18
Smoke’s next stop brought him to a younger, less seasoned bandit. A boy, actually, hardly seventeen, Smoke judged when he had the lad off his horse and face-to-face with the muzzle of his .44. All thoughts of machismo, of swaggering glory in the ranks of Gustavo Carvajal’s outlaw army, fled and the youngster turned a sickly slate-gray. His lips worked with a noticeable tremble.
“Please, Señor, please do not harm me. I—I was thinking a-a-a—”
“About what?” Smoke demanded in a rough whisper.
“I swear on the heart of my mother, Señor, I was truly thinking that this was not the life for me. Poor food, drunken companions, cold nights riding in these woods. I would give anything to be back home, on the estancia, working for my Patrón.”
Smoke prodded him in the ribs with his six-gun. “You mean that?”
“Oh, yes, yes, I swear it.” He was all but sobbing.
“Where is this estancia?”
“La—La Gloria, in Durango.”
That seemed reasonably far enough away. “Would you leave right now, not turn back, not even look behind, and go to your home?”
“Seguro, si, and my mother would bless you in her prayers forever.”
“Then get up, take your horse and get the hell out of here.” Smoke had already taken the revolver from the young man’s holster. Now he reached for the saddle. “Here, I’ll take that. You won’t be needing it anymore,” Smoke informed him as his fingers closed around the butt-stock of a Winchester.
Smiling to himself, Smoke Jensen watched the youngster out of sight. He felt good about that one. Now, on to the rest.
Slowly, the night wore on. Not surprisingly, considering the lack of discipline in the camp, none of his victims had as yet been discovered. No one had even come out to relieve them. Smoke nearly bumped into the next guard.
He had dismounted to relieve the strain of hours in the saddle. Keeping him company was the inevitable bottle of tequila. He roused it at the dark shape of a man on horseback.
“Hola, compañero. You’ve come at last,” he called out expectantly. “Have a drink before I go.”
Smoke Jensen swung down from the saddle and approached. “Thanks, but I prefer bourbon,” he quipped softly a moment before he stuffed the muzzle of his .44 Colt into the mouth of this hardcase. “Now, you will do exactly as I say.” Smoke’s hand worked at the buckle of the man’s cartridge belt, freed it.
“Unbutton your trousers and shirt. Do it,” Smoke added with menace.
Silently, sweating, the bandit complied. By then Smoke had his captive’s neck scarf wadded and replaced his gun barrel with it. “Take off your shirt. Slowly, no funny moves.” That accomplished, he added, “Stand up and pull down your trousers.”
Muffled bleats of protest came from the gagged mouth. Eyes fixed on the deadly Colt, he did as instructed. Smoke prodded him over to his horse. Then Smoke bent low and used his bowie to cut through the crotch of the man’s trousers.
“Step up there with your right foot in the front of the stirrup.”
Glittering black eyes seemed to say, But that will put me in the saddle backwards.
Smoke smiled at the silent communication. “Swing your left over and settle in.”
A little assistance was required to seat the outlaw backward in his saddle. Quickly, Smoke took a short length of rope from his hip pocket and tied the bandido’s ankles to the stirrups and joined them under the belly of the horse. He prodded the man in the ribs with the cold steel of his .44.
“Hands behind you.”
That done, Smoke bound them also. He noted with pleasure that these men had shown no difficulty in understanding his Spanish. No doubt the Colt had a lot to do with that. He inspected his handiwork, then stood where the wilted hardcase could clearly see him.
“When you get back to camp, tell Carvajal that he had better abdicate his throne, or I’ll be on him like stink on a rotting corpse.”
Smoke’s captive had little doubt as to the identity of that decomposing body. He nodded vigorously to indicate his agreement. Smoke took up the reins of the outlaw’s mount and led it into the trees, far enough off the trail to not be readily noticed until daylight. There he tied it off to a tree.
Satisfied with his night’s work, Smoke Jensen returned to Sidewinder. Quietly he mounted and set off toward the exit to the valley. He would return to Merced and a long, peaceful sleep.
Gustavo Carvajal’s face turned black with rage. He hurled the glazed clay tequila bottle he held against the wall of the tent. “Who was it? Carbone? Martine? Goddamn them for this insult!”
“The—the men said it was a gringo. He spoke Spanish, but they could see he was a norteño,” Humberto Regales informed him.
An unexpected chill ran along the spine of the King of the North. “He’s here, then. This Smoke Jensen. He has come because these hijos de la chingada have asked him to come. What is he, that he can do this to—to me?”
“He is only a man, Excellency. No, that is not accurate. I have found out more about this Senor Jensen. In his country, some call him the ‘Last Mountain Man.’ ”
“¿Que es esto? Un hombre de la cordillera?” Carvajal repeated the accolade given to Smoke Jensen. “What is so important about such a man?”
“The mountain men were fur trappers, and mighty Indian fighters. They lived in the cordilleras of the United States all alone, facing impossible odds and triumphing over them. This Smoke Jensen is said to be the last of their breed, a truly awesome man, who has killed nearly three hundred men in stand-up fights.”
“¡Mierda! No man can live through so many gunfights. ” Carvajal’s countenance darkened again. “But what he did to our men, this insult to my manhood is an abomination. He cannot get away with it. We must make him suffer for this. Only how? Attack Carbone again? Carbone has lost nearly everything. But Martine y Garcia has much wealth left to him. Yes! We will retaliate against the oh-so arrogant Martine and bring them all to their knees.” A wild light came to Carvajal’s crossed eyes. “I know exactly how to do it. Pick fifty men. They will accompany me on a bold raid against Martine’s rancho. It will be the Mother of all Raids.”
Bone-sore and muscles aching, Bobby Harris had time to reflect on the fact that riding full-grown horses on the Sugarloaf wasn’t exactly like forking his little pony down Trinidad way. His misery even overcame his reluctance to bare his bottom in front of a female woman. All four of his cheeks flushed bright pink at the thought of it.
“Aaah,” he sighed when the liniment touched his throbbing thigh. It was so cool and nice. No! It burned like fire. “Ouch! That’s awful,” he complained.
Sally Jensen suppressed a giggle. “Hush up and take it like a man. I don’t understand why Burt Crocker couldn’t take care of this.”
“Oh, he offered, Miz Jensen. Said he’d do it with a pot scrubber.”
“Umm. I can see why you declined.”
“Did what?” Bobby asked, the burning sensation forgotten for a moment.
“Declined,” Sally, the perpetual teacher, explained. “Said no.”
“Uh. Yeah. I declined that right enough. Oowie! Owie! That stuff smarts.”
“If you would have quit at noon, when I said you should, you wouldn’t be so stoved up,” Sally lectured.
Bobby had ridden out with the hands for the first time that morning. He had needed help swinging the saddle on a full-grown horse, yet it didn’t deter him from “earning his keep,” as he put it. He walked with a hitch in his get-along when the hands came in for their dinner, but said nothing. Sally suggested he take the afternoon to rake down the barnyard, or some other non-horse-related job, and Bobby had hotly refused. Now he paid the price.
His lower lip slid forward in a pout, miffed that the application of the fiery liniment didn’t come with at least a large spoonful of sympathy. “Aw, I carried my load all right, didn’t I?”
“So Burt told me,” Sally answered neutrally. She agreed with Smoke that excessive pampering made weak children.
“Then you—you don’t need to put that stuff on so much,” Bobby complained, wondering if coming here was such a hot idea after all.
Smoke Jensen rode back into Merced shortly before nightfall. Already the steady efforts of the people had made inroads into the devastation brought on by Gustavo Carvajal. He found Carbone and Martine at the resurrected cantina. Starlight gleamed through the burned-out roof by the time they had heard a report of his visit to Carvajal’s camp. Carbone chortled at the messages Smoke had left for the bandit king.
“That ought to drive out any sanity left,” he remarked. “I especially like that part about being his Cortez. Any lunatic who thinks he is Montezuma will have a fit over that. Seriously, though, can we get at him? Can we hurt him?”
“Oh, yes,” Smoke said with satisfaction. “What we must do first is get those women out of camp. No doubt Carvajal intends to sell them to the brothels. They have to be safely away before we do any real damage to El Rey. I think the three of us are best suited to that job.”
“Like the old days, eh, amigo?” Carbone recalled.
“Right. Only this time we don’t go in shooting. More about that later. Now, do either of you have access to any dynamite?”
“No,” Martine responded. “It is expensive and not too popular in Mexico. We can get Gigante.”
The large-grain black powder was not as powerful as dynamite. Smoke was well familiar with it. Done in grains bigger than No. 3 mortar powder, the explosive had been used for many years by miners and others before Nobel came up with the idea of stabilizing nitroglycerine with sawdust. Smoke nodded his approval.
“Be sure to get plenty of caps and fuse too,” he advised. “What our volunteers lack in marksmanship, they can make up throwing blasting powder into that camp.”
“You are so ... inventive, amigo,” Martine complimented the mountain man.
“Trying to earn my keep,” Smoke deprecated. “We’ll set off charges once we get out of Carvajal’s camp. Gather the men and tell them what is in store. We’ll leave at once and infiltrate the valley tomorrow night.”
“None too soon, believe me,” Carbone allowed.
While they addressed the small force of volunteers, a hatless rider rushed into the village shouting for Martine. He hurried up to them on a lathered horse.
“Don Miguel, there is terrible news. That bastardo, Carvajal, and his army have been seen riding toward your hacienda. It is feared they will attack it.”
“They’re certainly not coming to surrender,” Martine observed, his anger rising.
Smoke Jensen thought fast. “I’ll take half the men and head that way. With them out in the open, it will be easy pickings. We can cut down the odds, too.”
“I’ll go along, of course,” Martine stated.
“I counted on that,” Smoke told him. “Let’s get going. The sooner we reach your headquarters, the sooner we can hurt Carvajal.”
They came out of the rising sun. Fifty hard-bitten men and Gustavo Carvajal. Rudolfo Malendez saw them first. He scratched his gray hair and rose from his resting place against the tree trunk. One of the bandit army killed him with a knife. The sheep Malendez had watched through the night made tiny, frightened sounds and scattered from under the hoofs of the horses.
“This is going to be easy,” Pedro Chacon boasted. “These people are like the sheep they tend. Baaabaaa!”
Father Xavier had just finished reading a passage in his brevery and set about lighting oil lamps in the small chapel when the sound of approaching hoofs drew his attention. Could it be the Patrón returning? He swung open the tall, wooden portal and stepped onto the wide landing in time to catch a bullet in the chest.
He staggered and fell, sprawling on the three low steps at the front of the church. Immediately the bandits opened up, firing through windows and open doorways of the ten small two-room adobe houses around the high wall of the hacienda. Death and fire had come to Rancho Pasaje.
Women and children screamed in fright. An old man, the former gatekeeper of the main house, snatched up a shotgun and blasted the life from one hardcase. He broke the single-barrel weapon, and aged fingers trembled with the urgency he put behind reloading. Three .45 slugs smacked into him and ended his efforts. Pedro Chacon watched smoke curl from the muzzle of his six-gun and grinned broadly.
“Didn’t I tell you? Easier than rabbits.”
Twenty men, with Carvajal in the lead, went directly to the hacienda. They found the wrought-iron gate closed against them, along with the high, double-panel door. Carvajal did not waste time trying to breach this obstruction.
“Get ladders. We go over the walls,” he commanded.
“Why are we taking the risk of going in here?” Tomas Diaz asked. “Just to burn it?”
“No. I have something special in mind. That’s why I have the best men with me. I sent Pedro Chacon to round up the girls and young women. I expect he’ll amuse himself with a few of them while he’s at it. I can trust you and these others to hold your fire when I say so.”
“‘Hold our fire’?”
“Yes, my loyal Tomas. We are going to take prisoners inside this oh-so-fine hacienda.”
Several bandidos returned with ladders, and the picked men swarmed up and over the walls. A brief rattle of gunfire followed; then the doors and gate were swung open. Carvajal entered, swaggering. Three white cotton-clad bodies lay on the ground, diminished in death. He waved an arm to illustrate his instructions.
“Secure the patio, dig out the servants. Tomas, you and I will go visit the lady of the house.”
They found her door bolted against them. “Go away,” a feminine voice demanded from inside. “I have a gun in here, and I’ll use it.”
“Go get something to use as a ram. Bring four men back with you,” Carvajal ordered.
Tomas hurried off on the errand. Meanwhile, Carvajal studied the stout oak door. It would take some effort. Well worth it, though, he considered. Curious, he strode along the hallway. The door next to the master bedroom yielded to a stout kick.
She sat in the middle of the bed, sheet and blanket gathered around her. Big-eyed, the girl of six or so had a hand over her mouth and tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Would you like to take a trip with me, little one?” Carvajal asked pleasantly. Solemnly, she shook her head no. “Oh, come, we’ll have a lot of good times.”
From the hallway, the sound of the men employing the ram interrupted his game of cat and mouse. Carvajal gave her a cheery wave and returned to her mother’s room. The muffled report of a firearm came between the crashes of the ram. The bullet sent a shower of splinters from the face of the door and struck one young bandit in the chest.
He winced and looked down, then plucked the spent slug from his leather vest. “That’s a thick door,” he observed, then went back to hurling the ram.
El Rey del Norte quickly became bored and impatient at the efforts to breach the portal into Señora Martine’s room. He prowled the hallway, hands behind his back, the long, split-tail coat of his general’s uniform flapping against his calves. He stopped at one door and flung it open.
A brown-faced boy of seven hurtled at him, a tiny dagger in one hand. Laughing, Carvajal grabbed the lad by his extended wrist and yanked him off his bare feet. “So,” he chortled. “You inherited your father’s talent with weapons, niño. I like to see high spirits in a boy.” He took the knife from limp fingers and sat the child on his feet. “You are going on a long trip with us. Go get dressed.”
“I won’t!” the boy shouted defiance.
Carvajal gave him a sound swat on the rump that sent him staggering into the room. “Do as I say.”
From the inner courtyard came the wails of women servants and pleas for mercy. Ruthlessly, the bandits slaughtered the older ones, reserving the younger for a different fate. Highly satisfied, El Rey paced back through the hall, located the third of Martine’s children and put them in the charge of Tomas.
“We’ll be leaving soon,” he advised. He paused, snapped his fingers. “Martine y Ruiz will have heard of this. He will come. We leave a rear guard of twenty men to give him a small surprise, eh?”
“That will be most fitting, Excellency,” Tomas agreed.
“Fine. Bring the women and the brats, and we will head for our camp.”