William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

At last he spoke. “Perhaps I have been hasty. I may have misjudged you, Mr. Quinn. Yes, I think I far underrated Martha’s spirit. It seems that for the time being, you will have to detain her forcibly if she persists in such unbecoming activity.”

Paddy Quinn touched fingers to his cheek. They came away bloody. Then he saluted his employer with a tap to the brim of his hat. “I’ll see to it right away, that I will.” Before departing, he added, “When that is done, there are some changes I want to discuss with you as to the taking of the town of Taos.”

22

Shortly before the hour deadline, Smoke Jensen came to Santan Tossa with a suggestion. “I want you to gather your warriors. Have them start to drum and sing, do a war dance out in plain view of Quinn’s gang.”

A huge grin spread on the mahogany face of the Tua. “We haven’t done a war dance in fifty years. This will be a true pleasure. We’ll make it look very bloodthirsty indeed. Lots of howls, leaping in the air, swinging war clubs and knives.” He went off, gleefully listing loudly the terrorizing features they would use.

Twenty minutes later, a drum began to throb in the outskirts of Taos. Tua warriors started to prance and stomp in a circle around a large fire. High, thin voices chanted the challenge to fight and die to all who could hear. Knife blades flashed in the sunlight. The drum beat louder. Some among the outlaws became visibly uncomfortable. Several exchanged knowing glances. They had heard the rumors about scalping.

Some few did not want to test it further. Two drifters, who had joined up for the fun the siege promised, went for their horses. They rode off five minutes later. Five minutes later, three more, who were not part of the gang, held a whispered conference, nodded agreement and left for other parts.

A grinning Santan Tossa waved a lighthearted farewell to Smoke Jensen as Smoke eased himself into the gorge that contained the streambed and set off to locate Martha Estes and her maid.

* * *

Smoke followed the creek upstream to the southwest until well past the ring of outlaws. Then he led Cougar up out of the ravine and mounted. Carefully he worked his way back toward the siege lines. He left Cougar behind a screen of young palo verdes and proceeded afoot. Bent double, he presented a far diminished profile to any eyes that might look outward, instead of toward town. There would be few places where Martha might be kept, he reasoned. With silent determination, he set about eliminating those.

Ten minutes went by. Smoke found himself on a small produce farm. No doubt the Mexican owner sold to the general store in Taos, and to others who happened by. Yes, there, beyond the work sheds, barn and house, a palapa had been erected over a stairstepped set of shelves. Baskets of peppers and fresh vegetables lined them. Two small boys, under the age of thirteen or so, kept watch and called out to passersby.

Making little sound in his moccasins, Smoke eased his way up to the side of one shed. The sound of splashing water came from within. Women’s voices came from inside, chattering in Spanish over the latest gossip. Smoke’s command of the language, slight at best, had not improved over years of non-use. Even so, he made out a number of juicy items.

“Raquel is going to have a baby,” one woman revealed as she energetically sloshed a bowl of red and green jalapeno peppers in a tub of water to remove the red-brown dust.

“How can that be?” asked a much younger, more innocent voice. “She is not even married.”

“Sí, esto es verdad. She has no husband, but she has a baby.”

“ Padre Domingo says that is a sin.” Smoke could almost see the blush her words produced.

“That is true, little one. And you will promise your mother that you will never, ever do what it takes to make a baby . . . until you are safely married.”

Another woman brought a change of subject. “I hear that Juanita Sanchez is going to marry that Guerrero boy.”

“Which one?” several asked.

“Mateo, I think. Or is it Raul? No, it is Enrique.”

“Carlos Guerrero has nine sons. How can you tell which one?”

A titter came from the youngest. “It’s not Ricardo. He’s only ten.”

A superior sounding voice discounted that. “What difference does that make? My sister, Esperanza, was married at twelve.”

A snippy voice followed a nasty laugh. “Everyone knows she had to. It was that Dominguez boy, although she married Sancho Valdez.”

A wounded squeal came from the defender of early weddings. “Cow.”

“Pig.”

“¡Bruja!” her target spat, then repeated, “Witch!”

“Ladies, please,” a matronly woman commanded. “We are here to work, is that not true? Someone hand me some of those squash.”

Grinning, Smoke moved on. Small wonder that men who owned businesses preferred not to hire women. The metallic screech of metal against stone directed Smoke to another shack. The farmer sat under a thatch palapa, working a peddle-power whetstone to sharpen a machete. Smoke coughed softly to attract the man’s attention.

“¿Sí, señor?”

“Have any of the ladrónes around Taos come around here?” Smoke asked. When the man shook his head in the negative, Smoke tried another. “Have you seen any of them taking a young woman somewhere?”

Another shake of his head, then, “ ¡Ay, sí! Early this morning, I was turning water into my corn. Two men rode over toward the old Olivera place. They had a woman with them. She did not look happy.”

Smoke nodded in satisfaction. “That’s the one. Thank you, señor.”

Then Smoke asked for and was given directions to the Olivera farm. He headed that way on foot. He had covered half a mile when he came upon the first of several layers of lookouts. Smoke skirted the man easily and continued on. The second one proved not so simple to evade.

He sat his mount, alertly searching the surrounding terrain. From time to time, he stood in his stirrups and peered beyond low obstructions. Smoke, clad in buckskin, hugged the ground. The man’s diligence and regularity became his undoing. After carefully timing the outlaw’s routine, Smoke was ready when a missed gaze beyond the low brow behind which Smoke waited signaled a change. He came up and moved out in a split second.

Habit had outweighed diligence. The man had his head down, intent on rolling a cigarette. Smoke leaped and landed on him like a stone statue. Tobacco flakes flew everywhere. Dragged from the saddle, the outlaw landed heavily with Smoke on top. Rancid breath shot out of his twisted mouth. His lungs empty, it took only a hard right to the jaw by Smoke Jensen to put him asleep. Smoke quickly tied him and hurried on.

Another watcher lounged in the doorway of a partially fallen in adobe house. Smoke froze and sank to the ground. For five long minutes he studied the man who leaned against the doorframe. He looked bored. He also looked sleepy. Another minute passed, and the thug abruptly jerked awake, stepped out of the shade and paced to each corner of the building, Winchester held at the ready. He looked around the wall and returned to his position. Once more he slouched.

Such kind were dangerous, Smoke reasoned. If the hunch hit him at the wrong time, he might see someone sneaking up on him. Smoke inched his way behind a rock ridge and circled widely around the crumbling structure. He came at the adobe building from the rear.

Through a small, high window he had a clear view of the interior. Across the single room, he saw a large loft, obviously where the family slept when they lived here. In the middle of the room he noted a small table. Seated at two sides of it were Martha and her maid. They had been tied tightly to their chairs. To one side, Smoke observed Paddy Quinn and two of his men in the room conferring quietly. The bad news became immediately obvious.