Renegade 30

by Lou Cameron

  Then she vanished again, and from the sound of a door slamming somewhere in the house, she may have really meant it this time.

  Perkins sighed and said, “She’s a bit high-strung. Indians seem to make her tense, and since those rather uncouth Nicaraguan soldiers moved into town—”

  “This side of the river’s already been occupied by Nicaraguan forces?” Captain Gringo cut in as, before Perkins could answer, Gaston chimed in with, “Which side, Grenada or Leon?”

  Perkins looked puzzled and said, “Heavens, how should I know? All I know is that a few nights ago, some chaps waving guns and machetes about dropped by. Didn’t do anything much. Just yelled at me in Spanish a bit and posted some sort of public notice on the front of the church next door before they left. They behaved all right. Don’t see why Olivia locked herself away like that. I have no idea whether they were supposed to be from … Grenada or Leon, you say?”

  “We’d better have a look,” said Captain Gringo, rising from the table. Perkins as well as Gaston followed him out the back door and around to the front of the church they hadn’t noticed much about, so far. As they waded through the weeds, Gaston explained to the old minister, “The jolly thugs of Grenada call themselves the Conservative Party while the gunslicks of Leon prefer to be called the Liberal Party. Please do not ask me why. The so-called Conservatives are inclined to be trés radical, and the Liberals shoot anyone who asks to vote. One imagines even Jack the Ripper, whoever he may be, has some ideals he uses to justify his otherwise pointless viciousness. The last we heard, the Liberals were winning over to the west. But that was weeks ago, hein? The political situation in Nicaragua has never been too predictable from day to day.”

  Perkins gulped and said, “I say, which of these, ah, sides do you think would be most sympathetic to my Indians and my mission?”

  “Neither,” said Gaston flatly, glad to be on firmer ground. He explained, “Pagan Indians afford target practice, no more, to your average Nicaraguan who wears pants at least on Sunday.”

  “Oh, but my converts are Christians, too!”

  “Protestant Christians, m’sieu?”

  “Of course. We’re Congregationalists.”

  “I would not mention that to any Nicaraguan soldado of the unshaven type, m’sieu. They only recognize one form of Christianity, trés vaguely, and neither you nor your Indian converts are it!”

  By this time they’d all made it around to the front of the church, and Captain Gringo was already reading the military proclamation nailed to the wall. It was a cheaply printed broadside on the paper the color and texture of stale oatmeal. Perkins asked him what it said, explaining neither he nor his young wife knew enough Spanish to matter. Captain Gringo said, “I didn’t think you could. The good news is that this property, including any good-looking women or other livestock on it, is reserved for the sole use of the general and his staff. The bad news is that this former British colony has been liberated in the name of the Nicaraguan people by one El Chino. It doesn’t give the rank he claims. I guess his own guys know, and he doesn’t care what other people think he is.”

  “What do you think he is?” asked Perkins, adding; “El Chino seems a rather rum name for a military governor, don’t you think?”

  “It would be, if that was what he was, sir. ‘Chino’ can mean either a Chinaman, literally, or a type of moon-faced mestizo Hispanics nickname that way, as we use ‘Slats,’ or ‘Pud.’ In fairness to both sides in the ongoing civil war to the west, both the Liberals and Conservatives field more regular-type armies. Any military leader anyone in Nicaragua would be likely to recognize as even a semi-civilized enemy would call himself a colonel, a general or whatever. This El Chino character glories in a campesino nickname. He adds up to a guerrilla leader at best or, more likely, a plain old-fashioned bandito! How long did you say they posted this notice?”

  “I told you, two, mayhaps three nights ago. Is it important?”

  “It sure is, Rev. We’ve got to get you and more important, your woman the hell out of here! You say there are still some English on the south side of the river?”

  “Yes, but we can’t abandon everything we have, here!”

  “What do you think you have here, damn it? With a whole town to loot, they just haven’t gotten around to this part of Gilead yet. But according to El Chino, it’s all his, in the name of the Nicaraguan people who may not know it’s even here! The guy’s cool. Whoever wrote that notice was literate. I think I see now who that steamer just delivered a load of something to, and I doubt like hell it was canned goods! Let’s go; we’ll talk about it on the way to Zion!”

  “But we don’t want to go to Zion!” Perkins protested, digging in his heels as Gaston tried to keep him moving through the weeds.

  Captain Gringo said, “Let him go, Gaston. It’s too far to drag a jackass, and his wife may have more sense!”

  *

  She did. She went right upstairs to start packing, even though her husband told her not to be silly. As soon as he was alone in the kitchen again with Captain Gringo and Gaston, the minister said, “I say, now you’ve gone too far! A wife’s place is with her husband, and I see no reason to desert my mission. So we’re not going anywhere, and that’s final!”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “You’ve no idea how final it can get once a guerrilla leader consolidates his position and turns his boys loose for fun and games! This siesta time will be over in less than three hours. So let’s talk about how far we can get between now and then. You know this layout better than we do, Rev. The parts of town we’ve seen so far look like a little bit of England out to lunch. Which way’s the native quarter where less Anglo-Saxon types might feel more at home?”

  Perkins shrugged and pointed at the blank kitchen wall to the north as he said, “The unofficial but strictly enforced deadline is two streets over. I wanted to build my mission in the Mosquito barrio or at least closer. But the people who sent me had already bought this older church the Anglicans built back in the fifties, so—”

  “Never mind how any of us got here,” Captain Gringo cut in. “I’m talking about getting us to there! There would be the parts of the colony still under British control so that would be Zion, south of the river, right? How do we get across? I didn’t notice any bridges as we approached the shore awhile back.”

  Perkins prissed his lips and said, “There’s a shallow ford, if you know where to cross. It’s too deep east and west of the ford.”

  Captain Gringo nodded firmly and said, “Bueno. That’s another reason you’re coming with us. You know the way. We don’t. You’d better just pack enough to carry. No more than a change of clothes, a few keepsakes you just have to have and, of course, any money you have on hand.”

  “I don’t have enough money for even bandits to worry about, and I’m not coming with you, either. Neither is my wife. I don’t understand these dramatics at all. This General Chino has been here in Gilead at least seventy-two hours, and as you see, he hasn’t made a move against us since they posted that sign putting us under his personal protection!”

  Captain Gringo snorted in disgust and said, “A chicken is under the personal protection of its owner, too, until the owner gets around to plucking it! I’m not sure why anyone would want to pluck you personally, Rev. But your wife’s a lot prettier, and I’m using pluck as the intended verb because we’re close to a church.”

  He moved to the window, glanced out to see nothing moving out there in the midday heat, then shot an anxious look at the doorway Olivia had left by as he muttered, “Thank God I didn’t tell her to change her dress. How long do you think we can give her, Gaston?”

  Gaston leaned against the cold kitchen stove, lighting another smoke with a thoughtful frown before he replied, “Nothing trés dramatique should occur before three or later, Dick. But have you thought this matter all the way through? My sainted Aunt Fifi, the one who was attractive enough to pick pockets inside the Paris Opera, once told me, as we were making love, never to
jump into the fire from the frying pan unless the frying pan was unusually hot, hein?”

  “You stupid bastard, the heat out there’s the only thing that’s keeping a lid on the usual guerrilla routine!”

  Gaston shook his head and said, “Mais non, this Protestant man of the cloth, while of course in serious error about the hereafter, makes an interesting point or more, Dick. This unwashed species of Chino does seem to be an unusually cool leader, and since one doubts even a quarter of his men can read, they must have been told to leave these people alone and, miracle of miracles, they must be under unusually good control, for guerrillas.”

  “Maybe. But the British constabulary still holding out south of the river have to be even less likely to start looting and raping in the near future, like as soon as it’s cool enough!”

  “Oui, but on the other hand, wouldn’t British constabularies be more inclined to arrest us than outlaws who, for all we know, may welcome an extra pair of skilled fighters with open arms?”

  Captain Gringo shot a warning glance at the minister seated stubbornly at the table and told Gaston, “You’ve got a mighty open mouth, too! But okay, let’s try that on for size and see how it fits. It feels too snug for me, old chum! In the first place, this Chino probably thinks he’s a chief. So he’d want lots of little Indians, not officers, under him. In the second place, we’re soldiers of fortune, not bandits!”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “Merde alors, there you go acting picky again. The only difference between a bandit and a soldier is the size of his gang. Robert E. Lee and the late lessee James shared much the same views on fighting the U.S. Federal Government. The only difference was the number of followers each had, non?”

  Captain Gringo grinned despite himself, but said, “Let’s not get into semantics. Let’s just get the hell out of here. The British authorities across the creek have no way of knowing we’re on their shit list, if only you don’t tell them. The people on this side of the creek have already told us this El Chino is worse company that the Brits.”

  “They have? Mais how? Save for these innocents here, we have not even met a native of this Gilead, let alone been told to avoid El Chino, Dick.”

  “You have to see it in writing, you jerk-off? El Chino is one of their own, yet the natives as well as the English settlers, here, have all run away from him! How come, if he’s such a swell guy? You know how these operations usually go, Gaston. God knows you’ve taken part in enough so-called liberations.”

  Gaston sighed and said, “Oui, the usual form calls for dancing in the streets, shouts of Viva Whoever and a general looting of the few in town who just can’t avoid being tagged as the former oppression. The impoverished campesino types, as you say, usually welcome invading armies as probably no worse and possibly better than the bullies they know better and, hmm, come to think of it, most Latins find the English trés fatigue. So to run to the flag of Victoria for protection from one of their own—”

  “That’s what I just said. So where the hell is that dame?”

  As if she’d been waiting offstage for her entrance cue, Olivia came in carrying a carpet bag too heavy for her, and they noticed she’d pinned on a little straw hat with fake cherries on it as well. Her husband looked up and said, “Dear Heart, you look silly in that outfit, and I forbid you to leave with these gentlemen. For one thing, there’s no reason for you to run away; and for another I fear these gentlemen are not exactly gentlemen!”

  Captain Gringo looked at Gaston and growled, “You and your big mouth. Come on, Rev. we can argue about it along the way.”

  Perkins shook his head stubbornly and braced himself in his chair as if daring them to pick him up, chair and all, and carry him. But that would have been silly even had it been twenty degrees cooler. So Captain Gringo nodded grimly and said, “Right. I’ll take the lead Gaston. You’d better help the lady with that bag.”

  He stepped out the back door without looking back to see if Gaston was doing as he was told. He was more worried about guys he didn’t know as well. But not even a fly was stirring outside in the afternoon steam bath. So he started down the steps and heard both the boot heels of Gaston and the high-button shoes of Olivia following—even though old Hiram Perkins was bleating like a sheep after them.

  Captain Gringo wanted to get out of the open, poco tiempo, so he legged it off the church grounds, across a deserted street, into the first alley running south he could get them into. It was shadier albeit no cooler in the alley. Off in the distance, Perkins was still bleating something about his wife not coming back if she persisted in avoiding gang rape. Captain Gringo stopped to get his bearings, turned to Olivia and said, “Look, there’s an outside chance he’s right, and I wouldn’t want to break up a happy marriage.”

  She shrugged and said, “Neither would I. Why are we just standing here?”

  He said, “It’s always a good idea to know where you’re going before you go there. Do you know the way to the ford across the Mission River?”

  She said, “Of course. Once I’m near it, I mean. What are we doing in this perishing alley?”

  “Trying not to perish. If El Chino has any patrols out at all, they’ll be patrolling the main streets, I hope. I know how to get us to the river. How are you doing with that bag, Gaston?”

  Gaston groaned, “Badly. I might have known an Englishwoman would insist on bringing along her tea service. We French have more experience with sudden emergencies. It is more practique to keep the family fortune small and portable in the form of a few gold coins in a teapot one can leave behind!”

  Captain Gringo could see the wiry little Frenchman wasn’t really having trouble with the girl’s things, and, what the hell, it was all she had. So he just said, “All right, let’s keep going, and keep it down to a roar. The houses on either side look deserted, but you just never know.”

  They made it down to the end of the block, scooted’ across the dirt street and down another, and so forth until Olivia said the river was somewhere just ahead. Captain Gringo had already figured as much, given the modest size of the settlement. He told Gaston and the girl to sit tight while he scouted the ford, adding, “If they have a roadblock set up anywhere, that will be it. Maybe you’d better duck into that house, there. It looks empty, and you won’t want to be caught in the open if I run into trouble.”

  But Gaston had already opened the back gate and was leading the girl through the backyard weeds toward the kitchen door of the mustard frame bungalow. So Captain Gringo moved on without further elaboration. Gaston would know what to do if he heard pistol shots or worse. The old pro could talk the horns off a billy goat when there was nothing important to talk about. But the nice thing about working with a partner who’d been in the game far longer than you had was that he tended to read your mind when the chips were down.

  Captain Gringo moved to the end of the alley, and, sure enough, there was a wall of gumbo-limbo and sea grape instead of another block across the muddy street. Through the few gaps in the wild running spinach, he could see the gleam of sunlight on water. He eased out of the alley to follow the wider street west, since he could see it dead-ended to the east no more than two blocks away. He saw water-filled cartwheel ruts in the red clay ahead. They figured, if he was heading for the ford. The last east-west wagon trace north of the river lay close enough to sea level to stay muddy all the time. The unusually deep ruts indicated recent heavy moving, and they’d naturally move their furniture across the river the only place one could.

  As he eased closer, he spotted movement down the road ahead and crabbed sideways behind a clump of sea grape, drawing his .38. Then he cursed, but very quietly, as he saw what was going on up that way. A guy wearing a white cotton campesino outfit, a big straw sombrero and more ammunition bandoleers than anyone but a poor shot could possibly ever need was taking a leak against a pepper tree. From the way sunlight was bouncing off his big hat, there had to be a break in the riverside vegetation just south of him. So this single pisser was standing g
uard at the only ford across the pissy river!

  One-on-one wasn’t enough to stop Captain Gringo, but the first thing he had to find out was whether the pisser was alone up that way. He waited until the bandito finished watering the tree and turned away. Then he dashed back across the street into another alley and vaulted a backyard fence to crouch low in the weeds and work his way a bit farther west.

  It didn’t work. He got as far as the rear of the house, peered out through the pickets of its side-fencing and saw he didn’t have a decent view into the gap of the crossing from this angle. He could see his pisser, or someone, moving about in a tunnel archway of riverside trees and underbrush. But he had to get closer for a clear view.

  That was what houses with back doors were made for. He moved to the back door, tried the latch and found it was locked. He called the locked door a dreadful thing. The door looked too solid to kick in without bringing the one or more guards less than fifty yards away on the double. So he holstered his .38, took out his pocketknife and slid a blade between the lock and jamb to see if by any chance it was a spring latch job.

  It was. He grinned as the door popped open with a little chirp no louder than a cricket. Then, since people might wonder what even a cricket was doing up and about during La Siesta, he ducked inside and closed the door silently after him.

  The house, like the others he and Gaston had explored earlier, was deserted, or at least it seemed to be until he heard someone whispering—somewhere inside the dank and dark interior with him!

  He got the gun out again, fast, and eased toward the front of the house on the balls of his feet. The whispering was coming from the front parlor. As he moved closer, he could make out a few words. It sounded like a woman, whispering in Spanish, scared as hell.

  The pretty little mestiza and her older but not-bad female companion crouched near a window in the front room looked even more frightened as Captain Gringo popped in on them, .38 muzzle trained, to snap, “¡Congeles! One sound, one move, and you’re both dead!”