Yuma had a large number of businesses, many designed to appeal to the cavalrymen who made excursions into town whenever the fort commander gave them leave. Locating the train station was easy enough since the railroad tracks extended along that end of Yuma. The Gunsmith felt anticipation rise in his chest when he saw the train had just arrived.
Clint approached the locomotive at a gradual pace, allowing his horse to trot toward it. He wasn’t worried that Lloyd, Linda or Vargas would recognize him from a distance since his face and hands had been tanned brown by the sun and he wore a straw sombrero, confiscated from a slain bandido, with the broad brim pulled low over his upper face. The only article of clothing he wore that he hadn’t acquired at the Parker farm were his boots. Clint’s horse, saddle and weapons wouldn’t betray his identity either.
As Clint drew closer, he recognized Andrew Waitley, the conductor, who stood at the engine compartment talking to one of the engineers. Clint steered the Appaloosa toward the head of the train. Waitley and the engineer looked at him with irritation, wondering what this Mexican in Anglo clothing wanted.
The Gunsmith dismounted and strode to the engine. “Hello, Mr. Waitley,” he greeted, cocking back the brim of his sombrero with a thumb.
“Mr. Adams?” the conductor asked, still not certain.
“That’s right,” Clint nodded.
“What are you doing dressed like that?” Waitley asked, and then introduced Clint to the engineer, Mike Randall, explaining that Adams had been on the train. “Mr. Lloyd told us you were going to ride on to Yuma, but I don’t remember seeing you get off the train. I know you didn’t leave when the rest of your crew got off so—”
“Hold on,” Clint urged. “You mean Lloyd and Vargas and dear Miss Mather got off the train before it reached Yuma?”
“You weren’t aware of that?” Waitley asked as though he suspected Clint might be retarded.
“You might say they dropped me off a couple days ago,” the Gunsmith replied dryly. “I haven’t been on the train for almost forty-eight hours, but since nobody seemed to notice when Detective Patterson disappeared, I’m not surprised no one knew I’d been thrown off the train.”
“Thrown off!” both his listeners exclaimed.
“Never mind that,” Clint stated. “Tell me about Lloyd and the others. When did they get off?”
“About two hours ago we come across this wagon smack dab in the middle of the tracks,” the engineer explained. “There was one feller sitting in the rig and a couple others standin’ by it. All of them were waving at us to stop. Well, I figured they might need help or they could be outlaws settin’ up a trap, but I stopped anyway.”
“Then Mister Lloyd informs me he and the rest of his party—or at least most of them—were getting off right there and then,” Waitley added. “Well, this was very unusual, but frankly, we were glad to be rid of him, that Vargas character and that troublesome woman ... not that we had the same attitude about you, Mr. Adams! Well, everything that belonged to Miss Mather was unloaded and they put it on that wagon. Obviously they expected to meet those men, but why they didn’t want to travel all the way to Yuma completely baffles me.”
“Two hours ago.” Clint frowned. “About how far back do you figure this happened?”
“Oh, twelve, fifteen miles, I reckon,” the engineer answered. “If you was to—”
Suddenly, the engineer stopped talking and stared at something behind Clint. Waitley’s face also expressed surprise and alarm at whatever he saw beyond the Gunsmith. The hairs on the back of Clint’s neck stood at attention and his hand moved to the pistol grips of his holstered Stevens sawed-off.
“Buenas días, Senor Gringo,” a familiar voice growled.
Clint pivoted, drawing the scattergun and thumbing back a hammer in a single fluid motion. Luis Mendez stood with a pistol aimed at Clint’s head, thumb still easing back the hammer. El Lobo’s face turned from a savage mask of fury to a pale etching of terror when he suddenly found himself staring into the twin muzzles of the sawed-off shotgun.
Then Mendez could no longer display expressions on his face because he lost it forever when Clint squeezed the trigger of his Stevens. A blast of buckshot literally tore El Lobo’s head from his shoulders.
Clint scrambled inside the engine compartment, barely glancing at the other bandidos who surrounded the decapitated corpse of their leader. The bandits were stunned and horrified by the unexpected and ghastly death of their jefe, but they hesitated less than a second before dragging pistols from holsters and swinging rifle muzzles toward the Gunsmith.
One of the riflemen began to point a Winchester at Clint. The second barrel of the shotgun roared and the bandido was turned into a flying chunk of bloodied meat. Clint grabbed Waitley with his left hand and shoved him into Mike, throwing both men off balance.
They hit the floor of the engine compartment just in time. A volley of bullets clanged and whined as projectiles ricocheted off the iron structure. Clint told the conductor and engineer to stay down, then he quickly crawled to the opposite side of the engine.
As he’d suspected, the bandits had tried to surround the train engine to launch a two-prong attack. Two of El Lobo’s human wolves were creeping around the front of the cowcatcher toward the compartment. Clint drew his Colt and cocked the revolver as he aimed at the closest man’s chest. The bandido saw him a second before Clint squeezed the trigger. His cry of “¡Mierda!” was the last word he’d ever utter.
The other bandit retreated to the shelter of the cowcatcher, snapping off a hasty round at the Gunsmith which whined off the metal frame of the engine. Clint located the brake lever and shoved it forward. The train slowly began to roll. The bandit or bandits in front of the train would be forced to move out of the way and they wouldn’t hop in the direction that the Gunsmith had just fired.
Clint guessed they’d try another assault from their original position and scrambled across the compartment, nearly trampling Waitley and Randall. He saw two bandits about to open fire at the interior of the engine. One had a pistol, the other a rifle. Clint picked off the rifleman with a .45 round through the forehead. The other man dashed for cover along the length of the train cars.
“Cover this position,” Clint ordered, extending the Colt, butt first, to Mike. “Don’t shoot anyone unless you’re sure of the target. If you can’t get a clear shot at a bandit, fire at the ground so you don’t hit an innocent bystander.”
The engineer took the pistol and nodded woodenly at the Gunsmith. Clint immediately broke open his shotgun and dumped out the spent shell casings. Then he shoved in two fresh 12-gauge cartridges and closed the Stevens even as he headed once again to the opposite side of the engine.
After glancing about to be certain it was relatively safe, he hopped off the slowly moving train. Clint jogged to the closest boxcar and grabbed the iron rungs of a ladder built onto its side. He climbed the rungs to the roof, wondering how many of the bandido gang were left to deal with. He doubted that Guillermo, Carla or either of El Lobo’s women would be involved in the fight. That meant there couldn’t be more than four left—unless Mendez had gotten reinforcements between the Pueblo hamlet and Yuma, which didn’t seem likely.
Clint reached the roof and rolled onto the top. He stayed low as he glanced over the edge to see two bandits trying to shuffle along beside the moving engine, using it for cover while staying away from the line of fire from the compartment. Then something drew Clint’s attention out of the corner of his eye. He peered down at the gap between the boxcar and the engine compartment to see another bandit had climbed onto the coupling linking the two together.
The Gunsmith gripped the rim of the roof with his left hand and dug in as best he could with the toes of his boots to anchor himself as he leaned forward and raised the Stevens in his right hand.
“Amigo?” he said softly.
The bandit on the coupling turned and raised his head to look up at the speaker. Clint swung the shotgun, smacking the heavy barrels i
nto the bandido’s upturned face. The blow knocked the fellow from the train. He tumbled across the ground and lay unconscious with blood seeping from a mashed in nose and two split lips.
Suddenly, the report of a pistol accompanied the violent snapping of wood as a bullet bit into the roof an inch from Clint’s right side. He shoved hard, rolling to the left and bringing the shotgun around to point it at the bandido who’d managed to climb onto the roof. Later, Clint would guess the man had scaled a ladder to another boxcar and worked his way to the Gunsmith’s position.
Right then, Clint didn’t care if the son of a bitch had been fired from a slingshot and landed on the roof with him. The Mexican outlaw cocked his revolver at the same moment the Gunsmith thumbed back one of the shotgun hammers. Clint squeezed a trigger and the Stevens roared before the bandido could open fire. Buckshot blew the fellow off the roof like a tremendous gust of wind. One moment he was there and the next, he was gone.
The shots from the roof attracted the attention of the two bandits stationed at the engine. They fired pistols up at the Gunsmith, splintering wood at the lip of the roof. However, Clint stayed low and none of their bullets came close to his position. The bandits broke cover, forgetting that the train was moving and the engineer and conductor were still inside the engine compartment.
The crack of the Colt Clint had given to Mike mingled with the bandits’ shots. One of the hootowls from south of the border went down with two bullets in his stomach. The other turned and fired at the engine compartment. When Clint heard the metallic whine of bullets striking iron, he ventured a peek and saw the lone bandido firing at Mike and Waitley.
The Gunsmith aimed his shotgun at the last member of El Lobo’s gang and squeezed the trigger. The bandit’s upper torso seemed to transform into freshly ground beef. The force of the buckshot blast hurtled the man five feet and he crashed to the dust, too dead to even manage a decent twitch.
The engineer yanked the brake and the train came to a halt, having moved less than two yards since the battle began. Clint reloaded his Stevens although it appeared the fight was over. A crowd began to form around the train. Voices expressed horror when they saw the grisly display of the effects of buckshot on human flesh.
“So don’t stand around and stare at it,” Clint muttered with disgust.
Soon the local sheriff and three deputies pushed their way through the crowd. Clint climbed down from the boxcar. The sheriff eyed the Gunsmith with suspicion, especially when he saw the shotgun in the belly holster.
“You get your hands high, mister,” the lawman snapped. “You got some mighty big explainin’ to do!”
“It’s a long story, Sheriff,” Clint sighed wearily, raising his hands overhead. “And getting longer all the time.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“I’ve heard about you, Mr. Adams,” Sheriff Neil Krammer declared after he’d listened to Clint’s story.
“Call me Clint,” the Gunsmith urged. He sat in the lawman’s office, his shotgun and Colt .45 on the sheriffs desk.
“All right, Clint,” Krammer nodded. “You know you’re lucky the conductor and engineer backed up your story or you might have had a heap of trouble explaining that gunfight with those Mexicans.”
“Would you have thought I’d start a fight with eight men, Sheriff?” Clint asked dryly.
“Not hardly,” Krammer admitted. “I might not have believed you were really the Gunsmith if you hadn’t taken ‘em, though. I never heard of you using a scattergun or wearin’ a Mex sombrero before.”
“I had to improvise,” Clint explained.
“Way I heard it,” Krammer began, taking out a tobacco pouch and rolling papers, “you usually travel around in your gunsmith wagon or ride a big black Arabian that’s suppose to be the most beautiful horse this side of Kentucky.”
“Duke and my wagon are still on the train, Sheriff,” Clint replied. “I’d like to reclaim them now, if you don’t have any more questions for me.”
“Sure enough,” the sheriff agreed, gesturing at the pistol and shotgun on his desk. “May as well take those too.”
“Thanks,” Clint said, gathering up his weapons and returning them to their holsters.
“From what I’ve heard about you,” Krammer commented as he finished building a cigarette, “you favor a six-gun. Why the sawed-off?”
“A pistol has to be specially made for a fast draw and rapid, accurate shooting,” Clint explained. “I’m just not used to a single-action Colt.”
“That shotgun is too big and heavy to quick draw with,” the lawman stated, lighting his cigarette. “Even I know that much. You don’t plan to just gun this Lloyd feller down without givin’ him a fair chance, do you?”
“No,” Clint assured him. “I just don’t intend to give myself less than a fair chance.”
“Well, I’ve heard about Lloyd too,” Krammer said, donning his stetson. “He’s suppose to be quick as a snake and just as deadly. Hope you know what you’re doing, Clint.”
“Me too, Sheriff,” the Gunsmith admitted.
“Mind if I tag along and watch you unload your property off the train? I’ve heard so much about you, I’m kinda curious to see that wagon and horse.”
“If you can stand the excitement, Sheriff,” Clint grinned.
“Figure we both had enough excitement for one day.”
The Gunsmith and Sheriff Krammer walked to the train station and watched the railroad personnel roll Clint’s wagon out of a freight car. Krammer inspected the rig with interest while Clint led Duke out of a cattle car, whispering gently to the animal, assuring him that everything was all right now.
Krammer stared at the big, black gelding as Clint brushed soot and grime from Duke’s glossy coat. Although the Arabian was dirty and his stride was a bit unsteady after two days of being cooped up in a train car, Duke was still the most magnificent horse the lawman had ever seen.
“God, he’s a beauty,” Krammer sighed. “If I had enough money ...”
“I wouldn’t sell Duke for any price,” Clint told him, patting the horse’s muzzle. “We’ve been partners too long to split up now.”
“Partners?” Krammer raised his eyebrows with surprise. He obviously couldn’t understand what Clint felt for Duke, so the Gunsmith didn’t bother trying to explain it.
“Sheriff! Sheriff!” an excited voice cried out amid the sound of drumming hoofbeats.
A figure dressed in a tattered frock coat and a ten-gallon hat with a shapeless brim galloped toward them on the back of an undersized pinto. The face under the ill-treated hat appeared to be covered with dense brown hair streaked with gray, with only two eyes and a nose jutting from the hirsute mass. He yanked back the reins fiercely, bringing his horse to a violent halt.
“What’s got you in a huff, Josh?” Krammer demanded.
“I come across a bunch of dead bodies lyin’ out yonder a ways!” the shaggy-faced man replied with a mouth that contained less teeth than a chicken beak. “Somebody done kilt three fellers back there near them railroad tracks—”
“About twelve or fifteen miles from here?” Clint asked tensely, recalling what Waitley and Mike had told him about where Lloyd, Linda and Vargas had gotten off the train.
“That sounds ‘bout right, young feller,” Josh admitted. “I don’t rightly know, ’cept it scared the bejesus outta me.”
“Sheriff,” Clint turned to Krammer. “I’d like to get my wagon and team settled into a livery stable. If you’ll be kind enough to wait for me, I’d like to ride with you to investigate this.”
“I reckon those dead men will wait for us, Clint,” Krammer said. “You figure this has somethin’ to do with Lloyd and the others?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Clint replied.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Gunsmith and Sheriff Krammer rode along the tracks, allowing it to guide them to the location of the dead men Josh had discovered. Duke was eager to stretch his legs and Clint had to tug on the reins gently t
o slow the horse enough for Krammer’s Morgan to keep up with them.
They soon arrived at a cluster of rock formations that surrounded the railroad—approximately fourteen miles from Yuma. Three dead men lay on the ground, their clothing splattered with blood.
“Sweet Jesus on Palm Sunday!” the sheriff rasped.
Clint brought Duke to a halt and swung down from the saddle. He approached the trio of still figures. The Gunsmith didn’t recognize two of the men, but the third figure was the man who’d introduced himself as Jacob Mather in Brownsville, Texas almost two weeks before.
“You know these fellers, Clint?” Krammer asked as he dismounted.
“One of them is Jacob Manning,” the Gunsmith replied. “I guess the other two are a couple of his henchmen. Hired guns for protection in Apache territory.”
“Must not have been very good at their job,” the lawman remarked.
“Stansfield Lloyd and Mike Vargas were better,” Clint said, gazing down at the corpses.
One of the slain gunmen had been shot in the face twice, his features reduced to bloody mush. The other had been repeatedly stabbed in the chest and abdomen. Clint guessed Vargas had thrown a knife into the man and then pounced on him to finish the job. Manning’s corpse was less grisly. He’d been shot through the heart.
“Why do you figure Lloyd and the Mex done this?” Krammer asked.
“The gold,” Clint replied. “Manning double-crossed Mendez in Mexico in order to avoid sharing with the bandidos and he may have decided to cut Lloyd and Vargas out of the deal as well.”
“What about the girl?”
“He might have been willing to kill her too,” Clint said. “He knew she was a whore and she had a wandering eye. I doubt that he felt much loyalty or love for her.”
“So they tried to get the drop on Lloyd and Vargas and lost?”
Bandit Gold Page 14