“Who, exactly, are you?” the mayor demanded, some of his courage returning.
“I am called Esteban Carbone. This is my friend from the United States, Smoke Jensen.”
Smoke Jensen meant nothing to Luminoso Soto, but the name of Esteban Carbone struck dread into his bosom. He paled visibly. Feebly he waggled his hands. “A mistake, I assure you. You shall be free to go first thing in the morning. There was—ah—some misunderstanding. That is all.”
“Stop babbling,” Carbone growled. “Come along with us.”
Soto half-turned, weakly gestured toward the house behind him. “My—my wife. Who will look after her?”
Ernesto Rubio gave the mayor a nasty smile. “She has already gone to the house of her mother. You have nothing with which to concern yourself, Señor Alcalde. Come along peacefully, or we will kick the living hell out of you.”
Soto thought fleetingly of darting inside, barring the door against them and escaping out the back. No use, his common sense told him. Head bowed, shoulders sloped, he stepped out into the cobbled street to meet his fate.
Gaston Moro had been awakened by the gunfire that ended the lives of three of his policemen. Unlike pudgy Mayor Soto, he did not cringe in fear and confusion. His first thoughts went to the possibility that Gustavo Carvajal had gone back on his word. It would be just like him. Moro knew Carvajal from the old days.
They had been youthful adventurers together. Robbed and terrorized the peasant villages as part of another man’s gang. Carvajal went on to run a bandit horde of his own. Gaston Moro thought of himself as smarter. He lived comfortably, got as much in bribes and salary as Carvajal no doubt did from his raids, and didn’t have to take the risk of being shot.
Then along came this King of the North thing. Suddenly his old friend had taken on a grander stature. He now took tribute from every village in three states. All except for those on the estates of Esteban Carbone and Miguel Martine. Fast guns who had retired, married well and lived the good life. Moro had played on this when he and Soto had made their accommodation with Carvajal.
For old times’ sake, Carvajal would receive 100 twenty-kilo bars of silver per year. In return, he would leave the village alone, let his old friend have his way within the confines of Pueblo de la Paz. Only now, had greed overcome pleasant memories of past outlaw companionship?
He had armed himself and waited in an upper room of his substantial casa on a hillside street of la Paz, ready to meet such an eventuality. A growing mutter of angry voices lent doubt to this possibility. No, Gustavo Carvajal would have come thundering into town on a snorting horse, his men all around him. What could this be?
“¡Jefe! Come out with your hands up. The mayor is already in jail,” a familiar voice called from the street.
Gaston Moro raised to peer through the firing loop in the shutter that closed off the second floor window. What he saw chilled him. Torches spluttered and flickered fitfully in a rising breeze. He recognized a dozen citizens standing in the narrow, winding street outside his home. Ernesto Rubio appeared to be leading them. Then he saw the two strangers he had arrested that morning.
They were supposed to be in jail. What had gone wrong. Gaston Moro heard a faint banging at the rear of the house. He tore himself away from the hypnotic vision of supposedly cowed citizens armed and aroused outside and took the rear stairway to the ground floor. A smaller portal gave access to the alley behind his house. He checked the peephole and opened the door to admit two policemen.
Both appeared frightened. One began talking as he stepped into the kitchen. “We must fight for our lives. The people have gone crazy. They have taken everyone else to jail.”
“What’s this about?”
“That boy who died,” the frightened policeman replied. “And they know about the mine. They are dangerous, I tell you.”
“Nothing to worry about. By daylight, they will have run out of energy. We can recover then.”
Glass broke in an upstairs window. Moro regretted his last, over-confident statement. He had not had time to close all the shutters. A loud crash came from the direction of the front door. “Quick,” he commanded. “Shoot a few of the fools, and the rest will scatter like chickens.”
Swiftly, the terrorized policemen rushed to do their chief’s bidding. A thunderous, booming crack came from the direction of the thick front door. Its ominous sound arrested all movement for five long, fateful seconds.
With a loud creaking, the tall, thick panels of the oak door fell inward. Dust billowed from the tile entryway as they struck the floor. Through the cloud, Gaston Soto and his corrupt policemen saw a tall figure sided by two shorter ones. Agitated by fear of the unknown, Soto shouted at his minions.
“Don’t just stand there, shoot them!”
The tarnished officers of the law obeyed the orders with alacrity. Not speedy enough, though, as flame split the dust and announced the departure of the lawmen for their final appearance in court.
Smoke Jensen and Esteban Carbone fired almost as one. Smoke popped his cap first by a fraction of a second. His slug plopped loudly into the chest of one policeman, staggering him. The dying cop’s reflexes triggered his six-gun in the holster, sending a bullet downward through his thigh and out the front, taking his kneecap with it. With a surprised and indignant expression, he fell backward to strike his head on the lip of a fountain basin.
Carbone did for the second lawdog, a shame to his badge, who ended his life in pitiful sobs for mercy. That left Chief Gaston Moro. Frantically the corrupt chief of police waved his small caliber revolver in the air as Smoke Jensen advanced on him.
One gloved hand slapped the .32 from the chief’s hand. The other balled into a fist and landed with astounding force on the mayor’s chin. His legs went rubbery. Only conditioning made him recover. He’d been in fights before, knew every dirty trick. His booted foot left the ground, and he aimed a vicious kick at his huge assailant’s groin.
Smoke Jensen caught the painful blow on the outside of his left thigh, continued his turn and brought a roundhouse right to the side of Soto’s head. Moro’s eyes rolled up, and he went to one knee. Not finished yet, his years as a bandit served him now. Soto pulled a knife from the top of one boot and took a wild slash at Smoke’s exposed belly.
Cloth parted in Smoke’s shirt and a thin red line, only a graze, showed on the skin over flat plates of muscle. Smoke delivered selective punishment for this offense, lefts and rights to the head and neck of the chief. Stunned, Moro could only swing the blade in directionless arcs.
Blood ran from a cut under one eye; his lip had been split and now grew puffy. Smoke shifted his point of aim and mashed the chief’s nose. Then another uppercut to the sensitive point under the side of Moro’s jaw, and the venal lawman went slack, out for a long, long count.
Smoke stood over him, panting slightly. “I think we can go to the mine now,” he opined to the wide-eyed citizens of Pueblo de la Paz.
Fourteen
All of the guards milled around on the fenced-in grounds of the mine. Some, still groggy with sleep, muttered among themselves and sought coffee to stimulate sodden brains. They had heard the rattle of gunfire in the town below and worried over what it might mean. Typical low-grade hired guns, they remained loyal to the man who paid them, so long as he continued to pay. Or until someone else offered more.
Several had gathered at the main gate, and talked in low tones. The topic of conversation was El Rey del Norte, and the possibility he had come to claim Pueblo de la Paz and all it possessed for himself. The prospect did not engender enthusiasm.
“He will shoot us down like dogs,” one hardcase guard suggested.
“Why would he do that, Lopez?” another countered. “I have heard that he welcomes men who can use their guns. He is building an army capable of taking on those corrompidores in Ciudad Mexico.”
“What?” a third asked disbelievingly. “Porfirio Diaz is presidente and, for once, he has the army behind him. He may be corrupt,
as are all politicians, but he has the power, ¿no es verdad?”
“A curse on all politicians,” Lopez, the worried one, spat. “But our problem is El Rey. We must decide what we will do when he comes here.”
Within a few minutes, they found out their concern had been focused in the wrong direction.
Five men, led by Carbone, approached the front gate to the mine. Fires had been lighted in a scattered pattern. Their fitful light, in a stiffening breeze, allowed a clear view of the compound, and prevented any chance of escape by the slave labor inmates. Carbone halted his followers and they spread out, facing an equal number of guards on the opposite side of the fence.
“Are you from El Rey?” the worried one asked.
“No,” Carbone answered. “We’ve come to tell you you are out of a job.”
A couple of the guards snickered at this. “Oh? How is that, hombre?” the worried man challenged, grown suddenly bolder now that El Rey del Norte was out of the situation.
“The owners of this mine, who pay your wages, are in jail. They are charged with slavery.”
Giggles turned to braying laughter. “These men here have been convicted by a court and sentenced to hard labor. There is no slavery. It is against the law in our country,” Lopez sneered an answer.
“Open the gate,” Carbone commanded.
Lopez had recovered his usual nasty outlook. “Who are you to give me orders?”
“Esteban Carbone y Ruiz.” It came out weighted with menace.
Lopez was stunned by this revelation, though machismo would not permit him to show it. “So? An old man who has hung up his guns. A haciendado, with soft hands and no stomach for a fight. Go home to your estancia and play with the women, Don Esteban.” Lopez made the honorific sound like an insult.
Was Smoke Jensen in position? He had to be, Carbone told himself. He drew a deep breath. “I had hoped that you would not be so eager to die, hombre.”
With that he drew with all the old speed and sureness. His long-barreled .45 made a blur as it left the leather. Its muzzle rose to gut-level in less than an eye’s blink. His first slug struck the receiver side-plate of the Winchester in Lopez’s hands. Stinging shock and pain ran up the truculent guard’s arms, and he let go of the damaged weapon with a sharp yowl of discomfort.
It could be said of Lopez that he was a game fighter. He never hesitated, once in action. His right hand dropped to the pearl grips of his .45 Mendoza, and he hauled it out with alacrity. Unfortunately for him, he remained what he was, a third-rate gunhawk.
Carbone’s second bullet slammed into the chest of Lopez with enough force to stagger him. He gulped for air that did him little good, fought to raise his six-gun as the world dimmed around him. To Carbone’s left and right, shotguns taken from the jail boomed, and a scythe of buckshot laid low three of the other guards. The fifth turned tail and bolted into the greater safety of numbers. Carbone took note of muzzle flashes from the uphill side of the compound and smiled in satisfaction.
Smoke Jensen hugged the cheek-plate of his Winchester stock to his face and sighted in on a bull of a man who appeared to be in charge at the mine. From this range it would be an easy shot. When Carbone opened the dance, he squeezed off a round.
Almost at once, the boss guard went to the ground, shot through the hips by a fat .45-70-500 Express slug. He bellowed at the other warders, more in rage than pain. At once they scattered out of the vulnerability of firelight. From here on it would be rough. Smoke had identified the guard shack and put three rounds through its flimsy walls. Yelps of alarm and the tinkle of wounded pots and pans coldly amused him. Two slugs turned a watch-fire into a shower of sparks.
Then he returned his attention to the barrack. Men dived through windows and scrambled out the door as hot lead gouged a table top, knocked the stovepipe out of alignment in a shower of soot, and wet down the occupants with a spray of tequila from a shattered bottle. Smoke Jensen took time to shove half a dozen large cartridges into the Express rifle before he rose and started downhill.
Well spread out, as Smoke had instructed, eight townsmen accompanied him. At first they met no resistance. All attention focused on the main gate. Smoke saw a guard in a tower take aim at the front of the compound and brought the Winchester to his shoulder. The Express rifle barked, and the man on the elevated platform threw his weapon high in the air as he fell to the side and draped his bleeding body over the side wall.
That got notice from the hardcases nearer to the back of the mine property. Their return fire caused several of the citizens of La Paz to drop to the ground, and one round clipped a young man in the shoulder. His cry of pain could trigger panic among the untrained, Smoke Jensen realized. He had to keep them advancing.
“Everyone down. Crawl forward to the fence,” he commanded.
They obeyed at once, grateful for a way not to provide a tempting target. At a crouch, Smoke led the way. He reached the fence and found it to be what farmers in the States had taken to calling “hog wire”: big, six-inch open spaces formed by twisted, interlaced wire. It made easy climbing for a human. It would also make easy pickings, like flies on the wall, for the gunmen inside. He summoned one of the volunteers, a thick-shouldered man who had proclaimed himself the town blacksmith.
“Let’s take ahold of the bottom of this and see if we can raise it,” Smoke suggested.
“Estar facil—that’s easy,” the grinning smithy responded. He knelt beside Smoke and, together, they prised upward.
Slowly at first, then with a surge, the wire bent to their powerful effort. It rose from the ground, restricted only at the wooden posts where the mesh had been secured with staples. Bullets snapped over their heads and bent backs, and Smoke noticed the stolid blacksmith wince, though he never hesitated.
“You’re good at this,” Smoke praised when they had opened a swath wide enough for several to cross under at once.
“I have a brother-in-law who is inside there,” he answered simply. “He is from out of town, and they … took him,” he added with a shrug.
“We’ll get him back,” Smoke assured him.
Once inside the compound, the fighting grew close. Knives and six-guns against clubbed rifles and, oddly to Smoke’s way of thinking, whips. Advancing with his volunteers, Smoke saw the head guard roll over and prop himself up on one elbow. He had fisted a .45 and sought a good target.
“Some people never learn,” Smoke complained to himself as he stepped up close behind the murderous warder.
With an economy of motion, Smoke brought the butt-plate of his Express rifle down on the head of the would-be back-shooter. It made a ripe melon splat, and the .45 slipped from nerveless fingers. Two guards in their union suits burst from the barrack, revolvers blazing. Smoke Jensen stood right in their path.
No time to swing the Winchester Express into line. Smoke let go and, in one smooth motion, whipped out his .44. It bucked and snorted and sent a lethal message to the charging guards. First one, then the other, fell in the dust, but not before a bullet from the second man had put a hot line across the right shoulder of Smoke Jensen. It affected his aim, so that his next .44 round punched a black hole in the forehead of the gunman who had shot him.
Smoke regretted that. These were only hired punks, not soldiers of El Rey del Norte. If they had sense enough to give up, they would be let free. Smoke and Carbone had extracted a promise from the people of La Paz to that effect. They knew better, he reasoned, than to renege. Already he heard Carbone’s voice, clear and steady above the tumult, informing the defenders of that fact.
“Stop fighting. Your bosses are locked up. You have nothing to fear from us. Give up and go free.”
Gradually a slackening in the melee could be noted. Smoke smiled to himself. Carbone had definitely not lost it. He still commanded while others followed. He added his own imperfect Spanish to the inviting flow of Carbone’s urging.
“Throw up your hands. Stop fighting.”
A shot cracked past Smoke’s head, and h
e spun to the left, where the enemy lurked in a shadow. Another muzzle bloom gave him a target, and he pumped two fast rounds into the darkness. A muffled cry answered him, and a guard stumbled out into the light of the fires. He tottered, made a futile gesture of surrender, and crashed to the ground, to twitch and die.
Quiet came in an instant. Slowly the groans of wounded and battered men rose. From a locked barrack came the plaintive cry of a prisoner. Quickly the men of Pueblo de la Paz set about freeing the victims of greed. When they lined up outside, Smoke and Carbone addressed them. They told of the depredations of El Rey and asked if the men would show gratitude for their freedom by joining in the fight to rid Mexico of another form of vermin, like those who had made them slaves.
Shouts of approval rose among the former prisoners. In a body they rushed forward to pledge their lives to the effort. When they had been taken into town, fed and armed from the arsenal in the jail, Carbone came to where Smoke Jensen leaned back in a captain’s chair, to catch a few badly needed winks.
“What now, companero?” the premier gunman of Mexico asked.
“I think it’s time we delivered our new recruits to your rancho, don’t you?”
“Seguro, sí. We can ride out within half an hour.”
“See to it,” Smoke concluded through a tired smile.
They kept with Smoke Jensen’s plan. Climbing higher into the Sierra Madre Occidental, the small column of volunteers came to a place where the road split. Carbone called a halt while he studied the map he carried in his mind. At last satisfied, he addressed Smoke.
“This lefthand track leads eventually to my ranch. Ernesto Rubio is a trustworthy sort. I suggest we send the recruits on south to the ranch. My segundo can take care of housing and training them.”
“And we go where?” Smoke asked.
“This is the long way around,” Carbone protested the delay, “but it leads eventually into the state of Aguascalientes near Martine’s estancia. It is not a well-traveled road, and we should get by without being noticed.”
Fury of the Mountain Man Page 14
