Bandido Blood

by J. R. Roberts

  “Well”—Garcia drew on his cheroot—“in Mexico most peónes do not own guns and we don’t want them to. We can’t trust them to use weapons only to defend themselves against bandits. Rabble-rousers are always trying to incite revolution in my country.”

  “I’m sure your government knows what’s best for them,” Clint said dryly. Maybe if the peónes weren’t treated like dirt you wouldn’t have to worry about revolutions, he thought. “Well, if the rurales can’t tell me how to find el Espectro, maybe I should talk to the peónes.”

  “Then I know where you should go,” Garcia declared. “The village of San José was raided by el Espectro less than a week ago. May I suggest you talk with the priest there? Father Tomás Rameriz is a remarkable man. He is a blind man, yet he sees into the hearts of his people better than any padre I know. He is poor, but he received a fine education. He is a scholar and a linguist who speaks English, French and of course Latin, as well as Spanish.”

  Clint nodded in agreement. “Thanks for all your help, Captain. Now, if you’ll tell me how to get to San José . . .”

  “It will soon be dark, Mr. Adams,” Garcia said. “You are welcome to spend the night here. You can continue your mission in the morning after you’ve eaten and slept. . . and perhaps, after you’ve considered the folly of your actions. Then you may decide to return to Texas.”

  “You don’t think I’ll find the Ghost?” the Gunsmith asked.

  “Perhaps you will,” Garcia replied grimly. “But to find el Espectro is to find Death, my friend.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Clint Adams enjoyed the hospitality of Captain Garcia’s post and ate a satisfying meal of carne de carnero, chili and tortillas with plenty of cerveza to wash it down. He saw to Duke’s food and water and made certain the horse would be comfortable. Then Garcia escorted Clint back to his office where he’d set up a cot for the Gunsmith. Clint placed his weapons within arm’s reach and gratefully went to sleep.

  The following morning, two hours after dawn, the Gunsmith rode from Fort Juarez. He and Duke were refreshed and ready for the trail—or at least, as ready as anyone could be to journey into el Barriga del Diablo.

  Captain Garcia’s directions to the village of San José had been descriptive and accurate. Clint watched for various landmarks—a stone butte with a flat top, a snake-shaped arroyo, a boulder that resembled a buffalo’s head—and steered Duke into another direction when he encountered them, recalling Garcia’s instructions.

  Clint arrived at San José before noon. The village was small with tiny houses made of adobe brick with reed-patched roofing. The church, a modest building with a wooden cross nailed above the entrance, was the largest structure in San José.

  Scrawny chickens and goats wandered about the village. Four young men were working in a cornfield. When they saw Clint, they immediately put down their hoes and removed their sombreros to solemnly stare at the stranger. A pair of old women who had been grinding corn into meal also saw the Gunsmith and hastily retreated into the nearest hut.

  “Buenos días,” Clint greeted. “Yo soy pacífico hombre. Comprende?”

  Although he’d assured the peónes he was a man of peace, they didn’t seem to believe him. The Gunsmith sighed.

  “Dónde está el Padre Rameriz, por favor?” he inquired.

  “Here I am, señor, ” a deep, pleasant voice replied.

  Clint turned to see a well-built man dressed in a patched cassock, who stood at the open door of the church. His jet black hair was streaked with silver. Clint guessed the priest to be in his mid-forties, a few years older than himself. Father Rameriz held a stave in his fist, the tip touching the edge of the top step to his church. The priest’s forehead was high and his mouth turned up at the corners, suggesting a ready smile. His sightless eyes were milky white, yet they seemed to express intelligence and a kindly nature.

  “My name’s Clint Adams, Father,” the Gunsmith explained as he swung down from Duke. “I was told you might be able to help me.”

  “To help others is part of the obligation we owe to God as good Christians and to ourselves as civilized men,” Father Rameriz replied, cocking his head as he listened to Clint’s approaching footfalls. “May I ask who advised you to seek me out, my son?”

  “Capitán Garcia,” Clint answered, mounting the steps to the church.

  “Garcia?” Rameriz frowned for a moment. “The rurales are not popular with peónes, Clint. God loves all His children, but some, like the rurales, seem to deserve it less than others.”

  “How do you figure el Espectro rates with the Almighty?” Clint asked.

  The priest’s expression darkened. “I cannot speak for God, but I doubt that el Espectro and his followers deserve anything from Our Holy Father except eternal damnation—which I suspect they shall receive when their time of Judgment arrives.”

  Rameriz turned to enter his church, the stave guiding his way with ease. Clint followed the priest inside. Rows of wooden pews faced an altar and pulpit at the opposite side of the room. Tarnished copper candlesticks were positioned at both sides of the altar, but there were no collection plates in view. A wooden crucifix hung on the wall above the altar.

  “Since you are a norteamericano,” Father Rameriz began, “I assume you have a very strong reason to come to Sonora in search of el Espectro, no?”

  Clint confirmed this and explained how he had been hired to locate the bandit leader and rescue Marsha Woodland. Father Rameriz listened, occasionally nodding as he led Clint to a door behind the pulpit.

  “If I could help you in this task,” the priest said, opening the door, “I would gladly do so, but I do not see how I can be of assistance, my son.”

  Rameriz and Clint entered the priest’s chambers, which consisted of a small room with a cot, a bookcase, two cabinets and a chess set on a small table with two chairs.

  “Garcia told me this village was recently attacked by the bandits,” Clint said.

  “Sí,” the priest admitted as he felt for the handle of a cabinet door and opened it. “El Espectro and his band rode in and ordered the villagers to give them food and water. This has happened before, so no one was very surprised or even disturbed by their demands.”

  Rameriz reached inside the cabinet and brought out a bottle of red wine and two clay cups. “But this time,” he continued, “the bandidos took more than food and drink. They kidnapped two young women and three young men.”

  “El Espectro certainly wouldn’t plan to collect ransom for peónes,” Clint mused. “Why’d he take them?”

  “I do not know, my son,” the priest replied. “He might abduct the women to serve as playthings for his bandidos and merely take the male prisoners to confuse and frighten us. Or . . . perhaps it is as some believe and el Espectro is a messenger of the Devil, sent to remind us that evil is real and alive.”

  “Do you think he’s an evil spirit, Father?”

  Rameriz carefully poured wine into the cups, measuring the portions by judging the increased weight of the cups. “I do not know if el Espectro is an evil spirit,” the priest declared. “But he is certainly an evil man. Of course, I have never seen el Espectro, but my people tell me the Ghost indeed resembles a corpse. They say his face looks like a death mask and his skin is as white as a cloud.”

  “El Espectro—whoever he might really be—is obviously playing his dead man act to the hilt in order to take advantage of the peónes’ superstitions,” Clint stated. “It sounds like he powders his face like an actor to create that appearance. That’s your evil spirit, Father—just another bandido, who wears clown makeup on his raids.”

  “I’m sure you are right, my son,” Father Rameriz began, handing Clint a cup of wine. “But I have heard the voice of el Espectro. It is a hollow voice, like the wind rasping among headstones in a graveyard.”

  “Thanks for the drink, Father,” Clint said.

  “You are welcome, my son,” Rameriz nodded. “Do you play chess, Clint?”

  “Yes,”
the Gunsmith replied.

  “Then you are even more welcome.” The priest smiled.

  With a cup of wine in one hand and his cane in the other, Rameriz approached the chess set. “Would you care to play a game, Clint?”

  “All right,” the Gunsmith agreed, wondering how a blind man could play chess.

  When he got a closer look at the chess set, he found the answer. Each hand-carved piece was marked with raised dots on its back. Braille, Clint realized. Father Rameriz could thus identify chessmen by rank and color simply by touching a piece. Every other square on the checkerboard was slightly raised, allowing the priest to move his men by touch.

  “This is quite a chess set,” Clint remarked as he sat behind the white army.

  “So you’ve already noticed it has some unusual features.” Rameriz smiled, positioning himself at the black army. “If pride is a sin, then I am guilty for I can not help feeling pride in my chess set.”

  “You came up with the idea?” Clint asked.

  “When my eyes began to fail and I knew I would soon be blind, ” Rameriz explained, “I made this set. I carved the figures and the board so I would still be able to play chess after I lost my sight.”

  “Captain Garcia told me you’re a remarkable man, Father,” Clint stated. “He didn’t exaggerate.”

  “I am just a priest, Clint.” Rameriz shrugged. “I had the advantage of a fine education, but I wasn’t a very good priest when I was an intellectual. I was conceited, arrogant and impatient with the shortcomings of others. Yet, after I lost my sight, I devoted myself to the poor, to help them not only spiritually but also to educate them. Most peónes are illiterate, but everyone in San José can read and write. Have you moved yet, Clint?”

  “Oh, yeah,” the Gunsmith said. “Queen’s knight to bishop three.”

  “I have taught English to many of the villagers as well,” the priest continued as he moved his king’s pawn forward. “I’d like to see more of them move to your country where they’ll have a chance to better themselves. Mexico is a better country under el Presidente Juarez, but I fear his reign may not last for long. Yet, if enough of my people see what your government is like, a true republic with a constitution that grants its citizens rights at birth, then we may be able to improve Mexico in time.”

  “I moved the king’s knight to bishop three,” Clint told him.

  “So, you put your knights toward the center of the board where you can make the most of their evasive L-shaped pattern of movement.” Rameriz nodded. “A good defensive tactic, my son. When will you go back to your great nation north of the border?”

  “When I’ve finished my job here,” Clint replied. “You seem to admire the United States, Father. Why don’t you move there?”

  “Because this is my country.” The priest moved a bishop forward. “And because here is where I am needed, my son.”

  “Padre Rameriz!” an excited voice shouted from beyond the chamber door.

  “Entra, mi niño,” the priest called in reply.

  A button-eyed peón appeared at the entrance of Rameriz’s quarters. He held his sombrero in his hands as he breathlessly spoke a rapid sentence in Spanish. All that Clint could catch of the words were “el Espectro.”

  “The men in the fields have just seen a large group of horsemen approaching the village,” Rameriz explained to Clint. “They recognized the leader. El Espectro will be here in another minute or two.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I’m looking for the Ghost,” Clint remarked. “But I didn’t expect to meet him under these circumstances.”

  “This is certainly no time to try to fight him,” Father Rameriz declared. “He has too many men with him.”

  The priest quickly snapped an order in Spanish to the peón who nodded in reply and bolted from the church. Father Rameriz rose from his chair and turned to Clint.

  “I told Luis to fetch you a sombrero and serape. It isn’t a very good disguise, but it will make you less conspicuous than norteamericano clothing, no?”

  “Good idea,” Clint agreed. “What about my horse? It’s bound to draw the bandits’ attention.”

  “Bring the animal into the church.” Rameriz smiled. “This is God’s house and your horse is one of His creations. I’m certain He will not object to its visit under the circumstances.”

  “What if the bandidos search the church?” Clint asked. “They’ll kill you, Father.”

  “This is a chance we must take, my son.” Rameriz shrugged. “But I doubt that el Espectro and his men have any interest in a church which they know contains no gold or silver candlesticks or even a poor box. Now hurry and get your horse.”

  Clint led Duke up the steps and inside the church. Luis, the peón, appeared again with a serape and sombrero. Before the Gunsmith could thank him, the young Mexican had again bolted from the church.

  As Clint donned the blanketlike poncho and battered straw headgear, he heard the thundering roar of approaching horse hooves. He patted Duke’s muzzle and whispered to the big gelding to be quiet. Then he drew his Springfield carbine from the saddle boot and waited.

  Father Rameriz stood at the entrance of the church while Clint and Duke remained behind the door out of sight. The Gunsmith, however, still saw enough via the space between the door and its frame to know what kind of men the new arrivals on horseback were.

  The Gunsmith had encountered bandidos before and he recognized the breed immediately. Brutal, hard men, armed to the teeth with guns, knives and bandoliers, the bandits sat arrogantly on their mustang horses and gazed contemptuously at the villagers of San José. The bandidos—skinny or fat, late teens or early forties—were otherwise alike—bearded, dirty, unprincipled savages that resembled the wild animals they had become.

  All, that is, except the incredible figure mounted on a great white stallion who led them.

  The bandit chief’s horse was indeed magnificent, almost as beautiful and large as Duke. The animal was as white as Clint’s gelding was black. As white as the man who rode it.

  The descriptions of the Ghost had not been an exaggeration. He was clad in black trousers and boots with a black hooded cowl over his head. Yet, the man’s face was visible. Lean, gaunt and the color of chalk, his features could have been carved in marble. The Gunsmith had heard about el Espectro, but he wasn’t prepared for what he saw . . . or what he felt. The man was indeed more than a common hill bandit. He was a sinister force in human form.

  The phantom addressed the village of San José. Although Clint could not understand most of the words, he detected a smooth Castilian accent in el Espectro’s Spanish which suggested he’d received an expensive formal education. Clint also heard the slow, deep rumble of the Ghost’s terrible voice. He could not suppress the cold shiver that traveled along his spine.

  God in Heaven, what have I gotten myself into? Clint thought. That man out there—whatever he is—is unlike anything I’ve taken on in the past.

  The Gunsmith tried to get as good a view of el Espectro as possible without exposing himself. He noticed something no one had mentioned before. The Ghost wore eyeglasses, a pair of thick spectacles with dark smoked lenses. What startled Clint the most was the fact that el Espectro’s alabaster white skin did not appear to be a simple cosmetic trick. Even the man’s bony, long-fingered hands were as pale and bloodless as a corpse.

  After what seemed like hours of nerve-racking tension, el Espectro gestured to his men. Clint then heard the rumble of hooves gallop from San José. He was still listening to the sound gradually growing dimmer when Father Rameriz clutched his arm. The blind man leaned close to Clint as he spoke softly.

  “You must remain here, my son,” the priest whispered. “The danger is not yet over. One of the peónes the bandits captured from our village, a girl, has managed to escape from el Espectro’s lair. I told them she is not here—which, in truth, she is not—but for one awful moment, I feared el Espectro would order his men to search the village for the girl.”

 
“Guess I’m glad I don’t understand Spanish, ” Clint said.

  “Listen, my son,” Rameriz urged. “El Espectro left three of his men behind in case the girl returns to San José. They are stationed right outside the church. You must be quiet and wait. Comprende?”

  “I understand, Father,” Clint assured him. “And I’ll wait . . . for a while.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Gunsmith and Duke stood behind the door of the church while long minutes dragged by. Clint listened to the three bandidos el Espectro had left behind. The trio shouted commands in Spanish. Clint understood enough of it to realize the bandits were ordering the peónes to bring them food and water.

  Clint heard a woman squeal in pain, followed by the cruel laughter of the trio. His hand touching the grips of his Colt, the Gunsmith leaned forward to peer through the crack of the door. Three filthy figures clad in dusty clothes, sombreros and ammo belts crisscrossing their chests, stood in the center of the village. The woman, a homely middle-aged peón, ran from the bandits.

  Apparently, they hadn’t really harmed her, but Clint still had to remind himself that if he confronted the bandits—which he sorely wanted to do—gunshots might be heard by el Espectro and the others, who would certainly return to investigate the sounds. He had to wait until the Ghost and his crew were out of earshot before he could take any action against the three bandits.

  Father Rameriz took the incident in stride. He’d encountered bandidos before and this wasn’t the first time they’d terrorized his village. The priest carried a broom, using it as a cane to feel his way to the door. Locating the threshold, he stepped outside and began to sweep the steps of the church.

  “Padre!” a bandit snarled, gesturing at the priest although he knew Rameriz to be blind. “Venga usted, Padre!”

  Father Rameriz, using the broom to guide his way, obeyed the order and approached the three men. “Qué deseas, señor?” he inquired.