“I’ve heard you’re a rather good detective, Mr. Adams,” the albino replied. “What’s your guess?”
“I figure somebody on Barsa’s staff must have told you about it and then you watched the ranch from a safe distance until the time was right before you moved in. ”
“Excellent!” El Espectro smiled. “You’re right, of course. The contact, by the way, was the housekeeper. We killed the woman to make certain she didn’t reveal anything to Woodland or Barsa. She had already betrayed her employer’s trust, so we couldn’t take the chance she’d do the same to us. ”
“And, of course, you didn’t have to pay her then,” Clint said grimly.
“Not much sense in paying a corpse, is there?”
“Marsha Woodland had better be alive, fella, ” the Gunsmith warned. “Now, you take me to her and you’d better do exactly as I tell you—unless you’re eager to meet up with your hero the Grim Reaper. ”
“Shall we go, Mr. Adams?” El Espectro smiled thinly.
The albino guided Clint through the corridors. The Gunsmith followed his evil host, keeping the .45 trained on el Espectro’s back. Although the albino continued to obey Clint and offered no resistance, he still seemed too calm and self-assured for the circumstances. It was unnatural for any man to be so nonchalant when faced with the likelihood of his own death. The Gunsmith sensed something was wrong, but he couldn’t act until he had some idea what it was.
“Here is the girl’s room, ” el Espectro announced as he stopped in front of another redwood door and grabbed its brass knob.
“Open it,” Clint ordered.
“Of course, my norteamericano pistolero friend,” the Ghost remarked, raising his voice slightly.
Instantly, Clint realized what el Espectro had done. He’d led the Gunsmith to a room and told whoever waited behind that door what to expect—an Anglo gunfighter.
The door wasn’t locked and the albino suddenly turned the knob and shoved it open. Clint held his fire a moment too long and el Espectro dove into the room. Then a fierce-faced figure with a drooping mustache appeared within the room with a cut-down Henry carbine in his fists. Clint didn’t hesitate again. He shot the man through the heart before the bandit could open fire.
Without warning, white hands reached from inside the room and seized the Gunsmith. One hand closed around Clint’s wrist behind the gun while the other caught him by the throat. El Espectro’s face, a death mask in white marble, materialized before the Gunsmith’s eyes. The albino’s hands were incredibly powerful for such a thin man. Already the chokehold at Clint’s throat was cutting off his air and the grip on his wrist had effectively forced his gun toward the ceiling.
El Espectro suddenly kicked one of Clint’s feet out from under him and both men fell to the floor. The albino landed on top, a bent knee hitting Clint in the diaphragm. The Gunsmith struggled, but el Espectro rapped the back of his head against the floor to daze Clint.
The albino’s grip on Clint’s wrist still kept his gun immobile and he shifted a knee to pin the Gunsmith’s left arm as well. The hand at Clint’s throat squeezed harder. Clint saw el Espectro smile with satisfaction as he throttled his victim. Spots of light burst in front of Clint’s eyes and he felt the .45 Colt slip from his fingers.
“I am sure you were warned, Mr. Adams, ” a voice echoed in the corridor. “El Espectro is Death. . . . ”
The Gunsmith’s strength vanished and he could no longer fight the ghostly figure that held him helpless on the floor while it strangled him. A black veil descended over his consciousness and he sank into oblivion. . . .
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Mr. Adams!”
The sound roared from a deep, endless tunnel somewhere in the void. Clint wished the voice would go away. Hell, you’re supposed to rest in peace after you’ve been strangled to death.
“Adams!”
Go to hell, Clint thought.
Something cold and wet splashed over the Gunsmith and he was abruptly yanked into consciousness. His eyes opened slowly to see a hazy white bulb. He blinked and the mist vanished. El Espectro’s pale face, now wearing the dark glasses, stared back at him.
“I hope I didn’t choke you too hard, Adams,” the albino declared in a hard voice as he held a ladle to the Gunsmith’s mouth. “You’ve got some explaining to do. ”
Clint eagerly drank. The water massaged his dry throat, which was still bruised and sore from his near strangulation. As his head cleared, the Gunsmith became aware of a dull ache in his arms. They were extended overhead and held fast by manacles. Clint was shackled to a T-shaped wooden frame. He realized it was a whipping post, the type used by the Army to administer corporal punishment. Leg irons secured his ankles to the ground.
He’d been stripped to the waist; of course, his New Line Colt hideout gun had been discovered and confiscated. Clint’s boots had also been taken and his pockets had been turned inside out. He realized he was outside even before he saw the pale, pink dawn sky and the soft white sun of early morning.
Clint glanced about and recognized the various buildings of the bandit camp. He also saw more than thirty brutal-faced bandidos—and every one of them looked like he’d find great pleasure in skinning the Gunsmith alive with a rusty knife.
“Talk, Adams!” el Espectro ordered sharply. All his sophisticated charm was gone. The bandit leader was angry and he didn’t bother to hide his emotions now. “I didn’t crush your larynx, did I?”
The Gunsmith didn’t reply. He tried to clear his mind.
“My strength caught you off guard, didn’t it, Adams?” the albino continued. “I told you I had to work harder. One of the things I’ve done is to exercise my fingers every day to develop a powerful grip. I could have killed you, but I want you to talk first. ”
Clint remained silent.
“Of course, if you can’t talk”—the Ghost shrugged—“we may as well kill you now. . . .”
“Go haunt a house, you bastard,” the Gunsmith rasped hoarsely.
“That’s better. ” El Espectro smiled. “Things will go better for you if you cooperate. ”
He barked a sentence in Spanish and two bandidos dragged a third figure over to Clint Adams. The Gunsmith stared at their prisoner. Marsha Woodland proved to be just as beautiful as the stories about her had claimed.
The girl appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties. She was five six or so and the tattered remnants of the blue gingham dress that clung to her body did not conceal a magnificent full bosom, wide hips and long tapered legs. Her hair was long and blonde. It needed to be washed and brushed, yet some of the luster still remained. Even the faded purple bruises on her cheeks did not detract from the loveliness of her face as her sky blue eyes stared back at the Gunsmith.
“Miss Woodland,” el Espectro began, “meet Mr. Clint Adams, who was sent by your father to rescue you. He didn’t do a very good job, but it was a nice thought, eh?”
The bandido chief chuckled softly. Then, without warning, he smashed the back of his hand into the Gunsmith’s face. Clint’s head rolled sharply from the blow and he felt himself swim toward unconsciousness once more. El Espectro seized him by the hair and jerked his face closer.
“You killed seven of my men, Adams!” the albino hissed. “You liberated my peón slaves and the women who entertained my men on lonely cold nights. My men are angry with you, Adams. So am I. ”
“Hey”—Clint forced a smile-“let’s not cry over spilt milk. . . .”
The remark earned him another backhand swat in the mouth. Clint nearly blacked out. He tasted blood and his vision blurred for a moment.
“You are going to talk, Adams,” el Espectro said fiercely. “You’re going to tell us where our prisoners went and who helped you find my camp. Oh, yes. You will talk. ”
Clint turned his head toward Marsha Woodland. “I’m sorry I let you down, ma’am,” he said gently. “But don’t figure all the poker chips have been cashed in. The game’s not over yet.”
> The albino ordered his men to take Marsha away. She craned her neck to watch Clint as they dragged her back to the hacienda. The girl’s eyes pleaded with him for help. Shit, the Gunsmith thought. I’m chained to a goddamn whipping post. How the hell am I going to help anyone—including myself?
“You astonish me, Adams. ” El Espectro shook his head. “If you honestly think you can escape now, you are truly insane.”
“You ought to be an authority on that subject, whitey,” Clint replied.
The gunsmith expected another slap, but el Espectro ignored the barb. “You’re going to die, Adams,” he said. “It can be quick by a bullet in the head, or it can be slow. Very slow. Do you know how the Yaqui Indians kill their victims, Adams?”
Clint wasn’t likely to forget the two mutilated corpses he’d encountered on the trail. A shudder traveled along his spine.
“The Yaqui are experts at torture, ” the albino continued. “And quite a few of my men are Yaqui or half-breeds with Yaqui blood. That’s why I don’t have to worry about the Indians. A lot of their relatives work for me. Even my men who are not part Yaqui have acquired a good practical knowledge of the arts of torture. They know how to slice off eyelids to let your eyes roast in the sun. They know how to skin a man alive or cut off the tip of his penis and then cauterize it to keep him from bleeding to death. ”
“You guys must throw some pretty wild parties,” Clint commented, trying to sound more brave than he felt.
“Make it easier on yourself, Adams. ” The Ghost lowered his face to stare at Clint. “Where are the fugitives?”
“I’m not really sure,” the Gunsmith answered. “But let me loose and I’ll help you look for them. ”
Suddenly, el Espectro’s hand snaked forward and clawed into Clint’s crotch. Steel talons gripped into his genitals. The Gunsmith gasped and convulsed in agony, but the chains held him fast. The albino squeezed harder and Clint almost screamed in response.
“I’ll burst your testicles like a piñata unless you talk!” el Espectro snarled.
Then he released the Gunsmith. Clint gasped, drawing air into his lungs as the pain slowly began to subside. Through tear-blurred eyes, he saw el Espectro turn to face five men on horseback who had ridden into the bandit camp.
Clint blinked to clear his vision and saw the uniformed figures of the newcomers. He blinked again, unable to be certain what he saw was real. The riders were still there, clad in tan uniforms, black riding boots and ornate badges pinned to the crowns of their sombreros.
“Buenas días, Miguel,” el Espectro greeted, addressing the rurale officer who led the patrol.
“And a good day to you, Rafael,” Captain Garcia replied as he swung down from his mount. “I see you have already met Mr. Adams. I rode out here to tell you about him, but that appears to be unnecessary. ”
Clint swallowed hard. His heart seemed to stop from despair and hopelessness, but confusion and rage seemed to get it pumping again.
“Ah,”—the albino smiled as he turned to face Clint—“I see our guest is puzzled. Why don’t you explain it to him, Miguel. ”
“Very well,” the captain agreed. “You see, Mr. Adams, el Espectro is Rafael Garcia. He is my brother. ”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Oh shit,” the Gunsmith muttered. “Everything makes sense now. ”
“Adams is a very good detective,” el Espectro told his brother. “Let’s see what his deductions are, Miguel. ”
“I should have figured this out before, ” Clint commented. “Why are you building your headquarters less than a day’s ride from a rurale fort? Because the rurales are your allies. ”
“Not all the rurales at Fort Juarez, ” Captain Garcia stated. “Just myself and these men here. One doesn’t tell too many people a secret or it doesn’t remain a secret for long. ”
“When I heard the Ghost speak English with the same New England accent as Garcia . . . ” Clint shook his head. “I suppose this also explains how you managed to get all that fancy furniture for your office and those redwood doors?”
“Indeed, ” el Espectro confirmed. “A rurale officer can get anything if he has the money. Miguel and I share and share alike. I make the profits and he makes the connections. A nice little family business, eh?”
“Just like Cain and Abel,” Clint muttered.
“Hardly,” the Ghost scoffed. “All my life, Miguel has been the one person I could call a friend. We have always been close. We always shall be.”
“I haven’t heard such a touching tale of love since I was told how vultures mate in midair,” the Gunsmith sneered. “How long do you think it’ll be before the rurales or the federales figure out what’s going on?”
“Quite a while, ” Garcia answered. “I know how my superiors operate. They only put a fort here in the Devil’s Belly because el Presidente Juarez has such a soft spot in his heart for the peónes. He wants them protected from the Yaqui and the bandidos. However, my superiors don’t give a damn, Adams. I can do whatever I please in Sonora, providing I don’t offend a politician or an aristocrat, and my commanders won’t care.”
“However, our arrangement here is only temporary,” the albino added. “When the time is right, when we’ve acquired enough wealth and influence, Miguel and I plan to take up residence in Guatemala. We’ll buy a coffee plantation and live like kings for the rest of our lives. ”
“Enough of this, Rafael,” Garcia urged. “Kill this gringo. We have something more urgent to deal with. ”
“Adams has to tell us something before he dies,” the Ghost declared. “He killed several of my men and then released my prisoners last night.”
“I am aware your peónes have escaped, ” Garcia said sharply. “We encountered them on our way here. ”
“Qué?” the albino asked with surprise.
“There were about ten of them, men and women,” the rurale captain explained. “When they saw us, they approached, probably looking for help. Then, Corporal Romero”—he turned and glared at one of his men—“stupidly opened fire on them. The peónes are armed with rifles and handguns. They fired back at us and we were forced to retreat. ”
“We have to find them,” el Espectro said. “They can’t get far on foot. I’ll join you, Miguel. Together, with your men and mine, we’ll easily take care of the peasant scum. ”
“Sí, Rafael,” Garcia agreed. “It will be good to ride with you once again. What shall we do with Adams?”
“He has earned a slow and terrible death because he killed many of my men,” the albino insisted. “But the peónes come first. Adams isn’t going anywhere. I’ll leave a couple men to look after him while we’re gone. ”
“Very well,” Garcia nodded. “But we’d better move quickly if we’re going to catch those peón trash before they scatter all over Sonora. ”
“Sí,” el Espectro agreed. He turned to his men. “Umberto! Franco!”
Two bandits rushed forward and their leader gave them some orders in rapid Spanish. The pair grinned wolfishly and nodded. The albino then addressed Clint Adams.
“I’m leaving these two to look after you while the rest of us hunt down the fugitives,” he explained. “They are under orders not to kill you until we return because we all want to witness your death, Adams. Of course, they are allowed to entertain themselves at your expense.”
Clint tried to think of an appropriate remark, but he didn’t want to try to talk for fear his teeth would chatter.
“We shouldn’t be gone long, Adams, ” el Espectro declared. “I hope my men don’t get too carried away with their fun. Try not to die before we get back. ”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chained to the whipping post, Clint Adams watched el Espectro, the majority of his bandidos and the five rurales mount their horses and ride from the camp. Umberto and Franco were left behind to guard the Gunsmith. Clint strained his muscles, pulling at the manacles that held him, but the iron shackles held fast.
Frustration boiled inside
the Gunsmith like volcanic lava. If he could free himself, he’d only have to deal with two men. Clint couldn’t hope for better odds than that, yet he was still powerless to act or even defend himself against whatever sadistic games his captors chose for “entertainment” until el Espectro and the others returned.
Umberto, a squat, fat bandido with a wide face and a mouthful of gold teeth, grinned as he approached Clint. “How you wanna spend time while we wait, gringo?” he asked in broken English.
“Do you fellas have a deck of cards?” the Gunsmith asked.
Umberto replied by slamming a fist into Clint’s face. The Gunsmith’s head recoiled from the blow and more blood streamed from his mouth.
“Take these manacles off and try that, chico! ” Clint growled.
Umberto punched him in the stomach. The Gunsmith gasped as his breath spewed from his lungs. The bandit laughed and drew back his fist again.
“Uno momento,” the other bandit, Franco, urged.
The stocky beast turned to face his partner. He smiled when he saw the eight-foot-long bullwhip in Franco’s hand. Clint cursed under his breath. He’d seen what a bullwhip can do to human flesh. The military seldom used punishment by flogging since too many men had been killed or crippled for life by the lash.
“Sí, Franco, ” Umberto nodded. “Let’s teach this gringo cochino to rob us of our women!”
“Hey, where’s your machismo, boys?” Clint shouted as the pair strode behind him. “Take these chains off and let’s fight like men. You know what men are, don’t you? Your mamas probably told you about them, unless the putas were too stupid to know how they got pregnant—”
The crack of the leather cord slicing through air interrupted the Gunsmith’s insults. Then he felt the whip strike his naked back. Skin bruised and split open. Clint repressed a groan as he felt blood trickle from the cut flesh.
“Cobardes! ” Clint snarled, still hoping to shame them into releasing him to fight on equal terms. “I’ll take you both on at the same time. You little boys aren’t afraid of one gringo, are you? You choose the weapons and—”
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