Fury of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Martine frowned. “I have lost a few head of sheep, some goats. But that could be for some other reason. No fires. My last shipment to the plaza in Ciudad Mexico was not stolen.”

  Carbone massaged his forehead to rub away the frown lines. “He’s not going to like too much what you do for a living, my friend. You know how he feels about animals.”

  A sigh gusted from Martine. The white cicatrix that extended from the outer edge of his right eye to the corner of his mouth flushed pink. “Oh, yes. I’ve listened to his lecture on the shabby way men have treated the wolves more than once. Or on how horses have feelings and need to be broken with gentleness. A man of many facets, our Smoke Jensen. Do you think it will be enough? You and I and him? Can we really stop this loco, Carvajal?”

  “¡Hijo chingado!—son-of-a-bitch!” Carbone repeated. “What kind of rabia calls himself ‘the King of the North’? Five years ago he was a third-rate bandido, stealing centavos from the poor boxes in mountain village churches.”

  Martine sighed heavily. “Yes. And now all of Central Mexico lives in fear of his name. We can call him crazy, call him madman and rabid dog, but that fact remains. He is one powerful loco, if nothing else. I only hope Smoke Jensen has some ideas on how to rid ourselves of him.”

  At a table in deep shadows, a short distance away, a man peered from under the brim of his big sombrero and studied the two former pistoleros. It bothered him that they spoke in English; he caught only a word or two. Esteban Carbone y Ruiz sat straight in his chair, vibrant with an undiminished vigor, in spite of his being at least in his early forties. His straight, black hair, that pencil-line of mustache and shoe-button eyes never wavered or seemed out of place. No pot-belly on this one, the observer noted.

  Nor on his companion, Miguel Antonio Martine y Garcia. Younger than Carbone by at least ten years, he was a big, effervescent man with broad shoulders and a trim body. Even though it was reputed that he and Carbone had hung up their guns some seven years ago, one could almost see them there, poised in their well-oiled holsters, ready to leap to life and spit flame and death. An involuntary shudder passed through the onlooker.

  He had recovered his composure when the pair had finished their third shots of tequila and dropped a five-peso gold piece in the girl’s tray. They rose and departed, rich cigar smoke trailing behind them. Quickly the man came to his boots and went out the back way. In five minutes he stood in the presence of his Patrón, Don Gustavo Angel Carvajal, El Rey del Norte.

  Hat clasped in both hands in front of his pigeon chest, he spoke with fervor and awe. “It is as I say, your Excellency, Don Gustavo. They talked in English and few words made sense, but it was of en—ending your career. Of that I am sure. And of something called a Smoke Jensen.”

  Carvajal’s crossed, obsidian eyes narrowed, which produced a snake-like glitter. He seized upon the last words of the informant. “Yes. Who or what is a Smoke Jensen? He or it is coming from El Paso in los Estados Unidos, eh? That’s what I want you to find out,” he added in an aside to Ignacio Quintero, one of his subordinate commanders.

  Si, excellencia,” Quintero responded briskly. “I—uh—I have heard of this Smoke Jensen. He is a famous gunfighter from los Estados Unidos. He has killed many men. Hundreds they say.”

  “So what? Can he defeat an army? Learn what he looks like. Then take enough men along to the border, Ignacio. Find this Jensen and watch him. If—” The strange, hot light came into his eyes again. “If he then comes into the empire of the great Montezuma, he is to be destroyed. Go now. I have spoken.”

  Three

  Rupert Connors groaned softly and made feeble movements with his arms and legs. A soft buzz in the near distance resolved into human speech. Funny, he couldn’t quite make out the sense of what was being said. With enormous effort, he located the bottom rail of the corral and dragged himself to his knees. Rupe’s eyes had swollen nearly shut, he found when he tried to open them. He brushed at the burning lids with his big hands and wiped mud from his face. He could see now, through tears that sought to wash away the blood and clotted dirt.

  They were there, together, talking. The stranger and that damned brat. What was the kid saying? Something, something about his mother. And—and going with the stranger. Can’t let ’em do that. He’d twist everything, make it look like Wilma had been done in deliberate. Rupe knew he had to stop them. He needed something to help him get on his feet. He groped blindly and came upon a long, hard shaft. The pitchfork! Fingers of both hands wrapped around the oak handle, he forced his way to his boots and stood swaying for a moment. Then the inspiration came to him.

  Holding the wicked iron tines horizontally before him, he started toward the man and boy in a shambling walk. “I’ll get ya. I’ll get ya both,” he mush-mouthed.

  Those deadly fingers of metal had nearly reached the man’s broad back when the stranger turned with a cat-quick speed like nothing Rupe Connors had ever seen. The well-used Colt .44 left the holster in a blur, and surprise widened Rupe’s eyes when he saw smoke bloom at the muzzle. By then the pain had already exploded in his gut. The sledgehammer blow doubled him over, and he abruptly plopped on his butt in the dirt. He had already let go of the pitchfork. It was only then that his mind registered the shouted warning of the boy. Could it have been that fast? Gasping out his life in a stunned numbness that now washed over him, Rupe Connors struggled to form words.

  “You—said—you c-could stop this by te—telling me your—name. Wh—Wha—What is it?”

  “Smoke Jensen.”

  It echoed hollowly in Rupe’s head. The words brought with them a glimmer of wisdom. Eternal cold clutched at him as he admitted error for the first time in his life. “Oh, God, I—I done a right stupid thing, didn’t I?”

  “You chose the path you walked, Connors,” Smoke told him, but he was talking to a corpse.

  Bobby tugged at his trouser leg. “Now you gotta take me along, mister. I ain’t got nothing to stay here for.”

  Smoke considered that for a moment. After due deliberation he admitted to himself that he couldn’t fault the kid’s logic. “I suppose I must for a while,” he allowed. “D’you have any kin around these parts?”

  “No, sir.”

  A frown came and went on Smoke’s broad brow. “Well, I can take you into the next town. Someone there will look out for you. What’s your name, son? I heard Connors call you Bobby.”

  “Robert Edward Lee Harris, Mr. Smoke. An’ I’ve heard all about you. Gee, that was so fast I didn’ even have a warning clean out before you had your gun movin’.”

  “Fast isn’t always best,” Smoke found himself explaining. “It’s accuracy that counts. Now, Robert Edward Lee Harris, ah, that’s for the man who commanded the Army of Northern Virginia, I take it?” At Bobby’s nod, Smoke went on. “We’d best care for your pony and saddle her if she can take it.”

  “What about him?” Bobby asked, pointing to the dead Connors.

  “Umm. I suppose we should bury him. Though he could lay there and rot for all I care. Never could abide someone who’d abuse women, children or animals.”

  “How ’bout we toss him over the plow horse and take him into town. Let them bury him.”

  “The town folks? Not right to saddle them with that expense,” Smoke noted.

  “No. I mean that bunch he drank with and played cards all the the time. They’re the closest thing he had to friends.”

  Amused at so astute an observation from a small boy, Smoke decided to enlarge the lad’s knowledge of the world. “You’ll find that sort of friend tends to distance himself from a dead man. But, it’s worth a try.”

  Half an hour later, they started out for Starkville.

  What does one do with a 10-year-old boy? Smoke considered that question as they rode through the splendors at the top of Raton Pass. They had reached Starkville in early afternoon. Smoke Jensen had turned the body of Rupe Connors over to the sheriff and explained what had happened. The lawman made a stern face and questione
d Bobby closely. He substantiated what Smoke had said and pointed to his split lip. Then he yanked up his shirt and revealed a multitude of fresh and fading bruises on his skinny chest and back. Smoke also advised the sheriff of the probable cause of the death of Mrs. Connors.

  Still gruff, the lawdog had grunted and gave an “I thought so” nod. When asked about someone to take in the boy, he had raised both hands, palms up, in a resigned gesture. “Ain’t no one in this burg,” he said tersely.

  To Smoke’s surprise, two of Connors’ cronies agreed to stand the cost of a funeral. Not a fancy one, mind you, they had hastily asserted. Which left Smoke Jensen stuck with Bobby Harris. Man and boy, they rode on south the next morning.

  Civilization and progress had invaded this southernmost edge of Colorado, Smoke noted. The Denver and Rio Grande Railroad had track crews busily grading, placing ties, laying rails, and dumping ballast for a new mainline that would connect Santa Fe with the distant East via the shiny ribbons of steel. Hard, numbing work, Smoke mused. Unbearably dull for these workmen, he also considered.

  A strict moralist and a teetotaler, the president of the D & RG had hired railroad police to keep away from end-of-track the usual clutter of tents that housed saloons and bawdy houses. The men should be using their hard-earned money to provide for their families, not spending it on whores and cheap whiskey, the head man had pontificated. It didn’t surprise Smoke, then, when one of a trio of gandy dancers hailed him as he and Bobby rode by.

  “Howdy there,” called a big, beefy, red-haired track layer.

  Smoke howdied back. The other two stopped work also, in hopes of some novelty, and looked piercingly at the strangers. One of them spat a stream of tobacco juice. Their nominal spokesman pushed more conversation on Smoke.

  “M’name’s McGuiness.”

  “Jensen,” Smoke gave sparely.

  “Looks like you plucked a rat out of a flood.”

  “What are you getting at, McGuiness?” Smoke demanded.

  “That boy there. Skinny little thing, with too long hair. Like a half-drowned rat, you ask me. He kin of yours, or is he along to warm your soogans?”

  Well, hell! What sort of imbecile would make such an offensive suggestion? Smoke Jensen’s temper flared, then burst into ripe flame as he saw by the blush on Bobby’s cheeks that he understood the slur given by the big Irish gandy dancer.

  “You’ve got a pretty nasty tongue on you, McGuiness,” Smoke growled warningly. “I think it’s dug a hole that’s going to be hard for you to get out of.”

  “Not so long as I get a little help from my friends,” McGuiness bantered, all carefree and light, eager for the diversion a fight would bring.

  “Make it easy on yourself,” Smoke urged. “I’ll accept your apology, and so will the boy, then we can ride on our way.”

  “Sure an’ what if I choose not to?” McGuiness taunted.

  “Then I’ll have to step down from this saddle and kick the living hell out of you.”

  “Try it,” one of McGuiness’s companions challenged, “an’ ye’ll have three to fight. Kid looks like a sissy-boy to me.”

  What happened next caught Smoke Jensen completely off guard. “You better take that back, mister,” Bobby’s high, thin voice rang with emotion. “Do it, or Smoke Jensen’ll shoot you down like a dog.”

  “Him? That’s Smoke Jensen?” the third gandy dancer chortled. “Not likely.”

  “Shut up, O’Dwyer,” McGuiness snapped, suddenly sobered.

  “What the hell for, Mick? Sure, he’s a big one, but ev’ryone knows Smoke Jensen is eight foot tall. He wears two guns, too. Left one high up and butt pointed out. Reg’lar top gun.” O’Dwyer turned to Bobby. “You’re a gawdamn liar, kid. When we get done with this backside of a mule, I’m gonna wash out yer mouth with soap.”

  Smoke Jensen sighed heavily and handed the reins to Bobby. “Hold Sidewinder for me.”

  He dismounted and shucked his cartridge belt and holster, looped the free end through the buckle, and hung it on his saddle horn. From his hip pocket he took the pair of thin leather gloves and slowly put them on. McGuiness had a less eager expression by that time. He hung back slightly and took stock of the man facing them.

  “Go get ’em, boys,” he muttered softly.

  The word “easy” didn’t touch this one, Smoke knew. He would do well to polish off all three. And that wouldn’t happen without taking some damage himself. Smoke stepped away from the horses and set himself, knees slightly bent, arms relaxed and at his sides. He watched the two muscular trackmen advance, their faces darkening as they summoned up the lust to do battle.

  “Take him from the left, Sloane, I’ll go in from this side. This is gonna be easy as eatin’ apple pie.”

  O’Dwyer began to shuffle his feet then and lifted fists large enough to completely cover the face of Bobby Harris. A lopsided grin split his face whitely as he closed in on Smoke Jensen. Smoke wiped the grin from those lips with a hard right he uncorked from the balls of his feet.

  He continued in the direction of the punch, pleased at the meaty smack his knuckles made when they connected with O’Dwyer’s mouth. His momentum brought him on around, and he swung the leg his weight had left. It swept Sloane’s boots out from under him. Smoke stepped to Sloane and drove him flat onto the ground with a shoulder-rolling right. Bobby’s yelp of surprise came an instant before O’Dwyer jumped on Smoke’s back.

  “I got him! I got him!” the burly gandy dancer shouted.

  With a roar, McGuiness joined the fray. The powerful, experienced brawler waded in, fists pumping. Smoke absorbed a lot of what most men would consider terrible punishment to his middle and chest before he managed to set his boots and spin so suddenly that McGuiness’s next blows pummeled O’Dwyer’s back. The smaller—though far from average—sized O’Dwyer dropped his grasp around Smoke’s shoulders and fell away. He got an elbow in the sternum from Smoke for good measure.

  Gagging, O’Dwyer turned away from the fight. McGuiness tried a kick at one of Smoke’s kneecaps. Smoke dropped low and caught the flying boot. With a savage twist, he wrenched McGuiness off his feet. The huge railroader fell heavily to the ground.

  “Get ’em, Smoke, get ’em,” Bobby shouted encouragement.

  When Smoke tried to rise, he caught a set of knuckles in the center of his forehead. Blackness swam behind Smoke’s eyes for a moment, and he felt the warm trickle of blood. Outside of hardrock miners, Smoke knew, they didn’t come any tougher than railroaders. He wiped at the rivulet of blood and then swung his forearm horizontally. It connected with O’Dwyer an inch below his navel.

  With a whoop and a whoosh, O’Dwyer lost what remained of his lunch. While he still bent over, Smoke came to his boots and delivered a knee to the middle of O’Dwyer’s face. The gandy dancer dropped like he’d been shot. Smoke whirled in time to face McGuiness and Sloane together.

  Smoke slipped several blows on his broad shoulders and batted others aside. But he couldn’t avoid all of them. McGuiness unleashed a pile driver punch that bruised flesh, and Smoke recognized the sharp twinge of a broken rib. He sucked air and then stepped in close. Smoke snapped fast, hard fists to their faces. McGuiness rocked back, painting heavily as he gulped out words.

  “Y’know, might be the kid’s right. This is one tough sumbitch.”

  By then a crowd had gathered, shouting encouragement to their fellow railers. Smoke knew for certain that he had to carry the fight to them in so painful a way that it ended soon. It was that or he’d lose. He would be in real trouble, too, if all three hung on long enough to sap his strength even a slight bit. Accordingly, he sidestepped toward O’Dwyer, who was stirring feebly on the ground. With a swift move, Smoke lifted the man by his shirt-front and popped him solidly on the jaw. A soft grunt and O’Dwyer went off to sleepy land. That left only two. Smoke turned back to see that McGuiness had picked up a spike mallet.

  Laughing, Sloane circled Smoke, making light jabs that stung but did no real harm. Meanwhile, Mc
Guiness closed in with the deadly hammer. Smoke Jensen grabbed for the nearest object with which he could defend himself. His fingers closed around a rail alignment spade. The long steel shaft had a shoe-tongue lever and spiked hook on one end. Smoke had time to grasp it two-handed near the middle before McGuiness swung his first blow.

  Smoke blocked the descending mallet as though he wielded a quarter staff. Muscles strained and bulged in both arms of the burly McGuiness, while the crowd shouted approval. Smoke resisted with equal energy. Gradually he gained the advantage of leverage and hurled McGuiness away from him. Windmilling the narrow-faced hammer in a figure eight, McGuiness started back in.

  Lightning quick, Smoke Jensen flicked the bare end of the rail spade into the bulging middle of his opponent. McGuiness grunted and went to one knee. His hammer thudded ominously into the ground. Smoke followed up, realizing he could kill the man easier than he could knock him out of the fight.

  McGuiness raised his hammer in time to block Smoke’s next blow. Smoke reversed ends and smacked the slightly rounded spade end into the side of McGuiness’s head. His eyes crossed, and he made a gurgling noise deep in his throat. Slowly, the huge figure went slack and McGuiness sagged to the ground.

  “B’God, I-think-the-kid-was-right,” Sloane blurted out in a babble of words. “You are Smoke Jensen.”

  Smoke ached in more places than he knew he had. Yet, his heart sang with that sweet, keen joy of victory. “I am. You could have saved us all a lot of hurt if you’d listened in the first place. Now, I’m waiting for that apology.”

  “Uh—right you are, Mr. Jensen. Right sorry about the mouthy ways of m’friends here. They got outta line. Sure did.” Sloane waited with caught breath, blood running from one nostril and an ear. Smoke nodded toward Bobby. Sloane took the cue. “You, too, kid. Plain to see you’re no sissy-boy. None of us shoulda mouthed off like that. I’m plum ashamed.”

  “Thank you,” Smoke said simply.

  He stripped off the light gloves and replaced them in his pocket. At Sidewinder’s flank he rehung his gun-belt and swung into the saddle. He clicked his tongue, and the appaloosa started off at a lazy walk. Bobby, eyes as big as they could get, swallowed hard and followed. He quickly caught up.