Bandit Gold

by J. R. Roberts

  “Why would a rica do something like that?” Vargas asked dully, surprised by the tale.

  “She weren’t no rich bitch,” Lloyd snapped, annoyed by his partner’s naive remark. “She and the old toad was a pair of skirt-wearin’ hootowls.”

  “Sofia lured me into her room to kill me because I’m part of Linda’s escort,” the Gunsmith said.

  The pistolman glared at him. “What makes you say that, Adams?”

  “Because it’s pretty obvious she and Josephia killed Markham with the same tactic,” Clint explained.

  “Yeah,” Lloyd agreed. “That explains why Jimmy was naked and stabbed in the back. He was havin’ a good time with the young whore and the old one crept up behind him and used her knife.”

  “You still think those peónes that attacked us the other day were genuine?” the Gunsmith demanded.

  “Reckon we’ll never know if’n there was a connection between them and the two greaser gals since you killed both of the sluts.”

  “I didn’t kill them exactly,” Clint stated, trying to keep his temper. Killing women—no matter the reason—didn’t sit right with him. “But I think you two already know the answer.”

  He turned to Vargas. “El lobo means the wolf, right?”

  “Who said anything about El Lobo?” the cross-breed asked, his dark face contorted by anger.

  “You did,” Clint reminded him. “When the Mescalero attacked. Before you saw an arrow sticking in one of the passengers, you shouted el lobo. Now, why would you do a thing like that?”

  “You got a longer nose than a shavetail jackass, Adams,” Lloyd said in a hard voice. “And you’re just about as dumb as one to be flappin’ your gums all the time.”

  “A lot of people have been killed since we left Brownsville,” Clint began. “I want to know why.”

  “You don’t need to know nothin’ except that you’ll make three thousand dollars.” Lloyd smiled coldly. “Ain’t that enough?”

  “It was when I took the job,” Clint admitted. “But I’ve got a feeling I was hired under false pretenses and that doesn’t sit well with me, Lloyd.”

  “That’s too bad.” The pistolman’s smile froze into a dead man’s grimace. “Reckon you can either quit and hand over the fifteen hundred dollars you was already paid or just stay pissed off until we reach Yuma.”

  “I’ve stuck it out so far.” Clint shrugged. “But ...”

  Waitley, the conductor, led Roscoe and three male passengers into the sleeper to carry out the bodies of Sofia and Josephia. Clint had wrapped the younger woman in a sheet to conceal her nakedness. The grim-faced men hauled out their grisly burdens and the conductor cleared his throat as he summoned up enough courage to address the three gunmen.

  “You gentlemen have been involved in entirely too much violence since we left Brownsville,” he began, trying to sound stern, but his eyes avoided the faces of the trio.

  “Yeah,” Lloyd snorted. “Like fightin’ Apaches, huh?”

  “That isn’t the same as killing two female passengers,” Waitley declared stiffly.

  “Adams done that,” Vargas smiled. “Talk to him about it.”

  The Gunsmith’s eyes hardened. “I already told you what happened, Mr. Waitley. You seemed to believe me before. What changed your mind?”

  “Well,” the conductor hesitated. “I believe you, Mr. Adams, but some of the passengers are upset by what happened....”

  “The dagger and derringer that killed those two women belonged to them, not me,” Clint said. “And I think the way Jimmy Markham was murdered a few days ago is ample proof to support my story. Could be, of course, you’d like to get us off this train and this is an opportunity to get the passengers to help you evict us.”

  Lloyd snorted. “Tell them greenhorns they’re welcome to try to throw us off this train if’n they’ve got the sand for it. But you’d better warn ‘em to send a whole lot of fellers ’cause a bunch of ‘em are gonna be doin’ some dying!”

  “Let’s all calm down a bit,” Clint urged. “Mr. Waitley is just trying to keep his train from turning into a slaughterhouse. We can’t blame him for that.” Clint turned to the conductor. “We’re almost in the Arizona Territory. Ask all those folks to be patient a little longer and they’ll be rid of us when we reach Yuma. Until then, you might remind them that we’re still traveling through Apache land. The Chiricahua aren’t usually as crazy as the Mescalero, but they’re a lot smarter and even more dangerous. You might still have reason to want us on this train before the trip is over.”

  “You have a good point, Mr. Adams,” Waitley nodded quickly, eager to get away from the gunmen. “I’m certain everyone will be willing to wait until we get to Yuma . . . providing there’s no more violence involving you and the other passengers.”

  “Violence is like a flash flood,” the Gunsmith commented. “You can’t guess when it’s going to happen. All you can do is watch for the rain and hope things don’t get out of hand, but you also try to be ready just in case it does.”

  “Ain’t that pretty talk,” Vargas sneered, shaking his head. “Makes me wanta puke.”

  “I know the feeling,” Clint assured him.

  “Like you say, Adams,” Lloyd began. “We’re almost at our destination, so I’m changing the rules a bit. I don’t want you nowheres near Linda Mather. From now on, Mike, Bruno and me will handle sentry duty. You don’t get involved with us again unless you hear shootin’. ”

  “It sounds like my job just got easier,” Clint shrugged. “Oh, Mr. Waitley?”

  “Yes, sir?” the conductor asked, a pained expression on his face. He’d already spent more time with the trio than he cared for—in fact, he wished he’d never set eyes on any of them.

  “Sophia and Josephia already paid for their room in advance, correct?”

  “It was part of the price of their tickets,” Waitley confirmed.

  “Then nobody should object if I move into it,” Clint smiled. “I’d just feel more comfortable if I had a room to myself. I think I’ll sleep better that way.”

  “If that’s what you want, Mr. Adams,” Waitley agreed as he hurried away.

  “I’d better move my gear,” Clint told Lloyd and Vargas. “Looks like all of us have a private room now. Hope you two can stand the company you’ll be keeping.”

  With that, he headed down the corridor. Vargas watched him depart and scowled. “When this is over, I’m gonna kill him!”

  “Why wait that long?” Stansfield Lloyd asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Thick strands of black smoke from the locomotive engine chimney laced the night sky like whispy, dark rain clouds. Clint watched the stars and half moon try to peek through the sooty fog. The heavenly bodies had existed long before the invention of the train and they’d still be around long after the old diamond-stack iron horse became obsolete.

  The Gunsmith opened his pocket watch. Almost midnight. He’d slept earlier, as well as his troubled mind would allow. His conscience had been giving him fits because he knew there was something wrong about the people he’d mixed in with at Brownsville. He didn’t have enough information to put it all together, but he had decided where he could find some answers. His plan still contained a generous portion of risk, but Clint couldn’t continue to be part of this business. If a man isn’t able to live with himself and uphold his personal principles, then he might as well stuff a gun barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger.

  He put out the flame to his lamp and moved through the dark room to the door. After a cautious glance to be certain the hallway was empty, he slipped out and closed the door.

  The corridors and passenger cars of the train were all but deserted as he marched through them in a deceptively casual manner. His loose-limbed stride belied taut nerves and senses primed to full-alert. He scanned every empty seat and dark corner as though it might conceal a hidden adversary—because it was just possible one might.

  However, the Gunsmith encountered no one more threatening
than Roscoe. The porter was busy sweeping a passenger car with an old broom when Clint entered the compartment.

  “Evenin’, suh,” Roscoe greeted with a smile.

  “Hello, Roscoe,” Clint replied softly. “Quiet night?”

  “So far, suh,” the porter nodded, but his tone expressed fear that that condition might soon change.

  “Has anybody else been taking a stroll tonight?”

  “None that’s passed by me, Mistah Adams,” Roscoe assured him.

  “Do me a favor, Roscoe,” Clint asked. “If anybody does pass by later, you haven’t seen me, all right?”

  “Why, I’ve been plum busy here cleanin’ up the place,” the porter shrugged. “What do I know ’bout anybody walkin’ around after most folks is asleep.”

  “Thanks, Roscoe,” Clint grinned.

  “You take care, suh,” the porter nodded in reply.

  “I’ll try.”

  Clint continued moving from car to car until he located the one that contained Linda Mather’s compartment. He stood on the narrow platform outside, left hand poised on the door knob as the right unsheathed his .45 Colt. Taking a long, deep breath, he yanked the door open.

  Mike Vargas stood guard duty in front of Linda’s door. He stared in dumbfounded surprise at the Gunsmith. Clint’s pistol pointed at Vargas’s chest before the cross-breed could reach for a weapon. Clint cocked the revolver. The click of the double-action hammer filled the corridor.

  “Step away from the Winchester,” Clint instructed, making it clear that he’d noticed Vargas’s rifle propped in a corner. “Raise your right hand and keep it over your head. Left hand only, unbuckle your gunbelt.”

  The cross-breed obeyed, slowly unfastening his belt and dropping it to the floor. His ivory-handled dagger was also in a sheath attached to the belt. The initial shock of the incident wore off and Vargas’s features stiffened with anger, his eyes ablaze with hatred. However, he kept his right hand high and raised his left after completing Clint’s instructions.

  “You’re doing fine,” Clint remarked as he moved closer. “Keep it up and you might get to live to see the sunrise.”

  “What do you think you’re gonna do?” Vargas asked stiffly, a thread of fear in his voice.

  “We’re going to have a talk with Miss Mather,” Clint replied, easing the hammer down to uncock his Colt.

  Of course, there was no need to touch the hammer of a double-action weapon. Clint had done so for purely psychological reasons. When he cocked the weapon, it emphasized to Vargas that the threat of death if he failed to obey was very real, and by uncocking it Clint seemed to imply that he wouldn’t kill the man unless he had to. The Gunsmith wanted Vargas to relax a bit so he’d be off guard.

  “It isn’t polite to enter a lady’s room without knocking first,” Clint explained. “You do the honors, Vargas.”

  “Honors?”

  “Llama a la puerta, estúpido,” Clint rasped.

  Vargas turned to face the door and prepared to carry out the command. Clint hit him hard with the barrel of his Colt behind the right ear. The cross-breed groaned softly and crumbled to the floor.

  Clint scooped up Vargas under the arms and dragged him to a corner. He wished he had some rope, but Vargas wouldn’t regain consciousness for a while and Clint hoped he wouldn’t need too much time.

  However, he didn’t intend to leave any weapons handy in case Vargas awoke ahead of schedule. He gathered up the cross-breed’s Winchester rifle and gunbelt and then searched his unconscious opponent for hold-out weapons. He found a small knife concealed in a boot sheath and a spear-point blade with a leather-wrapped handle—a throwing knife—hidden in a pouch at the nape of Vargas’s neck. Clint carried the guns and knives to the end of the car and hurled them into the darkness beyond the moving train.

  The Gunsmith checked Vargas to be certain he didn’t need another rap on the head to remain in dreamland for a while and then headed for Linda’s door and knocked. It soon opened a crack.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” he greeted with an exaggerated formal nod.

  “Clint!” Linda’s beautiful face displayed surprise when she stared at the unexpected visitor. “I thought—that is—what do you—”

  “Isn’t your invitation still good, hon?” Clint asked as he firmly pushed the door forward.

  She didn’t try to stop him from entering. A smile appeared on her lush lips. “If you’re feeling more loving, I’ll be happy to have you stay for a while.”

  “Actually, I feel pretty upset about a lot of things,” the Gunsmith said, closing the door. “I’ve been told a pack of lies from the start and I’d better get some truthful answers to some questions.”

  “Oh, Clint,” Linda laughed gently. She turned slowly, allowing the lamplight to silhouette her shapely figure through the thin fabric of her pink nightgown. “Do we have to talk about this?”

  “Why was I hired for this trip?” he demanded. “What do Lloyd and the others—including you—know that I don’t? What are we really protecting?”

  “You’re suppose to be protecting me,” Linda stepped closer. “Don’t you think I’m worth it?”

  “We’ve been protecting something in this room, but it isn’t you,” Clint declared flatly. “The day the false peónes attacked, I’d met you and Lloyd in the dining car having lunch. Remember that?”

  “And you escorted me back to my room and we made love. . . .” She started to snake her arms around his neck.

  Clint slipped away from her embrace. “Bruno was still stationed at the door, Linda. Why was he guarding this room when you weren’t in it?”

  “Ask Stan,” the girl replied. “He’s in charge of that stuff.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t have an answer,” she started to slip the straps of her gown from her shoulders. “Why are we wasting time talking like this?”

  “Who is El Lobo?” the Gunsmith asked.

  Linda raised her face toward his, eyes closed and lips parted to invite a kiss. Clint wanted to respond to her, but realized that was exactly what she wanted. Linda used her charm and her beauty as a weapon. When his lips failed to meet hers, Linda opened her eyes to see Clint shaking his head.

  “You’d better answer me,” he told her.

  “What if I don’t?” Linda challenged. “What are you going to do? Slap me around for a while?”

  “I’ll leave that for Stan Lloyd to take care of,” Clint said dryly.

  She raised an eyebrow. “You do pay attention, don’t you?”

  “I try,” Clint tilted his head toward her steamer trunks. “Why is one of those all padlocked like a treasure chest, Linda?”

  Her eyes opened wide in surprise.

  “Open it,” he instructed.

  Then a hard metal cylinder jabbed into the small of his back. “You’re getting a might too pushy, Adams,” Stansfield Lloyd’s voice rasped near his ear.

  “Guess the company I’ve been keeping lately has made me a little antisocial,” Clint replied, raising his hands over head.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  With the pistolman’s Remington stuck in his spine, there wasn’t much Clint could do except go along with Lloyd’s game—for now.

  “We’ll have to learn you some manners, won’t we?” Bruno’s gruff voice added. The big bald man stepped from behind Clint. He held his S&W .44 revolver in one huge hand as the other plucked the modified Colt from Clint’s holster.

  “You all right, Linda?” Lloyd inquired. He pressed the muzzle of his pistol harder against Clint’s back. “Did this bastard hurt you?”

  “Hardly.” Linda smiled sadly. “That’s not his style.”

  “Lucky we decided to check on Mike,” Lloyd remarked. “When we found him lyin’ in a corner on the floor, we figured Adams was up to something.”

  “What an astute deduction,” Clint muttered dryly.

  “Just couldn’t leave it be, could you, Adams?” Bruno commented, thrusting Clint’s Colt into his belt.
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br />   “Let’s get rid of him,” Lloyd said. “Quietly.”

  “Well, don’t kill him in my room, for crissake!” Linda snapped.

  “Course not,” the pistolman assured her. “Adams is gonna get off the train ahead of schedule.”

  “Yeah,” Bruno smiled. “With a busted neck!”

  “Move!” Lloyd’s Remington shoved forcibly into the Gunsmith’s spine.

  Clint turned toward the open door, his arms still held high as he walked to the exit with his captors. You really don’t have a thing to lose, he told himself.

  Suddenly, he whirled. His left arm swung low, sweeping Lloyd’s gunhand toward the floor while his right fist lashed into the pistolman’s face. He quickly shoved Lloyd into Bruno, trying to keep both men off balance. Neither fired a weapon. They don’t want any shooting, Clint thought, finding some comfort in the realization.

  The Gunsmith grabbed Lloyd’s arm and shoved it down to meet his knee which rose to strike the man’s wrist hard. Lloyd’s Remington popped from his grasp and fell to the floor. Clint slashed the back of his fist into the stunned gunman’s face, knocking Lloyd backward four feet.

  Bruno’s enormous shape rushed forward, his S&W held by the barrel as he swung the walnut grips like a hammer at Clint’s head. Clint met the big man’s charge, hands flashing out to seize the attacking arm.

  The Gunsmith pivoted, using Bruno’s own momentum to pull him forward and placed the arm on his shoulder. He bent swiftly and sent the startled brute hurtling over his back in an unexpected Flying Mare. Bruno’s body slapped the floor hard. Still holding the arm captive, Clint raised a boot and stomped it into the big man’s armpit. Bruno screamed as the nerve cluster under his arm seemed to burst. His S&W fell from numb fingers before Clint could grab it.

  Lloyd’s arms suddenly encircled Clint’s upper torso and arms, trying to apply a bear hug from behind. Clint rammed an elbow into the pistolman’s solar plexus. Lloyd groaned and released Clint. The Gunsmith’s elbow rose and crashed into the point of Lloyd’s jaw. The pistolman fell to the floor.

  Suddenly, Bruno’s fist filled Clint’s vision a moment before it connected with his face. The punch sent him staggering backward to topple unceremoniously over the top of the small table in Linda’s room. He fell against one of the chairs and took it with him to the floor.