Destiny Of The Mountain Man Read online

  “Why don’t you ask Sally?” a soft, feminine voice said from just behind Smoke.

  Sally had entered without anyone seeing her and was standing just to one side of the table. All the men around the table stood.

  “Sally, I didn’t see you come in,” Smoke said, pulling out a chair for her.

  Sally stepped around the table and took the chair. “What trip are you talking about?” she asked.

  Ever the diplomat, Louis asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea, Sally?”

  “Why, thank you, Louis. I would very much appreciate a cup of Andre’s wonderful coffee.”

  While Louis poured, Sally looked at Smoke. “Go on, dear, you were just about to tell me about the trip you are taking,” she said sweetly.

  “You remember that man that worked for Governor Gilpin that I told you about, the one that got me and Preacher our pardons?”

  “Uh-huh,” Sally said, taking her cup from Andre.

  “It seems he’s in a spot of trouble and he’s asked me to come down to Texas and help him out of it.”

  “Texas?”

  “Yeah, down around Corpus Christi, right near the Mexican border.”

  She nodded slowly. “And you feel you owe this man a debt for what he did for you and Preacher?”

  Smoke shrugged. “I guess just about everything I have now is due to him in one way or another, Sally. If he hadn’t gotten me my pardon, I’d never have been able to settle down and stay in one place for any length of time. I would have never even met you.”

  She nodded again, finished her cup of coffee, and got to her feet. “Then it’s settled. We simply must go help this man out of his trouble, whatever it is.”

  Smoke grinned and got up also. “Sally, I knew you’d underst . . . wait a minute. Did you say we?”

  “Yes,” Sally mused as she got her purse together over her arm. “Texas should be very nice this time of the year. It’s spring and the wildflowers will be blooming. As a matter of fact, I’m looking forward to going.”

  “But Sally,” Smoke protested.

  “Come along, dear,” Sally said. “It’s time we got home and packed for the trip.”

  After they’d left, Monte Carson and Louis Longmont looked at each other with open mouths.

  “What a magnificent woman!” Longmont said.

  Carson nodded. “Yep. She’s a pistol all right.”

  Louis walked over to the batwings and looked out to see Sally driving the buckboard and Smoke riding alongside as they started back toward Sugarloaf.

  “Poor Smoke looks like he doesn’t know what hit him,” Louis said. He turned back toward Sheriff Carson, and smiled. “Can I interest you in a game of chance?”

  Carson stood up quickly, again grimacing. “Uh, no,” he said. “I’d better get back to work.”

  “Coward,” Louis challenged with a little laugh. It was clearly understood by all that the word coward referred only to Carson’s refusal to play cards with him.

  Back at the Sugarloaf, Smoke finally relented and quit trying to talk Sally out of making the trip with him. After all, how dangerous could it be? Whatever trouble Kleberg was in, Smoke could leave Sally in town at a nice hotel while he worked on it and she’d be perfectly safe. Besides, he could take Cal and Pearlie with him, and if there were any serious trouble in the region, he could have them watch Sally while he concentrated on the bad guys and extricating Kleberg from whatever jam he’d gotten himself into.

  They made arrangements to take the train to Corpus Christi, and Smoke decided to bring their horses and extra gear with them by renting an entire cattle car. He had no idea what kind of mounts would be available that far south, but he knew he could depend on the big Palouse studs when the chips were down.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Concepcion sat baking in the sun like a lizard on a hot rock, its dirt-colored adobe buildings rising from the ground as if they were an occurrence of nature, rather than man-made. The little village was built in a square around the Catholic church, which, as in most of the little Mexican villages in this part of Texas, was the most prominent building. A well in the center square provided water for the entire town. When Brandt and his riders came to within a mile of the town, he held up his hand to halt his troops.

  “There it is,” he said. “Concepcion.”

  “You’ll pardon me for sayin’ so, Major, but that sure don’t look like much of a town to me,” Stone said.

  “It’s just right for our purposes,” Brandt replied. “It’ll have food, water, liquor, and whores to keep the men occupied. And it’s far enough away from King’s ranch so as not to be discovered accidentally, but close enough that it will be real easy for us to get down there, do our business, then leave. This will be our headquarters.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  “You’re looking at the sheriff,” Brandt said.

  “You?” Stone asked in surprise. “You are the sheriff?”

  Brandt took his canteen from his pommel, then pulled the cork.

  “Not yet, but I soon will be,” he answered, just before turning the canteen up to take a drink.

  Two children were squatting on the edge of town. A scorpion was between them, and they were teasing the creature, laughing every time the scorpion’s tail would lash toward the sticks they were holding. One of the children saw the riders approaching, and he pointed. It was so unusual to see this many riders that he and his friend both stood to examine this phenomenon more closely. They forgot about their game with the scorpion, and the venomous arachnid scampered off to safety the moment its two tormentors were distracted.

  By the time Brandt and his men reached the edge of town, several of its 107 residents, more than half of whom were Mexican, had learned of the arrival, either by the shouts of others, or in some cases by the sound of hoofbeats from the sixty horses. In pairs and small groups, they left their homes and places of business to watch in interest, and some anxiety, as the riders approached. There had not been this many riders coming through town since the war, and because these men were riding in the same, orderly formation, some wondered if another war had begun.

  The Catholic priest, Padre Julio Gonzales, came out of his little church and stood at the side of the well, watching the riders arrive, wondering how their arrival might affect his people. The riders came all the way into the center square before Brandt held up his hand.

  “Troop, halt!” he called.

  His men, riding in a well-maintained military column of twos, stopped. The little cloud of dust that had accompanied their entrance into the town, drifted away on the hot breath of air.

  Padre Gonzales hurried out to address the obvious leader of the riders.

  “Puedo ayudar, señor?”

  “What?”

  “I am sorry, excuse the Spanish. I asked if I may be of some help.”

  “Sergeant, dismiss the men,” Brandt said.

  Stone stood in the stirrups and looked back over the men.

  “Troop dismissed!” he called.

  The men, who until that moment had been as disciplined as any army, let out a yell, dismounted, and started moving toward the two drinking establishments in town, one Mexican cantina and one American saloon.

  Brandt walked over to the well, where a half-filled bucket and dipper sat on the stone wall that encircled the well. Scooping up water with the dipper, he took off his hat and poured it over his head. As it cascaded down, it left rivulets in the trail dirt that was caked over him.

  He turned the second scoop of the dipper up to his mouth, and took a deep, Adam’s-apple-bobbing drink, with water pouring from the edge the cup and running down his chin and onto his shirt. Not until his thirst was slaked did he respond to the padre’s question.

  “Yeah, you can help me,” he said. “Has this town got a sheriff?”

  The padre’s face brightened into a smile. If the stranger was looking for the sheriff, then he couldn’t mean them any harm.

  “Sí, el sheriff. Su oficina está
ahí.”

  “Speak American, you pig-faced bastard,” Brandt ordered.

  The smile left the padre’s face and with an expression of hurt and controlled anger, he pointed to the sheriff ’s office.

  “Come with me,” Brandt said to Stone. As they started toward the building the padre had pointed out, they heard a woman scream, and a man shouting curses.

  “Ésa es mi esposa! That is my wife! What are you doing, Señor?”

  The man’s protest was cut short by a blow to his head from a pistol barrel.

  “Sounds like the men are beginning to get settled in,” Stone said with an evil chuckle.

  Without a second thought as to what the men might be doing, Brandt and Stone continued toward a low-lying adobe building that had a sign over a door reading LA OFICINA DE SHERIFF, and another sign that read SHERIFF’S OFFICE.

  Brandt drew his sword, looked over at Stone, and nodded. Stone drew his pistol, then kicked the door open.

  “Qué es esto?” the sheriff shouted, standing up from behind his desk. His deputy stood up as well.

  “A change of command,” Brandt said, whipping his sword around. The sheriff’s severed head bounced on the desk, then fell to the floor. The headless body fell backward gushing blood from a truncated neck.

  “Madre de Dios!” the deputy said, looking on in shock. It was the last thing he ever said because Stone shot him dead.

  “Find the undertaker,” Brandt said. “Have him get these bodies out of here.” Brandt sat down behind the desk, then put his feet up. “This will be our command post,” he said.

  Despite its Spanish name, which meant Red Cat, the Gato Rojo was the American saloon in the small town. And while others in the town were frightened by the sudden appearance of so many Americans, Carl Kunz was doing a booming business. Right now nearly forty men were crowded into his place of business, standing at the bar, or sitting at the tables. To Kunz’s delight, they ordered food, drink, and from time to time, took one of the women into the little lean-to room at the back of the building.

  In the time Brandt had been here, he and his men had taken over the town. The women of the town were staying in their homes, too frightened to go out into the street. Those who did go out were literally taking their lives into their own hands, especially today, because two of Brandt’s men were standing at the batwing doors of the Gato Rojo, taking potshots at anyone who ventured onto the street. They weren’t trying to kill them. They were just coming as close to them as they could, without hitting them.

  One of the men fired.

  BANG!

  “Ha! Did you see that son of a bitch jump? I’ll bet you he crapped in his pants.”

  “You weren’t all that close,” the other one said. “Watch this.”

  BANG!

  The sound of a gunshot filled the saloon.

  Kunz moved from one end of the long, rough-hewn bar to the other, answering the demands of the men as they ordered beer, tequila, or whiskey. He knew that he should resent them for being in his town and frightening his neighbors the way they were. He knew, also, that they had burglarized some of the stores in town, just taking what they wanted. But for some reason, here in the saloon, they were paying for their goods and services, including even the whores. And Kunz got one half of what the whores got. Maybe it was wrong of him, but realistically, what could he do? He was just one man. There was no way he could stand up to them. So, if they were willing to pay him for his services, what was the harm?

  BANG!

  More laughter from the two men standing at the front door.

  The leader of the group, Jack Brandt, was a large man with long black hair, a black beard, and a scar that cut through, but did not obliterate, his right eye. He insisted upon being called Major. Brandt’s second in command was Wiley Stone, and he was called Sarge.

  Though they had taken over the sheriff’s office, both Brandt and Stone seemed to spend most of their time right here, in the Gato Rojo saloon.

  Sitting at the table with Brandt and Stone were Brad Preston, Three-Finger Bill Manning, and a young tough who called himself Waco Jones.

  “Hey, Kunz,” Stone called. “Bring me over ajar of them pickled pig’s feet.”

  “Yes, sir, Sarge, right away,” Kunz replied. Kunz brought over a jar and sat it on the table. Stone stuck his hand down into the vinegar and pulled out a pinkish-white pig’s foot, then began gnawing on it.

  BANG!

  “What the hell are they shooting at?” Manning asked.

  “Ah, don’t get so jumpy,” Preston said. “They’re just havin’ a little fun.” He watched Stone as he continued to gnaw on the pig’s foot. “How you can eat them pig’s feet is beyond me.”

  Stone merely smiled at him, took another bite, and smacked his lips in exaggerated appreciation.

  “It damn near makes me sick just to look at you,” Preston said.

  “That’s ’cause you never tried them,” Waco said. “Hell, I think they’re good. Fact is, I think I’ll have me one myself.” Waco stuck his hand down in the jar.

  “How the hell would you know what’s good? You’re still wet behind the ears,” Preston teased. “What are you now? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

  “I’m eighteen,” Waco said.

  “Tell me, Waco. How old was you when you had your first woman?” Preston asked. “Or have you even had yourself a woman yet?”

  “I’m not sure how old I was when I had my first woman, but I know that I killed my first man when I was fifteen,” Waco answered. He smiled at Preston, but it wasn’t a smile of mirth. “I killed the son of a bitch for raggin’ me,” he added pointedly.

  “Here, that’s enough of that,” Brandt said. “We have plenty of enemies without. We don’t need enemies within.”

  BANG!

  “I wasn’t fightin’,” Preston said. “And I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I was just havin’ a little fun, that’s all.”

  “I don’t like that kind of fun,” Waco said.

  “Hey, Major,” Stone said. “You reckon King has figured out yet that it’s us that hit him?”

  “I doubt it,” Brandt said. “I don’t think King is all that smart.”

  “He must be a little smart,” Manning said.

  The others glared at him.

  “I mean . . . to have a ranch that big,” Manning said. “He’d have to be a little smart for that, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Havin’ it is one thing,” Brandt said. “Keepin’ it is another. And by the time we get through with that son of a bitch, he won’t have two coppers to rub together.”

  BANG!

  “Hey, Major, what you got against this here feller King anyway?” Waco asked.

  “Do you know who King is?” Brandt asked.

  “Yeah, sure I know who he is. He is Captain Richard King, and he owns a big ranch,” Waco said. “But that don’t tell me what you got against him.”

  “Tell him, Stone,” Brandt ordered

  Stone had just taken a drink of beer, and flecks of foam were hanging in his mustache. He used his sleeve to wipe them away.

  “You wasn’t with us durin’ the war,” Stone said.

  “Hell, Sarge, ain’t nobody in this here whole bunch was with you then, but you’n the major,” Manning said. “And Waco here was so young then that he was still pissin’ in his pants.”

  “Yes, well, this man Captain King is the selfsame son of a bitch who got the major and me put in prison,” Stone said. “And we was doin’ no more than our duty. I mean, the son of a bitch was feedin’ the Confederate Army. That made him a legal target for our raid, far as I’m concerned. Only the guv’ment didn’t see it that way, and the reason they didn’t see it that way was because King is such a rich bastard, he bought ’em off.”

  BANG! “Ha!” one of the men at the front door shouted. “Did you see that? I knocked his hat off his head!”

  “So what. Them Mex’s wear big hats,” the other shooter said.

  “Well, hell, Major, if you got somethin�
�� against him, why don’t we just kill him?” Waco asked, continuing the conversation at the table. “You want me to kill him? I’ll kill him for you.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that. We’re goin’ to kill him, all right,” Brandt said. “But not until we break him. I want him to die a poor man.”

  “What’s our next move?” Manning asked.

  “We need to raise a little cash,” Brandt said. “I figure the next time we go back to Captain King’s ranch, we’ll cut out about two hundred head. One of the reasons I chose this town as our headquarters is that it is very close to the Mexican border and I’ve found a man who will pay us ten dollars a head for all the cattle we can bring to him.”

  “Ten dollars a head?” Preston asked. “Hell, Major, they’re paying three times that up in Kansas.”

  “And when they start the herd to Kansas, we’ll go along with them,” Brandt said. “But in the meantime, we need some operating money. Unless you have a couple thousand dollars you want to throw into the pot.”

  BANG!

  “I ain’t got no money,” Preston said. “Leastwise, nothin’ like that. All I got is about ten dollars.”

  “Then we will take the money where we can get it. Unless, maybe, you think you can run this outfit better than I can.”

  “You’re the boss, Major,” Preston said nervously. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by what I said. I was just talkin’, that’s all.”

  Like more than half of the men who were riding with Brandt, Preston had been in prison with him, though Preston had served only five years, while Brandt and Stone had each served over fifteen years.

  One of the two girls of the house came over to their table then. She couldn’t have been much over thirty-five, though the dissipation of her profession made her look much older. She was somewhat chubby, with stringy, unkempt hair. A couple of years ago a drunken customer had knocked out two of her teeth, giving her a gap-toothed smile. She was wearing a very low-cut camisole, over which spilled an overly generous pair of breasts.

  BANG!

  “Oh!” the woman said, jumping.