The Three Mercenaries

by J. R. Roberts

  “As many as I can take with me.” He put down his coffee cup and stepped closer to the man. “Starting with you.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Montoya stepped back and raised his hands.

  “But not now, señor,” he said, “for as you see, I came in here unarmed.”

  “So you did,” Clint said, also stepping back. He picked up a burrito with his left hand.

  “Please, gentlemen,” Rodrigo said, “there will be no gunplay in my establishment.”

  “No, Rodrigo,” Clint said, “there won’t be. Señor Montoya was very smart to come in unarmed.”

  “You will find, señor,” Montoya said, “that I am always very smart in my approach to . . . everything.” He put down his coffee cup, wiped his hands on his shirt. “Enjoy the rest of your breakfast.”

  He turned and went out, followed closely by his brother who, Clint noticed, had never quite been able to look him in the eye.

  * * *

  Outside, Francisco grabbed his brother’s arm when they reached their horses. Montoya turned to look at him, saw how pale he was.

  “I thought he was going to kill us.”

  “No, no,” Montoya said, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder, “that is why I had us go in unarmed, so there would be no danger of that.”

  “But . . . how did you know he would not?”

  “He did not kill Juanito when he had the chance,” Montoya explained.

  “No, he did not.”

  “He does not want to kill.”

  “But . . . he is the Gunsmith.”

  “You cannot always believe a man’s reputation, Francisco,” Montoya said, retrieving his gun from his horse and sticking it into his belt.

  “Should we wait for him here, then?” Francisco said, retrieving his own weapon.

  “No,” Montoya said. “I meant what I said, Cisco. We will come for him with the whole family.”

  “But . . . he will kill someone.”

  Montoya placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder once again and said, “Perhaps he will only kill a second cousin or two, eh?”

  TWELVE

  After the Montoya brothers left the cantina, Rodrigo heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Señor,” he said to Clint, “I was very frightened.”

  “I won’t allow gunplay in your place, my friend,” Clint assured him.

  “Gracias, señor.”

  Clint looked around, saw the other diners staring at him.

  “Tell your customers they can go back to eating,” he said. “The excitement is over.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  Rodrigo came around from behind the bar and went to each table to relay that information.

  Clint poured himself some more coffee, and contemplated the situation as he looked at the unfinished burritos before him. He understood Montoya perfectly. There was no way the man could simply allow him to leave town. He would lose face. That was very important to a prideful Mexican like Inocencio Montoya. Besides, he had the boy’s mother to answer to.

  It looked like he had two choices—stay and fight, or leave. He had gone against his better judgment already when he left Texas ahead of the possibility of trouble. This time, however, the trouble was obvious, and to leave town would mean being perceived as having run from it.

  On the other hand, how smart was it to stand and fight when you were outnumbered by . . .

  “Rodrigo?” he asked as the man came back behind the small bar.

  “Sí, señor?”

  “How many men are in the Montoya family?”

  “Oh . . . many, señor. There are many cousins . . .”

  “How many sons does Montoya have?”

  “Just the two you have already seen.”

  “And how many brothers does he have?”

  “One,” Rodrigo said, “just Francisco.”

  “And many sons does he have?”

  “Two.”

  “And how many cousins?”

  “Well,” Rodrigo said, “there are second cousins, and third cousins . . .”

  “Do you know how many?”

  “Sadly, I do not.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  So he knew of five Montoyas who might be coming for him. He needed to know more, however, and there was only one man he could think of to ask.

  He went to his room to fetch his hat . . .

  * * *

  Clint found the sheriff’s office in a small adobe building with a thick, heavy oak door. He knocked and entered.

  The inside was cramped, and he found himself only about three feet from Sheriff Calderon, seated at his desk.

  “Ah, buenos dias, señor!” the man said.

  “Not a very big office, is it?” Clint asked.

  “I have one cell in the back,” Calderon said, “but I rarely need it.”

  “Deputies?”

  Calderon threw his arms out to his sides and said, “Alas, just me.”

  Clint looked around, saw a small wooden chair against the wall.

  “May I sit?”

  “Please.”

  He pulled the chair over and sat.

  “I cannot offer you any coffee,” the man said. “There is no room in here for a coffeepot.”

  “And no stove, I notice. How do you stay warm when it’s cold?”

  “Many blankets, but I do not complain,” the portly Calderon said. “So what can I do for you on this beautiful day, eh, señor?”

  “Señor Montoya came to Carmelita’s this morning and announced, in front of witnesses, his intention to kill me,” Clint explained.

  Calderon frowned.

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Actually,” Clint said, “he announced that it was his family’s intention to kill me.”

  “They are a very close family, señor,” Calderon said. “They will obey the patriarch.”

  “Well, my question for you is,” Clint said, “how many of them will I have to face? He came in with his brother, so I assume with them and their sons—and with Juanito out of commission—there would be five.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “But I understand there are cousins?”

  “Many cousins.”

  “But Montoya has only one brother.”

  “Si, señor,” Calderon said, “but he also has six sisters, and they all have children.”

  “All boys?”

  “Oh, no, señor,” Calderon said, “there are some girls.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “But not many.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did Señor Montoya say when this event would take place?” Calderon asked.

  “He did not.”

  “Señor,” Calderon said, “I would suggest that you leave town.”

  “First of all,” Clint said, “would that end it? Would he let me go?”

  “No,” Calderon said, “he would come after you.”

  “Into Texas?”

  “Oh, sí, anywhere.”

  “Then what’s the point of leaving?”

  “Señor, in Texas perhaps you can find someone to help you,” Calderon said. “I assume you have many friends who live by their gun?”

  “I do,” Clint said, “but they all have their own problems. If I stay, how many members of the Montoya family do you think I will have to face?”

  “Oh . . .” Calderon did some sums in his head before answering. “Señor, I would say . . . at least twenty easily.”

  “I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

  THIRTEEN

  “So what will you do, señor?”

  “I think,” Clint said thoughtfully, “perhaps I’ll start drinking early today.”

  Teodoro Calderon exploded
out of his seat and exclaimed excitedly, “An excellent idea, señor. And I think I will join you.”

  “But not at Carmelita’s,” Clint said.

  “I know just the place.” The lawman grabbed his hat, took his pistol from his desk, and tucked it in his belt. “I will show you.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Calderon led Clint down the street to a small cantina that did not serve food, only beer and whiskey.

  “Is this what you had in mind, señor?” Calderon asked.

  “This is exactly what I had in mind.”

  They went to the bar, where a bored-looking bartender in his fifties was serving several Mexicans. He finished and looked over at them.

  “Ah, Jefe,” he said. “A little early, is it not?”

  “My amigo needs a drink, Jorge,” Calderon said, “and I cannot allow him to drink alone.”

  “Then what will you and your amigo have?”

  “Cerveza,” Clint said, “and a shot of whiskey.”

  “The same, Jorge,” Calderon said.

  “Excellent choice.”

  There were several other men in the place, all Mexican, all drinking early. They looked over at Clint and the sheriff, but did not seem particularly interested in them.

  The bartender set up their beer and whiskey, and went to the other end of the bar. Clint picked up the shot of whiskey and tossed it down. The sheriff followed.

  “Another?” Calderon asked.

  “One’s enough.” Clint picked up his beer and took a swallow. “Tell me something.”

  “If I can,” Calderon said.

  “What will you do after they kill me?”

  “I will have to investigate the matter to see if there was any wrongdoing.”

  Clint looked at the lawman.

  “Twenty men kill one and you won’t know if there is any wrongdoing until you investigate?”

  “It is my job,” Calderon said. “I cannot jump to any conclusions.”

  “What if I kill Señor Montoya, and his brother, and his sons, and the cousins decide to leave me alone? What then?”

  “Again,” the sheriff said, “I will have to look into the matter.”

  “I’m pretty sure it will be a matter of self-defense.”

  “Ah, but once again,” Calderon said, “I cannot leap to any conclusions.”

  “What about backing me?” Clint asked. “Backing my play?”

  “I am afraid I would not be able to take sides.”

  If Sheriff Calderon was not in Montoya’s pocket, he was doing a pretty good impression of it.

  “What about others?”

  “What others?”

  “Other men in town who might back my play?” Clint said.

  “Would you pay them?”

  “I would.”

  The sheriff thought a moment.

  “You speak of mercenaries.”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “I doubt there are men in town who would go against Montoya,” Calderon said, “but there may be some—other gringos—who might, for the right price.”

  “Where would I find them?”

  “I think I can tell you.”

  FOURTEEN

  Sheriff Calderon gave Clint three names, all gringos, men who sold their guns separately, but may have worked together a time or two.

  “Two live on this side of the border, one just over the border in Texas,” the lawman said, “but they all ply their trade here.”

  “Will they go against the Montoyas?”

  “For the right price.”

  “Have they ever worked for Montoya?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “All right.” Clint finished his beer and set the empty mug down. “I guess I better have a talk with them. Is there a telegraph office in town?”

  “No, señor.”

  “One near here?”

  “In Texas,” the man said, “many miles from here.”

  Clint was thinking of sending word for help to some of his friends, but if it was too far to go to send telegrams, that didn’t seem to be an option.

  So for now, the option seemed to be mercenaries.

  “Thanks for your help, Sheriff,” Clint said.

  “I hope you find more help than I have been able to give you, señor.”

  Clint left Calderon in the cantina, ordering another beer.

  * * *

  The first man’s name was Willie Piper. He lived in an abandoned house on the outskirts of Acuña. According to Calderon, he was an ex-Army man who was proficient with many weapons. He was a deserter who had come to Mexico to escape prosecution.

  Clint probably could have walked to the house, but he decided to ride Eclipse, just in case the Montoyas made a try for him.

  He got within a hundred feet of the run-down adobe house when there was a shot, and a bullet kicked up some dirt in front of him. Eclipse shied only slightly.

  “Stop right there!” a voice called.

  “I’m looking for Willie Piper!”

  “What for?”

  “I want to hire him.”

  “For how much?”

  “A lot of money.”

  There was silence, then the voice said, “Come ahead.”

  Clint rode up to the house and stopped.

  “Step down.”

  He did.

  “Drop your gun,” the voice said from inside.

  “Can’t do that.”

  “I’ve got a gun on you.”

  “I figured.”

  “So drop yours.”

  “Can’t.”

  Dead silence, then the voice asked curiously, “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  The door to the house opened and a man stepped out. He was wearing an old Army uniform with the insignia removed. He was tall, rangy, hard-looking, white-haired, in his fifties. His face bore the scars of years as a soldier. He was holding a shotgun.

  “Clint Adams,” he said. “Really?”

  “That’s right.”

  He squinted against the sunlight.

  “You down here on a bounty?”

  “I’m not a bounty hunter.”

  “Somebody send you after me?”

  “Nope,” Clint said. “You think you’re still wanted in the States?”

  Piper shrugged. “There’s no limit on desertion.”

  “Why’d you desert?”

  “I got tired of it,” Piper said.

  “The fighting?”

  “The orders.” The man grinned. “I like fighting.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  The man squinted at him, lowered the shotgun slightly.

  “You really lookin’ to hire me?”

  “I am.”

  “For a lot of money?”

  “That’s right.”

  Piper lowered the shotgun the rest of the way, held it down by his leg.

  “Come on in.”

  “Don’t you want to know what the job is first?”

  “You said the magic word.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Money.” Piper stepped aside. “Come on in and tell me the rest.”

  FIFTEEEN

  Piper had the bare essentials in the house. A cot, a table, two chairs, a working stove. And weapons. Hanging on pegs on the wall were a variety of rifles and shotguns.

  “Drink?”

  “Why not?”

  “Have a seat.”

  Clint pulled a chair out and sat at the table. Piper put the shotgun down, but Clint saw that he had a gun tucked into his belt. The man grabbed two tin cups and a bottle of whiskey from the stove counter
and carried them to the table. He poured two drinks, and sat opposite Clint.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “You know the Montoyas?”

  “Inocencio Montoya?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I know him.”

  “Ever work for him?”

  “No. You havin’ trouble with the Montoyas?”

  “I am,” Clint said. “I shot his son Juanito.”

  “Oh, boy,” Piper said. “Kill ’im?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I shot him in the shoulder.”

  Piper frowned.

  “Is that what you meant to do?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “I didn’t want to kill him.”

  “And I guess Señor Montoya isn’t showing you the proper gratitude?”

  “He actually came to me and told me he appreciated it,” Clint said, “but he also told me he had to kill me to save face.”

  “Don’t you think you can handle the old fella?” Piper asked.

  “The old fella has some help,” Clint said. “His whole family.”

  “Wait,” Piper said. “His whole Mexican family?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Whew,” Piper said, “that means second and third cousins, probably even godsons.”

  “You can see my problem.”

  “Yeah,” Piper said, “but you seem to have a fast horse out there.”

  “Running is not an option. It wouldn’t look good for me.”

  “I can see that,” Piper said, “but what do you want me to do, stand with you against twenty or thirty angry Mexicans?”

  “I was thinking . . .”

  “You got enough money to make me even consider that?” Piper asked, pouring himself some more whiskey.

  “A thousand dollars?”

  Piper stopped with his cup halfway to his lips, then lowered it and peered across the table at Clint. He had at least a week’s worth of stubble on his chin.

  “You got a thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “On you?”

  “No.”

  “Where then? Your hotel?”

  “I’ll get it from a bank.”

  “There ain’t no bank in Acuña.”

  “I’ll go to the nearest bank and get the money,” Clint said.

  “Nearest bank’s fifty miles away,” Piper said. “You head for that bank, Montoya will think you’re running.”