Fury of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Images of the quick death of nine men in the street, and knowledge of the identity of Carbone turned the man’s bowels to water. Swiftly the storekeeper crossed himself and bleated, “Jesus, Maria, y José. Of course, gentlemen, of course. Your order will be filled with dispatch.”

  “I AIN’T GONNA!” The words exploded from Bobby Harris as he stood in his underdrawers beside a large galvanized tub.

  He and Sally Jensen were in the wash house behind the comfortable home at Sugarloaf. Steam rose from the water, prepared on the low, two-burner Acme woodstove in a pair of large copper boilers. The chill, mountain air caused Bobby to hug his bare chest in an attempt to keep warm.

  “Yes, you are,” Sally insisted.

  “I done took a bath day ’fore yesterday,” Bobby protested.

  “And you’ll take one today,”

  “An’ I washed off down at the corral yesterday,” Bobby added, thinking of another unpleasant spill in the muck and consequent bath. “Besides, it’s cold,” the boy pouted.

  “It will get colder,” Sally observed. “Besides, there’s a fire going, and it’ll be warmer after I leave and close the door.”

  “I ain’t dirty. Don’t see no reason to risk gettin’ the phew-monia by doin’ a dumb thing like takin’ a bath in this weather.”

  Sally decided to change tactics. Hands on hips, she produced an expression of disappointment. “I thought you were a brave boy.”

  “I—I am. Brave enough not to have to take a sissy bath ev’ry day,” Bobby countered.

  “I take a bath every day,” Sally pointed out.

  “Yeah, an’ you’re a girl.” Bobby’s lower lip poked out again. “Takin’ too many baths makes a feller weak.”

  “I’ll tell you something else. So does Smoke, when he’s at home or in a town where he can.”

  “He does?” Bobby asked, astounded and very impressed.

  “He certainly does,” Sally assured him.

  A bright light of revelation glowed in the freckle-dotted face. “It sure don’t weaken him none,” he observed.

  “I doubt very much that it does,” Sally answered, amused now as she realized his defenses had started to crumble.

  Without another word, as Sally quietly left the wash house, Bobby peeled out of his topless longjohns and jumped into the steaming water. He splashed loudly and began to soap himself.

  They made their explanations to the police, when the gray-clad officers at last arrived, long after the shooting had ended. The sheer number of bodies argued in favor of the version of events given by Smoke Jensen and Esteban Carbone. Encouraged by the presence of the two famous gunfighters, the store owner found nerve enough to verify their story. He even went so far as to identify four of the dead men as members of El Rey’s bandit army. Reluctantly, the police released Smoke and Carbone.

  Brief stops in several other shops, and the main marketplace quickly filled their requirements and they returned to the inn. There Smoke and Carbone ate a hot and filling meal, washed down by plenty of the local beer. After cigars on the patio, they retired to their rooms.

  Late that night, a small sound awakened Smoke Jensen. He came fully alert out of a sound slumber, as was his nature. Careful not to make any noise that would betray him, he listened in the dark for any indication of the danger that jangled in his head. It came a moment later, a soft scraping sound outside the door to his room.

  Smoke fisted his .44 Colt and made hasty preparations. A long silence followed. Then the door violently slammed open, kicked by two heavy boots. At once, flame lanced into the room from three muzzles.

  Hot lead slammed into the huddled figure in the bed. Each of the assassins fired four times, then paused. A thick haze filled the room. Then the apparent leader spoke in a whisper.

  “Bueno.”

  They entered in a rush. The leader made rapid strides to the bed and threw back the bullet-punctured sheet. His gasp of surprise startled the others when he took in the bunched bedding.

  “¡Mierda! He is not here,” the bandit gasped.

  “Buenas noches, gente baja,” Smoke Jensen said quietly an instant before his hammer fell on a fresh primer.

  And scum they were. The one nearest to Smoke died like it, too, squealing like a pig when Smoke’s slug punched him in the belly. He dropped his six-gun and clasped both hands over the hole in a futile attempt to salvage his blasted liver. Already Smoke had ducked and dodged to another part of the darkness.

  Reacting swiftly, the leader discharged a round in the direction of where Smoke had been. It did him no good. Already Smoke Jensen had fired again, the bullet making a deep gouge along the ribcage of the leader. It forced him to reflexively jerk his arm and sent the bullet into the ceiling. Plaster dust rained down.

  Smoke had moved again. The leader popped another cap, and the clay pitcher exploded, splashed the washstand with water, sent shards whirring through the air. Smoke aimed a little to the right of the muzzle bloom this time.

  A noise like a bleating sheep filled the numb silence after the loud report. The leader looked down at the dark stain spreading on his chest, wavered and fell across the bed. That left only one.

  Soft and guarded, a small whimpering sound came from close by the floor. Smoke had moved again and tried to center on the source. His ambush, speedy action and deadly accuracy had driven the macho bravado out of this one, he estimated. If he could only find him. Until he did, danger still lurked for Smoke in the blackness of the room. Ears still ringing, he managed to hear the gathering of courage, born of desperation.

  Reaching for the washstand, Smoke closed thick fingers over a bar of soap. With a sharp, hard movement, he hurled it across the room. It smacked noisily off the wall. Instantly, the last assassin fired at the sound.

  Smoke’s .44 roared into action, aimed a bit to the right of the muzzle flame. Boots beat a mortal tattoo on the plank floor, and a despairing sigh came from the dying outlaw. At last, silence filled the smoke-choked room.

  Moving quickly, Smoke located a candle and snapped a lucifer to life with his thumbnail. He touched the flame to the wick. Quickly, he took stock of the carnage.

  None of the trio moved. Vaguely he had a recollection of hearing similar sounds of combat from the room next door. Carbone. He went cautiously to the door, peered around the casing. No more nasty surprises on the balcony. Still barefoot, in longjohns and nothing else, Smoke edged along the outer wall to the door that led to Carbone’s room.

  Silence came from within. “Carbone?”

  “Sí, amigo. Come on in.”

  Candle and Colt leading the way, Smoke entered the room. He found three bodies sprawled in death, a reproduction of what he’d left behind in his room. Carbone sat upright in the middle of his bed, his .45 in his right hand.

  “You heard them, too, eh, amigo?” the Mexican gunfighter asked with amusement.

  “Just in time,” Smoke allowed. “They’re Carvajal’s men, of course. I think we should have a talk with the innkeeper.”

  “Perhaps we should get dressed first?” Carbone suggested, the brown skin of his bare chest marked with the scars of his former profession.

  They found Pedro Rodriguez, the fearful posadero, hiding in a big armoire in his bedroom. Smoke yanked him out by a fistful of nightshirt and slammed him against the wall.

  “Your loyalty to your guests astonishes me,” the big mountain man said sarcastically.

  “I—I—I know nothing about what you mean, Señor,” Rodriguez protested in a quavering voice.

  “Oh, I think you do. Who else knew which rooms we occupied? Or where we were staying, for that matter?” Smoke demanded.

  “I—I—It was all a mistake, Señor. Por amor del dios,” he appealed to Carbone.

  “ ‘For the love of God,’ ” Carbone repeated. “God spits on a traitor, cabrón. Now you will tell us who these assassins are, or I’ll let my friend cut out your liver.”

  “No—no, please. I—I—I had no choice. They are soldiers of El Rey del Nor
te. They were left here in the village as ‘special policemen’ to collect tribute and keep the people in line.” Rodriguez gulped hard, his mouth and throat dry. “They came here, demanded to know what rooms you occupied. I had to tell them. They—they were some of Carvajal’s best men.”

  Smoke Jensen and Esteban Carbone exchanged amused glances. The statement elicited a chuckle from both. “If that’s his best,” Smoke advised Rodriguez, “then I’m looking forward to seeing his worst.”

  Sixteen

  Carbone reined in at the edge of a haphazard cluster of small adobe buildings and pointed to a tall cairn of native stone. “There is the marker. We are near the Tropic of Cancer, amigo. From here on, the land becomes semi-desert again, and tropical down out of the mountains. There is even jungle.”

  “I find that not at all comforting, Carbone,” Smoke said dryly. “I’ll take the mountains any time.”

  “We head due south from here to Martine’s rancho. The state of Aguascalientes is within half a day’s ride.”

  “We’re going to the headquarters?”

  “No. First we stop at the village of Merced. There’s nothing else between here and there.”

  “Mercy, eh?” Smoke observed.

  “Yes. The whole name of Martine’s village is Nuestra Señora de la Merced, Our Lady of Mercy, but that’s too much of a mouthful for even those born to Spanish. So, it’s called Merced.”

  “I hope Martine has shown more mercy than whoever owns this village,” Smoke observed.

  He looked around at the scattering of low adobe huts, the narrow, rutted street that divided them. It was a village without a name. Smoke had already noted suspicious eyes watching them from behind drawn shutters. The cantina, or what passed for one, had a rank, fetid odor.

  When they dismounted and entered, Smoke took note of a man in a white shirt, black trousers, and a big, floppy Charro hat, who bolted from the tienda next door and galloped off full-tilt to the northwest. He called Carbone’s attention to the messenger.

  “One of Carvajal’s men,” Carbone observed, a fleeting frown dividing his brow.

  “So I had it figured. Are we staying here long?”

  “Only to rest the horses, refresh ourselves,” Carbone advised.

  Squalor magnified itself inside the one-room saloon. Smoke made tracks for a small table, while Carbone ordered beer for them both. He brought tepid bottles to the flyspeck-dotted table and produced a sardonic smile.

  “The cucarachas must run foot races up the walls,” he remarked.

  “Cockroaches. Not my favorite people,” Smoke revealed.

  Carbone produced a grim parody of another smile. “You’re close. We do have some people here we call cucarachas. It’s from the song.” And Carbone began to sing in a clear, firm tenor voice. “La cucaracha, la cucaracha, ya no quere cóminar. La cucaracha, la cucaracha, mar-i-juana que fumar.”

  Smoke’s expression of distaste and contempt shone across the table. “Loco weed. I knew a feller once, got taken by the stuff. All he wanted to do was smoke it, chew it, stopped eating altogether.”

  “Did it kill him?” Carbone asked.

  “No. Some Blackfoot warriors got to him while he was out of his head on the stuff. Served him right.”

  “Let’s talk of more pleasant things,” Carbone suggested. “You should know, for instance, that Martine has a bull ranch.”

  “Bulls, not steers?”

  “Fighting bulls,” Carbone stated simply. “Oh, we are both aware of your feelings for animals, amigo. Here it is a way of life, a custom, a tradition. The true aficionado looks upon the Fiesta Brava as a sort of morality play. Good triumphing over evil, the God-given mind being superior to brute strength. Ah! I see you don’t agree.”

  “I don’t,” Smoke said tightly. “Nor do I approve. But this is your country and, when in Rome …”

  “Enough said. At least that is out in the open now. Martine has three of the most beautiful children you will ever see. The boy has his father’s shoulders already. He’s going to be tall, lean, a born pistolero. Only Martine won’t let him pursue that profession.”

  They talked on for an hour, ordered plates of beans with cheese—it turned out to be goat cheese—and some stringy roasted meat Smoke hoped he would never be able to identify. Then they made ready to go.

  “Dommé la quenta,” Carbone asked for the check.

  Behind his bar, the cantinero spread his hands in a gesture of dismissal. “It is on the house. I know you, Señor, and Don Miguel, also. I am proud that there are men with courage enough to stand up to El Rey del Norte.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  “Your friend here, he is of a like caliber to you and Don Miguel?”

  “Only more so. This is Smoke Jensen.”

  At first the name made no connection for the barkeep. Then his countenance brightened, and he writhed his face in smiles. “Ah, the famous gringo gunfighter. Welcome to Mexico, Señor Jensen.”

  “Thank you. I wish I could say I’m happy to be here.” On their way out the door, Smoke added for Carbone’s benefit, “You know, I think that’s only the second welcome we’ve gotten since we got here.”

  When they had ridden a mile out of town, his mind on home, Smoke remarked as to how much the nature of life in these parts resembled that in the High Lonesome. Then he queried aloud, “I wonder how Sally’s doing with Bobby Harris?”

  “We should see the village by now,” Carbone announced, a worried tone in his words.

  “Might be well for me to scout ahead some,” Smoke offered.

  “We’ll both go. Split up and come toward the village from different directions.”

  “You think Carvajal might be around?” Smoke asked, not worried, but eager to take the size of the man.

  “It could be,” Carbone acknowledged.

  They swung left and right of the roadway. Smoke headed west for half a mile, before he turned south again. A soft wind spoke in the tall grass around him, and he thought of his infrequent journeys into Kansas. The Cheyenne, who had once lived there proud and free, called it the “talking grass.” Now the blades of green spoke in a foreign tongue.

  He crested a rise and saw far ahead the spire of a church. It looked somehow odd, the dome skewed to one side. Forewarned, Smoke slid the Winchester from its saddle scabbard and levered a round into the chamber. He advanced at a walk. Clear, sharp eyes took in every detail of the terrain.

  Nowhere did he see sign of a man. He negotiated a saddle in the rolling ground, where a lone mimosa stood stark against the skyline. Now streaks of gray and black stood out clearly against the pale blue of the sub-tropical sky. One of them wavered tenuously beside the belltower of the church. Sidewinder twitched his loose hide, as though conscious of a hidden danger.

  Smoke patted the thick neck. “That’s right, boy, there’s been some trouble up ahead.”

  He made the outskirts of Merced without taking sight of Carbone. Several buildings had collapsed in on themselves. Smoke from recent fires still spiraled into the air. A deadly silence held over the ruins of the village. Ahead, on the right side of the Plaza de Armas, the fire-scarred walls of the church stood out in stark warning. Black smudges on white plaster gave testiment to the fury of the fire that had burned within. Rafters had been consumed and the roof fallen in. Stained glass windows had burst from the intensity of the heat. Yet the holy place still stood. Smoke sensed movement to his left and swung that way.

  Carbone waved to him and advanced down an intersecting street. “We got here too late,” he observed of the devastation around them.

  “Or just in time. Two more guns wouldn’t have done a lot of good,” Smoke opined.

  Walking their mounts in silence, they proceeded to the center of town. Smoke soon noted that not all of the inhabitants had been killed, captured or run off. The cantinero still conducted business outside his gutted establishment. He stood casually, polishing a glass, behind a wide plank, supported by empty beer barrels. A canvas awning had
been rigged to provide shade.

  “Buenas tardes, Señores,” the barkeep greeted them. “It is not much,” he added with a shrug, “but it is mine. For you, the first beer will be only five pesos.”

  “¡Ladrone! Exploiter of the poor,” Carbone roared. “Fifty centavos. Not a cent more.”

  Blinking in the unaccustomed brightness of his surroundings, the gray-haired bartender formed his mouth into a surprised “Oh.” “Don Esteban Carbone? I did not know it was you. Of course, for you, and your friend, there is no charge.”

  “Gonzolo Ortiz, you are shameless and a thief,” Carbone went on, dismounting. “What happened here?”

  “Need you ask?” Ortiz responded, palms waggling outward. “Gustavo Carvajal, may his soul roast in Hell, paid us a visit. The Patrón, and the armed men, were not close by. Those hijos de chingada bandits burned down the town, shot many men, took the young women. Everyone else is too afraid to show themselves. When we heard hoofs, they ran to hide.”

  “I see.” Carbone took charge then, turned his back to the makeshift saloon and bawled loudly, “Come out now. This is Esteban Carbone y Ruiz. It is safe, my children. Come out.”

  Gradually, the frightened villagers began to poke their heads from hiding places among the rubble. Several younger men came timidly forward. Soon a few women showed themselves, black rebozos covering their bowed heads. Finally a handful of children popped from the ruins and ran shyly to their mothers’ sides.

  “Carvajal will be made to pay for this,” Carbone promised.

  “This we know,” Ortiz agreed. “Only we are so helpless. Unarmed and untrained. And there are so few young enough to carry the fight to that blasphemy of all blasphemies.”

  “Do you want to learn?” Smoke Jensen asked him.

  “Who is your friend, Don Esteban?” Ortiz asked bluntly, a suspicious eye fixed on Smoke Jensen.

  “Smoke Jensen. He is a famous gunfighter from los Estados Unidos.”

  “As famous as you and the Patrón?” a young man who came to stand at Ortiz’s side asked.