Bandit Gold Page 7

  “Maybe they tortured him to get information about—” Vargas began. “About something.”

  Clint found Markham’s clothes on the floor by the bunk. He picked up a shirt. “The cloth isn’t ripped,” he remarked. “And the only marks on the kid’s body are the stab wounds that killed him.”

  “Probably made Jimmy strip and threatened to torture him,” Lloyd suggested. “He panicked and they stuck him to shut him up.”

  “Maybe,” Clint allowed. “The mattress is indented too deeply for only one person to have been on it.”

  “Shit,” Vargas snorted. “You tryin’ to play detective, Adams?”

  “Don’t you know about the Gunsmith, here?” Lloyd asked in a mocking tone. “He used to be a lawman. Did it for almost twenty years way I heard it. That right, Adams?”

  “Eighteen years,” Clint admitted.

  “Is it true you knew old Wild Bill before his luck ran out?”

  “Yeah,” Clint said stiffly. Bill Hickok had been the Gunsmith’s closest friend for many years. Hickok’s recent death had been very hard for Clint to deal with, although he’d known Bill’s days were numbered ever since he’d served as Hickok’s deputy in Abilene back in 1871. Bill’s eyesight had been failing him and he’d taken to drinking too much. The Gunsmith himself had crawled into a bottle after Hickok’s death, where he would have stayed if he hadn’t been brought out of his drunken stupor to ride off in quest of justice—or revenge. Clint would have settled for either at the time.

  “You reckon you coulda taken Hickok, Adams?” Lloyd inquired.

  “Bill was faster than God,” the Gunsmith replied, sadly shaking his head.

  “Speaking of detectives,” Waitley commented, “I’d better tell Mr. Patterson about this terrible incident.”

  “Ain’t as bad as it could have been,” Lloyd declared. “All them sneaky Mex killers is dead now.”

  “Oh, my!” the conductor began in a stunned voice. “What will we do with the bodies?”

  “It’s sort of a custom to bury dead people,” Clint mused dryly.

  “Oh, of course,” Waitley nodded woodenly. “We’ll have to stop the train and see to them.”

  “We’ll bury Jimmy,” Lloyd answered. “But the coyotes and buzzards can help themselves to the other bastards.”

  “We’ll help,” the Gunsmith announced. “At least, I will.”

  Vargas looked at him with surprise. “Why should we bother, Adams?”

  “Somebody has to bury them,” Clint replied. “Only right we lend a hand. After all, we killed them.”

  Impromptu funeral services were held and the train continued on, leaving nine unmarked graves by the side of the tracks. Scavengers would later invade the mounds. Desert winds would scatter the sand, and the bones, dried under the merciless sun, would eventually turn to dust. Within two years, there’d be no trace of the dead men or their graves.

  However, burial rituals are for the living, Clint figured, to soothe the grief-stricken, or as in this case, to satisfy a desire for civilized behavior following savage death.

  The guard shifts for Clint, Vargas and Bruno were extended to eight hours to compensate for the loss of Jimmy Markham. The Gunsmith relieved Mike Vargas at midnight and assumed his station by Linda’s door. The knife artist didn’t utter a word as he carried his rifle under an arm and walked from the corridor.

  Clint watched Vargas depart. Any doubts he may have had about the deadly abilities of his traveling companions had dissolved after seeing them in action during the battle with the so-called peónes. Unfortunately, nothing had happened to dispel any of his suspicions or answer any of his questions.

  Linda’s door opened. He turned to see the girl at the threshold, a coy smile on her lovely face. “Our plans for this afternoon were cut sort of short,” she purred. “Why don’t we make up for it now?”

  “Why don’t you explain a couple things first?” he replied flatly.

  “What sort of things?” Linda frowned.

  “Those men purposely tried to raid your quarters,” Clint stated. “Why?”

  “They must have assumed there was something valuable in here,” she shrugged, repeating the same excuse Vargas had made earlier. “I understand the poor classes in Mexico can get pretty desperate.”

  Clint noticed Linda’s right hand slowly massaged her ribcage. He couldn’t see through the nightgown, but he guessed she had a bruise there. “What happened to you?”

  “I fell against the table when the train stopped,” Linda shrugged again. “It’s nothing.”

  “Those men weren’t peónes,” Clint insisted, returning to the original topic. “And I think you know it.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re in a very loving mood, Clint,” she remarked stiffly.

  “I’m damn tired of getting half-truths and downright lies,” he said sharply. “My life is on the line and I really haven’t been told why.”

  “Well”—the girl glared at him—“if that’s the way you want to act, you can just stand out there and look at the goddamn walls all night!”

  Linda slammed the door hard.

  The Gunsmith glanced around the corridor. “Hello, walls,” he sighed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wearily, the Gunsmith consulted his turnip-shaped pocket watch to discover it was almost four o’clock in the morning. He regretted his conversation with Linda Mather, not only because it terminated their sexual pleasures, but because it hadn’t done a damn thing to solve any of the mysteries about the journey that continued to prey on his mind.

  However, it had contributed to two suspicions. Unless Linda was just plain dumb, which Clint didn’t believe, she had decided to agree with the theory about the attempted peón raid although she probably realized it was absurd. This meant she had a closer association with Lloyd, Vargas and Bruno then she’d implied. Especially Lloyd. Clint had recognized the pistolman’s anger when he’d discovered the Gunsmith had been stark naked in Linda’s room. Lloyd had felt more than mere resentment. He’d been excessively jealous, almost to the level of killing in blind anger, something totally contrary to the nature of a cold-blooded professional like Stansfield Lloyd.

  The Gunsmith guessed that Linda’s bruised ribs had been acquired from a punch by Lloyd delivered sometime between the funeral services and when Clint assumed guard duty. The gunman hadn’t hit her in the face because a bruise there would be too obvious. Why had she lied? Because she was afraid of Lloyd? Quite possible. Could she be trying to protect Clint from Lloyd? Not likely. In fact it could even be the other way around. Just what the hell was going on anyway?

  Suddenly Clint was hurled off balance. He slammed into a wall, barely turning a shoulder in time to absorb the impact instead of smacking into it face-first. The screech of metal wheels coming to an abrupt halt assaulted his ears as he whirled and snatched his Springfield from a corner. The door opened and a wide-eyed Linda Mather appeared.

  “What happened, Clint?” she asked fearfully.

  “They’ve stopped the train for some reason,” he replied, working the carbine lever to chamber the first round.

  “Don’t leave me, Clint,” she urged, clinging to his arm. “I’m frightened.”

  The Gunsmith wasn’t certain what he should do under the circumstances, but the problem was soon solved when Roscoe, the porter, appeared at the mouth of the corridor. Clint asked him what was wrong.

  “Lordy, what ain’t, Mistah Adams?” the porter replied. “One of the engineers seen a feller fall offa the train so’s he applied the brakes. Turns out it’s one of them Mexican fellers. One of the two that was all dressed up fancy. He musta jumped offa the train and broke his neck when he fell ’cause he’s deader than Mistah Abe Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth put together.”

  “Why would he jump off the train?” Clint inquired.

  “Probably ’cause he figured Mistah Patterson woulda arrested him,” Roscoe answered. “But ain’t nobody been able to find Mistah Patterson. Nobody’s even seen him for
days. Has you seen him, suh?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Clint admitted. “Why would the Pinkerton arrest this vaquero?”

  “Well, I don’t imagine he would since the Mexican is dead ...”

  “All right,” Clint sighed. “What did the man do that Patterson would have arrested him if he hadn’t jumped off and broken his neck?”

  “Why, he killed the other Mexican,” Roscoe explained. “We found the other feller’s body lyin’ on a terrace between cattle cars. Guess them Mexicans had some sorta fight. Mighty mean folks them Mexicans. Look what them other fellers done yesterday. You was there, course ...”

  “How was the other vaquero killed” Clint asked.

  “He was all cut up and stabbed a couple times,” Roscoe answered. “Was the feller that was always playin’ the guitar who got cut up. Couple of his fingers had been sliced off almost like the other feller, the one that jumped offa the train, had tortured him first.”

  “Tortured him?” Clint raised his eyebrows.

  “Yessuh,” the porter nodded. “Wouldn’t expect that sorta thing from them fellers ‘cause they seemed real nice and acted like they was good friends, but that Mistah Lloyd said Mexicans go sorta crazy when they’s tryin’ to prove how brave they are to each other.”

  “Lloyd told you that, huh?” the Gunsmith said dryly.

  “Mistah Vargas said the same thing and he’s part Mexican hisself, so I reckon he’d know.”

  “Yeah,” Clint muttered. “I’m sure Vargas understands exactly what happened. Both he and Lloyd just happened to be awake and came out to explain all this to you after you found the bodies?”

  “Yessuh, and Mistah Bruno was there too.”

  “The three of them are pretty close,” Clint turned to Linda. “You might say they’re thick as thieves....”

  She retreated into her room and closed the door.

  “... or killers,” Clint whispered.

  “What’s that, suh?”

  “Nothing, Roscoe,” the Gunsmith assured him. Clint would have to have a talk with Stansfield Lloyd—soon.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bruno relieved Clint Adams of guard duty. The Gunsmith checked his quarters and found Vargas wasn’t there. He left his Springfield. The .45 on his hip would be all he’d need for his “conversation” with Lloyd.

  He found the pistolman in the dining car, eating breakfast and checking over a map with Vargas. Clint had expected to find the cross-breed with Lloyd. As long as he had his modified Colt, the knife artist wouldn’t be much of a problem. The main threat was Stansfield Lloyd.

  The gunman and Vargas looked up from their map when the Gunsmith entered the dining room. Clint glanced at the other patrons seated at surrounding tables. He didn’t want them involved in what was about to happen, but he felt confident they’d leave when they saw a showdown in progress.

  Clint approached the table with Lloyd and Vargas. “Why’d you kill them?” he asked bluntly.

  Vargas’s mouth fell open, but Lloyd’s expression remained blank as he turned to Clint. “What are you talking about, Adams?”

  “Ever since I joined this happy group, I’ve had a suspicion that there’s more to this business than I’ve been told,” Clint said. “I didn’t like that very much, but when I have to kill men and I don’t even know why, that gets me downright upset.”

  “You knew the job might call for killing,” Lloyd replied. “Ain’t nothin’ new about that for you.”

  “Murder wasn’t part of the deal,” the Gunsmith stated.

  “Murder? Them Mex sons of bitches—”

  “Why’d you kill those two vaqueros?” Clint demanded. “Don’t give me that fairy tale you told everybody else. Tell me the truth.”

  “And what do you figure the truth is, Adams?” Vargas asked, his hands disappearing under the table.

  “Reach for a gun or a knife and I’ll blow your head off,” Clint warned him. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Both of you.”

  The passengers in the dining car had noticed that Clint stood before the table with his hand poised by the Colt on his hip. None of them could hear the conversation, but most guessed a confrontation had begun that might quickly lead to gunplay. Several left. Others watched with grim fascination.

  “I don’t think those vaqueros had a fight in a cattle car last night,” Clint explained. “My guess is you two and Bruno paid them a visit in their sleeper, escorted them to the cattle car at gun point and tried to torture information out of them. Cutting off the guitar player’s fingers sounds like your style, Vargas. Then you stabbed one of them to death and Bruno broke the other man’s neck and threw him off the train.”

  “And what sort of information would we be askin’ them about?” Lloyd inquired calmly.

  “You probably figured they were associated with the eight men disguised as peónes who’d tried to break into Linda’s room.”

  “Now, why would we figure that?” the gunman shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” Clint admitted. “Just like nobody seems to know what happened to Patterson either.”

  “Patterson?” Lloyd raised his eyebrows.

  “The Pinkerton. He seems to have vanished.”

  “Can you prove any of this, Adams?” Lloyd asked with a grin.

  “I’ve got enough evidence to clear my conscience if I have to shoot you both,” Clint replied. “But all I want is the truth about this escort business.”

  Tension filled the dining car like an electrical mist. The Gunsmith and Lloyd locked eyes, each recognizing the cool professionalism of the other. Lloyd slowly slid back his chair and rose, his hand hovering close to the grips of his Remington revolver.

  Without warning, glass shattered and a stocky passenger suddenly screamed when an arrow pierced his flabby belly. He clawed at the feathered shaft as he staggered backward and fell heavily on his rump. Feminine screams and masculine curses mingled with gasps.

  “El Lobo!” Vargas exclaimed, scrambling from his chair.

  Clint didn’t worry when the cross-breed and Lloyd unsheathed their pistols. An Apache attack left no room for any personal confrontations if one wanted to survive. Clint’s Colt was already in his hand as he moved quickly and cautiously toward the broken window.

  Half a dozen brown-skinned riders mounted on barebacked mustangs galloped along the side of the train. Clad only in loincloths, the Indians did not wear feathers or war paint and few carried firearms. Apaches, Clint thought. Mescalero Apaches. Mescaleros had gotten their name from their fondness for mescal. The band of warriors who’d attacked the train were excellent examples of why they had a reputation for being crazy even among other Apache tribes.

  Led by the infamous Chintda, the band had seen the great iron horse moving along the metal rails and regarded it as a gift from the gods. Mescalero in general and Chintda’s men in particular had always favored plunder to hunting. Intoxicated on mescal, their drug-fogged brains considered the bounty that awaited them inside the train—white man’s clothing, food, women and weapons. They didn’t concern themselves with the fact that the last item might present an obstacle for trying to acquire the rest.

  Chintda fancied himself a good strategist, so he told his braves to wait until the iron horse began to climb a hill, reasoning that the train would have to move slower; this was the sum total of his tactics. The attack itself lacked any organized effort or subtlety. Chintda and his twenty-six followers charged the train on foot and horseback, too crazy-brave to appreciate the folly of their actions.

  The Mescalero only had two things in their favor: First, their assault was unexpected, and second the majority of the passengers weren’t prepared to fight back. Everyone on board had realized, however, that the train would be traveling through Apache territory, and most had brought at least one gun in case of such an attack. Not all carried sidearms, but those who did opened fire on the invaders while the others hurried to claim their rifles, carbines and shotguns.

  Lloyd and Vargas shattered glass fr
om windows with the barrels of their revolvers and began shooting at the Indians. Few carried anything more effective than a single-shot muzzle-loader and most favored their traditional weapons. An arrow whistled past Lloyd’s ear. He ignored it as he calmly blasted an Apache off the back of a mustang. Whatever else the pistolman might be, Clint acknowledged, he wasn’t a coward.

  The Gunsmith didn’t have any time to make further evaluations of Lloyd or any of the other passengers’ efforts to defend the train. A stone-headed tomahawk burst through a windowpane, followed by the dark arm and fierce face of its wielder. Clint’s pistol roared and the Apache’s features vanished in a spray of blood as the corpse hurtled away from the train.

  Since there were several defenders within the dining car firing back at the Mescalero, Clint decided to head back to the passenger cars and see to Linda Mather’s safety. As he left the dining compartment two Apaches came at him from the terraces between the cars.

  One had an old Hawkens muzzle-loader while the other clutched a flint-bladed knife in one hand and a rather rusty .44 cap-and-ball Army Colt in the other as he awkwardly tried to climb over the railing without putting down either weapon. The Apaches’ faces were lit up by the excitement of the raid. Clint noticed both of the mescal-happy morons grinned as if they’d just learned Santa had brought them everything they wanted for Christmas five months early—not that Mescalero believed in Santa Claus or Christmas. The brave who was trying to mount the platform actually giggled at his own clumsiness.

  The Gunsmith didn’t find the invaders amusing and even the intoxicated Apaches weren’t about to laugh at the man with a gun in his hand. Before the Hawkens-toting brave could adjust the aim of his rifle, Clint squeezed the Colt’s trigger. A .45 round tore through the Indian’s chest and transformed his war whoop into a scream of agony before he toppled over the rail.

  The other Apache snarled in rage and tried to launch himself at the Gunsmith, stabbing with his crude knife and swinging the revolver in his other fist like a tomahawk at Clint’s skull. The Gunsmith nimbly dodged the knife thrust and blocked the pistol swing with his left forearm. The muzzle of Clint’s Colt jammed under the Mescalero’s chin and dug into the hollow of his jaw when Clint squeezed the trigger again. The double-action revolver blasted another bullet through the soft flesh, piercing the roof of the Apache’s mouth to tunnel through his brain and blow off the top of his head.