Bandido Blood

by J. R. Roberts

  The Gunsmith listened to the bandidos laugh as they uttered sentences in Spanish, unintelligible to Clint. He saw the bandidos surround Rameriz. They poked and shoved him contemptuously, but the priest submitted passively to the abuse. One of the Mexican outlaws, a beefy, bearded beast, wrenched the broom from Rameriz’s grasp and broke it over his knee.

  Clint stiffened when he saw the bandido grab the priest’s cassock in his fist. He pulled Rameriz close, their faces almost touching. The bandit growled something at Rameriz and shoved him forcibly. Another bandit extended a leg and the priest tripped over it. He fell to the ground to the amusement of his tormentors.

  Damn it! Clint thought. This has gone far enough!

  The stocky bandit stepped closer to Father Rameriz as the priest got to his hands and knees and started to rise. A boot stamped into his side and knocked Rameriz on his face. The bandit chuckled and said something that ended with “Dios.” Rameriz, still on all fours, seemed to stiffen with anger.

  With a vicious smile on his bearded face, the beefy brute growled another sentence at Rameriz. The priest did not move or speak. The bandido shouted something and Father Rameriz raised his head and spat at him.

  “Bastardo de Dios!” the bandit bellowed.

  He slashed a boot at the priest’s head, but Tomás Rameriz either heard or sensed the movement of the attacking leg before the kick could connect. Moving with surprising speed, the priest’s arms rose, blocking the kick. The bandit cried out in alarm as Rameriz grabbed the man’s leg and twisted it, throwing his tormentor off balance.

  The bandido hit the ground hard and Rameriz, holding the leg with one hand, hammered his fist into the brute’s groin. The bandit shrieked in pain. The priest punched him in the crotch again and the other bandits cursed and reached for Rameriz.

  “You pieces of taco-vomit want a fight?” Clint Adams declared as he stepped from the door of the church. “Here it is.”

  The two bandidos immediately forgot the priest and swung around to face the Gunsmith, their hands streaking for their holstered pistols. Clint’s Colt was already in his hand, the hammer cocked, his finger on the trigger.

  Almost casually, he shot one of the bandits in the face. A grisly halo of shattered skull fragments and brains burst from the back of the man’s head. His partner was still clawing at his sidearm when Clint pumped two .45 slugs into his chest.

  The Gunsmith trained his pistol on the third bandido, but the brute didn’t present a threat. He’d passed out from the ball-busting Father Rameriz had delivered with his fists. Clint approached, his gun still held ready.

  “You okay, Father?” Clint asked.

  “Sí,” Rameriz nodded, his face still clouded by anger. “Hijo del Diablo!” he snarled, addressing the unconscious bandit. “Suciedad boca! Mierda!”

  Clint whistled softly, recognizing enough words to know Rameriz was using some pretty strong language for a priest. He knelt beside the man Rameriz had rendered senseless and removed his gunbelt. Then he frisked the bandit for holdout weapons, finding a rusty derringer and a boot knife.

  “I am sorry for my outburst,” Rameriz told him. “And I ask God to forgive me for my loss of temper and violence this day.”

  “I can’t speak for the Almighty, but I’m not offended,” the Gunsmith assured him. “What did this fella say that set you off like a keg of blackpowder?”

  “This . . . man,” Rameriz began, still struggling to control his anger. “He told me to kneel before him. He said, ‘You worship God, priest? I now hold the power of life or death over you.’ He told me he was thus my god and ordered me to worship him. Such blasphemy!”

  “He’s probably pretty sorry he made that remark, Father.” Clint glanced at the stunned bandido who groaned softly and began to massage his battered crotch. “Especially since he’ll be saying his Hail Marys in soprano for a while.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The bandido regained consciousness to discover the muzzle of a .45 Colt pointed at his face. Clint Adams cocked the hammer.

  “If you don’t speak English,” the Gunsmith said in a cold, flat voice, “I’m going to kill you, fella.”

  He didn’t really intend to shoot the man in cold blood, but it was a sure fire way to find out about his linguistic abilities.

  “Cristo!” the bandit rasped, still holding his genitals with one hand. “Sí! I speak English!”

  “What’s your name, goat turd?” Clint asked.

  “Pedro Castro,” the bandit replied through clenched teeth. He glanced about for his companions.

  “They’re dead, Castro,” Clint explained. “I killed them and if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do, I’ll kill you too. Understand?”

  “Sí.” The bandido nodded. “I understand.”

  “Get up,” Clint ordered as he stepped back, still holding his gun on Castro.

  The bandit obeyed, wincing from the pain that branched out from his groin. Father Rameriz approached with his stave in one hand, a coil of rope in the other.

  “You’ve been unconscious for quite a while and el Espectro didn’t return, so he must have been too far away to hear the gunshots when I killed your friends,” Clint told Castro. “So don’t expect the bandit cavalry to arrive. Now, hold out your hands so Father Rameriz can tie your wrists together. Don’t try anything, fella, or I’ll shoot off what’s left of your cajones.”

  The priest firmly bound Castro’s wrists together and stepped back to join Clint. The bandit’s eyes dripped venom as he glared at them. Then his eyes widened with surprise when he saw one of the bandido mustangs and the beautiful black Arabian hitched to a rail by the church.

  “That’s right, Castro,” Clint said. “You and I are going for a little ride. If you didn’t have to ride a horse, I would have tied your hands behind your back. So don’t get any notions that I’m an estúpido gringo who’s going to make a mistake that’ll allow you to jump him after we leave here. Give me half a reason and I’ll shoot you in both kneecaps and leave you in the desert with nothing but snakes, scorpions and the Yaqui for company .”

  “The desert?” Castro wrinkled his brow. “You mean the Devil’s Belly?”

  “That’s where el Espectro’s headquarters is, right?” Clint said. “You’re going to lead me there, chico.”

  Castro smiled. “To find el Espectro is to find Death. I will be happy to take you to him, Señor . . . ?”

  “Adams,” the Gunsmith supplied. “Now, get your ass on that horse and don’t touch that black gelding. He’ll bite your hand off if you try.”

  The bandit continued to obey orders. He groaned when he straddled the saddle on the back of the mustang. Castro didn’t try to gallop away, aware Clint could have easily shot him off the horse before he could ride beyond pistol range. The Gunsmith addressed Father Rameriz without taking his eyes or his Colt from Pedro Castro.

  “Thanks for everything, Father,” he said. “If I can liberate any of your people and help them return to San José, I will.”

  “I know,” the priest replied, placing a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “May God go with you, my son.”

  “I sure hope so, Father,” Clint remarked. “I’d sure hate to be riding through the Devil’s Belly with just a snake like Castro for company.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “El Espectro don’t like gringos, Adams,” Pedro Castro declared as he and the Gunsmith rode through the blistering, barren desert of el Barriga del Diablo. “You know what he did one time when we caught a gringo lawman near El Paso? He cut off the man’s pecker and stuffed it in his mouth.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion,” Clint said, cocking back the brim of his straw sombrero with a thumb. He still wore the hat and serape in order to look less conspicuous. “I’ll remember it if I get tired of listening to you talk.”

  “Oh, you are a tough hombre, Adams.” The bandit nodded. “But no man is tough when he meets el Espectro. He is not like other men.”

  Clint clucked his tongue against the roof
of his mouth. “Save that crap for the peónes, Castro.”

  “But it is true, Adams,” the bandit insisted. “El Espectro can read your thoughts by gazing at your face. He can drain a man’s strength with his voice or crush your skull with his bare hands.”

  “Can he also cure warts?” the Gunsmith sneered, but in fact he was disturbed by Castro’s claims because the bandit seemed genuinely to believe in el Espectro’s supernatural powers. “Tell me, Castro. Why’d you give that priest such a hard time back in San José?”

  “I hate priests,” the bandit declared. “The Catholic church has been the curse of Mexico ever since los conquistadores came and destroyed the Aztec empire in the name of Christ.”

  “I bet old Mr. Ghost told you that,” Clint muttered.

  “Laugh if you wish, gringo.” Castro smiled. “But el Espectro has outwitted all his opponents because he can see what lies in the future and what his enemies plan. None of us fully understands him, but we don’t need to. He is more than a man. You will see this for yourself.”

  “I already saw him.” Clint shrugged. “A skinny fella who looks like he got hit with a bag of flour. What makes him so special?”

  “The best way I can describe it is to tell you what he once said,” Castro replied, his voice as solemn as a preacher reciting Scripture. “There is Life and there is Death, and el Espectro is the bridge between them.”

  “Jesus,” Clint muttered. “You idiots are following a bleached-out medicine man.”

  “You’ll see, gringo!” the bandit hissed, raising his bound wrists. His fists were clenched so tightly the knuckles were white. “You’ll see.”

  “Shut up!” the Gunsmith snapped. He turned in the saddle and glanced about at the surrounding rock formations. “I heard something.”

  “What?” Castro inquired nervously.

  “I’m not sure. Could have been stone shifting on sand, or footsteps. . . .” Clint moved his hand to the holstered Colt on his hip.

  “Could be the Yaqui,” Castro remarked fearfully.

  Clint continued to scan the rocks as he strained his ears, listening for a telltale sign to reveal the location of whoever or whatever was trailing them. He was certain he felt eyes watching his every move.

  “Better give me a gun, Adams,” the bandit urged.

  “That’s pretty good, Castro,” Clint sneered. “You know any other jokes?”

  “You can’t fight them by yourself. . . .”

  “I thought I told you to shut up,” the Gunsmith growled.

  “Do you know what the Yaqui do to their victims?” Castro demanded. He raised his hands to his mouth and began to bite at the ropes.

  “Stop that or I’ll—” Clint began.

  The sound of footsteps rushing toward him quickly drew the Gunsmith’s attention to a figure near a cluster of boulders. A small, slim girl clad in a tattered white dress ran from the rocks.

  “Señor!” she called hoarsely. “Señor, help me, par favor!”

  Clint stared at her in astonishment. Not only was he stunned to encounter a girl alone in the Devil’s Belly, but she was beautiful as well. Her long, raven black hair swayed across her shoulders as she ran and her oval face featured a wide sensuous mouth and huge, dark eyes.

  The little Mexican beauty’s figure was just as good as her face. Although barely an inch over five feet tall, her legs were perfectly proportioned with her compact body. A rip in her dress revealed a round breast with a small brown nipple that seemed to stare at Clint like a misplaced eye.

  “What are you doing out here alone?” he asked as the girl drew closer.

  “I escaped from bandidos,” she explained breathlessly. “My name is Elena Jimenez and I—”

  Suddenly, her wonderful eyes expanded in horror. Too late, Clint realized he’d turned his back on Pedro Castro. He caught a glimpse of a blur as the bandido launched himself from the saddle of his mustang.

  Castro’s bulky, muscular body crashed into the Gunsmith and both men toppled from Duke’s back. Clint hit the ground hard with the bandit on top of him. His breath spewed from his lungs and for a moment he was too dazed to prevent Castro from plucking the Colt revolver from its holster.

  Clint’s right fist smashed into Castro’s face before the bandit could use the gun. Castro’s head recoiled from the punch and Clint quickly chopped the bottom of his fist into the man’s bound wrists, knocking the Colt out of his hands.

  Castro suddenly raised his doubled fists overhead and swung them at Clint’s face. The Gunsmith jerked his head aside and the bandit’s hands slammed into the ground next to Clint’s ear. Clint’s left fist whipped into Castro’s jaw. The bandit’s head turned sharply and Clint hit him again, driving his knuckles into Castro’s right temple. The bandit sagged and most of his weight shifted from Clint.

  The Gunsmith slid out from under Castro. He wanted to avoid a wrestling match with the bandit which would have been to the advantage of the larger, heavier man. Clint rolled away from his opponent and quickly rose to his feet.

  Castro had rolled in the opposite direction. The bandit rolled right next to Clint’s discarded .45 Colt. With a shout of victory, Castro seized the gun and swung it toward the Gunsmith.

  “Things are different now, gringo!” Castro declared as he climbed to one knee and aimed the pistol at Clint’s chest. “Adiós, bastardo!”

  Castro cocked the hammer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Elena Jimenez stepped behind Pedro Castro, holding a rock as big as a cannonball. Before the bandit’s finger could squeeze the trigger of the Colt, Elena raised the rock high and brought it down on Castro’s head. The Gunsmith heard the ugly crunch of bone breaking and the slush of oozing brains. Castro fell on his face without even uttering a grunt, the cocked revolver still in his fists.

  Clint rushed forward and retrieved his gun. He didn’t bother to check Castro’s pulse because the bandit no longer had one. The top of his skull had been split open. Brains and blood gushed from the ghastly crack. Clint watched Elena toss the rock aside. Her face was taut with tension and her fingers trembled slightly, but the girl’s eyes revealed only satisfaction with her deed.

  “I never killed a man before,” she said in a monotone. The girl seemed too overwhelmed by conflicting emotions to feel upset by her actions.

  “I’m sort of glad you did it,” Clint confessed. “Thank you, Elena. You saved my life.”

  “Sí, señor,” She nodded woodenly. “The bandidos who follow el Espectro are not really men, you know. I did not truly kill a man. These brutes have no souls. They deserve to die, no?”

  “Can’t argue with that, Elena,” the Gunsmith replied. “I guess you won’t be too unhappy to learn I killed two other bandits back in San José.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “San José! That is my village and I am trying to get back home. Now you tell me el Espectro waits there?”

  “No, Elena,” Clint assured her. “He was there, looking for you. He left three men behind in case you returned, but he and the rest of his band left.”

  “Did they harm anyone in my village?” Elena asked fearfully.

  “No.” Clint grinned. “In fact, your padre taught one of them a lesson in the risks of taking God’s name in vain that struck the bandit where it hurts the most. Your people are safe for now.”

  “Except for those who are still held prisoner in el Espectro’s camp,” she said sadly.

  “I’d hoped to help the captives,” the Gunsmith sighed. “I had Castro with me to guide me to the bandits’ lair. Now that he’s dead, I’m right back where I started.”

  “That is not true, señor,” Elena replied. “I can take you to el Espectro’s camp, no?”

  Clint stared at the girl. Her face was determined, those big, magnificent eyes revealing eagerness. “No,” he told her. “Absolutely not.”

  “But, señor . . .”

  “Call me Clint.” He smiled. “Look, Elena, I don’t need to tell you what these bandits are like. You know that bet
ter than anyone. I’m not going to ask you to lead me back to their hideout. . . .”

  “You do not have to ask, Clint,” she said. “I offered, no?”

  “From what I’ve heard,” Clint began, “you’re the first person ever to escape from el Espectro’s clutches. Do you want to take the chance of falling into his hands again?”

  “If I return to San José and el Espectro comes back,” Elena said stubbornly, “what do you think he will do then? He would punish all the people of my village, Clint.”

  “Maybe you have a point,” the Gunsmith had to admit. “But. . . well, you’re a girl and I don’t think you’d be wise to tangle with these bandits.”

  “Oh?” She smiled. “Didn’t you just thank me for saving your life, Clint?”

  “Er . . . yeah,” he confessed.

  “I killed that bandido.” Elena jerked her head toward the corpse of Pedro Castro. “And I won’t mind killing others of his kind. It is self-defense, no? El Espectro has been killing my people for years. He not only abducts us at will, he robs us of our food and water, and worse, he has taken what dignity we have left. That is why I must go with you, Clint. My people will never be free until el Espectro has been destroyed.”

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me.” The Gunsmith sighed. “But I have to warn you, so far my guides haven’t had very good luck.”

  “Perhaps our luck is about to change,” she replied.

  “I hope so,” he remarked. “I sure hope so.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Elena Jimenez, astride the bandit’s mustang, rode beside the Gunsmith as they continued on the journey to el Espectro’s headquarters. The girl’s memory was very good and she was certain they’d reach the bandit lair by sundown.

  “Sundown?” Clint raised his eyebrows. “That means el Espectro’s camp must be less than twenty miels away.”

  “It may be less than that, Clint,” Elena replied.

  “That means el Espectro’s headquarters is located only one day’s ride from Fort Juarez,” Clint realized. “Why the hell haven’t the rurales found the Ghost and his men? The bandidos can’t be that well hidden.”