William Johnstone - Triumph of the Mountain Man

“Smoke, it is ready.”

Studying the consistency of the mud, Smoke passed judgment. “Thicker. Make it sticky.”

When it reached the desired texture, Smoke began to pack it around the explosives in the middle of the gate, then poured more over the rocks. That completed, he cut his eyes to Alejandro. “We’ll let that dry awhile.”

The volume of gunfire rose and fell as the outlaws traded shots with the men from Taos. It served well to keep attention off Smoke and Alejandro. After ten minutes, the surface had returned to its natural color, and cracks began to appear in the mud. Smoke nodded approvingly and bent with a lucifer in his hand.

“You light that one and I’ll get this. Then we get out of here . . . fast.”

With the fuses sputtering, Smoke and Alejandro ran from the gateway and flattened their backs against the wall to either side. Three minutes went by, and then a tremendous roar shattered the sporadic gunfire from within the hacienda. Dirt and acrid smoke billowed out of the arched opening. Splinters of flaming wood mingled with them. The ground shook, and Alejandro smelled the nauseous fumes of the burned dynamite. In the numbing silence that followed, Smoke and Alejandro heard a shrill shriek, followed by an enormous crash.

“Let’s go,” said Smoke tautly.

Quickly they rounded the corners that had sheltered them. Alejandro’s jaw sagged at sight of the damage the explosives had wrought. One side of the thick gate hung askew. The other lay flat on the ground, blown out from the bottom. Smoke jumped on top of it and ran into the courtyard. They met with no resistance until they reached the main entrance to the hacienda. Two dumbfounded thugs with bestubbled jaws stood inside. They gaped at the damage until the figures of Smoke Jensen and Alejandro Alvarado filled the range of their vision.

“Lutie, it’s him. It’s Smoke Jensen,” babbled one.

“Then git him, Frank, git him.”

Each man made the fateful mistake of reaching for his six-gun. Smoke beat them both, with Alejandro not far behind. The Colt in Smoke’s hand bellowed, and Lutie doubled over, shot through the liver. Frank fired a round before Alejandro ended his life with a bullet in the head. Side-stepping the dying men, Smoke and Alejandro pushed on into the house. Cole Granger and three men waited for them in the inner courtyard.

“There they are,” shouted one piece of human debris as Smoke became visible at the inner opening of the corridor.

Smoke, the .45 still in his hand, shot him through the heart. Two others dived for cover behind the cheerily splashing fountain. Granger dropped behind a huge clay olla that held a stunted banana tree. From there he triggered a round that ripped along the left ribs of Alejandro Alvarado.

Face grimaced in agony, the young grandee spun to one side and leaned back against the wall of the arched corridor that connected the front door to the patio. “Go on, Smoke. I’ll be all right.”

Alejadro extended his right arm along the wall and took aim at a pale face that appeared above the lip of the fountain. Biting his lip, he squeezed his trigger. The slug slammed into the edge of the marble basin. Water and stone chips showered into the air. The face disappeared, an irregular hole in the center of its forehead. At once, Smoke was on the move.

He bounded to his left and dropped behind a long, earth-filled planter. Three slugs pounded into the opposite surface. Smoke inched along to the end and hazarded a quick look. Granger had come to his boots, peering across the open garden in a attempt to get a sight on Smoke. It would be all too easy.

Smoke raised his arm and fired at the center line of Granger’s body. The bullet smashed into Granger’s belly, and he staggered backward. Smoke came to his boots and jinked off another direction. He learned that he had miscalculated Granger’s strength a moment later when Alejadro shouted from behind him.

“Smoke, look out!”

Cole Granger fired his six-gun with less than acceptable accuracy. A hot tunnel opened in Jensen’s left arm an instant before he discharged his Colt and put another bullet in Cole Granger’s chest. To his surprise Granager absorbed the punishment and turned his gun on Alejandro.

This time he wavered unsteadily so that the slug struck the stucco-plastered, adobe wall before it plowed into the chest of Alejandro Alvarado. Cursing his bad luck, Smoke raised his point of aim. He fired at Granger’s face and blasted the life out of his assailant. Quickly he bound his arm and chaged his empty Colt for the freash one. Then Smoke began to search for the final hard case.

Sagged to his knees, Alejandro called out to Smoke “He’s gone. Ran out to the others.”

“What about you?” Concern rang in Smoke’s voice.

“It’s . . . not bad. Go on. Find Satterlee and get the girl to safety.”

Smoke Jenson started for the stairway that led to the second floor. Behind him a door flew open. Smoke spun on one heel and snapped off a shot. Another of Satterlee’s henchmen died. Halfway up the stairs, he paused to look back. Alejandro sat spread-legged against the wall, his face pale, but his breathing regular. The bullet must not have reached his lung, Smoke speculated.

He took time then to reload, then ascended to the open-sided hallway that ran around the upper story. Now the search turned serious. Smoke stepped to the first door and kicked it in. A starled hard case turned from the window where he had been exchanging rounds with Mac and the attackers, who had swarmed into the compound through the damaged gate. Smoke shot him in the shoulder, took his weapons and locked the door behind as he left. The next two rooms were empty. Smoke worked his way out into the open.

From below, Alejandro spoke to Smoke, his words light and breathy. “I can cover you from here.”

Smoke nodded and went on. The next door he found locked from the inside. His .45 Peacemaker at the ready, Smoke lined up and kicked the center panel beside the lock case. It hurt like hell. Made of stout manzanita, the door did not yield. Smoke kicked again, with the other foot. Wood splintered in the frame. Dimly, from behind and below, Smoke noted the arrival of Mac and some of the vaqueros. They swarmed through the courtyard as Smoke lashed out with his boot a third time. The door flew open to reveal a frightened and startled Lupe and a bulldog-faced hard case.

“Down,” Smoke shouted to the maid.

She dropped without hesitation. Smoke popped a cap on the outlaw at close range. The slug pierced a forearm and entered a vulnerable chest. Smoke shot him again, and the thug’s six-gun flew upward out of his hand. It discharged when it struck the ceiling. The bullet went through the thin plaster and exited the building by way of the tin roof. A stunned expression washed over the dying gunnman’s features, and he fell face-first to the floor.

Smoke pointed to Lupe. “Stay here.”

Footsteps pounded in the stairwell as Smoke faced the next door. It was also locked. Smoke reared back for a good blow with his boot as Mac and three of Diego’s cowboys ran toward him.

“We got ’em all, Smoke. Most just gave up.”

“Stay back,” Smoke cautioned. Then he slammed his boot sole against the door.

It happeded in a blur. Smoke saw a thick-shouldered gunman facing the door and fired instinctively. The lout dropped his revolver and clasped his belly with both hands. Smoke shot him again. At once her looked to his left.

With a long-legged stride, Clifton Satterlee moved across the carpet toward ta wide-eyed, visibly shaken Martha Estes. He had a .44 Colt Lightning in his left hand. Too, late, and knowing it, Smoke swung his Peacemaker toward Satterlee and fought to gain time with his voice.

“Don’t move!”