Bandido Blood

by J. R. Roberts

  “Qué la chigada!” a masculine voice exclaimed.

  Clint turned to see a shadow rushing toward him. He tried to raise the club, but the bandit crashed into him and knocked the weapon from the Gunsmith’s grasp. Both men lost their balance and fell against a partition. Canvas ripped and they toppled on a cot, landing on one of the bandidos Clint had previously clubbed into unconsciousness . . . or death.

  A girl screamed and one of the other women slapped her and told her to shut up. Clint wrestled with his opponent until he managed to ram a knee into the man’s groin. He followed with a right cross to the bandit’s jaw. The man sagged. Clint’s fist hit him behind the ear. The bandido fell to the ground. The Gunsmith knelt on his dazed adversary and punched him twice more in the face to be certain he’d stay down.

  Clint rose and hurried to the entrance, drawing his Colt .45 revolver as he ran. However, his concern proved needless. The bandits were accustomed to the sounds of occasional brawls in the women’s tent and no one seemed alarmed.

  Two figures clad in long underwear and sombreros stood by one of the bivouac tents, staring back at Clint Adams. One of them shouted something at Clint which the Gunsmith didn’t understand, but the tone of the man’s voice sounded as if he had made a joke. Clint holstered his Colt and raised his arms and shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. The two men laughed in reply. The Gunsmith slipped back inside the tent.

  “What do we do now?” Elena asked.

  “I’m going to haul our fat friend in here,” Clint replied, referring to the unconscious sentry at the field desk. “We’re lucky nobody noticed him slumped over napping.”

  “Won’t they notice he’s missing?” Elena inquired.

  “I’ll take his place. Hopefully no one will wander over here again tonight.”

  He stepped outside and propped up the sentry. The man’s eyes stared at him without comprehension and Clint realized the fellow wasn’t just unconscious after all. Elena sure knows how to hit, he thought.

  Clint pretended to talk to the dead man until he was certain none of the bandits was watching. Then he dragged the corpse into the tent. Elena and Maria were waiting for him and helped carry the man inside.

  “Okay,” Clint began, “you girls wait here until I tell you we’re ready to carry out the rest of our plan. Find that club and keep an eye on the bandits. If any of them seems to be about to regain consciousness. . .”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Maria said in fluent, if rather cold English. “Just give me a knife. I’ll make certain they’ll never wake again, no?”

  The Gunsmith stared at the woman. She was tall and sleek with jet black hair and a fiercely beautiful face with bright dark eyes and a ripe mouth. Yet, she clearly meant what she’d said.

  “You plan to slit the throats of unarmed, unconscious men?” he asked.

  “If we could spare the time and didn’t have to worry about them screaming in the night,” Maria replied, “I’d poke out their eyes and cut off their cojones before I killed them.”

  Clint frowned. “Well, I guess you ladies have suffered enough at the hands of these bastards. Maybe you deserve a little revenge.” He shrugged. “Killing these bandits is sort of like shooting mad dogs anyway.”

  “Not quite,” Maria smiled. “I would not enjoy killing a mad dog.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Clint Adams sat behind the field desk at the mouth of the tent. He gazed over the camp, noting a sleepy-eyed sentry positioned at the jail which contained the male prisoners. No one else seemed to remain outside their quarters.

  He glanced over the weapons pile. The collection consisted of four gunbelts and an assortment of Bowie knives, daggers and two rifles, including his Springfield carbine. Clint hesitated for a moment before he picked up one of the Bowies and tossed the knife into the tent for Maria.

  The Gunsmith waited almost half an hour to be certain none of the bandits was still awake. Then he rose from his chair and calmly strolled toward the sentry posted by the jailhouse. The bandit guard saw him approach and rose from his stool. He left a Greener shotgun propped against an adobe wall as he stepped forward to meet the Gunsmith.

  “Surprise!” Clint rasped, suddenly drawing his Colt and pointing the muzzle at the bandit’s face.

  The man raised his arms and muttered either a prayer or a curse under his breath. His eyes were locked on Clint’s gun so he didn’t see the Gunsmith’s leg slash out, although he certainly felt the nerve-blasting agony of the kick to his genitals. The bandit groaned, folded and fell to his knees. Clint slammed the butt of his revolver into the base of the fellow’s neck. Vertebrae cracked and the man collapsed with a broken neck.

  Clint waved at the women’s tent. Elena, Maria and the other three girls emerged. All but one grabbed guns from the weapon pile before rushing forward to join the Gunsmith. Clint knelt beside the sentry and checked for a pulse. The man was dead. Clint frisked him for a key to the jailhouse. He wasn’t surprised when he didn’t find one. El Espectro’s security of his prisoners was better than his protection for the camp itself.

  “Tell the prisoners to be quiet,” Clint said to the women. “They’ll be free in a few minutes, but we can’t have any noise or we’ll be slaughtered.”

  “Did you find the key to their cell?” Elena asked.

  “No,” he replied as he stripped the dead man of his weapons.

  “Then how will you free the prisoners?” she inquired.

  “I’ll manage,” Clint assured her.

  “Our hero has done pretty well so far,” Maria declared with a grin. “I trust you, Clint.”

  “Sure hope I can live up to your confidence in me, ma’am,” he grinned in reply.

  Elena relayed Clint’s message to the male prisoners. They clung to the bars of the jailhouse door, their faces aglow with expectation, yet they managed to remain silent—perhaps because the women had done so well at being quiet thus far.

  Clint Adams knelt by the door and examined the lock. From what he could see by the moonlight, it appeared to be pretty standard—a regular two-tumbler model. From his back pocket he removed a small package wrapped in oilcloth.

  Opening it, he selected two tools generally used for his gunsmithing work. The slim metal cartridge probe was designed to pry warped shell casings from a gun breech or barrel and to remove broken firing pins or springs. The other device was a slender hacksaw blade used for modifying guns that required delicate metal cutting.

  He inserted the saw blade into the lock, allowing the teeth of the flexible metal to search for the tumblers inside. When they caught on the metal within, he slid the probe in and slowly worked both tools. Lock-picking wasn’t one of Clint’s greatest talents, but thirty seconds later, he heard the lock click and the door was open.

  The peónes had to suppress a desire to cheer out loud and more than one couldn’t resist a soft “Oooh!” in admiration of Clint’s success. The Gunsmith put his tools away and turned to Elena.

  “Okay, Elena,” he began, “I want you to lead everybody out of here. Take the weapons with you, but don’t use them unless you have to. Leave the same way we got in and take everybody to the rocks where we left Duke and the other horse.”

  “But what will you do?” she inquired, concern etched on her lovely face.

  “I’ve still got a little unfinished business to take care of,” Clint replied. “You folks wait for me at the rocks. If I’m not there in two hours—then you’ll just have to go on without me.”

  “Clint . . .” Elena and Maria began at the same time.

  “Hey, don’t gang up on me.” He grinned. “I thought you trusted me. Get going.”

  Reluctantly, the girls nodded in agreement. Maria had picked up Clint’s Springfield from the weapon pile. She offered the carbine to him. Clint shook his head.

  “You keep it,” he said. “You can give it back to me later.”

  Or else I won’t need it anyway, the Gunsmith thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

 
The peónes shuffled out of the camp and disappeared over the half-built wall at the south side of the fortress. Clint dragged the dead sentry into the jail and closed the door before he headed for the hacienda—alone.

  The Gunsmith mounted the steps of the main house and drew his pistol. With his left hand, he turned the doorknob. Clint was surprised and almost disappointed to find the door unlocked. He’d done so well picking the lock at the jail, he’d almost have welcomed a chance to test his ability again. He’d also know if his hands were as steady as they should be.

  Clint opened the door and entered a spacious hallway. To his surprise and relief, there were no guards stationed in the corridor. In fact, the hall was totally bare, consisting of nothing but whitewashed walls and a solid adobe floor. The Gunsmith had half expected to find carpets and oil paintings in the house.

  The hell with it, he told himself. The only riddle I have to solve is where is Marsha Woodland? After I’ve found the girl, I have to get her and myself out of here before the Mexican boogey man or his gang find out what happened.

  Clint moved through the hallway, his revolver held ready. The antiseptic appearance of the corridor disturbed him for a reason he could only guess. Perhaps it reminded him of the hospitals and insane asylums back East . . . or maybe the naked white adobe seemed too much like the interior of a mausoleum.

  The Gunsmith discovered several doors. He touched the panel of one and strained his eyes to try to confirm what his fingers told him. Jesus, Clint thought. This is made of redwood from the California forest! How the hell did el Espectro get something like this in the middle of a Sonora desert?

  Then Clint noticed a pale strip of yellow light which extended from the bottom of one of the doors. The Gunsmith immediately moved to the door and grabbed its knob. Gently, he turned it and eased the door open, poking the muzzle of his Colt through the space.

  The room was fully furnished with handsome leather-backed chairs and a walnut desk as well as a liquor cabinet and end tables and a large bookcase. It had all the trimmings of a wealthy man’s office, complete with wallpaper, carpet and an oil painting hung behind the desk—a painting of a skeleton clad in a black shroud with a scythe held in its bony hands.

  Yet, the office itself didn’t startle the Gunsmith as much as discovering the apparition seated in an armchair with a book in one hand and a balloon glass of brandy in the other. The creature strongly resembled the portrait of the Grim Reaper with its pale features and knobby long fingers. El Espectro looked up at Clint Adams, his gaunt face impassive and his gaze as cold and steady as that of a rattlesnake.

  “It is impolite to enter a room without knocking,” the Ghost said in a soft voice that contained a slight reptilian hiss. “But, then, it is rude to point a gun at your host as well.”

  Clint entered the room and eased the door shut. El Espectro was the most incredible being the Gunsmith had ever encountered. The bandit chief still wore his black cowl, but the hood was down, revealing snow white hair, the same color as his skin. El Espectro wasn’t wearing his glasses with the smoked lenses. His eyes were an unnatural shade of light red, the color of pale blood. The Ghost seemed calm as he placed his book on an end table.

  “You are a norteamericano, aren’t you?” el Espectro inquired in impeccable English. He sounded like a Harvard graduate. “If you don’t understand me, I also speak French, Italian and, of course, Spanish.”

  “I understand you, fella,” Clint assured him, aiming the gun at el Espectro’s head. “Do you understand that I’ll kill you if you try anything?”

  “Oh, yes.” The Ghost smiled. “I’m certain you would try, Mr. . . .?”

  “Adams. Clint Adams.”

  “Adams?” El Espectro took a thoughtful sip of brandy. “I’ve heard that name before. . . .ah! You’re the one they call the Gunsmith, correct?”

  “That’s right,” Clint admitted.

  “Life can truly be amazing,” the Ghost mused.

  “You and I are both very famous men. We’ve both acquired reputations associated with Death. Here we meet, in an obscure desert called the Devil’s Belly. Quite remarkable, isn’t it?”

  “Never know who you’ll come across in a new place,” Clint agreed. “How come you’re reading a book with the lamplight turned so low?”

  “My affliction makes me a bit nearsighted and terribly sensitive to light,” el Espectro replied.

  “That’s why you wear those smoked glasses, eh?”

  “Indeed.” The Ghost nodded, “In fact, I try to avoid going anywhere in the daylight unless it is necessary. One of the drawbacks I’ve had to learn to cope with.”

  “Yeah,” the Gunsmith commented, “I guess life isn’t easy for an albino bandit.”

  “Ah! So you realize I’m an albino,” el Espectro declared. “But, of course, you’re an educated man. Most people think I’m an evil spirit. Rather amusing, isn’t it?”

  “You do your best to live up to their expectations,” Clint told him.

  “I suppose that’s true.” The Ghost shrugged. “But, then, I’ve got to try harder than most to be successful, and playing a personification of Death rather suits me.

  “Do you know what an albino is, Mr. Adams?” el Espectro continued, swallowing the last of his brandy. “It is a freak of nature which has a flaw in the pigmentation of its skin, hair, even its eyes. Any kind of animal can give birth to such a freak—cattle, fish, spiders; there are even albino crows. However, albinos are very rare, and in most cases they do quite poorly since they have weak eyesight and they tend to be physically weak and sickly.”

  “Sorry,” Clint snorted. “I didn’t bring my violin.”

  “No need to feel any sympathy for me.” The albino laughed. “You see, when I was very young, I decided to concentrate on improving myself in every possible way to cheat nature of its attempt to make me a failure in life. As a child, I was often sick and I was shunned by my peers, yet I accepted this and strived to work harder. I studied and exerted myself in school and later in college. I was still a freak, but I was also a brilliant student with a talent for management and organization.”

  “So why are you leading a bunch of ragtag bandits if you’re so smart?” Clint asked.

  “Well, the world of business has its snobs.” El Espectro sighed. “And they didn’t want me to be part of it. After all, why hire a freak if you don’t have to? Albinos belong in a sideshow with the dwarfs, pinheads, and the dog-faced boy, right? Not this albino, Mr. Adams. I took advantage of my appearance and, yes, I used the superstitious nature of the Mexican peónes. Why not? Do you know what it’s like to be brilliant and resourceful yet see other less qualified ‘normal’ men receive jobs and promotions instead? My past failures and my present success all revolve around the fact I am an albino. ”

  “So you had some hard knocks and you’re making innocent people suffer because of it. ” The Gunsmith shook his head. “I’ve met your kind before, fella. They weren’t albinos, but their excuse for violence and destruction was always the same. You’ll get no pity from me, Mr. Ghost. All you can expect is a bullet if you don’t do exactly as I say. ”

  “Then you’re finally going to explain the reason for your uninvited visit. ” The bandit laughed. “You must have a very good reason. Creeping into my camp, surrounded by my men, taking so many chances . . . for what?”

  “I’ve come for Marsha Woodland, ” Clint said in a hard, flat voice.

  “Ah!” The albino nodded. “So the congressman decided not to pay the ransom. Instead he chose to hire the Gunsmith. How melodramatic of him and how foolish of you to accept the task. ”

  “Is that a fact?” Clint smiled. “Looks like I’ve got the drop on you, Mr. Ghost.”

  “True,” the albino admitted. “But if you fire that gun, the shots will attract my men. Even you can’t fight your way through more than forty armed bandidos, Mr. Adams”

  “Perhaps not,” Clint agreed. “But you’ll be dead anyway, so you really won’t get much satisfaction abo
ut that. Unless they have a telegraph office in Hell, you might not even get to know about it. ”

  “You really are amusing, Mr. Adams, ” el Espectro stated as he rose from his chair. “Very well. I’ll take you to the damsel in distress . . . not that you’ll live to rescue her. ”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  El Espectro inserted a hand under his black cloak. Clint Adams cocked the hammer of his Colt revolver. “Easy, fella,” the Gunsmith warned. “Even if you have a holdout gun, we’ll both die together if you shoot me. ”

  “I’m not that rash, Mr. Adams, ” the albino told him as he extracted a ring of keys from a pocket.

  “You’re making a good start at staying alive, Mr. Ghost, ” Clint said. “How many men do you have in this house?”

  “Eight, ” el Espectro replied. “But no one patrols the building if that’s what you’re concerned about. Nor is there a guard posted at Miss Woodland’s door. ”

  “That’s a bit careless, isn’t it?”

  “Not really, ” the albino replied. “Even if she escaped from her room, where would she run to in the middle of the desert?”

  “What did you plan to do with her after you got your five thousand dollars from Woodland?”

  “A moot point since her father sent you instead of the ransom. ” The Ghost shrugged. “Oh, I’ve got a deal arranged with a man to sell her to a brothel in Guatemala. The slavers were delighted when they learned I had a blonde Anglo for them. They’re going to pay me one thousand dollars for the girl. Supply and demand, you know. Now, do you have any other immaterial questions?”

  “How did you know Woodland and his daughter would be at Fred Barsa’s ranch the day you abducted the girl?” Clint asked.