One of the Mexicans’ bullets gouged a shallow furrow along Toothpick’s cheek before the thin man’s Navy model Colt blew his face into a bloody pulp.
El Gato screamed, “Chinga tu madre!” as he fired with both hands, pumping the pistols as if that would make the bullets go faster. Two more of the bandidos whirled and fell to the floor, to die among the bloody entrails and bodies there.
Sundance fired at the last of Valdez’s men left standing, blowing a hole in his heart at the same time Toothpick’s knife twirled through the air and entered the man’s open, screaming mouth, to pierce his neck and embed itself in his spine. He dropped like a stone, dead from two mortal wounds.
The survivors walked through the fog of heavy smoke and cordite to the pile of bodies next to the bar. Sundance used his boot to roll Valdez over onto his back, where he lay convulsing and kicking, his big Mexican spurs gouging tracks in the wooden floor that soon filled with blood.
Toothpick bent over and jerked his knife free from his victim’s mouth and wiped it on the man’s bloody shirt. Eyes dreamy and unfocused, he brought his beloved Arkansas Toothpick up and kissed the blade, licking the last drops of blood off, murmuring something to the instrument the others couldn’t hear.
El Gato stood over the bodies, smoking pistols still in his hands, greasy hair hanging down, and sweat making rivulets in the dirt on his face. “Well, compañeros, we fixed those men’s wagons pretty damn bueno, eh?”
Sundance holstered his Colt. He looked around the room, which was now empty except for his men. “Well, we’d better burn the breeze outta here.” He looked into each of their faces. “We did good tonight. We make a pretty good team, compadres. Gather all the men you think are tough enough for what I outlined earlier, and we’ll meet on the American side of the Rio tomorrow at noon. There’s a grove of cottonwood trees about ten miles north of Laredo. I’ll make camp there and wait for you and your men.”
They shook hands and swaggered out of the saloon to their mounts without looking back.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sunset comes early in the high lonesome, and the sun was disappearing over the edge of the western peaks when Smoke spurred his mount toward home. Though he wondered what was in the telegram that came for Sally, he didn’t look. He figured he would find out soon enough.
Smoke could almost taste the crispness and tang of early fall on the night air, and the sky was cloudless and clear, making the stars as brilliant as diamonds scattered on black velvet. He leaned back against the cantle, letting Horse have his rein, as he watched the stars and dreamed dreams of wilderness lands unsullied by people. His reverie led him to think of Preacher, and he wondered momentarily if the old grizzly was still alive and sitting around a small fire in the up-high enjoying the feel and smell of the mountain air as he was.
He thought the first shot he heard was thunder, until it was repeated several times in quick succession. He leaned forward in the saddle and used his spurs. “Come on, Horse,” he cried, “that’s coming from home!”
The deep booming of an express shotgun was answered by the higher pitch of some .44’s and the slightly deeper cough of a Henry rifle. As he came closer to the conflagration, Smoke first slowed Horse to a trot, then a walk.
Just before he came within sight of his cabin, Smoke slipped off Horse and tied him in some brush beside the path. He shucked his Winchester from its saddle boot and eared back the hammer. He ducked and weaved through the forest of high-mountain pines and underbrush, until he came to a small brook, gurgling in the darkness.
Kneeling, he reached down and spooned a handful of mud into his palm, smearing it over his face and neck and the brass of his rifle to minimize the glare in the starlight. With his dirt-covered face and dun-colored buckskins, he was all but invisible in the night. His mountain man training kept him from making the slightest sound as he scurried up the ridge overlooking his compound.
From this vantage point, he watched as gunfire exploded in several windows of the cabin, to be answered by at least four other guns in the woods surrounding it. He could make out two bodies lying motionless in the yard by the hitching post in front of the bunkhouse, and another sprawled spread-eagled partway up the ridge to the south of the cabin. So, he thought, at least two of ours and one of theirs down.
He grinned a death grin. Time to even up the odds and bring religion to the scum attacking his home. Leaning his head back, he opened his mouth and let out a great, screaming cry of a mountain lion on the hunt. While the yell echoed and reverberated throughout the small valley, the shooting stopped for a moment. From inside the cabin, the wailing, undulating cry of a she-wolf calling her mate emanated, lifting a great weight from Smoke’s shoulders. His beloved Sally was alive and now she knew he was nearby.
Smoke crouched and began to move through the forest as silently as a wraith. He seemed to know instinctively where to place his feet so as not to make a sound. Even without being able to see where his target was, he found his way to the spot by following the ripe smell of unwashed flesh, mingled with beer and tobacco odor and the sharp scent of the turnips the man had eaten for supper.
Within less than five minutes, Smoke was standing directly behind a figure kneeling beside a fallen tree. The man was firing a Henry rifle at flashes of gunfire from the cabin windows. The gunman never knew what struck him until seconds after Smoke’s huge bowie knife sliced through his trachea and carotid arteries.
The bushwhacker turned, blood spurting from the gaping hole in his neck, and Smoke reversed the knife and swung backhanded with all his strength, severing the head from its neck. The body stood there for a moment, as though uncertain what to do next, then crumpled as if boneless. Smoke picked up the head by its hair and trotted toward his next appointment.
Jesus Garza, called Borrachón by friends and enemies alike because he was seldom seen completely sober, pulled back from his position on the hillock overlooking the rear of the cabin. Both his pistols were empty and he needed to reload. He also needed another swallow of the tequila he always kept handy.
Squatting, with his back to a tree to prevent being hit by a lucky shot, he tilted his bottle up toward the stars and gulped until there was nothing left but air. He belched loudly and returned to his position, when something hit him in the back. Whirling, both pistols cocked and ready to fire, he looked down at his feet. Lying there among the pinecones and needles, staring up at him with unblinking, dead eyes, was the head of his compadre, Jorge Bustamonte.
“Aiyee-e-e! Madre de Dios, aiyee-e-e,” he screamed, firing both pistols into the darkness while backing up as fast as he could.
As he backed into the clearing, still firing, the angry grunt and growl of a grizzly bear came at him out of the night. He turned and ran as fast as his boots would carry him toward the cabin, forgetting in his terror what waited for him there. The last thing Garza saw was the flame blossoming out of a Greener ten-gauge shotgun as it blew him into hell.
A voice from the woods on the other side of the cabin called out, “Jorge. Are you there, boy?”
Smoke picked up Jorge’s head and spent a few moments preparing his next surprise as he trotted toward the sound of the voice. He found the man’s horse reined to a tree and placed his surprise on the saddle horn, then stole quietly over behind a nearby bush.
Jerry Mason was worried. He had just seen Jesus Garza blown almost in two by that big shotgun in the cabin, and now Jorge Bustamonte wasn’t answering his yells. That meant there was only himself and old Pig-eye Petersen against God-only-knew how many in the cabin. It had seemed like easy money when that gunslick down in Texas offered the four out-of-work cowhands three months’ wages to come up here and kill some old mountain man, but it sure as hell wasn’t working out like they thought.
“Damnation,” he whispered to himself. “I think I’ll just head on over to Petersen and see if he’s ready to skedaddle on outta here.” With that, Mason holstered his pistols and walked to his horse. He untied the reins from the tree branch
, put his left foot in the stirrup, and reached for the saddle horn.
“What the ... ?” he murmured as he felt something hairy and sticky under his hands. He pulled the object off his saddle horn and held it up where he could see it. The air left his lungs in a loud whoosh and he bent over and vomited all over his boots.
Gulping and swallowing bile, he threw the severed head of his friend Jorge back into the woods. He leaped up on his horse and spurred the animal into a run.
Smoke stepped out of the bushes he was hiding in as Mason galloped past and swung his Winchester rifle in a horizontal arc, catching Mason full in the face and catapulting him backwards off his mount. Smoke stood over the moaning man and kicked him once in the side of the head, turning out his lights temporarily.
He wiped blood and pieces of teeth off the stock of the Winchester and went after the lone remaining gunman. No stealth this time, he walked directly toward the man, not bothering to mask his noise.
Petersen stepped back from the tree he had been firing around and began to reload his Colt Peacemaker .45. He looked up when he heard someone coming through the underbrush toward him from where Mason had been stationed.
“Hey Jerry,” he whispered loudly, “you gettin’ tired of shootin’ those fish in that barrel down there?”
His eyes narrowed when there was no answer. He cocked the Peacemaker and pointed it toward the sounds. “Jerry, that you, boy?”
Light blossomed and exploded in the darkness and the bullet from Smoke’s rifle smashed against Petersen’s gunhand, knocking his pistol spinning away. He screamed and bent over, holding his broken hand and moaning. When he looked up, one of the biggest men he had ever seen was standing before him, grinning a grin with no mirth in it.
Smoke backhanded him across the face with his fist, smashing his nose and loosening his teeth. As the man spun away from him, Smoke propped his rifle against a tree and pulled his big bowie knife from its scabbard. “You wanted to fight, skunk-breath. Well, here’s your chance. Pull that frog-sticker I see there in your belt and let’s dance.”
Petersen straightened up, squared his shoulders, and said, “No, I don’t want to fight. I give up.”
Smoke’s grin widened. “No, I don’t think you understand. You weren’t given a choice, just like those two boys lying dead down there in front of my cabin weren’t given a choice. You are going to die, mister. The only question is, are you going to die like the coward you are, gutless and unarmed, or are you at least going to die like a man, with a weapon in your hand?” Smoke shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
Petersen’s lips tightened into a thin line and he drew his knife lefthanded. “I can’t hardly use my good hand.”
“Not to worry. I never take advantage of a coward.” Smoke shifted his weapon to his left hand. As they circled each other in the darkness, weaving their knives before them, Smoke asked, “Where you from, fatso?”
Petersen sucked in his gut, trying to hide his substantial paunch. “I’m from Texas, and that’s where I’m goin’ back to soon’s I gut your ass.” He feinted left, then moved quickly to his right, swinging his left arm in a roundhouse swing at Smoke’s stomach.
Smoke didn’t even move back. As Petersen’s knife sliced through his buckskins, barely scraping the skin, Smoke flicked his arm straight out and sliced off Petersen’s right ear. The fat man gave a high-pitched yell and put his ruined right hand up to stanch the flow of blood, staring at Smoke with fear-brightened eyes.
Smoke continued to move in a slow circle, talking as if in a normal conversation. “You know what I hate, fat-butt? I mean, what really makes me want to throw up?”
Petersen narrowed his eyes, but didn’t answer as he shuffled sideways, looking for an opening. “I hate backshooters, ambushers, and bushwhackers almost more than anything,” Smoke continued, flicking his left hand out again so fast that Petersen didn’t even see it, just felt the sting as his left ear was left hanging by a thread. With an agonized growl, he reached up and tore the ear loose, looking at it for a moment before he threw it to the ground. Blood was streaming down both sides of his face, giving him an unearthly look in the starlight. “I’m not gonna stand here and let you cut me up, mister.”
Smoke smiled, a little. “Oh? Well just what are you gonna do about it, snake-scum?”
“I’m gonna kill you right now.” With a terrible, insane yell, Petersen rushed straight at Smoke, his arm extended in what he hoped was a killing thrust.
Smoke brushed the attack aside with his forearm, and as Petersen came up against him, he calmly buried his knife to the hilt in his opponent’s right eye. Petersen uttered a strangled scream which quickly turned into a gurgle, then a death rattle as he collapsed to the ground.
Smoke left him where he fell and retraced his steps to where Mason lay unconscious. He took the rope off his saddle, looped it under the sleeping man’s arms and back to the saddle horn, and led his horse down toward the camp.
“To the cabin,” he yelled.
“Smoke, is that you?”
“Yeah, Sally, it’s me. Hold your fire, I’m coming in with a prisoner.”
Sally, Cookie, Pearlie, Cal, and the remaining men from the bunkhouse gathered in the cabin yard to meet him. When he walked up, Sally was bending over the two hands lying on the ground. One was dead, the other seriously wounded. She straightened and waved over one of the men standing in front of the bunkhouse.
She put her hand on the cowboy’s shoulder, “Sam, would you take one of the horses and ride into Big Rock and see if you can get Doctor Spalding out here? Tell him we have one dead and Woodrow has a bullet in the shoulder and one through his chest.” She looked over at the man Smoke had dragged into the camp yard, noticing his ruined face. “Also tell him Smoke has worked a little on one of the attackers in his usual manner, so he may need to do some reconstruction of a face.” Hesitating for a moment, she smiled and shook her head. “I know it’s no use, but I’d better ask. Smoke,” she called, “did you happen to leave any up in the woods who might need Doctor Spalding’s attention?”
He pursed his lips, “Not unless he’s considerably more skilled than I remember. You might send word to the undertaker to get busy cuttin’ some wood, cause he’s gonna have some business shortly.”
While Smoke was talking to Sally, Cal and Pearlie untied his prisoner and dragged him over to the front porch, propping him up against the hitching post. The men gathered around him with angry, sullen faces. Hank Collier, Woodrow’s saddlemate and best friend, eared back the hammer on his pistol and aimed it at Mason’s face.
Smoke put his hand on the gun, gently pushing it toward the ground. “Not just yet, if you don’t mind, Hank.” He looked over his shoulder at the man lying there. “I’ve got some questions for this pile of cowcrap, then you men can take care of business.”
Hank’s eyes never left Mason. “Yes sir, Mr. Smoke. But if Woodrow dies ’cause of this man, don’t try to stop what’s gonna happen next.”
Smoke slowly shook his head. “Wouldn’t think of it, Hank.”
Pearlie walked out of the cabin with a pitcher of water and threw it on Mason’s face and smiled as the man coughed, strangled, and sat up gasping for breath.
Smoke squatted directly in front of Mason, elbows on knees, and asked in a kind, quiet tone. “What’s your name, mister?”
Mason looked over Smoke’s shoulder at the crowd of men gathered with angry, set faces and eyes that looked at him as if he were already dead. “Uh . . . Mason, Jerry Mason.”
“Where you from, cowboy?”
Mason’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I’m . . . that is, we . . . my friends and I are all from Texas.”
Smoke smiled. “That wouldn’t be down Laredo way, would it?”
Mason shook his head. “No. We worked near there, on a little shirttail spread down to Del Rio.”
“Well Jerry, I’m kind’a wondering why a bunch of sorry-assed dumb ole’ boys from Texas come all the way up here and decide to shoot up my home in
the middle of the night.”
Mason’s gaze lowered and he mumbled. “I don’t know either, mister. I just rode with them others and took orders from the big guy, Petersen. Maybe you could ask him?”
Smoke shook his head. He pulled his knife and reached down and wiped some of the blood and tissue off the blade onto Mason’s pants. “I’m afraid Petersen ain’t gonna be talkin’ again real soon, not without no tongue anyway.”
Mason’s face twisted in terror as Smoke said this, then he screamed in fright when Smoke dropped Bustamonte’s severed head into his lap. “I believe this belonged to one of your other friends, and I don’t think he’s in the mood to talk, either.”
Mason sat there, staring into the glazed, lifeless eyes of his friend.
Smoke said, “Tell us what happened. Who hired y’all to come up here and attack us?”
Mason sleeved snot and tears off his face with the back of an arm. “Will ya let me go if’n I tell ya?”
“I’m afraid not, Jerry. You’ve killed at least one of our friends, and maybe another if the doc can’t fix him up. In this country, murder is a hangin’ offense.” He reached out and flipped the head off Mason’s lap with the point of his knife. “But, hangin’ is preferable to some other ways of dyin’, if you get my meanin’.”
Mason moaned, closed his eyes, and hung his head. “Okay, okay. Some man came up to us in a saloon and asked if we was lookin’ for work. We said sure, so he said he’d give us three months’ pay to come up here to the high country and put a bullet in Smoke Jensen. Said there was dirt between ’em.”
“What was this man’s name?”
He looked up into Smoke’s eyes. “I don’t know, and that’s the honest truth, ’cept there’s one thing funny ’bout him.”
“What’s that?”
“He ain’t got but one ear. Said his right’un had been shot off.”
Vengeance of the Mountain Man Page 5
