“We’ll spend the night here,” Mendez declared. “It used to belong to a bunch of Pueblo indios, but we sort of convinced them to let us use it.”
“Yeah,” the Gunsmith replied, trying to conceal his loathing for the bandits’ tactics. “But why waste time here? What if the train makes better time than you’ve counted on and arrives in Yuma ahead of schedule?”
“Because we don’t like to ride horses in the dark,” El Lobo told him. “They can step in prairie dog holes and break their legs—and a rider can break his neck falling off a horse too. Besides, this is still Apache territory. Those hijos del Diablo are bad enough in the daylight; I don’t want to go up against them at night.”
“You’re making the decisions, jefe,” Clint shrugged, addressing the bandit boss as “chief.”
Mendez smiled, pleased with the remark. “Don’t worry, Senor Gringo. Even if the train gets to Yuma before we do, we won’t have much trouble finding Manning and his followers. They won’t be able to go very far with all that gold and they’re a pretty strange-looking group so people will remember them. Those cucarachas won’t get away from me again.”
Clint didn’t bother to remind El Lobo that he was more concerned about his property on the train than the gold or revenge. Virtually everything he owned was on that train—his wagon, his clothes, his tools. What worried him most was the possibility of losing Duke. The big black gelding was more than a horse to Clint. Duke was a partner and a friend.
He also wanted his modified Colt .45 back. The double-action revolver was a one-of-a-kind gun. It had taken Clint years of trial and error to finally perfect his pistol. To try to make another one would be a monumental feat. Besides, he didn’t like the idea of a lowlife like Lloyd or Vargas taking possession of his prize creation.
There was no point in trying to explain any of this to El Lobo. The bandit leader was so hardhearted he barely seemed to care about the death of Sofia who had been one of his women. As long as Clint rode with the bandits, he’d have to go along with Mendez’s rules and watch for an opportunity to break away from the gang.
A thin gray-haired man with dark Latin features—that may have been handsome if his face hadn’t been frozen into an expression of dour hopelessness—stepped from one of the adobe huts. Three younger, less solemn men also rushed forward to meet El Lobo and his band. When the riders reached the camp and dismounted, the trio helped them lead the horses to the corral. The gray-headed man still stood by the adobe dwellings, his eyes wide and his expression even more sorrowful than before.
“That’s Guillermo,” Mendez informed Clint. “He’s noticed we didn’t return with his precious Josephia,” El Lobo clucked his tongue with disgust.
A tall, hawk-faced man with fierce dark eyes brushed past Guillermo as he marched toward Mendez and Clint. The man looked mean enough to chew iron ore and spit out roofing nails. He sure carried enough firepower—a holstered revolver on each hip and a third thrust into his belt.
“Quién es, el gringo?” he demanded angrily.
“Our guest is an hombre who has no love for Manning and his gang,” Mendez answered. “And he doesn’t speak español very well so talk English, Tomas.” El Lobo turned to Clint. “Tomas is my teniente— lieutenant.”
“What happened to our men, Luis?” Tomas asked, glaring at Clint with unconcealed hostility. “And why you bring this Anglo back?”
“I’ll explain everything to you later,” Mendez replied. “For now, I’m going to tell Maria and Rosanna that they will no longer have Sofia to fight with. You put Señor Gringo in the cárcel and don’t hurt him unless he gives you trouble.”
“Sí,” Tomas replied, drawing a pistol. From his expression, Clint guessed Tomas would like to have an excuse to use his gun. “Come with me, gringo.”
“Luis?” Guillermo began, slowly approaching the bandit chief as Mendez stomped toward one of the adobe huts. “Donde está Josephia?”
“Muerta,” Mendez replied, not even breaking stride as he told Guillermo his wife was dead.
Clint heard the gray-haired man wail in grief and saw him bury his face in his hands and weep as he slowly sank to his knees in the dirt.
“I’m glad Luis broke the news to him gently,” the Gunsmith muttered sourly.
“Hey, gringo,” Tomas barked. “I tell you to come with me, no? You refuse and I shoot you. Comprende?”
“Don’t get excited,” Clint urged. “I’m ready to go with you. Okay?”
Tomas escorted Clint through the tiny adobe hamlet. The Gunsmith noticed the bandidos had wasted little time locating tacos, tortillas and tequila. He saw a group of them ravaging the food and liquor and realized his own stomach growled for attention.
“Will I get any food, Tomas?” he inquired.
“You’ll get a bullet if you don’t move!” the bandit lieutenant snapped. “And you will address me as teniente, gringo!”
Clint almost asked him why he wanted to be called teniente gringo but decided Tomas didn’t have much of a sense of humor. Then a movement at one of the adobe structures caught his eye and he glanced into the face of a lovely young girl who stood in the doorway of the hut.
She was clearly very young, under sixteen. Small and yet to develop a full bosom, her face was the greatest attraction, with its large doelike brown eyes and wide, full mouth. The girl’s jet-black hair framed her oval face and she offered Clint a wide grin and a suggestive wink before Tomas shoved him toward a small adobe structure, about the size of an outhouse.
“This is the cárcel. gringo, ” Tomas declared.
“Charming,” Clint muttered. “What is a cárcel, anyway?”
“It means jail, estúpido!” the bandit growled as he pushed Clint through the canvas curtain that served as a door to the tiny building.
The cárcel was simplicity itself: four hard adobe walls with a ceiling, a dirt floor and the “door” he’d been shoved through. No furniture or windows. He wondered what the Pueblo Indians had used it for and guessed it had once stored grain for the tribe.
But whatever it had been, for Clint it was jail and there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it. He guessed what he’d see when he pulled back the curtain and peeked outside, but he checked anyway.
A hard-faced bandido was stationed at the entrance. The man gestured at Clint with the barrel of an old Spencer carbine, warning him to stay where he was. Clint nodded in response, closed the curtain and sat down in the dark, cramped cell.
“Stone walls do not a prison make,” he mused. “Adobe with an armed guard will work just as well.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You comfortable, Señor Gringo?” Luis Mendez inquired as he pushed back the curtain and poked his head into the cárcel.
Clint resisted an urge to put his fist in El Lobo’s grinning face. “Why the hell did you put me in here?”
“Two reasons,” Mendez began. “First, I don’t want you sneaking around my camp and maybe causing trouble. I don’t trust nobody. I’ve stayed alive that way. If I was going to trust somebody, it wouldn’t be an Anglo like you. The other reason is I don’t want one of my men to get drunk and decide to shove a knife between your ribs. I don’t want you killed.... At least, not yet.”
“Your hospitality overwhelms me,” Clint said dryly.
“If you need to shit, let the guard know,” Mendez chuckled. “Now, my women are waiting for me to satisfy their desires. Any questions before I go?”
“I suppose it would be asking too much to be able to get enough water to wash up a little.” His hair and clothes were still caked with mud. “And maybe a clean shirt if you can spare it.”
“You’re right, gringo,” Mendez smiled. “That’s too much to ask. We’re in the middle of a desert, remember? We can’t waste no water on bathing.
“I noticed,” Clint muttered. “How about something to eat then?”
“Maybe.” Mendez shrugged. “If there’s enough left after my men are through. Anything else?”
Cli
nt shook his head.
“Have a nice night, Senor Gringo,” Mendez laughed as he withdrew from the door of the cárcel.
El Lobo had never bothered to ask Clint what his name was, content to address him as Senor Gringo. Mendez and the others regarded him as a bottom-of-the-barrel gunhand who’d been duped by Manning. Clint didn’t want them to change their opinion because so far none of them had bothered to search him. He still had his New Line Colt and fifteen hundred dollars in a money belt.
The Gunsmith tried to ignore the growling in his stomach and decided to take advantage of the privacy of his cell to check his belly gun and pocket watch. As he’d feared, the latter had suffered from the fall of the train. The crystal was cracked and the minute hand had broken off. He hoped the pistol would be in better shape.
Removing the New Line from its hiding place under his shirt, Clint inspected the frame and cylinders, pleased to discover the gun hadn’t been dented or clogged with mud. He held the little gun close to his ear and eased back the hammer. It clicked into place smoothly and he didn’t hear the grating sound of sand or dust within the parts. Clint uncocked the Colt, found the trigger operated fine, and then checked the barrel to be sure it wasn’t bent and the muzzle wasn’t plugged up.
Satisfied that the little .22 would be ready if he needed it, Clint put the belly gun away and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible on the dirt floor. If he couldn’t eat or bathe, perhaps he could at least get some sleep.
He fell into his “combat-ready” slumber, his hands folded on his stomach close to the hold-out gun under his shirt. For three hours, he rested in this manner until the rustle of the curtain tugged at his consciousness.
“Señor,” a voice whispered gently.
Clint awoke immediately, his nostrils twitching from the scent of chili and tacos. He sat up and saw a small, slightly built figure at the entrance of the cárcel. There was just enough light available in the dim cell to allow him to recognize the big dark eyes and wide smile of the girl he’d seen before Tomas shoved him into the jail.
“I brought you food, señor,” she whispered.
“I can smell it,” Clint replied. “It’s as welcome as your smile, señorita. Muchas gracias.”
The girl entered the cell and knelt next to him. The quarters were compact and there was little enough room for Clint let alone the girl. Her chest pressed against his left triceps as she handed him a plate of tacos and a clay bowl of chili con cabra-carne. He tried to move away from her small breasts that pressed against his arm, but there wasn’t enough room in the cell and the girl didn’t attempt to shift away from him.
“My name is Carla,” she declared with a broad grin that accented her cushiony full lips.
“I’m Clint,” the Gunsmith responded to the introduction. “You speak very good English, Carla. Where’d you learn it?”
“From my father and Uncle Luis,” she answered.
“El Lobo is your uncle?” Clint was startled to learn that the bandit chief would risk his niece’s life by exposing her to the dangers involved in his line of work. Carla’s virginity was in even greater jeopardy since she was a very pretty girl surrounded by unprincipled and immoral men.
“Sí,” Carla confirmed. “And Guillermo is my father.”
“Luis’s brother?” Clint recalled El Lobo’s callous attitude when he told Guillermo about the death of his wife Josephia. “Oh, I’m sorry about your mother, Carla.”
“No need,” the girl assured him, pressing her body closer to his. “She was—how do you say in English? A bitch?”
“Carta ...” Clint didn’t know how to respond to her remark. “You shouldn’t talk that way about your mother.”
“Why?” The girl’s fingers coasted across Clint’s chest. “She used to beat me. Mama hated me because I am not fat and ugly like she was. She beat my father too. He cries for her. Let him shed tears for us both.”
Clint moved the bowl of chili to his abdomen to block the path of Carla’s hand before it brushed against his belly gun. “Won’t your father and uncle begin to worry about you, Carla?”
“My father is still weeping for the dead bitch and Luis is busy drinking and bragging with his bandidos. I told the sentry I wanted to spend some time with you so we could talk and I could practice my English. I also promised Juan I’d spend some time with him too.”
Clint was beginning to realize there was no point in worrying about the girl’s virtue when she pressed her lips against his. Carla’s tongue moved artfully into his mouth and her wide, soft lips gradually increased pressure.
The Gunsmith responded to her kiss, his own tongue probing her mouth and teeth. It was difficult to believe she could be so young and kiss with such passionate skill. Clint suspected she’d already lost her virginity, but experienced or not, she was still a young girl. His hands still held the plate and chili bowl or he may have embraced her. Carla’s hands, however, found his crotch and began to rub his throbbing manhood.
Clint managed to find enough space on the dirt floor to put down the food, with Carla still clinging to him, kissing and stroking at the same time. Reminding himself once again that the passionate female who was trying to work him into a sexual frenzy was a child, Clint pulled his lips from hers.
“You’d better go,” he whispered, taking her hands from his trousers. The girl had already unbuttoned the fly and Clint’s penis jutted from the gap like a short flagpole.
“Why?” Carla inquired. “You want me, no?”
“You’re awfully young to be doing this sort of thing,” he began. “I just don’t feel right about it....”
“You feel just fine to me,” she declared, wrapping her fingers around his member, her thumb gently rubbing the sensitive head.
“No, Carla ...” he began.
“I can scream, you know,” Carla stated. “What do you think will happen if I tell Uncle Luis you tried to rape me?”
Clint’s confusion, lust and apprehension had to make room for a generous chunk of anger. The little bitch was trying to blackmail him. Worse, Clint couldn’t think of any way to avoid a confrontation with El Lobo except to agree to the girl’s demands.
Then Carla took command of the situation once more. Her beautiful, wide mouth opened and her head sunk between Clint’s legs. He felt her lips close around the head of his penis, the tip of her tongue probing and licking eagerly.
Slowly, Carla worked her lips along the length of his shaft. She used her mouth, tongue and teeth with practiced skill that rivaled any grown woman Clint had known in the past. Her ability had clearly been acquired by experience—a lot of it. How old had she been when she first began giving sexual favors? Clint found the idea of a child forced to lead such a life horribly sad.
But, even though he had done nothing to encourage her and he didn’t want to, he couldn’t help responding to her artful mouth. Her soft lips caressed his member and her tongue worked him like a fawn at a saltlick. Clint’s manhood hardened to full length as she continued to suck his penis and slowly began to raise and lower her head.
What could Clint do? Grab the pretty little girl by the hair, yank her face from his crotch and punch her in that gorgeous mouth? His own passion was soon too aroused to want her to stop. Carla’s head moved faster, her lips riding up from the root of his organ to the rim of its head.
Her hands clawed at his clothing, as her head bobbed even faster. Clint felt himself rapidly reaching the limit and he whispered her name to warn her; however, Carla ignored his words and continued to suck his hard manhood until he could no longer contain himself. Hot semen burst in the girl’s mouth, but she drank him without complaint and raised her head to offer an impish grin.
“Do you still think I am too young?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied honestly.
“That’s not what your body tells me, Clint,” Carla stated as she rose to her feet. “Eat your dinner and regain your strength. I’ll try to visit you later.”
She left the cárcel and
Clint shook his head. Poor Carla had never had a chance of a normal childhood being raised among El Lobo and his bandits. They had robbed her of more than her virginity....
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Clint managed to fall asleep after his meal. Two hours of light slumber ended abruptly when a gunshot echoed within the bandido camp. The Gunsmith awoke instantly, his hand nearly drawing the .22 belly gun from his shirt. Another shot erupted, followed by confused shouts in Spanish.
The shots had not been fired rapidly and Clint suspected both had come from the same weapon, a pistol, judging from the bark of the report. That meant the bandits probably weren’t under attack. Clint moved to the curtain and peered out to see the bandidos had clustered together in the center of the hamlet. El Lobo marched toward the adobe dwellings, followed by Tomas. Guillermo walked some distance behind them, his left arm wrapped around Carla’s shoulders. He had an old Colt Dragoon in his right hand. The girl appeared to be distraught and frightened, and the lesser members of the bandit gang expressed a variety of emotions—anger, disbelief, indignation. Nobody looked very happy.
Then El Lobo strode to the cárcel and ordered Senor Gringo to come out. Clint obeyed and asked what had happened.
“Guillermo caught Juan outside of the camp trying to rape his daughter,” Mendez snorted. “Rape his daughter? Mierda! The fool is blind enough to believe his little slut is still a virgin angel!”
“He killed Juan?” Clint inquired, not revealing that he knew Mendez was related to the “blind fool” and the “little slut.”
“Sí,” Mendez nodded. “The rest of my men are angry because they say they have not had a woman for weeks. How can Juan be blamed for responding to that puta’s behavior under such circumstances? I’ve told them we will be in Yuma in another day or two, but they will not listen.”
“Luis, vamos a la casa ....” Tomas began.
“sí, sí!” Mendez said angrily. “We are going to the house. That is, you are going, Tomas. I have two women of my own here and I don’t want to leave them with the rest of these coyotes when they all hunger so for sex.”
Bandit Gold Page 11
