A broken branch of chaparral provided Smoke the first clue to the outlaws’ trail. More disturbed underbrush led him onward. He encountered his first hoofprints after he had selected a likely avenue and turned west. Encouraged by this, he pressed forward.
Two hours later, by the big turnip watch in his vest pocket, his keen sense of smell alerted him to the odors of cooking food. The mighty King of the North had not been entirely clever in selecting this hideaway. Smoke had found it easily. But then, he was accustomed to tracking Blackfeet and Cheyenne warriors who left no trail.
Smoke gauged the steepness of slopes that had become canyon walls and settled on the right side. Within minutes of leaving the one-time trail, he had disappeared into a heavy screen of trees. Feeling more at home with each passing minute, Smoke let his imagination range over what he might accomplish. He kept a tight rein on the more outlandish ideas that presented themselves. Through it all, he kept alert for any sign of the enemy.
He came upon the thin, white plumes from cooking fires before he expected it. Some twenty minutes meandering through the pine forest had brought him to a broken off ledge that provided a clear view of a moderate-sized valley. Hunkered down, Smoke Jensen peered over the rim at the barbaric display below.
Carvajal’s army had fashioned rude shelters of brush and pine boughs. Here and there, rings of stones contained fires that apparently were kept in perpetual use. The aroma of roasting meat, baking tortillas and chili-rich pots of bubbling beans tantalized his nostrils. His stomach rumbled, and he reached absently for a tortilla, now grown somewhat stale.
His teeth fought with the hard corn cake while he made a mental count of the men below. They walked about freely, totally at ease. Men swigged from bottles of tequila, scooped morsels of food from pots. They laughed and talked among one another. From one lean-to, Smoke heard the shrill cry of a young woman. Her pleas to be left alone went unnoticed by the outlaws. Her cries of pain and terror when she was violated brought forth laughter and amused grins from the hard-bitten men in the camp.
Smoke silently cursed the animal who had had his way with her, conscious of the futility of that. He eased a pair of field glasses to his eyes and made note of the man’s face when he was summoned from his pleasure in late afternoon to ride guard on the camp. A smile creased Smoke’s weather-seasoned face. Maybe his anger wasn’t so futile after all. He kept the offender in sight until certain of the sector he would patrol. Then he slid back from his observation point and rejoined Sidewinder. Now he had to wait until darkness fell.
Smoke Jensen’s premonition proved right. Although the bandit chieftan maintained a loose net of sentries, men riding watch around the valley rim, he apparently had not established a set schedule. Individuals among the army of hardcases rode out to relieve a comrade whenever the mood struck them, or someone with more authority told them to. So far, the bandido that Smoke had targeted had not been replaced.
He rode with his head down, face in a pool of shadow from the huge sombrero he wore. Riding along a well-defined track, he let his horse have its head while he took short nips from a bottle of tequila. Once, he paused to light a small, crooked cigar. The flare of the match utterly destroyed his night vision.
Which aided Smoke Jensen as he ghosted along with only a thin screen of scrub and trees between him and the Mexican gunhawk. Briefly, Smoke wondered what his old friend, General Carpenter, would think of a man who lit a smoke on sentry duty at night. His own intended punishment would be far more severe than that meted out by the general. And he would have to move fast after he accomplished it.
Satisfied he knew the routes taken by all the watchers, Smoke decided the time had come. He urged Sidewinder through the trees to an open spot beside the trail. There he shook loose a large loop of a braided leather lariat. Its soft whir through the air partly alerted the half-drunk sentry.
He glanced up in time to see a darker curve, like a falling branch, descend directly in front of the brim of his sombrero. Then he felt a touch on the points of his shoulders. His mouth opened to shout an alarm. Breath flew from his mouth instead when Smoke Jensen yanked tight on the rope and hauled him from the saddle.
Smoke dropped to the ground and swiftly closed along the taut rope, expertly held rigid by Sidewinder, and stuffed the man’s neckerchief in his mouth. Then he took charge of the bandit’s mount. From the saddle, he stripped a leather riata and rigged the bite end of the rope over a stout live oak limb. He fitted the loop around the struggling outlaw’s boots, above the ankles. Satisfied with his preparations, Smoke rocked back on his heels and drew his big Bowie.
Instant terror widened the eyes of the captive, the whites starkly bright in the night’s gloom. He knew for a fact he was about to die. Instead, this unknown mountain of a man bent over him and used the sharp blade to slit his trousers, legs, seat and front, then pull them away. Next the silent menace rolled him on one side and cut through the back of his jacket. The shirt followed.
Completely naked now, the lax sentry shivered in the mountain chill. The silent giant of a man withdrew from his line of sight, and he tried to quell his panic. Then he felt a tug on the rope around his legs. Painfully, and utterly without dignity, his assailant dragged him across the rough ground. Prickly oak leaves bit his flesh. Small rocks became daggers that gouged him. Slowly, his legs elevated.
Sudden comprehension struck fear in the bandido. He was being hanged upside down. Reflexively he tried to scream, gagged on the cloth in his mouth, and wildly flailed his arms. ¡Dios mio! his liquor-addled mind shrieked. No one would find him. The blood would drain to his head and burst it like a rotten gourd.
Smoke Jensen kept hauling on the riata until the bandido hung between heaven and earth; his fingertips, extended beyond his head, missed the ground by a good two feet. Then he tied off the bite end of the man’s own rope and walked around to where the swinging captive could see him.
He knew from past experience that the upside down view of one’s captor could be most disconcerting. Smoke watched the play of emotions on the face of his first client. Slowly he bent and spoke softly into an ear.
“I have a message for you to give to Carvajal. Tell him that his days of playing as king are over. Tell him that I’m coming for him.”
Silently as he had come, Smoke Jensen faded into the darkness. He retrieved his appaloosa stallion and headed off for his second encounter of the night. He found his choice with little difficulty, clomping along noisily on a sway-back horse. The bandit gnawed on a rolled tortilla filled with what smelled like roasted goat.
His indolence proved deceptive, however. When Smoke made his move, the man dropped his hand to his six-gun with surprising speed. He had it nearly clear when the tip of Smoke’s Bowie pierced his chest and sliced through his heart. Uncocked, his Mendoza .45 fell to the ground without discharging. Twitching out his life, its owner followed. Smoke dismounted and retrieved his knife, wiped it clean on the dead outlaw’s shirt.
“Oh, well,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll leave another message with the next one.”
Smoke came upon the third one right where he expected him. One surprise greeted him. The bandit sat slumped in his saddle, chin on chest, sleeping away the boring hours. A macabre sense of humor assailed the mountain man spirit in Smoke. He eased up beside the drowsing man and gave him a solid rap on the skull with the barrel of his .44 Colt.
Quickly dismounting, Smoke went to the man, stripped him of clothing. At least this one wore underdrawers, he noted. These he parted with his knife blade and used a small pot of black horse salve to decorate certain parts of the unconscious outlaw’s anatomy. Then he swung the helpless gunny in a tree like the first.
Once again, Smoke disappeared into the friendly darkness. The fourth night rider caught a smack to the head also. Smoke had him ready to tree when he groaned and began to show signs of consciousness. Gag ready, Smoke stuffed cloth in the captive’s mouth the instant he opened it to call for help. Too groggy to put up resistance, the
bandido swung free of the ground minutes later. Smoke went to him and bent low.
“Tell Carvajal that if he is Montezuma, I am his Cortez.”
Eighteen
Smoke’s next stop brought him to a younger, less seasoned bandit. A boy, actually, hardly seventeen, Smoke judged when he had the lad off his horse and face-to-face with the muzzle of his .44. All thoughts of machismo, of swaggering glory in the ranks of Gustavo Carvajal’s outlaw army, fled and the youngster turned a sickly slate-gray. His lips worked with a noticeable tremble.
“Please, Señor, please do not harm me. I—I was thinking a-a-a—”
“About what?” Smoke demanded in a rough whisper.
“I swear on the heart of my mother, Señor. I was truly thinking that this was not the life for me. Poor food, drunken companions, cold nights riding in these woods. I would give anything to be back home, on the estancia, working for my Patrón.”
Smoke prodded him in the ribs with his six-gun. “You mean that?”
“Oh, yes, yes, I swear it.” He was all but sobbing.
“Where is this estancia?”
“La—La Gloria, in Durango.”
That seemed reasonably far enough away. “Would you leave right now, not turn back, not even look behind, and go to your home?”
“Seguro, sí, and my mother would bless you in her prayers forever.”
“Then get up, take your horse and get the hell out of here.” Smoke had already taken the revolver from the young man’s holster. Now he reached for the saddle. “Here, I’ll take that. You won’t be needing it any more,” Smoke informed him as his fingers closed around the butt-stock of a Winchester.
Smiling to himself, Smoke Jensen watched the youngster out of sight. He felt good about that one. Now, on to the rest.
Slowly, the night wore on. Not surprisingly, considering the lack of discipline in the camp, none of his victims had as yet been discovered. No one had even come out to relieve them. Smoke nearly bumped into the next guard.
He had dismounted to relieve the strain of hours in the saddle. Keeping him company was the inevitable bottle of tequila. He roused it at the dark shape of a man on horseback.
“Hola, compañero. You’ve come at last,” he called out expectantly. “Have a drink before I go.”
Smoke Jensen swung down from the saddle and approached. “Thanks, but I prefer bourbon,” he quipped softly a moment before he stuffed the muzzle of his .44 Colt into the mouth of this hardcase. “Now, you will do exactly as I say.” Smoke’s hand worked at the buckle of the man’s cartridge belt, freed it.
“Unbutton your trousers and shirt. Do it,” Smoke added with menace.
Silently, sweating, the bandit complied. By then Smoke had his captive’s neck scarf wadded and replaced his gun barrel with it. “Take off your shirt. Slowly, no funny moves.” That accomplished, he added, “Stand up and pull down your trousers.”
Muffled bleats of protest came from the gagged mouth. Eyes fixed on the deadly Colt, he did as instructed. Smoke prodded him over to his horse. Then Smoke bent low and used his Bowie to cut through the crotch of the man’s trousers.
“Step up there with your right foot in the front of the stirrup.”
Glittering black eyes seemed to say, But that will put me in the saddle backwards.
Smoke smiled at the silent communication. “Swing your left over and settle in.”
A little assistance was required to seat the outlaw backward in his saddle. Quickly, Smoke took a short length of rope from his hip pocket and tied the bandido’s ankles to the stirrups and joined them under the belly of the horse. He prodded the man in the ribs with the cold steel of his .44.
“Hands behind you.”
That done, Smoke bound them also. He noted with pleasure that these men had shown no difficulty in understanding his Spanish. No doubt the Colt had a lot to do with that. He inspected his handiwork, then stood where the wilted hardcase could clearly see him.
“When you get back to camp, tell Carvajal that he had better abdicate his throne, or I’ll be on him like stink on a rotting corpse.”
Smoke’s captive had little doubt as to the identity of that decomposing body. He nodded vigorously to indicate his agreement. Smoke took up the reins of the outlaw’s mount and led it into the trees, far enough off the trail to not be readily noticed until daylight. There he tied it off to a tree.
Satisfied with his night’s work, Smoke Jensen returned to Sidewinder. Quietly he mounted and set off toward the exit to the valley. He would return to Merced and a long, peaceful sleep.
Gustavo Carvajal’s face turned black with rage. He hurled the glazed clay tequila bottle he held against the wall of the tent. “Who was it? Carbone? Martine? Goddamn them for this insult!”
“The—the men said it was a gringo. He spoke Spanish, but they could see he was a norteño,” Humberto Regales informed him.
An unexpected chill ran along the spine of the King of the North. “He’s here, then. This Smoke Jensen. He has come because these hijos de la chingada have asked him to come. What is he, that he can do this to—to me?”
“He is only a man, Excellency. No, that is not accurate. I have found out more about this Señor Jensen. In his country, some call him the ‘Last Mountain Man.’ ”
“¿Que es esto? ¿Un hombre de la cordillera?” Carvajal repeated the accolade given to Smoke Jensen. “What is so important about such a man?”
“The mountain men were fur trappers, and mighty Indian fighters. They lived in the cordilleras of the United States all alone, facing impossible odds and triumphing over them. This Smoke Jensen is said to be the last of their breed, a truly awesome man, who has killed nearly three hundred men in stand-up fights.”
“¡Mierda! No man can live through so many gunfights.” Carvajal’s countenance darkened again. “But what he did to our men, this insult to my manhood is an abomination. He cannot get away with it. We must make him suffer for this. Only how? Attack Carbone again? Carbone has lost nearly everything. But Martine y Garcia has much wealth left to him. Yes! We will retaliate against the oh-so arrogant Martine and bring them all to their knees.” A wild light came to Carvajal’s crossed eyes. “I know exactly how to do it. Pick fifty men. They will accompany me on a bold raid against Martine’s rancho. It will be the Mother of all Raids.”
Bone-sore and muscles aching, Bobby Harris had time to reflect on the fact that riding full-grown horses on the Sugarloaf wasn’t exactly like forking his little pony down Trinidad way. His misery even overcame his reluctance to bare his bottom in front of a female woman. All four of his cheeks flushed bright pink at thought of it.
“Aaah,” he sighed when the liniment touched his throbbing thigh. It was so cool and nice. NO! It burned like fire. “Ouch! That’s awful,” he complained.
Sally Jensen suppressed a giggle. “Hush up and take it like a man. I don’t understand why Burt Crocker couldn’t take care of this.”
“Oh, he offered, Miz Jensen. Said he’d do it with a pot scrubber.”
“Umm. I can see why you declined.”
“Did what?” Bobby asked, the burning sensation forgotten for a moment.
“Declined,” Sally, the perpetual teacher, explained. “Said no.”
“Uh. Yeah. I declined that right enough. Oowie! Owie! That stuff smarts.”
“If you would have quit at noon, when I said you should, you wouldn’t be so stoved up,” Sally lectured.
Bobby had ridden out with the hands for the first time that morning. He had needed help swinging the saddle on a full-grown horse, yet it didn’t deter him from “earning his keep,” as he put it. He walked with a hitch in his get-along when the hands came in for their dinner, but said nothing. Sally suggested he take the afternoon to rake down the barnyard, or some other non-horse-related job, and Bobby had hotly refused. Now he paid the price.
His lower lip slid forward in a pout, miffed that the application of the fiery liniment didn’t come with at least a large spoonful of sympathy. �
��Awh, I carried my load all right, didn’t I?”
“So Burt told me,” Sally answered neutrally. She agreed with Smoke that excessive pampering made weak children.
“Then you—you don’t need to put that stuff on so much,” Bobby complained, wondering if coming here was such a hot idea after all.
Smoke Jensen rode back into Merced shortly before nightfall. Already the steady efforts of the people had made inroads into the devastation brought on by Gustavo Carvajal. He found Carbone and Martine at the resurrected cantina. Starlight gleamed through the burned-out roof by the time they had heard a report of his visit to Carvajal’s camp. Carbone chortled at the messages Smoke had left for the bandit king.
“That ought to drive out any sanity left,” he remarked. “I especially like that part about being his Cortez. Any lunatic who thinks he is Montezuma will have a fit over that. Seriously, though, can we get at him? Can we hurt him?”
“Oh, yes,” Smoke said with satisfaction. “What we must do first is get those women out of camp. No doubt Carvajal intends to sell them to the brothels. They have to be safely away before we do any real damage to El Rey. I think the three of us are best suited to that job.”
“Like the old days, eh, amigo?” Carbone recalled.
“Right. Only this time we don’t go in shooting. More about that later. Now, do either of you have access to any dynamite?”
“No,” Martine responded. “It is expensive and not too popular in Mexico. We can get Gigante.”
Not as powerful as dynamite, Smoke was well familiar with the large-grain black powder. Done in grains bigger than No. 3 mortar powder, the explosive had been used for many years by miners and others before Nobel came up with the idea of stabilizing nitroglycerine with sawdust. Smoke nodded his approval.
“Be sure to get plenty of caps and fuse, too,” he advised. “What our volunteers lack in marksmanship, they can make up throwing blasting powder into that camp.”
“You are so … inventive, amigo,” Martine complimented the mountain man.
Fury of the Mountain Man Page 18
