Fury of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Smoke smiled. “I like that. I’ve always been a strong believer in surprise. Odds are that if we are out of sight long enough, this Carvajal will start to think I’ve turned tail and headed back north. By then we should have enough men ready for a fight.”

  The two friends watched the former slaves depart. Then they gathered up their packhorses and moved out at a brisk trot along the spiny ridge of a lesser sierra. High above, an eagle circled and made its plaintive cry. Somewhere below, furtive prey would be motionless in fearful anticipation of the sharp talons that could close on their small, furry bodies and carry them off to feed a brood of chicks. Smoke Jensen watched the magnificent bird as it soared and dipped in the currents sent up from sundrenched slopes of pine and balsam.

  Cedar trees gave off their pungent odor, which invigorated the big mountain man. With each passing hour Smoke Jensen felt more at home in these rugged escarpments. He made careful, unconscious note of terrain features. Never again would he be a stranger here. Neither man broke the companionable silence until they halted to rest their horses and nibble on cold rations.

  “Over beyond this rampart, to the north a hundred leagues, is Canñon del Cobre. It is spectacular. Larger even than Canñon Grande, in Arizona,” Carbone informed Smoke.

  “That would be a sight worth seeing.”

  “It is very rich in copper ore,” Carbone added.

  “Is it actively mined?”

  “No, the terrain is too rugged.”

  “Well, then, maybe it will last for a while longer,” Smoke opined. He strongly disliked and fervently lamented the vast, ugly gashes left in the land of the American West. Hydraulic mining was relatively new, yet it had left its indelible mark on the once-beautiful mountains and valleys.

  Sighing, he abandoned such reflections to study the sky. A deep line formed on Smoke’s brow as he took note of a growing expanse of black-bellied, towering clouds in the west. In the next ten minutes they seemed to have doubled in number. Smoke called Carbone’s attention to them.

  “Oh, sí,” Carbone responded, relatively unaffected. “A storm is gathering. We’ll get wet before we find a place for the night.”

  Smoke Jensen considered the swift, powerful violence of thunderstorms in the High Lonesome. They could gather out of seeming nothing and dump a cascade of water and hail, and lash the land with tempestuous winds before sailing ponderously away to the southeast. These huge boomers appeared to be kin to those he’d known much of his life. Yet, Carbone seemed indifferent to the menace in the sky.

  “We’d better move on, then,” Smoke suggested.

  Forty minutes later, the entire sky had turned black. It was as though night had fallen on this part of the mountains. Ahead and behind them, bright, golden sunlight sparkled on the snow-capped pinnacles of the Sierra. Muted thunder rumbled to the west. Only a few at first, then wide swaths of tree tops began to sway and twist in a growing wind.

  It sang mournfully through the pine boughs. Smoke settled his Stetson more firmly on his head and turned up his collar. Sidewinder twitched nervous ears and rippled his loose hide in agitation. A sudden flash turned the world white around them. The peal of thunder came like a blast of cannon fire to someone sleeping beneath the muzzle.

  Their packhorses squealed in alarm. Carbone looked about with new-found uneasiness. Large drops of rain, widely spaced, began to patter down. They bounced high off the ground and rattled the leaves of oak and aspen. Smoke paused to look all around.

  “We’d best find some cover. I’m betting on hail,” he told Carbone.

  “Sí. This is worse than I expected.”

  “How far are we from somewhere to shelter?”

  “¿Quien sabe?” Carbone responded with a shrug. “Who knows?” he repeated. “Maybe half a league. There is, or was, a small ranch in this part of the Sierra. We should almost be there.”

  “We’ll have to be quick about it,” Smoke urged, his last words drowned out in another cataclysmic flash and bang of celestial outrage.

  Mixed with the heavy odor of ozone, the wood-smoke could not at first be discerned by Smoke Jensen. He caught a whiff of it, though, when the wind shifted and increased in velocity. A billow of gray-smudged white boiled past them.

  “That lightning started a fire,” Smoke declared. “It’s upwind of us. Let’s ride.”

  Carbone took the point, his big spurs raking reckless speed out of his mount. A thoroughly frightened packhorse streamed in his wake. Smoke Jensen followed in the race to get out of this celestial outrage.

  Instinctively, Carbone chose a path through the trees that led diagonally across the fire’s front, angled southwest. Within minutes, flames licked high into the air behind them. Panicked and riderless, the packhorses tried to bolt ahead of the mounted men. They squealed pitifully and fought their lead ropes. Further west, it had been raining longer. Smoke and Carbone entered a steady, slow-moving downpour that advanced toward the flames.

  It would be a race, Smoke knew, between the deluge and the fire. Their lives quite clearly depended upon which element of nature won. He still fought with his lead animal when a loud, sucking sound came from above them. Wise in the ways of mountains, Smoke glanced upward in time to see a wall of sodden earth pull away from the breast of the mountain and lean far outward toward them. He sucked air and shouted above the tumult of roaring water and thunder.

  “Let go the packhorses! Ride out fast,” he commanded.

  Carbone quickly obeyed. They slipped and slid ahead on the steep path. Once, Sidewinder went to his rear haunches as the great slab of mud and rocks towered over them. Smoke urged the appaloosa stallion with a smart slap of reins, and Sidewinder surged forward once more. At his side, Carbone had gone pale-faced, and his eyes held a haunted light.

  With a tremendous crash, the mudslide slammed to the ground behind them. Tree trunks broke with explosive reports, and branches flew every direction. The mud oozed up to the hoofs of their mounts. Carbone gasped in relief at being spared. Smoke looked hard-eyed at where the hind legs of a packhorse protruded from under the sloppy edge of the cascade. Its companion nuzzled up to the other horses for comfort.

  “We’ve lost that one and the gear,” Smoke observed. “At least it was quick. Can you say how far to that old house?”

  “If we can find the trail again, perhaps,” Carbone answered with a shrug.

  Rain still pounded them as Smoke Jensen and Esteban Carbone set off in search of the trail and shelter. A new, ferocious downpour assailed them and drove visibility to a matter of feet. For once, Smoke began to doubt that all mountains were alike. This deadly, powerful tempest, whipped up by a tropical storm, resembled nothing like he had experienced in the Shining Mountains. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that they could easily die here.

  Fifteen

  Only mental echoes of the violent storm remained when Smoke Jensen and Esteban Carbone rode out of the mountains into the broad, fertile central highland south of Zacatecas three days later. Carbone waved a hand to encompass the upland plateau.

  “It is like this from here through Aguascalientes and northern San Luis Potosi. Then the mountains again, and beyond them, Mexico City. We are not far from Limosna. We can stay there for the night.”

  “Will we be able to resupply?” Smoke asked, concerned over the loss of their supplies, particularly two cases of ammunition.

  “It is likely. Limosna is a fairly large town.”

  “What does the name mean?” Smoke asked out of curiosity.

  “Charity. Perhaps that is a good sign, amigo, ¿como no?”

  “We’ll hope so, but reserve judgment.”

  “Always the cautious one,” Carbone observed.

  “It’s kept me alive a good many years,” Smoke remarked, then wished he could recall his words. It was his friend who had left the drapes undrawn in the main hall of his hacienda, which cost the life of his wife.

  Carbone might have been reading his thoughts. “I will never forget that lesson, Smoke Jensen. Al
l my life I shall remember my carelessness.”

  “Carbone—Esteban, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to criticize.” For once in his life, Smoke felt entirely helpless.

  They rode into Limosna in an atmosphere that could accompany a funeral. No children romped and played on the streets. Only a couple of shaggy dogs raised lazy heads to growl softly as they passed by. Here and there a window blind flicked aside to allow the occupant to watch them guardedly.

  “Somehow, I do not get the feeling the people are friendly,” Carbone observed.

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Smoke replied. “There’s a posada up ahead.”

  Carbone sighed heavily when he read the sign painted on the arched adobe gate to the inn: PUERTO DEL SOL. “There must be a thousand posadas named Gate of the Sun in Mexico. One would think that a people with the romantic soul of Spain in them could be more original,” he lamented.

  At least Carbone’s spirits had lifted, Smoke thought as he clapped his friend on one shoulder. “We’d better find out if they have room for us.”

  Inside a man clad in the loose white cotton shirt and trousers of the region looked up from something unseen on his desk and produced a glower. “What is it you want?” he asked inhospitably.

  “We’re looking for rooms for the night,” Carbone told him.

  “Do you have cash to pay with?” the clerk snapped.

  “Of course.” Stung by this rude attitude, Carbone asked facetiously, “Does your employer know how hard you work to fill his establishment with guests?”

  “I am the owner,” came the surly reply. “I can give you one room together.”

  “Two rooms, if you please,” Smoke Jensen pressed.

  “Ah! A foreigner. You are from Europe?” he asked, interest awakened.

  “No. The United States.”

  “Too bad for you. Do you bring a conquering army with you?”

  Smoke now burned with temper. “If you’re willing to lose the money, we’re willing to look elsewhere.”

  The thought of vanishing pesos improved the posadero’s outlook. “Oh, never mind. I do have two rooms, adjoining. On the second floor. Ten pesos a night, each. Another two pesos for stabling your animals.”

  “Done. Can you recommend a good place to eat?”

  “What’s wrong with right here?” the innkeeper asked, offended. “And the cuota is in advance.”

  Both men paid for their lodging. They carried their gear to the rooms indicated and stowed it in large armoires. After stabling the packhorse, they set out to locate an outfitter, or suitable shops to replace their missing supplies and another horse.

  One square block was formed of wall-to-wall shops, facing outward and inward on a large central courtyard. The sign over the tall, arched wrought iron entrance to the interior declared it to be EL MERCADO CENTRAL. Stalls lined the center of the courtyard. The largest store, occupying a corner of the outer rank of merchants, advertised cooking utensils and camp gear. Smoke and Carbone entered.

  “Buenas tardes, Señores. How may I help you?” an eager merchant greeted them, briskly scrubbing his palms together in anticipation of a profitable exchange.

  “We have a list. Some pots, a skillet, grille, open fire trestle, two big spoons, a tent. Also your advice on who has the least weevils in his flour, where to get the best in smoked meats, dry beans, coffee.”

  “I—ah—see.” The merchant looked closer at Carbone and, recognizing him, his dream of vast profits vanished. He took on as stern an expression as he could summon. “I am sorry, but you will have to go elsewhere. Your custom is not desired here.”

  Ruffled, Carbone bristled. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. You are Carbone y Ruiz, ¿verdad? The renegade. I will sell you nothing.”

  “Why is that?” Carbone demanded, though he suspected the answer.

  “Limosna has El Rey del Norte as Patrón. We are loyal to him. His enemies we spit upon.”

  Hot anger flared now. “Perhaps you would like to start by spitting on me?” Carbone challenged.

  “Get out of my tienda, or I will call on others who will remove you,” the shop owner ordered coldly.

  During their stroll through town to the mercado, Smoke Jensen had noticed several men looking suspiciously at them. Since entering the store, several had gathered in front, peering through the windows. Now some dozen hardcases joined the throng, their cold, black eyes fixed on the entrance to the shop. Before Smoke could advise his friend of their presence, three of them entered.

  “You are not welcome here, gringo,” one stated flatly.

  “Get out of here, while you are still alive,” another advised, then added, “and get out of town.”

  The third walked up close to the Mexican gunfighter and gave him a shove with an extended index finger. “There is a price on your head, old man.”

  Carbone rocked back on his bootheels, and bleak anger suffused his face. Smoke Jensen pushed up his hat brim and reached for the thin leather gloves in his hip pocket.

  “Looks like they’re wantin’ you to open the dance. You reckon to do that?” Smoke asked his friend in English.

  “With the greatest of pleasure, amigo,” Carbone responded, recognizing the breed as hired guns in the employ of Carvajal.

  Not one of the trio saw his swift move. One moment, Carbone was being pushed a second time. There came a loud crack and a yowl of intense pain as he snatched at the index finger that offended him, bent it until it broke and shoved its owner back off his boots. He crashed, amid more agony-drawn protests, against a display of buckets. They set off a musical clatter that drowned out a warning shout from the merchant when Carbone unlimbered his six-gun.

  He shot the bandit closest to him first. The slug smacked into a leather vest and sent shards flying, along with blood and dust. Stunned, the man jerked backward and attempted to draw his weapon. Carbone sent a second messenger of death his way. His heart blown apart, Carvajal’s gunman sprawled on the floor in a grotesque position of splayed limbs and curved torso.

  Already, Carbone turned his attention away from the dead man. He tracked the muzzle of his .45 to his left and dead centered the second bandido, who had his six-gun halfway out of the holster. The third had cleared leather and sent a bullet cracking past Carbone’s head. It shattered a row of kerosene lamp chimneys on a shelf behind him.

  Carbone targeted in on the last of the trio. Wide-eyed, the less courageous outlaw back-peddled toward the door. He waved his revolver aimlessly from a wrist gone limp with fear. Carbone shot him in the leg. The gunhand dropped to his other knee and tried to swing his .45 into line. Carbone didn’t give him the chance. His last shot burrowed into the hollow at the base of the hardcase’s neck.

  He went over backward and twitched violently for several seconds, then stiffened, shuddered and went slack. In the relative quiet that followed, Carbone heard gunfire from outside and realized that Smoke Jensen was no longer in the store. Ignoring the frightened bleats of the merchant, Carbone took five swift strides to the door and out onto the stone-cobbled street.

  Smoke Jensen had a hole in his hat brim, another through a trouser leg. Five men lay huddled in death, pools of blood forming around them. That left four standing. Carbone reached under his coat for a second gun and laid to rest a nattily dressed bandido, garbed all in black with silver conchos and braid trim.

  In the same instant, Smoke dropped two more. Legendary speed made it seem easy, as though the first report of the gun felled them by invisible means. The first had his six-gun aimed at Smoke’s chest. Before the hammer could fall, a hefty .44 slug punched through his sternum, and the revolver went flying. Its owner staggered backward three steps, groaned and fell into a puddle in the cobblestone street. Right on top of Smoke’s first round came the second.

  Incongruously dressed in bright red, with a huge sombrero of the same color trimmed in gold thread, the bandit had launched a large knife at Smoke Jensen. It buried in the frame and plaster false front of the arch
ed arcade in front of the shops. He had the second behind his head, ready to release, when Smoke shot him in the gut.

  Air whoosed out of the wounded man, and he doubled over. He tottered forward on surprisingly small boots, left hand groping for the butt of a revolver high on his waist. He cleared the cylinder and trigger guard before Smoke Jensen downed him with a bullet in the brain. The remaining member of Carvajal’s squad of killers decided to seek safety elsewhere. He ran blindly for two blocks, to where the horses had been tied up, mounted, and swiftly galloped out of town.

  “I could never tolerate rudeness,” Carbone quipped as he shucked expended rounds and began to reload.

  “Nope. Not from the likes of this trash,” Smoke agreed. “We’d best tidy up, eh?”

  Working together, after filling cylinders with fresh rounds, Smoke and Carbone stacked the bodies along the gutter and then went into the store. Smoke took two dead men by their collars and dragged them outside to join the others. Carbone did for the third. Then he returned with his list.

  “Now, before we were so rudely interrupted, I had placed an order,” he told the thoroughly cowed merchant.

  “Y-y-you killed them all,” that worthy gulped.

  “No. One got away,” Carbone corrected.

  Meanwhile, Smoke Jensen had drifted toward one corner of the establishment, where he saw a group of shelves that displayed paperbound books. Curious, he perused the titles. It taxed his Spanish, but he made out most of them. Love for Gloria, Guadalajara Romance, were two titles. Then he came upon one that caused him to crack a broad, white smile. Las Adventuras de Smoke Jensen. He recognized the name of the author. The book was a reprint of one of the Penny Dreadfuls published some years ago in the States.

  Smoke plucked it from its place and carried it to the counter. There he showed it to the proprietor. The man glanced at the cover, started to turn away. “It is not for sale … to you.”

  Smoke bunched up the front of the merchant’s collarless shirt and yanked him around close. Then he tapped his chest.

  “Yo soy Smoke Jensen,” he growled in his most menacing manner, lips curled in a nasty arc.