Terror of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Miguel told you?”

  “Don’t you think that’s what this means?”

  Smoke passed the paper over to Cal.

  Keno es en la Sierra Veinte Casas montañas.

  Cal nodded. “I don’t speak the lingo, but yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what that says. Do you know where those mountains are?”

  “We brought a map. We’ll find them,” Smoke said.

  As Smoke and Cal rode out of town, both men kept their eyes open for the ambush they were sure was to come.

  “Do you think they’ll shoot at us from behind cover, or will they come out?” Cal asked.

  “We have to be ready for anything,” Smoke said. “But the way we gave in so easily back at the cantina, I believe they’ll be somewhat bold about it. They will enjoy facing down the gringos.”

  “If they are going to shoot us from behind cover, that’s the best place for it up there,” Cal said, pointing to an outcropping of rocks just to the right of the trail.

  “You’re right. What do you say we force their hand?”

  “How will we do that?”

  “We’ll make them think that we’re going to camp here for the night.” Smoke chuckled. “If they aren’t behind those rocks, we’re going to look pretty damn foolish.”

  Stopping, the two men dismounted, then took the saddles from their horses and set them aside. Smoke unrolled the blankets, and made a big show of getting out a coffeepot, while Cal started gathering wood for a fire.

  Smoke saw something over by the rocks, a movement, or perhaps just a shadow. Whatever it was, it caught his attention.

  “Cal, get ready,” he said. “I think we are about to have company.”

  Cal came back to the site and dropped the wood on the ground. He no more than did so, than three men appeared from behind the rocks. With guns in their hands, they started walking toward Smoke and Cal.

  “Buenas noches, señores,” the one in the middle said. This was the same one who had done all the speaking when they were braced by the three men in front of the cantina.

  “Good evening,” Smoke said. He glanced around furtively, purposely making it look as if he were frightened. “We’re about to make some coffee. Perhaps you gentlemen would like to have some.”

  “We will have some coffee later,” the spokesman said. “But first, I am sorry to tell you that we made a mistake at the cantina, and the time has come to correct that mistake.”

  “Oh? What kind of mistake?”

  “We didn’t charge you enough taxes. I think, maybe, you owe more.”

  “I don’t know, I thought we paid quite a lot in taxes, considering that we don’t even live here. How much more do you want?”

  The Mexican smiled. “All of it, señor. We want all of it.”

  “I see. Well, I don’t think I want to do that. I think I’ll just keep my money, and ask, politely, that you return the money that you took from us.”

  The timidity had left Smoke’s countenance, and the expression on his face now was chiseled and hard.

  “You want us to give the tax money back to you?” the Mexican asked, obviously surprised by Smoke’s comment. He smiled, arrogantly.

  “And if we do not give the money back to you, señor, what will happen?”

  “We’ll kill all three of you, and take the money,” Smoke said, speaking the words as calmly as if he had just asked the time of day.

  Now the Mexican’s smile turned into laughter. “Gringo, there are three of us, and we are holding guns in our hands. I think you have gone loco.”

  “This is your last chance. Give the money back to us.”

  “Manuel, I do not like this. Let us kill them now and take the money,” one of the others called out in alarm.

  “Sí,” Manuel replied, and he started to thumb back the hammer, but even as his thumb twitched, Smoke had his gun in his hand. He killed the one named Manuel, as well as the man who had called out in alarm.

  Cal got the third one, who was so shocked at the sudden turn of events that he, like the other two, did not get off one shot. The three shots that were fired by Smoke and Cal now came rolling back from the nearby elevations as if there was a life-and-death gun battle going on over in the Lodges as well.

  The three Mexican bandidos lay dead on the ground.

  Smoke walked over to his saddlebags, took out a tablet and a pencil, then began to write.

  KENO

  I AM COMING AFTER YOU. YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE. WE WILL KILL YOU TO AVENGE THE PEOPLE YOU KILLED IN TEXAS. I AM SMOKE JENSEN, AND I AM AN AMERICAN AVENGER.

  “That is in English. Do you think he can read English?” Cal asked.

  “If he can’t read it he’ll find someone to read it to him,” Smoke said. “I want it written in English, because I want him to know that it is Americans who are coming after him, and killing his men.”

  “What are we going to do with the note?”

  “We’re going to mail it to him,” Smoke said.

  “Mail it to him?”

  Smoke saw that the man who had been doing all the talking was wearing a knife. Smoke pulled the knife from the man’s belt.

  “Yes, by special delivery,” he added. Then using the knife, he pinned the note he had just written to the man’s chest.

  Because the man was already dead, there was very little blood, even though Smoke had plunged the knife in to the hilt.

  After that, he found six rocks, just the right size to put on the eyes of each of the dead men.

  Before returning to the arroyo where Sally and the others had made camp, Smoke took out the small signaling mirror, and catching the last rays of sunlight, flashed two dots, two dashes, and a pause, then dash dot dash dot, two dashes, and dash dash dot. IM CMG, or I’m coming.

  The response came back, dot dash, dot dash dot dot, a pause, then dash dot dash dot, dot dash dot dot, dot dash dot. AL CLR, or all clear.

  “What if it isn’t clear?” Pearlie had asked when Smoke was explaining the signaling procedure to the others. “What if we are prisoners? If we are, they aren’t likely to let us send any signaling back.”

  “If we don’t get a return signal, we’ll just assume that the bad guys are here, and we’ll start shooting,” Smoke teased. “So I suggest that you return the signal quickly.”

  “No, no, you don’t need to do that. We’ll signal back,” Pearlie insisted.

  Old Mo had built a fire and the smell of wood smoke and coffee permeated the area as Smoke and Cal rode in. Sally had spread a piece of canvas on the ground and was now laying out the chicken and biscuits Hazel Byrd had prepared for them.

  “Did you get a lead?” Sally asked.

  “Yes,” Smoke replied. “They’ve taken a thirteen-year-old girl as a hostage. The girl’s father told us where to find them.”

  “They’ve got a thirteen-year-old girl with them? Just how cruel are these people?” Sally asked.

  “They killed Katrina, didn’t they? We’ve already seen how cruel they are,” Cal said, quietly.

  “Of course we have,” Sally said quickly. She put her hand, comfortingly, on Cal’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Cal. That was insensitive of me.”

  “No, ma’am, I know you didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Cal said.

  Normally, Sally would have corrected his grammar, but she realized this wasn’t the time for it.

  “You said the girl’s pa told you where to find them,” Pearlie said. “Where are they?”

  “They are in the Sierra Veinte Casas mountains,” Smoke said.

  “That’s a strange name for a mountain range,” Sally said. “Twenty House Mountains.”

  “I didn’t know you could speak Spanish,” Pearlie said.

  “I can’t, I just know a few words, and I recognize the word for twenty, veinte, and house, which is casa.”

  “If they are hiding out in a mountain range, isn’t that a little like saying someone is in the Rockies?” Pearlie asked.

  “Not quite. This range isn’t all that large. Besides, w
e may not have to look for them.”

  “What do you mean, we won’t have to look for them? Why do you say that. Do you know exactly where they are?”

  “No, but we’ve started the ball rolling, and I’d say that it is more than likely that they will come looking for us.”

  “What happened?” Sally asked.

  “We ran into three of Keno’s men. A little disagreement over money led to shooting.”

  “And Smoke left a message pinned to one of ’em, tellin’ Keno who he was, and that we were comin’ after ’im,” Cal said, completing the tale.

  “So much for surprise,” Sally said with a little chuckle.

  “Surprise takes too long and I don’t know how much time we have,” Smoke said. “Don’t forget, they’ve got a young girl they are holding captive.”

  Keno had just rolled some spicy beans into a tortilla when two of his men, Lopez and Salazar, came toward him. Keno had sent them out earlier to find the three men he had sent out to forage supplies for them.

  “Did you find them? What is keeping them so long?” Keno asked.

  “They are dead,” Lopez said.

  “Dead? How do you know?”

  “I saw all three of them. I took this note from the body of Zamora.” Lopez showed Keno the note Smoke had written. “It is written in English, so I don’t know what the words say.”

  “I can read English,” Keno said, reaching for the note. As he read it the expression on his face turned from curiosity to anger. He wadded the note up in his hand.

  “Who is this man, Smoke Jensen?” he asked, angrily. “Has anyone ever heard of him?”

  “I have heard of him.”

  “You have heard of him, Mendez?”

  “Sí.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “He is a hero to the gringos,” Mendez said. “They have written books about him because he is so brave. He has killed many murderers and thieves in America, and it is said that no outlaw gang is safe from him. They say that Smoke Jensen cannot be killed.”

  “Of course he can be killed. Anyone can be killed.”

  “Many have tried to kill the man Smoke Jensen, but have been unable to do so. Why do you ask about him?”

  Keno showed Mendez the wadded-up note. “He has killed three of my men. He says he is coming for me.”

  “What will you do, Coronel?” Lopez asked.

  Keno smiled. “He does not understand. I am not a bandit; I am a commander of soldiers. We will see how he does against one who employs military strategy against him.”

  “Do you have a plan, Coronel?” Chavez asked.

  “Sí, I have a plan. Chavez, bring twenty men here. Choose the men wisely. I will speak of my plan then.”

  As Chavez went out among the encampment to gather the men Keno had asked for, Keno continued to eat his bean burrito.

  “Mendez, tell me more about this man Jensen,” he said.

  “It is said that he can draw his gun so quickly that it seems to appear in his hand, as if by magic. And it is said that he can shoot a fly from a stick at a distance of one hundred meters, without breaking the stick.”

  “That’s impossible. Have you ever seen him do such a thing?”

  “No, señor. I have never seen Jensen. I tell you only things that I have heard.”

  “Talk, it is all talk,” Keno said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We will see what the talk is once he has been killed.”

  Chavez arrived with his twenty handpicked men then, and Keno, having finished eating, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You, stand over here,” he said, pointing to one man. “You stand over there,” he said to another, and a moment later he had two groups of ten men each.

  “You are the First Platoon,” he said to one group. “You are the Second Platoon,” he said to the other.

  “Chavez, I am appointing you to the rank of lieutenant. You will be in command of the First Platoon.”

  “Gracias, Coronel Keno,” Chavez replied, smiling broadly over the promotion.

  “Vargas, you will command the Second Platoon.”

  “Gracias,” Vargas replied, his smile as broad as the smile of Chavez.

  “You will lead your commands as if you are fighting on the battlefield. It is said that ten men, wisely led, are worth one hundred, without a head.

  “In this case you will be ten men wisely led, not against a hundred, but against one man.” Keno interrupted his instructions to flash a big smile. “And the head I want is his. I will pay twelve thousand pesos to the platoon who brings me the head of the gringo. Two thousand I will pay to the lieutenant, and one thousand pesos to each soldier.”

  The two lieutenants smiled.

  “When this is over, if you need to borrow money, I will lend it to you,” Vargas said.

  “That is very good of you, but I won’t need money,” Chavez said. “I intend to win.”

  “Find this man,” Keno ordered. “Search every mountain, search every canyon, search the streams and forests. Search the villages, and if you find that a village is hiding him, raze the village.”

  Both lieutenants saluted smartly, then left to get their platoons organized for the search.

  Rosita was sitting on the chair, her hands no longer tied behind her. She heard Keno and his soldiers talking, and though she didn’t know who the man Smoke Jensen was, she did hear one of the men refer to him as a “hero.”

  She had read about heroes. In school she had read about knights in shining armor, riding upon a white horse, dispatched by their king to save the princess who was being held captive by someone evil.

  Keno had said that he was only one man, and he would be confronting Keno and his entire army. But, isn’t that what heroes did? And, didn’t Mendez say this hero couldn’t be killed?

  Had her father found a knight in shining armor to come to her rescue? Obviously, it wouldn’t be a real knight in armor, but she had heard one of the men refer to him as a hero. And, perhaps her father had not sent this hero to rescue her. But, whoever he was, he was coming after Keno. And if he succeeded, she knew that he would free her.

  It pleased her to keep this in mind, and she said a prayer for the hero, Smoke Jensen

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  As Smoke and the others rode into the Sierra Veinte Casas mountains, they approached a draw that split, one side going north of the mountain, and the other to the south.

  “Which way?” Cal asked.

  “Cal, climb up to the top and take a look to the north. Let us know if you see anything,” Smoke directed. “Pearlie, you do the same thing, but look up the southern side of the draw.”

  The two men nodded, then set forth on the task given them. Smoke, Sally, and Old Mo waited down in the valley.

  Cal and Pearlie climbed to the top of the mountain, taking their signal mirrors with them, and Smoke was waiting for their report.

  “There’s a flash from Cal,” Sally said. She read the message. “He says it is all clear.”

  “Nobody there,” Smoke said. “Tell him to come back down.”

  Sally flashed the signal for Cal to come in and Cal responded with dot dot dash, and dash dot dot, for understood.

  Almost immediately thereafter, Pearlie sent the same signal Cal had earlier. There was no one on his side of the draw, so Sally called him in as well.

  For the next several days, Smoke looked for Keno and his men, while Keno’s men looked for Smoke. Neither found the other, and the frustration was growing on both sides.

  “Smoke, we’re going to get some more vittles here soon,” Old Mo pointed out. “We’re runnin’ mighty low, and I don’t intend to ever be caught out without food again.”

  “At least there’s no snow this time,” Smoke said.

  “No, there ain’t,” Old Mo replied, grimly.

  Smoke had passed the comment off lightly, but he realized quickly that Old Mo didn’t find it humorous.

  “I’m sorry, Mo, I meant nothing by that remark. I should’ve known bette
r.”

  “That’s all right,” Old Mo said. “But the fact remains, we’re runnin’ low on provisions ’n’ we’re goin’ to have to come up with food from somewhere pretty soon.”

  “We’ll start looking,” Smoke promised.

  They discovered the farm midway through the day after the conversation between Smoke and Old Mo. A man, whom Smoke took to be in his late thirties or early forties, and a boy about fifteen were out in a cornfield, hoeing the weeds. As Smoke and the others rode up, the man greeted them cautiously.

  Smoke couldn’t help but recall his own time on the farm where he too had grown corn, and the boy reminded him of himself, then.

  “Do you speak English?” Smoke asked.

  The man looked at the boy.

  “Americano?” the boy asked.

  “Yes. Sí.”

  “Mi padre does not speak the language of the americano, but I do.”

  “Tell your papa that we are friends,” Smoke said.

  The boy translated, and his father smiled.

  “Mi nombre es Smoke.”

  “Humo?” the boy replied, confused by the name.

  “No, Smoke is my name.”

  “That is a funny name, señor.”

  “I suppose it is,” Smoke said with a smile. Smoke pointed to the others, identifying them in turn. “This is Sally, Pearlie, Cal, and Mo.”

  “Juan Alvarez,” the boy said, pointing to his father. “Pablo,” he said, pointing to himself.

  “Pablo, tell your papa that if you have any food to spare, we would like to buy it. I will pay you in pesos.”

  After a series of exchanges, Juan Alvarez agreed to sell them three dozen eggs, some cornmeal and flour, a sack of beans, and a side of bacon.

  Smoke paid the amount Juan had asked for without haggling. Juan smiled broadly at his luck, then he said something to Pablo, and the boy translated.

  “Papa says that you are a good man and you didn’t try to cheat us. He thought you would”—he paused, looking for the word—“negociar,” he said.

  “Negotiate?”

  “Sí, negotiate. He thought you would negotiate, so he asked for more money than he should. Now he feels bad because he overcharged you.” The boy tried to give some of the money back.