The Three Mercenaries Page 3

“You mean he didn’t react?”

  “I told him Juanito had been shot and was at the doctor’s office.”

  “And how did he react?”

  “That’s what worries me,” Sheriff Calderon said, snagging another taco. “He didn’t react. He just headed for the doctor’s office.”

  “Maybe he’s waiting to see what kind of condition his son is in before he decides how to react.”

  Clint was used to having people “react” to the moment. Montoya seemed to be the kind of man who thought before he reacted.

  Clint grabbed another taco even though he’d told the sheriff the rest were his. They were just too good. At that moment Carmelita appeared with another platter and set it on the bar between them. Then she went back into the kitchen. Rodrigo was waiting on the occupied tables.

  “Do you think I should go and see Señor Montoya?” Clint asked the lawman.

  “No, señor, I do not think that would be a good idea,” Calderon said. “You should let him come to you, after he has seen Juanito.”

  “Do you think he’ll let this go when he hears what happened?”

  “Again, and sadly, no,” Calderon said. “For one thing, Juanito will tell him a different story. And there were no witnesses to the shooting, so Señor Montoya will have to decide who to believe, you or his son.”

  “But he knows the kind of young man his son is.”

  “Sí, he does,” the lawman said, “but he is still his son.”

  “So he’ll side with him.”

  Calderon shrugged.

  “That is what family does.”

  “You know if they come after me, I’ll have to defend myself.”

  “I understand, señor.”

  “And that I can’t run?”

  “I also understand,” Calderon said. “You cannot have the word spread that the Gunsmith ran from a fight.”

  Rodrigo came back to the bar and gave each man a fresh beer.

  “Gracias, amigo,” Calderon said.

  “Do you want to sit?” Rodrigo asked the lawman. “Carmelita can bring out a full meal.”

  “No, gracias,” Calderon said. “I must go back to my office. I believe Señor Montoya will be coming back there to make his intentions known.” He grabbed two more tacos to take with him. “Señor, I would be very, very careful.”

  “I will,” Clint said.

  “When I have spoken to Señor Montoya, and I know his intentions, I will let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  Calderon left the cantina and Clint wondered if he was going to be able to trust the man. He was being very helpful to a stranger for some reason.

  Why?

  EIGHT

  Inocencio Montoya entered the doctor’s office with his younger son, Pablo, behind him.

  “Find the doctor,” he said to his son.

  “Sí, Papa.”

  Pablo went to a door and opened it, looked inside.

  “He is here, Papa, with Juanito.”

  “Hey!” someone shouted from inside the room. “Shut that door!”

  Montoya moved to the doorway, saw the sixtyish sawbones leaning over his boy, who was lying on his back on a table.

  “Doctor, I need to speak to my son.”

  “Well,” the doctor said, “I need to tend to this wound, so close that door and I’ll be out in a little while.”

  “Is he all right?” Montoya asked. “Will he live?”

  “If you close that door and let me do my job, yes,” the doctor said.

  Montoya grunted, stepped back, and said to Pablo, “Close the door.”

  “Sí, Papa.”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later the door reopened and the doctor came out.

  “Doctor,” Montoya said, “how is he?”

  “He has a fairly serious shoulder injury,” the doctor said. “I don’t think he’ll be handling a gun for some time—but he’ll live.”

  “It is the right shoulder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Papa,” Pablo said, leaning into his father’s ear, “that is his gun—”

  “I know that, damn it!” Montoya snapped. “Can I take him home?”

  “In a little while, yes,” the doctor said. “I’d like him to stay where he is for a while. It was a fairly substantial wound and I wanted to make sure it won’t start bleeding again.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “Pablo,” Montoya said, “pay the doctor while I talk to your brother.”

  “Sí, Papa.”

  Montoya went into the other room. Juanito was still stretched out on the table. He turned his head and looked at his father.

  “Papa—”

  “Callate!” he shouted, telling his son to shut up. “Speak only to answer my questions.”

  “Sí, Papa,” Juanito said weakly.

  Montoya walked to the table and towered over his son, glaring down at him.

  “What did you do?” he demanded. “Idiot!”

  “Papa . . . he shot me.”

  “After you forced him to.”

  “No—”

  “You went after him when I told you not to,” Montoya said. “Isn’t that right?”

  “No, Papa—”

  Montoya slapped his son on the head.

  “Ow!”

  “Do not lie to me!” Montoya growled. “If I am going to be forced to kill this man, I must know the true reason why.”

  “Papa—”

  “Tell me what happened, Juanito,” Montoya said. “Everything!”

  Juanito sighed and said, “Sí, Papa. I went to the livery stable . . .”

  * * *

  Clint remained at the bar, snacking on tacos and beer, while Carmelita and her husband took care of their customers. Some of them were curious about the gringo at the bar; others had heard about the shooting and wondered if he was the man.

  He stayed at the bar, expecting the sheriff to come back, or Montoya to show up, but by closing time neither of them had appeared.

  Rodrigo locked the front door, then turned to look at Clint.

  “Would you like anything else, señor?”

  “No, Rodrigo,” Clint said. “You and Carmelita have done enough. Just finish doing what you have to do each night.”

  “I must clean up in here while Carmelita cleans the kitchen.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Oh, no, señor,” Rodrigo said, “you are our guest. Please, just finish your beer—”

  “No more beer,” Carmelita said, coming out of the kitchen. She was carrying a pot of coffee and a mug.

  “Great idea,” Clint said happily.

  She set the pot and mug on the bar, removed the dregs of his last beer.

  “You can drink it here, señor, or take it back to your room.”

  “I’ll stay here,” he said. “I don’t want to make a mess in the room.”

  “Rodrigo,” she shouted, and then went on in Spanish. He waved with the rag he was using to clean the tables, and she went back into the kitchen.

  “What did she say?” Clint asked.

  “Oh,” Rodrigo said, “she scolded me and told me to make sure I took care of our guest.”

  “You’ve both been very hospitable,” Clint said. “I appreciate it very much.”

  “It is an honor to have you here, señor,” Rodrigo said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must get a broom.”

  “Then I think I will take this coffee with me to my room,” Clint said. “Good night, Rodrigo.”

  “See you mañana, señor.”

  Clint took the pot and the mug and went to his room.

  NINE

  Inocencio Montoya looked up from his desk at the male members of his family. Spread out in front of hi
m were his son Pablo; his brother, Francisco; his brother’s sons, Manuel and Sebastián; the sons of his six sisters; several second and third cousins; as well as some distant relatives.

  His older son, Juanito, was up in his room, in bed, sleeping and healing, being tended to by Montoya’s wife. The woman was overwrought when they brought her son home, and refused to leave his side.

  “You all know what has happened.”

  “Sí, the gringo, Clint Adams, shot Juanito,” Pablo said.

  Montoya glared at his son, who subsided.

  “Juanito was foolish enough to face the Gunsmith in a gunfight. He was an idiot! And he was shot. He is lucky he was not killed. The gringo could have killed him easily, if he wanted to. I must give the gringo my gratitude for that . . . just before I kill him.”

  “Papa?”

  “He shot Juanito,” Montoya said. “Whatever the reason was, he must pay.”

  “With his life, Inocencio?” Francisco asked, looking doubtful.

  “But with what else, my brother?” Montoya said. “How else would he pay?”

  No one had an answer. None of them wanted to contradict the head of the family.

  “We will all back you, my brother,” Francisco assured him. “When will we do it?”

  Montoya sat back in his chair and sighed.

  “I will talk to the gringo, and then make my decision,” he said. “That is all. I will say good night to you now.”

  Slowly, the men all began to file from the room. At the end, only Pablo and Francisco remained.

  “Pablo,” Montoya said. “Go to bed.”

  “But Papa—”

  “Go!”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Pablo left the room. That left Inocencio alone with his brother.

  “Is this a wise decision, Inocencio?” Francisco asked.

  “What would you have me do?” Montoya asked. “What would you do if it was one of your sons?”

  “My sons are neither so foolhardy nor so brave as Juanito.”

  “Brave,” Montoya said, “yes, he is brave . . . too brave for his own good. But still . . . if it was your son, would you let it be?”

  Francisco, several years younger than the sixty-year-old Montoya, still had dark hair and beard, while his brother had gone gray many years ago. Perhaps it was the difference in their sons that had driven him gray.

  “I suppose I would do the same thing,” he said finally. “But you cannot do it alone.”

  “I am not so foolish to think I can stand against a man like the Gunsmith alone,” Montoya said. “That is why I gathered the entire family.”

  “I do not think you should even go and speak with him alone,” Francisco said. “I will go with you.”

  Montoya smiled at his brother.

  “You think your cooler head will keep me from doing something foolish?”

  Now it was Francisco’s turn to smile.

  “Perhaps you are right,” Montoya said. “Very well, then. We will go and see the Gunsmith together.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Montoya said.

  “Do we have breakfast first?”

  Montoya smiled at that.

  “We will have breakfast with the Gunsmith,” he said. “At Carmelita’s.”

  TEN

  Clint woke up in the morning with no direct sunlight coming through the tiny window. His room was in the rear of the building, facing west. Still, his instincts told him it was time for breakfast. That and his stomach.

  He used the pitcher-and-basin Rodrigo had supplied him with to wash up, dressed, and went down the hall into the cantina.

  There were already customers in Carmelita’s for breakfast. Clint was happy to see that. He was concerned that they didn’t do enough business. Apparently, breakfast was a busy time for them.

  The four tables were occupied, so he went to the bar.

  “Ah, good morning, señor,” Rodrigo said. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Very well, Rodrigo, thanks.”

  “Do you want some coffee while you wait for a table?” Rodrigo asked.

  “I don’t need a table, Rodrigo,” Clint said. “I’ll eat right here.”

  “What would you like, señor?”

  “Whatever you want to bring me, I’ll eat,” Clint said.

  Rodrigo smiled and said, “I will tell Carmelita to make something special. Start with this.” He poured Clint a mug of strong black coffee.

  “Gracias,” Clint said.

  Rodrigo went into the kitchen, came out with both arms loaded with plates, which he distributed around the room.

  On his next trip to and from the kitchen, he brought out a huge platter of breakfast burritos for Clint and set them down on the bar.

  “Dar gusto!” he said.

  “Gracias,” Clint said again, and dug in.

  He watched as people ate with enjoyment, left, and gave their tables up to more people who ate that way. Everyone smiled and greeted Rodrigo like a friend, and he treated them the same way.

  Clint was halfway through his platter of burritos when two men entered the cantina, and all conversation stopped. Rodrigo turned and stared at the doorway, his eyes widening.

  “Why do you look so surprised, Rodrigo?” Inocencio Montoya said.

  “Señor Montoya,” he said. “I—I did not expect to see you.”

  “Are my brother and I not welcome as customers in your establishment?”

  “No, no, of course you are welcome,” Rodrigo said.

  Clint thought this conversation was being held in English for his benefit.

  “I will get you a table—”

  “No need,” Montoya said. “My brother and I will eat at the bar, alongside Señor Adams.”

  The two men strolled to the bar and stood next to Clint, who was encouraged that they had not flanked him.

  “Señor Adams, you remember me?” Montoya asked.

  “Of course I do, Señor Montoya,” he said.

  “This is my younger brother, Francisco.”

  “Señor,” Clint said.

  Francisco Montoya nodded.

  “Rodrigo,” Montoya said, “we will have what the señor is having. It looks delicious.”

  “Sí, señor,” Rodrigo said, “I will tell my wife.”

  Before he went to the kitchen, however, he poured them each a cup of coffee.

  “Señor Montoya,” Clint said, “allow me to tell you how much I regret what happened between your son and me yesterday. I’m afraid he gave me no choice.”

  “I am sure he did not, señor,” Montoya said. “I must thank you for not killing him. It would probably have been easy for you. Juanito fancies himself a . . . a pistolero . . . but he is no match for you.”

  “I was happy I could avoid it,” Clint said, wondering where this conversation was heading.

  The two men drank their coffee, and when Rodrigo appeared quickly with a platter of breakfast burritos, they began to eat with great gusto. But Clint was sure they had not come for his apology, or to express gratitude and have breakfast with him. Something else was coming.

  “How is your son, by the way?” Clint asked.

  “He is recovering,” Montoya said. “His mother is tending to him. I have to tell you, she wants very much for me to kill you.”

  “Well . . .” Clint said. “She is his mother, after all.”

  “I am glad you understand,” Montoya said.

  “Of course I do—”

  “Then you will understand that, as his father, I also want to kill you,” Montoya said. “In fact, I intend to kill you.”

  Clint sipped his coffee and tried to appear nonchalant.

  “Is that what you came here to do?” he asked. “Warn me?”

  “No, no, señor,” Montoya said. “I am not warning yo
u. I am expressing to you a fact. For shooting my son Juanito, I will kill you. I must.”

  ELEVEN

  “Oh,” Montoya went on, “not here, not now. Enjoy your breakfast, please . . . but soon.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why?” Clint asked. “You know he gave me no choice.”

  “I understand,” Montoya said. “He was headstrong, stupid even. But he is still my son. And I have a reputation to protect, as you do.”

  “I don’t care about my reputation.”

  “But of course you do,” Montoya said. “If you were to run from a fight with someone like my son, that would not have been good for your reputation. Others would come looking for you.”

  “They come looking anyway.”

  “But they would come in droves, señor!” Montoya said. “No, no, you could not afford that. Just as I cannot afford to just let you leave town after shooting my son. Do you understand?”

  “I’m afraid I do, señor.”

  “Ah, good, good,” Montoya said. “Then you must also understand that I am not as foolish as my son. I will not come after you alone.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” Clint said, looking past Montoya at Francisco.

  “Oh, with my brother, yes,” Montoya said, “but also with the rest of my family. You see, there is the family honor to uphold.”

  “I see.”

  “And please understand,” Montoya said, “I am not happy about this. This gives me no joy. I am very upset with my son for putting me in this position.”

  “No doubt.”

  “You are a very understanding man, señor.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “we are grown men, are we not?”

  “Sí, sí,” Montoya said, “we are grown men.”

  “So then you’ll understand when I give you a warning,” Clint said.

  “Señor?”

  “If you come after me with your whole family, I will not be as understanding as I was with your son,” Clint said. “I will have to kill to protect myself.”

  “Sí, sí,” Montoya said, “I understand this.”

  “Does he understand it?” Clint asked, indicating Montoya’s brother. “I’ll have to kill you, your other son, him, and his sons.”

  “All of us, señor?” Montoya asked doubtfully. “Really?”