Bandido Blood

by J. R. Roberts

  “Get that snow-white son of a bitch, big boy!” Clint rasped, pulling the reins to point Duke’s head toward the fleeing form of el Espectro and his stallion.

  Duke exploded in a dead run, racing after the albino like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. The big gelding’s long legs covered ground rapidly, but el Espectro’s stallion was also a strong, fast horse and the Ghost continued to gallop away.

  “We can do it, fella, ” Clint urged, holding the reins in one hand and the diminutive .22 in the other. “I have to get close to use this peashooter, so catch up with ’em, fella. ”

  Perhaps the horse didn’t understand his rider, but Duke burst into an even faster run nonetheless. The white horse galloped around the base of a rock butte, with Duke coming up behind him fast.

  Clint tried to aim the New Line Colt at el Espectro’s black-cowled figure. Trying to shoot accurately at a fast moving object while mounted on a galloping horse was impossible even for the Gunsmith, especially when armed with a short-barreled .22 pistol designed for close quarters. He fired anyway, not expecting to hit the bandit. Clint aimed high, not wanting to hit the magnificent white stallion, hoping only to disorient its rider.

  El Espectro recoiled violently in the saddle. Clint was surprised since he had been certain his bullet had missed. The albino yanked back on the reins and brought his mount to an abrupt halt. Then he toppled out of the saddle to the ground. Duke almost galloped past the white horse before Clint brought the big black Arabian to a standstill.

  He turned in the saddle and saw el Espectro dash around the rear of his stallion. The albino, who clearly had only pretended to be wounded, charged toward Clint before the Gunsmith could adjust the aim of his New Line. White talons seized Clint’s arm and yanked him forcibly off Duke’s back.

  Clint managed to land on his feet and remained upright despite the powerful tug exercised by his opponent. He slammed his left fist into the side of el Espectro’s head, but the albino seemed to absorb the blow without effect. He twisted Clint’s arm fiercely and the little Colt sprang from his grasp. Clint saw the gun land beside a clump of multicolored rock that resembled a large piece of coral.

  El Espectro’s steel-clawed hand suddenly seized Clint’s throat. Well aware of the strength in his adversary’s fingers, the Gunsmith desperately struggled to break free. He pried at the Ghost’s wrist with his left hand and rammed a knee into his groin. El Espectro gasped and snarled like a beast, but his grip at Clint’s throat remained firm.

  Then he pulled Clint off balance and the Gunsmith landed on his back with the murderous albino on top of him. The Gunsmith’s right arm was held immobile by a powerful hand, and a knee quickly pinned his left. El Espectro’s fingers continued to squeeze Clint’s throat, the pressure threatening to crush his windpipe.

  “I should have finished you off before, Adams,” the albino hissed, his teeth clenched in rage. The Gunsmith could only imagine what the man’s red-tinted eyes were like as they were still covered by the thick, dark glasses. “But today you die . . . ”

  Clint bent a knee and whipped it up as high as he could, striking el Espectro in the left kidney. The Ghost groaned and buckled from the unexpected blow. Clint shoved his captive right wrist against the albino’s thumb and broke free of the grip. His hand shot out quickly, clawing at el Espectro’s face, ripping the glasses off the bridge of his nose before the bandit could yank his head back.

  Suddenly, el Espectro screamed in agony. He released Clint’s throat and clamped both hands over his eyes. The albino’s unshielded orbs, ultrasensitive to light, had gazed up into the sun.

  The Gunsmith’s fist crashed into el Espectro’s jaw. The bandit fell away from Clint and tried to climb to his feet, one hand still covering his eyes. Clint raised a boot and drove it into the albino’s chest.

  The kick propelled el Espectro backward. He tumbled awkwardly and fell near the discarded New Line Colt, the back of his head striking the colorful rock. Then the rock moved.

  A terrible shriek escaped from el Espectro’s lips. He bolted to his feet and tried to claw at the object that clung to his back. Blood oozed from his open mouth as he sunk to his knees and convulsed in a quivering ball.

  A large, thickly built reptile still held onto the albino’s back, its wart-covered snout pressed against his neck. The “rock” was a beaded lizard which had been sunning itself before el Espectro fell on it.

  Clint recalled what Juan Lopez had said about the beaded lizard—that it is more poisonous than a snake and its jaws are like iron. The lizard had bitten el Espectro in the back of the neck, nearly crushing his spinal cord with its powerful teeth and pumping venom directly into the bandit’s carotid artery.

  The Gunsmith watched el Espectro twitch one last time before the final glimmer of life vanished.

  “I guess el Espectro has given up the ghost, ” Clint commented wearily.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Clint rode Duke back to the Black Cathedral, leading the white stallion by its reins with el Espectro’s body draped over the saddle. The triumphant peónes greeted him with cheers and waved their weapons in victory. Their behavior was a stark contrast to the otherwise grim scene.

  Dead bodies—both men and horses—littered the ground. Many were grisly victims of crushing rocks, machetes or multiple gunshots. Yet, the Gunsmith’s forces had won. There had been casualties among the peónes, but the bandidos had been all but wiped out. Only Captain Garcia and two of el Espectro’s men had survived the battle.

  Both bandidos had been injured. One had a crushed foot and a broken wrist. The other had suffered a shattered collarbone and a fractured radius in his right forearm. Garcia’s jaw had been broken when Clint kicked him in the face.

  The Gunsmith dismounted and the peónes swarmed forward to shake his hand and thank him. Clint was relieved to see Marsha Woodland had not been injured. The lovely blonde stood guard over the three prisoners, her Remington held ready, and the expression on her face warned the captives she would welcome a chance to kill any or all of them.

  Clint glanced about and saw Father Rameriz approach. The Gunsmith uttered another sigh of relief when he saw the priest had also emerged from the melee unharmed.

  “You have returned without injury, my son?” the blind man asked as he took Clint’s hand.

  “Yes, Father,” the Gunsmith assured him. “El Espectro is dead. It’s over now.”

  “Gracias a Dios!” the priest whispered.

  “How many people did we lose?” Clint asked grimly.

  “Seven have been called to Our Lord,” Rameriz answered.

  “I’m sorry, Father. ”

  “There was no choice, my son,” the priest explained. “Seven died fighting evil. It is better than the alternative, which would have been the death of all my children and a victory for evil, no?”

  “That might not be much comfort for the widows and orphans, ” Clint muttered. “But you’re right, Father. ”

  Rameriz hesitated before he said, “A young woman was badly injured. She calls your name.”

  “Where is she?” Clint asked urgently.

  The priest pointed at the base of a rock formation with the bloodstained tip of his cane. Elena Jimenez and an older peasant woman knelt beside a still figure clad in a tattered white dress. Clint hurried forward and stared down at Maria. The front of her dress had been ripped open to apply a bandage to a gunshot wound in her left breast.

  “Clint?” she asked hoarsely.

  “I’m here, Maria, ” he replied, kneeling beside her, taking her hand in his. “I’m right here. ”

  “I can not see you very well, my hero, ” Maria said. “It is dark, no?”

  Clint felt the afternoon sun on the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he told her. “I guess it is.”

  “We won, Clint,” she smiled.

  “We sure did,” he agreed, squeezing her hand gently.

  “I am glad I will die with friends,” Maria commented. “I am glad you are here. ”

&nbs
p; “Maria. ” Clint felt tears form in his eyes.

  “I want you to know, ” she said softly, “that I love you . . . and . . . if . . . ”

  Her voice ended with a full gurgle in her throat.

  Maria was dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Clint Adams led a small caravan to Fort Juarez. It consisted of Marsha Woodland, Father Rameriz, Elena Jimenez and two peónes to help guard their three prisoners—the sole survivors of el Espectro’s gang. They also brought the bandit chief’s corpse, still slung over the back of his white stallion.

  The sentries at the rurale post saw their commander riding with a group of peasants. Shouts echoed within the fortress and the gates creaked open. A dozen armed soldiers met the Gunsmith’s group, but the rurales merely held their rifles and stared at the new arrivals, totally confused. Their capitán appeared to be a prisoner of the peónes and they had the body of a white-skinned man who appeared to be the fabled el Espectro. How does one handle such a situation?

  Their consternation was short lived. Lieutenant Sanchez, the second in command at Fort Juarez, soon joined the rurales at the gate. He looked at Garcia and then turned to Clint Adams.

  “I think you’d better have a good explanation for this, señor,” the lieutenant declared.

  “You’ll find it draped over the back of that white stallion,” Clint replied.

  “Cristo!” Sanchez exclaimed when he recognized the corpse. “Excuse my language, padre. ” He bowed an apology at Father Rameriz.

  “You’re looking at Captain Garcia’s brother, Rafael,” the Gunsmith stated. “Better known as el Espectro. He used to have a reputation as a corpse that rode a white stallion. That story finally became true, although I don’t think anyone is afraid of him now. ”

  “You killed him, señor?” Sanchez asked.

  “The scales of justice got the bite on him, Lieutenant, ” Clint replied dryly. “Why don’t we explain this business in detail? Since you’re the new post commander, may I suggest we use your office?”

  Captain Garcia was escorted into the office that had formerly belonged to him. Sanchez, Clint Adams, Father Rameriz and Marsha Woodland were also present. The rurale lieutenant moved behind the desk. He removed his service revolver from its button-flap holster and placed it on the desk top before he sat behind the big piece of furniture.

  Clint told the lieutenant what had occurred in the Devil’s Belly over the last three days. Father Rameriz and Marsha supported the Gunsmith’s claims. Although Garcia was unable to speak, due to his broken jawbone, he was given a notepad and pencil to allow him to communicate. The rurale captain didn’t bother to write any denials or even shake his head. He obviously realized such efforts would be useless.

  “Your story might be difficult to believe if I hadn’t seen the body of el Espectro with my own eyes,” Sanchez declared. “Although—I’ve had some suspicions about Garcia and some of his men for some time. ”

  “I’m sure,” Clint said dryly.

  “Of course,” the lieutenant continued, “you must understand that he outranked me and I couldn’t go to Colonel Morales without proof. Now we can give him plenty of evidence to be certain this disgrace to the uniform of los rurales will pay for his terrible crimes. ”

  “That’s fine, Lieutenant,” the Gunsmith said. “I’ll leave the matter in your capable hands. If you don’t need us any longer . . . ”

  “Oh, of course,” Sanchez nodded. “You have to take Señorita Woodland back to Texas, no? May I offer to escort you to the city of Magdalena? There is a train station there. You can ride in comfort to the border and easily cross over into Texas at the town called El Paso.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” Clint replied. “Everybody ready to leave?”

  “Except you, capitán,” Sanchez told Garcia as he picked up his revolver and aimed it at the renegade rurale officer.

  The Gunsmith, Elena, Marsha and Rameriz shuffled out of the office. They’d no sooner stepped into the corridor when they heard a gunshot erupt within the room. Clint reacted instantly and whirled to face the open door of the office, his hand streaking to the modified Colt on his hip.

  Lieutenant Sanchez calmly stood over the body of Captain Garcia which lay sprawled on the floor with a bullet hole in his chest. A strand of gray smoke curled from the muzzle of the pistol in Sanchez’s hand.

  “The prisoner attacked me,” the lieutenant said. “I had no choice but to defend myself, no?”

  Sanchez would have been more convincing without that smile on his face.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When they emerged from the rurale headquarters building, Father Rameriz turned to Clint Adams and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “It is time to say good-bye, my son,” he declared. “You must return to your country and we must get back to the village. ”

  “That’s a fact. ” Clint smiled fondly at the priest. “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you, Father. You’re quite a man.”

  “Gracias.” Rameriz nodded. “And I have enjoyed meeting you, although I wish the circumstances could have been different. I hope that some day you will come back when things are not quite so exciting, no? We never did get to finish our chess game.”

  “No, but we sure checkmated el Espectro. Vaya con Dios, padre. ”

  “Sí,” the priest replied. “Go with God, my son. ”

  Father Rameriz walked across the parade field, his stave probing the ground as he went. The blind man easily located the two male peónes who waited with the horses. Elena Jimenez then approached Clint and gazed up at him with her big, beautiful dark eyes.

  “I too must return to San José, ” she said in a choked voice. “My people won a victory today, but they also suffered the loss of seven men. We will have much to do before our village will be the way it was. ”

  “It won’t be the way it was, Elena,” Clint assured her. “The bandidos will never again terrorize or plunder your village. ”

  “That is true,” she nodded. “And we have learned we can defend ourselves and that evil triumphs only when one allows it to succeed. Our padre told us that you norteamericanos believe that freedom is worth fighting for and I know now that this is true. No, San José will not be the same and neither will any of my people. The men have changed because they won a battle against a man they once believed to be an invincible evil spirit. I too have changed because I met you.

  “I know you must return to los Estados Unidos, ” Elena continued. “But one day, you will come back to San José or I will visit your country and find you again, Clint Adams. Somehow, I know we will meet. ”

  The Gunsmith had learned to respect women’s intuition—and his own instincts, which told him fate would bring them together again.

  “So this is not adiós,” Elena said, tears escaping from the corners of her eyes. “Just hasta mañana, no?”

  She kissed him. Her lips were tender, soft and sweet. Clint felt the dampness of her tears on his own cheek as she drew back from his embrace. The girl turned and hurried away to join Father Rameriz and the others.

  “Elena!” the Gunsmith called to her.

  The girl turned to face him and Clint said, “Until tomorrow, no?”

  Elena Jimenez smiled and nodded in reply.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Clint and Marsha Woodland climbed on board the train at Magdalena. Duke hadn’t been eager to enter a cattle car. Perhaps the big black gelding recalled a long trip by rail from Brownsville to Yuma when the cattle car had been close to the smoke and soot of the diamond-stack engine.

  Clint had patted Duke’s neck and assured him that the ride would be brief. The horse wheezed as if to express disgust, but he allowed Clint to lead him into a stall within the car.

  “I know, I promised you never again,” the Gunsmith told Duke as he scratched the gelding’s muzzle. “It won’t be all that bad, big fella. We’ll be in Texas in less than forty-eight hours. Okay?”

  Duke wheezed again, gently—almost a
sigh of resignation.

  The train left Magdalena half an hour after sundown. Clint felt the big locomotive lurch forward and heard the harsh scream of its whistle and steam hiss from the engine. The Gunsmith wearily carried his saddlebags and Springfield carbine through the corridor to the sleeper car. He hadn’t slept in a real bed since he’d left Texas. Maybe a berth on a train didn’t qualify, but it was close enough for the Gunsmith.

  Clint was glad to be leaving Mexico. His mission into Sonora to rescue Marsha Woodland from el Espectro had been one of the most dangerous and difficult experiences in his life. Clint had lost track of how many dead bodies he’d seen in the last few days. He wasn’t even certain how many men he himself had killed.

  The price had been high—very high. Juan Lopez and Maria had both virtually died in Clint’s arms. The emotional strain and tension had been worse than any physical abuse he’d suffered at the hands of the Ghost’s bandidos. Those spiritual wounds would need more time to heal than the whip marks on Clint’s back. He would never forget Maria’s final words—“I love you, Clint . . . ”

  He found the door to his berth and opened it. Clint’s mouth almost fell open when he stared into the sleeper compartment and discovered someone waiting for him. The girl sat on the edge of the bunk, holding a sheet to her torso. Marsha Woodland’s long, shapely legs were naked and totally exposed from toe to hip.

  “I didn’t enter the wrong compartment, did I?” Clint asked lamely.

  “You don’t want to leave, do you?” Marsha inquired as she removed the sheet to reveal that she wore nothing beneath it.

  “Don’t ask silly questions, lady,” Clint replied.

  He quickly shut the door and dumped his belongings in a corner. The girl lay back on the bunk and watched Clint strip off his clothes. She smiled with appreciation at the sight of his naked, leanly muscled physique. The Gunsmith didn’t waste any time. He blew out the coal-oil lamp and joined Marsha in bed.