Bandido Blood

by J. R. Roberts

  “They’re not close yet, ” the priest declared.

  “How—” Marsha began. “What are you doing, Father?”

  “A simple matter of vibrations, my daughter,” Rameriz explained. “You see, sound and vibrations actually travel through dense matter better than they do through the lighter substance of air. This is why one can hear a noise at sea for such a great distance, because it is carried by the denser substance of water. If one listens to the ground, the vibrations naturally carry better through this even denser matter than they do at sea. The Indians have known this for centuries. ”

  “Why do you put the stick in your teeth?” Marsha asked. “Wouldn’t it be better if you placed your ear to the ground?”

  “No,” Rameriz said. “You see, the stick serves to increase the reception of vibrations, since it is a dense object driven into the ground to pick up shock waves. As for putting my teeth on it, the vibrations carry through the stick and into my teeth and jaw. In fact, they even carry up to my ear. I’ll be able to feel and hear the bandits approach.”

  “And since Father Rameriz is more sensitive to sounds and vibrations,” Clint added, “he’s better suited for the task than a sighted person.”

  “Exactly.” The priest grinned. “A blind lookout. Ironic is it not?”

  “I have absolute faith in your ability,” the Gunsmith assured him.

  I just wish I could feel the same way about a bunch of scared farmers who have never tried to fight back until today, he thought. Let’s pray for some beginner’s luck.

  A lot of it.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Although frightened and filled with self-doubt about their new roles as warriors, the peónes from San José did have one attribute of good soldiers—they obeyed orders. When Clint checked the rock walls, he found everyone stationed exactly where he’d told them to be, even though they would obviously have preferred to be someplace else, doing something else.

  Clint couldn’t blame them for that because he felt the same way.

  Of course, when it was over—provided he survived—the Gunsmith would return to Brookstown, Texas and collect his two thousand dollars from Andrew Woodland. The congressman was also going to give five hundred dollars to the widow of Juan Lopez or Clint would turn the man upside down and shake him until the money fell out of his pockets. Juan had paid the ultimate price, and by God, his death would not be in vain. In fact, the Gunsmith had also decided to give Mrs. Lopez a thousand from his own reward money as well.

  In the meantime, he had to do his best to keep Marsha Woodland from getting her pretty head shot off.

  Clint found the lovely young blonde positioned behind a boulder on a ledge. The big rock provided good cover and she still had a revolver taken from one of the dead bandits—the .44-caliber Remington, a good handgun. Now, if only she wouldn’t lose her head and get careless when the shooting began.

  “You look like you’re set up pretty well, Marsha,” the Gunsmith commented.

  “I’m ready for el Espectro,” she replied.

  “That’s good,” Clint grinned. “ ’Cause I’m not.”

  “How much longer do you think we’ll have to wait?”

  “It shouldn’t be very long, Marsha,” he replied. “When it’s over, we’ll head back to Texas and you’ll be home again. ”

  “Maybe I won’t go home, ” she said stiffly. “Home is really Washington, D.C., you know. It’s full of stupid, smiling young men who pretend to be cultured and gentle. But now I know what they’re really like. . . .”

  “Figure you’ll join a convent?” Clint asked dryly.

  “I don’t know yet. ” Marsha glanced up at him. “I don’t know what I’ll do, but don’t worry. I’ll make sure my father rewards you for bringing me back to him . . . if we get back. ”

  “We will,” he assured her. “And when we get back, you’d do well to stop judging all men by el Espectro and his bandits. I’ve known some women who were pretty vicious and deceitful, but I haven’t—”

  “Did any of them ever rape you?” Marsha sneered.

  “In a way,” Clint replied. “The spirit can be raped as badly as the body, Marsha. A man can be used and lied to by a woman. He can be hurt here”—Clint touched his chest near the heart—“and that’s not easy to deal with, Marsha. What it gets down to is whether you learn to live with that hurt and try again, or spend the rest of your life alone. Don’t deny yourself a second chance, Marsha. There really are some good people in this world. ”

  “I—I guess I’ll just need some time,” the girl said softly.

  “I understand, ” Clint said. “You take care of yourself and don’t take any foolish chances. Everything is going to be okay. ”

  “Will anything ever be okay again?” she asked herself.

  “In time, Marsha,” he assured her. “In time.”

  Poor Marsha. She was an incredibly beautiful girl and she seemed to be bright, resourceful and courageous. However, the ordeal with the bandits had scarred her personality and would prevent her from enjoying a loving relationship with a man if she didn’t overcome it.

  Of course, Marsha had been raised in a more genteel environment than Maria, who had formerly been a bandit’s mistress, or Elena, who was accustomed to the harsh life of a peón, which had included abuse from bandidos and soldiers. Considering her background, Marsha had come through the experience quite well. In time, she’d probably recover and she’d be a stronger, more understanding person after having conquered a damn hard emotional struggle.

  It’s the hard times that build character, Clint had long ago decided. And if we all live through the next few hours there’ll be some solid gold characters in this god-forsaken place.

  Clint Adams climbed along the face of the cliff to his own prearranged battle station. The site was on a ledge with a cluster of cone-shaped rocks near the base of the wall. It featured good cover, but it was close to the arroyo, which meant Clint would be near the bandits when they entered the pass.

  He’d chosen the site because he wanted to be certain of being within effective pistol range. Maria still had Clint’s Springfield and the only weapons he carried were his .45, the New Line holdout gun and the bullwhip. Neither of the latter weapons were suited for a full-scale gun battle and Clint could only rely on the modified Colt when the shooting began. However, the Gunsmith was an expert’s expert with a pistol and he intended to make every shot count.

  Clint gazed down at Father Rameriz who was once again positioned by his stave, teeth clenched around the shaft, “listening” for the approach of enemy horses. The Gunsmith admired and respected Rameriz, but he hoped the priest would have ample time to reach the cover of the rocks before the bandits reached the pass. How fast could he move without eyes to guide him?

  Something moved at the rocks beside Clint and he turned to find Elena Jimenez had climbed to his position. The girl’s marvelous dark eyes glared at Clint and her wide, lush mouth formed a full-lipped pout.

  “Maria thinks you are her man,” Elena declared. “Is that true?”

  “Jesus,” Clint rasped. “This isn’t the time to talk about personal relationships—”

  “Are you her man?” Elena demanded.

  “I’m my own man,” he replied. “I don’t belong to you or Maria or anyone else.”

  She clung to his arm. “Do you think I am too young? I am not a child, Clint. I am a woman and I will please you as no other can. ”

  “I know you’re a woman, ” Clint assured her. “And if you want to please me, you’ll get back to your station and wait. ”

  “I will show you, ” she insisted, throwing one arm around his neck.

  Elena’s lips clamped over Clint’s in a fiery kiss, her tongue sliding inside his mouth. Her other hand fell to his crotch and fumbled with the buttons of his fly. The Gunsmith immediately responded to the kiss, his own passion already heated by her actions. Clint mentally told himself to stop and managed to get his body to oblige.

  “Elena . .
. ” he began, breaking the kiss.

  Before he could stop the girl, Elena had dropped to her knees and quickly took his now erect member in her mouth. Her hands clawed into his thighs for a firm grip as she drew on him gently, flicking her tongue along the head of his shaft.

  “Jesus . . . ” Clint moaned, unable to deny the intense pleasure he felt as her lips slid down the length of his penis.

  When he’d first met Elena, he’d wondered what her wide, cushiony lips would be like. He’d wanted to kiss her even then and to feel his throbbing cock deep inside that beautiful mouth.

  The girl was doing a hell of a job at making reality even better than fantasy. Elena may have lacked Maria’s experience, but she had a lot of natural talent and plenty of passion. Elena continued to ride her lips along his manhood, gradually increasing the speed and sucking harder.

  “Elena, you’d better—” he tried to warn her.

  The young girl responded by moving her head back and forth even faster. Clint could no longer contain himself. Hot, creamy semen erupted in Elena’s mouth. She accepted it without objection and milked him of the last drop with her wide, strong lips.

  “The bandidos are coming!” Father Rameriz announced.

  “Reckon it’s their turn, ” Clint muttered.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Damn it, Elena! ” Clint growled, stuffing his penis back inside his trousers with his left hand as his right reached for the Colt. “Get to your post!”

  “Sí, amor mio,” the girl replied quickly. “Take care, Clint. ”

  Then she scrambled up the face of the cliff like a human mountain goat. The Gunsmith turned to the arroyo and saw Father Rameriz heading for the rocks. His concern for the priest proved needless. Rameriz moved in a quick shuffling gait, his stave swinging to and fro at the ground in front of him to guide his way. Rameriz reached shelter in a matter of seconds.

  The last few minutes of waiting were the worst. The Gunsmith felt a familiar cold ball knot in his stomach, a combination of fear and excitement. His mouth was dry, but he no longer tasted the metallic flavor of terror when confronting death. He’d seen its skull-face too many times before. Clint Adams had long ago accepted the fact that a violent death awaited him. All he asked was to die fighting like a man with a gun in his hand.

  The sound of approaching horse hooves rumbled within the Black Cathedral, the sound echoing along the rock walls where the Gunsmith and his ragtag army waited. At last, the first two figures on horseback rode into view. They wore uniforms and badges on their sombreros. Were they two of Captain Garcia’s henchmen or part of an innocent rurale patrol which had wandered into the area?

  The answer followed. Three dozen riders appeared behind the rurales. Most wore the dusty clothing, bandoliers and shaggy-beast faces of bandidos. Among their ranks rode el Espectro astride his great white stallion as well as Captain Garcia and the other two corrupt rurales.

  Pretty clever, Mr. Ghost, the Gunsmith thought. Sending the rurales ahead to serve as point men. That’s a good way to catch any random travelers off guard. But why is he using point men? Does he suspect a trap? I noticed this was a perfect spot for an ambush. Has el Espectro done likewise? Does he have a plan of action? Is it better than ours?

  Clint chided himself for such thoughts. It was too late to change tactics now. They’d have to go through with what they’d prepared for and pray it worked.

  “Just a little farther,” Clint whispered, his finger on the trigger of the Colt, thumb resting on its hammer.

  The bandits obliged and kept riding until they reached the center of the arroyo—flanked on both sides by the rock walls that concealed the Gunsmith’s forces.

  Now! Clint thought.

  As if responding to a telepathic command, the peónes stationed on the summit of the opposite wall applied the shafts of picks and hoes to boulders. They used the tools for levers and pried the big rocks until man and stone groaned from the effort. The bandits heard the sound and glanced up to see three huge spheres of stone topple forward.

  “Derrumbe!” screamed several voices.

  The boulders plunged into other rocks and stony ledges that broke from the impact and tumbled down the face of the cliff. Hundreds of rocks showered down on el Espectro’s gang. Some were no larger than pebbles, others were as big as a horse’s head. Men screamed as the hail of rocks pelted them, breaking bone and splitting skin.

  Several dazed bandidos toppled from their mounts. Horses shrieked in pain and fear as they too were bombarded by the lethal shower. Cannonball-size projectiles shattered skulls and caved in chests. Then the trio of boulders came crashing down.

  One crushed a stunned figure in a rurale uniform before it slammed into the legs of a bandit’s horse, bowling over the animal and its rider before smashing them both. Another boulder landed directly on a mounted bandit, squashing the man and breaking the backbone of his unfortunate horse. The third rolled to the opposite rock wall where two terrified bandidos had fled. The giant stone mashed them into a bloody pulp, grinding their bodies against the wall.

  No sooner had the avalanche occurred than a volley of sniper fire followed. The peónes armed with rifles, stationed high at both sides of the pass, opened fire on the disoriented, dazed bandits. Most of the bullets failed to claim human targets, but some tore into bandidos, sending more of el Espectro’s followers to the Great Chili Festival in Hell.

  Clint held his Colt revolver in both hands and aimed carefully before he squeezed the trigger and blasted a .45 round into the only corrupt rurale flunky still on his feet. Blood splashed the man’s uniform tunic and he collapsed in a lifeless heap. The Gunsmith swung his pistol toward abandido still on horseback and shot him out of the saddle.

  He caught a glimpse of el Espectro, still mounted on his white stallion. Apeón boldly, if foolishly, charged the Ghost, waving a machete overhead. El Espectro aimed a revolver at the man and shot him in the face. Clint prepared to open fire on the bandit boss, but two Mexican outlaws had spotted his position and suddenly blasted a volley of lead at the Gunsmith.

  Clint ducked behind the stone cones, hearing bullets ricochet off rock. Then he thrust his gun arm between two stalagmites and returned fire with three double-action .45 rounds. The two bandits twisted as the slugs punched into their chests. Their tequila drinking days were over. They slumped to the ground and died.

  Although bullets hissed through the air and more bandits fell, others still survived the ambush. They ran in all directions, some attempting to flee while others charged the rock walls.

  The bandidos who retreated discovered their opponents were not in a merciful mood. Sniper bullets tore into their backs and pitched them into awkward somersaults—clumsy, acrobatic dances of Death. Some of the bandits who charged the rocks were cut down by pistol fire. The rest soon found themselves engaged in fierce close-quarters combat with the peónes.

  Three farmers armed with machetes and sickles attacked a pair of pistol-packing bandits. El Espectro’s men opened fire and two peónes fell. The third lived long enough to reach his assailants. His machete slashed and the blade struck a bandit in the side of the neck. The man’s head popped off and a fountain of blood bubbled from the stump of his neck. The other bandit backed away from his decapitated partner, his face a mask of horror. Clint Adams then delivered the man’s final judgment by pumping a .45 slug into his heart.

  A bandit screamed and plunged headlong from an overhang of rock, a peasant’s sickle lodged between his shoulder blades. Several peónes threw rocks at the approaching bandits and more followers of el Espectro toppled to the ground with bashed-in faces and bleeding skulls.

  Father Rameriz butt-stroked a bandit in the face with the shaft of his stave. The stunned bandit fell on his back and the priest, guided by the sound of his adversary’s body striking the ground, drove the sharpened end of his stick into the man’s chest.

  Another bandido swung a gun toward Rameriz, but Clint fired first. The bandit’s sombrero hopped into the
sky when a .45 bullet crashed into the back of his skull.

  A peón leaped onto the back of a bandit, grabbing his arms and holding the outlaw long enough for another farmer to slam the point of a sickle blade into the man’s stomach. Peónes gathered up firearms, dropped by dead and wounded bandits, and opened fire on the few members of el Espectro’s gang who hadn’t already been dispatched to the Gates of Bandido Hell.

  Clint Adams opened the loading gate of his revolver to remove the spent cartridges when he saw two figures on horseback gallop past his position.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed.

  El Espectro and Captain Garcia were about to escape and the Gunsmith’s Colt was out of ammunition.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  There wasn’t time to reload his pistol or reach inside his shirt for the .22 New Line Colt. Clint hastily laid down his empty revolver and swung the bullwhip from his shoulder. The braided leather snaked out like a great black tentacle and struck the rurale captain under the chin.

  The whip curled around Garcia’s neck. Clint pulled hard and yanked the captain out of the saddle. Garcia toppled over the rump of his horse and fell to the ground hard.

  “Bastardo!” el Espectro snarled as he turned in his saddle and aimed a pistol at the Gunsmith.

  Clint’s whip lashed out once more. The leather cord snared the Ghost’s weapon and plucked it from his white bony fingers. El Espectro dug his spurs into his stallion’s flesh and the horse galloped away like a bolt of ivory lightning.

  The Gunsmith leaped down from his station and whistled loudly. Duke heard the sound and immediately charged forward. Clint tossed the whip aside and dug the New Line Colt from his shirt as the big gelding approached.

  Captain Garcia groaned and slowly began to sit up, his hand reaching for a button-flap holster on his hip. Clint stepped forward and kicked Garcia in the face. The rurale slumped unconscious. The Gunsmith swiftly caught the horn of Duke’s saddle and hauled himself onto the horse’s back.