Triumph of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

you’ve gotta be quicker on the draw before you work on quick on the trigger.”
    It had embarrassed the youth, but it made him work harder and become better. In later years, his speed and accuracy with a six-gun would excel even that of his mentor. If Mac was only a quarter as good as Smoke had become, he could for sure hold his own.
    * * *
    Pablo Alvarado, third son of Diego Alvarado, strolled into the cool interior of the Bajo el Cielo de Mexico cantina in Taos during the busy noon hour. The ever-present muslin sheeting dropped white bellies from the rafters, placed there to prevent unwelcome visits by the scorpions and other insects that inhabited the palm thatch roofing. Men lined the bar, gustily drinking down their cellar-cooled beer, while they munched industriously on plates of taquitos —rolled corn tortillas filled with roast, shredded goat meat and crisp fried. Others consumed small clay cups of caldo de camarón, a thick dark red chile-shrimp soup made of tiny dried shrimp, onions, garlic, tomato paste and hot chiles. All of them frequently dipped tortilla chips into bowls of fresh-made pico de gallo salsa, redolent with the aroma of chopped chiles, garlic, and fresh coriander. Nearly half of the patrons were Anglos. Pablo joined three vaqueros from his father’s estancia, Rancho de la Gloria. He soon had a tall, slender glass of beer, called a tubo, in one hand. With his other, Pablo lifted a taquito from a plate.
    His presence was immediately noted by a trio of scruffy saddle trash seated at a corner table. They bent their heads together and the leader, Garth Thompson, spoke in a low voice. “That’s one of that stubborn greaser’s sons. I think you two ought to arrange a little entertainment for him outside this place.”
    â€œThat shines, Garth. What sort of party should we figger to throw?” Norm Oppler responded.
    Thompson pursed his lips, then spread them in a nasty grin. “One that will leave him definitely hurting.”
    Hicky Drago, the third hard case, flashed a toothy smile. “Now that sounds like fun. Do we leave him alive and hurtin’?”
    Garth showed his own teeth. “That’s entirely up to you.”
    Both downed their drinks and came to their boots. They left the busy saloon without attracting any attention. Over at the bar, Pablo gestured to an old woman in a plain polka dot dress, her head swathed in a black rebozo. “Una copa de caldo de camarón, por favor.”
    Bearing a large, blue granite kettle, the seam-faced woman attendant came over and ladled out a cup of shrimp soup for the young caballero. Pablo took it and nodded his appreciation. “Gracias.” Then he turned to the ranch hands.
    â€œWe will have to start back to the ranch after we’ve eaten. There seems not to be enough hours in the day.”
    â€œEspecially to get the work done and for you to see Juanita, eh, patrón?” one of the cowboys remarked with a smile.
    Pablo’s eyes twinkled as he thought of his current favorite. “Juanita is . . . worth making time for. We are going to be married. She doesn’t know that yet, but I do.”
    â€œÂ¡Que romantico!”
    Pablo chided him in jest. “Do not mock true love, Arturo. Some day it will overwhelm you.”
    â€œWhat, me? With a fat wife and three little ones?”
    Garth Thompson watched them darkly as they laughed over that sally. He had been given his orders by Whitewater Paddy Quinn as to what to do about the family of the stubborn old fool, Diego Alvarado. The rancher refused to sell out, and his Mexican cowboys had already killed three and wounded eight of those sent to harass him. It was time to turn up the heat, Paddy had said. So be it, Garth mused. He watched while Pablo and the vaqueros downed a prodigious quantity of food and two glasses each of beer. Then they hitched up their belts and walked toward the door. Silver conchos along the outer seams of