William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

Quinn raised a hand and swept the hillside. “That’s what I want you to find out, boy-o. Didn’t seem to me that half the lads what went in there came back. With losses like that, we can’t keep this up for long. Whether Mr. Satterlee likes it or not, we may have to use fire to drive those stubborn folk out.”

“He’ll have a fit if we do. But, I agree with you. We can’t let them whittle us down like that much longer. When do we go back?”

Quinn rubbed a powder-grimed hand across his brow. “Find out where we stand an’ we’ll give it an hour.”

* * *

Ezekial Crowder and Ed Hubbard had taken positions on the south side of town, close to Smoke Jensen. They looked first to the sky when they heard a distant rumble. When they found it to be clear and bright, they lowered their gaze to observe the ominous approach of a large body of outlaws. They exchanged a worried glance and tightened the grip on their weapons. Over the growing thunder of hooves, they could hear the voice of Smoke Jensen, low and calm.

“Steady . . . hold it . . . let ’em come in real close. Make every shot count.”

Smoke knew it would not happen that way. Excitement or fear would make the inexperienced men fire carelessly. They would rush their aim and no doubt jerk the trigger. It would only get worse when the outlaws opened fire. Some, though, he knew would make good account of themselves. Like young Mac, who had shouted to him during the brief respite.

“Hey, Smoke, I got three of them. Those two down there and another on his horse outside town.”

“Good shootin’,” Smoke praised. He continued on his way to check the other defenses. His inspection gave him the impression that some twenty outlaws had gotten inside the town. Perimeter defenses had to be shored up. He had arranged for that, though only just in time.

They were going to have to keep the gang from entering town this time, Smoke thought as he watched the outlaws close once again. A few seconds later, Ed Hubbard proved a better gunhand than expected when he cleared two saddles in rapid succession.

“Did ya see that?” Hubbard called out, surprised by his own success. He took aim again.

With a loud crash, the hard cases opened up. It drowned out Ed’s third shot, which hit Dutch Volker in the side. It was a severe enough wound to put him out of the action. With a blistering backward look and a hot curse, Dutch steered his mount away from the conflict. He would get patched up and come back, Dutch thought.

Smoke Jensen had other ideas for him. Careful aim with his .45-70-500 Winchester Express paid a dividend to Smoke. For enough time to make it count, the head of Dutch Volker sat like a hairy ball on the top of the front blade sight. The upright post rested in the notch of the rear, buckhorn sight. Smoke squeezed the trigger. Volker’s head snapped forward and back as the bullet bore through his brain and exited the front, taking with it his entire forehead. A fountain of gore splashed on his horse. Without a controlling hand, it went berserk.

Crow hopping and squealing in fright over the smell of blood and brain tissue, the animal cut crossways to the advance, scattered several other riders and at last dislodged its odious burden in a thicket of mesquite. Already, Smoke Jensen tracked another outlaw. The volume of defending fire increased from other points as Smoke concentrated on his aim. He discharged a round that missed one hard case by a finger’s width and drove into the shoulder of the man behind him. Smoke risked a quick glance toward Hubbard and Crowder while he cycled his lever action.

Both men so far remained calm. They took time to aim, worked the action of their rifles in a controlled manner and shoved fresh cartridges into the magazine between shots. Hubbard spoke up loudly enough for Smoke to hear him above the rattle of gunfire.

“You’re doin’ all right for a fireman.”

Crowder grinned. “So are you . . . shopkeeper. I’d sell my soul for a shot of whiskey and a cool beer.”

“If I was the devil, I’d take you up on that.” Hubbard broke off to fire his Winchester again. “Got another one,” he commented.

“The way they’re comin’, this could last until sundown,” opined Zeke Crowder.

Hubbard blinked and swallowed hard. “It had better not.”

* * *

Sheriff Banner thought much the same as Chief Crowder. From his vantage point he watched the huge gang swirl around Taos. Here and there, one would slump in the saddle or fall to the ground. Not nearly enough, though, the lawman concluded. He watched as three of them charged a barricade made of two overturned wagons.

Their mounts easily cleared the obstacle, and he had one of the men in his sights before the hooves touched ground. An easy squeeze and the sheriff’s rifle fired. His bullet drilled the outlaw through the chest. Quickly Banner worked the action and sighted in on another. Before he could fire, one of Diego Alvarado’s vaqueros dashed into the street. He carried a large yellow and magenta cape. Swiftly he unfurled it and billowed it out into a fat curve; the skirt flapped in the breeze his motion created.

At once the horses sat back on their haunches and reared. One rider fell off; the second barely hung on. And then not for long. Another rippling pass put the animal in a walleyed frenzy. The rider had all he could do to regain control. While thus occupied, Sheriff Banner shot the hard case through the heart.

* * *

Fierce fighting continued through the afternoon. Smoke Jensen made periodic visits to the defenders positioned on the outer edges of Taos. He always had a word of encouragement and usually replacement ammunition. Braving the chance of a bullet, the older boys of the town, organized by Wally Gower, brought food and water to the fighting men. The fury promised to go on forever.

When night fell, the gang withdrew, much to the relief of everyone. To their immediate discomfort, the defenders of Taos soon discovered that the enemy had not gone far enough so that anyone could escape.

Smoke Jensen’s words were not greeted with enthusiasm when he made his dark prediction. “They’ll be back tomorrow.”

23

“They’re comin’ back!”

Early the next morning the shouts of the lookouts roused the wearied protectors of Taos from uneasy sleep. Too many of the townspeople moved with a lethargy that they would soon regret. Caught between their homes and fighting stations, most looked on in numbed horror as the outlaws easily penetrated the thin defenses and streamed into town.

“We ain’t got a chance this time,” one less courageous townie wailed.

“We’re gonners for sure,” the faint-hearted barber took up the cry.

Smoke Jensen would hear none of it. He seemed to be everywhere at once as he worked to rally the resistance of the battle-tired people. “Quit your whining,” he growled at the timid souls. “Take your weapons and form up in the streets. We can stop them easier when they don’t have room to maneuver.”

“Say, that’s right,” one of the more imaginative townies declared. “We can trap them between the buildings. It’ll be like shootin’ fish in a water trough.”

Smoke moved on, praising the idea over his shoulder. “That’s the idea. Get to it.” Smoke’s confidence rose more when he came upon the more reliant among the defenders.

Those Tua warriors not on water watch were the first to respond. Santan Tossa stood on one side of the Plaza de Armas and directed his fighting men to vantage points on the roofs of buildings. Unaccustomed to the Spanish tile roofing material, one of the Tua men put a moccasin on a loose one and all but fell.

“Be careful,” Tossa cautioned. Then he produced a fleeting smile at that choice of words in the face of an all-out assault by men determined to kill them all.