“Well, it was a water stop,” Bobby Harris chirped. “So I got off the train to …”
“That’s enough, boy,” Monte warned, pink filling his cheeks. “You’re in the presence of a lady.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Bobby offered softly and doffed his hat.
“Funniest thing. Here was this little pup wettin’ down the tra—ah—er,” the engineer’s words ground down at the black look Monte Carson cut his way. “Afterward, he asked if he could ride up front, and we saw no harm in it. Made the time go by quicker, if you know what I mean.”
“Thank you very much,” Sally Jensen frosted at him in her best Eastern hauteur. For once she was glad Smoke wasn’t with her. Like most frontier men, Smoke could not abide crude talk around a woman. There would be a fight for certain, and she was sure the railroad needed the engineer to take the train back to Denver.
To Bobby she said, “We’ll get your pony and her tack and start for the Sugarloaf.”
“Yes, ma’am,” a subdued Bobby responded. Then he brightened as they walked toward the stock car. “I learned some keen new words when the fireman banged his thumb on the boiler door.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Sally answered tightly, but she could not suppress the bubble of laughter that rose in her throat. Oh, Smoke, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten us in for?
Ten
Handcarts and two-wheel carretas, drawn by burro, horse or ox, streamed slowly through the cobbled streets of Juarez. Mounds of beans, onions, chili peppers, lettuce and cabbages filled them. The big horses of Smoke Jensen and Esteban Carbone created eddies among the market-bound merchants in the early dawn light. A gaggle of small, barefoot boys hawked fresh editions of El Diario, the local newspaper.
“So this is the town named for the Hero of Cammeron,” Smoke remarked as they turned into Ave. Ferrocarril—Railroad Avenue.
“You know our history?” Carbone exclaimed with a raised eyebrow.
“Some of it. Preacher helped organize the ‘University of the Rockies’ for the mountain men. He had even more books than he had reloading gear. This place is growing fast.”
“That it is. For all the many Mexicans who distrust or even hate the nortenos, they seem fascinated by being close to the border. We’ll have time for coffee and pan dulce,” Carbone changed the subject, “after we load the horses.”
“I’m still uneasy about Sidewinder in a stock car with some stranger,” Smoke advised, his thoughts on the animal’s penchant for doing damage.
Carbone gave him an easy smile. “The railroad employs older vaqueros, who can no longer keep to the saddle all day, to care for the livestock they ship. They know how to handle spirited horses.”
“Sidewinder’s more than ‘spirited,’ he’s a killer. I’ve got another horse like him. Even they don’t get along,” Smoke added in jest. “I’ll have to trust you; if you say it’s okay, it is.” He pulled a long face. “Hell, I don’t have any choice.”
True to the temperment of the times, laborers toiled on a huge edifice in homage to the iron rails. A regular cathederal of cut native stone, wide expanses of glass and domed rotundas that inspired a sense of awe. Typically Mexican, though, was the fact Smoke discovered that the new railroad station was being constructed around the old, one-story clapboard one. Carbone led the way to a refreshment counter and called for cafe con leche for himself and a plate of espirales. Smoke had his coffee black, with plenty of sugar. He found he liked the coarse, grainy, slightly yellowish sugar of Mexico on first try.
“This is good,” Smoke commented as he munched one of the spiral sweet rolls. “Beats a cold biscuit any time. If I eat many of these, though, Sally will complain I’m getting fat.”
Carbone laughed. “You get fat? No, amigo, it will never happen. We board in twenty minutes, so you will have to hurry if you want to do justice to these rolls. We’re in the last car, Primera Classa; only the best for the friends of Esteban Carbone and Miguel Martine.”
Smoke found that the Mexican railway had obtained an earlier model of Pullman’s sleeping car. They had added partitions between the sets of seats that made up into upper and lower berths. It afforded some privacy. The train started with a snort of steam, a screech of steel wheels on iron rails and the plaintive wail of the steam whistle.
After they settled in, Carbone suggested they take a stroll to the smoking car. There, the dedicated drinkers had already started in on snifters of brandy, shooters of tequila or bottles of beer. Two men at the tiny bar rattled dice in a leather cup and played a game incomprehensible to Smoke Jensen. A card game was in progress at one round table, and two empty chairs indicated a lack of players.
A silver-haired, older gentleman, with the features of a patrician, acknowledged their presence with an invitation to join the game. Carbone turned on Smoke an expression that in a man of a less violent reputation could be called wistful appeal. Smoke gave him a smile and a nod, then summoned his best Spanish to decline.
“I am not familiar with the game, Señores, or that deck of cards.”
Carbone took one of the vacant chairs eagerly and extracted from a pocket a soft leather pouch of gold coins. Introductions were made around the green felt table. Smoke drifted to the end of the bar, nearest the table, where he could observe. Play began briskly. One player, a small, intense man with narrow face and long nose, soon drew Smoke’s attention. He had been introduced to Carbone as Xavier Iturbe, Smoke recalled. He had phenomenal luck, or skill, the mountain man reckoned. He won clearly a third of all hands and every one he dealt.
A warning tripped in Smoke Jensen’s mind. Iturbe had too much good damn luck. He started watching closely. Although they played a game he did not recognize, it took little card sense to spot a holdout rig and the deft substitution of cards from an identical deck. The fifth time the man substituted a card from up his sleeve for one in his hand, Smoke eased away from the bar. He bent and whispered to Carbone.
Years of experience at maintaining a cool disposition kept any sign of shock or anger off the Mexican gunfighter’s face. Instead, he nodded soberly and spoke with a light air. “Yes, bring me a tequila. Our breakfast seems to be sticking with me rather too firmly.”
Smoke returned to the bar. He ordered a shot of tequila for Carbone and a beer for himself. He didn’t want it. It only served as a cover to their inspection of the cheat. He carried the salt dish, lime slice and squat, slender glass of clear liquid back to the table.
When Smoke bent to place the liquor beside Carbone, the smoothed back, black hair tilted and Carbone spoke softly. “Next time you see him do it, let me know.”
Two others called for drinks from the bartender, and Iturbe asked for coffee. When their orders had been filled, play resumed. Two hands went by with nothing from the cheat. On the first, he failed to take a single trick. On the next, he lost to another player by one trick. The third round went to Iturbe when he took three fast tricks with what appeared to be the highest ranking card in each suit.
Smoke recalled that in the hand Iturbe folded, he had at least one of the cards with a single pip. No doubt an ace, Smoke now considered. It hadn’t shown up in the next hand, but Iturbe had just played it to take his third trick. Smoke had to admire the man’s talent. He had sense enough to vary his technique. No wonder no one else had spotted Iturbe cheating. Already Iturbe was gathering the pasteboards. Smoke gave a nod to Carbone.
“One moment, Señor Iturbe,” Carbone snapped. “My friend has a question to ask about the game.” Carbone cut his eyes to Smoke, clearly offering him the chance to open the dance.
“I am interested in the number of like cards in the deck, Señor,” Smoke worked out in Spanish. “How many are the same?”
“Why, four, as in any deck. One for each suit,” Xavier Iturbe answered.
“Odd. I’m willing to bet that there are at least two of each suit at the table right now.”
Iturbe’s ferret eyes narrowed and glittered like obsidian. “Are you suggesting something, Señor?�
� he asked with menace.
Not exposed to the language long enough to go on, Smoke resorted to English. “I’m saying that the card with the single red diamond pip, and the one with the king and black circle, with which you took the fifth and final tricks, have duplicates somewhere on your person. Also that the black circle, single pip card was withheld from two hands ago and only now reinserted into your hand.”
“¡Gringo cabrón!” Iturbe shouted, and his hand darted for the front of his frilly shirt.
It never got there. Panther quick, Smoke Jensen made his move well before the cheat had a chance. The wicked tip of the big Bowie knife in Smoke’s hand bit into flesh, and Iturbe’s hand jerked spasmodically. That triggered his holdout rig and dispensed a shower of cards, which were pinned to the table accusingly by Smoke’s blade as it penetrated Iturbe’s hand and fixed it, too, to the green felt. Iturbe squealed like a pig.
None of the other players moved. The distinguished gentleman quickly lost his expression of horror for one of chagrin. “My apologies, Don Esteban. I had no idea this ladróne was a cheat. We will, of course, make good on your losses. There is no need for—ah—more forceful satisfaction, do you agree?”
“Si. Bastante bien, Don Pablo,” Carbone said tightly.
Yes, it was good enough, Smoke considered. Not a carload of these soft-handed gentlemen would stand a chance against Carbone if he called them out. Squirming, the cheat begged to be freed. Smoke’s hard, cold gray eyes pinned Iturbe as firmly as his knife. He held him there while Don Pablo plucked Iturbe’s illgained winnings from in front of him and distributed them among the others, the largest share to Carbone. Only after that did Smoke put one big hand on the wrist above the Bowie and pull his knife free.
Blood ran in profusion, and for a moment it appeared that Iturbe would faint. He got shakily to his boots, then started to frame a retort, but was interrupted by one of the other players who had regained his composure.
“We owe you a service, Señor. But, perhaps it would be better were you to finish the object lesson and dispose of the corpse somewhere along the track?”
Cold, these gentlemen of Mexico, Smoke thought. “I see nothing to be gained by that, Señores,” Smoke answered mildly.
Burning with hatred of the despised gringo, Xavier Iturbe let his impotent rage and frustration boil over. “You let a stinking gringo do your dirty work for you. I have been insulted and robbed by such fine gentlemen and their tame dog of a gringo. ¡Mierdo en la lache de ellos madres! I will get even for this insult!” Iturbe shrieked as he wisely made a hasty exit from the smoking car.
Don Pablo, looking droll, sized up Smoke Jensen. “Something tells me that it would not be wise for him to follow up on his threats. We were not introduced, Señor. I am Don Pablo Gutierrez y Soto,” the elderly patron began and went around the table.
“Smoke Jensen,” Smoke responded simply.
Don Pablo cocked an eyebrow. “Ah. I understand the speed with which you acted now, Señor Jensen.” He cut his eyes to Carbone. “And Carbone y Ruiz would be Esteban Carbone pistolero famoso of Jalisco? Well, gentlemen, we are in momentous company. Shall we resume play?”
Xavier Iturbe fumed as he thrashed through his large steamer trunk in the baggage car. He’d show them. A gringo! His mind boiled with the stories his grandfather had told of when he was a small boy, and the gringo soldiers had come, stealing all of the chickens, lambs and young goats, doing evil things to the young women and girls. He had grown up hearing those tales, never once doubting. After all, it was his abuelo telling him and the other children. At last, his face a sheen of perspiration, he found what he was looking for. Quickly he located the accessories.
He returned to the smoking car, his face set in granite determination. First the gringo, then his smirking friend, Carbone. Woodenly, Iturbe thrust open the door from the vestibule and entered. He raised his uninjured left arm and thrust it forward. A gentle squeeze and one hammer on the antique double-barrel .60 caliber pistol fell.
The muzzle-loading weapon discharged loudly in the confined space of the railroad car. A huge plume of smoke expended into the space before Iturbe’s eyes. A hot three-quarter ounce lead ball popped a hole through the back and side panels of Smoke Jensen’s coat. It did him no harm, but killed a man across from him at another table. All at once, Xavier Iturbe realized the terrible mistake he had made.
Before the assassin’s finger could change triggers, Smoke drew his .44, turned and fired. His slug pinwheeled Iturbe, staggered him and sent him reeling toward the closed door. Frantically Iturbe yanked the second trigger. The hammer fell on a percussion cap, and the ancient weapon belched flame and smoke as it sent a ball into the roof of the coach.
Already his vision had begun to dim. His second shot brought another from Smoke Jensen. The bullet burst Iturbe’s heart. He hardly felt it as life slipped from him. His knees sagged, and he tumbled into darkness even before his face hit the threadbare carpet on the floor of the car. Smoke had already reholstered his six-gun.
“A masterful piece of shooting,” Don Pablo bellowed his congratulations. “We are indebted to you, Señor Jensen. Cantinero, bring a round for everyone in the car. We must celebrate the remarkable feat of shooting skill by Señor Smoke Jensen. Let’s make a fiesta of it,” he suggested eagerly.
“Won’t be much of a party for that feller,” Smoke observed, as he nodded toward the dead by-stander.
Myron Hardesty didn’t like it a bit. Three hard-bitten outlaw types had entered Cactus Jack’s shortly after opening, at eleven that morning. Seated around a table in one corner, near the painted glass window, they had been drinking heavily into the late afternoon. Trent, Vickers, and Yates, they called themselves.
Trent had wheat-straw hair that stuck out in all directions, close-set, nearly colorless blue eyes, a gap between his upper front teeth that gave his aspirates a marked whistle, and a decidedly truculent attitude. Vickers was a weasel-faced individual with a penchant for back-shooting unless Myron had missed his guess. He had small, round ears that stuck out like handles on a cream pitcher. Yates filled every bit of the captain’s chair in which he sprawled. A doughball, Hardesty suspected his fat hid iron-hard muscles.
“Saddle bums,” Myron muttered to himself.
One thing Myron Hardesty had learned from the grumbled conversation between one another was that they hated Smoke Jensen. Hated him more than Yankees, politicians or even Mexicans.
“I hate Smoke Jensen,” Yates growled as he poured another shot from the bottle in his big, hairy left hand.
“You said that before,” Vickers reminded him.
“Yeah. About a dozen times,” Trent added. Then, “I hate Smoke Jensen.”
“You said that before,” Yates reminded him.
“Yeah. About a dozen times,” Vickers added. Then, with mounting disgust, he hurled his empty shot glass across the room, to shatter against the plastered adobe wall. “Barkeep, bring me another.” Then, “I hate Smoke Jensen.”
“Shit,” Trent spat.
“Dang it all, we gotta do something about it,” Yates pulled.
“Yeah, only we got here too late. Smoke Jensen’s up an’ gone. Ain’t that right, bartender?” Trent complained.
“Yes, sir, that’s quite right, he and the Mexican,” Hardesty responded as he brought a fresh shot glass to Vickers.
“Tell me again, where did they go?” Trent commanded.
“To—to Mexico, I think.”
“But before he left, he kilt a good friend of ours. Two good friends, right?”
Myron swallowed hard. “Only one. The—ah—Mexican gentleman who met him here killed the other.”
“Ain’t no such thing as a Mezkin ‘gentleman,’ ” Trent growled, his sneer marred by the whistling of his “s” sounds.
“Who was this Mezkin?” Vickers demanded.
“We’ve been through this before,” Myron protested, sweating. “I’ve already told you I don’t know. Only that Mr. Jensen called him Carbone.�
�
Yates’ moon face writhed with agitation, and his pudgy lips worked out the words from his throat. “Jeez, I’ve been thinkin’, fellers. If that’s the Carbone I’ve heard of, maybe we done bit off more’n we can chew.”
“Horse plop!” Trent thundered.
Vickers’ weasel face squinched and small, deep-set eyes glittered with emnity. “What’s this Beaner look like?”
“Big,” Hardesty informed them. “A lot bigger than most Mexicans. Hands near the size of Smoke Jensen’s. He was dressed up expensive-like.” Bryan thought of the dapper, five-foot nine Esteban Carbone, his slim, wiry frame and lightning-quick draw, the pencil line of mustache. If these saddle trash ever found out he was lying to them, they could be trouble. “He had a big, flowing mustache, drooped clear to his chin.”
“What’s Jensen doin’ in Mexico?” Yates asked.
“I—I don’t know. What I heard folks say, he and some high-and-mighty grandees were going to take on an army of bandits.”
Once more the trio cursed their bad fortune in not being in El Paso in time. Hardesty edged away to the security of his bar. At last, Trent, the nominal leader, downed another shot and came to his boots.
“Fellers, there’s one thing we can do.”
“Whazzat?” Vickers asked, his voice slightly slurred from all the liquor he had consumed.
“We can head south and join up with this El Rey del Norte. My guess is he’s the one Jensen’s after.”
“What do we do when we get there? I can’t speak Mezkin,” Yates protested.
“All we need do is bide our time. Jensen will show sooner or later,” Trent speculated.
“Yeah. An’ with my Express rifle an’ that telescope, I can pop him and the Beaner easy at a half mile,” Vickers gloated. “They’ll never know what hit ’em.”
Eleven
“¡Torreón! ¡Torreón, Coahuila!” the conductor bellowed as he entered the Pullman early the next morning.
“That’s our stop, Torreón,” Carbone advised Smoke. “From here we ride. There’s a good outfitter in town. Friend of mine. We’ll get pack animals, gear. Then some groceries. You can still cook?”
Fury of the Mountain Man Page 10
