Renegade 23

by Lou Cameron

  Concepción giggled and murmured, “¡Ay, que toro!”

  But Pilar looked as sullen as ever as she answered, “I am used to being the boss here.”

  He said, “I noticed. I just took over, anyway. If you don’t like it, say so, and we’ll just be on our way.”

  She frowned and said, “Do not speak so estupido. You would never get through the Sierras without us. Besides, we have already taken the front money, and we are women of honor.”

  “I’m sure you are. I’m sure you want the final payment, too, and you won’t get it until we get in and out with the insurance company’s client. So let’s talk about that. How many days will we be on the trail, Pilar?”

  She shrugged and said, “Three or four. Maybe more. It depends on who else is using the trails. There is more than one route to follow, in places. We have found it wiser to go the long way around when we see campfire smoke ahead.”

  “That’s the way I travel in Indian country, too. How bad are the local Indians, by the way?”

  “Indians are not hard to deal with, when one has plenty of ammunition. Bandits are another matter. Bandits tend to have repeating rifles, too.”

  “I’ve noticed that. So tell me about the bandits. Are we likely to run into this Caballero Blanco everyone’s so worried about?”

  Pilar said. “Not on this side of the border. He is not exactly a bandit. He says he means to liberate Guatemala from the current junta and give schools and hospitals to the little people.”

  Captain Gringo grimaced and said, “Right. Meanwhile he of course collects contributions to his cause at gunpoint. We’ve met his kind before. One of them’s the president of Mexico at the moment. But we don’t have to worry about high-minded Guatemalan rebels until we get to Guatemala. Which way is this market you girls mentioned? You’re right about it being a good idea to pick up some charro outfits.”

  Pilar protested, “Impossible! You can’t go into town tonight!”

  “I didn’t ask your permission to go shopping, dammit. I asked you which way the market was!”

  “It is due north, along the Camino out front. But what if you get caught?”

  “I’ll be in a hell of a mess. Gaston, you stay here and mind the shop. I know your size and you can have any color charro outfit you want, as long as it’s granite gray.”

  Gaston just chuckled as the tall American rose, put his hat back on, and headed for the door. Pilar started to rise, too. But Gaston said, “Don’t try to stop him, querida. It’s a waste of time. I think he is crazy, too. But that is the way he is. Would you girls like to play spin the bottle with me until he gets back, if he gets back?”

  *

  Captain Gringo didn’t think he was acting crazy as he followed the dirt road into the lit-up center of town. He knew the insurance company had fixed the local if not the federate law, and the snippy navy jerk-off had told him a whole mess of other strangers were in town at the moment.

  When he found his way to the open-air market he saw it was true. A pair of couples wearing the tropic kit of the new International Red Cross were gawking at the local color more obviously and less politely than an old Latin American hand like Captain Gringo thought prudent. The two women wore a sort of khaki nursing-sister’s uniform. The men with them looked like they were on Safari in Darkest Africa, pith helmets and all. They were saved from being taken for a pair of Stanleys looking for Livingstone by their Red Cross armbands and their lack of weaponry. He’d heard the Red Cross didn’t approve of packing guns. But you couldn’t have it both ways, this deep in Mexico.

  Most Mexicans were as polite to innocent-looking strangers as the next guy. But when you wanted to swagger and sneer around Mexican villagers, it was a good idea to do so with one hand resting on the grips of a serious-looking side arm.

  None of the local natives seemed to give Captain Gringo more than a passing glance as he walked quietly among the market stalls. But the Red Cross workers were attracting murderous looks and silent curses as they tittered about, fingering goods and commenting on them in English without even nodding to the shabby barefoot merchants.

  It wasn’t Captain Gringo’s problem. So he avoided them and any questions they might ask by cutting down a side aisle and asking an old woman selling fruit, politely, if she knew where they sold clothing. She told him where to go and he bought a papaya from her, gravely waiting for her to make change. Poor people could take an obvious tip the wrong way and they both knew he’d thanked her enough by buying one of her over ripe papayas.

  He got rid of it as soon as he was out of her sight, as she no doubt expected him to. He wondered how the hell she existed on the few sales she could possibly make.

  He found another old woman selling vaquero gear and bought a pair of modest charro outfits trimmed with black braid instead of mock silver conchos. He knew how she survived. She charged too much for such an out-of-the-way village. But she was pleasant enough as she made his change, once she’d seen he was neither a haggler nor a cheapskate.

  She asked politely if he was with the other Anglo strangers in her village. When he said he wasn’t, she said, “Bueno. I would stay away from them if I were you, señor. Far away, if you are the peaceful young man I assume you to be.”

  He put the bundle under his left arm, leaving his gun hand free, as he smiled and asked casually, “Oh? Are those Red Cross people in trouble already; señora?”

  She shrugged and replied, “It is not for me to say. But when a bleached-blond gringa points at a stand selling religious figures and laughs like a chicken, one tends to wonder about her continued good health. The figure she mocked was that of Santa Maria, Madre de Dios! She seemed to find the costume of the Virgin more amusing than we do. If you are not with them, it would be wise to finish your shopping early.”

  The old woman put a finger to her cheek, pulled down a lower eyelid, and added, “Need I say more, señor?”

  He shook his head, thanked her for her sage advice, and turned away. He knew the smartest thing to do right now would be to take the tip at face value and start making tracks. Like most adults of any race, the old market woman and probably most of the other merchants were trying to keep a lid on it, at least until closing time. But there were always clowns who had nothing better to do in any tough neighborhood, and beating up strangers was second only to bullfighting as the national sport of Mexico!

  As he headed across the market to rejoin Gaston and the girls, he heard a distant female laugh. The old woman had been right. It did sound like a chicken trying to lay a square egg. But he didn’t think the Red Cross girl was trying to lay an egg. The only egg in question was about to hit the fan any minute. So what in the hell was he doing here?

  As he came to a cross aisle, he spotted a couple of obvious village toughs who were fortunately looking the other way, toward the source of the amused cackles. Captain Gringo moved on, slower, as he argued with himself. It wasn’t his fight. It figured to be a mean one. The two Red Cross guys were unarmed and outnumbered. Worse, they didn’t even know they were in trouble.

  He came to another cross way as he heard the annoying cackle again. He sighed and turned down it. The dame was a dope. But she probably meant no real harm, and they’d both been too pretty, he recalled, to deserve the Mark of the Cow carved on their faces for the rest of their lives.

  He saw he’d asked for even more trouble than expected when he spotted what was coming up the aisle between the stands to meet him. It was a three-man navy shore patrol, led by a burly CPO. All three were armed with pistols and billy clubs. All three were looking at him thoughtfully as he continued toward them. He didn’t want to continue toward them, but he knew it would make them even more thoughtful if he turned and ran like hell. He could probably get away via some broken field running through the crowded marketplace. But he didn’t want Uncle Sam even to guess that there was at least one obvious Anglo in town who didn’t want to say howdy for some reason.

  So, as he got within earshot, Captain Gringo nodded to th
e CPO and said, “I’m sure glad I ran into you guys. There’s going to be a free-for-all.”

  The CPO replied, “That’s what we heard. Some kid just ran up to us and said his mama sent him to tell us some white folks are in a jam.”

  Captain Gringo said, “He told you true. Follow me.”

  The CPO had gotten his stripes obeying the voice of command and Captain Gringo had learned to command pretty good a while back, leading a cavalry troop in Apache country. So the shore patrol fell in with him as he marched on the sound of the guns, or, in this case, chicken cackles. But, since the commanding stranger was still obviously dressed as a civilian, the CPO felt free to inquire where the hell they were going.

  Captain Gringo said, “Some of those Red Cross workers we’re supposed to be looking out for have been acting like tourists above and beyond the call of duty. The locals are fixing to jump them. Probably as they leave the market. But maybe sooner, if that silly dame doesn’t shut up. Have you pulled this duty in a Latin port before, chief?”

  “Yeah. I get the picture. Are you packing a gun, mister?”

  “Of course. But we may be able to get everyone off the hook with a ruse. No time to explain. I see the intended prey ahead, in front of that hat stand. Just play along with me, chief. I know what I’m doing, I hope.”

  The Red Cross workers were now pestering the old man selling straw sombreros. At least, the big buck-toothed blonde was. The two men and the other girl, a little brunette, seemed sort of embarrassed as the blonde put a big sombrero on with another chicken laugh and asked them how she looked in it. The little brunette said, “Silly, Trixie. I wish you’d cut it out. I don’t think the old man here shares your ideas of humor.” As Captain Gringo and the navy men moved in, the CPO murmured, “Oh boy, those greasers on the far side are moving to cut them off from the nearest exit!”

  One of the other shore patrolmen added, “Don’t look now, but there’s another bunch edging in from behind us, chief!” Captain Gringo said, “Pretend you don’t notice. Here’s where I find out how much I really know about Mexican psychology.”

  He marched up to the Red Cross workers, snatched the sombrero from the blonde’s head, and placed it firmly back on the stand with the others as he shouted, “So you’re the silly bitch who dared to insult the Mother of God!”

  All four of the Red Cross workers stared at him, thunderstruck. He’d shouted in English because it would have been too obvious a ruse in Spanish. But, as he’d hoped, a native who spoke English laughed and translated his remarks to the crowd.

  The blond gasped and said, “What are you talking about! Who are you, anyway?”

  Captain Gringo kept his voice loud enough for his volunteer translator as he snapped, “Never mind who I am. You people are under arrest!”

  The shore patrol was just as surprised, but smart enough to wait and see. So one of the Red Cross men got to shout, with a Dutch or German accent, “Don’t be ridiculous! We have done nothing. We are members of the International Red Cross!”

  Captain Gringo roared, “I don’t care who you are, you son of a bitch! I’m still taking you in, and all four of you are going to be in prison until you’re old and gray!”

  The Red Cross workers gasped collectively and the little brunette, bless her, started to cry. The other man, who hadn’t spoken, asked in French what was going on. The one who spoke English didn’t answer him. He asked Captain Gringo what the charge was. The tall American said, “Sacrilege. You poked fun at a figure of the Madonna and you’re going to pay for it, you stupid bastard!”

  The Red Cross man blinked in confusion and the big blonde cackled weakly and said, “That’s ridiculous! The Spanish Inquisition went out of business years ago!”

  “This isn’t Spain. It’s los Estados Unidos de Mexico, and we’re wasting time here. Chief, I want a guard on either side of these prisoners as we march them off to see the judge. Let’s move it out!”

  The CPO hesitated only a moment. He’d said he’d pulled this kind of duty before. He nodded and barked, “Simmons, secure the prisoners on the left. Ryan, you take the right flank. We’ll take ’em to the brig for now. Let ’em sweat a bit before the judge sees them in the morning!”

  A big, tough-looking Mexican who’d just joined the audience asked what was going on, in Spanish. A young tough who’d been thoughtfully cleaning his nails with an eight-inch blade laughed and told him, “The gringo policia are arresting them for sacrilege. They are going to prison for mocking the figure of Santa Maria.”

  “Es verdad? I did not know gringos were so religious.”

  “Neither did I. But even a gringo must believe in God, no? Julio understands their language. He says he thinks the four of them are in much trouble.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t let on that he understood as, having waited until the shore patrolmen were in position, he shouted in English, “All right, prisoners, let’s go. I warn you not to make a break for it when we get to the darker streets to the north, unless you want to be shot!”

  It worked. The toughs blocking the nearest route out made way for them, grinning, as Captain Gringo and the navy men marched the so-called prisoners out of the market. One of them passed a truly dreadful remark at the two women, but since Captain Gringo didn’t want them to know he spoke Spanish, he let it go. The blonde, at least, probably deserved it. And the sobbing little brunette didn’t know they’d suggested she suck off the warden, so what the hell.

  When it was safe to talk, the CPO laughed gleefully and told Captain Gringo, “I sure thought we were in for it back there. Are you secret service, mister?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret. Let’s keep in formation a few more blocks in case anyone’s keeping an eye on us.”

  “I get the picture, SS. But where are we going?”

  It was a good question. So Captain Gringo stepped closer to his “prisoners” and told the English-speaking man, “Lead us to your own field headquarters. But don’t look like you’re leading us, right?”

  “We’re not about to go anywhere else, you maniac! Would someone please tell us what on earth is going on?”

  Captain Gringo said, “You four were about to be jumped back there. We pretended to arrest you because most Mexicans would rather take a good beating than go to jail.”

  The little brunette gasped and said, “Oh, thank God! I thought we were really in trouble!”

  He said, “You still could be, ma’am. The four of you had better not go into town again until your unit leaves. When would that be, by the way?”

  The now subdued blonde said, “We’re not sure. Our leaders are having trouble getting guides. We assumed it would be easy. But when we told the people here we wanted to go up into the Sierra Madres, nobody seemed to want the job.”

  Captain Gringo nodded but didn’t answer as he digested that. The man who spoke English was explaining the situation in French to the other Red Cross guy, who laughed a lot like Gaston did when he got the whole picture. The little brunette told Captain Gringo she was ever so grateful and had no idea how she’d ever repay him for his quick-witted kindness. Captain Gringo just smiled at her, too. He had a couple of things in mind, if he could manage to work out this new development the way he meant to try.

  *

  He couldn’t. When they all got to the posada the Red Cross was using as temporary field headquarters, the navy shore patrol parted in friendly fashion to go looking for more trouble. Captain Gringo went inside with the four workers he’d rescued, and smoked a third of a cigar by the time it had all been explained and he’d been properly thanked by the expedition commander, an old goat with a Swiss accent who held court at a corner table in the cantina but didn’t offer anything but coffee to drink. His name was Fitzke. Herr Doktor Fitzke, to hear him tell it.

  Captain Gringo let Fitzke run down before he said, “I’ll be leaving for the Sierra Madres and the Guatemalan high country in the morning, doc. I’ve got native guides, a sidekick who shoots pretty good, and plenty of stuff to
shoot. We’d be willing to join your party, if you like.”

  Fitzke pursed his lips and said, “Impossible. The International Red Cross is not allowed to carry weapons.”

  Captain Gringo frowned and said, “Are you serious, doc? That’s wild and woolly country we’re talking about. It’s not safe up there in the Sierra Madres even with guns. The snakes are bad enough. The locals would never forgive themselves if they let food, supplies, and medicine, along with a mess of real live women, pass through without at least making the old college try.”

  “Nonetheless, the International Red Cross is bound to abide by its charter, mein Herr. We are not a military organization. We are forbidden to behave as one.”

  “Sir, the people where you’re going never heard of the International Red Cross. A lot of them don’t even speak Spanish. Whoever wrote those rules for you never could have had the Sierra Madres in mind!”

  The old goat just shrugged and smiled smugly. Captain Gringo said, “All right, there’s still some safety in numbers, and my friends and I do have guns. Would it be against your charter if we just came along for laughs? We won’t charge you a centavo, and I understand you can’t get anyone else to guide you.”

  Fitzke shook his head and said, “As a matter of fact, I managed to hire two Mexican guides just this evening. So we won’t need your, ah, services, mein Herr.”

  Captain Gringo frowned and asked, “Have you told your Mexicans that they don’t get to bring any guns along, doc?”

  “Of course. Naturally, they agreed.”

  “You mean naturally they’re crazy or don’t know the Sierra Madres worth a damn, doc! The damned Rurales are afraid to wander around up there, and they come with Winchesters and Colt .45s they practice a lot with! I’d like to see these so-called guides of yours.”