“Oje, gatitos,” Smoke called softly to them from a thicket of brush. “Over here, little kittens,” he repeated the taunt.
Curious, yet not alarmed, certain this was one of the older men who had taken to making life in camp miserable for the trio, they walked toward the brush, leading their horses. When they drew close, Smoke emerged from his shadowy hiding place, a .44 Colt in each hand.
“You are about to become very suddenly dead, unless you do exactly what I tell you. Get on those horses and ride out of here. Don’t even look back. Keep going until you get to wherever it is you came from.”
One brighter boy made wall-eyes. “You are the big gringo, the one his Excellency always curses, no? Smoke Jensen?”
“Yes. Now that we’ve met, I think it would be wise for you to leave this place while you still can. A life of crime is one too short for you.”
His Spanish fell strangely on their ears, his vocabulary limited, but his message came across loud and clear. “Oh, I agree, absolutely. I am going now, Señor Jensen, watch me.” He turned away from his friends and the frightening mountain of Smoke Jensen and put a foot in one stirrup.
“He is even bigger than El Rey said,” one of the remaining lads whispered to his friend.
From his height of a mere five-four, the last one could only nod dumbly. His feet found purpose, and he moved his boots in the direction of his horse. Smoke racked back the hammer of one .44 and put the reluctant one in motion.
“What about our fathers?” the already mounted boy asked. “They made us come.”
“If they don’t have as much sense as you three, then they have a good chance of dying with El Rey del Norte,” Smoke told them. “Now be on your way.”
“Ay, sí, sí, believe me, we’re going.”
Smoke suppressed a chuckle as they directed their mounts out of sight at a brisk trot. Then his lips formed a grim line as he thought of the other sentries out there in the night.
Gustavo Carvajal awoke in a screaming rage when he learned the disposition of the night guards. Of the twenty-five on duty, five of them had deserted during the night. Ten were dead. The rest had been left in degrading, humiliating conditions. One had been staked out in the grass. Humberto Regales translated the message left in English.
“Next time he’ll be left over an ant hill.”
“Better if he had been, this time,” Carvajal ranted. “That way the men would hunger for revenge. I am right, Humberto. We must march on this fortress village of Martine y Garcia and muddy the soil with the people’s blood.”
One of Regales’ men brought in the not-so-arrogant punk at that point. His eyes liquid with fear, he repeated the message given him by Smoke Jensen. Carvajal’s face became a ruby of fury.
“Take this puppy out and put a riding crop to him,” he screamed. “Teach him respect for his emperor.”
“Excellency, it is not the messenger, it’s the message,” Regales reminded him.
“Oh, yes, so it is. Never mind whipping him,” he countermanded his earlier order. “Let him walk through camp naked as an oyster. That should instruct him in how to properly deliver a message.” Carvajal paused then, a finger beside his nose. “I must say, this man, Jensen, has a way with his tongue.”
El Rey del Norte had cause to awake screaming the next morning also. This time it was in abject terror. Brought out of deep slumber by an oddly familiar, wet-copper odor, Gustavo Carvajal opened his eyes to see Ignacio Quintero staring at him from the foot of the bed. His mouth was twisted in a grimace of horror and pain, and his body was nowhere to be seen. The head sat on the bed, inches from Carvajal’s feet.
Quintero had been assigned the duty of supervising the sentries, Carvajal recalled after his initial shock lessened. The man who would be king had believed that this precaution would prevent any repetition of the desertions and deaths of the previous night. Deeply shaken by this evidence of his error, Carvajal gasped and gulped his way from fear into rage.
Quickly he pulled on boots and burst from his sleeping quarters into the front of the tent and on out the flap to confront two startled guards. “Bring Regales and Diaz, have the men called together here. At once,” he demanded.
Sullenly, the bandit army assembled in front of their leader’s tent. Many suffered from hangovers. Most were groggy from being jerked out of a deep sleep. All had heard of the terrible events of the night. Not a few had second thoughts about the wisdom of following Carvajal. Before the day was over, several of these would find opportunities to turn away from the route of march and speed off to safer climes.
“¡Compañeros!” Carvajal shouted above the murmur of uncertain voices. “I have come to a momentous decision. We must continue our advance on Pueblo Viejo. As you know, our numbers have been reduced over the past few days. I call on all of you with friends or family willing to join us to go round them up. Tell them of the brutal murders of our friends. Tell them of the outrages of this gringo cabrón pistolero, Smoke Jensen. He is but one man.
“He can be captured and made to pay for what he has done,” Carvajal concluded.
“Do you mean only one man has been killing our night riders?” an astonished bandit inquired.
“No,” Carvajal quickly reversed himself. “There must be a dozen men crawling through the grass like snakes. But we are men, not the lowliest of creatures. They can be defeated.”
“What about the walls at Pueblo Viejo?” another hardcase asked.
Who let that out? Such knowledge, in the hands of these men, could be dangerous. It gave Carvajal pause to consider before he answered.
“They will be of no consequence to us. As I said, we must continue on to Pueblo Viejo. Those walls cannot be well-settled as yet, nor very thick. Therefore, we will take a day right here to devise a means of defeating them.” Warming to the idea blooming in his head, Carvajal spun out his new aspirations to his followers.
“We will build a large ram, on wheels, to smash the walls. Others of you are to find suitable materials and make scaling ladders.” Carvajal congratulated himself for having read those ancient books on siege warfare. “Then, when all is in readiness, we will advance to victory!”
“¡Viva el Rey! ¡Viva el Rey!” Humberto Regales led the cheering.
From the distant brow of a ridge, Smoke Jensen watched the confusion in camp through field glasses. He remained long enough to identify what the flury of activity implied. Two large carretas had been connected by makeshift running gear before the men stopped for breakfast. Outriders returned with suitable trimmed logs, and the carpenters among Carvajal’s army began to construct a framework atop the carts.
Others he saw at work on ladders. Satisfied that Carvajal would remain in camp until the completion of these projects, Smoke withdrew, mounted Sidewinder and set off for Pueblo Viejo. By pushing hard, he arrived shortly after darkness.
He found the only gate secured, and he was challenged by a sentry with an old Hopkins and Allen break-top rifle. “¿Quien passa?”
Smoke identified himself and rode on in after the gate creaked open. He found Carbone and Martine in the courtyard of the inn. He greeted them with an easy smile.
“You have them well organized. Even the gate guard challenged me with a very military ‘Who goes there?’ Good, because it’s going to be needed,” Smoke added, growing serious again.
“Sit down, my friend, you look tired,” Carbone invited, his face showing his concern.
Smoke settled in a large, carved wooden chair and leaned into the welcome cushion. Smoothly, with pauses at important points, he gave an account of his activities since leaving Pueblo Viejo. Martine cursed the traitors, and informed Smoke that they had been missed the next day. Naturally they had no idea that the four men had made an attempt on Smoke’s life.
“Hardly an attempt, I’d say,” Smoke assured him dryly. “Amateurs,” he dismissed.
He went on to describe what he had observed in the valley camp and the destruction of the cached supplies. Then he got into his thi
nning of the ranks, and they listened raptly. Smoke concluded with an simple statement that summed up the fate of Ignacio Quintero.
“The last thing I did was deprive Carvajal of the services of one of his lieutenants.”
Carbone and Martine exchanged surprised glances. “How did you manage that? Did he desert his master?” Martine asked.
“In a manner of speaking. I’m not right proud of what I did, but it’s had its effect. Carvajal’s gone into camp on the plain east of here to build siege machines.”
“Come on, hombre,” Carbone urged, eager to learn. “What did you do?”
“I left Quintero’s head on the foot of Carvajal’s bed,” Smoke admitted, eyes averted.
“¡Que bueno, Smoke!” Martine rejoiced. “That was a brilliant tactic.”
“Oh, yes. Cold, calculating, absolutely guaranteed to terrify. Also totally lacking in any redeeming human quality.”
Martine sobered. He cut his eyes to Smoke with a serious demeanor. “We are at war, amigo. We may talk of the enemy general as a buffoon, a poseur, but he is not the least bit more harmless by that. He has to be deeply shattered by that, unsure of himself. In a war, my friend, one must do what must be done to win.”
“It could backfire on us. What if he calls for no quarter? Not spare even the young women and boys?”
Carbone knitted his brows, weighing his remarks. “We are a different people from you Anglos. It is our Indian ancestry, I suppose. If Carvajal declares no quarter, it will only make our people fight the harder. They, too, will give no quarter. No prisoners. It will be a terrible slaughter.”
“Yes, damnit, and I thought that’s what you sent for me to help prevent. I’m sorry. I may have brought more trouble right to your door.”
Martine brightened. He rose and placed an arm around Smoke’s shoulder. “We’ll ask the people. In the morning, you can tell them what we have discussed and let them make the decision. Any who wish to escape will be free to go. No conditions, no prejudice. They will remain my people, and Carbone’s. Now, get something to eat, take a few drinks with us, and have a good night’s sleep.”
He had his mind set. He would do it this morning. Nothin’ could stop him. He’d show ’em all that he belonged. Wrestling with the heavy saddle in the chill air and soft gray light of pre-dawn over the Rockies, Bobby Harris left the tack room and rocked on unsteady boots to the corral. He had already picked out the one of his string that he would use.
He had worked with the critter just like Smoke Jensen wanted it. Talked soft, made gooey sounds and always had a supply of rock candy or a carrot from the winter garden. If any horses had been gentled, this one had. Bobby had caught him in a half-doze in the darkness and slipped the bridle over his head before the animal knew what happened.
Now he stood tied up close to the snubbing rail, Bobby’s lariat double-dallied over the post. He could free it with a flick of the wrist and then let the steamboat go. First he had to put the saddle blanket on and secure the heavy saddle.
For the thousandth time since coming to the Sugarloaf, Bobby cussed his small stature. He wished for a ladder to help heave the heavy leather contrivance onto the back of the quiet horse. Not quiet for long, he thought ruefully.
With a lot of grunts and strain, Bobby got the sad-die in place. The pad was only slightly askew. He tightened the cinch straps and put one foot in the stirrup. Instantly Favor—officially No. 57-A—brought up his head. Bobby’s small hands could not reach the horn, so he pulled on latigo ties to swing himself aboard.
Once settled in the hurricane deck, he shivered in anticipation as Favor gave a pre-emptory snort. Bobby leaned forward and loosed the lariat. Favor came alive in a burst of energy that left the boy breathless. Grunting and sorting, Favor crow-hopped across the corral, head low, nostrils flaring. He tried to sunfish, and Bobby held him with his knees.
A pale, pink band sawed up and down, back and forth on the jagged crests of the eastern mountains. Favor came down stiff-legged and jarred the air from Bobby’s lungs. Blackness swam around the boy. He gigged with blunted spurs—the only kind Smoke Jensen would allow. Favor sprang, antelope-like, into the air. He whirled and squealed and snorted. Dust rose in a thick haze.
Bobby’s head snapped back and forth. His thin chest burned for want of air. Shoulders bowed, he hung with the rampaging horse, sawing the reins, fighting for control. His vision blurred again, this time with involuntary tears, and he reeled in the saddle, a straw dummy tossed about by satanic force. Sharp, hot pain radiated up from his groin. He sensed unpleasant changes there and had his first serious doubts about the wisdom of his decision.
Not even Rupe Connors had given him so fierce a whupping as his sudden descent on a rising saddle produced. Bobby tasted salt on his tongue and realized his nose was bleeding. Favor became a whirlwind.
Dizzied, Bobby clung with stubborn knees. The next time Favor raised off the ground, Bobby arched his back and hauled on the reins with all his slight strength. To his amazement, Favor came down, not stiff-legged, but in a fast run. Around the corral they streaked.
“Woah, boy, woah,” Bobby coaxed. The pace lessened. Favor’s head came up. “That’s a boy, that’s my good boy,” the battered lad cooed.
He reined in the sweat-lathered horse, gigged him to a walk, then a trot. Grinning like a ninny, Bobby sat atop the stallion and guided it wherever he wanted. After a few minutes, boy and horse had bonded to the point Bobby started didoes across the center of the corral.
“Bobby Harris, what in the world do you think you are doing?” Sally Jensen’s voice crackled over the corral rail. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
Grinning despite his pain, Bobby walked Favor over to where she stood. “No, ma’am. I just topped him off. A couple of more goes at it, and he’ll be ready to sell.”
Sally fussed over him a bit longer, then got him off the horse and into the house. There he listened to a lecture on never handling horses without at least two hands present, while he gobbled down fresh, hot biscuits and wild blackberry jam. Later in the day, he confided his satisfaction to Burt Crocker.
“He durn near split me from crotch to craw, but I did it all on my own.”
Twenty-five
Dressed in his splendid general’s uniform, his divisions of troops displaying the ornate feather banners and other regalia of their Aztec ancestors, El Rey del Norte rode at the head of his bandit army. Early the next morning they spilled over a low saddle between two substantial hills that blocked the view from Rancho Pasaje eastward.
At shouted commands, they split into two parts and circled the village. Save for the rumble of hoofs and cartwheels, no other sound broke the daybreak quiet. When Pueblo Viejo had been completely surrounded, Gustavo Carvajal sat his handsome palomino with a smug smile on his face.
“Let them observe our splendor and know fear,” he declared to those near him.
Confident that he had halted his powerful force well out of rifle range, he firmly believed this display would have the desired effect. A puff of smoke bloomed over the wall before them, and the King of the North laughed disdainfully. Then he heard the hiss and crack of a bullet and the meaty smack as it struck the chest of his personal standard-bearer. The young bandit dropped the banner and folded over his saddlehorn before falling from his mount.
“¡Imposible!” the King of the North blurted.
Already another ball of gray-white appeared on the wall. A moment later the slug struck Carvajal’s gaudy, plumed, fore-and-aft hat and sent it spinning from his head. He uttered an unheroic yelp and ordered his men to immediately attack.
Alerted to the outlaw army’s approach by small boys serving as lookouts, the defenders of Pueblo Viejo went directly to their assigned positions. Grimfaced, they watched the empty ground over the ramparts. First they saw the youngsters scrambling over the rocks and ravines on their way to safety inside the walls. Then the feathered banners rose over the foreshortened horizon.
Drumming hoofbeats and the sque
al of ungreased cart axles increased in volume. Huge, floppy sombreros seemed to rise out of the ground, followed by nodding horses’ heads. Reinforced to a strength of 245, the outlaw horde advanced over the saddle and spread out to encompass the village. Below Smoke’s feet, the recently made gates slammed shut.
Smoke Jensen cut his eyes from left to right, sized up the defenders standing with him. He gave a nod of assurance and returned his gaze to the east. Lifting his field glasses, he studied the center of Carvajal’s line. The little lunatic seemed satisfied enough of where he had halted his troops. No doubt he expected to frighten the people inside the walls. Time to shake him up again, Smoke decided.
He put aside the field glasses and raised his Express rifle. He made a careful estimate of range and adjusted the rear sight. Smoke fitted his cheek to the stock and focused on the circular spot of light in the tang sight. He settled it on a splash of white and a bandolier of ammunition slung across a shallow chest. Then he raised the front sight until the blade centered in the rear peep.
Slowly his finger took up slack. The Winchester .45-70-500 bellowed with authority. Dimly, Smoke Jensen felt the recoil. Already he cycled the lever action and chambered a second round. The slight breeze slowly dispelled the gray haze in front of him, so that he was able to see the standard-bearer pitch from his saddle. Now for the finishing touch.
Smoke Jensen’s second long-range shot clipped the fancy general’s hat from the head of Gustavo Carvajal. Moments later, the entire double rank of bandits charged downslope toward the narrow valley that lay at the base of the knoll on which Pueblo Viejo had been constructed.
“Looks like I might have riled him some,” Smoke observed to Esteban Carbone.
Humberto Regales commanded on the west side. His men swooped down on the town in time with the rest. He developed a sinking sensation as he watched the walls loom over them. It indeed gave the aspect of a fortress. Spears of flame came from the top of the wall, and three of his men cried out as two took bullets in their chests and the third had his horse shot out from under him.
Fury of the Mountain Man Page 24
