Bandit Gold Read online

  “None of us is deaf,” Lloyd answered with a thin smile. “Don’t worry, feller.”

  Patterson turned to Clint Adams. “And what is your excuse for running around in your underwear, mister?”

  “It was all I had on when I heard the lady scream,” the Gunsmith replied. He raised the revolver. “But I dressed for the occasion.”

  Before the Pinkerton could voice a response, Clint headed back to his quarters. Entering the compartment, he peered out the window. The bleak Texas desert shuffled by. Cactus, rocks and mesquite amid oceans of sand. Barren, primitive land that seemed incapable of sustaining life. Yet lizards, snakes, birds and scorpions thrived here—not to mention the Apache. Nomads, the Apache were Indians of the plains and deserts who seldom put down roots for long. Their way of life was savage and harsh by the standards of most other Indian tribes as well as the white man’s. It had made them a clever, cunning and cruel people. The train was traveling deeper into the heart of Apache territory.

  The only thing worse than being stranded out here alone, Clint thought, would be getting stranded with four cutthroats like Lloyd, Vargas, Bruno and Markham....

  Chapter Twelve

  The Gunsmith spent the next six hours getting familiar with the train. If Apache or bandidos decided to attack, Clint wanted every edge he could get and knowing the battleground better than the enemy is one of the best advantages one can have.

  Clint attracted some curious stares from the passengers as he marched through the aisles. No one asked what he was doing or why he carried a Springfield carbine canted on his shoulder. Many looked away when he drew closer. Everybody had clearly heard about Linda Mather’s escort team and wanted nothing to do with them.

  The Gunsmith didn’t like being categorized with the other four men. Vargas had two lumps of hate instead of a brain and a heart, and Markham was a vicious young rattlesnake. Bruno seemed to be a nasty brute, but Clint guessed the big man’s bald head wasn’t empty since he’d displayed better self-control than either Vargas or Markham—which might make him all the more dangerous. Then there was Lloyd, the cold-blooded, lightning-fast killing machine, probably the worst of the lot.

  Great company I’m keeping these days, the Gunsmith thought. No wonder these folks think I’m a mad dog that walks on its hind legs.

  Clint Adams relieved Mike Vargas of guard duty at one o’clock in the morning. Stationed at Linda’s door, the surly cross-breed held a Winchester rifle in addition to his gunbelt and ever-present knife.

  “Ready to get some sleep?” Clint inquired.

  “Sí,” Vargas confirmed. “Yo soy fatigado. You know what to do, no? Just stand here and guard the door.”

  “Sure,” Clint nodded. “No sweat.”

  “You’d better take this job serious, Adams,” Stansfield Lloyd growled as he approached the pair.

  “A couple things I take real serious include earning money and traveling through Apache territory,” the Gunsmith assured him.

  “You full awake?” the gunman demanded.

  “Would you fetch me a cup of coffee if I wasn’t?” Clint asked. “I told you I take Apaches seriously. Even when I sleep I’m half awake. Don’t worry about me, all right?”

  “Ain’t you I’m worried about,” Lloyd snarled. “Come with me, Mike. I wanta talk to you.”

  “Christo,” Vargas cursed. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “It’s already morning and it can’t wait,” the gunman replied gruffly.

  Clint watched the pair depart, happy to be rid of them. He placed his Springfield in a corner. Clint seldom used a long gun, favoring his pistol, but if the train was suddenly surrounded by attacking Apaches on horseback, the extra range of the rifle could be more than welcome. However, if an attack occurred in the narrow corridor in front of Linda’s door, the modified double-action Colt would be a more practical weapon for fast, close quarters combat shooting.

  The Gunsmith mentally prepared himself to cope with six hours of boredom. At least, he hoped it would be boring. Only a lunatic would prefer an invasion by kill-crazy savages to a few quiet hours. As time crept by, however, Clint considered his current task with apprehension. Something about the whole business seemed false, but he couldn’t put his figurative finger on it. The others knew something he didn’t and he suspected this ignorance might well cost him his life if he wasn’t very careful....

  The dull click of metal startled the Gunsmith; reacting to the unexpected sound before he realized it was the doorknob to Linda’s room, Clint reached for his holstered .45 Colt. The brass bulb turned and the door opened. Linda Mather’s lovely face appeared in the gap. Clint’s hand fell away from the butt of his revolver.

  “I thought you’d be on duty now,” she smiled. “That’s a comfort.”

  “Glad you feel that way, ma’am,” the Gunsmith replied. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “First thing is you can stop calling me ma’am or Miss Mather. My name is Linda.”

  “What else can I do for you, Linda?”

  “Maybe we can do something for each other,” she suggested. The door creaked open in invitation. “Come in.”

  Clint glanced down the corridor. “I’m supposed to be standing guard out here.”

  “You’re protecting me, right?” Linda smiled. “You can do that inside my room just as well as you can in the hallway.”

  The Gunsmith shrugged, gathered up his Springfield and stepped across the threshold. “If Lloyd checks on me, I hope you’ll be willing to explain things, Linda.”

  She laughed lightly. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Stan, Clint.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Clint answered. “I just don’t like the idea of having to kill a man because of a misunderstanding. ”

  “Oh?” Linda raised an eyebrow. “Are you so sure you can take Stan? I’ve heard about your reputation with a gun. They say you can draw and fire before the other man can even get his gun out of the holster. Is that true?”

  “It’s happened,” Clint replied. He didn’t tell her that, in fact, only one man had ever managed to clear leather before Clint shot him.

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about Stan for a while,” Linda assured him. “He’s a creature of habit. Regular as clockwork, he’s been checking on the guards every three hours. You won’t need to pit your skill against his.”

  “That’s nice,” Clint remarked as he glanced about the room. Earlier, he’d been too busy thrashing Markham to pay much attention to the decor. Twice the size of a normal sleeper, Linda’s room was a luxury compartment with a carpeted floor, fine furniture and velvet curtains in the windows. Pink cherubim were painted on the tinplated ceiling that reflected light from the kerosine lamp mounted on a wall. Satin sheets covered the wide mattress of a brass-framed bed, and a cream-colored chest of drawers added to the elegance of the room. A small circular table and two chairs completed the furnishings.

  Linda’s luggage, three large steamer trunks, filled one side of the room. Two of them sat on end and stood open to serve as closets for the lady; expensive clothing of silk and lace hung inside. The third lay flat on the floor, its heavy lid secured by a padlock.

  “You seem a little nervous, Clint,” she remarked, closing the door. “If Stan doesn’t frighten you, certainly I shouldn’t.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman,” Clint stated. “That makes you as potentially dangerous as any man with a gun or a knife.”

  “Oh!” Linda exclaimed with delight. “You’re thinking that perhaps I invited Jimmy Markham into my room like this, teased him, and when he made advances, I started to scream just to start trouble. Is that it?”

  “Some women think that sort of thing is a lot of fun,” the Gunsmith answered.

  “Jimmy is a boy,” Linda remarked. “I want a man. That little nuisance has had his lustful eye on me ever since Daddy hired him three days ago. Apparently he thought I might surrender to his boorish charm once we were alone.”

  “Your daddy hired
him three days ago?” Clint smiled thinly. “Is that when he got the other three too?”

  “I guess so....” Linda looked at him with curiosity, almost apprehension. “Why do you ask?”

  “Those four aren’t strangers to each other,” Clint stated. “They call each other by first name and none of them are exactly the gregarious type. Markham and Vargas were willing to bet on Bruno in a bare-knuckle fight with two men. That means they must know him pretty well to figure he could win. When we heard the commotion, Lloyd and your father guessed what was happening. Those four have worked together in the past ... and I think your daddy knows it.”

  “You’re right,” the girl agreed. “Lloyd said he had some highly competent friends and Daddy agreed to take them on the payroll. As for him knowing about Bruno’s prowess as a pugilist, the brute fought a couple of our ranch hands in a similar contest to prove his ability.”

  “Does he plan to punch Apache arrows out of the air if we’re attacked?” Clint inquired dryly.

  “I imagine he knows how to use a gun as well as his fists,” Linda sighed. “Daddy did the hiring, not me.”

  “I’m not terribly impressed with his choice of men.”

  “He hired you, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Clint admitted. “Almost makes me wonder about myself.”

  “You’re different from the others,” Linda commented. “That’s why I’m attracted to you.”

  Clint allowed his gaze to travel from her lovely features to the shapely body beneath. Clad only in a thin pink nightgown, the curves of her figure were handsomely displayed by the lamplight. The neckline was low enough to reveal the tops of her large, firm breasts, and the hem reached to the middle of her calves, hinting at the shape of her long legs.

  “The feeling’s mutual, lady,” he assured her.

  The girl put her hands on the straps of her garment and slipped them from her shoulders; the gown fell to her feet. The promise of naked beauty had not been false. Her full breasts swelled like sweet, ripe melons. The slender belly flared into wide hips, but her thighs and legs were tapered and smooth. Her dark reddish-brown triangle mutely invited the Gunsmith to satisfy the longing he felt in his own loins.

  Clint quickly removed his own clothing. Linda appraised his physique with equal appreciation. Without uttering a word, Clint stepped forward and took the woman in his arms. They kissed hard, lips crushing together, tongues probing the caverns of their mouths. Their hands caressed and fondled passionately, feeling each other’s willing flesh.

  The Gunsmith picked her up and carried her to the bed. Linda lay on her back, legs spread in invitation. However, Clint took his time, skillfully stroking her taut, willing body and kissing her breasts and neck. His tongue and teeth gently teased her nipples until they stood as hard and erect as his own manhood. Deft fingers moved along her thighs, finding the crevice between them, stimulating her with his touch.

  “Oh, God!” Linda moaned. “I want you in me, Clint! I want you right now!”

  The Gunsmith mounted her, his member swollen to full length. Stiff and eager, his maleness found her love triangle as he lowered himself onto his elbows. Clint churned his hips slowly, working himself deeper into the girl. Linda groaned with pleasure as he began to pump back and forth. He felt her rise to meet his lunges and increased his motion—faster, harder, deeper.

  Her nails raked his back in passion and her cries of joy nearly turned to shouts before he clamped his mouth over hers. Clint’s tongue joined the rhythm of his thrusts as he rode Linda to her limit.

  Then her body convulsed as an orgasm overcame her. Clint worked her to the peak of her endurance a second time. Only then did he release himself as Linda squealed with delight, wrapping her arms and legs around him to savor the throbbing hardness within. Then they lay still, breathing hard and coated by a film of perspiration.

  “Oh, Clint,” she whispered. “That was wonderful.”

  “Was?” he replied softly, kissing her earlobe. “We haven’t finished yet.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Walter Patterson wearily consulted his copper-plated pocket watch and frowned when he saw what time it was. Past two o’clock. Waddling through the aisles of a passenger car, he barely glanced at the empty seats. They resembled the pews of a church between congregations. The ungrateful louts on the train didn’t appreciate the service he supplied—namely, protection against outlaws, hostile Indians or possibly those five hardcases who rode at the rear of the locomotive.

  Those bastards were supposed to be guarding the daughter of some rich rancher or banker, but the Pinkerton man knew better. No self-respecting businessman would hire a group of ruffians like those five. No, they were up to no good, although Patterson had yet to find out what sort of mischief was afoot. Well, he’d worry about that later. It was time to get some sleep.

  He stepped onto a terrace between two cars. The roar of the steam engine assaulted his ears and he grimaced at the stench of soot and coal dust. How could those engineers tolerate such filth and noise? They must be stupid enough to enjoy it, he decided as he prepared to cross over to the next car.

  “Buenas noches,” a voice whispered.

  Patterson turned suddenly, startled to discover one of the ruffians, the Mexican or whatever he was, standing on the terrace beside him.

  “What—” the detective began, fighting to control his racing heart, “what do you want?”

  “I just wanted to say adiós, fat one,” Vargas smiled.

  A bolt of steel flickered in his right fist. Patterson’s mouth opened, but the assassin’s other hand fell upon it to stifle his cry. The Pinkerton man tried to reach for his holstered Hopkins & Allen revolver. Vargas was faster. The dagger sank into the detective’s paunch. Vargas twisted his wrist, turning the blade to increase the size of the wound. Patterson trembled in agony as Vargas pulled the knife free and stabbed him twice more, once in the chest and a third time between the ribs.

  “Vaya con El Diablo,” the killer chuckled, shoving the corpse over the side. Walter Patterson’s body struck the ground like a side of beef and rolled across the desert sand. “Go with the devil.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next few days passed without much excitement. The escort team took turns guarding Linda Mather’s quarters; Clint handled his share of the duty and prowled the train or slept when possible. Every night, he accepted an invitation to share Linda’s bed. She proved to be an expert lover, if less than generous; she seemed driven by her lust and though Clint found her an intriguing bedmate, her basic coldness limited his pleasure. Clint wasn’t looking for everlasting love, but he liked his women to have heart. Still, he was glad to have the diversion from the rest of the company.

  The Gunsmith’s distrust of his traveling companions increased with each passing day. He was especially leery of Jimmy Markham, who might decide to repay him for the beating he’d received. Clint slept while Vargas stood guard duty, aware of the man’s hatred for Anglos and his habit of guzzling liquor every night, thus limiting any opportunity for the knife artist to catch him off guard while he lay flat on his back. He never left his quarters without his guns, generally taking the Springfield as well as the ever-present .45 Colt on his hip and the .22 New Line tucked in his belt and hidden under his shirt.

  Most of the time, Clint prowled the train and checked on his wagon and gear in the cattle car. He was distressed when he discovered the ordeal the trip had placed on Duke and his two team horses. Clint hadn’t realized the miserable conditions the beasts would be forced to endure in the cattle car. Close to the engine, the compartment was constantly bombarded by soot and smoke. Duke’s beautiful coat was always covered with black residue and his nostrils were often plugged with grime.

  Clint brushed the gelding’s coat every chance he got and whenever the train stopped for a prolonged period of time, he gave Duke some fresh air and exercise. While the train received water or coal at remote railroad stations Clint mounted his horse and rode laps around the are
a to let the poor beast stretch his legs.

  “Never again, big fella,” he promised Duke, hoping that somehow the animal would understand his words. “Never again.”

  When he wasn’t tending to his horses, checking his gear or servicing Linda, the Gunsmith read whatever he could get his hands on—old newspapers, dime novels and a King James Bible he borrowed from Reverend Kluger. The gaunt minister had been startled when Clint asked if he had a spare Bible and woodenly agreed to loan it to the “gunman.”

  “I hope you find guidance in the Good Book, young man,” Kluger commented.

  “Thanks,” Clint replied. “I could sure use some.”

  The train stopped at El Paso to deliver and pick up cargo. The railroad made most of its profit in freight and seemed more concerned with it than the people on board. Several passengers got off at the small Texas border town and a dozen Mexicans climbed on to replace them. The conductor paid little attention to the new arrivals after making certain their tickets were in order, but Stansfield Lloyd, Vargas and Jimmy Markham observed the passengers with cold suspicion.

  The Mexicans were divided into three separate groups. Eight peónes, clad in white cotton shirts and trousers, straw sombreros and leather sandles, formed the largest party. Their heads were bowed low as they mounted the iron steps of a boxcar, carrying small cloth handbags.

  Two young vaqueros, dressed in colorful silk shirts, vests, chaps and fancy spurs, also climbed on board. Both men wore ornate gunbelts and one carried a guitar.

  The third group consisted only of two women. One was a short, thickly built lady in her forties with a wide homely face. The other, taller and thinner, walked with the proud, arrogant stride of an aristocrat. She was lovely, with large dark eyes, high cheekbones and the straight nose of a Creole. Her glossy raven-black hair was bound to the top of her head by a silver clasp to form a sort of crown. The young woman wore an elegant black lace dress that accented her long, lean figure.