What difference did that make? Smoke decided as he came closer. Even if she sold her favors for a living, that didn’t take away her right to say no when she chose to. Some of the finest women he had ever known on the frontier had been ladies of the night. Even his own sister had owned, and left to her daughter, Jenny, the largest sporting house in Red Light, Montana.
Ten feet from Smoke Jensen, one of the louts planted a big, hairy paw on a bosom supported by whalebone stays. “Ouch! Oh, you’re hurting me. Please, please someone help me.”
Only a scant second later, her appeal for help was answered by Smoke Jensen. He clapped a hand on the shoulder of the offending punk and yanked him around from the shady lady. Smoke’s huge, powerful fist hummed forward and knocked the lout’s eyes straight with a blow to the forehead. The resultant knot rose between thick sprouts of carroty hair that lined the dense ridge over his pale, watery blue orbs. The offender staggered backward to bump into his intended victim.
“Hey, what are you doin’ to my brutha?”
Smoke cut his eyes to the second attacker to see a face identical to the one he had just punished. Twins. Ugly, stupid, and lustful in equal proportion, Smoke judged.
Well, to hell with that. A fast left and right from Smoke Jensen made a raspberry jam of the mouth of the second bucktoothed trash. He stopped asking about his brother and backpeddled rapidly. By then his twin groaned and rolled over on the ground. Smoke ignored him and went after the one still standing. His arms pistoned as he drove one-two combinations into the over-grown lout’s mid-section.
All at once, fingers like steel bands clamped onto Smoke Jensen’s elbows, and he was lifted clear of the red-brown street by the burly lug he pounded. The huge twin shook Smoke like a terrier will a rat. All the while he called mush-mouthed to his brother.
“Delbert, Delbert, get up, Delbert.”
“I’m a-tryin’, Albert, I’m a-tryin’.”
Held at half-an-arm’s length, Smoke Jensen dangled there for a moment, then worked free his forearms. He spread them, hands open, palms facing, and on the next inward yank, he clapped them painfully over Albert’s ears.
“Nunnnnnggg!” The odd sound sprayed blood from rubbery lips. Sharp, ringing agony in his ears caused Albert to release Smoke Jensen.
Although disoriented and hurting, before Smoke stabilized on his boots, the huge twin fisted his .44 Remington revolver. He had it level with Smoke’s gut before Smoke could make a move. What should have been a wicked grin spread across the damaged mouth, and Albert gestured with the barrel.
“Pick my brother up,” he demanded. When the groggy Delbert had been restored to his boots, his brother went on. “You okay, Delbert? You shoulduna let him hit you like that.”
“Wha—wha’ hoppen?” Delbert gobbled.
“He done hitten you, Delbert Banner. You stood like a ox an’ let him hitten you.”
“What now, Albert?” Delbert asked his brother.
“I’m gonna shoot him dead.” Albert Banner turned to Smoke Jensen. “You hear me, mister. I’m gonna shoot you dead.”
“I think not,” Smoke told him quietly, his hand resting on the butt of his .44 Colt.
“Look at me!” Albert shouted. “I done got my iron out, an’ I gonna kill you dead for hurtin’ us. Dead, dead, dead!”
Seven
While Albert swung his hog-leg .45 into line, he paused to ask with a sneer, “ ’Fore I do, I wanna know who it is I’m gonna kill. Whut’s yer name, stranger?”
“Jensen,” Smoke told him. “Folks call me Smoke.”
Albert Banner’s ugly, crimson face went stark white. “Awh, sweet sufferin’ Jesus. You’re Smoke Jensen?” The muzzle of his Colt wavered as Smoke nodded. “I—ah—well, I—ah—got outta line, Mr. Smoke Jensen. It’s true. It surely is. I—ah—ain’t gonna shoot you dead.”
“I know that,” Smoke offered calmly. “Now, why don’t you scoop up your half-wit brother and get him out of here?”
Yellowed buckteeth flashed in a grimace that didn’t quite make it to a smile of relief. “Yessir, I’ll do that little thing. Right now.”
“An apology to the lady would be in order, also,” Smoke demanded.
“Her? Why, she’s jist a whoore.”
“Would you like to be lying there beside your brother?”
“Gosh, no, Mr. Jensen. I reckon we done did act out of line. I—I’m—ah—sorry, miss. We meant no harm.”
“I understand,” the young soiled dove replied in a throaty voice. After the departure of the Banner brothers, she turned in relief toward Smoke Jensen. “I’m grateful. I’d be happy to show you how grateful, if you’ve a mind to.”
Her sensuality crackled in the air between them. Smoke swallowed in uneasiness. “I’ll pass, thanks all the same,” he told her.
“Then, I could do with a cup of coffee, Mr. Jensen. What about you?”
“Suits,” Smoke agreed curtly.
Thin moonlight filtered down on the Hacienda El Rayo. Carbone had named his sprawling ranch estate after the handle tagged onto him by his fellow countrymen, “The Thunderbolt.” His speed and deadly accuracy with a six-gun, rifle or blade had become legend.
Esteban Carbone and his wife, Maria Elena, stood before the ample fireplace in the book-lined study. Carbone, in a velvet smoking jacket held a glass of Pedro Domeq Don Pedro brandy. Maria sipped delicately at a new concoction of a famous chef in Mexico City, named a Margarita. It consisted of a green orange liqueur, the national aperitif—tequila—and lime juice. Maria wasn’t sure she liked it, but had to admit that it certainly grew on one. Tension deepened the lines around her mouth.
“Are you certain, husband, that this plan of action is necessary?”
“Yes, amada, I am sure,” the former gunfighter guaranteed her. “We are, after all, considered upstarts. The ‘good’ families have as little to do with us as possible. The government ignores our pleas for help against this madman. Already he has reduced two of my villages to ruins. Men have been killed, women carried off into who knows what new life.” Carbone knew exactly what sort of fate awaited the young women of his villages, but as a gentleman would not mention it before a lady.
“The Rurales?” she asked, and he gave a shrug.
“Everyone knows they are corrómpido. If we take our own people into the mountains after this loco, El Rey del Norte, they threaten to arrest us. No, there is only one answer for this problem.”
Maria sighed. “I know. Your mysterious gringo friend, Smoke Jensen. But what can he do in a foreign land, in strange mountains?”
“I am certain that Smoke will be right at home in our Sierra Madre Occidental. He is a mountain man. The last mountain man. If anyone can exact justice out of this dilemma, it is he. Now, drink up. La cena will be ready soon.”
Maria raised the margarita to her lips. A split second later, the musical sound of shattered glass preceded the meaty smack of a slug as it struck Maria Elena in the chest. The margarita glass fell from her suddenly numbed fingers, and she sagged against the mantle of the fireplace.
In the next instant, Carbone heard the faint, distant crack of the rifle. Seconds later, he ducked low as another hole appeared in the window. The slug spanged noisily off the granite slab that formed the mantle. Crouched, he hurried to his wife’s side, as he made note of the report of the second shot.
Her breath came in shallow, rapid gasps, and air whistled out of the entry wound. With it came a pink froth. The shots had come from far off, Carbone’s mind told him while he struggled futilely to preserve the life of his beloved. A hidden assassin.
“Santa Maria, madre de Dios,” Carbone began to pray.
Maria Elena Carbone shuddered, and her death rattle sounded in her throat. Tears coursed down Esteban Carbone’s face, unashamedly. The children. What would he tell them? How could he tell them? Wretchedness assailed him.
“Damn that murdering swine. Call the padre,” he began to think rationally again.
“Arrange for the funeral,”
he spoke aloud, then lapsed into thought. See his wife off to eternity, then start north to the American village of El Paso to meet Smoke Jensen. Then, this arrogant pendejó, Gustavo Carvajal, will taste the full measure of our retribution.
From the large front porch, Sally Jensen waved a welcome to the thick-shouldered rider approaching the house. Sheriff Monte Carson howdied back with a ham-fisted swing of his right arm. When he stepped down, Sally put on one of her most radiant smiles.
“You’re just in time for coffee and sweet cake, Monte. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy and jarred beans for dinner later on if you’ve a mind. I’ve got pie, too,” she added teasingly.
“Sounds dear to a man’s heart, Sally. I’m obliged.” He dug into a coat pocket and produced a yellowish sheet of paper. “I’ve come on an errand. Telegraph message from Smoke.”
Fleetingly a frown of worry crossed Sally’s brow. He couldn’t have reached El Paso so soon. “No trouble is there?”
Carson produced a rueful grin. “Depends on how you define trouble. I got one, too. You’d best read it and make up your own mind.”
Truly concerned now, Sally took the missive and spread it wide. Her eyes tracked the page and took in each word with growing trepidation. Whatever did Smoke have in mind?
Seated at the kitchen table, Monte Carson worked on a thick slab of Sally’s peach pie and sipped his coffee while she reread the brief message.
“Dearest,” it began. “Please be in Big Rock to meet the train on Wednesday. On board will be a boy named Bobby Harris. He is ten years old and needs a home. I reckon the Sugarloaf would fit right nice. Give him the love and protection he needs. Monte will be there with you to meet him. Love, Smoke.”
“He is serious, isn’t he?” Sally said to Carson.
“Oh, I’m sure of that. The telegram he sent me asked that I meet you at the depot on Wednesday and help corral a youngster name of Bobby Harris.”
Sally made a face and produced a mock groan. “What am I going to do with a child that young around this place?”
“You mean, once again?” Monte Carson kidded her.
“Yes, ‘once again.’ I swear, Monte, sometimes that man exasperates me.” She waggled an admonitory finger at the lawman. “But if this is what Smoke wants, this is what Smoke will get.”
Trailing through the dry, barren desert south of Santa Fe, along the course of the Rio Grande River, Smoke Jensen rode his appaloosa in a relaxed mood. For better or worse, he had managed the problem of Bobby Harris. Of course, that depended upon whether, when he returned, Sally met him at the door with a skillet in hand to feed him or rap him over the skull.
That gal did have a temper. She was also a fine shot, a cool head and a fantastic lover. No man in his experience had been so richly blessed, Smoke allowed. Sally was a treasure. Wealthy in her own right, she had no need to be dependent upon Smoke Jensen. Yet his Sally let him assume that role. She valued her independence in other ways and often. Like the matter of schooling back East and in Europe for their children. If she took to Bobby, would his future be the same?
Smoke reckoned it would. Unbidden, a smile creased Smoke’s leathery tan cheeks. It would be nice having a boy around the ranch. Perhaps too many years had gone by without the shrill laughter of a happy child at the Sugarloaf. He’d soon find out. Once he got this thing with Carbone and Martine out of the way, it would be straight back to the High Lonesome. Another two days and he would be in El Paso.
Funny thing about names, he considered. For all the friction between Texicans and the people of Mexico, when the Mexicans chose to rename El Paso del Norte, the Texicans grabbed it up quickly enough. The little settlement that had been called Bliss, after nearby Fort Bliss, became El Paso, and the thriving community south of the Rio Grande became Ciudad Juarez.
The oddity of names brought Smoke Jensen to that of the man whom Carbone called El Rey del Norte. Did this King of the North have designs on land beyond the Rio Grande? No doubt his plans included the desert state of Chihuahua. Idle speculation produced nothing, Smoke reminded himself. He’d find out more when he got to El Paso.
By mid-morning, the sun bore down with a vengeance. Hard to believe that fall was on the way, Smoke mused. Already the aspens would be turning on the Sugarloaf. Frost in the shadowed folds of the mountains. Maybe even an early snowstorm. Smoke visualized his lush spread, all blanketed with white, big flakes lazily falling through the yellow light from a lamp. Inside, a fire burning on the hearth, and his family gathered around a Christmas tree. And Sally, his beloved, presiding over the distribution of presents. Next he saw Bobby Harris there, eyes alight, eager to tear through tissue paper and expose the delights beneath. A slight twinge of worry touched his mind, quickly banished. Sally would take to the tyke, surely as he had.
That last thought surprised Smoke Jensen nearly as much as the distance-muffled sound of a gunshot that came immediately after. Several more quickly followed. Smoke reined in and oriented himself in relation to the rattle of gunfire. Directly ahead, he decided, over that rise in the road.
Caution directing him, Smoke rode to the crest of the ridge. He dismounted and flattened himself to the ground. A long gaze over the edge showed him a stagecoach, stopped in the middle of the road. Five men, guns drawn, surrounded it. The shotgun guard lay slumped against the backrest of the roofline seat. The driver held the nervous horses in check. Already passengers began to climb from the coach.
“Stand and deliver,” bellowed a burly man, his face hidden by a bandana mask.
“What is it? What’s going on? Who is doing that shooting?” demanded a stout matron inside the stagecoach.
“I think it’s a robbery,” the small, nervous man next to her said.
“That’s utter nonsense, Mr. Perkins,” she responded. “This is civilized country.”
“Not so’s you could tell it right off, ma’am,” a lean, tanned Texan across from her remarked.
“Everybody outside,” growled a short, bow-legged highwayman. “Come on, hurry it up.”
“We’ll do no such thing, young man,” the dowager snapped.
“Shut up, fatso, and get outta that coach.
“Wha—why, the nerve.” She turned to the small man beside her. “Phillip, are you going to let him talk to me like that?”
“Do it, Mother,” her husband urged.
Mrs. Perkins descended ungainfully from the stage and stood dithering. Her husband followed, then the Texan, who turned back to give a hand to an attractive young woman. At her appearance, the eyes of the road agents glowed with lust. Licking full, unseen lips, the short outlaw advanced with a flour sack.
“Now, folks, we’re gonna take up a little collection. I want all your money, watches, jewlery, anything of value.”
“How dare you,” Mrs. Perkins spluttered. “You’ll get nothing from me.”
Hoisting his six-gun to her eye level, the bow-legged highwayman snarled, “Then I’ll take it off your dead body.”
Mrs. Perkins let out a whoop of fright and fainted. Her huge body sagged and swayed. Her husband staggered under her weight in an attempt to keep her from striking the ground. Three of the outlaws sniggered.
“Tie off them horses, driver, an’ get down here,” the burly leader commanded.
“What do you want?”
“You’re gonna unhitch them critters, an’ we’ll run ’em off a ways.”
“Y—You’re goin’ to leave us stranded out here? Man, that’s cold. There’s Comanches around,” the driver protested.
An unseen grin creased the leader’s face. “So I’ve heard. Say, before you climb down, throw off the strong box.”
“We ain’t got an express box this run,” the driver lied.
“You think we’re stupid? We wouldn’t have stopped this coach if we didn’t know you carried the Y-Bar-R Ranch payroll, along with bank money for El Paso. Get to tossin’.”
Eying the highwayman only a moment, the driver relented. The steel-strapped box hit the ground heav
ily. A moment later a shot blasted the stillness. The lock rattled and slapped and remained intact.
“Darn good lock,” one of the bandits remarked, then fired again.
Coming right on his blast, another report went unnoticed. At least until one of the mounted outlaws gave a low moan and fell from the saddle.
“What the hell!” the leader shouted.
Another bullet cracked close by him and knocked the hat from his head. It revealed a bald dome that shined waxily in the sunlight. All heads turned then to a solitary figure who had ridden close in on the robbery. A second holdup man went down before they could react to the sudden attack.
Smoke Jensen rode with his .44 ready. Sidewinder pounded over the ground on the down-slope toward the stalled stage. Shooting accurately from horseback is an iffy thing, and Smoke knew well how to compensate for the motion of his steed. He held off until he came into medium pistol range, then picked the largest target in his line of sight.
His slug smacked into meat a bit high and left of the outlaw’s heart, but with sufficient force to clear him from the saddle. His second round took the hat off a barrel-chested masked man. The third put another road agent on the trail to the grave before Smoke reined in and swung out of the saddle.
“Stand,” he tersely commanded Sidewinder.
Smoke used the broad side of the coach for cover while he punched out expended cartridges and reloaded. Three of the enemy still remained. The leader, hatless, took it upon himself to terminate this intrusion. He kneed his mount to the left and circled the team. He came into view as Smoke Jensen snapped shut the loading gate of his .44.
Smugly triumphant, the boss robber raised his six-gun. The smirk got wiped from his face by a hot slug from Smoke Jensen’s .44 Colt. Disbelieving he could be hit, let alone hurt, the burly outlaw swayed in the saddle and tried to focus on the man who shot him.
Smoke didn’t give him time to recover. His next round dead-centered the ruthless road agent and flung him from the saddle. Smoke Jensen reversed himself then and came around the boot of the coach. A lean, rangy, red-head got caught off guard, eyes turned to the direction of the leader.
Fury of the Mountain Man Page 7
