William Johnstone: Triumph of the Mountain Man

A low curse answered him. “Didn’t have the grit to stay here himself. A little while after that pep talk, he took the women an’ Granger and they high-tailed it outta here. Off to Santa Fe, I reckon.”

One of his companions spoke up in support of Satterlee. “He’s goin’ to get more men. Remember what he said about sending us some fresh blood?”

“Yeah. And blood is what it’ll be, you ask me.”

Smoke let them talk for a while, then drained his coffee and handed back the cup. “Thanks for the brew. I’d best get back to rovin’ from place to place or someone will have a hissy.”

“Yeah, that’s right. So, you’re with Vic Tyson’s crew, eh?”

“Yep. For better or for worse. See you fellers.”

Reunited with Alejandro Alvarado, Smoke Jensen and the ranchero made a rapid return to town. On the way, Smoke weighed the alternatives facing him. Not unusual, he did not like any of them. Back in the sheriff’s office, he sent loungers to summon a war council. This would be a long night, Smoke knew.

* * *

“There’s nothing for it but that I go after them,” Smoke announced after relaying what he had learned beyond the town.

Mayor Fidel Arianas nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand that. But how are you going to go about it?”

Smoke Jensen had his answers ready. “First we have to break this siege. They are mighty spooked over two defeats in one day. And we’ve not attacked them at night before. What we are going to do is organize an assault force from the local volunteers and Diego’s vaqueros and wipe out their roadblocks, scatter the patrols around the town and plain raise a lot of hell.”

Diego Alvarado’s eyes glowed. “Muy bien, amigo. Naturally, all of my men will volunteer.”

Smoke shook his head. “We only need half of them. Someone has to hold the fort. Gather five groups of ten each, and meet me in the Plaza de Armas in half an hour. One bunch will take each road out of town. The fifth will make a sweep of the roving patrols. Tonight we’re going to kick hell out of these scum.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, grim-faced men gathered in the plaza. All were heavily armed. Every man had a horse. Smoke quietly gave them their assignments and moved out himself with those going after the mobile pickets. When everyone had gotten into position, they watched the hands on one of the clocks located on the four sides of the church steeple. The minute hand closed on 10:45, and the deadly bands moved out.

Three hundred yards from the roadblocks they urged their mounts to a gallop. Weapons out and ready, they opened fire at seventy-five yards.

With Quinn and Thompson dead and Satterlee gone, the attack quickly became a rout. Already demoralized by the turn of the day’s events, the outlaw trash had little heart for a fight. Muzzle flashes in the night, followed by the crack of bullets and roar of weapons, undid even the most courageous among them. Men seemed to be shooting at them from all directions. Riderless horses ran past, and those securely picketed whinnied in the mad desire to join their fellows.

“To hell with this, I’m gettin’ outta here,” the hard case known as Rucker spat as he ankled over the ground to his horse.

He slipped on a bridle and swung up bareback. No time for the niceties. Too many guns out there. He drummed his heels into the flanks of his horse and broke clear of the melee behind him. His mount nearly ran into the chest of a big, gray, spotted-rump ’Palouse. Veering at the last instant, he caught a glimpse of the rider.

“Oh, God, Smoke Jensen,” he wailed aloud.

Then Smoke shot him.

In twenty minutes the last of the vermin had been exterminated or surrendered. Diego’s vaqueros herded them back toward town. At the jail, Smoke confronted the leaders of the resistance. “Thank you all for what you’ve done. You’ve saved your town. The end of this is up to me. I’m going after Clifton Satterlee. Mac, Alejandro, I’d like you to come with me. We’ll take about twenty-five men to handle any opposition Satterlee can muster. Even with them, it’s gonna be mighty hard to end this.”

25

Smoke, Alejandro and Mac rode out of Taos at the head of a twenty-three-man force. Even pushing to the limit, they would not reach Santa Fe until early morning of the next day. Smoke used the time to review how they should go about cornering Satterlee. His options were limited; that he accepted. He had no way of knowing how many gunhands Satterlee might have at the large estancia outside the territorial capital. Whatever the count, he wanted to keep the number of injuries and deaths small among his volunteers. Most of all he wanted to give Mac a chance at building a satisfying life for himself. All such considerations aside, he wanted to end it quickly. Could he count on the sheriff in Santa Fe?

That question remained with him as they rode through Española. False dawn caught them still two miles from Satterlee’s lair. To Smoke that answered his preoccupation with the sheriff. They simply did not have time to ride past the road that led to the ranch and into Santa Fe. They would have to do it on their own.

Half a mile from the estancia, Smoke halted his small force and informed them of what they would do. “Mac, I want you to take charge of everyone but Alejandro and myself. Take on any gunhands Satterlee has at the ranch and keep them busy. Alejandro and I will go in to find Martha. Also to get Satterlee.” Then he added with a crooked smile, “If something happens to let us open the gates for you, we will.”

“I want to go with you, Smoke,” Mac protested.

“Not this time. Keep in mind, youngster, that you are only fifteen years old. I’m not going to coddle you, but I want you in a responsible position, doing something that has to be done. Something that keeps you out of the center of most danger.”

Mac blurted his objection. “But I want to be there, to help.”

“Hell, boy, you’re gonna get shot at anyway. Why make it worse?”

Grudgingly, Mac saw his point. “I’ll do my best, Smoke. Count on it.”

Alejandro nodded silent approval. He couldn’t help but like this boy/man. “I think my father will find it impossible to continue his food production without you, young Mac. We want you around to make our gardens more productive.”

Mac flushed and put on a foolish grin to hide his elation at this praise. “Yes, sir—uh—Alejandro. Do they—ah—ever call you Alex?”

Alejandro flashed white teeth in his olive face. “Only my gringo friends. So, I suppose you can, too.”

Smoke concluded his strategy session. “Let’s get to it, then. Mac, circle wide around and hit the place from the rear. Once you have their attention, we’ll come at ’em from the front.”

* * *

A short while later, Mac and his mixed force invested the walls around three sides of the hacienda. Under cover of darkness, Smoke and Alejandro approached the front gate in the twelve-foot wall that surrounded the compound. Smoke had a little surprise that he had not mentioned to the others. With the battle raging around them, he quickly went to work sheltered by the inset of the massive portals.

“Alejandro, gather up all the big rocks you can find. Bring them here.”

Diego’s eldest son went to work with a twinkle in his eyes from sight of the cylindrical sticks in Smoke’s hands. By the time Alejandro returned for the sixth time, Smoke had attached a bundle of five sticks of dynamite to the center of the gate, where the crossbar would be.

“Mix some mud,” Smoke commanded as he bent to place more dynamite against one of the hinges.

Alejandro found water in a horse trough and plenty of desert soil right where they needed it. He carried the liquid in his hat to make a quagmire under the sheltering lip above them. When he thought he had it right, he stopped to watch Smoke packing rocks against the charge on the hinge.