Fury of the Mountain Man by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [W, William Johnstone]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2019-10-15T04:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

Only mental echoes of the violent storm remained when Smoke Jensen and Esteban Carbone rode out of the mountains into the broad, fertile central highland south of Zacatecas three days later. Carbone waved a hand to encompass the upland plateau.

“It is like this from here through Aguascalientes and northern San Luis Potosi. Then the mountains again, and beyond them, Mexico City. We are not far from Limosna. We can stay there for the night.”

“Will we be able to resupply?” Smoke asked, concerned over the loss of their supplies, particularly two cases of ammunition.

“It is likely. Limosna is a fairly large town.”

“What does the name mean?” Smoke asked out of curiosity.

“Charity. Perhaps that is a good sign, amigo, ¿como no?”

“We’ll hope so, but reserve judgment.”

“Always the cautious one,” Carbone observed.

“It’s kept me alive a good many years,” Smoke remarked, then wished he could recall his words. It was his friend who had left the drapes undrawn in the main hall of his hacienda, which cost the life of his wife.

Carbone might have been reading his thoughts. “I will never forget that lesson, Smoke Jensen. All my life I shall remember my carelessness.”

“Carbone—Esteban, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to criticize.” For once in his life, Smoke felt entirely helpless.

They rode into Limosna in an atmosphere that could accompany a funeral. No children romped and played on the streets. Only a couple of shaggy dogs raised lazy heads to growl softly as they passed by. Here and there a window blind flicked aside to allow the occupant to watch them guardedly.

“Somehow, I do not get the feeling the people are friendly,” Carbone observed.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Smoke replied. “There’s a posada up ahead.”

Carbone sighed heavily when he read the sign painted on the arched adobe gate to the inn: PUERTO DEL SOL. “There must be a thousand posadas named Gate of the Sun in Mexico. One would think that a people with the romantic soul of Spain in them could be more original,” he lamented.

At least Carbone’s spirits had lifted, Smoke thought as he clapped his friend on one shoulder. “We’d better find out if they have room for us.”

Inside a man clad in the loose white cotton shirt and trousers of the region looked up from something unseen on his desk and produced a glower. “What is it you want?” he asked inhospitably.

“We’re looking for rooms for the night,” Carbone told him.

“Do you have cash to pay with?” the clerk snapped.

“Of course.” Stung by this rude attitude, Carbone asked facetiously, “Does your employer know how hard you work to fill his establishment with guests?”

“I am the owner,” came the surly reply. “I can give you one room together.”

“Two rooms, if you please,” Smoke Jensen pressed.

“Ah! A foreigner. You are from Europe?” he asked, interest awakened.

“No. The United States.”

“Too bad for you. Do you bring a conquering army with you?”

Smoke now burned with temper. “If you’re willing to lose the money, we’re willing to look elsewhere.”

The thought of vanishing pesos improved the posadero’s outlook.

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