“Dang you for a rascal, Wally. But this time you can be of some good use. I want you to ride out to Rancho de la Gloria. Ask for Smoke Jensen and tell him to please come in. Say I have something interesting for him to look into.”
“Yes, sir. I'll do it right now.”
“Good. There'll be two bits in it for you.”
“Gosh. That much? I never get more than a nickel.”
“You will this time. There's a lot of trouble brewin' out there. Now, get along.”
* * *
Wally Gower led an ideal life for a kid. He was footloose and, for the most part, unsupervised. His father had been injured in a mining accident several years ago in Colorado. While his father remained unable to work and stayed at home to care for the seven children, his mother did custom alterations and general sewing for Señora Montez, the fashionable Spanish lady who owned a large women's clothing store in Taos. When school let out for the summer, Wally gleefully abandoned studies, shoes, and often shirt, to hang around town doing odd jobs for the money it brought in for the family. A lot of his time went to swimming with friends at the many
tanques
outside the town, or in pulling slippery rainbow trout from the icy creeks fed by snowmelt in the Sangre de Cristo range. He liked it most when the sheriff had something for him to do. The lawman paid better than anyone else. Wally was glad he had a pony he could use for this present assignment.
It was a small, shaggy mustang and only partly broken to saddle. But Wally loved Spuds with all his heart. He went to the small stable house behind their adobe home and saddled Spuds. He led the snorting half-wild animal from its stall, plucked a parsnip from last winter's garden and fed it to Spuds. Chomping pleasurably, the pony ground the pungent root vegetable into a mash which it swallowed. Wally put one bare foot in the stirrup and swung aboard. He angled Spuds toward the alleyway behind the Gower home. Had it been anyone else atop the little horse, it would have exploded into crow hops and sunfishing that would have unseated any but the most expert horse breakers.
Wally trotted toward the western edge of town and the trail southwest to the Alvarado ranch. He reached the scattered fringe of small, poor Mexican adobe homes when he found out that life in Taos had drastically changed for the foreseeable future.
Three hard cases leaned against a low adobe wall, with two split rails atop. When Wally approached, the lean, tallest one eased upright and stepped into the road. He raised a hand and spoke in a low, menacing voice.
“Whoa-up, sonny. Where do you think yer goin'?”
A quick thinker, Wally invented something he hoped would be believed. “Out to where my paw works.”
“Where's that?”
“Uhâ-the Bradfords' B-Bar-X.”
Eyes narrowed in accusation, the clipped words challenged Wally. “He ain't come through here since we've been here.”
“Oh, no. He goes out before dawn.”
“Well, there ain't nobody goin' out of town from now on without our say-so.”
Wally pulled another appeal from his ingenuity. “Buâbut my paw will beat my tail if I don't bring him his coat. He's got night guard tonight.”
A nasty sneer answered him. “That's your problem, kid. If you're smart, you'll do what you are told. You go on back now, get lost and tell that sheriff friend of yours nothing.”
“Yes, sir. I suppose you're right, sir.”
Being a plucky lad, Wally turned on the first side street, cut his way through several blocks and went directly to Hank Banner's office. He made his report with wide-eyed excitement. Hank listened to him with a growing frown. Then he made a suggestion that appealed to the adventurous nature of the boy.
“Well, then, why don't you ride out the other side of town?”
“Sure enough, Sheriff. Right away.”
Wally dusted out the door and swung into the saddle. He drubbed bare heels into the flanks of Spuds and started for the east end of town. He made it half a mile out of Taos this time. Four of the biggest, meanest-looking men Wally had ever seen in his eleven years blocked the entire road. A line of people on foot, in wagons and on horseback had formed in front of them. The surly fellows allowed free entry to town, but denied departure to all except for the poorest
campesinos
and mission Indians. Patiently, though with mounting apprehension, Wally waited his turn. He tried his “taking a coat to Paw” story again and was again turned back.
On his own, Wally tried the south road out of town. This time he believed he had it all figured out. When he saw an angry-looking farmer and his family headed back for town in a wagon, Wally hailed them and asked if the road was closed.
“Why, yes, son, how did you know?” the wife asked.
Wally worked his shoulders up and down. “I got turned back two places already. What is goin' on?”
“Some bad folks up there, boy,” the farmer told Wally. “Best thing for you to do is turn around and go back now.”
Wally scrunched his freckle-speckled button nose. “How far to where they are?”
Scratching his head, the farmer figured on that. “Quarter mile, maybe a little more. Beyond that bend yonder.”
“Thank you, sir,” Wally replied politely.
He turned Spuds' nose to the west and cut across a field in the direction of Pacheca Creek. Keeping constantly alert, Wally looked to the threat on his left as he progressed through a corn field and into a pasture beyond. He did not see the men who he now knew to be nothing more than outlaws, so he felt confident they could not see him. A line of cottonwoods and aspen marked the course of the creek. He pulled up inside the screen and leaned down to pat Spuds on the neck.
“You're gonna get cold, Spuds. So am I. We gotta swim our way around those fellers. When we git outta the crick, I'll rub you down and dry off, then we'll cut to the southwest and head for the Alvarado spread.” Wally reached in his hip pocket and produced another parsnip, which he fed to Spuds.
Dismounting, Wally led his pony to the creek bank and stepped gingerly out on the sand and pebble-strewn streambed. They stayed in the shallows for a while, the water frigid and hip-high on Wally. When he gauged they had come close to being opposite the hard cases, he urged Spuds out into the current, and they both swam past, gooseflesh forming under Wally's shirt.
When he reached a spot he considered safe, Wally swam cross-current until he gained footing. Spuds reached solid underpinning first and surged forward past the boy's slim shoulders. Wally stumbled behind. On the bank at last, boy and beast stood shivering.
“That was colder than I thought, boy,” Wally admitted through chattering teeth. “Gotta strip and warm up.”
With that he pulled off his wet clothes and threw himself down on a sun-warmed rock. Before long, the chill subsided, Wally's eyelids drooped and he fell into a light sleep.
11
Nearing the end of the first week's visit by the Gittings, tension hung over the Sugarloaf. Normally a direct, outspoken person, Sally Jensen repressed her instinctive reaction to Mary-Beth's feather-headedness and the constant misbehavior of her undisciplined brood. As a result, Sally's old friendship with Mary-Beth was in conflict with her good sense. Put simply, Sally knew she should firmly demand that they leave.
Especially when Seth and Sammy had escaped their deserved spanking for stealing the candy. Oh, Mary-Beth had switched themâtwo half-hearted whacks on buttocks that had not even been bared. Both boys shot sneers at Sally and laughed openly over the lightness of their punishment as they walked away. That had been two days ago, and the situation seemed to worsen by the hour. From the direction of the corral, a boy's voice, raised in anger, reminded her of that.
“Stop that! Stop it, damn you, Seth, Sammy. Those foals can be hurt real easy.”
It was Bobby's voice. Sally wondered what devilment the Gittings boys had gotten up to this time. If it was serious enough, she would find out right soon. She had asked their foreman, Ike Mitchell, to keep an eye on the rebellious boys, and to take matters into his own hands if need be. Since he had been successful on earlier occasions, she also implied the same to Bobby.
The boy was more than capable of taking responsibility for himself. He could act in a responsible manner toward others as well, Sally reasoned. Bobby's voice once more cut through her self-examination. “Hey, what are you doin'? Quit that.”
Then came a long silence. Sally's apprehension rose.
* * *
Bobby Jensen came upon Seth and Sammy Gittings at the small corral outside the foaling barn. There the mares and their newborn could exercise away from the rest of the herd. Both of the younger boys had taken it in mind that it would be funny to watch the reactions of the small horses when they pelted them with rocks. Bobby looked on in shock and anger as two missiles struck a stalky-legged foal and it ran off squealing in terror to find its mother. The building rage pushed out the disgust Bobby felt. He stepped in at once, voice raised to a strident shout.
“Stop that.”
Seth and Sammy looked blankly over their shoulders at Bobby, and the younger boy stuck out his tongue. As one, they hefted fresh rocks and hurled them at another colt. Bobby's voice deepened with his outrage.
“Stop it, damn you, Seth, Sammy. Those foals can be hurt real easy.”
“Oh, yeah?” Seth challenged in a quiet voice. “Says who?”
Sammy added his opinion. “Yeah. 'Sides, it's funny when they make that noise and run around.”
Bobby's voice grew low and menacing. “You stop that or I'll make you hurt like you've never hurt before.”
Seth sneered. “No you won't. Mother won't let you.”
With that, both Gittings boys turned and chucked stones at Bobby Jensen. One struck his left shoulder with enough force to hurt, though it merely angered him more. He tried once again to end their assault. “Hey, what are you doin'. Quit that.”
Laughing, the boys threw more rocks. For a moment, while he dodged the fresh onslaught, Bobby thought of pulling his six-gun and blasting the both of them to oblivion. A satisfying, warm rush washed through him. Then he remembered what Smoke had taught him. Only a coward settles something with a gun that he can handle with his fists. Accordingly, Bobby rushed the smaller boys and threw Sammy to the ground. Seth leaped at him and swung a fist that contained a healthy-sized stone. It struck Bobby on the forehead and split the skin.
Blood began to run down through one white-blond eyebrow and into Bobby's left eye. He ignored the discomfort and shot a fist to the nose of Seth Gittings, who dropped the rock, screeching his agony. Bobby grabbed the front of Seth's shirt with both hands and hurled him to the ground. He stood over the supine boys a long, silent minute while they whined and sniveled. Satisfied that the incident had ended, Bobby turned away and started off to clean up his cut and patch it. Another rock, hurled in defiance, decided Bobby that he would report the situation to Sally after all.
* * *
Sally Jensen looked with mounting fury at the rising lump on Bobby's forehead and the court plaster he had stuck on the cut. “That cuts it, damnit!” Although she rarely swore, Sally thought the situation called for it.
Bobby Jensen looked at her with clear, wide eyes. “What are we going to do?”
“You are going to stand back and make the accusation. I am going to take care of what has needed doing for a long time.” She crossed to the stove corner and brought out her willow switch, then moved to the door to the hallway and called into the depths of the house. “Mary-Beth, come here right away.”
When Mary-Beth arrived, she took one look at the limber willow wand, and her cheeks lost color. A hand flew to the comer of her mouth. “Oh, no. Not again. Not my boys.”
“Oh, yes, Mary-Beth, dear. Take a look at Bobby's forehead. Seth attacked him with a rock. Smashed him in the head, then threw another that bruised him between his shoulder blades. You are coming with me right this minute and put an end to it.”
Sally took a firm hold on Mary-Beth's left wrist and literally pulled her to the outside kitchen door. With Bobby at her other side, Sally strode to the foaling barn. They rounded the corner in time to see Seth connect with another of the frightened, tormented foals. Sally did not temper her words.
“You will stop that this instant, you little monster.”
Impudent defiance shone in the eyes of Seth Gittings. “We don't have to, do we, Mother?”
Sammy let escape a revealing statement. “Yeah, you said we could do anything we wanted.”
Shocked to the core at last, Mary-Beth stammered a partial denial. “IâI said no such thing. I said you could do anything you wanted, so long as it did no harm to others.”
Seth whined in protest of his innocence. “We didn't hurt anyone. All we did was tease the little horsies some.”
Bobby could contain his outrage no longer. “Then you turned on me and threw rocks at me. When I pushed Sammy down, you hit me in the head.”
Sally advanced on the boys. At the last moment, she whirled to Mary-Beth. “Either you do what is necessary, Mary-Beth, or I will do it for you.”
Faced with such determination, Mary-Beth came forward and took the willow switch from Sally. She started after Sammy first. His small face took on an expression of horror, and he tried to back away, arms extended, palms outward to ward off imagined blows.
“No, don't. You can't hit me with that. Poppa wouldn't like that. No, Mother. Please.”
Without a word, her lips set in a grim line, Mary-Beth yanked down Sammy's trousers and bent him over one knee. Then she laid on with a dozen good, hard, swift blows. He howled, shrieked and wailed, tears flowed freely from his eyes. When she had finished, she put him on his feet again.
“You, young man, will not leave the house for the next three days. Now, Seth, it's your turn. You are old enough to know better.”
“You can't do this! I won't let you,” Seth screamed in utter panic.
“No, Momma, please!
You can't, you can't.”
A wild light glowed behind golden lashes as Mary-Beth spoke wonderingly, more to Sally and herself than to the boy. “You know, I just discovered that I can indeed.”
In a thrice, Seth received the same treatment as Sammy. Only this time his mother delivered fifteen strokes before ending it. A very satisfied Sally Jensen looked on. When Seth again stood before her, still blubbering, she had further admonishment for him. “If you ever, ever again use a weapon on an animal or another person, whether it is a rock or a knife or, God forbid, a gun, I will beat you to within an inch of your life. Now apologize to Bobby this instant.”
* * *
“Alejandro will round up those among my vaqueros who can shoot the best,” Diego Alvarado told Smoke Jensen.
Ten minutes after Wally Gower arrived at Rancho de la Gloria, Smoke Jensen and fifteen vaqueros rode out for town. The boy kept station close beside Smoke, his chest puffed with pride. They soon came upon several disgruntled people who had been turned back from town, and from them learned more details of the roadblocks.
“Beats all hell,” one long-faced rancher observed. “There was six of them when we made to enter town. Told me an' the boys to turn about and high-tail it for home. Said that the town was closed 'til further notice. Who can do a thing like that?”
“From what I've heard,” said Smoke Jensen, with a nod toward Wally Gower, “it's Whitewater Paddy Quinn.”
A glower answered Smoke. “That no-account. Claims to be foreman for some outfit called C.S. Enterprises. Common outlaw, you ask me.”
“I think you have the right of it, sir,” Smoke agreed.
They rode on, allowing the horses to walk only when they began to retch and grunt from exertion. In that manner, they made it to a point where they could observe the roadblock from a distance. Smoke studied the activity, noting that people no longer queued up to attempt to leave town. Smoke sent Wally back beyond range and turned to the Mexican cowboys.
“First things first,” he told them. “We're going to take out these
bandidos,
then move around to each road entering town and do the same.”
“Do we kill them, Señor Smoke?” Bernal Sandoval asked.
Smoke eyed him levelly. “We're not here to kiss them, Bernal.”
“Muy bien.”
He turned to his companions.
“Adelante, muchachos.”
Smoke led the way as they charged down on the outlaws ahead. With weapons at the ready, they closed in a cloud of red dust. Quinn's men turned at the sound of pounding hooves, and the one in the center of the road shouted a challenge.
“Rein in and turn around. Nobody gets into town today. This is your last chance. Do it now or you'll be hurtin'.”
With a firm tug on Cougar's reins, Smoke halted first and took careful aim. He intentionally shot the hard case in charge through the left shoulder. The man grunted and raised his own six-gun. It barked loudly, but without effect. Smoke had given him his chance, and he had not taken it. So the last mountain man put a bullet through the chest of the outlaw. At once the gunman's underlings opened fire.
Not lacking in courage, the vaqueros sent a storm of hot lead into the rank that partitioned the road. Slugs from both sides whipped and cracked through the air. More dust churned up, to mingle with powder smoke and obscure the view. From the midst of the haze, a man screamed. Another called for help. Alejandro silenced him. Two vaqueros cursed in Spanish. Another ragged volley rippled across the hilly ground. Then, on the far side of the melee, a horse sprinted free. Its rider cried out in near hysteria.
“Get out before they kill us all!”
Within five seconds, the roar of gunfire dwindled to silence. The dust blew away on a stiff breeze, and the vaqueros began to slap one another on the back and congratulate themselves for the easy victory. Smoke Jensen gave them a couple of seconds, then called them together.
“We'll go on to the next. Alejandro, you take half our men and come at them at an angle; we'll take them head on. No time to waste until we clean out all of these skunks.” He beckoned to Wally and the boy joined him expectantly.
* * *
Yank Hastings had been with the Quinn gang for three years. He had seen the scruffy rabble of low-grade highwaymen and rustlers turned into a finely tuned force, not unlike an army. At the constant goading of Paddy Quinn and Garth Thompson, they had cleaned up their collective rag-tag, unwashed appearance. They had practiced with their weapons until they had reached a proficiency unheard of among most common bandits. Every man now took orders without questioning them, obeyed to the letter or died trying. They robbed banks like precision machines; they learned the skills of intimidation to add to their ability to use force; those most skilled at it stole cattle by the whole herd, rather than twenty or thirty had at a time. It made Yank Hastings proud to be among their number.
That was why it shocked him, then, when two of the gang ran down on their barricade on the Taos-Raton road on frothing horses. Their eyes wide with panic, they shouted that an attack was imminent.
“A bunch of Mezkin cowboys hit our roadblock jist a while ago,” one blurted out “They shot hell outta Cort an' Davey and lit out after us toward here.”
“Yeah. They'll be here any minute,” his companion assured.
Yank had started to calm them and discredit their fears when a bullet cracked overhead. He looked beyond them with a stunned expression.
Alejandro Alvarado and seven vaqueros raced toward the roadblock at an oblique angle to the road. It had been Alejandro who had fired at Yank. Hastings holstered his six-gun and drew his rifle. He was not about to let this jumped-up “Mezkin” get the better of him. He worked the lever to chamber a round and felt a stunning pain in his hand as a bullet struck the small of the stock. Fingers numbed, he dropped the weapon as he stared in disbelief while seven more vaqueros, led by a white man, stormed toward them along the road. The air filled with deadly bees as the attackers blazed away at Yank and his men. He had to do something, and fast.
“Everybody dismount. Josh, take the horses back. The rest of you get in those rocks. Hold your fire until you have a sure target.”
Quickly the men spread out to take positions of at least partial cover. Undeterred, the riders came on. Return fire spurted from the muzzles of guns in the outlaws' hands. From a peaceful, quiet afternoon, the world had swiftly changed into a place of noise, fury, and death. The fighting intensified. Suddenly, a whole swarm of Quinn's hard cases appeared over a low rise and charged toward the attackers.