Fury of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “They are fit for an emperor, no?” El Rey demanded.

  “Most certainly. You will treasure them, I am sure.”

  “So, then. Let’s get on with this. Empty out every building, every last thing. We’ll take it all. Then burn this place to the ground. Not one stick, one block of adobe standing on another. I have ordered all the young women to be saved for the putarias of Mazatlán. Kill all of the men and boys, the old people and babies. But … take your time. Enjoy your work.”

  With a shout of exuberance, the bandits set to their tasks with a will. The destruction, rapine, and slaughter grew terrible in Castigador. El Rey set up his headquarters in the church. He amused himself tormenting the elderly priest with blasphemous artocities, committed by his men upon the altar. At last, after hours of suffering and horror for the people of Castigador, Carvajal oversaw the murder of the remaining few and rode out, highly contented.

  Twenty-two

  Following his new plan, Smoke Jensen and the Mexican volunteers arrived at the small village of Pueblo Viejo—Old Town—third of Martine’s villages. At Smoke’s direction, they set about at once to fortify it. At first, the alcalde offered protest when the newly-trained soldiers came to conscript all of the adobe blocks in his workyard. He made a good profit selling them to himself for municipal projects. Now they were to be pressed into use to construct connecting walls between the outermost buildings of the community. In high dudgeon, he went to complain to the man in charge.

  At the first sight of Smoke Jensen, the mayor began to regret his hot and hasty decision. The man was huge, looking up on him from Alcalde Torrez’s five-foot-five. Those gray eyes were almost colorless. At least until he blurted out his objections to the confiscation.

  “You cannot do this. It is my livelihood you are taking away,” Torrez whined.

  Smoke Jensen turned a bleak visage toward the mayor. Glacial ice formed in those large, fulminating eyes. Torrez cringed inwardly. Smoke’s words turned his innards to jelly. “You’d rather we left you to El Rey del Norte? He’d take your life, not just the product of your labor.”

  “But I must pay my workmen. I must have some form of compensation,” Torrez babbled.

  Smoke Jensen reached out in a friendly-appearing gesture and clamped one big hand on the narrow shoulder of Mayor Torrez. While he spoke in a low, reasonable tone, he began to squeeze. With each word the pressure grew greater.

  “You must understand the point of all of this, Mr. Mayor. We are here at the direction of your Patrón, Don Miguel. He has instructed us to fortify this village against attack by the self-proclaimed bandit king, Gustavo Carvajal. We know that this attack is certain. Now, you wouldn’t want the deaths of your fellow citizens on your hands, would you?”

  By that point, Torrez had gone to his knees. Tears stung his eyes. His mouth flapped like an outhouse door in a stiff wind. Only a pained gasping came out. “You do comprehend what I’m saying, right?” Smoke asked.

  Surrender shined in the frightened eyes of Torrez. “Go—go ahead.”

  Rapidly, the adobe bricks disappeared. Willing hands mixed a slush of the clay soil to serve as mortar. The walls rose swiftly. Smoke turned his attention to other matters.

  “We need women who can quickly weave coarse nets of canvas strips and sisal rope. Also,” he told Juan Murial, “get men to work with picks and shovels to dig pits outside the town. Stagger them, some far out, some in close. A few right across the only road we’ll keep open. Rig some spiked logs to drop over the walls to clear off Carvajal’s men if they’re smart enough to bring scaling ladders. Also, I want a trench, five foot wide, dug ten foot deep, all the way around town. Set spikes in the bottom and line the sides with tinder-dry wood.”

  “You are playing very nasty, amigo,” Carbone observed.

  “I want to bring an end to this thing.” Smoke turned back to the men. “When you have the brush in place, soak it with oil, then cover the whole thing with thin branches, canvas or some cloth, and dirt.”

  He and Carbone went next to where Martine’s trained men were teaching new volunteers how to use firearms taken from Carvajal’s outlaw army. They watched in silence for a while, Smoke frequently nodding approval of the teaching methods. Then Carbone asked a question that had been troubling him for a while.

  “If we are turning Pueblo Viejo into a walled city, why the nets?”

  “We’ll put them between buildings, cover them with a layer of dirt to hide them from sight. When and if Carvajal’s hardcases get inside town, they’ll do like before, ride in between houses and business places and fire through the windows. This time people inside neighboring buildings can pull up the nets and snag the riders off their horses.” Smoke winced on the last two words.

  A frown of concern creased Carbone’s brow. “Is something wrong, amigo?”

  “Nothing. A little twinge in my stomach,” Smoke dismissed. “Let’s go by where Blanco is inventorying the ammunition.”

  Twenty minutes later Smoke and Carbone strolled outside the squat building where Rudolfo Blanco presided over the amassed supply of ammunition. Smoke removed his hat and mopped at oily sweat on his brow. He found it hard to swallow. He replaced the big sombrero and directed their course toward the brickyard of the mayor.

  “I’ve been thinking about those tile waterspouts the mayor has in his yard. If they could be capped at one end, a stick of giant powder and a couple handfuls of bent nails and scrap metal from the blacksmith could turn them into remarkable weapons.”

  Carbone grimaced, visualizing the terrible effect of the flying bits of iron. His mood lightened as he took in a serious-faced deputation of small boys, around eleven years of age who approached them, straw hats in hand, over their hearts. Their spokesman addressed himself to Smoke Jensen.

  “Señor, we boys want to help, too.”

  “There’s not much youngsters your size can do,” Smoke tried tactfully.

  “Oh, yes, you will see. We can keep watch. Give signals when we see the bandidos coming. We can bring water and food to the men working or fighting on the walls.”

  After witnessing the remains of wholesale butchery in Merced, Smoke Jensen retained no doubts as to the savagery of Carvajal’s bandit army. Nearly a third of the children had been killed. Still, he couldn’t expose them to the full fury of so implacable an enemy.

  “You could not expose yourself to their fire. And never be seen in the open. They have killed other boys like you.”

  “Tienenos hondas, Señor,” the small spokesman said proudly, displaying his slingshot. “We can protect ourselves.”

  Such courage and confidence should not be scorned, Smoke thought. “All right, you can fetch and carry for the men. Until the fighting starts. I’ll think about using some of you for sentinels.”

  “Gracias, Señor. Llamado Raul. This is Gaspar, Felipe, Miguel, Armando. We will serve you well.”

  Smoke bent to pat the lad on his head, and a sharp shaft of pain speared through his stomach. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead and upper lip. For a moment, the world whirled around him.

  “What is it, amigo?” Carbone asked, concern coloring his words. “You are suddenly so pale, white as snow in the Sierra.”

  “I—ah—I don’t know. Something hurting inside. I’ve got to hit the outhouse,” Smoke declared brokenly.

  He made a hurried dash and made it to the chicksale barely in time. A terrible stench accompanied the gush of fluid from his body. Wave after wave of knifing pains assailed his intestines and dizziness robbed him of any awareness of his surroundings. Chills came next.

  Smoke’s teeth chattered and his shoulders quaked. He burned on the inside and froze on his exposed skin. Another wash of watery matter ran from his body. Again the slivers of agony attacked him. He had heard of such ailments. Often the condition came from eating tainted pork or corned beef. Weakness tried his patience. Two more onsets of the fetid discharge occurred before the malady eased off. Intensely weary and shaken, Smoke left the outho
use. His throat and mouth clamored for water. A glance at his reflection in a glass window revealed a ghastly pallor. Carbone came to him, worry painted on his brown face.

  “You are sick, my friend. Have you eaten something bad?”

  “I don’t know. I’m having gas pains, then cramps and all I did in there was pass water.”

  Carbone’s grave expression conveyed his grim news to Smoke. “Dysentery. It is common in our country. It comes from bad water, or uncooked foods that are not raised properly or cleaned well. Somehow it has taken ahold of you.”

  “I haven’t time to be sick,” Smoke protested.

  “All the same, you are,” Carbone said simply.

  Smoke Jensen never had a cold, let alone major illness. Gunshot wounds or the result of a furious fight were all that ever laid him low. He experienced an unaccustomed helplessness at the thought of his condition.

  “What can I do?” he gave in at last.

  “Lay down, rest. Take lots of liquids, everything must be boiled first. And something to force the sickness out of you,” Carbone advised.

  “There’s a doctor here?” Smoke asked hopefully.

  “There is an old woman who dispenses herbs and medicinal teas. I will bring her to you. Meanwhile, old friend, find a place to rest, go to bed … and keep a chamber mug close at hand.”

  Smoke took a corner room in the posada. It contained a large, comfortable bed, an armoire, dresser and a washstand. The thunder mug sat prominently on a lower shelf of the comode. Smoke eyed it with resentment. He drank three clay cups of water and sat on the bedside. Within a minute the cramps returned, then the rumbling in his bowels.

  He made it to the chamber pot only a fraction of a second before he unloaded again. The dizziness nearly knocked him over. When the spell passed, he returned to the bed, pulled off his boots and cartridge belt and lay out on the covers. He had almost managed to drift into sleep when a soft knock sounded at the door.

  He rose and admitted Mrs. Martine. “I heard you had been taken with the dysentery,” she announced in a practical manner. “I have come to care for you.”

  “Señora, you have your children to look after, your husband’s needs,” Smoke protested.

  Consuelo Martine raised a hand to silence him. “We owe you much for coming to our aid, Smoke Jensen. I will tend to your needs. There will be someone here at all times. Now, you need to drink more water, and take this herb tea. It will wash out your system.”

  “It’s been fairly well washed out already,” Smoke observed wryly.

  Smoke Jensen awakened without any memory of having gone to sleep. No, he had lost consciousness, his mind supplied. Some time during the afternoon, racked by alternating chills and fever, his body dehydrated by diarrhea, he had simply dropped into blackness. He stirred and ran his tongue over dry, cracked lips. Shakily, he reached for a clay cup of water on the bedside table.

  “Please, Señor, let me help you with that,” a strange woman’s voice urged him.

  Smoke turned his head to the right and concentrated on focusing his eyes. He didn’t see Consuelo Martine as expected. Instead, he gazed owlishly at a slender young woman with an angelic face, dominated by hypnotic eyes. She rose from the straight-back chair and came to him. She took the cup and pressed it to his lips, giving Smoke a close-up of her lush bosom.

  His thirst abated, Smoke tried to speak. “Señora Martine?” he croaked.

  “She is with her family. Resting.”

  “She was here a while ago,” Smoke pressed.

  A radiant smile, touched with sadness lighted the beauty’s face. “That was yesterday, Señor.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am called Mirabella. I—I don’t deserve to be serving you, Señor.”

  “Say, now, what’s this?”

  She cast her gaze to the floor. “The people of Pueblo Viejo say that I am a fallen woman.”

  “Hummm.” Smoke considered this a moment. She certainly had all the best qualifications for the position. He held no prejudice against ladies of the evening. She could be whatever she wanted to be, so long as she helped him get over this infuriating sickness.

  “What is it you are supposed to do?” Smoke asked.

  “To see that you get your herbs, Señor. I must mix some now and brew a tea. Also I am to help you to—ah—to—ah …” Her embarrassed glance cut to the chamber pot.

  “I can take care of that on my own. If I can’t, what I need is a diaper,” Smoke answered gruffly.

  Mirabella looked relieved. “Can you eat, Señor?”

  “I don’t know if I can hold it in place,” Smoke answered honestly.

  “We can try some soup,” Mirabella suggested. “I will help you with it while the herb tea steeps.”

  Smoke missed part of the Spanish, his head still whirling. He ate the soup, and lost it five minutes later. He also found to his shock that he could barely hold himself upright over the basin on the washstand. He rinsed his mouth and returned to the bed. Mirabella helped him sip the tea, and he lay back with a determined effort not to groan. The room swam and he slept.

  A huge grizzly bear chased Smoke Jensen through the tall pines and slender aspens. No matter how he zigged or zagged, the bear kept to his trail. Smoke felt himself growing weaker. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the bear to have gained fifty feet on him. The big clawed paws reached for him, almost a come-here gesture. Smoke tripped over a fallen tree and fell hard on the ground. The bear closed in, saliva dripped from its huge, pointed teeth. Smoke could feel the animal’s fetid breath on his cheek …

  … And he snapped awake. For a moment the ceiling of plastered viegas swirled in a mad spiral. Then it steadied and Smoke found himself clear-headed for the first time in … how long? He looked for Mirabella and found her standing behind the high-back wooden chair, in which sat Consuelo Martine.

  “You had a bad dream,” Señora Martine told him.

  Smoke produced a weak smile; the grizzly still danced in his head. “I remember some of it,” he rasped.

  He propped himself on one elbow and reached for the water cup, got it without assistance. It felt marvelous as it trickled down his parched throat. He drank it all, wanted more.

  “The worst is over. You will be weak for a while, but you will live,” Señora Martine advised.

  “I … came close to dying.”

  “Yes, and in more than your dream, Smoke Jensen. You must eat. Rebuild your strength.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Three days after the day you became sick.”

  “I owe you a lot. And you, Mirabella. The old woman who provided the herbs. I must pay her,” Smoke added.

  “They were given freely, to heal you. There is no need.”

  “I insist.” Smoke sat up, found himself bare to the waist and quickly covered his torso with a damp, rumpled sheet. “Was I much of a burden?”

  “No. The crisis came yesterday. You were delirious, could not leave the bed. But the herbs purged you,” Señora Martine informed him.

  “Couldn’t leave …” Smoke became aware that he had a fresh, scrubbed clean scent about him.

  “Mirabella tended to you,” Señora Martine said to ease his obvious embarrassment.

  In half an hour, after the ladies had excused themselves, Smoke was up and dressed. He ravenously ate two bowls of thick soup and demolished a stack of half a dozen tortillas. He could feel the energy pouring back into him.

  Shortly before sundown he stepped out into the courtyard of the inn. The cooling air tantalized his nostrils. Carbone rose from a stone bench and came to him.

  “We were worried,” he stated simply.

  “I was too sick to worry,” Smoke admitted. “I hope I’m never so helpless again.”

  To Smoke’s surprise, Carbone produced an amused smile. “Foreign visitors to our more attractive sea ports have taken to calling it Montezuma’s Revenge.”

  Smoke gave in to the humor of it. “I don’t suppose our sawed-off friend,
Carvajal, had anything to do with it.”

  “No. It is as I told you before. Something in the water or the food you consumed. It is important that everything be well cooked, the water boiled.”

  “The voice of experience?” Smoke asked lightly.

  “Yes. No one is immune. It can strike anywhere. Now, let me tell you how the training is going.”

  “Let me sit down first,” Smoke proposed.

  For the next twenty minutes, Carbone brought Smoke up to date on progress in the village. He concluded with, “The men are filling bags with dirt to raise the level of the low wall to the east. When that is done, everything will be in readiness.”

  “You’ve done well,” Smoke praised his friend. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help more.”

  “The news that you are well has raised spirits already, amigo. Just knowing you are on your feet is a great help. Now, are you up to a real supper? No more of that foul-tasting roots and bark and crushed beetles, or Consuelo’s famous chicken soup.”

  “I think I can handle it. I want to talk with both of you, and the men we’ve picked to lead. Four days of a complete blank leave me with the uneasy feeling that Carvajal has given us all the time we can expect.”

  Twenty-three

  “Martine y Garcia is a menace,” Gustavo Carvajal announced forcefully to his gathered subordinates. “I am convinced that he will continue to resist until he loses everything. So be it! Tell the men that the fiesta is over. They have gorged themselves and drunk to stuporousness for a week. They are to start preparations immediately to attack the last of the villages on Rancho Pasaje.”

  “Our informants in Santa Rita have told us that Martine is making a fortress out of Pueblo Viejo,” Humberto Regales gave his leader the bad news.

  “How is this?” Carvajal asked coldly.

  “They have built walls between all of the outer buildings. There are firing parapets behind them. The big gringo, Smoke Jensen, is directing everything like a general. He’s made the peons into an army.”

  “He has an army? What about my army?” Carvajal snapped.