Bandido Blood

by J. R. Roberts

  “What kind is it?” Clint asked.

  “A Spencer carbine. ”

  “One of those big fifty-two or fifty-four caliber cannons?” The Gunsmith rolled his eyes. “No wonder you’re not very good with it. You can’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds, for God’s sake. The recoil must beat hell out of your shoulder. We’ll get you a Winchester or Henry saddle gun with ammunition in forty-four caliber. Now, have you ever used a pistol?”

  “No, señor . . . Clint. ”

  “Well, now is a poor time to teach you.” Clint sighed. “You have a horse that’s fit for some hard riding?”

  “Oh, sí,” Juan smiled. “I have a fine Appaloosa. Very strong and very fast. ”

  “Good,” the Gunsmith said. “We might have to outfit you with a new saddle, but your animal sounds okay. Take him over to the general store and I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. ”

  The young Mexican scurried away. Joe Saunders approached Clint and frowned. “How come you let that greaser call you by your first name when I gotta call you Mr. Adams?”

  “You don’t have to call me Mr. Adams, ” the Gunsmith replied. “Besides, I’m going to be sharing a lot of miles with that young fella and I want to be on good terms with him.”

  “I heard you say you was goin’ after el Espectro. ” The hostler shook his head grimly. “If’n you’ll take my advice, Clint ”—he said the name with relish—“you’ll forget all about tanglin’ with that Mex devil. ”

  “I’m not exactly looking forward to it, Joe,” Clint admitted.

  “You wanna know about el Espectro?” Joe began. “I can tell you where to find out all about him. ”

  The Gunsmith turned to gaze at the aged hostler. Joe’s expression was stem and his eyes wide, with a trace of fear visible in them.

  “I’m listening, Joe. ”

  “You can read about the dead man who rides a white stallion in the Book of Revelation,” Joe replied in a solemn voice. “I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death.”

  Chapter Five

  Past experience assured the Gunsmith that with ample time he could find any man, anywhere, no matter how elusive. Ask enough questions, grease enough palms with silver eagles, check enough leads and maybe ruffle enough folks’ feathers and eventually you’ll find your man—if he doesn’t come looking for you first.

  Time, however, was something Clint Adams didn’t have. Neither did Marsha Woodland. If the girl was still alive the only chance she had was if Clint could find her quickly. El Espectro may have already arranged to sell her to a remote brothel in Central America. He certainly wouldn’t hold her too long in the hopes his scheme would work.

  The Gunsmith and Juan Lopez quickly packed their supplies in saddlebags and draped them across the backs of their horses. Clint bought Juan a new rifle, and as he’d guessed, the young Mexican also needed a new saddle, which the Gunsmith purchased as well. Clint was relieved to discover Juan had not exaggerated about his horse. The Appaloosa appeared quite fit and strong. Compared to Duke, the other animal seemed undersized and underfed, but most horses looked shabby next to the magnificent black Arabian.

  They rode out of Brookstown before noon and crossed a wide ford in the Rio Grande into Mexico by dusk. Clint and Juan covered several miles before darkness made travel by horseback too hazardous. Galloping around after nightfall is a good way to break a horse’s leg in a prairie-dog hole. Besides, the territory could well be inhabited by Yaqui or Apache Indians, many of whom migrated from Texas after the Comanches and the white-eyes pony soldiers had made life too difficult for their taste.

  The two men set up camp on the Mexican prairie, which looked like any prairie one might find in the United States. Sand, rocks, cottonwoods and sagebrush don’t differ much wherever they’re found.

  They camped near a cluster of boulders and began to unpack coffee, sourdough bread, beef jerky and canned tomatoes for dinner. While Clint fed and watered the horses, Juan collected greasewood for a fire. The Gunsmith gave Duke a rubdown with a tattered horse blanket when he noticed Juan poking about the boulders with a stick.

  “Worried about rattlesnakes?” Clint asked.

  “Sí,” the youth admitted. “And scorpions and most of all, el lagarto de cuentas.”

  “What’s that?” the Gunsmith inquired as he started the campfire.

  “The beaded lizard, ” Juan explained. “It is similar to the gila monster native to Texas and New Mexico. The beaded lizard is also poisonous and it too has jaws of iron. The beaded lizard is more deadly than any serpent and when it bites you, it won’t let go even if you cut its head off. ”

  “Sounds like I wouldn’t care to have one of them share my bedroll,” Clint remarked, placing a blue metal coffeepot by the fire.

  “The Yaqui Indians use the poison of el lagarto de cuentas on the heads of their war arrows,” Juan continued as he joined Clint by the fire. “You get shot by a Yaqui arrow, you’ll be dead for sure. ”

  “Terrific,” the Gunsmith muttered, glancing about the surrounding shadows. “Are the Yaqui very active in this area?”

  “No.” The youth shrugged. “This far north you might run into Apache, but we won’t have to worry about Yaqui until we reach Sonora. ”

  Clint turned to face Juan. “You realized we’d be traveling through hostile Indian territory and probably wind up in a shooting match with el Espectro and his gang. Why did you come, Juan?”

  “Señor Woodland says he’ll pay me five hundred dollars if I help you rescue his daughter. That is a lot of money, Clint. I have a wife and five children. Right now I can not provide for them too good, but I’ll be able to give them more than we dared dream possible when I return home. ”

  “Five hundred dollars. ” Clint shook his head. Woodland had offered him ten times that amount. “That’s the price you put on your own life, Juan?”

  “Risking my life for my family is something I gladly accept, Clint,” Juan replied. “I was born a peón in a tiny village where no one could ever hope to rise above his station. In los Estados Unidos there are opportunities for anyone to better himself if he tries. I want my children to have those opportunities. ”

  “Who will provide for your wife and kids if you don’t come back, Juan?”

  “I must return,” the youth insisted. “What is your reason, Clint? Certainly, you are not simply attracted by the money. You do not have a wife and little ones, do you?”

  “No,” Clint answered. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t use some extra cash. I don’t make much of an income by fixing folks’ firearms, so Woodland’s money will come in handy. ”

  “But there is another reason, no?”

  The Gunsmith nodded. “There’s an innocent girl held captive by a man who seems to be part devil. Maybe she’s already dead or maybe she’s already been sold to a whorehouse in Colombia, but if she’s still alive and I can help her, well . . . I’d just have a pretty hard time looking at my face in the mirror when I shaved if I didn’t try.”

  “Sí.” Juan smiled. “You are a good man, Clint. A man of honor. ”

  “Right now, I’m a pretty tired man,” Clint declared. “Let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow promises to be another long, hard day. ”

  Chapter Six

  The Gunsmith and Juan Lopez awoke at dawn. They were in the saddle an hour later. Their journey continued into the monotonous miles of flat prairies of the Sonora desert region.

  “We should reach Grajo by sundown,” Juan remarked.

  “We’re not going to Grajo,” Clint said as he removed a folded map from his shirt pocket.

  “But how are we supposed to find el Espectro if we do not follow his instructions and go to Grajo?” the startled youth asked.

  “Never play by another fella’s rules if you have a better chance of beating him by making up your own,” the Gunsmith declared. “The Ghost wants us to go to Grajo. That means it would be to his advantage if we did so. We’re going to try to find him another
way—one that he won’t expect. ”

  “Through the rurales?” Juan asked with a frown.

  Clint nodded. “General Moreno gave me this map when I was in Mexico City. It has the locations of various federale and rurale posts throughout the country. The general wanted to be sure I could get help if I needed it on my way back to Texas. There’s a rurale post, Fort Morales, about eight miles west of where I figure our present position to be. ”

  “I still don’t see what help the rurales can be. After all, they haven’t been able to find el Espectro. ”

  “Maybe they haven’t had a good enough reason to really look for . . . ”

  Clint’s sentence died before he could complete it when three figures appeared at the horizon. The trio of men on horseback also spotted the Gunsmith and Juan. They rapidly approached. Clint dropped his hand to the Colt on his hip and slipped the thong from its hammer in case he needed to draw the gun in a hurry. Juan slid his Winchester from its saddle boot. He whispered a prayer to the Holy Virgin as he cambered a round.

  As the trio drew closer, Clint saw they wore uniforms and stovepipe riding boots similar to federales, but the horsemen didn’t sport military caps. Their sombreros, with star-shaped badges pinned to the crowns, identified them as rurales.

  “Well”—Clint grinned—“maybe we’re in luck.”

  “Buenos días,” a bearded figure with the chevrons of a sergeant on his sleeve, greeted. He waved at the Gunsmith and displayed a set of tobacco stained teeth as he smiled. “You are a norteamericano, no? I am Sargento Veaga. I speak English okay, no?”

  “Better than my Spanish, ” Clint replied with a nod, but his hand didn’t move from the grips of his Colt. The Mexican noncom’s friendliness seemed false to the Gunsmith, who had learned never to assume too much at face value. “Perhaps you can help us, Señor Sargento.”

  “What you need, amigo?” Veaga still smiled. His hand rested on a button-flap holster on his belt.

  “We’re looking for Fort Morales, ” Clint explained. He noticed the two soldiers with Veaga held rifles in their fists. One of them worked the lever to jack a shell into the breech.

  “What good fortune! ” Veaga declared. “We are from Fort Morales! Why you need to go there, señor? You attacked by bandidos, no?”

  “No,” Clint began, watching Veaga pry open his holster.

  “Oh, sí!” the sergeant insisted. “Me and my muchachos we find you after the bandidos ambushed you here at this very spot. ” Veaga laughed. “Too bad they killed you, gringo!”

  The rurale gestured at his men with one hand while the other fumbled for his pistol. Both privates swung their rifles toward Clint and Juan, bringing the butt-stocks to their shoulders. Frightened and stunned by the unexpected aggression, Juan’s shaky hands made an effort to bring his Winchester into play, although he realized his awkward response was too slow and the rurales would gun him down before he could hope to get off a shot.

  Then the Gunsmith’s Colt roared.

  A .45 slug hit one of the rurale riflemen in the center of his chest, knocking him out of the saddle to die in a kicking heap on the ground. Clint’s double-action revolver snarled a shred of a second later and the other rurale private’s head recoiled violently when a bullet punched through it as though it were made of papier-mâché.

  “Cristo!” Veaga cried in alarm and horror as he finally pulled his pistol from leather and tried to thumb back the hammer.

  “Adiós,” Clint muttered as he shot the sergeant in the forehead.

  The sound of gunfire echoed on the wind, blending with the thump of Veaga’s corpse hitting the ground. Juan Lopez stared at the three dead men in astonishment. Clint Adams calmly removed the spent cartridges from his Colt and replaced them with fresh shells.

  “Madre de Dios!” the youth exclaimed. “I have heard tales of men who are fast and accurate with a pistola, but I never believed such a thing was possible!”

  “Neither did they. ” Clint shrugged, patting Duke’s neck. “Guess we’ll just have to find Fort Morales on our own now. ”

  Juan’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Qué es esto? Mucho loco! You just killed three rurales and you want us to just ride on to their post? What if los rurales find these bodies and figure out you shot them?”

  “We’ll know how the rurales will react to that news when we get to the fort,” Clint replied. “We’re taking Sargento Veaga and his amigos with us. Lucky their horses aren’t gun-shy. I’m glad we don’t have to waste time chasing after them. . . . ”

  “Locura!” Juan cried. “Insanity! You will get us both placed before a firing squad before sunset! ”

  “Don’t be silly, Juan.” The Gunsmith grinned. “Everybody knows executions are held at dawn. ”

  Chapter Seven

  “Hijo de la chigada!” Colonel Raul Morales snarled as he slammed his fist on the desk. “You dare to come into my fort with three of my men who you admit you killed and then ask me for help? Gringo cochino!”

  Clint Adams and Juan Lopez stood in Morales’s office. They’d surrendered their weapons when they’d entered the rurale post. Three soldiers then led them at gunpoint to the colonel’s office. The troopers remained in the room with weapons held ready in case the loco Anglo tried to attack their commander with his bare hands.

  “I don’t like being insulted in any language, Colonel,” Clint told Morales. “So why don’t we both act civilized about this?”

  “Civilized?” Morales rose up behind his desk. Almost a foot shorter than Clint, he glared up at the Gunsmith, his eyes wide with anger and amazement at the gringo’s attitude.

  “You kill my men and then talk about being civilized?” he demanded. “Bastardo del Diablo! I’ll have you shot for this! Horses will draw and quarter you! My men will use your body for bayonet practice!”

  “Before you do anything to me, ” Clint said stiffly, “you’d better look at this. ”

  He handed Morales a letter of commendation awarded to Clint Adams by el Presidente Juarez in recognition of his unselfish service to the government of Mexico upon returning a fortune in gold to the national treasury. Morales’s face paled as he read the document. The colonel sank into his chair behind the desk.

  “Uh . . . Tell me again how this thing happened, Señor Adams, ” Morales urged in a choked voice.

  “You’ve heard it twice already,” Clint replied. “Don’t tell me you’re all that surprised to hear Veaga and a couple of his men decided to use a patrol for a chance to moonlight as bandits. The greedy bastards figured Juan and I would be easy targets. They planned to kill and rob us and then let the local bandidos take the blame. ”

  The Gunsmith watched Morales chew his lower lip nervously. Clint decided to give the colonel a chance to save face. He wanted the man’s cooperation, and he wouldn’t get it by humiliating him.

  “I’m certain,” the Gunsmith began, “this is not a surprise to you, Coronel. A good commander always knows his men and I’m sure you’ve had your eye on Sergeant Veaga in the past. You’ve probably suspected he was an unprincipled criminal in uniform, but until now, you didn’t have enough evidence to deal with him. Right?”

  “Oh, sí!” Morales agreed quickly. “I—I think I can even get Major Garfalo to state that I’d had Veaga and his scum under observation for months. ”

  “I’m certain the major will support you, Coronel,” Clint said with a straight face. “And may I congratulate you on your performance a moment ago?”

  “Performance?” the bewildered Morales knitted his shaggy eyebrows.

  “When you pretended to be outraged about the death of Veaga and his accomplices,” the Gunsmith explained. “Quite convincing. You had me worried for a moment. Of course, you had to be certain I wasn’t a gringo outlaw who was doing business with this corrupt sergeant. I commend your cleverness in forcing me to show you these documents to prove the value of my word. ”

  “Uh . . . sí! ” Morales nodded. “I—I hope I did not offend you, Señor Adams.” />
  “Certainly not, ” Clint assured him. “Trust must be earned by strangers. A professional, such as yourself, cannot afford to leave anything to chance. I will be certain to mention you to General Moreno in Mexico City. I’ll tell him about your shrewd judgment of men and your skilled command of this post as well as how you cooperated with me. ”

  “You are too kind. ” Morales beamed. “You have done me a great service by helping me expose Veaga and his cabróns, so I will be pleased to assist you anyway I can. ”

  “First,” the Gunsmith began, “will you have your men return our weapons?”

  The colonel immediately snapped fierce orders at his soldiers in rapid Spanish. The startled rurales handed Clint his gunbelt and hastily left the office. The Gunsmith winked at Juan Lopez, who was so amazed and relieved by the way Clint had rescued them from a firing squad, he looked as if he might faint.

  “My friend Juan and I are on a mission,” the Gunsmith told Morales. “A dangerous mission. We must find the bandido known as el Espectro. ”

  Morales shook his head. “That will not be easy, señor. El Espectro is well named for he not only resembles a ghost in appearance, he can also vanish like a phantom as well. ”

  “But there’s nothing supernatural about the bullets he uses, Coronel,” Clint insisted. “What can you tell me about this bandit?”

  “Little that you don’t already know, ” Morales admitted as he rose from his desk and approached a wall map. “We’re fairly certain his camp must be somewhere here, in the desert called El Barriga del Diablo, which has to be one of the worst places on the face of the earth. We have a small post there, Fort Juarez, commanded by Capitán Garcia. He may be able to tell you more about el Espectro. However, this is Yaqui territory and los rurales must concentrate most of their efforts on dealing with the indio filth instead of bandidos. El Espectro is merely an annoyance compared to the Yaqui. And I must warn you to beware of those savages if you enter the Devil’s Belly. There is no creature anywhere in the world that is more cruel or deadly than the Yaqui. Even the Apache fear them. Do not take this warning lightly, Señor Adams. ”