Rodrigo reappeared with a large, heavy woman in tow. She was easily twice his size, towering over him, but had the same wide smile on her face. They seemed to be a very happy couple.
“Señor, this is my Carmelita,” Rodrigo said.
“Señor,” she said. “I am happy to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine, señora,” Clint said. “Your food has brought joy to my heart—and to my stomach.”
The couple laughed and she thanked him profusely. Carmelita’s skin was like smooth, light chocolate, and despite her size, she was pleasant looking, almost pretty—especially when she smiled.
“I should get going—” he started, but Rodrigo took hold of his right wrist.
“No,” he said, “stay for café. You will like Carmelita’s coffee.” He leaned closer and said, “Do not leave until they do.”
“All right,” Clint said. “I’ll have some coffee.”
“Excellent.”
“I will get it!” Carmelita said, and hurried back to the kitchen as quickly as her bulk would allow her.
FOUR
Carmelita brought the coffee out and sat with Clint while he drank it. It was excellent. Rodrigo went to the bar to see if the three men wanted another beer, but they didn’t. They paid for what they’d drunk, and left. Juanito threw one last hard look Clint’s way.
Rodrigo came back to the table and sat down. He said something to Carmelita, and she rose and went back to the kitchen.
“So?” Clint asked.
“That was Señor Montoya and his two sons, Juanito and Pablo,” Rodrigo said.
“And?”
“They are bad men.”
“Señor Montoya seemed to be very . . . sensible.”
“That is because he knew who you were.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Me?” Rodrigo looked surprised. “I did not know ’til I heard him tell his sons.” He leaned forward. “Are you really the Gunsmith?”
“I am.”
“So,” Rodrigo said, “Señor Montoya saved Juanito’s life.”
“Possibly,” Clint said, “or maybe he saved mine.”
“Or mine,” Rodrigo said.
“So,” Clint said, “will they be waiting outside for me?”
“Juanito will want to,” Rodrigo said. “He will want to face you alone, and know that he killed the Gunsmith.”
“Why don’t you do me a favor and go take a look?” Clint said.
“Sí, señor.” Rodrigo headed for the door.
“No,” Clint said, “don’t go to the door. Look out a window.”
“Oh, sí, señor.”
Rodrigo changed directions and headed for a window. He peered out, taking care not to be seen from outside.
“They are not there, señor.”
“What do you think that means?”
Rodrigo turned from the window to look at him.
“Señor Montoya probably would not allow Juanito to wait for you.”
“He’s a smart man,” Clint said. “What would he do?”
“He would probably wait until he had more men before he came after you.”
“And why would he come after me?” Clint asked. “We never met until today.”
“Well . . . you are the Gunsmith, señor,” Rodrigo said. “Is that not enough reason for most men?”
Clint sighed.
“Unfortunately, it is—most of the time.”
Clint stood up.
“You are going out there, señor?”
“I am.”
“But what if they are out there waiting?”
“You just told me you didn’t see them.”
Rodrigo shrugged.
“What if I simply cannot see them from the window?”
It was Clint’s turn to shrug.
“I’ll just have to take my chances.”
“You can use the back door, señor,” Carmelita said from the kitchen doorway.
“My horse is out front.”
“Rodrigo, he can bring your horse to the back.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Clint said, “but I’ll just go on out the front. How’s the hotel?”
“Full of fleas,” she said.
He frowned.
“I might have to take my chances with that, too.”
“Rodrigo . . .” she said, looking at her husband.
“We have rooms in the back, señor,” he said. “They are not much, but my Carmelita, she keeps them clean.”
“How much?”
“Fifty American cents a day.”
“Make it a dollar and you have a deal.”
Rodrigo smiled and said, “Done, señor!”
“I’ll have to see to my horse.”
“I can take your horse to the livery stable, señor,” Rodrigo said. “It is owned by my cousin.”
“I appreciate the offer, Rodrigo,” Clint said, “but I have to go out the front door sometime. It might as well be now.”
“Rodrigo—”
Rodrigo spoke quickly to his wife, and she went back into the kitchen.
“What did you tell her?” Clint asked.
“To mind her own business,” Rodrigo said.
“Well, I’ll go out and get my saddlebags from my horse, and put them in my room. Then I’ll take Eclipse—my horse—to your cousin’s livery. You wait here.”
“Sí, señor.”
Clint went to the door, lifted his gun an inch or so to make sure it would slide freely from his holster if he needed it, then dropped it back in and stepped outside.
He stopped just outside the door. Eclipse stared at him, standing right where Clint had left him, with his reins on the ground. He glanced around and saw no sign of Señor Montoya and his two sons. He went to Eclipse and removed his saddlebags, took them back inside.
“Here you go,” Clint said, handing them to Rodrigo.
“I will take them to your room, señor.”
“Which way to your cousin’s livery?”
“Go out and to the left, señor. At the end of the street, turn left. It is around the corner.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “I’ll be right back.”
He went out and followed Rodrigo’s directions. He came to a run-down stable, the front doors wide open. Hesitating, he looked around, making sure there were no Montoyas around. Then and only then did he walk to the livery doors. As he stepped inside, he heard a movement to his right.
“I knew you would have to come here, señor,” Juanito said.
“Does your daddy know you’re here?”
“No,” Juanito said, “he thinks I am at the trading post. I am here alone, señor. For you.”
“I just rode into town today,” Clint said. “I’m not looking for any trouble.”
“You should not have made fun of my name, Señor Adams.”
“You’re probably right, but I guess it’s too late to do anything about that now.”
“You must pay the price, señor.”
“Juanito,” Clint said, “this is not a good idea.”
“I am a young man, señor,” Juanito said, “and very good with a pistol. You are old.”
“Well,” Clint said, “older than you anyway.”
FIVE
“Don’t push this, Juanito,” Clint said. “It won’t end well for you.”
“You are the one it will not end well for, Señor Gunsmith,” Juanito said. “You should not have come to Acuña.”
“Do you own this town?” Clint asked.
“My father does.”
“Really? He owns the town of Acuña?”
“Everything around it.”
“But not the actual town.”
Juanito smirked.
“He might as well own i
t,” he said. “The town depends on our money.”
“Your money?” Clint asked. “Or your father’s?”
“My father’s money is also my money.”
“I wonder if he thinks the same way.”
“It does not matter,” Juanito said. “What happens here is only between you and me, señor.”
“No,” Clint said, “after you force me to kill you, your father and your brother—and probably other family members—will come after me. I will have to kill them, and that will be your fault.”
“You will not kill anyone, señor, because you will not leave this stable alive. And if you do, yes, my family will kill you.”
“How many men in your family?”
“My father, my brother, my uncle, and many cousins,” Juanito said.
“That figures,” Clint said, wishing he had never crossed into Mexico.
Suddenly, another man appeared from inside the stable. He was unarmed, carrying only a bucket.
“Juanito,” he said, then asked a question in Spanish. It sounded to Clint like the man was asking what was happening, or what Juanito was doing. The man had to be Rodrigo’s cousin, for he was only an inch or so taller than Rodrigo.
Juanito said something to the man, who then stared at Clint.
“Señor,” he asked, “what is wrong?”
“Juanito is about to do something stupid,” Clint said. “Your cousin, Rodrigo, sent me here with my horse, who is outside.”
“Why does Juanito want to kill you?”
“Because he’s a stupid young man.”
The man older than Juanito by some twenty years nodded and said, “Es verdad, señor. But if you kill him, you will have to deal with the entire Montoya family.”
“Well,” Clint said, “the alternative is for me to let him kill me, and I’m not going to do that. If you know this young man, you’d be smart to talk him out of this.”
“He is very headstrong, señor.”
“That’s obvious.”
“Basta!” Juanito snapped. “Enough. Julio, go away. Do not watch this.”
“Julio?” Clint said.
“Sí?”
“Is there a lawman in this town?”
“Sí, señor. Sheriff Calderon.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I hope when the time comes, you will tell the sheriff I tried not to kill Juanito.”
“Sí, señor.”
“Then maybe you should go and see the sheriff, and bring him here.”
“Sí, señor,” the man said. “I will.”
“Go!” Juanito said.
Julio dropped the empty bucket and ran from the livery.
“Enough,” Juanito said. “Now you will pay for mocking Juan Hidalgo Montoya de Ramirez, señor.”
“Oh, boy,” Clint said. “Why do you folks always have such long names?”
* * *
Julio ran to the sheriff’s office, where he found Sheriff Teodoro Calderon sitting behind his desk, eating greasy chicken with his hands. The portly man had a red-and-white-checked napkin tied around his neck, and was licking grease from his fingers as he looked up at the livery man.
“Julio,” he said. “Que pasa?”
“You should come quickly to my livery, Jefe,” Julio said.
“Why?”
“A gringo is about to kill Juanito Montoya,” Julio said anxiously.
“Why?”
“I do not know, señor. Perhaps because Juanito is being Juanito,” Julio said.
Sheriff Calderon looked down mournfully at the remains of his chicken, then sighed heavily, and removed the napkin from his neck.
“A stupid young boy,” he said.
“Sí, señor.”
The lawman stood, grabbed his hat and gun belt, and said, “Andale!”
SIX
As Sheriff Calderon and Julio approached the livery stable, they heard a shot.
“Conyo!” the sheriff swore.
He and Julio ran into the livery, saw Clint Adams standing over Juanito, who was on the ground, his gun still in his holster.
“Señor!” Sheriff Calderon yelled, pointing his gun at Clint. “I must ask you for your gun.”
Clint looked at the lawman, considering not giving up his gun, but the man looked as if it would only take a small shove to push him over the edge. He did not want to be killed by a nervous lawman.
“I tried not to kill him,” Clint said, surrendering his weapon reluctantly. “That should be in my favor.”
Calderon looked down at Juanito Montoya, who was rocking back and forth, clutching his bleeding shoulder and not only grimacing in pain, but crying.
“I can see that, señor,” he said. To Julio, he said, “Go and get the doctor.”
“Sí, Jefe.”
Calderon leaned over Juanito and said something in Spanish. Clint thought he caught the word “stupido!”
The lawman straightened and handed Clint back his pistol.
“What’s going on?” Clint asked.
“I will still ask you to accompany me to my office, señor,” the sheriff said, “but to take your weapon would leave you too defenseless against the Montoyas.”
“Are they still in town?”
“That I do not know,” the lawman said, “but once they hear that Juanito has been shot, they will be.” The sheriff holstered his gun. “I am Sheriff Teodoro Calderon, señor.”
“Clint Adams.”
“Ah,” Calderon said, “the Gunsmith. That explains Juanito’s stupidity.”
“I tried to warn him.”
“I am sure you did,” Calderon said. “Once the doctor is here, and takes Juanito to his office, we will go to my office and I will take a statement. It will not take long. Where are you staying?”
“At Carmelita’s.”
“Ah, the back rooms. Well, we will have you there soon enough.”
Clint replaced the spent shell in his gun and holstered it.
* * *
Once Juanito was carried from the stable by four men, Clint and the sheriff walked to the man’s office. Clint told him the whole story, right from the point where the Montoyas entered Carmelita’s while he was eating.
“Carmelita’s food is the best in town,” Sheriff Calderon said.
“So I understand,” Clint said. “Do you need anything else from me?”
“No, I think I have enough. I am sure the Montoyas will be here soon.”
“What will they do?”
“They will demand that I arrest you.”
“And will you?”
“The Montoyas do not tell me how to do my job.”
“Juanito told me his father owns the town.”
“Everything around the town,” the sheriff said, “sí, but not the town—and not me.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Perhaps I will see you at Carmelita’s later,” Calderon said.
“Perhaps,” Clint said.
He left the sheriff’s office and walked to Carmelita’s Cantina.
* * *
“Oh, señor,” Rodrigo said with relief when he walked in. He put his hand to his heart. “You are all right. We heard the shot and were so worried.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“And Juanito?”
“Oh, he’s still alive,” Clint assured him. “He’s at the doctor’s.”
“Then you shot him,” Rodrigo said. “But you did not kill him?”
“No,” Clint said, “that’s why he’s at the doctor’s. I did not have to kill him. I managed to just shoot him in the shoulder.”
Rodrigo looked very concerned nevertheless.
“Señor Montoya, he will still not be happy.”
“Maybe he will be,” Clint offered, but with little hope. “Maybe he’ll be gratef
ul I didn’t kill his son. He seemed a sensible man.”
“Sí, señor,” Rodrigo said, “he seemed that way . . . but he is not.”
“Well,” Clint said, “if anyone is looking for me—Montoya, the sheriff—I’ll be in my room.”
“I will show you where it is,” Rodrigo said. “Come, come . . .”
SEVEN
In the small, clean room, Clint removed his boots and reclined on the bed. In town less than a day and already he had to shoot somebody. Maybe he should not have left the United States. He could have just stayed there and faced the trouble that was already brewing.
But there was no point in thinking that now. It was too late. He was going to have to deal with what had happened. And that meant dealing with the Montoyas.
Unless the elder Montoya—had he heard his first name yet?—actually was a sensible man. He could have let Juanito go ahead and try Clint right there in Carmelita’s, backed by himself and his brother. Instead, the boy had snuck away to do it himself. Maybe the father would take some responsibility for that.
Oddly enough, he suddenly found himself hungry. Or was he just yearning for more of Carmelita’s food? And a beer?
He pulled his boots on and went out into the hall.
* * *
Rodrigo set a mug of beer in front of him while Carmelita made a few tacos. There were also a few other people in the place, eating.
Carmelita brought out a plate of tacos and set it on the bar. Clint was eating his second when the sheriff walked in.
Rodrigo put a beer on the bar for the sheriff, who picked it up quickly.
“Gracias,” he said. He looked at Clint’s platter of tacos. There were four left.
“Do you want one?” Clint asked.
“Very much.”
“Go ahead,” Clint said, pushing the whole platter toward him. “I only wanted two. I’ve eaten already.”
“Gracias.”
Calderon took a taco and bit into it gratefully.
“Did you talk to the Montoyas?”
Calderon swallowed and said, “I did.”
“And?”
“The old man was . . . cold. I have never seen him that way before.”
The Three Mercenaries Page 2
