William Johnstone - Battle of the Mountain Man

The man froze in his tracks and Ignacio was sure it was fear that made him so still.

“You called my name?” the cowboy asked, both hands relaxed at his sides.

“ Si , and I am calling you a yellow coward. You killed some of mi amigos . I have come to make you pay for what you did.”

“You’d better be good,” the stranger said, his voice relaxed and even.

“But I am, senor. Very good. Muy bueno con una pistola . I am faster than you.”

“I reckon you’re gonna try to prove it now.”

“ Verdad . This is the truth. I will kill you for what you did.”

Jensen gave him a one-sided grin, unusual for a man who was about to be gunned down.

“Lots of men have tried it over the years. You can see I’m still here.”

“But none were as fast as me, senor.” Ignacio raised his hand slightly closer to the butt of his gun, “Of that I am quite sure.”

“Only one way to find out,” Jensen replied. “Reach for that iron you’re carryin’ and we’ll decide this here and now.”

Now Ignacio grinned. “You are a fool, senor. Un idiota . You do not know who I am.”

“I don’t give a damn who you are. Just go for your gun and it won’t matter about the name.”

Ignacio noticed an odd, icy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “I am Ignacio Valdez,” he said, “the man who will put you in your grave.”

“I’ve already invited you to try it,” Jensen said. “Any time you’re ready.”

“You are indeed one loco hombre, Senor Jensen, You are too stupid to be afraid.”

“What’s there to be afraid of? Some Mexican pistolero who calls himself Ignacio Valdez?”

“Are you not afraid of dying, serior?”

“It ain’t been proven yet I’m the one who’s gonna die when we go for our guns. It could work out another way.”

Ignacio stared into the eyes of the stranger to these parts, and he wondered about him. His stare was unwavering, and he was so sure of himself.

Ignacio’s hand dipped for his pistol. His fingers closed around his gun grips. As he was pulling the heavy .44/.40 from its holster, he saw a sight that made his blood run cold.

Jensen came up with a gleaming Colt .44 in his right hand so quickly it did not seem possible, and for an instant Ignacio was looking down its,barrel, a dark round hole the size of his little finger. No man could be so fast, he thought as his own fist came up filled with iron.

The dark muzzle of Jensen’s gun shot forth a beacon of white light that was accompanied by a loud banging noise. Ignacio’s finger curled around the gun’s trigger, tightening, when it felt like he’d been struck in the ribs by a hammer blow.

The force of the impact drove him backward a half step at the same moment he triggered off a shot into the ground near his boots. He glanced down, seeing tiny tufts of lint arise from a puckering hole in his shirtfront. A trickle of blood came from the hole… Ignacio’s blood. His ears were ringing from the pair of gunshots.

“ Madre !” he cried, trying to keep his feet under him when it seemed the earth was tilting at odd angles.

“You were too slow,” a voice said in front of him. “I gave you the first pull.”

Ignacio sank to his knees, his mind reeling. He barely noticed when his pistol fell from his hand. How could this have happened, he wondered. How could Jensen be faster than Emiliano Zambrano, the fastest gun in all of northern Mexico?

“ Bastardo ,” Ignacio spat angrily, waves of pain spreading across his chest. He looked up at Jensen, and he found the man smiling again.

“It’s all in the wrist,” Jensen explained, as if he were talking about the proper way to shoe a horse.

“Your wrist was too stiff. You gotta learn to bend it some, only I don’t figure you’ll have the time now.”

Ignacio saw himself as a small boy playing beside a creek in Torreon, a creek very similar to this one. He had skipped rocks there as a child. He knew his mind was wandering.

“Adios, Valdez,” Jensen said. “That slug caught you in a bad place. You’re bleedin’ like a stuck hog at butcherin’ time right now. I don’t figure you’ll last long.”

“ Bastardo ,” he said again, reaching for his wound with both hands to stem the flow of blood.

“I’d take offense to you callin’ me a bastard,” Jensen said, “if you wasn’t already dyin’.”

Ignacio’s vision blurred. He rocked forward on his knees and fell on his face, wondering if Jessie Evans had any idea how fast this Jensen was with a handgun… faster than any gunman Ignacio had ever seen… much faster than Emiliano Zambrano, Thirty

Two cowboys came galloping over the hilltop, their horses at full speed under the punishment of spurs, pistols drawn as they rode for the creek bank where Smoke stood over the body of the Mexican. Pearlie and Duke slowed their mounts when they could see the trouble was over. Both men pulled their horses to a halt a few yards from the stream.

“We heard shootin’!” Pearlie declared, glancing down at the body. “Don’t need no crystal ball to know that’s one of Jessie Evans’s men.”

Smoke holstered his gun. “Said his name was Ignacio Valdez, an’ that name should mean somethin’.”

Pearlie wagged his head and put his pistol away. “Means it’s gonna be hard to spell fer some undertaker when he puts it on his tombstone.” He gave Smoke a weak grin. “I figure it’s gonna be like this plumb to the Colorado border. I knowed we couldn’t just drive them cows peaceful all the way to Sugarloaf the way Cletus was hopin’ we could. I told Cletus last night to make damn sure his guns was loaded.”

Duke was last to rid his hand of a gun. “We heard two shots real close together.”

Smoke looked over his shoulder at Valdez. “He damn near shot himself in the foot just a moment ago. Had his pistol in the cocked position when he drew it, I’ve known a few gents who did without a toe or two the rest of their lives on account of that same bad habit.”

Duke chuckled. “I’ve never claimed to be much of a gunnie, but it don’t appear Mr. Valdez was much of one either.”

Smoke turned to collect his horse. “He was fast by most men’s standards, I suppose. He just wasn’t quite fast enough.”

Pearlie frowned. “That hired gun of Chisum’s, the one they call Buck, said to watch out fer a feller ridin’ with Evans by the name of Bill Pickett. An older feller, Buck said. Pickett is rattlesnake mean, accordin’ to Buck, an’ quicker’n greased lightnin’ with a pistol, only Buck claimed Pickett prefers usin’ a sawed-off shotgun.”

Nothing Pearlie said caused Smoke any worry as he mounted his bay Palouse colt. “A man with a sawed-off shotgun has to be mighty close to a target, Pearlie. Could mean his eyesight is a little on the bad side. If he crosses the road we’re takin’ to Big Rock, I’ll buy him a pair of spectacles so they can bury him with ’em on.”

Duke pointed to the body of Ignacio Valdez. “What you want us to do with that corpse, Mr. Jensen?” he asked.

“Not a damn thing. Let the buzzards and coyotes have a meal out of him. Scout around and find his horse. It won’t be far, an’ I’d hate to leave an animal tied up till it starves to death or breaks its reins. When Valdez don’t show up wherever Evans is waitin’ for him, he’ll come looking for him. And us. We can be sure of more gunplay sooner or later. Evans will likely bring this Pickett and anybody else he can hire. Like it or not, we’ve gotten ourselves into the middle of the Lincoln County War, just because we bought a herd of cattle from John Chisum.”

“I figured all along we’d have to shoot our way out of here,” Pearlie said, wheeling his horse away from the stream and the body. He spoke to Duke. “Look fer that horse whilst I git back to the herd. Ain’t nobody ridin’ point now an’ they’s sure liable to wander.” Then he noticed Smoke was looking off to the west.