8
Sensation returned to Smoke Jensen in the form of brightness against his closed eyelids and a special, scented softness surrounding his throbbing head. He also felt a restriction on his legs, as though they had been clamped in a padded vise. None of it made much sense. Cautiously he opened one eye. Harsh sunlight brought a new wave of pain. Through its pulsations he heard a soft, decidedly feminine squeak of surprise.
“Oh, he’s alive! Mrs. Perkins, please bring some water.”
“Are you certain?” came the other woman’s tone of disapproval. “A falling out among thieves, if you ask me.”
“No! Oh, no. He saved our lives, don’t you see?” The sweet trill of a younger voice tugged on Smoke.
He opened both eyes and groaned. “What happened?” he asked weakly.
“You were shot. Alongside of your head. It must have made you unconscious.”
“The other one? The last road agent?” Smoke pressed, recalling some of his precipitous attack on the stage robbers.
“He’s—he’s lying dead across your legs.”
“I’d be obliged if you would have him moved,” Smoke responded, rousing enough to understand the absurdities of the situation.
“Oh! Yes—yes, I’m sorry. Would some of you gentlemen remove that—er—dead man please?”
Smoke Jensen maneuvered so that he could see his angel of mercy. Despite the pain, his breath caught in his throat. She was lovely, beautiful. A face that matched the sweet innocence of Sally Reynolds when he had first met her. He forced a rueful smile through his discomfort.
“Thank you for caring for me. But I’m afraid your dress is ruined. All that blood,” Smoke offered.
For the first time, the lovely appeared to take notice of the mess in her lap. “Dear me, heavens, I—I never realized.”
A snort of disapproval came from an older woman standing behind her. “Appears some folks have money to throw away on expensive clothes, then soil them beyond repair.”
“I had to,” the young woman defended herself. “He was hurt, needed help, don’t you see?”
Filled with matronly self-righteousness, the elder woman came forward, waggled an accusing finger in Smoke Jensen’s face. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? Had a falling out over the—ah—loot, isn’t that it?”
An overpowering urge to bite off that finger swept through Smoke. He suppressed it. “Sorry. You have it all wrong. I heard the shots, discovered the robbery in progress, and decided to take a hand. It seemed you were in considerable need of it.”
The dowager huffed her disbelief. “A likely story. What is your name?”
“Jensen. Smoke Jensen.” He said it quietly.
“Heaven protect us,” the old woman cawed loudly, throwing her gloved hands into the air. “The outlaw and murderer. We’re all doomed.”
She had gotten to Smoke Jensen with that performance. He levered himself upright and came to his boots, gave her his most icy visage. “I’ve been a lot of things, madam, but never an outlaw or a murderer. I’ve never killed a man who didn’t deserve it and wasn’t trying to do the same to me.”
“You’re a scourge, an abomination,” she spluttered.
“Enough, Mrs. Perkins.” The younger woman got into the exchange. “All you know is from that trash in the penny dreadfuls.” She turned back to Smoke. “Mr. Jensen, we’re grateful for what you have done to protect us from these terrible men.”
Mrs. Perkins wasn’t through yet. “At least he could have left them alive for the law to deal with, Penelope.”
“Excuse me? Did I just imagine the gunshot that knocked me out and left me to stand here in front of you, bleeding from the head?” Smoke made a gesture to encompass the dead outlaws. “They opened the dance, I simply invited myself to attend.”
“He’s right, ma’am,” the driver remarked from where he stood beside the last highwayman to fall. “You’ve all got your valuables back, we’ve saved the express box, and it’s Smoke Jensen who made that possible.”
“But, it’s—it’s so uncivilized,” Mrs. Perkins muttered, subsiding.
Penelope recovered her composure and made a gesture toward Smoke’s head. “Let me bandage that for you. Are you sure you are all right?”
“Yes, of course. A little patching up and I’ll be on my way.”
“You should see a doctor,” Penelope suggested.
“I will. As soon as I get to El Paso,” Smoke assured her.
Her touch proved feather-light as she wound a strip of silk, from a petticoat in her luggage, around Smoke’s head. With the bleeding stopped and the throbbing subsided somewhat, Smoke surveyed the scene once more, mounted Sidewinder, and rode off.
Large pools of darkness covered the high pasture on Pasaje Ganaderia. Martine and his segundo, Pablo Alvarez, stood looking down on the bodies of his herdsmen. They had all been knifed. Only one had survived long enough to ride to the hacienda and bring word of the stolen bulls. The loss, although high in terms of money, meant nothing to Martine like the deaths of these innocent men. Vaqueros who trusted him to provide for them and their families. They deserved better than this. He said so to Alvarez.
“That is true, Patrón. This Carvajal is an animal. Our men were not armed. They could have easily been run off, frightened into keeping silent for long enough to get the herd safely away.”
Martine looked at the pitiful remains of Pepe Lopez. “Carvajal did it because of me. My good amigo, Carbone, and I, alone, refuse to pay him tribute. Are we doing wrong, Pablo?”
“No, Patrón. You are not the sort of man who could stand by and accept the excesses of one like Carvajal. Nor is Señor Carbone y Ruis. We, the men and I, are all behind you. It is said that what vaqueros and flock tenders he has left, Don Esteban is arming and training how to fight.”
Martine nodded. “That is right. As of this minute, I will do the same. If the men are willing to stay, they should be able to defend themselves. Even Padre Lorenzo agrees.”
“And this friend, the gringo pistolero? What will happen when he gets here?”
Martine smiled at his segundo. “Gustavo Carvajal will find Smoke Jensen unlike any man he has ever known before. Much to his regret.”
Only three hours off his original estimate, Smoke Jensen arrived in El Paso in late afternoon, two days later. He located the hotel Carbone had named in his letter, registered and took his few belongings to the room. Then he went to the livery and made arrangements for Sidewinder.
“Mind that you never take your eye off of him,” Smoke cautioned. “He don’t like strangers. The best way to feed him is at arm’s length. That way all you might lose is a finger or two.”
Stooped and gray-haired, the stable keeper swallowed hard at that and peered with watery eyes into Smoke’s face. “Don’t I know you, mister?”
“I can’t imagine so. I’ve never been here before,” Smoke answered honestly.
“Big feller like you, not many made that size. Seems—somethin’ I saw, read somewhere.”
“First time in Texas,” Smoke assured him.
“Yes. Well, then, enjoy your stay, y’hear?”
“I shall. Two, three days at the most.”
“That’ll be six bits up front. Ten cents a day extra for double grain.”
Smoke doled out a silver dollar and a nickel. He still felt a twinge of discomfort from the bullet gouge along his head, although it didn’t intrude on a light-hearted mood that rested on his shoulders as he strolled through town. He decided he might as well wash the trail dust from his outside and innards as well.
He fetched a change of clothing from his room and adjourned to the bathhouse provided for guests behind the two-story clapboard hotel. There he found duckboards set over the hardpacked clay floor. A trough led from there under one sidewall and out into the yard. A piece of pipe extended through the rear wall, up high, under bare rafters. It had been fitted with an elbow, a spring-loaded valve and a spray nozzle from a garden watering can. A string hung down to control the valve.
Smoke disrobed and stepped under the nozzle. Tepid water, from a pair of wooden barrels outside on a platform, cascaded over him. After a long, satisfying minute, he released the string and soaped luxuriously. Thick, corded muscles rippled under his sun-browned skin as he worked up rich suds. He rinsed his hair, face and upper torso, soaped his hard, flat belly, groin and legs, and repeated the process. Again, Smoke let the water run over him in a final cleansing.
He kind of liked this. It sure beat sitting in a tub with the same dirt just washed off. Somehow he felt cleaner. Maybe he should consider something like this for the Sugarloaf. A complaining voice interrupted his contemplations.
“You sure don’t mind taking your time, feller.”
“Didn’t know anyone was there. Be out in a minute,” Smoke responded in a pleasant tone.
“Make it fast.”
Dressed in clean clothes, Smoke exited the washroom. The man who had complained turned out to be of short stature, with a hard scowl and lippy attitude. Smoke and he sized up one another. The surly one swallowed hard and worked up a few less harsh words.
“No problem, mister. I made a long, hot ride here an’ was in sort of a hurry. No offense?”
“Nope. That sure makes a fellow feel good,” Smoke commented on the shower, then passed on his way out of the small building.
Behind him, the short, mouthy one thanked all he held sacred that he’d not run his mouth a little longer. A big one like that could chew him up and spit him out and not even raise a sweat.
Smoke Jensen located a suitable saloon, Cactus Jack’s, on the corner of one intersection near the final two blocks to the bridge across the Rio Grande to the Mexican city that had once been called El Paso del Norte, and was now calling itself Ciudad Juarez, in honor of the hero, soldier-scholar, Benito Juarez, who defeated the French forces of Napoleon III and ran them out of Mexico. Carbone had not as yet checked into the hotel, so Smoke had time to burn.
Inside the large, well-lighted establishment, Smoke almost changed his mind. Five young men, local rowdies it appeared, lounged along the bar, holding court. Smoke instantly knew the leader, having studied the type for a long time. He leaned back, the long heel of one riding boot hooked over the brass rail. Both elbows supported him on the bar top.
Smoke saw him as a vicious young punk, with close-set, pig eyes of a lifeless blue, a small, mean mouth and a quick, hot temper. It literally smoldered in him. One of the sycophants called him Herbie. To Herbie’s left, another of the same ilk slouched, his body turned a quarter toward the bar. The other three Smoke sized up as working cowboys, perhaps not too bright, but loyal to those they respected.
They wore rugged work shirts, jeans, well-worn boots, and had scarred leather gloves tucked behind their cartridge belts. All talk stopped when Smoke Jensen entered, and the quintet cut their eyes to him, following the big mountain man to the bar.
“Beer,” Smoke announced.
“Comin’ right up,” the apron sang out. He drew a large schooner and plunked it down in front of the newcomer. “Five cents.”
Smoke dropped a nickel on the polished mahogany. From the corner of one eye, he took in the way the young hardcase named Herbie stared at him with narrowed eyes. One of the trio of working hands broke the silence.
“What was that you were sayin’ about a year ago, Herbie?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. It was up Colorado way. Little town of Deacon. I’d stopped into this saloon, had a couple of shots and started foolin’ around with this fancy gal. She was about to give me her price when he came in.
“Are you sure it was him?” another of the hands asked.
“Sure as I’m standin’ here. Of course, ev’rybody’s scared pissless of him. Except for me, of course. Then he turns those hard, gray eyes on me. ‘That’s my woman you’re foolin’ with,’ he growls.”
“What’d you do, Herbie?”
Herbie pulled a grimace that he had practiced for a sneering smile and tossed off the shot of whiskey in his fish-eye glass. “Give us another round, Myron.”
Myron Hardesty moved slowly, awkwardly. He had been studying the stranger and come to a conclusion of his own. He knew the tall tale Herbie Cantrell was spinning. The knowledge made his hand shake when he poured liquor into their glasses.
“What’s the matter with you, Myron? You got a hangover?” Herbie prodded.
“Naw, Herbie, naw. Only, I think you ought to hold off on that story of yours.”
“Really? Why, Myron ol’ pal?” Herbie taunted.
Myron cut a nervous glance toward Smoke Jensen. “I—well—I just think . . .”
“No. Go on,” Smoke Jensen interrupted. “I think it’s getting interesting.”
“Who asked you, mister? Butt out,” Herbie snarled.
Smoke made a deprecating gesture. “Whatever you say.”
Herbie went back to his braggard’s tale. “Well, what did I do? I set the pretty dove to one side and turned to face him. ‘Who the hell do you think you are to tell me that?’ I asked. ‘I’m Smoke Jensen,’ he says, all cold and hollow-like.”
“Glory, didn’t that scare you some, Herbie?”
“Nope, Walsh, you see, I already knew who he was. An’ he saw me, saw the way my guns was fixed and figgered out I was fast and good with them right in a wink. He says once more for me to let the girl alone, only not so tough this time. So, I says, ‘You make me,’ an’ went for my iron. I had it out and on him before he could twitch. He went all white and his lip trembled. His hand wasn’t halfway to his six-gun. He opened and closed his fist a couple of times, swallowed real hard and jist turned away an’ walked out of there.”
“Lordy, Herbie, you was lucky he didn’t pinwheel you.”
“No chance, Evans,” Herbie told the middle of the three cowboys. “I had it figgered out long before. Smoke Jensen is an inven—invention of them dime novelists and penny dreadful writers. He’s a bag of wind. He saw a real gunman and he turned tail.”
Admiration and hero worship glowing on their faces, the three youthful cowhands clapped Herbie on the shoulders and offered to buy him a drink. Herbie nodded as though it were his due and pointed to Myron. “Set up three more for me an’ Deake. These boys are payin’.”
Myron’s hand shook again as he dispensed the whiskey. He slopped some on the bar top when Smoke Jensen spoke up. “That’s quite a story, youngster. Considering there’s no such place as Deacon in Colorado.”
Herbie’s face seemed to borrow color from Myron’s, as the former turned crimson and Myron went a pasty pale. “You callin’ me a liar?”
“Only suggesting you may have made a mistake in the location.”
“I think you called me a liar. Now you tryin’ to back down. What you got to say to that?”
“I think you wouldn’t last five seconds if you challenged Smoke Jensen,” Smoke said, realizing that he was enjoying himself.
Herbie and his sidekick paced away from the bar, with Smoke pivoting to keep them in sight. The three cowboys gulped their drinks and departed for a green-covered table well clear of the open space between this hard-eyed stranger and Herbie Cantrell. Behind Smoke, Myron began to swiftly remove bottles from the back bar and set them on a shelf below the mahogany.
Unseen by Smoke, another of Herbie’s followers rose from his captain’s chair and cat-footed it on silent boots to the stairway that led to a balcony that wrapped two walls of the saloon. At the same moment, Herbie yelled a fury-heated challenge at Smoke.
“You’re a liar and yellah. You don’t talk to Herbie Cantrell like that. Nobody does. I got six notches on my guns.”
Smoke Jensen’s expression of scorn turned Myron Hardesty’s innards to ice. “Any fool can take a Barlow and cut notches in a pistol grip.”
Herbie began to froth at the mouth. His voice came out, rising in volume and pitch a full octave. “First you call me a liar and now a fool. D’you want to die?”
“No. Do you?” Smoke asked him levelly. He cut his eyes to the three cowboys. “How about you?”
One raised both hands above the tabletop, fingers spread, palms toward Smoke. “We’re out of this. We ain’t no gun handlers like Herbie an’ Deake.”
“You don’t need this fight, neither of you,” Smoke urged on Herbie and Deake. “Step down from it.”
“Go to hell,” Deake snarled, infected by Herbie’s blood lust and confidence.
“Two men at once is a stiff proposition, mister,” Wade advised.
“You offering help?” Smoke asked.
“No, sir. Just caution. Herbie is good.”
“But not good enough,” Smoke confided.
“That does it! That damn well does it,” Herbie screamed. “I ain’t even gonna wait for you to go outside. You’re gonna die right here.”
Still unseen by Smoke Jensen, the third hardcase had slipped into position behind him, leaning on the balcony rail, his six-gun in hand and the hammer back. Herbie Cantrell darted a quick glance at him. Good. No problem with this loudmouth. He and his two tough followers had robbed a few mom and pop trading posts, stuck up a stage or two. Herbie had killed two half-growed kids with guns in Tascosa and was proud of it. Still, this hard-faced stranger had not shown a bit of fear. Yet, there was no way to back down.
“Now, Deake!” Herbie shouted as his hand dipped to the butt-grip of his .45.
Half the cylinder had barely cleared leather when the man facing him drew with such blinding speed that Herbie only managed to blink before a powerful blow hit him in the left shoulder. Reflexively, he tottered backward a few steps, saw smoke billow, then another lance of flame and heard Deake cry out.
Struck squarely in his elbow joint, Deake dropped his .45 back into the holster and slammed into a chair. The seat took him at the knees and he plopped into it, one hand clutched to his aching arm. His eyes filled with unbidden tears, but not before he saw Herbie try to complete his draw.
“No! Don’t, Herbie,” he cried out.
Herbie paid him no mind. There, he had it now, the front sight cleared leather and began to rise. How could any man shoot so fast? Hell, Sam up there hadn’t even been able to get off a shot as yet. Herbie found his arm weighed a ton. It moved so slowly. What was wrong with Sam? He lined up the front sight on the man’s chest.
A loud, ringing crash blotted out everything else, and blackness washed over Herbie Cantrell as Smoke’s third bullet took him between the eyes. Herbie’s head snapped backward, and he stared sightlessly at the man who had killed him. A soft sigh gusted out of his dead throat.
“You kilt Herbie!” Deake shouted, clawing for his second revolver. He had it clear and then could not find his target.
Smoke Jensen had ducked down to one knee, as instinct yelled a warning about his exposed back. He wasn’t positive someone lurked there, but the lessons learned from Preacher had been deeply ingrained. He saw Deake rise from the chair and swing a hold-out gun in his direction. Smoke fired first.
His slug popped through the upper edge of one rib and plowed into Deake’s heart. The young punk’s knees sagged, and he fell face first in the sawdust of the barroom floor.
Recovered from his initial numbing surprise, Sam rose slightly to get a shot at the stranger’s back. With care, in a world slowed down by the exhilaration of the fight, Sam brought the barrel down into line with the wide space between the man’s shoulder blades. His finger tightened on the trigger. Sam took a final, quick breath, held it. Then the stranger moved out of his sights and blasted the life from Herbie and Deake. A split second later, a shot exploded from beyond the batwing doors.
Oh, shit, not another one, Smoke Jensen thought desperately as he saw the flame bloom over the batwings, and smoke billowed to obscure the figure of a man standing there. Caught in the act of punching out expended cartridges, Smoke looked on helplessly as the silhouette advanced.