“Over here,” Smoke said softly.
Startled, the man turned. Smoke put a bullet in his brisket. He went loose-jointed and began to sag, but not before he got off a shot that punched through the cloth of Smoke Jensen’s coat. Smoke put a safety shot into the man’s head. With two cartridges left, and no time to reload, Smoke turned toward the last robber.
With a courage-building shout, the bow-legged, squatty highwayman rushed at Smoke Jensen. Flame speared from his revolver and lead smacked into the coach over Smoke’s right shoulder. Smoke returned fire, but the man kept coming. At a distance of barely three feet, both men fired again.
In a fleeting instant, Smoke saw the man’s head snap backward while his boots kept coming forward. Then a swift, hot blackness swept over Smoke Jensen, and he fell into oblivion.
Rancho Pasaje spread over thousands of hectares of cactus-strewn land. There majestic Iberian bulls grew from infancy into powerful, thick-shouldered fighting machines of raw ferocity rarely matched in the animal world. Urrubio Pinal had spent all his life with the huge creatures. He had worked for the former owner and now remained to serve Don Miguel Martine y Garcia. The Patrón had been a famous pistolero, Urrubio knew that.
Yet his lovely wife and splendid children had mellowed him. Urrubio respected Don Miguel. He would give his life for him. Too old now to wrestle with the stupendous strength of the torros, Urrubio worked as cook for the field hands. Early each morning, his wife of forty years would make the tortillas and pack them in wet cloths. He loaded his small carreta with beans, flour, meat and condiments and headed out into the fields.
He was set up on a low knoll, shaded by a big oak, and heated the tortillas now, on a sheet of iron, laid over one of three cooking fires. Another held a gigantic pot of coffee. The vaqueros liked their coffee, a lot of it, fiery hot and strong. Beans bubbled in a cast iron kettle, hung on a trestle, over the same fire. At the third, half a cabrito—a young goat—rolled on a spit, turned by his youngest son, Ramon. All was peaceful and full of bounty.
Odd that none of the vaqueros had ridden in for coffee before their noon meal. They should be here by now. Urrubio bent to retrieve an iron skillet and came abruptly upright at the stricken expression on Ramon’s face.
“Pappa, ¡tien cuidado!” Ramon shouted in fright.
From the corner of one eye, Urrubio saw the wicked glint of a blade and an arm that looped wide to encircle his throat. He reflexively jerked the skillet upward.
Tomas Diaz, one of Gustavo Carvajal’s lieutenants, smiled in satisfaction. The large, black mustache under his hawk nose writhed as he worked his lips and spat a blade of grass from them.
“This is going to be easy. Take out the herd guards first. Do it silently, so as not to frighten the bulls. Use your knives,” he instructed. “Then we round up the herd and drive them away. Make certain every one is dead. That way we can buy at least half a day to remove the bulls to a place of hiding. Our friend from San Luis Potosi will be delighted with these new animals.”
“Si, Jefe,” his second-in-command agreed. “We are fortunate to have discovered them so convenient to us.”
They laughed together. Then Diaz made a sweeping gesture. “Adalante, compañeros—go get them.”
Carvajal’s men moved swiftly around the herd in on the high plateau of Aguascalientes. With caution and patience, they made their moves on the vaqueros watching the fighting bulls. Swiftly the men died. The last man in position had the task of dealing with the cook.
Paco Guzman was as lazy as he was fat. He waddled when he walked, feet wide-spread, toes pointed out like a duck. Hours in the saddle had galled his thighs and made his groin ache. Consequently, he rushed his assignment.
For so big a man, Guzman moved quietly, with an unexpected speed. He managed to close on his victim before he saw the small boy at the spit. When the youngster shouted warning, he hurried his work.
Blood squirted and the man fell. Guzman didn’t bother to check that his knife had gone true and the man’s throat had been cut. He advanced on the terrified boy.
Sudden, immense pain exploded in the back of Paco Guzman’s head and blackness washed over him as he fell at the feet of the trembling child. His skull split by the heavy edge of a cast iron skillet, Guzman never knew of his mistake as he shuddered his way into eternity. In his dying moment he thought he heard a voice, only a whisper.
“Stay low, mijo. Let them think we are dead. We must live to take word of this to the Patrón.”
Eight
Sensation returned to Smoke Jensen in the form of brightness against his closed eyelids and a special, scented softness surrounding his throbbing head. He also felt a restriction on his legs, as though they had been clamped in a padded vice. None of it made much sense. Cautiously he opened one eye. Harsh sunlight brought a new wave of pain. Through its pulsations he heard a soft, decidedly feminine squeak of surprise.
“Oh, he’s alive! Mrs. Perkins, please bring some water.”
“Are you certain?” came the other woman’s tone of disapproval. “A falling out among thieves, if you ask me.”
“No! Oh, no. He saved our lives, don’t you see?” the sweet trill of a younger voice tugged on Smoke.
He opened both eyes and groaned. “What happened?” he asked weakly.
“You were shot. Alongside of your head. It must have made you unconscious.”
“The other one? The last road agent?” Smoke pressed, recalling some of his percipitous attack on the stage robbers.
“He’s—he’s lying dead across your legs.”
“I’d be obliged if you would have him moved,” Smoke responded, rousing enough to understand the absurdities of the situation.
“Oh! Yes—yes, I’m sorry. Would some of you gentlemen remove that—er—dead man please?”
Smoke Jensen maneuvered so that he could see his angel of mercy. Despite the pain, his breath caught in his throat. She was lovely, beautiful. A face that matched the sweet innocence of Sally Reynolds when he had first met her. He forced a rueful smile through his discomfort.
“Thank you for caring for me. But I’m afraid your dress is ruined. All that blood,” Smoke offered.
For the first time, the lovely appeared to take notice of the mess in her lap. “Dear me, heavens, I—I never realized.”
A snort of disapproval came from an older woman standing behind her. “Appears some folks have money to throw away on expensive clothes, then soil them beyond repair.”
“I had to,” the young woman defended herself. “He was hurt, needed help, don’t you see?”
Filled with matronly self-righteousness, the elder woman came forward, waggled an accusing finger in Smoke Jensen’s face. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? Had a falling out over the—ah—loot, isn’t that it?”
An overpowering urge to bite off that finger swept through Smoke. He suppressed it. “Sorry. You have it all wrong. I heard the shots, discovered the robbery in progress, and decided to take a hand. It seemed you were in considerable need of it.”
The dowager huffed her disbelief. “A likely story. What is your name?”
“Jensen. Smoke Jensen.” He said it quietly.
“Heaven protect us,” the old woman cawed loudly, throwing her gloved hands into the air. “The outlaw and murderer. We’re all doomed.”
She had gotten to Smoke Jensen with that performance. He levered himself upright and came to his boots, gave her his most icy visage. “I’ve been a lot of things, madam, but never an outlaw or a murderer. I’ve never killed a man who didn’t deserve it and was trying to do the same to me.”
“You’re a scourge, an abomination,” she spluttered.
“Enough, Mrs. Perkins,” the younger woman got into the exchange. “All you know is from that trash in the Penny Dreadfuls.” She turned back to Smoke. “Mr. Jensen, we’re grateful for what you have done to protect us from these terrible men.”
Mrs. Perkins wasn’t through yet. “At least he could have left them alive for
the law to deal with, Penelope.”
“Excuse me? Did I just imagine the gunshot that knocked me out and left me to stand here in front of you, bleeding from the head?” Smoke made a gesture to encompass the dead outlaws. “They opened the dance, I simply invited myself to attend.”
“He’s right, ma’am,” the driver remarked from where he stood beside the last highwayman to fall. “You’ve all got your valuables back, we’ve saved the express box, and it’s Smoke Jensen who made that possible.”
“But, it’s—it’s so uncivilized,” Mrs. Perkins muttered, subsiding.
Penelope recovered her composure and made a gesture toward Smoke’s head. “Let me bandage that for you. Are you sure you are all right?”
“Yes, of course. A little patching up and I’ll be on my way.”
“You should see a doctor,” Penelope suggested.
“I will. As soon as I get to El Paso,” Smoke assured her.
Her touch proved feather light as she wound a strip of silk, from a petticoat in her luggage, around Smoke’s head. With the bleeding stopped and the throbbing subsided somewhat, Smoke surveyed the scene once more, mounted Sidewinder and rode off.
Large pools of darkness covered the high pasture on Pasaje ganaderia. Martine and his segundo, Pablo Alvarez, stood looking down on the bodies of his herdsmen. They had all been knifed. Only one had survived long enough to ride to the hacienda and bring word of the stolen bulls. The loss, although high in terms of money, meant nothing to Martine like the deaths of these innocent men. Vaqueros who trusted him to provide for them and their families. They deserved better than this. He said so to Alvarez.
“That is true, Patrón. This Carvajal is an animal. Our men were not armed. They could have easily been run off, frightened into keeping silent for long enough to get the herd safely away.”
Martine looked at the pitiful remains of Pepe Lopez. “Carvajal did it because of me. My good amigo, Carbone, and I, alone, refuse to pay him tribute. Are we doing wrong, Pablo?”
“No, Patrón. You are not the sort of man who could stand by and accept the excesses of one like Carvajal. Nor is Señor Carbone y Ruis. We, the men and I, are all behind you. It is said that what vaqueros and flock tenders he has left, Don Esteban is arming and training how to fight.”
Martine nodded. “That is right. As of this minute, I will do the same. If the men are willing to stay, they should be able to defend themselves. Even Padre Lorenzo agrees.”
“And this friend, the gringo pistolero? What will happen when he gets here?”
Martine smiled at his segundo. “Gustavo Carvajal will find Smoke Jensen unlike any man he has ever known before. Much to his regret.”
Only three hours off his original estimate, Smoke Jensen arrived in El Paso in late afternoon, two days later. He located the hotel Carbone had named in his letter, registered and took his few belongings to the room. Then he went to the livery and made arrangements for Sidewinder.
“Mind that you never take your eye off of him,” Smoke cautioned. “He don’t like strangers. The best way to feed him is at arm’s length. That way all you might lose is a finger or two.”
Stooped and gray-haired, the stablekeeper swallowed hard at that and peered with watery eyes into Smoke’s face. “Don’t I know you, mister?”
“I can’t imagine so. I’ve never been here before,” Smoke answered honestly.
“Big feller like you, not many made that size. Seems—somethin’ I saw, read somewhere.”
“First time in Texas,” Smoke assured him.
“Yes. Well, then, enjoy your stay, y’hear?”
“I shall. Two, three days at the most.”
“That’ll be six bits up front. Ten cents a day extra for double grain.”
Smoke doled out a silver dollar and a nickel. He still felt a twinge of discomfort from the bullet gouge along his head, although it didn’t intrude on a light-hearted mood that rested on Smoke’s shoulders as he strolled through town. He decided he might as well wash the trail dust from his outside and innards as well.
He fetched a change of clothing from his room and adjourned to the bathhouse provided for guests behind the two story, clapboard hotel. There he found duckboards set over the hardpacked, clay floor. A trough led from there under one sidewall and out into the yard. A piece of pipe extended through the rear wall, up high, under bare rafters. It had been fitted with an elbow, a spring-loaded valve and a spray nozzle from a garden watering can. A string hung down to control the valve.
Smoke disrobed and stepped under the nozzle. Tepid water, from a pair of wooden barrels outside on a platform, cascaded over him. After a long, satisfying minute, he released the string and soaped luxuriously. Thick, corded muscles rippled under his sun-browned skin as he worked up rich suds. He rinsed his hair, face and upper torso, soaped his hard, flat belly, groin and legs and repeated the process. Again, Smoke let the water run over him in a final cleansing.
He kind of liked this. It sure beat sitting in a tub with the same dirt just washed off. Somehow he felt cleaner. Maybe he should consider something like this for the Sugarloaf. A complaining voice interrupted his contemplations.
“You sure don’t mind taking your time, feller.”
“Didn’t know anyone was there. Be out in a minute,” Smoke responded in a pleasant tone.
“Make it fast.”
Dressed in clean clothes, Smoke exited the washroom. The man who had complained turned out to be of short stature, with a hard scowl and lippy attitude. Smoke and he sized up one another. The surly one swallowed hard and worked up a few less harsh words.
“No problem, mister. I made a long, hot, ride here an’ was in sort of a hurry. No offense?”
“Nope. That sure makes a fellow feel good,” Smoke commented on the shower, then passed on his way out of the small building.
Behind him, the short, mouthy one thanked all he held sacred that he’d not run his mouth a little longer. A big one like that could chew him up and spit him out and not even raise a sweat.
Smoke Jensen located a suitable saloon, Cactus Jack’s, on the corner of one intersection near the final two blocks to the bridge across the Rio Grande to the Mexican city that had once been called El Paso del Norte, and was now calling itself Ciudad Juarez, in honor of the hero, soldier-scholar, Benito Juarez, who defeated the French forces of Napoleon III and ran them out of Mexico. Carbone had not as yet checked into the hotel, so Smoke had time to burn.
Inside the large, well-lighted establishment, Smoke almost changed his mind. Five young men, local rowdies it appeared, lounged along the bar, holding court. Smoke instantly knew the leader, having studied the type for a long time. He leaned back, the long heel of one riding boot hooked over the brass rail. Both elbows supported him on the bartop.
Smoke saw him as a vicious young punk, with close-set, pig eyes of a lifeless blue, a small, mean mouth and a quick, hot temper. It literally smoldered in him. One of the sycophants called him Herbie. To Herbie’s left, another of the same ilk slouched, his body turned a quarter toward the bar. The other three Smoke sized up as working cowboys, perhaps not too bright, but loyal to those they respected.
They wore rugged work shirts, jeans, well-worn boots, and had scarred leather gloves tucked behind their cartridge belts. All talk stopped when Smoke Jensen entered, and the quintet cut their eyes to him, following the big mountain man to the bar.
“Beer,” Smoke announced.
“Comin’ right up,” the apron sang out. He drew a large schooner and plunked it down in front of the newcomer. “Five cents.”
Smoke dropped a nickel on the polished mahogany. From the corner of one eye, he took in the way the young hardcase named Herbie stared at him with narrowed eyes. One of the trio of working hands broke the silence.
“What was that you were sayin’ about a year ago, Herbie?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. It was up Colorado way. Little town of Deacon. I’d stopped into this saloon, had a couple of shots and started foolin’ around
with this fancy gal. She was about to give me her price when he came in.”
“Are you sure it was him?” another of the hands asked.
“Sure as I’m standin’ here. Of course, ev’rybody’s scared pissless of him. Except for me, of course. Then he turns those hard, gray eyes on me. ‘That’s my woman you’re foolin’ with,’ he growls.”
“What’d you do, Herbie?”
Herbie pulled a grimace that he had practiced for a sneering smile and tossed off the shot of whiskey in his fish-eye glass. “Give us another round, Myron.”
Myron Hardesty moved slowly, awkwardly. He had been studying the stranger and come to a conclusion of his own. He knew the tall tale Herbie Cantrell was spinning. The knowledge made his hand shake when he poured liquor into their glasses.
“What’s the matter with you, Myron? You got a hangover?” Herbie prodded.
“Naw, Herbie, naw. Only, I think you ought to hold off on that story of yours.”
“Really? Why, Myron ol’ pal?” Herbie taunted.
Myron cut a nervous glance toward Smoke Jensen. “I—well—I just think …”
“No. Go on,” Smoke Jensen interrupted. “I think it’s getting interesting.”
“Who asked you, mister? Butt out,” Herbie snarled.
Smoke made a deprecating gesture. “Whatever you say.”
Herbie went back to his braggard’s tale. “Well, what did I do? I set the pretty dove to one side and turned to face him. ‘Who the hell do you think you are to tell me that?’ I asked. ‘I’m Smoke Jensen,’ he says, all cold and hollow-like.”
“Glory, didn’t that scare you some, Herbie?”
“Nope, Walsh, you see, I already knew who he was. An’ he saw me, saw the way my guns was fixed and figgered out I was fast and good with them right in a wink. He says once more for me to let the girl alone, only not so tough this time. So, I says, ‘You make me,’ an’ went for my iron. I had it out and on him before he could twitch. He went all white and his lip trembled. His hand wasn’t halfway to his six-gun. He opened and closed his fist a couple of times, swallowed real hard and jist turned away an’ walked out of there.”
Fury of the Mountain Man Page 8
