“Where do you suppose he is headed?” Smoke asked.
“He has something in mind, amigo,” Carbone said thoughtfully. “He came to this exact spot; we didn’t drive him here.”
“You said earlier that Carvajal disappeared for some while,” Smoke considered aloud. “Could he have been building a hidey-hole in this canyon?”
Carbone cut his eyes to Martine. “It might be possible. No one saw or heard of him for six months. Then he came out with this King of the North nonsense,” Carbone summed up.
“I think we should let them settle down a little, then go have a look,” Smoke suggested.
Jeff York’s eyes had widened at the vast expanse of the copper canyon. Huge walls of amber, russet and jade climbed to the rim where they stood. Fully five miles across, the opposite monuments to nature’s power repeated the spectacle. It went on for miles. Far below a rapid river, redder than the Colorado, twisted sinuously through the confines of the bottom. He spoke now with a hint of the awe he felt. “Me an’ the boys will go along, Smoke. We’ve had some experience chasing badmen in the Grand Canyon.”
“But that’s nothing like this place, eh?” Smoke said with a chuckle. “Carbone warned me in advance. I assume there’s another way in here,” he said to Carbone.
“Oh, yes. The mouth of the canyon is ten leagues to the west.”
“Maybe some men should be sent to plug that hole,” Smoke offered.
“At once,” Martine agreed.
“We’ll go along and scout out the whole canyon,” Smoke decided.
“That could take days,” Carbone protested. “We have him trapped. Now’s the time to close in and end this.”
“Could get costly,” Smoke suggested. “Even a cornered squirrel will fight to save its life.”
Carbone rethought his brash statement. “You’re right, as usual, amigo. This trail is so narrow that only one at a time could come up it. Half a dozen men could hold the top against an army.”
“Then why don’t we do it that way? Leave ten good men and the rest start a sweep of the canyon.”
Gustavo Carvajal paced the ground behind the high, man-made stone wall early the next morning. “Here! They follow us here and come in at night to kill or run men off as though this was their canyon. I can’t let that happen, now can I? They are only men, after all.”
A ghost of memories floated in Carvajal’s muddled mind. Vague images of a spirit and the dead bodies of his most trusted men added to the opium-induced confusion of thoughts. He had awakened from his comatose state to find that Humberto Regales was indeed dead. That left him with only Tomas Diaz and Pedro Chacon to give purpose and direction to his less than rational life.
Far from relishing his increase in status and power, Tomas Diaz wished fervently for the steadying influence of Humberto Regales. He knew only too well the extremes to which his leader could go when the fantasy of being the emperor of the Aztecs seized him. It helped little, he considered, that Pedro Chacon had been elevated to fill one of the gaps left by the death of Ignacio Quintero and Humberto Regales. Tomas considered that he might have been wise to ride the other direction when the army, now thirty-five stronger, had headed for Canñon del Cobre. He suddenly realized that Carvajal expected a response.
“Sí, Excellency. Only men.”
“Then we will defeat them. I know exactly how.”
Tomas wondered how. Worried, he tried to reason with Carvajal. “They are all around us, Excellency. Even the trail we entered by is blocked.”
A glint of madness twinkled in Carvajal’s eyes. “We are going to compel them to let us get away unharmed. Gather up every captive in camp. Bring them down to the gate. I have a little exhibition to present to Carbone and Martine.”
Twenty minutes later, Tomas Diaz reported to the King of the North, “It is as you wish, Excellency. The captives are at the gate.”
“Excellent. Now help me into my robes.”
“Something’s goin on,” Jeff York murmured softly to Smoke Jensen.
Smoke, his hat tilted down over his eyes, lay against a scrub cedar to catch a little sleep. He heard Jeff clearly, though, and sat up. “Any sign they plan to counterattack?”
“Nope. They have a crowd of plain folks up close to the gate. A second ago, one of the hardcases opened the whole sheebang. Uh-oh, what’s that feller figure he can do? He gonna try to fly out of here?”
Smoke came forward and peered over the lip of a low ridge in front of the rock fortification. Obviously of recent construction, it answered part of what Carvajal had been doing in the missing six months. The pint-sized outlaw king had come out from behind the walls, wearing his Montezuma regalia. Head swiveling left and right, he paced back and forth on short, stocky legs. He made a colorful spectacle. His feather cape and huge, ponderous headdress swayed and rippled in the breeze. At last he stopped and turned to face outward. Arms raised, he shouted slowly and clearly.
“Oje, Carbone, Martine, Smoke Jensen. I have gathered up some of your friends and neighbors. They are all under the guns of my men. I have also given the order that they will be sacrificed to Huitzilopochtli, the war god of our ancestors. Their hearts will be cut out of their living bodies. Unless … unless you allow us to depart from this canyon unharmed. And further, that you will submit to my will in all things, pay tribute and provide men for the army of the King of the North. You have one hour to decide.”
“I’ve decided already,” Carbone growled.
“So have I,” Smoke added.
“Not so fast, amigos,” Martine cautioned. “I have been thinking. We have done enormous harm to Carvajal and his bandits. What would it matter if we agreed to his terms? We could always attack him under far better conditions out in the open.”
Worried over this apparent change of heart, Smoke eyed his friend. “Do you actually think Carvajal would let any of the three of us live?” Smoke asked rhetorically. “Not after what we’ve done.”
“It is obvious he has completely lost his mind. He means it about the captives. He’ll put them over some rock and cut their beating hearts out of their bodies.”
“I suggest that you put the threatened executions out of your mind for the time being,” Smoke stated patiently. “I want you to listen to a plan I have worked out.”
Immediately after Carvajal issued his ultimatum, feverish activity began right in front of the main gate. Squarish stones were manhandled into position, and a large, flat rock placed atop them. The whole structure had a barbaric menace about it. It recalled images from Mexico’s dark past. Sharpshooters among York’s Rangers sighted in.
Their Winchesters cracked, and three bandits fell dead in the sandy red soil of the canyon. Immediately, rifles fired inside, and the wails of frightened people rose. While the besiegers looked on helplessly, three bodies were handed up and dropped over the wall.
Martine cursed himself and Carvajal with equal fervor. “I never expected that,” he protested.
“Carvajal’s in a fast canoe with a broken paddle,” Smoke Jensen remarked. “Expect anything from now on.”
“Such as gringos fighting alongside this bandit trash?” Carbone asked, pointing toward two taller figures on the ramparts.
“Um. I killed one Yanqui inside the hacienda,” Smoke recalled. “Appears he had friends.”
“What are we going to do about them?” Jeff York asked.
“If they don’t give up, kill them,” Smoke condemned them.
When the prescribed time had elapsed, a young woman was dragged, shrieking in terror, from the crowd at the gate. Four men held her down across the stone table while a fifth approached with a long, slim-bladed knife. He took his position above her head, which hung over one end of the flat block, and raised the knife in both hands.
Smoke Jensen watched the deadly drama unfold over the sights of his Winchester Express. Before the executioner could start his downswing, Smoke squeezed through on the trigger, and the .45-70-500 slammed against his shoulder.
Instant
ly, fat sticks of giant powder arced through the blue sky to land inside the fortress. By then all five bandits lay dead, and the frightened girl struggled to free herself from the death grip of her captors. At once, the entire force of volunteers, Rangers and the three gunfighters attacked.
Smoke Jensen led the way. Everyone had been given a specific target, and for once, Smoke noted, they went about doing their jobs in a direct, efficient manner. The canyon walls echoed with a steady pulse of gunshots. Rifle and revolver fire crackled on all sides. Smoke sought out and headed directly for the long, lanky form of Tomas Diaz. Separating them, however, were three of the bandits. Hemmed in on all sides, the trio fired blindly into the rush of a mere twenty-seven men.
Two of Martine’s volunteers went down before Smoke popped a round into the head of one outlaw. Dead before he hit the ground, the head-shot bandit flopped reflexively until the Great Leveler claimed him. Startled out of their daze by something so close and personal, the other two concentrated on Smoke Jensen.
“By God, it’s him, Yates, it’s Smoke Jensen,” Vickers bawled as he turned in Smoke’s direction.
“I hate you, Smoke Jensen,” Yates shouted, spittle flying.
Bullets snapped past Smoke’s head, and one tore cloth in his left armpit. Coolly he swung the muzzle of his .44 toward the offenders and let fly. His aim proved far better than theirs. Yates went to his knees, gut-shot and whining in a thin, breathless voice. Vickers ran his six-gun dry and, in stupid desperation, threw it at Smoke. Smoke dodged to one side and pinwheeled the shooter with a .44 slug in the sternum.
Doubting that the attackers numbered less than a fifth of their strength, the bandits ignored their captives, who ran screaming among the combatants. Smoke never lost sight of Diaz. He stepped over the dying Vickers, using his last shot on a fat, ugly bandit with a shotgun and a terrible attitude. Quickly Smoke changed revolvers. At that moment, Diaz cut his eyes in Smoke’s direction.
In a flash, Smoke realized the other man had gleaned his intention. He hated to be rushed on a shot, but he had to get off one first to rattle his opponent. The .44 bullet cracked close by through the legs of Diaz, and the latter immediately had visions of an unspeakable wound. He yelled in alarm and jumped behind a carreta.
Smoke went after him. Caution took command as Smoke neared the tailgate of the cart. He paused a moment, mentally tracking the rhythm of battle, then rounded the high-sided vehicle with his .44 leading. Diaz fired in too great a haste.
His round careened along the thick sideboard of the cart and showered Smoke Jensen’s face with splinters. Smoke’s bullet struck Diaz in the upper left chest. Staggered, Diaz’s eyes narrowed, and he racked back the hammer of his Mendoza. Smoke fired first. Hot lead sped true to the target and slammed Tomas Diaz into the edge of the huge, tireless wheel. He hung there for what seemed a long time.
Long enough to bring up his .45 and thumb-slip a round that ripped leather from the side of Smoke Jensen’s boot. Smoke’s ankle gave off a sharp report of pain and promptly went numb. Powder smoke obscured the scene before him. With instinct as a guide, he shot through the haze and heard a soft cry from his enemy.
A running captive and random breeze cleared his view, and he saw Diaz pitch forward into the broken rubble on the ground. Smoke also discovered he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a gust and paused to reload. He had nearly run both weapons dry.
Not the sort of thing he wanted to do in his present circumstances. His mind began to record cries for mercy and the sounds of surrender. Most men, he conceded, could put up with only so many assaults with explosives. The giant powder had shaken the bandits far more than anticipated. Now they gave up to a far inferior force. Both Colts reloaded, Smoke started out, with a pronounced limp, to find Gustavo Carvajal.
He found Pedro Chacon first.
Chacon’s eyes widened when he recognized the big gringo who had so easily bested him inside the hacienda. His boots wanted to run, while his head told him his only chance was to be faster and better. Why, the stupid gringo didn’t even have a gun in his hand. Quickly, a wild laugh on his lips, he swung his treasured Colt .45 Peacemaker upward in line with the gringo’s chest.
A loud flash and a report surprised Pedro Chacon. Pain exploded in his chest, and his precious Yanqui six-gun felt like it weighed a ton. How could that be? He’d never even seen the gringo draw. Yet, his dimming vision showed him fuzzily the image of Smoke Jensen with his .44 Colt in hand, a dribble of white still trickling upward from the muzzle. Then he saw only blackness and the flickering fires of Hell far down the tunnel.
Smoke Jensen saw the muzzle of Chacon’s gun rise toward him, and he drew with legendary swiftness. His hand and the gun were a mated blur. The .44 Colt jolted in his hand, and he sensed the aim had been true. When Chacon dropped to his knees, Smoke knew he had been right. A new sound, or rather the lack of it, reached through to his consciousness.
All around, bandits stood with their hands in the air. Powdersmoke wafted away on the stiffening breeze. Carefully, Smoke Jensen went among the prisoners and their former captives. He peered intently at all those of short stature. Carbone came to him on his second circuit of the captured bandits.
“What are you looking for, amigo?”
“Carvajal. He’s not among our prisoners.”
“Hummm. That would spoil our fun some,” Carbone observed.
“I thought so. I’m going to look for him. He can’t have gone far in that feather cape get-up,” Smoke advised.
This could not be happening. His men deserting him, surrendering to a handful of enemy. It was … like the time before. So few, the men who came with Cortez. Yet, in the end they had vanquished a mighty army and put a whole people in bondage. No, it was all wrong. Not again. He was the magnificent Emperor Montezuma. He was El Rey del Norte. He was … he was—Gustavo Carvajal, one-time petty bandit, with delusions of greatness.
He saw reality clearly now, with his army collapsing around him, and it dragged down the corners of his mouth in sadness. He also saw what the future held for him. El Paridón—the firing wall, and a squad of soldiers. But he would not go alone. He watched closely as Smoke Jensen searched among the captured bandits. Gustavo Carvajal knew full well whom the gringo sought. Well, he’d not disappoint the Yanqui interloper. He had a secure place in these rocks. From there he could watch everything that happened. It would make a good place from which to avenge himself on Smoke Jensen.
Only a little closer now, he mentally urged the huge gringo. Closer. Then the image of the spectre in white imprinted on his mind. And the ignominy of the firing wall. Relentlessly, Carvajal fought those impressions. With deliberate care he cocked the Mendoza .45 in his right hand and began to raise it.
Smoke Jensen came on, as though drawn to the jumble of boulders at the back of the small fortress. As he glided past the hiding place of Gustavo Carvajal, the bandit king raised his revolver the last few inches.
The shot brought Smoke Jensen around in a half-crouch, .44 Colt at the ready. What he saw was a wet, red smear on the rocks that had been behind him. Flecks of white and brown tissue spattered it. He stepped to the opening and looked into the hidden pocket.
Gustavo Carvajal lay sprawled in a half-sitting position against the erosion-carved back wall. He had taken the only escape he had to avoid capture, humiliation and eventual execution. The muzzle of his .45 Mendoza still remained inside his thick lips.
A week later, Smoke Jensen rode north in company with Jeff York and his Arizona Rangers, Esteban Carbone and Miguel Martine. Their mood was high and light. A lot of rough jokes flew among the members of the party. Smoke found himself enjoying it.
He knew the Rangers would go back to keeping the peace in Arizona Territory. His Mexican friends, the new-made haciendados, would raise their families and restore their ranchos. Carbone would marry again within two years and produce four more progeny. Martine would grow fat and gruffly affable in his declining years. All would be well with the world again.
Except for Smoke Jensen, whose reputation kept catching up with him. But that’s another story from the life of the last mountain man.
When Smoke Jensen parted company with his friends, his thoughts turned to home and his beautiful wife. Particularly to Sally, and he wondered how she was getting along with young Bobby Harris.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 1993 by William W. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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eISBN 13: 978-0-7860-3696-7
eISBN 10: 0-7860-3696-6
First Printing: October, 1993
Printed in the United States of America
Fury of the Mountain Man Page 28