Free Triumph of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page B

and give it to Mother.”
    Sally stepped in. “Bobby is correct. Taking another person’s property, whether you think he has a right to it or not, is stealing. There will be no more of that around here. Now, both of you go in there and get yourselves washed up. You’re a couple of mud balls. And shake hands and try to be nice.”
    Thoroughly mollified, Bobby put out a hand. “My name’s Bobby, what’s yours?”
    â€œBilly,” the other boy answered, still offended. Then he drew himself up. “William Durstan Gittings. But you can call me Billy.”
    They released their grip and turned away from the adults. With an arm around each other’s shoulders, they walked toward the bath that awaited them. Sally breathed a sigh of relief, only to learn that Mary-Beth had not finished.
    â€œOne thing you must accept, dear Sally. My son was right in what he did. He certainly did not deserve anything like the beating he got.”
    Sally groaned inwardly at the thought of the ensuing month, saddled with this now former friend.
    * * *
    In a large, adobe mansion outside of Santa Fe, Clifton Satterlee and four of his associates from back east sat in a sumptuous study, two walls lined floor to ceiling with books in neat rows on their shelves. Long, thick, maroon brocade drapes covered the leaded glass windows, with the usual wrought-iron bars covering them from outside. A small, horseshoe-shaped desk occupied the open space directly in front of the limestone casement. That was where Satterlee held court. The tall back of a large, horsehair-stuffed chair loomed over his six-foot-plus height. He wore a blue velvet smoking jacket and open front shirt of snowy perfection, riding trousers and calf-length boots. His guests clothed themselves with all the formality of eastern evening wear. Brass lamps provided illumination, and the yellow rays of the kerosene flames struck highlights off the cut crystal decanter and five glasses on a low table around which the visitors sat. The topic of conversation had turned to their plans for the conquest of Taos and its environs.
    â€œWe already have a good foothold,” Satterlee reminded his associates. “C.S. Enterprises has the timber rights to a thousand acres on the eastern slopes of the Sangre de Cristo range. By selective cutting, we can clear a way to allow passage of the logs we harvest from the land currently held by those Tua vermin. We can pass them off as coming from our legally held property.”
    Durwood Pringle cocked an eyebrow. “Do you think that will fool any inspectors the Interior Department sends out here?”
    â€œOf course, they are the same kind of trees. We will continue to log off the eastern slopes so that an inspector will see cutting activity. And, we will have ample advance warning of any surprise visit. Besides, when it comes to the local officials, we have already bought them.”
    Pringle still lacked assurance. “Yes, but are they honest politicians?”
    Satterlee snorted in impatience. “What do you mean? We paid them off, didn’t we?”
    â€œI understand that, Clifton, old fellow, what I mean is that an honest politician is one that once he’s been bought, he stays bought.”
    They shared a good laugh at this levity. Then Satterlee moved on to the next subject. “The merchants and residents of Taos remain stubborn for some reason. Although we have added to our cattle holdings recently with two hundred head from the Alvarado ranch.”
    A frown creased the forehead of Durwood Pringle. “That’s excellent, Clifton. But what we want to know is what is being done to encourage these reticent merchants in Taos to sell out?”
    Clifton Satterlee took a long pull on his cognac and produced a warm smile. “Have no fear, Durwood. That is being taken care of as we speak.”

6
    Bright orange tendrils of flame coiled through the black night sky over Taos, New Mexico.