She leaned away from him and gave a mock frown. “Oh, so it’s just my cooking you’re going to miss, huh?”
He placed a huge callused palm against her cheek and gently pulled her face to his. Kissing her lightly, he said, “Now, you know that’s not true. I value your cleaning and washing just as much as your cooking. I won’t hardly have any clean clothes by the time you get back.”
Without warning, her eyes flashed and she punched him in the stomach. “You keep talking like that, and I may just decide not to return to my old mountain man at all, Smoke Jensen!”
They both laughed and hugged each other tightly. The remaining time until the train arrived was spent saying those things that a man and woman who are deeply in love say to one another when they are about to be separated for a lengthy time.
Finally, as the sun was sinking below the mountains to the west, a locomotive chugged toward the tiny station and pulled to a stop amid squealing wheels, belching clouds of steam. Smoke loaded Sally’s luggage into the baggage car, then helped her up the steps and to a seat in the passenger section. A final kiss, a quick caress of her face, and he was gone.
In typical mountain man fashion, Smoke didn’t watch the train as it took his beloved far away. He put her and that tender part of his life out of his mind and concentrated on the task before him: luring Sundance into the mountains and dealing with him in his usual manner—as harshly as he knew how.
He drove the buckboard toward peaks to the north. After driving roughly ten miles, he unhitched and ground-reined the two horses, made a small cold camp, and ate his supper of jerked beef, cold biscuits, and a small sip of whiskey to wash it down. He rolled one cigarette while he was lying on his back gazing at the stars, then he dropped off to sleep. He wanted to get an early start at dawn.
* * *
Smoke figured he was at seven thousand feet when he decided the buckboard had carried him far enough. He unharnessed his team and pulled the buckboard off the trail into the brush. He donned his buckskins, moccasins, and leggings, fixed his pack of supplies on one of the horses, and put his saddle on the other. Now he was ready for the final portion of his journey, to get to the up-high where the old cougars, his mountain man friends, camped and lived most of their lives.
* * *
As the sun peaked over the mountains and began to burn off the early-morning fog, Pearlie yawned, stretched, and scratched. Padding over to the stove in the center of the bunkhouse, he started a fire to get some coffee heating.
He stropped his razor and began to scrape at the stubble on his face, gasping as he splashed the near-freezing water over his cheeks. Holy Jesus, he thought, the summers are short in this high country.
While combing his unruly hair, he noticed in the mirror that Cal’s bed was empty. “Hmmm, ain’t like that boy to be first outta his bunk,” he mumbled. It was no secret among the hands that Cal liked to sleep almost as much as Pearlie liked to eat. He pulled on his boots and jeans and shirt and hurried out into the chilly fall air.
Cal was just putting his boot in his stirrup when Pearlie came out of the bunkhouse.
“Whoa there, Cal. Just back on outta that saddle and tell me what you figger you’re doin’.”
Cal blushed a dark crimson. “Well, uh, I’m goin’ for a ride.”
“I can see that, boy, I ain’t blind. Where are ya’ aimin’ on ridin’ to, and why are ya’ takin’ off a’fore breakfast?”
“I’m just going to go up into the hills around the ranch, to, uh, look around a bit.”
Pearlie walked to Cal’s horse, a small buckskin Palouse with bloodred spots on its rump. He ran his hand over the. 22 rifle in the saddle boot and over a bedroll and full saddlebags behind the cantle. “Uh-huh. And I’m gonna go on a diet, too!” Pearlie shook his head. “What’s goin’ on, young’un?” He put his finger in front of Cal’s face and wiggled it. “And don’t you try and feed your uncle Pearlie any bull-splat, neither.”
Cal’s face got a determined look on it and he hitched his pants up and pulled his hat down. “I’m plannin’ on ridin’ up in the mountains and helpin’ Smoke out when those bandidos come up after him.”
“You figger that peashooter,” Pearlie said, pointing to Cal’s .22 rifle, “and that little .36 caliber Navy Colt you’re sportin’ is gonna help the big man?”
Smoke’s first pistol had been a Navy Model Colt .36 caliber, and when Cal came to work for him, Smoke unpacked his old gun and gave it to Cal, figuring a smaller caliber would be easier on the young boy’s arm.
Smoke had been right, for Cal became a dead shot with the handgun, though Pearlie and some of the other hands teased him that it was so small it would only irritate and anger whoever he shot. Cal had replied that any gun good enough for Smoke was good enough for him—and besides, the folks Smoke had shot with it surely died as dead as those he shot with his .44’s.
Cal’s blush deepened and spread to include his ears. “You’re damn right, Pearlie. Maybe I don’t carry the biggest artillery in the territory, but I can damn sure hit what I aim at, and that’s what counts in a gunfight.”
Pearlie grinned, raising his eyebrows. “Oh, and how do you know what counts in a gunfight?”
Cal raised his chin and assumed a haughty look. “’Cause that’s what Smoke tole me counts.”
“Well, it don’t matter none no-how, ’cause I can’t let you go. Smoke said we was to hang here at the ranch and make sure the beeves and horses are all right.”
“Well, it does matter, and I’m damn sure goin’.”
Pearlie glared at the boy. “No you’re not, not as long as you work for this spread, and not as long as I’m ramrod.”
“Then I quit, ’cause I don’t intend for Smoke to fight a gang of hardcases all by hisself.”
Pearlie rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth until his jaws ached. What was he going to do, he thought. Smoke would flay him alive if he let Cal go up into those mountains alone, especially with a madman like Sundance Morgan on the prowl. “Okay, okay, just wait a minute and let me think.”
He went into the bunkhouse and poured himself a cup of coffee to get his juices going, and built himself a cigarette. He sat on the small bunkhouse porch and smoked and drank his coffee while trying to figure out what Smoke would want him to do, short of hog-tying the kid to keep him out of trouble.
Finally, he thought of a way to handle the situation that just might let him keep his job and his hide. “Okay, Cal. Here’s the deal. I’m gonna get you a rifle that’ll do more than just piss those polecats off, then we’re gonna get supplied up plenty good, an’ we’re both gonna go up in the high country and look for Smoke.” He held up his palm to halt Cal’s ear-to-ear grin. “Hold on there. Unless I miss my guess, when we find Smoke, he’s gonna kick your butt all over them mountains and send us right back down here, but I’m gonna give you a chance to talk him into lettin’ us lend him a hand.”
“Great, then let’s shag the trail. We’re burnin’ daylight.”
“Whoa there, bronco. First, I gotta eat, then I gotta get my horse saddled and get Cookie to fix us up with some vittles for the trail, then we gotta get you a man’s gun for that saddle boot.”
He rubbed his chin in thought. “I figure we got an old Winchester ’73 around here. It shoots .44’s so you’ll have to carry double ammunition since you cain’t use those. 36’s your little peashooter needs.”
“That’s okay. You go get Cookie to get your breakfast, an’ I’ll pack your horse and get the rifle and extra ammunition outta the tack room, and we’ll be ready to get gone as soon as you finish stuffin’ your face.”
Pearlie shook his head and mumbled something about angels rushing in as he walked over toward the main cabin to get Cookie started on breakfast and their provisions.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sundance lay on his belly in the moonlight on a small bluff overlooking a Mexican hacienda. He and his lieutenants. Toothpick, El Gato, and Lightning Jack, had decided to strike one of the rich Mexican r
anches near the border for their first target. Sundance explained this was important for two reasons. First, the American authorities were notoriously lax in prosecuting crimes that occurred in Mexico. And, second, he wanted to test his gang in an area where there was likely to be only token resistance.
El Gato told Sundance that he knew of just such a place. A distant cousin of his, Enrique Hernandez, owned a fine spread a few miles from Laredo. Since the outbreak of fever in the cattle of the region, Hernandez had let most of his vaqueros go in order to conserve his cash until such time as healthy beeves could be bought to replenish his herd.
Sundance asked, “Why would you want us to hit one of your relatives, El Gato?”
El Gato’s eyes burned with hatred. “The filthy bastardo.” He spit on the ground at Sundance’s feet. “He turned his back when El Gato asked for help. Federales wanted to hang El Gato, so I asked Señor Hernandez to hide me. He refused. Called me, how you say in English, garbage!”
“Is he wealthy?”
“That cabrón has more money than El Presidente de Mexico.” El Gato frowned. “And he does not even give moneys to church.”
Toothpick grinned around a cigarillo dangling from his mouth. “And you, my friend. Do you give to the church?”
El Gato’s lips curled in an evil smirk. “Me? I am but a poor peon. God made church to help peons.” He shrugged. “When I come to El casa de Dios, is to take moneys from poor box. Is what is for.”
Sundance interrupted. “But what about Hernandez? I don’t want to rob his place and end up with a handful of paper pesos.”
“No, el Patrón does not deal in paper moneys. He keeps oro at his hacienda because that is what is required by Americano cattle buyers and sellers.”
Lightning Jack grunted. “Gold? Well, like I always said, it’s easier to liberate gold from a man’s poke than it is to dig it outta the ground. Let’s go for it.”
* * *
It was almost midnight as the moon reached its zenith over the northern Mexican desert. The sky was clear and the moonlight reflecting off the sand made the night as bright as day. Sundance lay on the parched caliche of the bluff, which was still warm from the scorching daylight sun even though the air was chilly. He was peering through his binoculars at Hernandez’s ranch below. “I don’t see no lights nor any activity. He doesn’t ’pear to have any guards out.”
El Gato snarled. “The old man thinks he safe because is far from town.”
Sundance got to his feet, brushing dirt off his pants and elbows. “Okay, this is it, then. El Gato, take your men to the bunkhouse and have them ready to bust in on my signal. Lightning Jack and the rest of the men will surround the house in case any of the family wants to make a stand there.”
“What are you gonna be doin’, boss?” asked Lightning Jack.
Sundance’s teeth glowed in the moonlight. “Me? Why, Toothpick and me’re goin’ into the house and see if Señor Hernandez won’t agree to make a donation to the Sundance Morgan gang.”
“And if’n he don’t?”
Toothpick pulled his knife from its scabbard and licked the blade, causing it to shine and reflect the moon. “Then me and Baby here will have a talk with him.”
After his men were positioned, Sundance and Toothpick walked their horses up to the front of the hacienda and dismounted, Sundance draping a coil of rope over his shoulders. They tried the door, but it wouldn’t open. Toothpick inserted his blade into the doorjamb and gently lifted, raising a wooden bar blocking their way.
Easing into the house, they began to search it room by room, aided by the moonlight streaming through windows. They found three young males, looking like they ranged in age from twelve to eighteen, and two females of about thirteen and sixteen sleeping soundly in their beds. Taking several pistols from the bedrooms, they continued their search until they came to the master bedroom.
Hernandez and his wife were asleep, covered only by a light sheet, curtains billowing in the gentle night breeze. Hernandez appeared to be in his early fifties, while his wife looked to be no more than forty. Toothpick used the point of his knife to gently pull the sheet down, revealing a full-figured woman clad only in a sheer nightshirt. He licked his lips and grinned at Sundance, raising his eyebrows.
Sundance put the barrel of his Colt against Hernandez’s temple and thumbed back the hammer. The loud click brought the man instantly awake, his hand reaching under his pillow. Sundance drew back and rapped him sharply in the face with the gun, breaking his nose with a cracking noise and awakening his wife.
She opened her mouth, but gasped and swallowed her scream when Toothpick stuck the point of his blade against her throat, drawing a small drop of blood that rolled slowly down her neck. The crimson liquid appeared black against her pale skin in the moonlight.
Hernandez’s eyes rolled frantically, as Sundance removed a large-bore pistola from underneath his pillow, his shattered nose streaming blood all over his chest. “What do you gringos want?” he asked urgently in English.
“First of all, we’re not gringos, we’re outlaws, and we want your gold.”
He shook his head, wincing at the pain it caused. “I have no gold. You must be mistaken.”
“Oh?” Sundance asked politely. “Then, I guess we’ll just be on our way.”
Toothpick glanced across the bed at him, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Of course,” Sundance continued in the same quiet tone, “if there’s no gold for my compadres, they’re probably gonna be very angry.” He let the terrified rancher see his eyes shift to his wife. “I may have to let them amuse themselves some other way, just to keep them in line.”
“Bastardos! My vaqueros will cut you to pieces if you harm anyone in this house!”
“Oh yes, I almost forgot about your men.” Sundance, keeping his pistol trained at Hernandez, walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. He whistled shrilly, his signal to Lightning Jack and his men.
From the direction of the bunkhouse came the sound of a door splintering, followed immediately by twin booming explosions of Lightning Jack’s big scattergun and the staccato popping of pistols in the night. There were several screams and shouts at first, then only moaning and crying and pleas for mercy could be heard. After a few isolated shots, even the moaning stopped, replaced by an ominous silence.
The bedroom door burst open and the Hernandez children rushed into the room, brought to a halt by the sight of their parents lying on the bed under the gun and knife of the intruders.
Sundance pulled Hernandez out of bed by his hair, and ushered the entire family into a large room in the center of the hacienda. He tied Hernandez and his three sons with the rope he brought with him, and sat them on the floor in front of a huge fireplace dominating one wall. His wife and daughters were left huddled in a group in the middle of the room, crying and weeping and clinging together in fear.
El Gato and Lightning Jack sauntered in, Jack reloading his shotgun as he walked. “The men’re all taken care of, boss. How’re ya’ll doin’ in here?”
“We got a small problem here, Lightning. Señor Hernandez says he don’t have no gold.”
El Gato’s eyes narrowed and he walked rapidly over to stand before the bleeding man. “No gold?” he asked, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Hernandez glared hate at Gato. “Bastardo!” he whispered under his breath.
El Gato kicked him in the stomach, causing him to double over and vomit on the tile floor. His wife and daughters screamed and began to wail even louder. His sons’ faces contorted with hate and anger at the big Mexican standing over their father.
“Viejo! Donde esta el oro?” El Gato snarled.
“Chingale, animale!” Hernandez gasped from his position lying on his side in his vomit.
“Toothpick!” Sundance inclined his head at Hernandez’s wife and daughters. Toothpick grinned and drew his blade. He walked to the woman and girls and one by one, slit their nightshirts. Their clothing fell to the floor, leaving them
naked and cowering under the lustful gazes of the desperados.
Toothpick holstered his knife, put his left arm around Mrs. Hernandez’s shoulders, and fondled her breasts with his right hand, whispering filth in her ear about what he was going to do to her.
Tears filled Hernandez’s eyes and he hung his head, defeated. “Sí, you win. If I tell you where the gold is, will you let my family live?”
Sundance squatted in front of the man. “No, I gotta be honest with you, Señor Hernandez. But I will give them a quick and painless death.” He shrugged and cocked his head, as if bestowing a favor to a friend. “That’s about all you can hope for at this point after lying to us about the gold and all.”
Mrs. Hernandez, in a strangled voice, whispered, “The gold is in a chest in the bedroom, under some blankets.”
Señor Hernandez sobbed and closed his eyes and began to pray softly.
“El Gato, check it out,” Sundance ordered, without moving from his position in front of Hernandez.
After a moment, El Gato returned, dragging behind him a chest that was heavy enough to leave gouge marks in the tile floor.
“Señor Sundance, I think we very, very rich now!”
Sundance smiled a kind smile, then drew his pistol and put the barrel against Hernandez’s forehead. “You through with all that preacher-talk, old man?”
Hernandez opened his eyes and looked up at Sundance, then he grinned defiantly and spit in his face. Enraged, Sundance cocked and fired, the sound magnified by the room’s walls, blowing parts of Hernandez’s head into the fireplace, splattering blood and bits of hair and brains all over the wall.
As his sons’ eyes spread wide in terror, El Gato pulled both his Colts and emptied them into the boys, the banging of his guns filling the house, making them jump and contort as the hot lead tore through their flesh. The bodies quivered and spasmed for a moment, then became still as death claimed them one at a time.
Sundance sighed and punched out his empty shell, reloading the cylinder as he walked toward the women. “I said we share the money equally, but not necessarily the ... spoils.” He grasped the thirteen-year-old daughter by the back of her neck and pushed her ahead of him toward one of the bedrooms. He called over his shoulder, “You and the rest of the men can take turns with the other two, but I plan to be with this one until dawn. If I finish early, I’ll let you know.”
Vengeance of the Mountain Man Page 8
