Battle of the Mountain Man

“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.”