Bandido Blood

by J. R. Roberts

  “Their camp did not seem well hidden to me,” Elena commented. “But you will see for yourself when we get there.”

  “I can hardly wait,” the Gunsmith muttered. “Since you’re willing to take on el Espectro, I guess you don’t believe in the stories that he has supernatural powers.”

  “I’m not certain,” Elena answered grimly. “The Ghost has some sort of powers—although I can’t say if they are supernatural abilities or an unusually strong influence on people. His men believe he is a brujo—a male witch. Many people are convinced el Espectro is an evil spirit, a living corpse commanded by el Diablo. All I can tell you is he is very evil and very dangerous.”

  “Yeah.” Clint recalled his own encounter with el Espectro. “He’s sure a bandido of a different color. ”

  “Why are you so determined to find el Espectro, Clint?” the girl asked.

  The Gunsmith explained his mission to Elena. She nodded and said, “I saw the Anglo girl once. She is very beautiful, with yellow hair and fair skin. El Espectro prizes her greatly for he keeps her in his house away from the rest of the women captives.”

  So Marsha Woodland is still alive, Clint thought. There’s still a chance to rescue her from the bandits.

  “I do not believe the Anglo girl has been harmed,” Elena continued. “Though I am certain she has been raped by the Ghost’s men. . . . We—we all were, of course.”

  “I’m sorry, Elena,” Clint said softly.

  “It is done,” she replied. “Nothing can change that. I can only pray that their devil seed does not grow inside me.”

  The Gunsmith wanted to say something to comfort the girl, but realized words would be useless. “I understand el Espectro abducted men as well. What does he do with them?”

  “They are forced to work as slaves,” Elena answered. “El Espectro is trying to turn his camp into a fortress so he has captives constructing buildings and adobe walls. The workers are poorly fed and they do not survive long under the harsh treatment of the bandido guards who make liberal use of whips and boots to enforce discipline.”

  “Jesus.” Clint shook his head. “What does this el Espectro think he is? A Mexican Caligula?”

  “Perhaps he believes what he tells his men,” Elena replied. “That he is the bridge between Life and Death.”

  “Sounds like it’s about time somebody severed his connection to the former,” the Gunsmith said grimly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “We’re very close now,” Elena warned. She thrust a finger to the west. “If we ride another mile or so in that direction, sentries posted on the wall might see us.”

  “Do the bandits have telescopes?” Clint inquired.

  “Telescopes?” The girl’s brow wrinkled. “No, they don’t.”

  “Well, I do,” Clint declared as he swung down from Duke’s back and opened a saddlebag to remove his Dolland—a collapsible pocket telescope favored by sailors.

  The couple had arrived at a prairie which featured numerous rock formations as well as patches of mesquite, sagebrush, and some cottonwood trees. This was another indication that they were approaching the hideout because the vegetation in such an arid region suggested an underground stream, and Elena had told Clint the bandits had a well in their camp.

  Clint ground-hobbled the mustang, but left Duke untied because he knew the big gelding wouldn’t wander off. The Gunsmith and Elena scaled a tall butte with a relatively flat summit. From the elevated position, Clint saw a cluster of adobe structures surrounded by a partially built wall which formed a horseshoe shape around the buildings. From a distance, it resembled the ruins of an ancient city. Clint opened his Dolland and raised it to his eye.

  El Espectro’s camp was everything Elena had described—and worse. The wall was far from complete, but bandits stood sentry on it. The guards gazed down at the campsite, rifles held loosely in their hands. They were watching an assortment of scrawny peónes hauling adobe bricks and mortar to the wall. Other bandits supervised the slaves in the construction of the barricade.

  The structures within the camp varied. Several tents surrounded a large hacienda. The Moorish-style great house would have been a fitting home for a wealthy rancher or the owner of a coffee plantation. Whatever else one might say about el Espectro, he had good taste.

  There was also a large tent located at the south wall of the camp. A fat bandit, seated at a military field desk, wearily guarded a pile of guns and knives stacked beside his desk. At the west wall stood an adobe prison with a door made of iron bars.

  “Elena,” Clint urged, handing her the Dolland, “look down at the camp and identify everything for me.”

  “The hacienda is el Espectro’s house,” she replied, gazing through the lens. “He and his tenientes are there as well as the Woodland girl you came here to rescue.”

  “What about the tents?”

  “The smaller ones are for the rank-and-file bandits. The tents comprise a bivouac area for them,” the girl explained.

  “Jesus,” Clint whispered. “Then there must be almost fifty men in el Espectro’s gang.”

  “I did not count them, but I would say that number is about right.”

  “I’ve got to quit getting myself into this kind of situation,” the Gunsmith muttered. “Okay, Elena. What’s in the big tent? The one with the fella stationed at the table beside the pile of weapons?”

  “That is where the women prisoners are held,” she replied bitterly. “I know that tent well. The bandidos who aren’t carrying out assigned duties are allowed to enter the tent and force themselves on the women. They consider it to be a casa de las putas—a whorehouse—but the girls inside do not act willingly. . . .”

  “I understand, Elena,” Clint assured her. “Now, why is that guy at the desk with all those guns?”

  “The men who enter the tent are required to leave their weapons outside,” Elena answered. “El Espectro gave this order because he doesn’t want the women to get an opportunity to take a gun or knife away from a drunken bandido.”

  “Makes sense,” Clint mused. “Okay, the adobe jailhouse is obviously where they keep the male prisoners. What about the sentries on the wall? They seem to be guarding the slave laborers. They don’t seem to be watching for anyone approaching the camp from the outside.”

  “Sí!” Elena agreed. “You are right, Clint! I recall now, the guards are not posted on the wall after dark when the prisoners are locked in their cells. ”

  “So, el Espectro isn’t worried that anyone will locate his camp and pull his half-built fortress down around his lily-white ears.” The Gunsmith smiled coldly. “His overconfidence has left a nice big gap in his security. Now, all we have to do is find a way to take advantage of it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Clint Adams checked his weapons as the orange sun sank into the western sky. Besides his Springfield carbine and modified double-action .45 revolver, Clint had added another gun to his arsenal—a .22-caliber New Line Colt which had previously been in his saddlebag. He often carried the diminutive pistol under his shirt, tucked in his belt as a belly gun. It had saved his life more than once and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to take all the firepower he could carry when they hit el Espectro’s camp.

  The plan he and Elena had devised was risky, but there wasn’t any safe, logical or sane way for two people to attack an enemy stronghold. The scheme would depend on stealth and cunning more than bullets—in fact, any shooting would mean they were both as good as dead. Not even the Gunsmith could take on fifty gunmen in an open battle, but if their plan went sour, Clint intended to take as many bandidos as possible with him to the grave.

  “Clint?” Elena’s voice called gently as she approached, carrying a blanket in her arms. “We may both die tonight, no?”

  “Honey”—he sighed—“there aren’t any sure things in this world. You might roll out of bed and break your neck. You can choke to death on a chicken-bone or get struck by lightning when you’re heading home from church. I’m not a
prophet and I wouldn’t want to be. I can’t tell you if we’ll see the sunrise or not. All I know is we’ve both decided to hit el Espectro and we’ve figured out a plan that seems to have a good chance of success. We can’t do more than that, Elena.”

  “I know,” she declared as she laid the blanket on the ground beside him. “I can accept death, but I do not want to die before I—before I know . . .”

  Clint saw the embarrassment in her lovely young face. Then he glanced at the blanket. He knew what she meant. The girl had been raised to consider sex as an intimate, beautiful relationship between a man and a woman—probably reserved only for husband and wife. Yet, she hadn’t known the gentleness and warmth of making love. She’d been introduced instead to the vicious, perverse act of rape. She’d been beaten and ravaged by animals. Her virginity had not been given away by choice, but ripped from her by the barbarians in el Espectro’s gang.

  “Elena,” he said gently, “all that you were taught in the past—that making love is a beautiful experience, that it can fulfill and satisfy the body and spirit—it is all true.”

  “I—I don’t know. . . .”

  “Don’t say anything,” he urged. “Just sit down here beside me and we’ll share ourselves willingly—the way a man and a woman are meant to.”

  She sank to her knees on the blanket. Clint cupped her face in his hands and gazed into Elena’s big, beautiful eyes. They were so dark and deep and soft, filled with warmth and passion. He saw no fear or apprehension in them. Clint pressed his lips against her wide, luscious mouth. She responded eagerly, returning his kiss with uninhibited enthusiasm.

  Her lips were wonderful, soft and moist. Clint probed inside her mouth with his tongue. Elena responded by embracing his neck and pulling him closer. Their hands soon explored each other’s body as the fires of desire were stirred by increased passion. Clint felt the girl’s nipples strain against the fabric of her tattered dress as he caressed her breasts. She groaned with pleasure and slowly slid her hands across his shoulders and back.

  The Gunsmith dropped a hand to her skirt and gradually hiked up her dress. His manhood swelled at the sight of her shapely, naked legs and the touch of her warm, smooth flesh. Clint stroked her thighs, slowly working his hand higher. Elena responded by caressing his crotch. She gasped when she felt his hardened member.

  “Oh, sí” the girl crooned. “Sí!”

  Clint hastily removed his clothing, placing his gunbelt within arm’s reach. It was crazy to make love like this, with an enemy stronghold less than two miles away. A group of el Espectro’s bandits might happen along at any moment.

  Yet, it would have been insane to ignore the needs of a beautiful, sensitive young girl and to deny himself the ecstasy of her body. In a few hours there would be killing and Clint and Elena might well be dead. Now, however, there was time for love and to allow the opportunity to slip by them would have been the greatest lunacy of all.

  Elena removed her dress, revealing her gorgeous brown body in the glory of its nakedness. The girl examined Clint with frank admiration as she stroked his bare flesh and allowed him to reply with his own skillful, gentle touch.

  Their coupling was gradual. Clint took his time, aware that Elena needed to feel the warmth and tenderness of making love. She needed to know that sex was not always brutal and selfish. He entered her slowly and worked his hips to gently ease his throbbing organ deeper.

  Although his desire raged within his loins and he wanted to thrust harder, Clint held back his own yearning until Elena began to wiggle and buck beneath him. Then he pumped his manhood faster and deeper inside her. Elena stifled a cry of joy and clung to her lover.

  They convulsed and groaned, resisting the urge to shout their pleasures in the night. Then Elena’s marvelous legs wrapped around Clint’s hips, drawing him closer as she trembled in the throes of an orgasm. Clint had also reached the zenith. He exploded his seed into her hot, damp chamber of love.

  “It is true, Clint,” Elena whispered. “Gracias a Dios! It is true.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Gunsmith and Elena approached the bandit camp from the south side. The night sky was illuminated by a half moon and a sprinkling of stars. Clint and the girl favored the darkest shadows available as they surreptitiously crept toward el Espectro’s headquarters.

  The bandido hideout was pretty active that night—which suited the Gunsmith. With plenty of men milling about the camp, the bandits wouldn’t be apt to pay much attention to another figure dressed in a sombrero and serape. Drunken voices sang Spanish ballads and a handful of el Espectro’s men staggered from tent to tent. Some paused to relieve themselves on the ground. One man pissed on his own boots without realizing it. Male laughter and occasional female screams came from the large tent, still guarded by the fat bandit at the field desk. The slaves, however, had been returned to jail and the sentries who had formerly been positioned on the wall were no longer on duty.

  Stunned by el Espectro’s lack of security for his camp, Clint and Elena simply climbed over the incomplete wall and entered the stronghold. Still dressed in the hat and poncho Father Rameriz had given him in San José, Clint knew he could pass for a rather tall Mexican providing no one got close enough to notice his skin was merely tanned by the sun or discovered he spoke only a smattering of Spanish. Hoping his disguise would work well enough in the dark, Clint pretended to be drunk and staggered toward the large tent.

  “Buenas noches, amigo,” he greeted the beefy bandit at the desk.

  “Sí, sí,” the fat man replied in a weary voice.

  He yawned as he watched Clint place his Springfield carbine on the stack of weapons. Suddenly, the sentry’s eyes widened when he noticed the Gunsmith’s face was not familiar to him.

  “Uno momento!” the bandit snapped. “Quiénes?”

  “Qué?” Clint muttered in a slurred voice. “Quién soy yo?”

  “Sí!” the guard insisted, his hand reaching for a revolver thrust in his belt.

  Elena had taken advantage of the distraction created by the brief conversation between Clint and the sentry. Moving quickly and silently on bare feet, the girl crept up behind the unsuspecting bandido and slammed the hard, knotty end of a cottonwood club down on the man’s skull. The sentry groaned and fell face first on the desk.

  Clint glanced about, ready to reach for the .45 hidden beneath his poncho. However, no one had seen Elena slug the bandit. The camp appeared to be deserted and the only sounds were the grunting noises of crude sex within the large tent, which Elena and Clint now entered together.

  Inside, the tent was almost pitch black, the only source of light being holes in the canvas that allowed some moonlight to enter from above. Clint and Elena let their eyes adjust to the darkness. The Gunsmith recalled what Elena had told him about the design of the “women’s prison.” The tent was divided into five “rooms”—actually stalls with only partitions of canvas to separate the women, who each had a cot, water, one dress, and nothing else.

  The bandidos would enter the tent and help themselves to any woman they wanted, providing someone else wasn’t already occupied with her. Of course, the men were required to leave their weapons outside. This included such items as tequila bottles, forks or even spoons which could be improvised as weapons by a desperate, vengeful woman against a drunken, lustful man. Trying to resist or fight bare-handed was hopeless and would only earn the woman a vicious beating before being raped by the bandidos.

  Clint saw five stalls. One, formerly Elena’s, was currently empty. Each of the other four contained a woman and a bandido “customer.” The Gunsmith could only guess how difficult it was for Elena to return to the tent. How much abuse, humiliation and pain had she suffered within that canvas hellhole? The girl had incredible courage to step across the threshold once again to try to rescue the others still held captive by el Espectro.

  They moved to the nearest stall. Inside a young woman lay on a cot, staring up at the canvas ceiling. The bandit lying next to he
r snored loudly. Clint took the cudgel from Elena.

  “Calla te, Maria,” Elena whispered to the other woman.

  The girl stared at them. “Elena?” she whispered in return.

  “Sí,” Elena confirmed.

  While Elena whispered more information to the other woman, Clint made certain the bandit continued to sleep for quite a while. He swung the club with all his might and hit the sleeping bandido twice in the forehead. Bone crunched and a half-grunt, half-sigh escaped from the man’s lips. He would never wake again.

  “Gracias, señor,” a feminine voice said near Clint’s ear.

  Then a wide, soft mouth pressed against his lips. The kiss was brief, but sweet and filled with fire. The Gunsmith was certain it was Maria, not Elena, who had delivered the kiss.

  “I’ve explained everything. . . .” Elena whispered, but Clint placed a finger to her lips to silence the girl.

  While Maria pulled on a dress, Clint and Elena moved to the next stall. A bandido was on top of a girl. He grunted and giggled as he pumped himself between her splayed legs. The girl lay on her back stiffly, unwillingly submitting to the man’s action, yet she dared not resist, well aware of the terrible price she’d have to pay for rebellion.

  Clint found the bandit’s head and smashed the club into it. The man groaned and slumped unconscious on the girl. The Gunsmith quickly put a hand over her mouth before she could cry out in alarm. Elena knelt by the cot and whispered to the girl, who relaxed and nodded to express her understanding of the situation.

  The Gunsmith turned and prepared to leave the stall. The figure of a man blocked his path. The bandit said something that sounded like a question to Clint.

  “Tequila!” The Gunsmith laughed as he staggered toward the figure. “Tequila!”

  The other man chuckled in response. Then Clint swung a roundhouse right and rapped the club against the side of the man’s jaw. Before the bandit could fall, Clint caught him by the shirt front with his left hand and rammed the end of the cudgel into the fellow’s midsection. The bandido doubled up with a rasping cough and Clint delivered another blow to the base of his skull.