Terror of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  After the meal, Cal, Pearlie, and Old Mo returned to the bunkhouse. Cal lay on his bunk, his hands laced behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Old Mo came over to sit on the bunk next to his.

  “There can’t nobody fault you for mournin’,” Old Mo said. “’Cause the truth is, we know exactly what you’re a-feelin’. There didn’t none of us know Smoke then, but we do know how it was that his first wife, Nicole, and his baby, was kilt by outlaws. And you might remember that Pearlie once lost someone he loved.”

  “Yes, but at least he got to marry her, just before she died.”

  “The marryin’ wasn’t the important part, the lovin’ was the important part. And you knowed Miss Katrina long enough to love her.”

  “That’s true.”

  Old Mo stood, then reached down to put his hand on Cal’s shoulder.

  “Smoke has it in mind to go after the people that done this. You’ll get some satisfaction out of that . . . and I will too. We all will. Satisfaction is a good thing, it helps with the healin’.”

  Old Mo was quiet for a moment, and he got a faraway look in his eyes. “Only thing is, it ain’t possible to get satisfaction from snow and starvation.”

  Cal knew that Old Mo was referring to the tragedy at Donner Pass.

  “So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just kinda share in the satisfaction you’ll be gettin’ when we catch up with the sons of bitches that done this.”

  “It will please me to have you along,” Cal said.

  “I believe Keno hit San Vicente as a diversion,” Smoke told Tom over breakfast the next morning. “Their target, all along, was your horses. But he isn’t going to keep them. I didn’t bring them all the way down here, and break them, just to see someone like Keno wind up with them.”

  “That’s what they wanted, all right,” Cal said. He had been invited to breakfast as well.

  “Oh,” Tom Byrd said, lowering his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Compared to losing my daughter, and the others who were killed, the horses mean nothing to me. If I had known something like this was going to happen I would have given him the horses.”

  “They may mean nothing to you, but they are very important to Keno, and I don’t intend to let him get away with it. I’m going to get them back,” Smoke said.

  “Kirby, I’ve known you for a long time,” Tom said. “As a boy, you were resourceful enough to make a success of the farm, even when Emmett and Luke were gone. And your reputation has grown considerably since then. But there is no way you are going to be able to recover those horses, short of taking the army into Mexico. And our government isn’t going to do that.”

  “I’ll be taking an army, I just won’t be taking the army,” Smoke replied.

  “What army would that be?”

  “I’ll be part of that army,” Cal said.

  “As will Pearlie and Mr. Morris,” Smoke said. He paused for a moment, then added, “We’ll also be taking Sally.”

  “Kirby, don’t do it. Keno has an entire army. I don’t want to see anyone else killed because of those horses.”

  “It isn’t just the horses, Mr. Byrd,” Cal said. “I tell you the truth, I would be going to Mexico after that son of a bitch, whether Smoke goes or not. He not only took Katrina’s life, he same as took the rest of my life from me. We would have married, we would have given you grandkids, and they would have given us grandkids.” Again, tears welled in Cal’s eyes. “He the same as killed a hundred years of what would have been.”

  No one spoke for a long moment, but Tom looked at the young cowboy who was sitting across the table from him.

  “If you put it that way, son, then by all means go. And go with my blessing.”

  “How soon will we be going?” Cal asked Smoke later that same morning.

  “Anxious to go, are you?”

  “I’m so ready to go that I would strike out on foot if I had to.”

  “I know, but you need to wait just a while longer. One of the things I learned from riding with Asa Briggs during the war was that any action you took would have a much greater chance of success if you planned them out in advance.”

  “We ain’t a-goin’ to have to wait too long, are we?”

  “Not too long. We’ll get these bastards, Cal. I promise you, we’ll get them.”

  “All right,” Cal said. “You’ve always been right before, so I got no reason to think you ain’t right this time.”

  The first thing Smoke did in preparing for his campaign against Keno, was visit the newspaper office in Brownsville, the Cosmopolitan. A bell attached to the front door signaled his arrival.

  Greg Goldstein, the newspaper editor, was standing by his Washington Hand Press. Goldstein wiped his hands on the ink-stained apron he was wearing and, with a smile, approached Smoke.

  “Yes, sir, would you like to buy an advertisement in the paper? We have over one thousand readers, you know.”

  “How much does an ad cost?”

  “It depends on the size, of course. A classified ad is only one penny per word.”

  “What about half a page?”

  Goldstein’s smile grew broader. “Yes, sir! Half a page would be twenty-five dollars.”

  “I’ll take half a page, provided you give me some information.”

  “What information would that be?”

  “I need as much information as I can get about the Mexican bandit that raided San Vicente a few days ago.”

  “Yes,” the editor said. “We are well aware of Keno’s raid against San Vicente. You may have read the article we published about the raid.”

  “I did, and I thought it was an excellent article,” Smoke said. “That’s why I came to you.”

  “You came to me to buy an ad? Or to get information about Keno?”

  “Both.”

  “If you don’t mind, can we get the ad taken care of first?” Goldstein asked.

  Smoke smiled. “Always the businessman, are you?”

  “It puts food on the table,” Goldstein replied.

  Smoke gave Goldstein twenty-five dollars. “Here is for the ad.”

  “And what is the ad to say?”

  “It should say: ‘The Cosmopolitan is a fine newspaper, ’” Smoke said.

  “That’s it? You’re buying an ad, and the only thing you want to say, is that the Cosmopolitan is a good newspaper?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, Mr. . . .” Goldstein paused, waiting for the name to be supplied.

  “Jensen. Smoke Jensen.”

  The newspaper editor’s eyes grew large in recognition.

  “The Smoke Jensen?”

  “I don’t know if I’m—the—Smoke Jensen, but I am the only Smoke Jensen that I know.”

  “Mr. Jensen, it will be a pleasure for me to do business with you. Now, how else can I help you?”

  “I would like to find out as much as I can about this man Keno as I possibly can.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Well, sir, you have come to the right place,” Goldstein said. “You have indeed. What specific information are you looking for?”

  “I want to know who he is, and what is his background? And I especially want to know where his headquarters is now. How can I find him?”

  “May I ask why you want this information, Mr. Jensen?”

  “I want the information because I am going after him.”

  “Mr. Jensen, I am well aware of the reputation you have garnered by your many exploits, and even if only half of them are true, you are a remarkable man. But surely you understand that you won’t be going after Keno alone. As far as I’ve been able to determine, Keno is never alone, he practically has an entire army with him. In fact, he calls himself Colonel Keno, for that very reason.”

  “Yes, I am aware.”

  “But you are still going after him?”

  “Yes, I am going after him.”

  Goldstein drummed his fingers on the counter for a moment before he spoke again.

  “You must ha
ve some personal reason for such a thing, because as I’m sure you know, there is no reward being offered for this man. Not by the American government, and certainly not by the Mexican government. In fact, Keno is regarded as somewhat of a hero in Mexico.”

  “You’re right,” Smoke said. “The reason I am going after him is personal.”

  “I almost hate to provide you with the information that could lead to you being killed.”

  “You let me worry about that,” Smoke said.

  “All right. Come back here tomorrow. By that time I will have gathered as much information on him as I can.”

  When Smoke returned to the office of the Brownsville Cosmopolitan the next day, Sally went with him. They were leading a packhorse and though Sally wondered what the packhorse was for, she didn’t ask, because she knew that Smoke would tell her in due time.

  They tied their mounts to the hitching rail in front of the newspaper office, then stepped inside. Perhaps, because of her education background, Sally had always believed there was something almost sacrosanct about a newspaper office, whether it be the New York Times, the Big Rock Journal, or the Brownsville Cosmopolitan. There was the editorial bay, where the publisher had his desk, the composing room with its tables and drawers of type, and the press room, where reposed, in this case, the Washington Hand Press.

  Goldstein looked up at the jingling bell.

  “Mr. Jensen,” he said. “You’re back, I see.”

  “Yes. Mr. Goldstein, this is my wife, Sally.”

  “It is nice to meet you, Mrs. Jensen. I do hope you are able to talk some sense into your husband.”

  Sally chuckled. “Mr. Goldstein, we have been married for a number of years, and I’ve never been able to talk any sense into him. What makes you think I could do so now?”

  “A forlorn hope, I suppose,” Goldstein said. He picked up a paper from among many on his desk. “Here you go, Mr. Jensen. I’m sure this is what you were looking for.”

  The editor handed the report to Smoke. Smoke held the paper so that Sally could read it as well, and she couldn’t help but notice that it was written in a very neat hand.

  Colonel Taurino Bustamante Keno was born to a sharecropper in the Mexican state of Tamaulipas. He grew up a peasant, and when his father died, he murdered the owner of the farm where he lived, stole all the money the owner had in his hacienda, then took off to live in the mountains. He has subsequently made the statement that he shot the landowner when he discovered him raping his 12-year-old sister. However, that story cannot be verified, as his sister died soon thereafter.

  Keno lived in the mountains for several years, running from the law. While on the run he joined a bandit band, becoming the leader of that band when he killed Xavier Acosta, the original leader.

  Once Keno took over the Acosta band he began to expand by incorporating other bandit groups into his own, intimidating some of the leaders into following him, and killing the others, who would not submit to his command. Eventually he had enough men to create his Ejército Mexicano de la Liberación, or Mexican Army of Liberation. Estimates of the size of Keno’s private army run as high as sixty men.

  Keno and his group of bandits have stolen cattle, robbed shipments of money, and committed crimes against the wealthy. Occasionally Keno will distribute money and food to the poor, and it is this latter activity that has caused some to regard Keno as a Mexican Robin Hood. That commendation is falsely applied, however, for he preys upon the poor far more often than he helps them. Some also admire his ability to escape capture, and a few even believe that he is, ultimately, a revolutionary who will one day be president, and end the suffering of the poor.

  Today it is believed that Keno makes his headquarters in the small village of Nuevo Pacifico, which is suffering under his presence.

  Smoke read the document, then nodded. “You have done an excellent job, Mr. Goldstein. And to show you my appreciation for your research and cooperation, I intend to buy three more half-page advertisements.”

  Goldstein held up his hand. “I appreciate that, Mr. Jensen. But I fear that four newspapers with consecutive half-page ads would be counterproductive. Not only would I be tooting my own horn, so to speak, the readers might think that I am unable to sell legitimate ads.”

  Smoke chuckled. “Use the half pages as you wish, Mr. Goldstein. You can put stories there, or even sell it a second time to another advertiser.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jensen. That is most generous of you.”

  “I consider it fair pay for the information you have provided.”

  “Mr. Jensen, now that you have the information, and a clear assessment of the strength of Keno’s bandit army, do you still intend to go after him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Jensen, surely you can disabuse him of such a notion.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Goldstein, I intend to go with him.”

  The newspaper editor shook his head. “I had hoped that the information would make you aware of the folly of such a notion. I wish now that I had not helped you, for I’ve no desire to be a party to your demise.”

  “You’re a good man, sir,” Smoke said as he gave the newspaper editor the additional seventy-five dollars. “Please don’t fret so.”

  Goldstein shook his head sadly as Smoke and Sally left his establishment.

  “What now?” Sally asked as they left the newspaper office.

  “Now? We’re going to do something that you always enjoy doing. We’re going shopping.”

  Sally laughed. “Why do I think we won’t be buying clothes, or something pretty for the house?”

  Sally and the packhorse followed Smoke down the street to a gun shop, its function advertised by the oversized cutout of a rifle, hanging in front of the store. A sign on the store bragged that it was THE BEST-STOCKED GUN SHOP IN THE ENTIRE STATE OF TEXAS.

  Smoke wasn’t quite ready to acquiesce to that claim, but he had looked through it when he was there yesterday, and he had to admit that it did offer an exceptionally large array of weapons, both in quantity and quality.

  “Yes, sir, you’re back, I see,” the shop owner said, greeting Smoke and Sally.

  “I am. And I have come today, ready to do some business with you. I noticed, yesterday, that you had the latest model Sharps rifles.”

  “I do indeed, sir. Breechloaders they are, single-shot .44-90 caliber, brass-jacketed shells.”

  The gun shop owner took one of the rifles down from its display case and handed it to Smoke. “Feel the balance of that piece,” he said. “Look down the sight. In the hands of an expert marksman, this rifle is accurate for up to one thousand yards.”

  “Do you have scopes?” Smoke asked.

  “Yes, sir, we do. We have the William Malcolm scope, and they are the finest telescopic sighting devices in the entire world.”

  “I’ll take them,” Smoke said.

  “Yes, sir, you are making an excellent choice,” the gun shop owner said. “One Sharps .44-90 and one William Malcolm scope.”

  “Five,” Smoke said, holding up five fingers.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I want five Sharps rifles, and five scopes,” Smoke said.

  “You . . . you want five?” the gunsmith asked in a disbelieving voice.

  “I do,” Smoke said. “I also want one thousand rounds of .44-90 cartridges.

  “One thousand rounds?”

  “Can you fill my order?”

  “Yes, that will take every rifle and nearly every .44-90 bullet that I have, but I can do that. May I ask you, sir, and I don’t mean this facetiously, but are you going to war?”

  “Yes,” Smoke replied. “And I don’t mean that facetiously.”

  With the rifles and ammunition wrapped in a canvas bundle, and attached securely to the packhorse, they proceeded to the Matthews Mercantile store. This time Smoke let Sally do the ordering.

  “I’m looking for a small hand mirror,” Sally told the clerk.

  “Oh, we have just the th
ing for you,” the clerk, a rather small man with a narrow moustache, replied. He picked up a mirror in a gilt frame, with a pearl handle. “Isn’t this just the most elegant thing you have ever seen?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid that won’t do,” Sally said.

  “Oh, dear, but that is the best we have to offer. I can’t go up from that one.”

  “I don’t want you to go up. I want you to go down.”

  “Is it the price? Because I think you will find that this is very reasonably priced.”

  “This is what I want,” Sally said, picking up a small, square, frameless mirror.

  “That one? But, for a beautiful lady such as yourself, surely you don’t want such a pedestrian mirror.”

  “I want five of them,” Sally said.

  “Five?”

  “Yes.”

  After paying the bewildered clerk, Smoke and Sally went to the hardware store, where they bought fifty sticks of dynamite and a keg of nails.

  Then, with the packhorse carrying their purchases, they went back to The Wide Loop to make plans for the upcoming expedition into Mexico.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Nuevo Pacifico

  Thirteen-year-old Rosita Salinas looked into the mirror and preened, her long black hair glistening in the single candle that barely managed to illuminate the cabaña. She thrust her chest forward in such a way as to make her just-emerging breasts more prominent, proud of what she could see.

  “Papa, do you think boys will think I am pretty?” she asked.

  Miguel, who had spent an entire day working in the field, looked over at his daughter. She was the oldest of four children, all of whom lived, slept, and ate in the same room. “You are not yet old enough to think about boys,” he said. “Better you should think of more ways to help your mama with your brothers and sisters.”

  “But I have helped, Papa. Today I ground the corn, and I washed the dishes. Didn’t I, Mama?”

  “Sí, Rosita, you are una gran ayuda.”

  “Do you see, Papa? Even mama says I am a great help.”