“I appreciate your help, Coronel, ” the Gunsmith replied. “And Juan and I will exercise the greatest caution in the Devil’s Belly. Thank you, Coronel.”
“Vaya con Dios, Señor Adams.” Morales nodded.
The Gunsmith hoped the colonel was right and God would be with him in el Barriga del Diablo. Clint figured he’d need all the help he could get.
Chapter Eight
The Gunsmith was no stranger to deserts. He’d been to the Great Basin of Nevada, the Painted Desert of New Mexico and the formidable Imperial Valley of Southern California, but he’d never encountered a more bleak, lifeless stretch of territory than the Devil’s Belly.
Oceans of sand extended for miles in every direction. The wind had formed ripples across the surface of the grainy brown sea. The only features to offer any relief to the sand were occasional clusters of rocks. Not even cactus or tumbleweed seemed able to survive in el Barriga del Diablo.
“Clint,” a worried Juan Lopez began as he wiped his sweat-drenched brow with a damp neckerchief, “do you have any idea how much farther we have to go before we reach Fort Juarez?”
“About ten more miles,” Clint replied. “I know. It seems like we’ve already ridden a hundred in this hellhole, but it’s really not as bad as it seems. ”
“I hope you are right,” Juan said without much conviction. “The desert can’t be all like this, can it? I mean, if there are rurales and villages out here, there must also be water and food, no?”
“It’ll get better, Juan,” Clint promised—hoping he was right.
“Hey! ” Juan thrust a finger at the horizon. “What’s that?”
Clint used a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun which sizzled overhead. He saw a couple of large gray and brown shapes in the distance. Heat vapors weaved across the objects and produced an eerie, flowing movement. At first, the rock formations appeared to be giant living creatures, but Clint sighed with relief when he realized the boulders weren’t Mexican versions of the fabled “Clashing Rocks” of Greek mythology.
“Big excitement of the day, Juan,” the Gunsmith declared. “We’re approaching some rocks. ”
“I don’t mean that, Clint,” Juan insisted. “What’s that thing between them? Looks like someone stuck a stick in the ground and put a ball on top of it. ”
The Gunsmith looked again and located the object. Juan’s description was fairly accurate, although Clint thought the oval-shaped dome resembled a small melon more than a ball. As they drew closer, they noticed the “melon” was black on top. Then they saw why. Hair hung from the dome of the severed head perched on the stick. Its face was contorted in agony, jaws open in an eternal scream. Black horseflies clustered around the mouth and nose and the bloodied sockets that had once contained eyes.
“Madre de Dios!” Juan exclaimed.
The Gunsmith had encountered the barbarian nature of man before, yet he felt a cold shiver mount his spine when he gazed at the grisly head.
“The Yaqui sure have a unique way of marking their territory, ” Clint commented. He turned to Juan. “You want to go on?”
“No,” the youth admitted. “But I will.”
Both Duke and Juan’s Appaloosa whinnied as they continued into el Barriga del Diablo. The animals smelled blood, death and horror. Clint and Juan soon discovered this for themselves. They found the decapitated corpse of the Yaqui’s victim. The headless body lay by a rock formation, killed by an arrow which still protruded from its chest.
That was the good news.
Another man’s corpse was sitting on the ground by the boulders. His arms were bound to three poles which formed an H-shaped frame. The Yaqui had cut off his nose, ears and lips. His eyeballs had been gouged out and a pile of ashes and grisly pulp revealed where the Indians had built a fire at the man’s crotch.
Juan gasped, turned to one side and threw up.
Clint’s stomach turned and he almost followed his partner’s example. He was tempted to ask Juan if he wanted to turn back—and would have agreed if the youth said yes. Death was something the Gunsmith had seen more times than he could remember. He’d long ago accepted the fact that he’d die by violence, but a bullet crashing into one’s heart or brain was one thing and a slow, painful death by torture was quite another.
“It is said,” Juan began weakly, removing a canteen from the horn of his saddle, “that the Spanish taught the Yaqui how to do such things. Many of the conquistadores still followed the doctrines of the Holy Inquisition. ”
“The Yaquis don’t need any more lessons,” Clint remarked as he drew his Springfield carbine from its boot and worked the lever to chamber a round. “Hard to tell how long these fellas have been here. I don’t really want to get a better look at them to make an educated guess. ”
“We’d better figure the Yaqui are still in the area, Clint, ” Juan advised. He washed his mouth out and spat the contents at the sand.
“Yeah,” the Gunsmith nodded.
They continued to ride into el Barriga del Diablo . . . into the bowels of Hell.
Chapter Nine
The bleak, lifeless appearance of the Devil’s Belly slowly changed. Patches of buffalo grass and an occasional cactus dotted the landscape. Yet this did not reduce the apprehension Clint and Juan felt as they rode across the desert sand.
An unnatural stillness dominated their nerve-racking journey. No birds sang in the distance, not even a lizard stirred on the ground, and the air refused to offer even a whisper of a breeze. Both men rode stiffly, reins held in one hand, rifles in the other. They constantly watched the surrounding rock formations for any trace of movement. Their ears strained to hear the slightest sounds of danger.
Their nerves were as taut as piano wire. Blood pulsed behind their ears sounding like the footfalls of bare feet. The rasping of their own breath was the snarl of the Grim Reaper about to pounce. Their heartbeats were bass drums playing a monotonous dirge inside their chests. Having seen the results of Yaqui torture, neither man could prevent his imagination from conjuring up mental displays of horror for the mind’s eye.
The Gunsmith sensed someone’s eyes following his every move—or was it merely another product of his imagination?
A sizzling missile of slender wood with a flint tip abruptly provided solid evidence of danger. Later, Clint would wonder what had alerted him. Perhaps he’d heard the creak of a taut bow bending as the archer drew back the string. Maybe he saw the blur of movement when the arrow was unleashed. Whatever the warning, it had been too faint to be registered consciously in his brain, but the Gunsmith’s combat-sharpened reflexes responded anyway.
Clint suddenly dove from Duke’s back as the arrow streaked over the saddle he had occupied a moment before. He kept his body loose when he hit the ground, rolling on a shoulder to rise up on one knee, his Springfield ready for battle.
A horrid shriek burst from the Appaloosa. Clint glanced at Juan’s mount to see a feathered shaft jutting from the poor beast’s neck. Juan cried out and kicked himself free of the stirrups, barely managing to jump from the saddle before the horse fell.
Clint whirled, swinging his carbine in the direction of the second archer. He spotted a Yaqui—small, painfully thin and naked except for a loinctoth—standing at a natural barricade of stone. The Indian’s chest was bisected by the front sight of Clint’s Springfield. He squeezed the trigger and a .45 slug tore into the Yaqui’s narrow chest. The brave screamed as his body was thrown backward into the rock wall before it slumped out of view.
A chorus of savage cries suddenly surrounded Clint and Juan. More Yaqui aggressors materialized from the rock formations. They moved swiftly, primitive weapons clenched in their bony fists, as they bobbed from rock to rock like lethal shadows on stone.
Clint jacked a fresh shell into the breech of his carbine while Juan crouched by the twitching body of his horse. Duke had been trained to respond to an assortment of dangerous situations and he was intelligent enough to always make the right decision eve
n if he hadn’t been taught to handle whatever came up. The big black galloped to the cover of the only rock formation that wasn’t crawling with Yaqui. Duke’s keen sense of smell had quickly located the best shelter and he was fast enough to reach it before the Yaqui archers could adjust their aim.
However, the Indians didn’t fire at Duke. They only wanted to kill Clint and Juan. A Yaqui bowman rose up and fired a hasty missile at the Gunsmith. Clint immediately replied with his Springfield carbine. The arrow struck sand two feet in front of Clint, burying half its length in the ground. The Gunsmith’s bullet smashed into human flesh. The Yaqui screamed and toppled forward, his body bouncing off boulders before it landed in a broken heap on the ground.
War cries bellowed in all directions and Yaquis seemed to spring up from the sand. Clint suddenly found himself surrounded by half a dozen murderous Indians who charged toward him, wielding lances and stone-headed tomahawks.
“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, pumping the lever of his carbine.
Juan’s Winchester cracked and a .44 slug smacked into a Yaqui, the force of the bullet knocking the Indian off his feet. The brave’s body flopped on the ground, ignored by his comrades who kept heading toward the Gunsmith and his young Mexican partner.
Clint blasted another Springfield round into a Yaqui’s chest, the bullet burning a destructive tunnel through the Indian’s heart before it ripped an exit hole between his shoulder blades. There wasn’t time to chamber another shell in the carbine. The Yaqui were closing in quickly. Clint’s left fist retained the Springfield, but his right streaked for the Colt .45 on his hip.
Two tomahawk-armed Yaqui continued to run toward Clint while a third stopped to cock his arm to prepare to throw his lance. The Gunsmith’s double-action revolver spat flame twice and the two charging Yaqui were kicked into oblivion by .45 lead. Clint whirled as the spear rocketed toward him. It whistled past his left ear. Clint’s Colt roared again and the third Indian’s nose disappeared. The bullet sliced through his brain and popped open the back of the Yaqui’s skull.
The last Yaqui assailant stood over the screaming figure of Juan Lopez. He’d driven the flint point of his lance into the young Mexican’s right side until the stone blade caught on the bones of Juan’s ribcage. When the Yaqui saw Clint shoot down his fellow tribesmen, he yanked the spear from Juan’s ravaged flesh and desperately hurled it at Clint’s back.
The Gunsmith pivoted, raising the Springfield carbine in his left fist. The barrel swung into the airborne lance, deflecting it in midair. Astonished and terrified, the Yaqui’s jaw fell open. Clint’s Colt snarled and a .45 round entered the Indian’s open mouth. The brave was dead before he hit the ground.
Clint hurried to Juan’s inert form and knelt beside his wounded partner. Still glancing about for more Yaqui aggressors, Clint placed two fingers against Juan’s neck, searching for a pulse.
“I am not yet dead, amigo,” the youth announced.
His voice was remarkably steady and clear for a man who’d been ripped open from hip to ribcage by sharp stone. The wound was terrible and blood gushed across Juan’s shirt and trousers. Clint realized the youth was already as good as dead.
“You take it easy, Juan,” he said. “Let me clean and bandage this and—”
“And I will die anyway,” Juan stated calmly. “I am sorry I didn’t do so good against the Yaqui. . . .”
“You did fine, Juan,” Clint assured him. “You saved my life.”
“Maybe.” Juan smiled thinly. “But I won’t be able to help you now. Guess I haven’t been so good as a guide or translator. . . .”
“I’ve been honored to have you by my side,” the Gunsmith told him.
“You are a fine man, Clint.” Juan nodded. “Maybe you do me a favor?”
“Just name it.”
“If . . . When you get back to Texas . . .”
“I’ll see that your family gets the five hundred dollars Woodland promised to pay you,” Clint assured him, guessing what Juan wanted. “In fact, I’ll see to it they get at least a thousand. They’ll be well taken care of. You have my word, amigo.”
“That is good,” Juan said.
Both men were silent for almost a full minute. Clint cradled Juan’s head in one arm and held him gently, waiting for the youth to die. He wouldn’t abandon Juan in these last moments of life. He owed the boy that much.
“You know,” Juan began, his eyes gazing up at the sky, “I didn’t think it would be like this when I died. It doesn’t hurt too much now and it really isn’t too bad. . . .”
Then he said, “Clint, I see something. I can’t describe it, but it is beautiful.” He smiled. “Death is . . . muy bello, amigo. Muy . . .”
Then Juan Lopez quivered gently and died.
Chapter Ten
The Gunsmith buried Juan. He broke a Yaqui lance in two and tied the pieces together to form a crude wooden cross which he hammered into the grave for a marker.
“Well, God,” he began as he stood by the grave, “you don’t hear much from me. Maybe that’s not good and maybe it’s just as well. I don’t know, but I don’t want to talk about me anyway. I could say that Juan Lopez was a good man and he deserves salvation, but I figure that’s up to You, God. Could say he loved his family and died bravely, but I reckon You know about that. Guess all I can say is Juan’s had a long hard ride and I hope he finds some peace now.”
Two hours later, Clint Adams found Fort Juarez. Rurale sentries saw the Gunsmith approach on foot, leading Duke by the reins. The great wooden gates opened and three uniformed figures met Clint at the threshold. A young officer with a sleek ferret face and a sly smile greeted him with a formal bow.
“I assume you are a norteamericano,” he said. “Even if you speak español, please allow me to practice my English. I am Teniente . . . Lieutenant Santiago Sanchez. Who might you be, señor?”
“My name is Clint Adams,” the Gunsmith replied hoarsely. “I wish to speak with the post commander, Capitán Garcia.”
“I am certain the captain will be honored to meet you,” Sanchez stated with poorly concealed sarcasm. “I will take you to him.”
The rurale post was considerably smaller than Fort Morales, but other than that, the two installations looked very similar. Adobe wall surrounded the post, which consisted of simple structures that served as barracks for the enlisted men and an officers’ billet. Horses were penned in a corral and the mess hall was a small enclosed kitchen surrounded by benches.
Sanchez led Clint to the headquarters building. Capitán Garcia sat behind a mistreated old desk, reading a dog-eared copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The post commander gazed up at Clint and Sanchez as they entered his office.
“Capitán,” Sanchez began, “this is Clint Adams who has come all the way from los Estados Unidos to speak with you.”
“Save your rudeness for the men, Lieutenant,” Garcia replied. His English was flawless, the accent more New England than Mexico. “They have to respect your rank.”
Sanchez merely shrugged in response.
Garcia rose from his chair. He was tall for a Mexican, almost the same height as the Gunsmith. Garcia was an impressive man, darkly handsome with a trim black mustache and deep-set eyes under dense black brows. His uniform was neat and barely wrinkled. The captain extended a hand to Clint.
“A pleasure to meet you, Adams,” he said, shaking hands solemnly. “It is rare to encounter a visitor from the North in this place. How may I help you?”
The Gunsmith told Garcia about el Espectro and Marsha Woodland. He explained how he and Juan had come to rescue the girl and about Juan’s death at the hands of the Yaqui.
“Without a guide or translator,” Clint concluded, “I’m at a disadvantage, but I still have a job to do and I’d appreciate any help you can give me, Capitán.”
“Looking for el Espectro is like trying to capture the wind.” Garcia sighed as he fished a black cheroot out of his pocket. “We have tried to find that white-skinned demon many times, but we’ve
never even come close to success.”
He struck a match and lit the cigar before he continued. “All we really know is el Espectro and his men are somewhere out there”—he cocked his head toward a window—“in the Devil’s Belly. Occasionally, the Ghost will raid one of the local villages. The peónes have no real valuables, but el Espectro takes what he can find—food, water, alcoholic drinks and prisoners.”
“Prisoners?” Clint raised his eyebrows. “He kidnaps peónes? Why?”
“Perhaps we would know if he ever released a captive.” Garcia shrugged. “El Espectro and his men often abduct young men and women, for what reasons we can only guess. The women probably serve an obvious purpose, but the men . . . Well, some of the superstitious peónes believe el Espectro is an evil spirit. They whisper his name in terror and place crosses made of salt on the ground to try to ward him away. They think he might be a caníbal who gains power by devouring his victims’ flesh . . . their hearts and brains, perhaps even their souls.”
“Have you ever tried to surprise the Ghost when he comes ahaunting with his gun-toting ghouls?” Clint inquired.
“Oh, yes.” Garica nodded. “But he has never arrived when we’ve done so. El Espectro seems to be able to sense the presence of his enemies. As you can see, this is not a large post. I do not have many men under my command and the Yaqui, such as the savages you encountered today, are more of a threat than the bandidos. Thus, I have not been able to station men at villages for months simply to wait for el Espectro to return. I’m certain your cavalry would not send a company of soldiers to protect a town from a gang of outlaws if they had to contend with a Sioux uprising.”
“Towns in the United States have lawmen and most citizens own guns and know how to use them,” Clint replied. “The James boys and the Younger brothers once tried to raid Northfield and they got shot up pretty bad before they ran out of town with their tails between their legs.”
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