The Three Mercenaries

by J. R. Roberts

  “Hijo de puta,” Carmelita spat at Montoya.

  “Señora,” Montoya said, “I did not know my mother, so you might be correct. She might have been a whore.” Turning to his hired gunman, he said, “Del Plata?”

  The Mexican mercenary reached out and pinched one of Raquel’s nipples hard. Her eyes widened, filled with fire, but she did not cry out.

  “This one is tough, patrón,” Del Plata said. “Let me try the other one.”

  Carmelita turned to face Del Plata and pulled her blouse down. Massive breasts came into view, smooth and creamy, and he had been right. She had the same dark brown nipples. She was daring him. He began to salivate.

  “Basta!” Rodrigo said. He reached out and pulled his wife’s blouse up. “I will tell you.”

  “You, girl!” Montoya said. “Tequila!”

  Raquel did not bother to replace her blouse. With breasts still bare, she walked around behind the bar, poured two glasses of tequila, and left them on the bar. Del Plata handed Montoya one, then picked the other one up for himself. They both drank.

  “Now,” Montoya said to Rodrigo, “tell me.”

  “Texas,” Rodrigo said. “He went to Texas.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “Did he go alone?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Where are the other men?”

  “Gone.”

  “Did you hear them say where they were going?”

  “They talked,” Rodrigo said. “I listened.”

  “And?”

  “They heard that you hired Roberto Del Plata, and his men,” Rodrigo said. “They wanted Clint Adams to hire more men. He would not. They argued.”

  “And?”

  “They left him.”

  Montoya turned to look at Del Plata, who shrugged.

  “So he ran?” Montoya asked.

  “He did not want to,” Rodrigo said, “but he knew there would be many of you, and he would die.”

  “Señor,” Del Plata said, still eyeing Raquel’s breasts, “that would be a logical decision to make.”

  “For the Gunsmith?”

  “For any man who wanted to live.”

  “You have a man who can track?”

  “Of course.”

  Montoya looked at Rodrigo.

  “If I find out you are lying, I will come back, burn down your place, and let Del Plata and his men have your women.”

  Rodrigo drew himself up to his full height and said, “I would kill them first, señor.”

  Montoya eyed Rodrigo, and then said, “Sí, I believe you would.”

  “He is a brave little man, patrón,” Del Plata said. “Shall I kill him?”

  “No!” Carmelita yelled.

  Montoya thought a moment, then said, “No. Leave him.”

  Montoya left.

  Del Plata looked at Raquel, said, “Another time, chica,” and followed his boss.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Montoya and his men waited at the north end of Acuña for Del Plata and his tracker. When they returned, he, Francisco, and Pablo rode out to meet them.

  “What did you find?”

  “Tell him, Victorio.”

  The tracker, in his forties with a lot of miles on him, said, “One man left town alone, heading north.”

  “The other three?”

  “Left town together, then split up,” Victorio explained. “One headed for Texas, the others look like they are staying here, in Mexico.”

  “Piper and Autry live in Mexico, patrón,” Del Plata said. “Harker lives in Texas.”

  “So . . . they went home?”

  “That is what it looks like.”

  Montoya chewed his bottom lip.

  “Do you want us to check and see if they all really went home?” Del Plata asked.

  “No,” Montoya said, “that will give Clint Adams too big a head start.”

  “So that means . . . we are going after Clint Adams?” Del Plata asked.

  “We are.”

  “All of us?”

  Montoya pointed at Victorio and said, “All of us . . . except him.”

  “Patrón?” Victorio said, frowning.

  “I want you to go to the cantina and check where Clint Adams kept his horse,” Montoya instructed. “I want to make sure those tracks are his.”

  “Sí, sí, patrón,” Victorio said. “I will go and do that right away.”

  “Then catch up to us.”

  “Sí.”

  Victorio wheeled his horse around and rode back into Acuña at a gallop.

  Montoya looked at Del Plata.

  “We are riding to Texas . . . now!”

  * * *

  They rode for a couple of hours before Victorio caught up to them.

  “Patrón!” he called.

  Montoya reined in and waited. Victorio caught up to them, reined in his own horse between Montoya and Del Plata.

  “Well?” Montoya asked.

  “I checked the tracks, patrón,” Victorio said. “They are the same.”

  “Are we still following the right trail?”

  Victorio looked at the ground ahead of them and said, “Sí, patrón.”

  “Very well,” Montoya said, “then take the point, Victorio.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  * * *

  Clint rode into Langtry, Texas, which was in Val Verde County, about eighty miles from Acuña. He, Piper, Autry, and Harker had agreed to meet there, a decent enough distance away from Acuña so that Montoya might lose some of his men along the way. Also, at this distance Montoya would assume he was running.

  Langtry was small, just a few buildings, and they looked like they were falling down. If he had to face Montoya and his men here, it wouldn’t do all that much damage. He had to steer Eclipse around a bunch of chickens as he entered town.

  The surprising thing, however, was that the town had a railroad station.

  He rode up to the Jersey Lily Saloon, and dismounted. He had ridden directly from Acuña, and it was almost dark. He needed a drink, and some food, and hoped he could get both inside.

  As he entered, the three men there turned to look at him. Two of them turned away and went back to their drinking; the third man was the bartender. He watched as Clint approached the bar.

  “Beer,” Clint said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  He looked down at the bar, saw some round circles in it, as if someone had been banging on it with a hammer . . . or a gavel.

  “Here ya go,” the bartender said. He saw Clint looking at the bar. “That’s from the judge’s gavel.”

  “Judge.”

  “Judge Roy Bean,” the man said.

  “Ah.”

  “Heard of him?”

  “I think so.” Clint sipped his beer. “Just recently. Somebody mentioned him.”

  “Well,” the man said, “stay out of trouble and you won’t have to meet ’im.”

  “I always plan to stay out of trouble,” Clint said. “Any chance of getting something to eat?”

  “Sandwich maybe,” the man said. “Some hard-boiled eggs?”

  “That’ll do.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint turned with his beer and looked the saloon over. It was newer than the other buildings in town. But the furniture, and the bar, were not new.

  Over the bar was a painting Clint recognized.

  Lily Langtry, the actress. He had run into her a few times, the last time in New York.

  “This town named for her?” he asked the bartender when he brought out a small bowl of hard-boiled eggs.

  “Nope,” the bartender said, “some other fella named Langtry. But the saloon is. I’ll get you that sandwich
. Start on the eggs.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  Clint peeled three eggs, began eating them, and washed them down with the beer. By the time the bartender came back with the sandwich, he had finished all three.

  “Chicken,” the man said. “That’s all I had.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Eat it,” the bartender said. “Then the judge wants to talk to you.”

  “Talk to me?” Clint asked, accepting the sandwich. “But . . . why?”

  The bartender shrugged.

  “Who knows why the judge does anything?” he said. “Maybe he saw you ride in and recognized you.”

  “Recognized me?”

  “Well, he said you were Clint Adams, the Gunsmith.” The bartender waited, and when Clint said nothing, he asked, “You are Clint Adams, aren’t you?”

  Clint bit into the sandwich and said, “I guess he recognized me, then. Where is he?”

  “That door in the back,” the bartender said. “I’ll get you another beer. When you’re finished eating, just knock.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Clint finished the sandwich, washed it down with the beer, then walked to the door the bartender had indicated and knocked.

  “Come!”

  He opened the door and entered. A white-haired man with a surprisingly unlined face was seated behind a desk. He was in shirtsleeves, with suspenders and—oddly—was wearing a stovepipe hat indoors. He had a pair of wire-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  “Judge?”

  “That’s me,” the man said. “Roy Bean. Come on in, Mr. Adams. Close the door. Have a seat. Get enough to eat?”

  “Actually, no,” Clint said, “but I suppose it will have to do.”

  “I have a woman who makes me soup,” the judge said. “You interested?”

  “What kind?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “Good. Have a seat, then.”

  Clint sat across from the man.

  “How did you know who I am?”

  “I saw you ride in,” Bean said.

  “Yes, but how did you recognize me?”

  “I saw you in Fort Smith once,” Bean said. “I was visiting a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “Judge Isaac Parker.”

  “Ah.”

  “You know Judge Parker?”

  “Very well.”

  “Hm,” Judge Bean said, “then that means you don’t like him.”

  “Not much.”

  “But you respect him?”

  “A great deal.”

  “Good,” Bean said. “Now, suppose you tell me what brings you to Langtry.”

  “Is that your business?”

  “Oh yes,” Bean said, “it is very much my business. This is my town, my county. If you’re bringing trouble to it, I’d like to know about it.”

  “Do you have a lawman?”

  “We have a man who wears a badge,” Bean said. “That’s as close as we come.”

  “Ah.”

  “So,” Bean said, “my question.”

  “What I’m doing here?”

  “Yes,” Bean said, “and I’d really appreciate the truth.”

  Clint decided to tell him.

  * * *

  Roy Bean listened to the story intently, then sat quietly for a few moments after Clint had finished.

  “Guess you don’t think much of Langtry, do you, Mr. Adams?” he asked then.

  “I didn’t know anything about it, Judge.”

  “Well, it may not look like much, but it’s home to some people,” Bean said. “They won’t appreciate you gettin’ it all shot up.”

  “I’ll try not to,” Clint said. “My intention is simply to meet my men here. When we engage Montoya and his men, it won’t be in your town.”

  “You guarantee that?”

  “I guarantee that I’ll try to keep it from happening. You don’t have a hotel, do you?”

  “We do, but I doubt you and your men will be welcome there,” Bean said.

  “No problem,” Clint said. “We’ll camp away from town.”

  “You know,” Bean said, “if this darned battle of yours takes place in my jurisdiction, you’re gonna end up in my court.”

  “Well, if that happens, Judge,” Clint said, “I hope you’ll be lenient with me if I survive, and hard on Montoya if he does.”

  “My gavel only swings one way, Mr. Adams.”

  “Call me Clint.”

  “That’s fine,” Bean said, “and you can call me Judge.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Fine,” Bean said, standing up. “Let’s go and have that soup.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Clint did not meet the woman who cooked for Judge Roy Bean, but he did get to taste her chicken soup.

  “We got chickens all over the place,” Bean said. “They’re the easiest things to take care of.”

  “That explains why I got hard-boiled eggs and a chicken sandwich from the bartender.”

  “Ain’t had a steak in a coon’s age,” Bean said. “Every once in a while I ride up to Fort Stockton to get one, but it’s been a while.”

  They were sitting at a back table in the Jersey Lily, as the soup was usually brought to the judge there. They were drinking beer brought to them by the bartender.

  “When do you expect the rest of your men?” the judge asked.

  “Shortly,” Clint said. “I had to leave first to give the impression I was running.”

  “You think anybody’s gonna believe that the Gunsmith ran from a fight?”

  “Against twenty-five men? Why not?”

  Judge Bean shrugged.

  “Don’t sit right with me, is all,” he said. “Seems to me runnin’ don’t come easy to some men.”

  “Remember,” Clint said, “I’m not really running.”

  “So you say.”

  Clint had the feeling Judge Bean was trying to get his goat, and he wasn’t biting. The man may have just been testing him, for some reasons of his own.

  “I’m aware of Inocencio Montoya,” Bean said. “Sounds like the kind of man I’d like to get in my court.”

  “Now that’s something I’d like to see,” Clint said. “I have the feeling there’s no court in Mexico that he’s ever seen the inside of.”

  “Well, this ain’t Mexico,” Bean said. “This is Val Verde County. I rule here.”

  They finished their soup and Clint said, “The bartender told me this town wasn’t named for Lily Langtry.”

  “That’s true,” Bean said. “It was named for George, who built the railroad.”

  “It seems to me that a town with a railroad station would be bigger.”

  “We’re growin’,” Bean said. “Was a time the Jersey Lily was just a tent. And a few years ago, we were made the post office for the county.”

  “Are you the postmaster?”

  “Not me,” Bean said. “I got enough to do bein’ the justice of the peace, the notary public, and the Law West of the Pecos. Speakin’ of which,” he said, standing up, “I got work to do. Why don’t you have another beer and wait for your friends.”

  “My guess is they’ll arrive tomorrow morning,” Clint said. “What do you say to a hotel room, just for tonight?”

  Roy Bean scowled, but said, “Yeah, okay. End of the street. Tell Wendell I said it was okay.”

  “Thanks, Judge.”

  “Better not be no trouble, though,” Bean said. “You see how nice I can be. You don’t wanna see my other side.”

  “No, Judge,” Clint said, “I sure don’t.”

  * * *

  Clint walked his hor
se to the hotel and relayed the message to the desk clerk, Wendell, a sleepy-looking man in his sixties. He signed Clint in, gave him a key, and told him where the livery stable was.

  As he walked down the street, Clint realized that Langtry was larger than he’d first thought. It was more than the few buildings he’d seen riding in, as it then spread out some.

  He found the livery, turned Eclipse over to an impressed-looking man in his fifties.

  “This is some horse,” the man said.

  “Treat him that way,” Clint said.

  “Don’t worry, mister,” the liveryman said. “I’ll take care of ’im.”

  Clint collected his saddlebags and rifle and walked back to the hotel.

  * * *

  In his room he stared out the window, wondered if there was any chance that Montoya would forget about his vengeance once he realized Clint was gone. That was probably too much to ask.

  He walked to the bed and sat on it. The mattress was like sleeping on the ground. A town with a railroad station ought to have a better hotel.

  After a while he decided to go back to the Jersey Lily for a beer.

  * * *

  He was drinking his beer, looking up at the portrait of Lily Langtry, when he said to the bartender, “You know, that’s not even a good likeness of her.”

  The man laughed and said, “How would you know?”

  “I know her,” Clint said. “Met her a few times. In fact, I spent some time with her in New York. She’s a very nice lady.”

  The bartender had been staring at him with his mouth open after he spoke the first three words, “I know her.”

  “You met Lily Langtry?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I mean,” the bartender went on, “you actually met her, and talked to her. You didn’t just see her onstage.”

  “I met her and talked to her.” Clint didn’t tell him what else he’d done with Lily.

  “Did you tell this to the judge?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh, my God,” the bartender said. “If you do, he’ll never let you leave.”

  “Interesting,” Clint said. “So if I tell him, I’ll be able to keep my hotel room longer?”

  “Probably.”

  “And he won’t make me leave?”