Triumph of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone Page B

composure and rushed to the side of their fallen companion. “Pablo, Pablo, can you hear me?” one spoke urgently.
    Pablo? Keeping his Colt handy, Smoke Jensen dismounted and crossed to where two of the Mexican cowboys kneeled beside their employer’s son. “¿Con permiso?” Smoke addressed them in his rusty Spanish. “Is this Pablo Alvarado?”
    Dark, angry faces turned toward him. “Why do you ask, gringo?”
    Smoke answered simply. “I am a friend of his father.”
    The surly one produced a sneer. “Ay, sí. And I am the pope in Rome. What is your name, gringo?”
    â€œI am called Smoke Jensen.”
    Surprise registered on the three faces. Embarrassment warred with it. At last, the angry vaquero spoke in an amiable tone. “Tengo mucho vergüenza, Señor Jensen. I should have known. No one else could have handled two gunmen so fast and so effectively. It is only that Don Pablo has been shot, and Ricardo, tambien. And it is forbidden us to carry our pistólas into town. We could do nothing.”
    â€œAnd naturally that bothered you. That I can understand. One of you had better go for a doctor.” Smoke examined the wounded men. “Ricardo has only a scratch. Pablo is still breathing and he has a strong heartbeat,” Smoke observed as he examined the young man. “But he still needs help right away, inmediatamente, comprende?”
    The embarrassed one spoke up. “I am called Miguel Armillita. I will go.”
    â€œGood, Miguel. Another of you should ride to the ranch and tell Don Diego.”
    â€œUh—there is a wagon with supplies,” a young vaquero blurted.
    Smoke spoke decisively. “Ricardo can drive that, after he is patched up. The other take a fast horse and head for Rancho de la Gloria.”
    The town marshal and the sheriff of Taos County arrived at the same time. Pablo Alvarado remained unconscious, and two of the vaqueros had sped off on their assigned tasks. An angry and shaken Garth Thompson, who had only now come out of the saloon, leaned against the outside adobe wall of Bajo el Cielo de Mexico scowling at Smoke Jensen. When the lawmen pushed through a crowd of the cantina’s patrons, he spoke up in angry accusation.
    â€œThis stranger came along and shot two of my men for no reason at all. Shot the Mexican kid as well.”
    â€œI’ll take that iron,” the marshal demanded as he and the sheriff drew their weapons. “You’ve got some tall explaining to do, mister. Since this involves folks from outside town, I’ll let you handle it, Hank. I’d better see to a doctor for young Alvarado.”
    Smoke looked up at them. “I’ve already sent for a doctor.”
    Hank Banner, the sheriff, spoke up then. “I’ll take that gun, feller, seein’ as how you’ve not handed it over.
    Smoke complied, giving the sheriff both of his Colts, but insisted on waiting until a physician arrived. Miguel Armillita came with him and stood back, silent and respectful in the presence of such awesome authority as the marshal and sheriff. After the doctor had arranged to move Pablo to his office and bandaged Ricardo, and Hank Banner had taken Smoke Jensen off to jail, Miguel went to his horse and rode hastily off toward Rancho de la Gloria to inform Don Diego of this turn of events.
    * * *
    â€œSit down and tell me something about yourself,” Sheriff Banner invited as he gestured to a chair beside his desk. “Do you regularly go around shooting men without the least provocation?”
    Smoke Jensen declined the chair for the moment. Being uncertain as to which side the lawman happened to be on, he did not use his real name nor did he show his U.S. marshal’s badge, nor did he use the cover name he had given to Ian MacGreggor.
    â€œLet’s get one thing straight first, Sheriff. I did not shoot Pablo Alvarado. My name is Frank Hickman, and I do go around shooting