-up call for them.”

Don Diego studied Smoke’s handiwork in awe. “It looks . . . devastating.”

“Who was it said something about omelets and eggs?” Smoke asked aloud.

He shifted the glasses again as a pearlescent ribbon silhouetted the jagged mountain peaks to the east. There. He had found him. Paddy Quinn stood on a knoll, the reins of his horse in one hand. His expression was one of disbelief. What next? he seemed to be asking himself. If need be, Smoke Jensen decided, he would show Quinn what.

* * *

“Begorrah, there’s a black-hearted bastard at work here,” an enraged Paddy Quinn exclaimed as Garth Thompson approached to report on their condition.

“You’ll think it is Old Nick himself when I tell you where we stand right now.”

Quinn cut his eyes to Thompson. His black orbs, which usually twinkled in harmony with his perpetual smile, had become flat mirrors. The beaming expression had melted away. “What is it yer sayin’, boy-o, what is it?”

Garth had never seen his boss like this. He noted the black smudge of unshaven jaws, the little mouth set in an angry slash, high forehead furrowed, the muscles of his head so rigid that his small ears literally twitched. To Garth, Quinn looked ready to explode like one of their fire pits.

“We’ve had fifteen men killed. There’s another twenty injured. Twenty-five men just plain rode off. I don’t reckon they’ll be coming back. Old Snuffy, our cook, and his swamper have plain disappeared.”

A foul stream of curses gushed from Paddy’s mouth. At last he curbed his fury. “By damn, this is the doing of Smoke Jensen. I’ve got to talk to whoever is in charge in Taos. He’s got to curb his mad dog. And, he’s got to see reason, he does. Even with our losses, we’ve enough men to wipe out the entire town. There’s other places to live, an’ men start over all the time, they do.” Paddy went on for a good five minutes, as though rehearsing his presentation to the leader of the defenders. When he wound down, he issued his orders to Garth Thompson.

“Rig a white flag. Then ride down there and tell them I want to meet and talk with whoever is in charge. We’ll meet after break—awh, hell, we don’t have a cook, ye say. How am I gonna get some breakfast?”

* * *

Smoke Jensen and Diego Alvarado rode out to the meeting with Paddy Quinn later that morning. As they swung into their saddles, Smoke offered a word of caution. “I think it would be wise to have some of your vaqueros keep a close eye on every hard case in rifle range of our meeting.”

Diego cut a knowing eye to Smoke. “You suspect that Señor Quinn will not honor his own flag of truce?”

“That’s putting it mildly. I’ll keep watch on Quinn. You do the talking.”

Smoke’s arrangement worked out excellently. Paddy Quinn knew Diego Alvarado from previous encounters and naturally addressed him as the leader. He chose to ignore Smoke Jensen, whom he also recognized. The snub was wasted on Smoke.

“Don Diego, it’s good to see you again, it is.”

Diego’s black hair and mustache and chiseled features gave him a sardonic appearance. “Somehow I doubt that. What is it you want, Quinn?”

“Ah, no time for pleasantries, is it? A busy man ye are, no doubt. Well, then, we might as well get to it.” Quinn paused and drew a deep breath, which he sighed out before he continued. “There’s no denyin’ that ye hurt me some. An’ Mr. Satterlee will be sore distressed over that, an’ that’s a fact. But, it’s also a fact, it is, that we’ve the strength to wipe out any resistance ye might choose to put up. So, me fine grandee, I’ve come to discuss the terms of your surrender. Not just the town, but that grand ranch of yers.”

Diego Alvarado swallowed the rising anger to request in a cold, grave tone, “In return for what?”

Paddy Quinn leaned back in the saddle, as though considering that question, then produced his usual cherubic smile. “Now, Mr. Satterlee was perfectly willing to pay fair market price for all the property he desires. But . . .” His expression changed to the mask of deadly fury witnessed earlier by Garth Thompson. He nodded toward Smoke Jensen. “Then the devilment wrought overnight by this hired cur of yours changed all that, it did. So, Señor Alvarado, here’s what we’ll be havin’. All hostilities will end immediately. We will be allowed into town at once, without hindrance, to select which properties Mr. Satterlee desires.”

To Paddy Quinn’s surprise, it was Smoke Jensen who answered. “You’ll be dancing with the devil before that happens.”

Quinn masked his reaction and raised an arm to make a curt gesture. Two of his henchmen appeared over a low rise. Between them they held Martha Estes. They brought her forward until Smoke could plainly see the fear in her eyes. Quinn openly gloated over his prize, his voice a velvet purr.

“So, then, unless we are allowed into Taos, and the people are lined up eager and ready to sign over their property to C.S. Development Company, a division of C.S. Enterprises, Miss Martha here will be slowly killed right out here before your eyes.”

Smoke Jensen’s face took on a rock-hard stillness, his amber eyes and expression thunderous. “I sincerely doubt that’s true. Clifton Satterlee would not be at all pleased.”

Quinn appeared not at all affected by that judgment. To further prove he did not bluff, he made another signal. Four houses on the edge of town, which belonged to some of the poorer Mexican farmers, suddenly burst into flames. The dry thatch of their roofs burned rapidly. Women and small children ran screaming from their fiery homes. In the distance, the fire bell began to clang. Smoke and Diego looked on, unable to do anything.

Paddy Quinn watched with them for a while, then turned his horse and spoke over his shoulder. “You have one hour.” Then he posed a question for Smoke Jensen. “Tell me, Smoke Jensen? How does it feel to at last meet your better?”

Smoke Jensen’s flat, level gaze pierced Paddy Quinn and fixed him in place. “I don’t think I have.”

For a long, tense moment Paddy Quinn did nothing. Then he turned about and rode swiftly away without another word.

* * *

Smoke Jensen looked up from the lists of preparations that had so far been completed. A delegation of some eight local merchants stood in the sheriff’s office. He clearly read the fear on their faces. Smoke erased the frown that had creased his brow and forced a smile.

“Something bothering you gentlemen?”

He noted that they were among those he had rated as the most timid among the businessmen of Taos. They fidgeted now, like schoolboys caught in some naughty act. One ran an index finger around the interior of his celluloid collar. Two shifted their feet in an uneasy manner. All eight clearly wished to be elsewhere.

“Come on, no need to hold back.”

Charlie Lang, the haberdasher, cleared his throat and bobbed his Adam’s apple. “Well, ah . . . we—that is, it’s gotten around that we have an hour before those brigands just come in and take what they want. Is that true?”