Bandido Blood

by J. R. Roberts

  The lash struck again. Clint clenched his teeth and swallowed hard. Beads of cold sweat popped from his forehead and more blood oozed from ripped skin.

  “No wonder you don’t have the guts to fight me!” Clint yelled. “Can’t you goddamn weaklings hit any harder than that?”

  “Sí, bastardo! ” Umberto’s voice replied. “We will hit harder!”

  Another loud crack pierced the air, but Clint’s taut back didn’t receive another blow from the bullwhip. He suddenly realized the sound had been the report of a rifle. He craned his neck to look over his shoulder at his tormentors.

  Franco lay on the ground, the whip sprawled beside him. The bandit’s hands were clamped over his lower abdomen as he convulsed in agony.

  “Cristo!” Umberto exclaimed, dragging a pistol from its holster.

  Another shot erupted and the fat bandido executed a clumsy backward run, blood oozing from his chest. A third rifle shot followed and a heavy lead slug hit the Mexican tub of lard in the throat. Umberto crashed to the ground.

  “Clint!” a woman’s voice cried. “Have those cabróns hurt you?”

  Maria jogged toward him, carrying the Gunsmith’s Springfield carbine. Smoke still curled from the muzzle of the weapon as she rushed to Clint’s side.

  “Oh! Your poor back!” she said. “I should have gut-shot both of them!”

  “Make sure they’re dead!” Clint told her.

  Maria turned just in time to see Franco had managed to rise to one knee. He pawed at his holstered sidearm with one hand while the other tried to hold in his spilling intestines.

  The girl worked the lever of the carbine and rapidly aimed it at the wounded bandit. The Springfield bellowed and one side of Franco’s face vanished in a spray of blood and skull fragments.

  “Good work! ” the Gunsmith said. “Now, blast the links of this chain apart.”

  He pulled on a wrist manacle as far as he could, drawing the short chain to full length. Maria raised the carbine until the barrel rested on the frame of the whipping post. The muzzle almost touched the chain. Then she squeezed the trigger.

  A 250-grain lead projectile burst the links apart. Tiny bits of metal bit into the Gunsmith’s hand. He jerked his arm away from the post and yanked the broken chain free. Maria repeated the procedure and shot off the manacle at his other wrist. She aimed the carbine at the leg irons.

  “Hold on, honey,” Clint urged. “I’d just as soon not get shot in the foot. This is going to be a little tricky. Will you get me a revolver? Those dead fellas won’t mind if you borrow one. ”

  The girl hurried to the corpse of Umberto and returned with the bandit’s pistol. Clint examined the gun and grunted sourly. It was a .44-caliber Walker-Colt cap-and-ball revolver. An awkward weapon with a poor trigger mechanism, it was nonetheless a powerful handgun.

  Clint knelt and placed the gun lengthwise by his heel until the muzzle touched the chain of an ankle manacle. He cocked back the hammer and fired, splitting the iron links. Another bullet freed his left leg.

  “Clint, they’ve hurt you!” Maria exclaimed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  The girl kissed his mouth hard, which would have been a pleasant experience if the Gunsmith’s jaw didn’t feel as if it had been used for a punching bag. Gently, he broke the embrace.

  “Maria,” Clint began “I’m mighty grateful to you for saving my life, but what the hell are you doing here?”

  “A patrol of rurales attacked us . . .”

  “I know,” Clint said. “They’re in league with el Espectro. What did you do after the rurales retreated?”

  “Well, we had to run to the rocks for cover, of course, so after the rurales left, most of the others headed for San José. I saw your horse had run away during the gunfight, so I decided to try to find him. The animal led me back here. Then I saw el Espectro and the others ride out and I guessed you might need help. ”

  “Woman’s intuition.” The Gunsmith smiled. “Hey, Duke must be close by!”

  He whistled twice and a neigh replied. Duke galloped into the camp and whinnied as he trotted up to Clint. The Gunsmith patted the horse and Duke rubbed his muzzle against the man’s chest.

  “You’ve got a nose like a bloodhound, big fella. ” Clint grinned. “I’ll be damned if you’re not the best horse any man ever had.”

  Duke’s head rose and lowered twice as if nodding in agreement. The Gunsmith laughed. “Well, I reckon you don’t have to be modest, big fella. ”

  “Your horse,” Maria began, staring at Clint, “he understands you?”

  “Sure,” Clint shrugged. “But we’ll talk about that later. Right now we’ve got to get the hell out of here. El Espectro and his men haven’t been gone long and that means they’ve probably heard the shooting here. Ten to one, they’re headed back this way and they’ll be here any minute.”

  Duke nodded his head again and pawed the earth as if to say, “Right, let’s move fast!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Marsha!” Clint exclaimed. “Marsha Woodland is still in the hacienda. ”

  “Who?” Maria frowned.

  “You’ll see, ” he replied. “I can’t leave without her. Come on.”

  The Gunsmith and Maria jogged to the hacienda. He quickly located el Espectro’s office. The door was locked, but a .44 round from the confiscated Walker-Colt shattered the latch bolt. Clint slammed a bare foot into the door which abruptly swung open.

  “Hot damn!” the Gunsmith declared when he saw his modified Colt 45 revolver, the New Line belly gun and the contents taken from his pockets—all neatly laid out on el Espectro’s desk.

  “Just like Christmas morning.” Clint grinned.

  He buckled on his gunbelt and put the .45 in its holster. There wasn’t time to do anything with the rest of his belongings except stuff them into his pants pockets.

  In the corridor, they discovered the Gunsmith’s shirt, serape, sombrero and boots. Apparently, the bandidos had stripped him in the hallway. Clint grabbed his shirt and boots and continued down the corridor.

  “Marsha!” he shouted. “Where the hell are you? We’re checking out of this bandit hotel!”

  “Here I am!” a voice cried from behind one of the doors.

  The sound of her fists banging on redwood led Clint to the right door. He aimed the Walker-Colt at the doorknob.

  “Okay, Marsha,” he announced. “I’ve found you. Now, stand clear of the door. I’m going to shoot the lock.”

  He fired. Wood splintered near the frame. A solid kick failed to budge the door. “One more time!” he shouted. The next shot broke the lock and a kick sent the door flying open.

  Marsha Woodland dove into Clint’s arms. “Oh, thank God!” she sobbed. “I thought I’d never get—”

  “We’ve got to get out of here fast,” Clint told her, tossing the empty cap-and-ball pistol aside.

  “We can’t get far on foot, ” Maria commented. She had gathered up Clint’s sombrero and now placed it on his head. “And your horse can’t carry all three of us. ”

  “Nine of el Espectro’s men have recently retired for good, ” the Gunsmith replied as he hastily pulled on his boots. “There ought to be at least two horses left in the corral. One for each of you ladies. ”

  Clint slid into his shirt as he led them through the corridor and out the front door. Duke waited patiently for them while Clint located the corral. He found almost a dozen horses and quickly selected two that appeared strong and fit.

  “We don’t have time to put saddles on,” Clint explained. “Just bridles and blankets. ”

  “I can handle that, ” Marsha declared, proving she was familiar with horses.

  While Marsha prepared the mounts for herself and Maria, Clint relieved Franco’s corpse of its gun—a .44-caliber Remington. Then he gathered up the bullwhip.

  “Can you use a gun, Marsha?” he asked, draping the whip over his neck.

  “If I have to,” she replied. “Why are you taking that awful thing
?”

  “We might need a weapon that doesn’t make as much noise as a gun. I’ve never been much for knives, but I’ve handled bullwhips before back in Texas. After a fella learns the wrist action, it’s not too difficult to use one and it requires the same kind of distance judging and coordination as pistol shooting. ”

  Two minutes later, Clint, Maria and Marsha galloped out of the bandit lair. They covered more than two miles without encountering el Espectro and his men. Clint brought Duke to a halt. The girls stopped their horses in response.

  “I think we can slow down now,” he announced. “No need to run our horses into the ground.”

  “We’ve escaped!” Maria smiled. “We’ve really gotten away from that white-faced bastardo!”

  “Thank God, ” Marsha added, “it’s finally over. ”

  “Yeah,” the Gunsmith agreed, although he knew it wasn’t true.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Now that we’re free,” Maria commented, “where do we go from here?”

  “First we have to figure out where here is,” Clint Adams replied.

  The trio had ridden to an old arroyo surrounded by rock walls. The terrain bore a disturbing resemblance to the area where Clint and Juan Lopez had been ambushed by Yaqui Indians. The Gunsmith’s hand never strayed from the grips of his pistol and he remained fully alert to any sign of danger as they rode through the pass.

  “We’re still in Sonora,” Maria said slyly. “In el Barriga del Diablo. This area is called Catedral Negro—the Black Cathedral. That means we’re about forty kilometers from the nearest village . . . namely, San José. ”

  “We’re going to Texas, aren’t we?” Marsha asked urgently.

  “Well”—Clint sighed—“we’ve got to cover some territory between here and there first. Besides, we’ve got to make a trip to San José anyway.”

  “But most of the peónes who escaped from the camp are from that village,” Maria declared. “El Espectro will certainly head there if he fails to find the fugitives in the desert. ”

  “That’s exactly why we have to go there,” the Gunsmith explained. “We can’t just let the bandits swoop down on San José and slaughter every man, woman and child. ”

  “But what can we do to save them?” Maria demanded.

  “We’ll figure that out when we get there,” Clint answered.

  “I want to go home! ” Marsha sobbed. “Haven’t we been through enough already?”

  “Yeah, ” the Gunsmith agreed. “I’ve had my fill of bloodshed and violence. I’ve been strangled, beaten and whipped . . . and I know you ladies have been through a hell of a lot worse than that. But we still can’t bury our heads in the sand and allow el Espectro to massacre an entire village. Not when there’s a chance he can be stopped.”

  “You’re going to get us killed, Clint,” Maria said.

  “Okay. ” The Gunsmith sighed. “What do we do if we don’t go to San José? Do you think we can stay here and live on lizards and sagebrush in the middle of the goddamn desert?”

  “It is possible,” Maria replied. “I have done so myself. ”

  Clint stared at her with surprise.

  “Have you not noticed that I am unlike the other girls you found in the camp prison?” Maria inquired.

  “Sure,” Clint nodded. “You speak fluent English, you seem to know this desert like the back of your hand and you handle a gun and knife like you’ve had plenty of experience. ”

  “I was once a bandido’s mujer, ” she replied with a bitter smile. “His woman, no? He was the chief of a small band that lived in the Devil’s Belly. Some time ago, el Espectro convinced my man’s lieutenants that they should join his gang, which then consisted of about twenty members. Ricardo, my man, objected. So they killed him and I was one of his possessions which became communal property for the Ghost’s private army.”

  “I really don’t care if you used to be Satan’s mistress,” the Gunsmith told her. “You saved my life today and you’re with us now. That’s all that matters, Maria. ”

  The Mexican beauty’s dark eyes softened. She looked like she might cry. “Thank you, Clint.”

  He grinned back at her. “The sun is getting pretty low. Figure we’d better set up camp for the night?”

  “Sí,” Maria agreed.

  “I don’t really want to spend the night in a place like this,” Marsha admitted. “But it can’t be any worse than what we’ve already been through. ”

  “Well, then—” the Gunsmith began, but a sudden movement by a boulder near the arroyo caught his attention.

  The Gunsmith almost pulled his pistol before he recognized the brown-feathered figure that scurried into view. The prairie turkey, which resembled a large quail more than the bird beloved for Thanksgiving dinners, broke into an awkward run. Clint quickly urged Duke into a fast gallop.

  Duke charged forward. The bird squawked and flapped its wings in a clumsy attempt at flight. Clint unslung the bullwhip from his neck and cocked back his arm. The turkey rose from the ground and the Gunsmith lashed out with the whip. Twisted black leather struck the bird on the neck. It fell from the sky in a tumbling somersault before crashing into a rock wall.

  “Magnífico!” Maria exclaimed. “You are indeed an expert with a whip, Clint. ”

  “Expert is sort of a strong term,” Clint replied modestly. “But we’ll have a good dinner tonight. I’m sick of beef jerky and sardines. ”

  They made camp near a large cave, a place Maria remembered from her days as a bandit’s mujer. Clint fed and watered the horses while Marsha gathered some greasewood for the fire and Maria plucked the feathers from the dead turkey. Marsha finished her chores first and strolled toward the cave.

  “Your Marsha is quite upset by her experience,” Maria told Clint as she expertly slit open the turkey and scooped out its innards with the blade of her Bowie knife.

  “She seems to be getting over it pretty well,” the Gunsmith replied, draping the bullwhip over his shoulder.

  “Not as well as it seems, Clint,” Maria insisted. “There are some things a woman can tell about another woman better than a man can. ”

  A piercing scream suddenly sounded from the cave. Clint dashed for the entrance and peered inside to see Marsha cowering by a rock wall. A seven-foot-long rattlesnake was coiled near her feet. Its ugly heart-shaped head was raised, forked tongue jutting in and out. The sinister rattle of its tail increased as the girl screamed again.

  Clint dropped to one knee to compensate for the lack of space within the cave. He swung the whip in an overhead stroke. The lash whistled as it cut through the air before the lead-tipped end struck the rattler with explosive force. The snake’s head burst apart and blood squirted between its eyes. Clint rushed to Marsha and took her hand, pulling her away from the reptile which thrashed about in wild death spasms.

  “It’s okay, Marsha—” Clint began, taking the girl in his arms.

  “No!” she cried, pushing him away. “Don’t touch me! No man is ever going to touch me ever again!”

  Then she bolted outside.

  Clint searched the cave for other snakes and such vermin as rats, scorpions and spiders. Finding none, he hauled out the dead rattler and declared the cave safe.

  “I’m—I’m sorry about my behavior, Clint,” Marsha said, not looking at him.

  “Forget it, ” the Gunsmith replied. “But all men aren’t like el Espectro and his bandits. ”

  “Just leave me alone for a while,” Marsha whispered. Then she buried her face in her hands and wept.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  There was little conversation as the trio ate the prairie turkey Maria had prepared for dinner. Marsha ate little, but Clint’s appetite was hearty enough and he consumed an ample portion of the meat.

  “That was great, Maria, ” he told her as he wiped grease from his hands. “I’d like to see what you can do with a real kitchen to work in. ”

  “I’ve fixed more meals on the prairie,” Maria replied with a smi
le. “But maybe one day I’ll prepare a real dinner for you.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” the Gunsmith agreed.

  “First we have to get out of this mess, ” Marsha said sourly.

  “We will,” Clint assured her. “Look, we were all prisoners of el Espectro’s camp and now we’re free and miles away from his headquarters. We know where we are and where we’re going—”

  “Yes! ” Marsha snapped. “To an obscure Mexican village where you’ll get us all killed fighting the bandits!”

  “A priest in that obscure village helped me when I was trying to find el Espectro’s lair to get you out of there, ” Clint told her in a hard voice. “A girl from that same village guided me the rest of the way. She also saved my life. You’d still be a prisoner if it hadn’t been for them, Marsha. We owe those people. ”

  The girl did not reply. She rose without saying a word and placed a blanket on the ground. Obviously, she didn’t relish the idea of going back inside the cave. Marsha wrapped the blanket around herself like a cocoon. Minutes later, she was sound asleep.

  “Poor kid’s exhausted,” Clint remarked.

  “It has been a long day for us all,” Maria added. “Do we sleep in shifts? Perhaps divide the night into two four-hour watches?”

  “I doubt if el Espectro is going to try to track us in the dark,” Clint said. “But if any danger arrives, Duke will let us know. He can hear better than humans can and he can smell trouble a mile away.”

  “He is quite a horse,” Maria agreed. “Then why don’t we get some rest, my hero?”

  “Sounds good,” he nodded.

  Clint picked up his bedroll, uncertain where to put it—on the ground or in the cave. Maria solved the problem by whispering, “The cave, Clint. We will have more privacy there, no?”

  The Gunsmith agreed. Maria strode into the cave and Clint followed. By the time he’d laid down the bedroll, the girl had slipped out of her tattered dress and began washing her body with a canteen and cloth.