“Looky there,” Markham remarked. “Ain’t she a fancy little filly?”
“Sí,” Vargas muttered sourly. “She’s a rica, probably the daughter of a ranchero or a politico. The old woman with her is a chaperon. It is a custom for such fine ladies of good families in Mejico to travel in such a manner.”
“She’s mighty purty,” Markham stated.
“If you said hello to her, she’d spit in your face,” Vargas informed him. “Her kind don’t associate with the lower classes.”
“Figure those other greasers are with her?” Lloyd inquired. Clint was surprised by the gunman’s use of such an ethnic slur in front of Vargas, but then realized the question had been directed to the cross-breed. “Maybe the peónes are her servants and Daddy sent along the other two Mexs to protect her.”
Vargas shook his head. “The porters carried her luggage, not the peónes, so they don’t work for her. I saw one of the vaqueros tip his hat at her and she didn’t even acknowledge him. No, they do not travel together.”
“Keep an eye on ’em,” Lloyd instructed. “Especially those two wearing guns.”
“Reckon they might be trouble?” Markham asked, flexing his fingers over the butts of his holstered Colts.
“No sense takin’ chances,” the pistolman replied.
The Gunsmith frowned. The trio seemed too suspicious of the newcomers to merit simple caution. Again, Clint felt there was more to the escort mission than he’d been told. He considered returning the fifteen hundred dollars he’d received in advance and quitting right then and there. El Paso was as good a place as any for a traveling gunsmith to unload his wagon and start looking for business.
Yet, he’d be virtually penniless in a small border town, a prospect that didn’t appeal to him, and they’d already completed half the journey to Yuma. Once again, he rejected the warnings of his instincts and elected to see the job through to the end.
Chapter Fifteen
The train continued to roll on into the New Mexico Territory. The surroundings changed dramatically with multi-colored rock formations and patches of vegetation with bright flowers a startling contrast to the drab gray and sandy tan deserts of Texas. Purple, black and gold filled the arid region as if God has splashed a rainbow across the stony monuments and rock walls. Even the sand varied in shades from dark brown to light yellow.
Mesquite, barrel cactus and cottonwood trees dotted the terrain. Occasionally, a roadrunner or collar lizard appeared, dashing on its hind legs in an oddly human manner as if to remind man that he isn’t as different from other animals as he likes to think.
Clint Adams continued to roam the train between guard watches, observing the new passengers. The peónes remained close together, quiet and seemingly spellbound by their trip on the great caballo de hierro. By contrast, the vaqueros appeared pleased with the journey and killed time by singing Spanish ballads to the music of the guitarist cowboy. They smiled at Clint and nodded greetings when he shuffled by.
“Señor,” the guitar player said, “why do you walk back and forth with that gun on your shoulder? Do you expect trouble from los indios?”
“If that happens, señor,” the other vaquero declared, “you can rely on Roberto and I to help you fight them.”
“Thanks,” the Gunsmith nodded, hoping the pair were exactly what they appeared to be, a couple of Mexican cowpunchers heading north of the border in search of employment on an Anglo ranch—and not a pair of wolves in vaquero clothing.
The two female passengers occasionally glanced up at Clint with distaste, but neither spoke to him or acknowledged his presence. He decided to reserve judgment about the new arrivals for the time being. The Gunsmith wondered why he hadn’t seen the Pinkerton since he’d warned the escort team about their behavior at the beginning of the journey. Then again, who wanted to see that jackass anyway?
The following afternoon, Clint encountered Linda and Stansfield Lloyd in the dining car eating lunch. She gestured for him to join them. The gunfighter scowled, but he didn’t voice any objection when Clint sat down beside the girl.
“Decided not to dine in your room today, Miss Mather?” Clint remarked.
“I’m getting cabin fever in there,” she answered. “Have you eaten?”
“I had a big breakfast,” the Gunsmith said. “So I’m not going to eat lunch. Too much food in a man’s stomach isn’t good if he has to move fast.”
“It’s not good for a girl’s figure either,” Linda commented, pushing her plate aside. Only half the meal had been consumed.
“Well, Adams,” Lloyd said, rolling a cigarette. “Looks like you’re gonna collect an easy three thousand dollars, don’t it?”
“I hope so,” Clint admitted. “But we haven’t reached Yuma yet.”
“Let’s worry about that later,” Linda urged.
“It’s our job to worry about trouble,” Lloyd stated.
“Worrying about things never helps,” the Gunsmith remarked. “We can just try to prepare for trouble and handle it the best we can when and if it comes along.”
“Business again!” the girl rolled her eyes with exasperation. She pushed back her chair and rose. Clint, always a gentleman, was immediately on his feet. “Would you please see me to my door?” she asked him.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” the Gunsmith nodded.
He felt the pistolman’s icy gaze at the base of his neck as he escorted Linda from the dining car. The girl’s arm slipped around the biceps of his left arm.
“You ever get a yearning in the afternoon?” she whispered.
“Do you think this is a wise idea?” Clint asked.
“Don’t worry about Stan,” Linda smiled. “I know how to handle him.”
“Is that so?” Clint inquired dryly. He noticed the two Mexican women seated at another table. The younger lady was watching them with such intensity that frost seemed to form on the hairs at the back of Clint’s neck.
“Of course,” Linda assured him.
“What about your man in Yuma?”
“If I couldn’t handle him”—she grinned impishly—“we wouldn’t be getting married.”
Bruno raised his meager eyebrows with surprise when he saw the couple approach. The big man stood sentry in front of the girl’s room, armed only with his S&W revolver and a lot of muscle. Linda opened the door and entered. The Gunsmith began to follow, but a steel-taloned hand grabbed his arm.
“Where do you think you’re going, Adams?” Bruno demanded, his small dark eyes narrowed into hot razor slits in his egglike face.
“He’s paying me a visit,” Linda answered curtly. “Any objections?”
“Not from me,” the brute smiled thinly. “Maybe from others.”
“My problem,” she said stiffly.
“Yeah,” Bruno released Clint. “Your problem . . . and yours too, Adams.”
The Gunsmith entered the girl’s quarters and closed the door. He flexed his arm to circulate blood into the limb. Bruno had a grip like a beartrap.
“What was that about?” he asked Linda.
“He probably thinks word will get back to my father or to David, my fiance in Yuma, about our conduct.”
“Could be he’s right,” Clint commented.
“I can handle them,” the girl crooned. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried”—he shrugged—“about you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Linda Mather didn’t waste any time. She immediately stripped off her clothing and headed for the bed. Clint followed her example, taking care to hide his .22 New Line Colt from view by sticking it into a boot before dropping his shirt over the footgear. He didn’t want the girl to know about his belly gun because he didn’t trust her any more than he did the rest of his traveling companions.
Clint draped his gunbelt over the headboard in his customary manner and stepped out of his trousers. To his surprise, he saw Linda poised on the mattress on her hands and knees.
“Figure it’s about time for a little variety
,” she commented coyly. “Hop on board and we’ll go for a ride.”
Linda had become increasingly more crude in her lovemaking; the Gunsmith, however, never failed to try to please a lady, so he climbed into the bed, placing his knees between her legs.
His hands slowly caressed her smooth firm buttocks, the backs of her thighs, and the sides of her calves. Then his fingers moved deftly between her thighs, stroking and probing with assurance. Linda rocked her body to and fro to receive his touch.
“Oh, Jesus, Clint!” she moaned. “You sure know how to get a girl ready!”
Clint’s penis, now erect and hard, soon took his hand’s place and Linda hummed with pleasure as he worked himself slowly into her. Soon she was gripping him like an internal fist, her body jerking back and forth quickly.
Clint rammed himself deeply into Linda’s hot flesh. The slap of her buttocks against his lower abdomen filled the room with subdued applause, gradually becoming louder and more rapid, accompanied by the passionate, labored breathing of the couple. Suddenly Linda gasped and trembled with her orgasm.
Clint continued to ride her to the heights of a second pleasure journey, his maleness straining to bring her satisfaction, teeth clenched in the effort to hold back until she could join him. When Linda’s flesh convulsed in another spasm of ecstasy, Clint gratefully released his seed within her, his own fulfillment achieved at last.
Then a man’s scream penetrated the door and the sound of a fierce brawl commanded the Gunsmith’s full and immediate attention. Linda squealed when he abruptly withdrew and bounded from the bed, snatching his Colt .45 from its holster at the headboard. He managed to gather up his trousers as he charged for the door.
Opening it a crack, he saw two of the peón passengers sprawled on the floor of the corridor. The other six were gathered around Bruno, knives flashing at the brute. The big man’s fists, forearms and feet lashed out. thudding into flesh and knocking aside opponents. Bruno was holding his own remarkably well considering the odds. He seemed to ignore the slashing blades as he fought bare-handed against the group. However, the peónes’ superior numbers and sharp-steel advantage would soon be too much even for Bruno.
One man stepped behind the muscle-bound defender and prepared to lunge a knife into Bruno’s kidney. Clint couldn’t shoot the peón because the bullet would be apt to punch right through him into Bruno. The Gunsmith closed in rapidly, raised his gun arm and brought the butt of his revolver down on the base of the aggressor’s neck. Bone cracked and the Mexican collapsed with a broken neck.
Another knife-wielding opponent charged Clint from the side. The Gunsmith whirled and shot him in the face. The assassin’s corpse smacked into a wall and slid to the floor as two more Mexican killers jumped away from Bruno and raised their loose cotton shirts and tried to draw revolvers that were hidden under the garments.
Clint’s double-action Colt snarled in response, firing a round into each man’s chest before either could bring his weapon into play. One man’s body crashed to the floor, but the other jerked forward from the impact of a .44 bullet between the shoulder blades fired by Stansfield Lloyd, who had just appeared at the mouth of the corridor.
Both the pistolman and Mike Vargas had been attracted by the scream that had alerted the Gunsmith to the carnage. Lloyd’s Remington swung toward another peón and fired a round into the man’s abdomen. The would-be assassin doubled up and Lloyd put another slug through the man’s straw sombrero and into the top of his skull.
A fifth Mexican managed to produce an old .36 caliber cap-and-ball Navy Colt with a cut-down barrel. Both Clint’s Colt and Lloyd’s Remington roared in unison. Lloyd shot the man squarely in the heart, and the Gunsmith’s .45 bullet blasted its way into the peón’s left temple making a gory exit via the other side of his head.
Only one Mexican invader remained on his feet. He held his empty hands high in surrender. Vargas kicked a knife across the floor toward the man.
“Coge el cuchillo, bastardo!” Vargas demanded, stepping forward and holstering his six-gun.
When the cross-breed dragged his ivory-handled dagger from its sheath, the peón realized why Vargas had told him to pick up the knife. Aware he would die one way or the other, his machismo rose to the challenge.
Vargas smiled as the man stooped and gathered up the knife. The dagger flashed and the Mexican jumped out of range, but Vargas suddenly dropped to one knee and slashed the retreating man’s inner thigh.
“That’s enough, Vargas!” Clint shouted.
The knife artist ignored him. “Next time I cut his huevos off,” Vargas chuckled.
With a cry of rage, the peón attacked, lashing out with his knife. Vargas danced away from the blade. Quickly he tossed the dagger from his right hand to his left and lunged forward. The Mexican screamed as the point of Vargas’s weapon bit into his side to slide between two ribs and pierce a lung. Vargas seized his opponent and pulled him to the floor. The dagger rose in an overhand grip and then fell twice as Vargas stabbed the man in the chest.
Clint heard one of the peónes moan and turned to see Bruno knelt beside a man who was about to regain consciousness. The big man grabbed the Mexican’s head, one huge hand gripping the top of his skull while the other held him under the jaw, and twisted it forcibly. The ugly crunch of vertebrae filled the corridor.
“You didn’t have to kill those two,” the Gunsmith declared, glancing down at the eight bodies that littered the floor.
“How come you ain’t got nothing on, Adams?” Lloyd demanded, staring at Clint’s nakedness.
The Gunsmith was too angry to be embarrassed, but he pulled on his trousers as he spoke. “We could have questioned these men. Maybe we could have found out why the hell they attacked us.”
“These peónes must have figured there was something worth stealing in Linda’s room ’cause we had a guard on it,” Vargas suggested.
“These men weren’t peónes,” Clint replied. “How many Mexican peasants can afford guns or ammunition? Look at their feet. A peón’s feet are calloused and dark brown from exposure to the sun. These men have been wearing boots most of the time and probably riding more than walking from the looks of the soles of their feet.”
“Christ,” Bruno muttered, examining a minor cut on his forearm. “I would have been cut to ribbons if’n Adams hadn’t been around.”
“Yeah,” Lloyd said tensely. “And it’s pretty obvious what he was doin’ in Miss Mather’s room too.”
The pistolman faced Clint, his Remington still in hand. The Gunsmith’s Colt was also held ready. Both men’s weapons pointed at the floor. Clint recognized the killer-lust in Lloyd’s eyes. The gunman wanted to shoot him down, but he was a professional and realized his anger would be apt to make him careless. After a couple of long, tense seconds, Lloyd holstered his revolver.
“You keep away from her, Adams,” Lloyd hissed.
“Uno momento,” Vargas said. “Where’s Jimmy?”
“It’s too early for him to be drunk,” Bruno remarked. “You’d think a gunshot would have brought him galloping this way to join the party.”
“Check his quarters, Mike,” Lloyd ordered. “Bruno, you feel fit enough to stand guard?”
“Sure,” the big man turned to Clint. “I’m beholdin’ to you, feller.”
“Adam was saving his own hide,” Lloyd spat. “You don’t owe him nothin’!”
“Working with you guys is more fun than going to a dentist who uses rusty pliers,” Clint muttered as he headed for Linda’s room to get the rest of his clothes.
A conductor—the name on his breast pocket was Andrew Waitley—cautiously appeared at the mouth of the corridor. “What’s going on here?” the emaciated, middle-aged man inquired fearfully, gazing down at the corpse-littered floor in horror.
“A square dance sort of got out of hand,” Clint snorted.
Suddenly, a distraught Vargas nearly ran into Waitley as he charged back into the hallway. “Stan, you better come with me. Pronto!”
/> “Why?” Lloyd replied. “Is something wrong?”
“I found Jimmy lyin’ on his bunk—dead!” Vargas answered. “Somebody stabbed him to death.”
“What’s wrong with that?” the Gunsmith shrugged.
Chapter Seventeen
Despite his callous remark, Clint hastily donned his clothing and soon joined Stansfield Lloyd, Mike Vargas, Andrew Waitley and a pair of horrified passengers at the open door of the compartment Jimmy Markham and Bruno had shared. Lloyd and Vargas stepped across the threshold and examined the lifeless lump sprawled across the blood-splattered bunk.
Jimmy Markham’s corpse was stark naked, lying on his side, glassy eyes open in amazement and horror. The boy’s mouth hung open, the tongue curled back. Clawed fingers still clung to the scarlet-streaked sheets.
“He was lying on his belly when I found him,” Vargas explained. “I figured he was dead, but I sorta turned him over to check for a heartbeat.”
Clint moved forward and placed a hand on Markham’s shoulder. The flesh was still warm, but beginning to cool and stiffen. He pulled the corpse forward, rolling it face first on the mattress. A still-damp stain surrounded a deep slit between his shoulder blades. Two similar wounds were located at the small of his back.
“Stabbed in the spine,” the Gunsmith declared in a clinical manner. “That would have paralyzed him even if it didn’t kill him. Stabbed in both kidneys too.”
“Didn’t take no chances, huh?” Lloyd remarked.
“The wounds look like a double-edged blade was used,” Clint added. “Probably a dagger similar to yours, Vargas.”
The knife artist glared at him. “You tryin’ to say you think I did it?”
“If I thought that I wouldn’t say anything in front of you, Vargas,” Clint told him. “I’m just telling you what I see.”
“Calm down, Mike,” Lloyd urged. “Adams ain’t accusing you of anything. Those greasers must’ve seen Jimmy go into the sleeper alone and killed him.
“Why’d they take his clothes off?” the conductor asked. His face looked as though he’d been eating cold ashes.
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