The Three Mercenaries

by J. R. Roberts

  “Judging from the company you are keeping,” Montoya said, “you have hired some professional help.”

  “These men have been hired, yes,” Clint said, “to back me in the event you and your family come for me.”

  Montoya grinned.

  “I would have thought the infamous gringo Gunsmith would have no trouble facing twenty Mexicans.”

  “I am not so foolish as to believe my own reputation, Señor Montoya,” Clint said. “No man can stand alone against twenty.”

  “You are a wise man, then,” Montoya said.

  “Perhaps,” Clint said. “Maybe a wise man would have left town by now.”

  “Leaving town would not help you,” Montoya said. “I would track you.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Clint said. “Better to resolve this issue than try to walk away from it.”

  Montoya’s son, standing next to him, was fidgeting nervously. Clint was glad the young man wasn’t wearing a gun. He might have done something foolish.

  Montoya looked at Harker.

  “Señor Harker,” he said, “it has been a while.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “Do you think this is a wise move for you?”

  “I’m gettin’ paid to do a job,” Harker said. “I never claimed to be a wise man.”

  “I recognize these other two men,” Montoya said. “Señors Piper and Autry, no?”

  Neither man responded, so Clint said, “That’s right.”

  Montoya nodded and said, “I see. Well, you came here to inform me, and I am informed. Now, unless you plan to kill me now as I am unarmed, I have work to do.”

  “Change your mind, Montoya,” Clint said. “That’s my advice to you. No one in your family has died . . . yet.”

  “I will take your advice under consideration, señor,” Montoya said. “But I will give you some advice, as well.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Make peace with your God,” Montoya said, “whoever that may be. All of you.”

  Harker turned his horse so that Montoya could see the gun on his hip.

  “This is my only God,” he said, placing his hand on his gun, “and I am very much at peace with it.”

  “Very well, then,” Montoya said. “I will see you all . . . very soon.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Riding back to Acuña, Harker asked, “Did that accomplish what you wanted?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “he saw the four of us together, so yes, it did.”

  “He didn’t look particularly impressed,” Autry said.

  “Or scared,” Piper said.

  “Well,” Clint said, “according to Harker, who has worked for him before, even if Montoya was scared, it wouldn’t show.”

  “That’s right,” Harker said. “He could be pissin’ in his pants, but you wouldn’t see the wet.”

  “So let’s just assume he’s going to react,” Clint said, “probably by hiring some guns of his own.”

  “So then what do we do?” Autry asked. “Hire us some more? And then he hires some more? Where does that stop?”

  “Here,” Clint said, “it stops here. We’re it. I’m not hiring any more guns.”

  “Okay, then,” Harker said. “So where do we go from here?”

  “I have some ideas,” Clint said, “but let me think about it for a while.”

  “What’s ‘a while’?” Autry asked.

  “Overnight,” Clint said. “By tomorrow I should have an idea about what I want to do.”

  “Or what we should do?” Harker asked.

  “Right,” Clint said, “what we should do.”

  “Just so long as you don’t tell us we got to die,” Piper said, “because if that happens, I wanna go down fightin’.”

  “Believe me,” Clint said. “My plan is for all of us to come out of this alive.”

  * * *

  Francisco and Mejías found Roberto Del Plata in a cantina in a collection of buildings that was less a town than a mudhole in the road.

  “Ah,” Del Plata said as they entered, “Francisco Montoya. And the Montoya segundo.” He was sitting at a table with two women who were wearing peasant blouses, displaying wares that had seen better days.

  “Do you want a drink?” Del Plata asked.

  “A drink would be fine,” Francisco said. “Cerveza, por favor.”

  “Mejías?” Del Plata said.

  “Same.”

  “Enrique,” Del Plata snapped. “Dos cervezas por mis amigos.” He looked at them and said in English, “Sit.”

  Francisco and Mejías sat and the bartender brought over their beers.

  “Now to what do I owe this honor?” Del Plata asked.

  Roberto Del Plata was a handsome man in his late thirties. He’d been a bandito for many years, then turned his considerable talents to mercenary work. When he had enough money for tequila and women, he took time off. When the money was gone, he went back to work. He was satisfied with that life.

  “We are here at the behest of Don Inocencio,” Francisco said. “My brother.”

  “Your brother,” Del Plata said with a smirk. “Why do I have the feeling you hate your brother almost as much as I do?”

  “That is not true.”

  “Perhaps not,” Del Plata said. “Perhaps a little less, eh?”

  Francisco didn’t respond, but just sipped his beer.

  “Very well, then,” Del Plata said, “what does Don Inocencio want from me?”

  “He wants to give you a job.”

  “A job?” Del Plata said. “As a vaquero maybe?”

  “No,” Francisco said, “he wants to hire you to do what you do best.”

  “What is it Don Inocencio thinks I do best?”

  Francisco raised his mug in a toast and said, “Kill.”

  Del Plata sipped some tequila and seemed to consider that answer.

  “Bueno,” he said finally. “At least the man remembers what I am good at.”

  “He remembers,” Francisco said.

  “Then tell me, Francisco,” Del Plata said, “who does your brother want me to kill?”

  Francisco hesitated, then said, “The Gunsmith.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  When Clint and his mercenaries reached Acuña, they went directly to Carmelita’s. Rodrigo and his wife were cleaning up after the afternoon meal.

  “Señor,” Rodrigo said. “Good to see you.”

  “Why do I have the feeling, Rodrigo, my friend,” Clint asked, “that every time I go out that door, you think I’m going to get killed?”

  “I am just happy to see you safe. Sit, I will bring food.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Autry said.

  They sat. Rodrigo got them beers, and then went into the kitchen to tell his wife to start cooking again.

  “You found yourself a real good headquarters here, Clint,” Harker said.

  “Yeah,” Piper said, “it ain’t half bad.”

  When Rodrigo reappeared, he was carrying trays of food. He had with him a woman, also carrying food. They set the trays on the table, passed out plates to each man.

  “This is my wife’s little sister, Raquel.”

  Clint looked at Raquel. All she had in common with her sister was a pretty face and smooth skin. Raquel was probably a hundred pounds lighter, her shapely body on display in a simple skirt and peasant blouse.

  “Hola,” she said with a smile.

  “Hello,” Clint said.

  She and Rodrigo went back to the kitchen.

  “She likes you,” Autry said.

  “You can tell that from hello?” Piper asked.

  “I know women,” Autry said. He looked at Clint. “You’re gonna be busy tonight.”

  “We’ll see,” Clint said. “Right now I want to be busy
eating.”

  “I’m with you there,” Harker said, and they dug in.

  * * *

  They didn’t have to go far to find Del Plata’s men. They were in the same mudhole.

  Francisco and Mejías waited in the cantina while Del Plata went to the whorehouse to get his men.

  “I hope these men are good enough,” Francisco said to Mejías.

  “If they are working for Del Plata, then they are good enough,” the foreman said.

  “They better be,” Francisco said. “Don Inocencio will not be happy if they fail us.”

  “Don Inocencio is never happy these days.”

  “Silencio!”

  Mejías looked at Francisco. They had known each other a long time.

  “I am not telling you anything you do not already know,” Mejías said. “The patrón is an unhappy man.”

  “Well, he is not any happier these days,” Francisco said, “not with Juanito being shot.”

  “He will be happier when he has killed the Gunsmith,” Mejías said. “But I thought he wanted the family to do it.”

  “That was when the Gunsmith was standing alone,” Francisco said. “Now he has three gringo mercenaries with him.”

  “I thought I saw Harker with him,” Mejías said. “Who are the others?”

  “Piper and Autry.”

  “Good men.”

  “So it will take good men to defeat them,” Francisco said.

  “And not family.”

  Francisco nodded.

  Del Plata came in at that point, followed by four men. They were all dressed like banditos, and armed to the teeth. Almost everything a bandito wore was a weapon, or could be used as one.

  “These are your men?” Francisco asked.

  “Sí.”

  The men all smiled at Francisco, several of them revealing gaps where teeth used to be, others showing gold teeth.

  “Very well,” he said, standing. “We must ride to the ranchero.”

  “I believe my men would like some money first,” Del Plata said.

  “First we ride to the ranchero,” Francisco said. “I’m sure Don Inocencio will be willing to pay some money to your men.”

  Del Plata looked at his men, then at Francisco.

  “All right,” he said. “We ride.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Clint was starting to think that Autry was right.

  Each time Carmelita’s sister, Raquel, came to the table with more food or beer, she made sure that her hip made solid contact with Clint’s shoulder.

  By the end of the meal, his shoulder was warm from her hip.

  “See?” Autry leaned over and said. “I told you. I know women. That one’s going to be warming your bed tonight.”

  “All we’ve said to each other is hello.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Autry said, “and I think you know that as well as I do.”

  Clint did. He had ended up in bed in the past with women he had exchanged no words with. Sometimes all it took was a look. Or the touch of a hip.

  But going to bed was a long way off. There was plenty of the day left ahead.

  He spoke to the whole table.

  “What kind of contacts have you fellas got in Mexico?” he asked the three mercenaries.

  “Mine aren’t as good as these two have,” Harker said, “but I’ve got some.”

  “I got some,” Piper said.

  “I’ve got a few more,” Autry said.

  “Why?” Harker asked Clint.

  “I thought maybe we’d get ahead of the game by finding out who Montoya is hiring.”

  “What makes you think the word will get out?” Piper asked.

  “He’s going to have to offer a lot of money for the right men,” Clint said. “That kind of thing has a habit of getting around.”

  “He’s got a point,” Autry said. “Okay, I’ll ask around.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’ll stay with Clint,” Harker said.

  “Why?” Clint asked.

  “Somebody’s got to watch your back.”

  “I’d rather you get in touch with your contacts,” Clint said. “I’ll be okay here until you get back.”

  “What are you gonna do here?” Piper asked.

  “Like I said before,” Clint answered, “I’ve got an idea, but I want to refine it before I tell it to you.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Piper said. “I guess we’ll be seeing you later.”

  Piper and Autry walked out. Harker stood, but didn’t leave right away.

  “You sure about this?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

  “We don’t want to come back here and find you dead,” Harker said. “That way, nobody gets paid.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Harker left. As he did, Carmelita came out of the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee and poured some into Clint’s empty cup.

  “You know,” she said to him, “my sister is not married.”

  * * *

  Del Plato’s men remained outside with Mejías while Francisco took him inside to talk to Don Inocencio.

  “That will be all, Francisco,” Montoya said to his brother.

  “But Inocencio—”

  “You can wait outside with Señor Del Plato’s men.”

  Del Plato sat down, crossed his legs, and hung his hat on the toe of his boot.

  “Don Inocencio,” he said, “how nice it was to hear from you again.”

  “Tequila?”

  “Of course.”

  Montoya poured a glass and handed it to Del Plato. He did not have one himself. He was particular about whom he drank with. Instead, he went to his desk and sat down.

  “Francisco told me about the Gunsmith,” Del Plato said. “Shall we go into town and take care of him now?”

  “Not yet,” Montoya said, “but when we do go, we will be going with you.”

  “We?”

  “The family.”

  “Ah.”

  “Did you bring good men?”

  “The best.” Del Plato sipped his drink. “They are outside. Would you like to see them?”

  “Later,” Montoya said. “I trust your judgment.”

  “Bueno. How is Juanito?”

  “Healing.”

  “How did he get shot?”

  “By being a damned fool.”

  “That boy needs a tight rein.”

  “Do not tell me how to—” Montoya bit his tongue. This was not the time. “Yes, he does. But we’re not here to talk about my son.”

  “But we are, aren’t we?” Del Plata asked. “Or at least, the man who shot him.”

  “Yes,” Montoya said, “Clint Adams.”

  “The Gunsmith,” Del Plata said, “here in Acuña. What is he doing here?”

  “I do not know why he came,” Montoya said, “only that he shot Juanito while he was here. For that he must pay.”

  “Die, you mean.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Francisco said you want you and your family to be there when he dies.”

  “Not be there,” Montoya said. “Take part in killing him.”

  “Why don’t you and your brother and sons just go and kill him? Surely you outnumber him.”

  “We did,” Montoya said, “but not anymore. He has help.”

  Del Plata laughed.

  “Who did he get in Acuña stupid enough to go up against you?” he asked.

  “Countrymen of his,” Montoya said. “Mercenaries. Men named Piper, Autry, and Harker.”

  “I know Harker,” Del Plata said. “He worked for you once.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And I
know of the other two,” Del Plata said. “They are fighting men.”

  “And so are your men,” Montoya said.

  “So you think you have evened the odds by hiring me and my men?” Del Plata said.

  “That is what I think.”

  “Well, you may be right, at that,” Del Plata said, “but before my men will move against a man like the Gunsmith, they’ll want to see some money.”

  Montoya opened his top drawer, took out a bulging brown envelope, and tossed it to Del Plata’s side of the desk.

  “Will that be sufficient?”

  Del Plata picked up the envelope and riffled through the currency inside.

  “Sí, señor,” he said, “this will do it nicely.”

  “Pass it out any way you see fit,” Montoya said.

  “Señor,” Del Plata asked, “when will we be going after the Gunsmith?”

  “Tomorrow, I think,” Montoya said. “I think we shall kill the Gunsmith tomorrow.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Clint ate once again at Carmelita’s later that evening. He swore he must have gained twenty pounds just during the few days he was in Acuña.

  The three mercenaries did not return, but that was okay. He expected to see them in the morning.

  He retired to his room early, because he still had a lot of thinking to do. As he had told the three men, he had an idea, but he wasn’t sure about it. He needed to sleep on it.

  He had his boots and shirt off and was reading by the light of his lamp, as it had long been dark out, when there was a knock at his door. It could have been any of the mercenaries, it could have been Rodrigo, but he still went to the door with his gun in his hand.

  When he opened the door, he saw Raquel standing in the hall, with her hands behind her back.

  “Raquel?”

  “Señor,” she said, “can I do something for you?”

  “Um, I don’t really need anything—”

  “I can do something you want, perhaps?”

  He was about to tell her no when he remembered what Autry had said. She had a smile on her pretty face, and her hair gleamed as if she had just washed it. When the smell of her reached him, he knew she was fresh from a bath.

  “Raquel—”