Free Cunning of the Mountain Man by Unknown Author Page B

other staples.
    Smoke splashed through it at a rail-guarded ford and saw at once that it also accommodated as a place of entertainment. Small, brown-skinned boys, naked as the day they had been bom, frolicked in the water, the sun striking highlights off their wet skin. Clearly, they lacked any knowledge of the body taboo that afflicted most whites Smoke knew. For, when they took notice of the stranger among them, they broke off their play to stand facing him, giggle like a flock of magpies, and make shy, though friendly waves of their hands.
    Returning their greetings, Smoke rode on to the center of town. On the Plaza de Armas, he located what passed for a hotel in Horse Springs. POSADA DEL NORTE—Inn of the North—had been hand-lettered in red, now faded pink, and outlined in white and green over the arch in an adobe block wall that guarded the building front.
    He dismounted and walked his horse through the tall, double-hung, plank gates into a tree-shaded courtyard. A barefoot little lad, who most likely would have preferred to be out at the creek with his friends, took the reins and led Smoke’s big-chested roan toward a stable. Smoke entered a high-ceilinged remarkably cool hallway. To his right, a sign, likewise in Spanish, with black letters on white tile, advised; OFICINA.
    Smoke stepped through into the office and had to work mightily to conceal his reaction. Behind a small counter he saw one of the most strikingly beautiful young women he had ever encountered. Her skin, which showed in a generous, square-cut yolk, a graceful stalk of neck and intriguing, heart-shaped face, was flawless. A light cast of olive added a healthy glow to the faintest of cafe au lait complexions. Her dress had puffy sleeves, with lace at the edges, and around the open bodice, also in tiers over her ample bosom, and in ruffled falls down to a narrow waist. There, what could be seen of the skirt flared in horizontal gathers that reminded Smoke of a cascade.
    Her youthful lips had been touched with a light application of ruby rouge, and were full and promised mysteries unknown to other women. For a moment, raw desire flamed in the last mountain man. Then, reason— and his unwavering dedication to his lovely and beloved Sally—prevailed. Those sweet lips twitched in a teasing smile as the vision behind the registration desk acknowledged his admiring stare.
    “Yes, Señor ? Do you desire a room for the night?” Her voice, Smoke Jensen thought, sounded like little tinkling bells in a field of daisies. “Uh . . . ummm, yes. For a week, at least.”
    “We are happy to be able to accommodate you, Señor . If you will please to sign the book?” When Smoke had done so, she continued her familiar routine of hospitality. “The rooms down here are much cooler, but the second floor offers privacy.”
    Accustomed to the refreshingly cool summer days in the High Lonesome, Smoke Jensen opted for a first-floor room. The beautiful desk clerk nodded approvingly and selected a key. She turned back to Smoke and extended a hand comprised of a small, childlike palm and slender, graceful fingers.
    “When Felipe returns with your saddlebags, he will show you to your room.”
    “I think I can manage on my own.”
    Her smile could charm the birds from the trees. “It is a courtesy of the Posada del Norte. We wish that our guests feel they are our special friends.”
    “I’m sure they do. I know that I—ah—ummm—do.” Silently, Smoke cursed himself for sounding like an adolescent boy in the presence of his first real woman. He was spared further awkwardness by the return of the little boy, Felipe.
    “Come with me, Señor ,” the youngster said with a dignity beyond his nine or ten years.
    After Felipe had unlocked the door to No. 12 with a flourish and ushered him inside, Smoke pressed a silver dime into the boy’s warm, moist palm. Although fond of children, Smoke Jensen preferred to watch them from a distance; he recalled his first impression