The Three Mercenaries
Page 1
A Notorious Man . . .
“So,” Clint said, “will they be waiting outside for me?”
“Juanito will want to,” Rodrigo said. “He will want to face you alone, and know that he killed the Gunsmith.”
“Why don’t you do me a favor and go take a look?” Clint said.
“Sí, señor.” Rodrigo headed for the door.
“No,” Clint said, “don’t go to the door. Look out a window.”
“Oh, sí, señor.”
Rodrigo changed directions and headed for a window. He peered out, taking care not to be seen from outside.
“They are not there, señor.”
“What do you think that means?”
Rodrigo turned from the window to look at him.
“Señor Montoya probably would not allow Juanito to wait for you.”
“He’s a smart man,” Clint said. “What would he do?”
“He would probably wait until he had more men before he came after you.”
“And why would he come after me?” Clint asked. “We never met until today.”
“Well . . . you are the Gunsmith, señor,” Rodrigo said. “Is that not enough reason for most men?”
Clint sighed.
“Unfortunately, it is—most of the time.”
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THE THREE MERCENARIES
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2014 by Robert J. Randisi.
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PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / November 2014
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
All-Action Western Series
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
ONE
The dead cowboy was carried into the saloon and set down on the bar.
“Where’s the judge?” one of the men asked.
“He’s comin’,” the bartender said. “Just leave ’im.”
The three men who carried the body into the saloon looked at the bartender.
“Any chance we can get a drink?” one of them asked.
“Yeah, sure,” the bartender said. “One shot for each of you.”
He poured three shots of red-eye, and the three men tossed them down.
“Okay,” the bartender said, “now get out before the judge comes out.”
“Ain’t he gonna want the body moved when he’s done?” another man asked.
“Yeah, but we’ll get somebody else to do it.” He knew the three men were angling for another free drink. They slunk out of the saloon.
The bartender studied the dead cowboy. He looked like he was in his thirties, had apparently been shot through the chest. His gun was still in his holster. He was about to go through the dead man’s pockets when the judge appeared.
The judge was a tall man in his sixties, with white hair. He was wearing a soiled white shirt and a pair of suspenders. He had his gavel in his hand.
“Judge,” the bartender said.
The judge nodded at him. When the saloon became his courtroom, the bartender became his bailiff.
“Go through his pockets yet?” the judge asked.
“I was about to do that.”
“Then do it.”
As the bartender went through the pockets
, the judge took out a pair of wire-framed glasses and perched them on the end of his nose. He watched as the man went into all the pockets, turned them inside out, and came out with . . .
“Forty dollars,” the bartender/bailiff said. “Guess he wasn’t robbed.”
The judge came closer, leaned over, and studied the wound in the man’s chest.
“Somebody didn’t like him.”
“I guess.”
The judge looked at the forty dollars in the bartender’s hand, then examined the body again.
The bartender jumped in surprise as the judge slammed his gavel down on the bar.
“Forty dollars for carrying a concealed weapon.”
“Him?” the bartender asked. “Concealed?”
“Forty dollars.”
The bartender/bailiff looked down at the money in his hands. “He just happens to have that much on him,” he said, handing the money over.
“Sell his gun,” the judge said, “and have the body taken to the undertaker.”
“Yes, sir.”
The judge counted the money in his hands just to be sure, then slammed his gavel down again and said, “Court’s adjourned!”
“Drink?” the bartender asked, now relieved of his job as bailiff.
“I said court’s adjourned, didn’t I?” the judge asked peevishly. “Do I have to repeat myself?” He raised his gavel.
“No sir!”
The judge turned and walked away.
* * *
The judge entered his office and sat in front of his ancient roll-top desk. He took the money out of his pocket, opened the top drawer, and deposited it. The town of Langtry, Texas, did not yet have a bank. He sat back in his chair, lit a cigar, and sipped his drink.
Judge Roy Bean much preferred his Jersey Lily as a saloon than a courtroom.
TWO
Clint Adams left San Antonio, Texas, ahead of trouble. It had become obvious to him that there were several men there who were working up the nerve to try him. Eventually, they might even have decided to join forces against him. His best bet was to leave town, since he was pretty much finished with San Antonio anyway.
Normally he wouldn’t leave town ahead of trouble. He wouldn’t want it to get around that Clint Adams ran away from trouble, but he didn’t consider this running. This was avoidance. But if they followed him, he’d have no choice but to deal with them.
* * *
It took Clint three days to reach Acuña, Mexico. His plan was to spend a few days there—just over the border—and then ride north. Eventually, he’d reach Labyrinth, his home away from . . . well, the only place he could call home. And yet the thing he liked about it was that while it remained the same in his absence, there were always slight changes upon his return.
As he rode into Acuña, he found it a small, sleepy town—a village actually. He’d been checking his back trail religiously, and hadn’t seen any sign that he was being followed. So he felt fairly certain he’d be able to spend an easy day or two there.
He took Eclipse to the livery, got his room in the small hotel. It was simple, a small bed, an old dresser, and a wooden chair. But it was remarkably clean, which was unusual for a small, dusty town like Acuña.
But what he was looking forward to was some good Mexican food. He went down to the small space that could hardly be called a hotel lobby, and approached the front desk.
The clerk was a Mexican in his forties, with slicked-down hair and a well-cared-for mustache.
“Can I help you, señor?”
“Who makes the best food in town?”
“Ah, señor,” the clerk said, “you want to go across the street to Carmelita’s Cantina.”
“I’m looking for good enchiladas and tacos,” Clint said.
“Whatever she makes is the best in town, señor,” the clerk assured him. “You tell her Paco sent you over.”
“I’ll tell her,” Clint said. “Gracias, señor.”
“Por nada, señor!”
Clint left the hotel and walked across the street to Carmelita’s Cantina.
As he entered, he saw that the place had a small bar and four tables, and that was it. None of the tables were being used, which was not necessarily a good indication of a place’s food, but it was a small town and it was not supper time. And the smells in the air were fabulous.
A small man wearing an apron came out of the kitchen and smiled broadly. Because he was so small—perhaps five feet tall—it was hard to gauge his age. He could have been thirty or fifty.
“Señor, welcome to Carmelita’s.” He smiled broadly, showing a couple of gold teeth.
“I heard you have the best food in town.”
“Sí, señor,” the man said. “We have that honor. Would you like a table?”
“If you can fit me in.”
The man laughed and said, “Ah, the señor is funny.” He waved magnanimously. “You may choose any table you like.”
“I’ll take that one,” Clint said, pointing to the one that was farthest from the door.
“Excellent choice!”
The small man led Clint to the table, then asked, “Would the señor like something to drink?”
“Cerveza,” Clint said.
“Sí, señor,” the man said, “I will bring the beer right away. And to eat?”
“Burritos, enchiladas, tacos, and rice,” Clint said. “And anything else you can think of.”
“Ah, the señor has a large appetite,” the man said happily. “I will tell Carmelita and she will begin the cooking.”
“You mean there really is a Carmelita?”
“Oh, sí, señor,” the man said with a broad smile. “She is the cook, and she is mi esposa.”
“Well, congratulations.”
“Oh, señor, we have been married a very long time,” the man said, “but gracias.”
The man hurried away and quickly returned with a mug of beer. After that he kept coming back with platters of enchiladas, burritos, tacos, and lots of Spanish rice and refried beans. The last trip back and forth from the kitchen brought Clint a large pile of tortillas. He piled the food into tortillas, rolled them up, and ate happily. He didn’t know if the food was the best in town, but he couldn’t imagine there was better.
“What’s your name?” he asked the waiter when he brought him another mug of beer.
“Rodrigo.”
“Rodrigo, tell your wife this food is delicious,” he told the man.
“I will tell her, señor. She will be very, very pleased,” the man said. “Muchas gracias.”
Clint nodded and waved, his mouth full, and the man ran happily back to the kitchen.
* * *
While he was eating, three men entered the cantina and went to the bar. They were all Mexican and looked over at Clint with interest, then had a conversation at the bar with Rodrigo. It was in Spanish, but Clint could tell he was the subject. If they were looking for trouble, he hoped they would wait until after he had eaten.
Alas, they did not.
THREE
The three men turned to look at Clint, with beer mugs in their hands. Clint was eating his last taco, and wanted to enjoy it just as much as the first.
“Hey, gringo!” one of the men yelled.
Clint closed his eyes. It apparently was not going to happen.
“Are you talking to me?” he asked.
“Am I talkin’ to you?” the man asked. He spoke very thickly accented English, which sounded like “Am I talkin’ to joo?” He laughed, exchanged glances with his two compadres, and then said, “I don’ see anybody else in here, do joo?”
“No,” Clint said, “I just couldn’t believe you were talking to me, since we don’t know each other.”
“Oh, I see,” the man said. “Well, we can fix dat, eh? My name is Juanito. What is jours?”
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Now Clint knew one of two things could happen if he gave the man his real name. He could dissuade them and send them packing, or it could encourage them to try him. They all had bandoliers across their chests, pistols in holsters, and rifles that were currently leaning against the bar.
“My name is Clint.”
“Cleent?” the man said. “What kind of name is Cleent?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “What kind of name is Juanito? Isn’t that a girl’s name?”
The smile disappeared from the man’s face.
“What? You are calling Juanito a woman?”
“Just commenting on your name,” Clint said. “Isn’t that what you were doing?”
“Juanito,” Rodrigo said from behind the bar, “the señor meant no disrespect. Please, no trouble, eh?”
One of the other men put his hand on Juanito’s arm, raised his other hand to Rodrigo, and said, “No, no, Rodrigo, fear not. There will be no trouble.” He was older than the other two, and for the first time Clint thought he might be looking at a father or an uncle, with two younger sons or nephews.
“Please, señor,” the man said to Clint, “you must forgive my son. He has a poor way of showing his curiosity.”
“No problem,” Clint said. “I’ll just finish my meal.”
“Rodrigo,” the older man said, “please take the señor another cerveza, from me.”
“Sí, Señor Montoya,” Rodrigo said.
“Please,” Montoya said, “finish your meal in peace.”
“Gracias,” Clint said, “and thank you for the beer.”
“Por nada,” the older man said. He and his two younger comrades turned back to the bar, but Juanito was not happy.
Rodrigo brought the second beer over to Clint, who popped the last of the taco into his mouth.
“Rodrigo,” he said, “please give Carmelita my compliments.”
“Would you like to tell her yourself?” Rodrigo asked. “That would please her very much.”
“I would be happy to.”
“Good, good,” Rodrigo said, “thank you. I will get her.”
Montoya and one of his comrades kept their backs to Clint while they drank their own beer, but Juanito kept peering over his shoulder. Clint figured he wasn’t out of the woods yet as far as trouble in Acuña went. Maybe he should just move on now that he’d eaten.