Fury of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Lordy, Herbie, you was lucky he didn’t pinwheel you.”

  “No chance, Evans,” Herbie told the middle of the three cowboys. “I had it figgered out long before. Smoke Jensen is an inven—invention of them dime novelists and Penny Dreadful writers. He’s a bag of wind. He saw a real gunman and he turned tail.”

  Admiration and hero worship glowing on their faces, the three youthful cowhands clapped Herbie on the shoulders and offered to buy him a drink. Herbie nodded as though it were his due and pointed to Myron. “Set up three more for me an’ Deake. These boys are payin’.”

  Myron’s hand shook again as he dispensed the whiskey. He slopped some on the bartop when Smoke Jensen spoke up. “That’s quite a story, youngster. Considering there’s no such place as Deacon in Colorado.”

  Herbie’s face seemed to borrow color from Myron’s, as the former turned crimson and Myron went a pasty pale. “You callin’ me a liar?”

  “Only suggesting you may have made a mistake in the location.”

  “I think you called me a liar. Now you tryin’ to back down. What you got to say to that.”

  “I think you wouldn’t last five seconds if you challenged Smoke Jensen,” Smoke said, realizing that he was enjoying himself.

  Herbie and his side-kick paced away from the bar, with Smoke pivoting to keep them in sight. The three cowboys gulped their drinks and departed for a green-covered table well clear of the open space between this hard-eyed stranger and Herbie Cantrell. Behind Smoke, Myron began to swiftly remove bottles from the backbar and set them on a shelf below the mahogany.

  Unseen by Smoke, another of Herbie’s followers rose from his captain’s chair and cat-footed it on silent boots to the stairway that led to a balcony that wrapped two walls of the saloon. At the same moment, Herbie yelled a fury-heated challenge at Smoke.

  “You’re a liar and yellah. You don’t talk to Herbie Cantrell like that. Nobody does. I got six notches on my guns.”

  Smoke Jensen’s expression of scorn turned Myron Hardesty’s innards to ice. “Any fool can take a Barlow and cut notches in a pistol grip.”

  Herbie began to froth at the mouth. His voice came out, rising in volume and pitch a full octave. “First you call me a liar and now a fool. D’you want to die?”

  “No. Do you?” Smoke gave him levelly. He cut his eyes to the three cowboys. “How about you?”

  One raised both hands above the table top, fingers spread, palms toward Smoke. “We’re out of this. We ain’t no gunhandlers like Herbie an’ Deake.”

  “You don’t need this fight, neither of you,” Smoke urged on Herbie and Deake. “Step down from it.”

  “Go to hell,” Deake snarled, infected by Herbie’s blood lust and confidence.

  “Two men at once is a stiff proposition, mister,” Wade advised.

  “You offering help?” Smoke asked.

  “No, sir. Just caution. Herbie is good.”

  “But not good enough,” Smoke confided.

  “That does it! That damn well does it,” Herbie screamed. “I ain’t even gonna wait for you to go outside. You’re gonna die right here.”

  Still unseen by Smoke Jensen, the third hardcase had slipped into position behind him, leaning on the balcony rail, his six-gun in hand and the hammer back. Herbie Cantrell darted a quick glance at him. Good. No problem with this loudmouth. He and his two tough followers had robbed a few mom and pop trading posts, stuck up a stage or two. Herbie had killed two half-growed kids with guns in Tascosa and was proud of it. Still, this hard-faced stranger had not shown a bit of fear. Yet, there was no way to back down.

  “Now, Deake!” Herbie shouted as his hand dipped to the butt-grip of his .45.

  Half the cylinder had barely cleared leather when the man facing him drew with such blinding speed that Herbie only managed to blink before a powerful blow hit him in the left shoulder. Reflexively, he tottered backward a few steps, saw smoke billow, then another lance of flame and heard Deake cry out.

  Struck squarely in his elbow joint, Deake dropped his .45 back into the holster and slammed into a chair. The seat took him at the knees and he plopped into it, one hand clutched to his aching arm. His eyes filled with unbidden tears, but not before he saw Herbie try to complete his draw.

  “No! Don’t, Herbie,” he cried out.

  Herbie paid him no mind. There, he had it now, the front sight cleared leather and began to rise. How could any man shoot so fast? Hell, Sam up there hadn’t even been able to get off a shot as yet. Herbie found his arm weighed a ton. It moved so slowly. What was wrong with Sam? He lined up the front sight on the man’s chest.

  A loud, ringing crash blotted out everything else, and blackness washed over Herbie Cantrell as Smoke’s third bullet took him between the eyes. Herbie’s head snapped backward, and he stared sightlessly at the man who had killed him. A soft sigh gusted out of his dead throat.

  “You kilt Herbie!” Deake shouted, clawing for his second revolver. He had it clear and then could not find his target.

  Smoke Jensen had ducked down to one knee, as instinct yelled a warning about his exposed back. He wasn’t positive someone lurked there, but the lessons learned from Preacher had been deeply ingrained. He saw Deake rise from the chair and swing a hold-out gun in his direction. Smoke fired first.

  His slug popped through the upper edge of one rib and plowed into Deake’s heart. The young punk’s knees sagged, and he fell face first in the sawdust of the barroom floor.

  Recovered from his initial numbing surprise, Sam rose slightly to get a shot at the stranger’s back. With care, in a world slowed down by the exhilaration of the fight, Sam brought the barrel down into line with the wide space between the man’s shoulder blades. His finger tightened on the trigger. Sam took a final, quick breath, held it. Then the stranger moved out of his sights and blasted the life from Herbie and Deake. A split-second later, a shot exploded from beyond the batwing doors.

  Oh, shit, not another one, Smoke Jensen thought desperately as he saw the flame bloom over the batwings, and smoke billowed to obscure the figure of a man standing there. Caught in the act of punching out expended cartridges, Smoke looked on helplessly as the silhouette advanced.

  Nine

  Smoke Jensen quickly poked two fresh cartridges into chambers and positioned the cylinder. Before he raised the big .44 to fire at the new threat, he heard a loud, soulful groan from behind him and the splintering of wood. A quick over-shoulder glance showed a portion of the balcony rail hurtling though the air, followed by the body of a young hardcase. The corpse hit the floor with a muffled thud just as the batwings swung inward.

  Through the slowly dissipating powder smoke, Smoke Jensen made out a huge Charro hat, bolero jacket and tight pants of a Mexican vaquero. “Ah, Señor Smoke, you must mind always to watch your back, ¿commo no?” Esteban Carbone said through a chuckle as he walked into the saloon.

  “Carbone,” Smoke exclaimed in relief as he came to his boots. “You old hound, how’d you find me here?”

  “And just in time, I suspect,” the Mexican gunfighter jibed. “I heard gunshots as I rode by and knew you had to be involved, amigo.” He nodded toward the three wide-eyed cowboys, still seated at the table, their hands in clear sight on the green baise. “What about these gatitos—these kittens?” he added in English.

  “They’re out of it, Carbone,” Smoke informed him as he finished reloading. “I’m going to have to take to wearing two guns again; that’s twice I’ve been caught short in the past week.”

  “Excuse me, Señor,” one of the cowboys said politely to Carbone. “When you came in, you called him Smoke. Smoke who?”

  Carbone gave him one of his coldest, deadliest smiles. “Smoke Jensen.”

  All at once, the trio developed a sickly pallor. Walsh worked his throat with evident difficulty and made an effort to form words. “Th—then Herbie must never backed you down nowhere, Mr. Jensen?”

  “No. I tried to tell him that.”

  “He—he wa
s on the prod. Only this mornin’, he got fired for the third time this month. Don’t reckon you could have talked him out of nothin’.”

  Adams nodded enthusiastic agreement. “We—ah—best be ridin’ out. Best get back to the ranch before we get sacked, too.”

  “If it’s all right with you, Mr. Jensen?” the third youth spoke up.

  “Might need you to tell the law what happened here,” Smoke suggested.

  “Yessir,” Walsh agreed quickly. They all nodded accord. “We’ll sure stay long enough do that.”

  After the law had come, asked the usual questions, and departed, Smoke and Carbone moved on to an eatery next door to the saloon. Over roasted pork and parsnips, Carbone began the explanation of the troubles that had prompted Martine and himself to ask for help.

  “A number of years ago, not long after we assisted you in that small affair up north, Martine and I decided to hang up our guns. We had both accumulated considerable wealth. So we bought land, and with it came all the villages, people, livestock and the large haciendas. We also took wives of good families. We are gentlemen now, caballeros, instead of pistoleros. We have lived the good life. At least, until this former hill bandit, Gustavo Carvajal, raised a small army of bandidos and began a program of conquest.

  “Up until three years ago, this Gustavo Carvajal was a third-rate bandido. He commanded, perhaps, ten or a dozen men. Scavengers mostly,” Carbone elaborated on the content of his letter. “Half-starved much of the time, taking the leavings from larger bandit gangs. Then … something happened to change all of that. He may have gotten some bad tequila, or had a long bout with fever. Afterward, Carvajal claimed to be the reincarnation of the last Aztec emperor, Montezuma. He even dressed up in a feather cape and headdress when the spirit was on him and began calling his followers Jaguar Warriors or Eagle Warriors, after the divisions of the Aztec army.”

  “Sounds like he’s not too tightly wrapped. I’d think what followers he had would desert wholesale from something that crazy,” Smoke injected.

  “Ah, perhaps. I’m sure many did. It attracted a different type of men, though. Before long his gang grew to over two hundred. They became a small army. At present, he holds sway over three states in Central Mexico: Durango, Zacatecas, and Aguascalientes. Collects tribute from all of the haciendados, the villages, even some merchants in the larger cities.”

  “Except for you and Martine,” Smoke provided.

  “Exactly.”

  “What about this King of the North you mentioned?”

  Carbone patted at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “That is what Carvajal calls himself when he is not being emperor of the Aztecs. When he is, shall we say, sane.”

  “Can’t the army do anything?”

  Carbone shrugged at Smoke’s question. “The Rurales are mostly untried amateurs. They are policemen basically. The army is busy with an Indian uprising in the south, and bandits in Sonora. Besides, they only defend the property of friends of El Presidente. We are not so big, and with our pasts, we are hardly counted among the close friends of Diaz.”

  “So that leaves Carvajal to run free over as much territory as he can control with his two hundred plus,” Smoke summed up.

  “There are only about a hundred and fifty left.”

  “Left? How’s that?”

  A sardonic smile creased full lips in the brown face. “These scum hit one of my villages, burned it down, then hit another. Oh, they took it and looted it. But sixty-seven of them were buried there. Now, I strongly suspect, and Miguel agrees, they will attack a village on the Martine y Garcia estancia. This is why we decided to ask you to come take a hand in the game.”

  “Does Martine have a partner?”

  “No. That is the way it is here. When one takes a wife, he also takes her family name. So, we are Miguel Antonio Martine y Garcia and Esteban Carbone y Ruiz.”

  “That’s what I call being really married,” Smoke quipped. Then he grew thoughtful. “Don’t laugh, but I never knew you two had first names, let alone this double last name thing.”

  Another of those eloquent Latin shrugs. “It did not suit us to use our full names, amigo. And speaking of the double name, I suppose I am through with that,” he added with a deep sigh.

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “I had meant to mention it earlier, but we got off on this cabrón, Carvajal. Not long before I left to come here, an assassin fired from long range at our hacienda. It was no doubt intended for me. My wife walked into the path of the bullet. She is dead, and our children are half-orphans.”

  Raw anger flushed through Smoke Jensen. He recalled the murder of his first wife and their son, Arthur. He thought also of the many close calls Sally had managed to survive. Silently, Smoke vowed to do everything in his power, and more if need be, to bring a world of hurt down on Gustavo Carvajal.

  “That was Carvajal’s doing,” Smoke suggested.

  “No doubt. I appealed to the local Rurale company. The captain in charge said too bad, but without seeing who did the shooting there was little he could do. I later learned that he was in the pay of Carvajal.”

  “And it’s like that all around where we’re going?”

  Carbone produced a somber expression, although his eyes twinkled. “When has the law being bought by your enemy ever bothered you, Smoke?”

  Smoke’s voice took on a speculative tone. “A hundred-fifty of these bandits and their suck-egg lawdogs you say?”

  “Yes.” The beginnings of a smile added a white line to the twinkle in Carbone’s eyes.

  “Against you, Martine and I? The odds seem about right, I reckon. Will the workers on your ranches fight?”

  Carbone’s shrug could have toppled mountains. “Who knows? They are peons. Some will, a few will run and hide, others may even carry information to El Rey.”

  “Then,” Smoke prompted, “we had better get started. First, though, I have some telegrams to send.”

  Her dress, a creation in purple velvet, edged with delicate, lighter lavender lace, had come from Bancroft’s in New York. The matching hat, huge, feather bedecked, with flowing veil, from Flobert’s of Paris. Fortunately the hem dropped modestly to an inch off the ground, which hid the utterly practical and utilitarian cowhide boots Sally Jensen wore under her fashionable ensemble. She stood in the shade of the overhanging cupola of the Big Rock railroad station of the D&RG.

  Beside her, looking grumpy in white shirt, black trousers, cloth vest and tall Montana peak hat, stood Sheriff Monte Carson. Every few moments, he reached up to smooth one side or the other of his full walrus mustache. From far down the valley came the faint, shrill scream of a steam whistle.

  Sally’s usual reserve faltered, and she asked concernedly, “Are you sure he will be on this train?” With a start, she realized she had asked the same question at least twice before. She was surprised at her nervousness and the unusual desire to please that she was experiencing.

  Monte Carson suppressed a grin and spoke dryly. “Either Smoke told him to do it, or the little tyke’s got sense enough to have sent me a telegraph message from Denver verifying he’ll be on today’s train.”

  “I’m relieved, Monte. I wonder what he’ll be like? I’ve wondered ever since Smoke’s first message.”

  Monte’s tone became fatherly. “He’ll be just fine. If Smoke Jensen took a likin’ to the boy, he’ll be first class, you can be sure.”

  Gradually the shrill blasts of the locomotive’s whistle, three longs, a short, and a long, grew closer and more frequent as it encountered more grade crossings. A white-skirted column of black smoke boiled up from the mushroom stack of the American Locomotive Works 4-6-0 Mountain. The ground began to tremble, and the air rumbled with the power of the huge steam loco. Heavier smoke bleached from the stack when the engineer backed her down and slowed for the stop in Big Rock. Steam gushed from the fat pistons that worked the driver arms.

  Majestically the engine and tender rolled past the platform, followed by a stock car, two bag
gage-freight cars, and a single passenger coach. The conductor swung down to the platform before the train came to a complete halt and set in place his small boarding step. A moment later, three persons got off the rear of the passenger car. All were adults.

  “Monte, is there something wrong?” Sally asked uneasily.

  “Why, I don’t know, Miz Sally.” He frowned, looked around. “Appears he’s still inside.”

  “I’ll go see. He must be shy,” Sally suggested.

  “No, you wait here, I’ll go.”

  Sally laughed, a musical, pleasant sound. “With that outrageous hat, the badge, and your gun, if he’s shy, you’ll scare the pants off him.”

  Monte hurrumphed and allowed as how she might be right. Sally stepped to the conductor. “Is there a small boy on board.”

  “Oh, yes. He’s a live wire, I’ll say, ma’am. He has a pony in that stock car, too.”

  “Oh, my. I hope it’s gelded,” Sally said, devoid of any sensitivity about such direct language.

  “It’s a mare,” the conductor informed her.

  “Dear me, Smoke won’t like that. Our stallions are all prize stock. Be such a waste. But, where’s the boy? He didn’t get off with the others.”

  She and the conductor looked around. Unexpectedly the steam whistle shrieked wildly, and a small hand waved from the cab of the locomotive. When the blast of sound stopped, a head topped by a mop of reddish-blond hair and a ridiculous little round hat popped out of the window. A piping voice called with all the stridence of the whistle.

  “Are you Miz Smoke Jensen?”

  Sally muttered a brief apology to the conductor and started forward. Monte Carson cut diagonally to reach the side of the locomotive first. The boy’s head disappeared inside, and a moment later, a beefy, beet-faced engineer handed him down to the sheriff.

  “He’s a fine lad, he is. Regular chatterbox. Kept us entertained all the way from the water stop at Arapaho.” Behind him the fireman nodded grinning agreement.

  “How did you get in the cab?” Sally and Monte asked at the same time.