Chapter Eight

The quiet solitude of El Diablo’s tent was broken when Miguel and Carlos, his two most faithful compadres, entered, dragging a struggling man in after them.

“What is this?” El Diablo rumbled as he stood, puffing idly on his cigar as they hauled the man up short. Blood streaked his blond hair where the butt of a gun had hit him, and his cheek glowed bright red with a long, angry scrape. His clothing was dirty and torn from his struggles.

“We found him outside the camp near the prisoner,” Miguel replied, digging his fingers deeper into the man’s arm. The man jerked around, trying to wrench himself free from their grasps; El Diablo sat back down as they pummeled the man into submission.

“Why are you here?” he asked the slumped figure. “I know you are one of those musicians.”

Carlos gave the man a vicious kick in the ribs when he didn’t respond. “El Diablo asked you a question!”

“I came to rescue Davy,” he choked out, struggling to his hands and knees.

El Diablo waved for his men to leave the tent; they obeyed immediately. He stood, towering over his new prisoner. “You are brave, gringo, to risk your life for your friend—even if he is doomed.” He watched dispassionately as his men returned, tightly binding the man’s arms and legs as they dragged him out of the tent.

~~~~~

It was several hours after dawn when Mike and Micky pulled up near the bandito camp, carefully hiding the car behind a clump of trees and hiking the rest of the way. The camp itself was small, with just a few tents pitched here and there to make a quick escape possible. Mike wasn’t sure why; it was obvious that El Diablo had the run of the entire valley—he couldn’t imagine a police or government official suicidal enough to go after him.

Micky kept looking around him as he walked. “Maybe . . . maybe Peter didn’t get caught,” he said. “Maybe he’s out here somewhere and he’ll meet us.”

Mike wasn’t so sure, but he kept his mouth shut for Micky’s sake.

They cleared the trees and entered the camp, trying to ignore the suspicious stares that followed them. When they reached the entrance to the largest tent a burly bandit stopped them. “What do you want?”

Micky glared. “We have come to join our guns to El Diablo!” he declared. The bandit took a step back, motioning for them to enter the tent.

El Diablo was there, leaned back in his chair as if he’d been expecting them. “What is this?”

Mike put on his best brave face. “What is this? I tell what is this? My leader,” he slapped Micky’s chest, “the greatest bandit in the world, wishes to join forces with you.”

El Diablo’s forehead creased with the power of his glare. “Who is this who calls himself the greatest bandit in the world?”

Micky stepped forward, his eyes holding no trace of fear. “Who is this? Who asks who is this who names himself who is this the greatest bandit in the world!”

“They call me El Diablo!” came the thundering reply. “Also known as the bandit without a heart!”

Micky didn’t flinch. “They call me El Dolenzio! Also known as the bandit without a soul!”

El Diablo took a step back, obviously impressed.

“And they call me El Nesmito. The bandit without no . . . without any conscience.” Mike watched as Micky went into an overexaggerated description of the havoc they would help El Diablo wreak upon the valley, seeming to impress El Diablo more with his lungpower than with his ferocity.

“We shall see. You will each face a test,” he rumbled when Mike had finally managed to get Micky to calm down. “If you pass them you can join our camp. But beware if you fail—the last man who failed was found in a ditch. He was shot, knifed, poisoned and killed.”

Mike swallowed hard, exchanging a look of mutual nervousness with Micky. Whatever the tests were, they’d have to take them and take their chances along with them. Turning around and leaving the camp—and Davy—behind forever was the only other option, and it was one Mike wasn’t even willing to consider. I just wish we knew where Peter is . . .

“All right. We’ll do it.”

~~~~~

The test of Strength fell to Mike. He leaned over the barrel, joining his hand with El Diablo’s and marveling at the strength he found there. Micky stood nearby, looking even more anxious as he mentally compared Mike’s thin forearm to El Diablo’s massive one.

Mike strained, fighting to shove the meaty fist backward, but it was no use. His muscles screamed as his arm was forced inexorably backward, until his knuckles hovered barely a foot over the barrel. With a grunt he forced his attention inward, thinking of Davy—alone, helpless, maybe injured—and rage surged through him, sending strength stinging back into his arm. With a triumphant roar he surged up, slamming El Diablo’s hand back on the other side of the barrel.

“Ha! We win!” Micky shouted.

“Perhaps,” El Diablo said, rubbing his wrist. “There is still your test.”

“Bring it on,” Micky said, his eyes flashing.

El Diablo handed Micky a knife and the end of a short rope, gripping the other end in his hand. “This is the test of Bravery!” he shouted for the benefit of the stragglers who were just joining the crowd. Micky and El Diablo circled each other warily, the rope ensuring that they were never more than an arm’s length away.

Micky was in his element as he taunted the bandit, no fear in his eyes or stance as they danced around each other, teasingly flicking the knives at each other. If El Diablo expected the slim lad in front of him to cower in fear, he was quickly disappointed. Micky jerked and yanked the rope challengingly, his knife coming uncomfortably close to the sensitive flesh of El Diablo’s stomach. Finally Micky grew tired of teasing and sliced the rope, sending El Diablo sprawling backwards into several of his men.

“Well, that was anticlimatic,” Micky said, tossing the knife aside.

Mike went over to El Diablo, waiting until the bandit was on his feet. “Well?”

El Diablo clapped a meaty hand on Mike’s shoulder. “You have done well, gringos! Only one test remains for you now!”

“What’s that?” Mike asked, wincing as a stab of heat lanced through his neck, as if his tattoo were burning.

“The test of Loyalty!” El Diablo thundered, waving his arm. Two of his men dragged a bound, stumbling figure from behind one of the tents and Mike fought the urge to cry out. Peter! Thank God he’s okay!

A smooth, cold object slid into his hand and he tensed. It was a well-worn knife—its handle was cracked and wrapped with tape but the blade was razor sharp. His chest ached with the breath he was holding, his muscles turning to water and threatening to spill him onto the ground.

“What’s . . . what’s this for?” he managed. At his side Micky was trying to school his face to neutrality with little success.

El Diablo laughed as if Mike had just told the world’s funniest joke. “It is simple, my friend. You kill this prisoner to prove to me that you will fight for El Diablo. Every bandito needs his first kill.” He gave Mike’s shoulder a firm smack, then shoved him forward.

The bandit holding Peter’s arm tried to force him to his knees—when Peter wouldn’t yield a firm kick to his lower back collapsed his legs, and he hit the dirt with a quiet grunt that Mike’s panic-sensitive ears picked up.

Micky’s voice reached him. “El Nesmito and I do not like to kill helpless men. It isn’t . . . honorable.”

El Diablo speared him with a deadly glare. “I did not ask you to be honorable! I order you to be loyal!”

Mike connected eyes with Peter, who looked beaten but still defiant. Taking comfort from the blond man’s presence, he threw down the knife and turned to face El Diablo. “No. I won’t do it.”

The bandit leader’s eyes went wide, the whites contrasting sharply with his dark skin. “What?”

“I can’t kill a helpless man,” Mike said, crossing his arms. “I will never sink that low.”

El Diablo whipped out his gun, snarling “Then, gringo . . . you will die!” before pulling the trigger.