by Lou Cameron
She gasped and said, “Are you crazy? You can’t pick up a scorpion with your bare hand!”
He said, “I know. It’s not a scorpion. It only looks like one to keep birds and pretty girls from eating it. They call it a vinegarroon. They always seek shade in the heat of the day. It wasn’t out to hurt anybody.”
She heaved a sigh of relief, suddenly noticed what she was wearing, and gasped as she said, “Oh, I’m naked and you’re looking at me, you beast!”
He sighed, said, “Come on, vinegarroon. Us beasts ain’t welcome here,” and backed out, dropping the tent flap back in place. He tossed away the harmless mock scorpion, put his .38 back in its holster, and moved back to keep his sombrero company some more. He’d dropped his smoke in the grass when he’d heard Pam scream. So he picked it up and got it going again just as a couple of other men moved toward him along the cliff, guns in hand, to ask what was going on. He grinned and said, “False alarm. One of the nursing sisters saw a big bug.”
They looked relieved and went back to their own shelters.
Captain Gringo enjoyed a few minutes’ peace and quiet. Then Pam came out of her pup, bareheaded and barefooted, but wearing her blouse and skirt again, to come over and say she was sorry for calling him a beast.
He shrugged and said, “You had every right to feel upset. Forget it.”
She didn’t. She sat down beside him and said, with a becoming blush, “I’m not used to men popping in on me when I’m not wearing a stitch. Not lately, anyway. But it was still very silly of me. I mean, when a lady screams for help, someone is supposed to come, right?”
He smiled as he considered how nice it would be to come indeed for her, now that he’d seen what she had to offer under that prim uniform.
But he knew how she’d meant it and answered, “You weren’t silly. You were scared, as you had every right to be. Vinegarroons are ugly little buggers and they do sort of look like scorpions.”
“I thought it was going to sting me to death. Harmless or not, I’m glad you killed it.”
He frowned and asked, “Why would I want to do that, Pam?”
“You didn’t kill that ugly creature?”
“No. Just tossed it away. Vinegarroons can’t help being ugly, to us, at least. It could have been a pretty girl, to a boy vinegarroon. I’m not sure how you can tell. Anyway, it’s long gone by now.”
She stared at him thoughtfully and said, “I just don’t understand you at all, Dick. Just a few hours ago you mowed down a whole band of men, and yet you worry about the feelings of a bug!”
He took a drag on his claro and said, “You’re right. You don’t understand me. It’s too hot to pontificate on the difference between harmless creatures and killers. Let’s hope you never have to worry about it as much as I do.”
“At the rate we’re going, I’m afraid I might! I understand the difference, Dick. I’m not that stupid. What I’m trying to understand is how you make your mind up so quickly. I mean you don’t seem to hesitate a split second. You seem to be able to take a life or spare it, without taking time to think!”
He shrugged and said, “Killing’s not a thinking man’s game, Pam. I think pretty good when I’m playing chess or poker. But taking the time to ponder the best game plan can get you killed in a firefight.”
“You’re so gentle. Yet you can strike like a cobra with no more feeling than a deadly reptile. I’ve never met a man like you before.”
“You’ve already said that more than once, Pam. Let’s talk about the kinds of men you have met before. You said before that nobody’s seen you naked lately. What are you, a reformed hoochie-coochie dancer?”
She giggled and said, “That’s silly. I meant my husband, back in Canada.”
“Oh? I’m sorry to hear you’re a widow, Pam.”
Her jaw clenched firmer as she said flatly, “I’m not. If you must know, I’m divorced.”
“I didn’t say I must know anything. What happened back home is your own business. So don’t tell me about it if you don’t want me to hear about it.”
She must have wanted him to hear about. She spent the next twenty minutes or so telling him a very boring story. He knew the moment she said her ex-husband had had a drinking problem how the rest of it went. But Pam must have wanted to get it off her chest to someone who couldn’t gossip about it in Canada. So he had to listen to all the dull details of a young wife trying over and over to straighten out a hopeless drunk until, in the end, she’d somehow wound up trying to save other lost causes for the International Red Cross. It could have been worse. The last dame who’d told him the same story had wound up an oversexed missionary and they were really no use to Spanish Catholics.
He knew he was supposed to render a value judgment as Pam wound down at last. Instead, he asked her if she wanted a drag on his cigar. She said she didn’t smoke, and it was a little early to ask her about other vices she might have. She saw he wasn’t about to tell her the story of his own life and finally said, “My, I do go on, don’t I? All I really meant to say was that I’m really grateful for the way you helped me and, well, you’re forgiven for peeping at me like that.”
He grimaced and said, “I didn’t peep, dammit. It was your idea to yell for help in your birthday suit.”
“Don’t be angry, Dick. I just said I wasn’t, dammit! A lot of girls would be very cross with you for, ah, seeing so much of them.”
“A lot of girls are dumb, then. This may come as a hell of a surprise to you, shorty, but in my day I’ve seen lots of naked ladies and more than one was built a lot better.”
She blanched, called him a bastard, and flounced back to her tent.
He chuckled and took another drag on his cigar, trying to remember just when he’d seen a nicer little naked body. But, come to think of it, old Pam made the last two dames he’d seen that way look pretty sick. The insurance dames had been stacked pretty good. As good as Pam? It was hard to say. He’d have to get another look at Pam in some more interesting positions if he really wanted a fair comparison.
He told his cigar, “Don’t talk dumb. We have enough to worry about right now. Besides, we haven’t seen any of these other dames naked, yet.”
*
They ate at five. The food was the best Captain Gringo and Gaston had tasted in some time. The International Red Cross might not carry guns as a rule, but they traveled first class. After sunset the ten nursing sisters took a bare-ass dip in the pond in the dark, and, though their girlish giggles were more than a little stimulating to the glands, none of the men saw anything, dammit.
Later the other men joined Captain Gringo and Gaston in the water in turn. So they started out cool and clean. But by the time they’d loaded up and were on their way, the warm dry air had them all feeling as if the refreshing plunge had been but a childhood dream. At least none of them would stink for a while.
Captain Gringo left the machine gun lashed to his mule as he led them over the ridge to the higher valley. At night, automatic fire didn’t offer such an edge, but dew condensing on old cold steel at night could play hell with the mechanism. So the Maxim was better off under its tarp for now.
As he’d timed it, the moon was just right for reading hoofprints in the dust as he led them south-southeast after the runaway survivors of the bandit gang. He’d turned the mule over to an otherwise useless unarmed Danish medic so that he and Gaston could scout ahead with their holstered pistols and ported Winchesters. From time to time Gaston insisted on pointing out a hoofprint Captain Gringo had already spotted. Gaston was like that. The moonlit road was clear and looked more well traveled than anything one figured to find on any official map. There wasn’t much cover to worry about on either side of the smugglers’ road, deer trail, or whatever the hell it was. When Gaston pointed out more sign, Captain Gringo said, “Dammit, Gaston, those adelitas left on ponies, not big birds. Of course they went this way. Where the hell else could they have gone?”
“Eh, bien, but when one goes anywhere, one has a desti
nation in mind, and if we are marching on some bandit enclave—”
“There you go with your fucking bridges again. This trail leads toward Guatemala. We’re trying to get to Guatemala. Maybe they are, too, if they came from there.”
“But why? Would people with sense enough to run away from machine-gun fire be dumb enough to march on a very nasty volcano in full eruption?”
“I’ll ask ’em when we catch up with ’em, if they’re dumb enough to let us. Uh-oh, here’s where life starts getting complicated.”
Gaston said, “Oui, I warned you it was scabland,” as they both stared down at the solid rock surface ahead of them. The old lava flow was flat and offered no hindrance to further progress, but it stretched flat and featureless as far as they could see in the moonlight. The man leading their mule caught up with them to ask what was going on. Captain Gringo said, “Keep us in sight and let the mule have his head on this slick rock.” Then he started on as if he knew where he was going.
They marched across the flat lava for a little over three miles and saw a solid hedge of thorny chaparral ahead in the moonlight. Gaston said, “Merde alors. Know any other shortcuts, Dick?”
Captain Gringo dropped to one knee, felt the hard lava flow with his fingertips, and said, “Yeah, east. That’s where this shit flowed from, so it has to lead to higher ground.”
He led the long straggling column east along the south edge of the old flow for about another mile. Then, as they came to a gap in the chaparral and spotted the sandy trail leading south in the moonlight, he said, “As I was saying, guys running silver into Guatemala and guns into Mexico have to trend generally north and south.”
He started down the new trail. He saw hoofprints going south and said, “I see ’em, Gaston. No, I don’t know if we’re talking about the same band. There must be lots of people in the smuggling business this close to the border.”
“Oui, avec guns. Anyone could be covering this trail from the adorable brush on either side right now, too!”
“Stuff a sock in it. Who the hell could be waiting to ambush us around here, Gaston? We didn’t know we were coming ourselves until just a few minutes ago. If this is the same trail at all, that dogleg crossing the lava was a pretty neat way to get a stranger lost up here. I’m beginning to see why Los Rurales don’t like to patrol this far south.”
“I don’t like it either, Dick! Los Rurales are tits tough! If they feel nervous about this country, that is good enough for me!”
Captain Gringo told him to shut up again and trudged on. The new trail ran fairly straight and was easy to follow, for about a mile. Then they came to a fork in the road. Captain Gringo cursed and stopped. Gaston said, “Me too. Both those trails can’t lead to Guatemala.”
“When you’re right you’re right. But don’t tell the others we’re lost just yet.”
“It should not take them long to guess, if we don’t choose one or the other, non?”
“I think it’s time we called a trail break anyway. We’ll let ’em piss and smoke here while each of us scouts ahead. You want the right or left fork, Gaston?”
“I hate them both. But I’ll take the left. What difference does it make?”
“Probably not a hell of a lot. But who knows what may lie around the bend or over the next hill, as the poets say? We’ll each scout a couple of miles, come back, and compare notes.”
They stopped worrying about it as the others began to catch up. Captain Gringo called out cheerfully, “Take ten or more, and smoke if you got ’em. But no other fires, and go easy on the canteen water for now. We’re going ahead to scout for bad guys.”
Someone of course had to ask why they had to scout both roads, and Gaston snapped, “Merde alors, has it not sunk in yet that these hills are trés lousy avec bad guys? Enjoy your break while you can, you species of idiot. We shall not give you long here.”
Gaston strode out of sight up the left fork, cursing. Captain Gringo laughed, told everyone he’d be back sooner or later, and took the right fork.
He hadn’t gone far when he began to wonder why. The narrow trail was beginning to trend downhill now, and he knew the Guatemalan high country had to be uphill, if they were still in the foothills of the Sierra Madres. On the other hand, mountain trails sometimes dipped down where they didn’t rise up. So he decided to give it a chance. He found himself in a tunnel of mesquite as the already narrow trail punched through higher ground on either side with the thorny branches meeting overhead. They shaded the dust too well even to look for sign. But when he stepped in horseshit he knew someone had ridden this way recently, so he went on.
Over on the other fork, Gaston found himself moving uphill in less brushy country. He instinctively hugged the uphill side, and as he saw he was about to top a rise, he dropped his smoke and crushed out the glowing tip with his heel before moving on.
He went over the rise and beyond, then stopped, with a dreadful Arabic curse, when he saw yet another fork ahead of him in the moonlight!
“By the multiple tits of the Pope’s Protestant mistress, enough is enough!” he told himself as he stared morosely at his multiple choice. The fork to his left seemed less well traveled, but trended upward. The other ran straight the way he’d been going. He shook his head wearily and told his unseen comrade, softly, “If you want my considered opinion, Dick, we are, no shit of the bull, really lost!”
He started to turn back. Then the gray hairs on the back of his neck tingled as he heard the scrape of a hoof on stone. He moved into a clump of mesquite, as silently as a snake on tile, and hunkered down to cover the trail with his cocked Winchester.
A million years later a white-clad figure came down the trail to the left, leading an overloaded burro. Gaston watched until he saw the peon-costumed figure was alone, then stepped out on the trail to say politely, “Buenas noches, señor. Is it not late for you to be out alone?”
The man with the burro froze in place and gasped as he said, “In the name of Santa Maria, do not shoot me, por favor! I am only a poor old gatherer of firewood! I am not worth robbing, I swear!”
Gaston said, “One can see your burro is overloaded with dry sticks, viejo. But I seldom hold people up for firewood in a land so filled with it. Where you intend to sell it is no concern of mine. But let us discuss the distressing condition of the highways in this part of Mexico. If I wished to get to Guatemala from here, which way would you suggest I go?”
The old man shrugged and said, “In God’s truth, I do not know, señor. The trail I just came down leads nowhere. I have never followed the other path, so quién sabe where it may or may not go, eh?”
“Merde alors, you are a big help, I must say. Let us begin with the trail you do know, since you just came down it.”
The other man said, “It winds up into well-wooded country, as you can see from my load. I think perhaps Indios used this trail in the old days, since there are some Indio ruins up in the valley where it ends. Unfortunately, it leads nowhere else important,”
“Eh bien, and you insist you have never followed this other trail to the right, viejo?”
The old man shrugged and said, “I have been down it perhaps a kilometer or more. But some cabron has cut all the good firewood down that way. So I did not have any reason for to follow it further. It may go on to some important place. You can see it is wider and how the dust of many animals covers it. It must go somewhere important, no?”
Gaston said that sounded reasonable, thanked him for his modest directions, and stepped out of his way. The old man said he was glad to be of service and started to lead his burro on. Gaston shifted his Winchester to his left hand, reached up to draw the dagger from his neck sheath, and stabbed him in the back, twisting the blade inside to sever the aorta as well as the kidney under the victim’s floating rib.
He left the knife in the body for now and grabbed the lead of the nervous burro as its master flopped face down in the dust with a sad little sigh. Gaston led the burro to a clump of brush and tethered it, sayi
ng, “Easy, mon petit. You were not the one who fibbed to me so outrageously, so you have nothing to fear, hein?”
He leaned his rifle by the side of the trail and moved back to recover his knife and wipe the blade clean on the seat of the dead man’s white cotton pants and put it away before he searched the corpse. He found a bigger-bored derringer than one might expect a peon woodcutter to pack and put it in his own pocket, saying, “Shame on you. Ah, what a nice money belt. The price of firewood must have risen lately.”
He dragged the dead man well off the trail by the boot heels, stood up, and said, “Eh bien. My regards to the carrion crows and ants, mon ami. If you will excuse me, I would like to see just what your sweet little burro is carrying under that camouflage of worthless sticks.”
He went back to the burro, muttering, “Firewood indeed. More than a day’s march from the nearest stove, in hills trés lousy with such dry chaparral?”
He petted the burro, told it he loved it, and cut the cords to let the outer layer of brushwood fall away. The packsaddle under the camouflage was loaded with a substantial ammo box on either side. The moonlight was bright enough to read the stenciled letters, which said, in English, Remington ARMS, BALL AMMUNITION .30-.30.
Gaston chuckled and told the burro, “Just the size we need for our machine gun, mon petit! We are well met this evening, non? I knew the moment I regarded your lovely form in the moonlight that you were overloaded with something more than firewood! But let us rejoin the others and I shall relieve you of some of that load, hein?”
Meanwhile, on the other trail to the west, Captain Gringo had seen nothing so far and was about to turn back. But there seemed to be light at the end of the mesquite tunnel, and since it was too orange for moonlight, he decided he’d better check it out.
He moved cautiously out of the brushy cut, noting that the trail curved down and around into a flat-bottomed valley. The orange glow he’d noted was reflecting off the bare slope ahead. It was being cast by a burning shack below him, on the floor of the valley. There was a pole corral with no livestock in it. Three human figures were just visible, clear of the burning shack. Two of them were bending over a third on the ground. He heard a long keen of hopeless grief. The last time he’d heard a similar sound it had been an Apache squaw, keening over a brave who’d zigged when he should have zagged, going up against the old Tenth Cav. Gaston had said the Indians down here were, well, Indians. But the people down there were dressed Mexican peon. The one on the ground was the only one in pants.
