Bandit Gold

by J. R. Roberts

  Clint hopped to the next terrace, barely noticing the Mescalero warriors that still galloped or ran alongside the moving locomotive. A .50 caliber lead ball got his attention when it burst splinters from the side of the car near his head. Clint bolted to the door and entered the next compartment rapidly. An arrow slammed into the door behind him.

  He hadn’t reached safety because danger didn’t lurk only outside the train. Four Mescalero had managed to break into the passenger car. Three bloodied corpses—two white and one Indian—already lay on the floor. One Apache still stood over a victim with a smoking revolver in his fist. Another clubbed a kneeling figure with a tomahawk.

  The third had pinned the lovely young Mexican aristocrat to the floor. The still form of the matronly chaperon lay beside the struggling pair. The Apache ripped at the girl’s black lace dress as she tried to fight back. Her efforts only amused the brute until she raked her nails down a cheek, drawing blood and narrowly missing an eye. Cursing in his guttural language, the Mescalero responded by seizing the girl by the hair and slamming the back of her head into the floor.

  “Shit,” Clint rasped as the closest Apache made eye contact with him.

  His face contorted with hatred, the Indian aimed the pistol at the Gunsmith. Actually, he only lived long enough to try before Clint’s double-action Colt bellowed and a .45 slug sent the Apache hurtling backward into a vacant seat.

  The Gunsmith took two fast, long strides forward to reach the Mescalero who planned to rape the Mexican beauty. Even the Apache’s lust hadn’t occupied his attention enough to ignore the gunshot that had dispatched his companion to the Happy Hunting Ground. He raised his head with alarm and saw Clint advance.

  The Mescalero reached for his war lance on the floor as he stared up at the white man. He wore his startled expression for less than a tenth of a second before Clint shot him in the face.

  Clint hadn’t forgotten the third Apache—or vice versa. He turned to discover the last brave had closed in quickly, his bloodied tomahawk raised high. The Gunsmith dodged the stone-bladed hatchet as he thrust the muzzle of his Colt into the Indian’s stomach. The Mescalero’s free hand slapped the pistol aside, more by accident than design, as Clint squeezed the trigger. A bullet grazed the Apache’s hip, but the invader ignored the pain and swung his tomahawk again.

  The Gunsmith raised his left hand in time to catch the wrist behind the crude hand-ax and simultaneously swung the now-empty Colt at the brave’s head. Howling in fury and frustration, the Mescalero managed to block the attack and soon both men were locked in a deadly tug of war. Although the Mescalero was a head shorter than Clint and appeared to be underweight and malnourished, the man’s scrawny frame was remarkably strong and tough in the manner of one bred to the hard life of an Apache.

  Clint tried to drive a knee into his opponent’s groin, striking a thigh muscle. The brave snarled and shoved harder, trying to pin the white man to the floor and use the tomahawk. Clint moved with the Apache, bending his knees as he fell to the floor.

  The Mescalero’s delight that he’d apparently gotten the upper hand in the struggle ended abruptly when he felt Clint’s boot in his abdomen. Pulling the Apache’s arms, the Gunsmith straightened his knee and watched the startled invader sail over his head.

  The brave crashed to the floor in a stunned heap. Clint yanked his wrist free from the dazed Apache’s grasp and allowed the .45 Colt to drop to the floor. His hands clawed at his shirt, the left yanking it open while the right reached inside.

  The Apache rose to his feet first, eyes ablaze with rage and tomahawk poised for another attack. Suddenly, Clint’s belly gun barked. A .22 hit the brave’s chest. It startled the Mescalero more than it seemed to damage him since the Indian was too intoxicated and angry to feel pain.

  Clint rolled on his side and fired twice more, putting two rounds into the Apache’s forehead. Maybe the Mescalero still didn’t feel the impact of the bullets, but he died anyway. Clint rolled out of the Indian’s path as the brave fell to the floor.

  “Josephia?” a feminine voice managed to creep through the Gunsmith’s ringing ears.

  The young Mexican beauty knelt beside her chaperon, one hand nudging the older woman as the other massaged the back of her own head. Clint slid his New Line Colt back inside his shirt and gathered up his .45 revolver before he got to his feet and approached the pair. He noticed the front of the girl’s dress had been torn open and a cone-shaped breast protruded from the rip.

  “Josephia?” she repeated, shaking the older woman, concern forming lines on her lovely features. The chaperon groaned weakly. “Vives, Josephia. Gracias a Dios!”

  “Yeah,” Clint agreed. His Spanish was pretty poor, but he understood most of her words. “Thank God we’re all still alive.” He opened the cylinders of his modified Colt and began ejecting spent cartridge casings. Clint gazed out the nearest window and saw a handful of Mescalero braves gallop into the distance. Only the dead remained.

  “And thank you for coming to my rescue, señor,” the girl said with a smile on her compact mouth.

  He grinned in return as he fed fresh shells into the Colt. The woman’s breast still peeked out of the girl’s torn dress, its brown-capped nipple clearly visible.

  “Are you and your friend all right, ma’am?” he inquired.

  “Please, call me Sofia,” she replied, slowly pulling her dress together. “And what is your name?”

  “Adams!” a harsh voice supplied.

  Clint turned to see Stansfield Lloyd standing at the door, his Remington .44 aimed at the Gunsmith.

  Chapter Twenty

  “That game you played in the dining car wasn’t very smart, Adams,” the pistolman declared as he stepped closer. “Could be you caught a bullet during the injun raid, huh?”

  “Could be,” Clint nodded. The modified Colt in his hand was still open and contained three shells, all of them in position opposite of the movement of the weapon’s double-action—in other words, Clint would have to close his pistol and squeeze the trigger three times before the first cartridge would be under the firing pin. Even he couldn’t do this in less time than it would take Lloyd simply to pull the trigger once. “Of course, there’s a witness who can say differently.”

  He cocked his head toward Sofia. The girl stiffened in fear when she saw the hard expression on Lloyd’s face. Clint eased the cylinder of his Colt shut. Now, if he could jump to cover and either revolve the cylinder into position or pull the trigger three times, he and Lloyd would be on equal terms.

  Then Lloyd canceled the need for such risky action by holstering his Remington. A cold smile slithered across his colorless lips. “We might still need you, Adams,” he explained. “Reckon that earns you a re-preeve, don’t it?”

  “Gives one of us a reprieve anyway,” Clint shrugged.

  “You’re good, Adams,” Lloyd admitted. “But I reckon I can take you. We’ll settle that after we reach Yuma. Meantime, you just keep your mouth shut. Understand?”

  “I haven’t needed a translator with you yet, Lloyd,” the Gunsmith replied.

  “Did you get a chance to check on Miss Mather?”

  “Not yet.”

  Mike Vargas appeared at the threshold. He glared at Clint and fingered the ivory handle of his dagger. Lloyd glanced over his shoulder at his partner.

  “Forget it, Mike,” he ordered. “Adams is still one of us ... more or less.”

  “Hopefully less,” Clint muttered. “I’ll go see to Linda now.”

  “We’ll do it,” Lloyd snapped. “You just keep away from her.”

  “Protecting her is my job,” Clint stated. “Isn’t it?”

  “We’ll talk about that later, Adams,” the pistolman replied flatly.

  Lloyd and Vargas marched through the passenger car. The latter cast a hateful stare at Clint. “When this is over,” Vargas hissed, “you’re dead, Adams.”

  Clint finished reloading his .45 Colt. Sofia observed him with unfettered interest.

&nbs
p; “Your friends don’t seem very happy with you, Señor Adams,” she remarked.

  “They aren’t my friends,” Clint answered. “We’re just working together for a while,” he grinned as he added. “And please call me Clint, all right?”

  “Of course, Clint,” she smiled.

  “How’s your friend?”

  “The savage that tried to force himself on me hit her,” Sofia explained. “But I don’t think Josephia is truly injured.”

  The older woman now sat up, her back resting against a wall. She rubbed the side of her jaw and gazed up at Clint and Sofia with a trace of disapproval in her expression. The Gunsmith didn’t blame Josephia for her opinion. She was Sofia’s chaperon and responsible for the younger woman’s safety and conduct. Fraternizing with a scruffy-looking gunman wasn’t considered proper for a lady of breeding.

  “You’re escorting the woman who never leaves her room, no?” Sofia inquired. “She must be very important to merit such protection.”

  “I guess so,” Clint shrugged. “If you ladies don’t need me anymore, I’d better get back to work.”

  “Clint,” she called to him as he headed for the door. “Beware of the company you keep.”

  “I have been,” the Gunsmith rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I have been.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Seven passengers had been killed by the Mescalero raid and several others received injuries in the battle. Most of these were superficial cuts from the flying glass of broken windows, but two had been wounded by arrows and another caught a bullet in the forearm. Fifteen Indians had died in the carnage. The Apaches never reached Linda Mather’s car.

  The train stopped long enough to bury the slain passengers and unload the dead Mescaleros. No one suggested the raiders should receive a funeral, not even Reverend Kluger. The minister had startled his fellow passengers during the attack when he’d drawn a .44 Colt revolver from his valise and calmly opened fire on the Apaches.

  “ ‘A time to love and a time to hate, a time of war and a time of peace’; Ecclesiastes, chapter two, verse eight,” Kluger stated after the battle.

  By three o’clock in the afternoon, the train was once again on its way to Yuma. None of the passengers would feel at ease until they reached their destination in the Arizona Territory. The terrain seemed to adopt a sinister appearance. Every rock formation and boulder threatened to conceal another band of hostile Indians. Even the occasional cottonwood tree and barrel cactus had acquired a new ominous quality.

  Although Clint had never regarded the trip in a casual manner, he became even more cautious and apprehensive than before. The possibility of another Apache attack wasn’t the primary source of his consternation. The likelihood of a second assault by loco Mescaleros was slim, but Lloyd and the others and the mystery about the true purpose for the escort team still ate at the Gunsmith like a bellyful of red ants.

  The Gunsmith consulted his turnip-shaped watch, noting that it was time for Vargas to be on guard duty by Linda’s door. That meant it should be relatively safe to return to his quarters and rest for a few hours. Clint hadn’t slept much since the mission began and he knew he’d be getting even less sleep now. He headed for his compartment when a feminine voice softly called his name. He turned to see Sofia approach.

  “I’ve been watching you walk back and forth through the train,” she smiled. “You seem as restless as a caged lion.”

  “This isn’t exactly a pleasure trip for me, ma’am,” he replied dryly.

  “My name is Sofia, remember?” the girl urged. “Perhaps I need to reinforce your memory so you won’t forget me.”

  “I don’t think that’s apt to happen, Sofia.”

  “Let’s make certain you remember,” she said in a husky whisper. “I haven’t properly rewarded you for your bravery yet, have I?”

  “No need to,” he answered a bit reluctantly, intrigued by the implication of her suggestion. “Unless you want to, of course.”

  “Come with me,” Sofia declared simply.

  He followed her into the sleeping cars. Sofia opened the door to her quarters and they entered. Clint closed the door, glancing about the room with appreciation. Like Linda Mather’s quarters, it had obviously been furnished to appeal to a woman’s taste, with a cedar chest of drawers, a full-length mirror and a four-poster bed. Two large steamer trunks more than five feet high stood on end serving as portable closets. Both were open a crack and Clint noticed the sleeves and hems of dresses that hung inside the luggage.

  “A restless man should lie down once in a while,” Sofia commented, tilting her head toward the bed.

  “I’ve never been one to argue with a lady,” Clint assured her, placing his Springfield in a corner.

  Sofia stepped closer, lifting her face, eyes closed and lips parted in a silent challenge to just try to ignore her beauty. Clint didn’t even try. He leaned forward and put his mouth against hers, his tongue sliding along the edges of her teeth. She chewed it gently, slipping her own tongue on the tip.

  Their hands slowly explored each other. Clint caressed her firm breasts as the girl unbuttoned his shirt to slide eager fingers across his chest. They began to remove each other’s clothing, still kissing and fondling as they undid buckles and buttons.

  Naked, they moved to the bed. Sofia’s stiff nipples jutted from her breasts in a sensuous invitation. The Gunsmith’s mouth moved to them, kissing and sucking tenderly. The girl sighed with pleasure and lay back to allow him to mount her. Clint stroked her flesh slowly as Sofia’s arms encircled his neck and pulled him closer.

  “Love me, mi héroe,” she whispered, wrapping her long legs around his thighs.

  Although his maleness was already swollen and eager, Clint continued the foreplay, increasing the girl’s excitement until she groped at his crotch to steer the hard organ into her wet cavern of love. The Gunsmith gradually moved himself back and forth, working his shaft deeper. The girl groaned and clung tightly to his body, begging for more. Clint obliged.

  He failed to hear the creak of hinges when one of the steamer trunks opened behind them.

  Clint increased the speed and force of his thrusts. Sofia arched her back to receive him, her limbs locked firmly around his hips and neck. The girl gasped in ecstasy when his organ exploded inside her.

  Suddenly, Clint saw something out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see Josephia standing by the bed. The short, stocky chaperon’s arms were rised high, both hands gripped the handle of a long-bladed dagger.

  The Gunsmith tried to move to the side, but Sofia’s arms and legs held him fast. The girl chuckled scornfully in his ear. “Die happy, estúpido!”

  Josephia’s arms plunged downward as Clint desperately hurled himself to the right. He rolled over on his back, taking Sofia’s clinging body with him. The girl suddenly screamed. Her startled features, less than an inch from Clint’s face, seemed to express more astonishment than pain.

  The knife thrust intended for Clint Adams had claimed the wrong victim. Josephia hadn’t been able to stop her attack in time and she’d driven the blade deeply between Sofia’s shoulder blades. The older woman gasped in horror, yanking the dagger from the girl’s trembling flesh.

  Clint pried at Sofia’s limbs, still locked around him even in death. The feel of her convulsing flesh made his nerves scream. Finally free of the dead woman’s embrace, he pushed the corpse aside and leaped from the bed. Josephia had recovered from the shock of accidentally killing her fellow murderess. The woman shrieked with rage and attacked Clint.

  The Gunsmith leaped away from the slashing blade. Josephia moved faster than her appearance suggested, her homely face twisted into a mask of animal fury as she thrust the dagger at Clint’s dangling genitals. The tactic didn’t surprise Clint. Women seem to have an instinct for going after a man’s crotch—one way or the other. He caught her wrist in both hands and twisted hard, forcing her to drop the knife.

  A dull click seemed to echo within the room. Clint saw the gleam of
metal in Josephia’s other fist. She’d drawn a Remington .41 caliber over-under derringer from somewhere in her gray gingham dress and thumbed back the hammer as a triumphant smile pulled her thick lips into a sneer.

  Whoever said the female is the deadlier of the species, Clint thought, knew exactly what he was talking about.

  Still holding Josephia’s wrist in her right hand, Clint dropped to the floor. His left palm slapped the carpet as his legs shot out like a pair of giant scissors, trapping the woman’s lower limbs. The Gunsmith rolled to the right, bringing the startled woman to the floor. Her cry of alarm was terminated by a muffled explosion when she hit the carpet—face first.

  Josephia’s body trembled violently. A small scarlet glob began to spread across her gray dress. She’d fallen on her own derringer and shot herself in the chest.

  “Accident prone,” Clint panted as he untangled himself from yet another lifeless woman’s body.

  The Gunsmith rose on unsteady legs. Knuckles rapped on the door and the conductor’s voice demanded to know what had happened. Clint stumbled to the entrance and turned the knob, unconcerned about his nakedness as he yanked the door open. Andrew Waitley stared at Clint, his eyes bulging at the sight of a nude man in a lady’s quarters.

  “What—” the conductor stammered, “what are you—er—What was that shot?”

  “End of a lesson, friend,” Clint replied dryly. “I just learned that two women can be a bit too much for any man to handle.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Clint Adams had pulled on his clothes by the time Stansfield Lloyd and Mike Vargas appeared at Sofia’s door. He wearily told the pair about the incident.