Bandido Blood

by J. R. Roberts

  “You really must get out of here before I get hold of my gun!” Clint snapped. He was angry and embarrassed as he stood stark naked over the pile of clothing which concealed his gunbelt.

  “Jesus, Andy!” a paunchy bearded man in the hallway cried. “You’re gonna get us killed!”

  Andy, the man in the tweed suit, ignored his friend’s plea. “I must talk with you, Mr. Adams. . . . ”

  “So talk to him!” Annie shouted as she wrapped a sheet togalike around herself and stomped from the bed. “I’m getting out of here before you all make such a ruckus the manager, the sheriff and maybe even Reverend James Michaels—who happens to be my uncle—all head over here to see what the hell is going on!”

  “Annie . . . ” Clint groped for words to calm her, but he realized that was impossible. He was still too pissed off himself. “You two fellas wait in the lobby! ”

  “Then you’ll talk with us?” Andy asked eagerly.

  “Yeah,” the Gunsmith sighed. “There’s nothing left to do but talk, is there?”

  Chapter Three

  Clint tried to pacify Annie after their unexpected visitors left, but the girl was too furious to listen. She angrily pulled on her clothing and stormed out of the Gunsmith’s room. Clint donned his clothes as well, went downstairs and found the two strangers who’d ruined his evening waiting for him in the lobby. The man in the city suit rose from his chair.

  “I’m really terribly sorry about this, Mr. Adams,” he began.

  “Do us both a favor and don’t mention it again,” the Gunsmith warned. “Now, what do you two want?”

  “Perhaps introductions are in order, ” the man in the suit suggested. “I’m Congressman Andrew Woodland and this is Fred Barsa. ” He gestured toward his stocky companion.

  “That’s wonderful, Congressman,” Clint muttered.

  “Well, you see, Fred owns a ranch a few miles west of Brookstown near the border,” Woodland said. “I was a lawyer in Houston before I got into politics. I still have part ownership of the law firm and I’ve been thinking about buying a ranch. ”

  “Hold on, ” Clint said, glaring at Woodland. “If the federal government is asking me for another favor, the answer is no. I didn’t care for the deal Washington gave me the last time. ”

  “Hell, this ain’t no government business,” Fred Barsa declared. “Andy here has a habit of talkin’ too much and takin’ too long to get to the heart of the matter. Guess that’s why he went into politics. Natural talent for borin’ folks with details. Need that for filibusters, I reckon.”

  “You running for office too, friend?” Clint asked dryly.

  “All right,” Woodland declared firmly. “My daughter has been kidnapped and I want you to get her back for me. Is that plain enough?”

  The Gunsmith’s eyebrows rose. “Maybe you’d better bore me with a few more details after all, ” he said, sinking into one of the chairs in the lobby.

  “Very well. ” Woodland returned to his chair. “As I’m sure you noticed, Fred and I are old friends. Well, he’s hit on some hard times and he can use some help with the mortgage. I’m interested in the cattle business, so I came down here to look over his ranch and to see if we could both profit by my becoming a silent partner in the business. Marsha, my daughter, hadn’t been away from the capital for quite a while and she wanted a change of scene, so she came with me. ”

  “Andy and Marsha come to my ranch the other day, ” Barsa added. ‘“Yesterday morning, my foreman and me took Andy out for a look-see over the ranch to show him what all we got. When we come back, somebody had hit my house. The bastards killed my housekeeper, Lupe. Cut her up like a butchered steer and pinned a note to her chest with a knife.”

  “Of course, Marsha was gone,” Woodland said, extracting a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. “Here is the note, Mr. Adams. Please read it. ”

  Clint took the paper. The handwriting on the letter was small and remarkably neat. Brown stains of dried blood on the paper were an ugly contrast to the author’s penmanship, although it underscored the meaning of the words of the note.

  Congressman Woodland:

  Your daughter will be staying with us for a few days. How long will depend on you. If you want her back, you will pay us five thousand dollars in American currency. Send someone to deliver the payment to the town of Grajo in Sonora. When he arrives, he need only mention that he wishes to contact el Espectro. Someone will relay the information to me and I will contact your man as quickly as possible.

  I trust I needn’t remind you, Congressman, that Sonora is in Mexico and neither you nor your government has any authority in my country. Your lawmen and soldiers can not legally take any action against me south of the border. If you think the federales will help you, you are a fool. Even if they agreed to do so, they could never find me. They have been trying to hunt down el Espectro, but they’ve never succeeded. They no longer try for they know I am Death.

  It would be even more foolish to try to hire mercenaries to send into Mexico. They would be totally powerless against me. Besides, such nonsense would take time, Congressman, and you have little of that. Your daughter is a beautiful girl. She is young and fair with hair the color of the sun and eyes like the morning sky. Already my men lust for her. I can control my men, who also fear the power of el Espectro, yet, as the days pass, I will be less inclined to deny my followers what they desire. You do not want your lovely Marsha ravaged and mistreated. You do not want her to die by the knife as this servant woman has died. Contact me quickly, Congressman, or your daughter’s blood will be on your hands.

  The note was signed “el Espectro,” the letters scrawled boldly across the bottom of the paper. Clint frowned and returned the note to Woodland. He felt as if he needed to wash his hands after holding the kidnapper’s letter.

  “Fred tells me this Espectro is a bandit leader in Mexico,” the congressman said. “I know that’s hard to believe because his letter is well written. . . . ”

  “If we were talking about any other bandido I’d be apt to dismiss this letter as a forgery and figure your daughter took off with a lover and left the note to try to trick you out of five thousand dollars,” the Gunsmith remarked.

  “Now, see here, Adams!” Woodland snapped. “Marsha would never do anything like—”

  “Easy, friend. ” Clint held up a hand for silence. “I said if it was any other bandit except el Espectro. ”

  “Heard about him, eh?” Barsa inquired.

  The Gunsmith nodded. “El Espectro—the Ghost—has been operating south of the border for about five years now. Witnesses claim he looks like a dead man—thin, pale and cloaked in a black shroud. The peoónes believe he’s an evil spirit, a corpse that rides from the depths of Hell on a great white stallion.”

  “What do you make of that, Mr. Adams?” Woodland asked.

  “I’d be apt to dismiss el Espectro as a ghost story—no pun intended—if he was supposed to be able to stare at a man and stop his heart or put a hex on a village, but they say he brings hellfire out of the barrel of a gun and that’s the sort of witchcraft I can understand.

  “A while back, I made a trip to Mexico to return a chest of gold stolen from their national treasury, ” Clint continued. “I spent some time with a federale general who asked me about el Espectro. The bandido is supposed to speak fluent English and the federales figure he might be a renegade gringo. Of course, his Spanish is just as good, but General Moreno had hoped I might be able to give him some information about any American outlaws that might fit el Espectro’s description. The federales have no clue as to the guy’s real identity. All they know is he commands one hell of a bandido gang—about fifty of the most vicious killers in Mexico. Moreno considers el Espectro to be the smartest, most dangerous bandit chief in the country and he admitted the federales have been unable to deal with the Ghost. ”

  “Do you think there’s any hope that I’ll get my daughter back alive?” Woodland asked.

  “Not if you pay t
he ransom,” Clint answered. “El Espectro isn’t going to let your daughter free after she’s seen his headquarters. He can’t afford to take the chance that she might remember enough to give the federales adequate information to lead them to his lair. ”

  “Then he may have already . . . ” Woodland swallowed hard. “Marsha might already be dead. ”

  The Gunsmith was blunt. “That’s true. She might be dead, but the Ghost might keep her alive for two reasons. First, he may figure he’ll have to produce evidence to prove she’s alive before you’ll pay the ransom. Second . . . well, he might plan to use her to make an additional profit. ”

  “You mean he’ll ask for more money in the future?” the congressman asked.

  “No, ” Clint replied. “I doubt that because he probably figures you’d be less apt to pay a second time and more likely to pressure the Mexican government into taking action. Juarez is probably the best leader in Mexican history and he’s made a hard effort to maintain good relations with the United States. Pressure from Washington might eventually result in a massive federale manhunt for el Espectro. The Ghost could also fear you’d hire a couple dozen gunfighters and send them to handle the matter. Don’t be fooled by el Espectro’s boasts that he’s invincible. Notice how eager he is for you to act quickly? He doesn’t want this to take any longer than necessary in order to protect himself. ”

  “Then what other profit might he—” Fred Barsa began. “Oh, God! No! You’re thinkin’ of white slavery, ain’t you?”

  Clint sighed. “If Marsha is a beautiful blonde, as the Ghost describes her, she’ll fetch a handsome price if he sells her to a brothel south of the border. If he has the right contacts, he could even transport her out of Mexico to Guatemala, Honduras or even Nicaragua or Colombia. ”

  “Mr. Adams,” Woodland began.

  “Clint,” the Gunsmith urged.

  “Clint. ” The congressman smiled weakly. “I wanted to hire you to take the money to Sonora to try to make the exchange for Marsha’s released”

  “Me?” Clint raised his eyebrows. “Why me? I’ve been to Mexico a couple of times, but I don’t know the country that well and I barely speak enough Spanish to get by down there. ”

  “Oh, we got a feller to work as a guide and translator,” Barsa declared. “Feller named Juan Lopez.”

  “But Juan doesn’t have your reputation, Clint,” Woodland added.

  “As a fast gun?” Clint frowned.

  “Your ability is legendary,” the congressman admitted. “It’s said you’re the fastest, most accurate gunfighter in the West. ”

  “I’m not a gunfighter. ”

  “If the term offends you, I’m sorry,” Woodland assured him. “But the fact remains you’ve killed a lot of men with that modified Colt forty-five.”

  “Including some pretty fearsome pistolmen,” Barsa added. “Con Macklin, the Dragon Kid, Stansfield Lloyd, Dale Leighton . . . ”

  “But more important than your skill with a gun,” Woodland went on, “you also have a reputation for honesty and integrity. You’re a man of honor and principles. The type of man I can trust to take five thousand dollars to Mexico to make the trade for my daughter. ”

  “If you pay el Espectro, whatever chance Marsha may have will be gone,” the Gunsmith warned.

  “What other choice do I have?” Woodland asked helplessly. “You tell me the federales haven’t been able to deal with this bandit. ”

  “But they didn’t know something we do,” Clint announced. “El Espectro may have finally made a mistake. ”

  “What?” Barsa asked, totally confused.

  “It’s in the letter he left,” the Gunsmith answered.

  “He mentions a town called Grajo. He says if you send someone there and just mention his name it’ll get back to him. That means his headquarters must be located near Grajo. ”

  “Clint,” Woodland began, “If you can rescue my daughter, I’ll pay you the five thousand dollars I was going to give el Espectro. ”

  “I don’t cotton to having my fee set by a kidnapper and a murderer,” Clint said. “But I figure half that amount would be all right. ”

  The congressman smiled—the first real smile he’d displayed since he’d met the Gunsmith. “I’ll pay you the two thousand five hundred dollars before you leave.”

  “No,” Clint told him. “Just five hundred now to cover expenses. You can pay me the rest when I return from Mexico. ”

  “Thank you, Clint,” Woodland said, tears of gratitude forming in his eyes.

  The Gunsmith didn’t like what he had to say next, but he had to say it anyway. “Don’t thank me yet, Congressman,” he warned. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to bring her back. Hell, I’m not even sure I’ll be able to bring myself back. ”

  Chapter Four

  Joe Saunders examined his Winchester carbine with a toothless grin. “Golly, Mr. Adams,” the hostler said. “You purely done this gun proud. If’n it ever looked so good before I done disremembered. ”

  “I’m glad you like my work, Joe,” Clint replied. “Just try to take better care of your firearms in the future. If the trigger spring breaks again, don’t use the gun for a hammer or try to grow potatoes in the barrel. It’ll make the next gunsmith’s job a lot easier. Okay?”

  “Sure, Mr. Adams. ” Joe nodded. Clint’s sarcasm had gone so high over his head he didn’t even catch its passing shadow.

  “I’m going to take Duke with me for a little job down in Mexico,” the Gunsmith explained. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but I’d like to leave my wagon here. Pay you two weeks in advance to look after it. Fair enough?”

  “Why course it is, Mr. Adams,” Joe agreed. “In fact, you could just leave it here and pay me when you get back. . . . ”

  “Joe,” Clint began as he produced his billfold, “the kind of job I’m going to do is the sort a fella doesn’t always come back from. ”

  “Oh”—the hostler nodded slowly—“well, if’n you get killed down in Mexico, what do you want I should do with your wagon and possibles?”

  “If I get killed down in Mexico, I don’t really think I’ll care,” Clint replied. “Just see to it my belongings are safe and sound for the next two weeks and don’t put anything up for auction before then. ”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Adams,” Joe said as he accepted a generous advance from the Gunsmith.

  “señior Adams?” a voice called from the entrance of the livery stable.

  Clint turned to see a small, thin man dressed in Levi’s and a checkered shirt. He held a gray stetson in his hands and his head hung low. The man’s complexion was dark and his button eyes looked as black as his hair.

  “I am Juan Lopez,” he explained. “Señor Woodland told me I would find you here. ”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the Gunsmith said, reaching out to shake hands with the young Mexican. “Can I call you Juan?”

  “Oh, sí!” The other man smiled as he pumped Clint’s arm.

  The Gunsmith returned the smile, although he didn’t like what he saw. Juan Lopez was dressed like a cowboy, but his manner was that of a timid peón and he didn’t carry a six-gun or even a sheath knife on his belt. Maybe he’d be a good guide and translator, but Clint suspected Juan would be about as useful in a gunfight as a crippled nun.

  “Did Woodland explain what you’re getting involved with?” he asked the Mexican youth.

  “Sí, ” Juan answered. “I am to serve as your guide and interpreter in my native country of Mejico. I understand that this may be very dangerous because we are to rescue his daughter from el Espectro who is a very bad man, no?”

  “A very bad man, ” Clint confirmed. “There’s a good chance we’ll be involved in some shooting before it’s over. Could be one or both of us won’t live to return to Texas. You realize that, Juan?”

  The youth nodded. “Sí, señor.”

  “My name’s Clint, okay?” the Gunsmith told him. “Now, we’ll be heading toward a town called Grajo. D
o you know where it is?”

  “Sí, señ-Clint,” Juan replied. “It is in the Sonora region near a desert called El Barriga del Diablo—the Devil’s Belly. A very bad place with nothing but sand, rocks, snakes and Yaqui indios.”

  “But there are some towns, villages, a rurale post or two there?”

  “Sí,” the youth said. “Do you think los rurales will help us find Señorita Woodland and el Espectro?”

  “I’m hoping the rurales will know more about the Ghost than the federales, Juan,” Clint explained. “After all, the rurales are the regional police so they deal with a smaller area. The rurales in Sonora are closer to the situation which means they know more about it . . . I hope. ”

  “Sometimes los rurales are not very good people, Clint,” Juan said nervously, revealing a peón’s distrust and fear of authority.

  Clint knew enough about the federales and rurales to realize Juan’s attitude wasn’t without merit. Mexico had always been a turbulent country and had seen more than its share of revolutions, oppression and violence. The current government under Juarez was better than most, but Mexico still remained a state that favored politicians and aristocrats. Many of the men in uniform south of the border were no better than bandidos themselves.

  “If the rurales aren’t cooperative we’ll talk to the people of the towns and villages,” Clint said. “Somebody must know about el Espectro. ”

  “Sí,” Juan agreed without conviction.

  “I’m getting my horse ready for the trail, ” Clint told him. “Why don’t we meet at the general store and you can help me select the supplies we’ll need?”

  “As you say. ” The youth nodded. “I too must get my horse and maybe change my clothes for the trip. Mejicanos tend to speak more freely to other mejicanos. In Texas, I dress like a Texan, but I might do better to look like my countrymen when we go to Sonora. ”

  “You know your people better than I do, Juan,” Clint answered. “Do you have a gun?”

  “I have a rifle,” Juan said; he seemed embarrassed. “It is not much of a gun and I am not very good with lit.”