by RW Krpoun
Looking back I saw the rebel line going under-those crazies who hadn’t been tasked with ferrying sacks of dynamite had charged into the rear of the right wing of the firing line, and this attack, coupled with the loss of their commanders and the Maxims, had thrown the rebels into confusion. A few iron men (and women, I was amazed to see) were still pouring fire into the enemy, but most were breaking and running, generally towards the left flank, away from the crazies embroiled with their comrades on the right and the dust cloud to the rear.
The fragile chain of discipline was shattered and the rebels were now just a group of people, not a military unit. They had lost, and lost badly.
With an abrupt, icy shock I realized that I was on foot, in the midst of a growing rout, and I had no idea where Pork Chop was.
Chapter Twelve
I did not waste time with recriminations nor concerns; after one quick survey of the terrain I set off at a trot, holstering the Colt and unslinging the Krag, checking the latter’s magazine as I went, adding two cartridges to top it off and hitching the cartridge belt around a bit. My goal was a lonely clump of mesquites a hundred yards away, and despite a number of bruises scattered across my body I covered the ground with commendable speed. Circling around, I found a faint game trail and wriggled into the midst of the low-growing trees on my belly, arriving at a point where I had a decent view of the battle while remaining in cover. And in the shade-it wasn’t’ terribly hot, but I had lost my hat and had no water.
There wasn’t much of a battle left-as I watched the main body of crazies rolled over the Red Banners who stood and fought or who were slow to flee, and the rest scattered. A few crazies could run after a fashion, but the rest couldn’t keep up with a motivated man or woman with a decent head start. They ran down forty or so rebels and then called off the business, and why shouldn’t they? A quarter of the rebels were dead and those who remained were leaderless, scattered, and afoot. After the debacle today I doubt many survivors would ever rally to the cause.
Lying in the clump of mesquite I watched as handlers trotted about herding the crazies into a column pointed more or less south. It was a slow process, and while they were at it a handful of Chuj moved through the battle site, gathering up weapons and ammunition and dumping them into the trench. They added timbers from the ruins and what I guessed was kerosene from red cans whose paint had gone pink from sun and wear, and soon smoke was rising from the former hiding place. They were making sure there was nothing that could be salvaged by an enemy, and I wondered if our actions over the last couple days had prompted this diligence in eliminating firearms.
Then I saw him: Cabral, Green Coat himself, striding across the battlefield from corpse to corpse like a buyer at a stock auction, a couple Mexicans in tow. He paused at the feet of a dead rebel and leaned forward a bit at the waist, gesturing rapidly, maybe talking, maybe not. Then one of the Mexicans stepped up and pouring something from a terra-cotta pot across the dead man’s torso, and everyone watched with interest. After a minute or so the body began to twitch and the trio stalked to the next corpse.
That was how it was done, I realized: Green Coat was doing the snake oil business, bringing back structurally intact rebels to replace some of his losses from the battle.
I put the Krag’s front sight on the smudge of green and hesitated: I would only get one shot, and regardless of its accuracy the crazies or the Chuj would get me-I was concealed, but I had no cover. I watched him over the sights as he rallied three more recruits, then lowered the Krag with a sigh. Green Coat was a high-ranking hired hand, but in the final counting he was still just a hired hand. Killing him was not going to stop the attack on the orphanage. This wasn’t the place to make my last stand.
Muttering, I squirmed back through the mesquite and cautiously emerged. Slinging the Krag I started making tracks south, careful to keep the stand of trees between myself and the mustering crazies; I needed to get to Arteaga and warn them as best I could, then get back to the orphanage.
Checking the copy I had made of the strip map, I nodded as I walked. Whoever was behind this had isolated the orphanage-there was no one left within fifty miles, a hundred in some directions. I expect that this was not the original plan-Green Coat was supposed to have secured it on his way to the dig where we had rescued Wurfel. But our enemy was nothing if not adaptable.
As I moved across the landscape in a well-practiced infantryman’s gait, keeping a close watch on the flanks and rear, I took stock and found things to be wanting. The necromancer was winning-Brother Andrew’s preparations had forced him to change his battle plan, but otherwise things were moving forward with admirable precision. He was gathering his goods, he was neutralizing potential enemies, and I was sure he was gathering up extra bodies. The plain fact before me was that a smart man would head for the Rio Grande with his prisoner in tow and never leave the USA again.
But I wasn’t a smart man.
Maybe Nhi was right, maybe we were pieces the Lord put into play in opposition to the necromancer’s plan; that was certainly a comforting thought that was borne out when I spotted a saddled horse trailing its reins a half-hours’ hard walk from the battle site.
Were I betting man I would have put hard money on a horse that had just escaped a battle not being inclined to let a stranger approach, but I would have lost money. It shied away a bit, snorting and shaking its head, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it, lacking a rope, but I just kept talking in a soothing voice, and on the third approach it let me close and take up the reins.
She was a little piebald mare, lean but healthy; her saddle was an old US Army surplus McClellan nearly to the end of its service life but her shoes were solid and tight. A gourd hanging from the saddle by a piece of cord held half a gallon of water that the previous owner had thoughtfully cut with mescal to keep it safe, and I gratefully drank a pint. No other gear was on the saddle except an empty rifle scabbard, but I wasn’t complaining.
Swinging up into the saddle I turned her head south and tapped her ribs, wishing I bothered with spurs. I rode horses, but I didn’t need sudden speed or maneuvering as cowboys or cavalry required. She went to a trot without urging and seemed content to continue, a horse with heart and good lungs.
As I rode I tried to work at the problems facing the orphanage. I hadn’t paid much attention to how many adults had taken up refuge within the walls, so it was difficult to tell what there was in terms of defenders. Green Coat, whom I assumed would be the commander for the assault, wouldn’t have any cunning tricks to work with, just a straight frontal assault over open ground. When he reached the walls the crazies could just hack their way through by brute force, or if they had more dynamite they could blast in.
If I could get back I would warn Brother Andrew to create abatis or other barriers to hold the enemy away from the base of the walls, although given the materials and labor available that was not likely a full-fledged option-tree are not plentiful in this part of Mexico.
Dynamite-I wondered how much Green Coat had, and where he was moving it. The stuff was pretty safe and stable, but it still required special handling, and if we could attack his supply the way we hit the Chuj we could take some cards from his hand.
Brave thoughts, but no matter how I turned it around in my head as I rode, I couldn’t see how we could keep that many crazies out of the orphanage. Finally I just gave up on it. Either we would, or we would not, and if we didn’t there wasn’t any point worrying about what came next.
Suddenly I realized why I had been bothered by a mental reference to saloons while the rebels had been setting up: withdrawing to the high ground and deploying into a skirmish line was what Custer had done at the Little Big Horn. Every watering hole worthy of the name in Texas had one of the many illustrations of that last stand on its walls, usually as part of a cigar promotion. Old soldiers liked to point out what the artist had gotten wrong.
That was what passed for deep thinking on my part, I suppose.
I hit
the rail line three hours after I found the mare and followed it to the station. The Arteaga railhead wasn’t much to look at: the station itself, a water-tower, a half-dozen old boxcars used for storage, a cantina, and a few small adobe houses. Poles swept away in precise lines to the east and north bearing telegraph lines and a few birds.
It was pretty full, however: at least two hundred peon families loaded with everything they owned or could drive stood in the single short street that paralleled the twin rails. A handful of gun thugs lounged in front of the cantina, holding a big section of the road in front of it empty by their presence, and guards armed with Spanish Mausers kept the refugees away from the station, the storage boxcars, and several canvas-covered stacks of crates adjacent to the rail line.
What there wasn’t, was a train.
I rode behind the row of buildings to avoid the crowd, noting several heavily-loaded wagons and two nice carriages behind the cantina, which suggested that not only the peons were quitting the land. There were gun thugs keeping an eye on the goods back there, men not much better than the ones we had killed to save Billy; that particular cantina seemed a year away.
Billy was dead-it was funny, I hadn’t thought of him in years before running into him here in Mexico, and now he was dead, killed fighting in someone else’s war. I can’t say his passing left any great hole in my life, nor any regrets. He hadn’t been anything close to a friend in China, and we certainly hadn’t gotten tight down here. Still, he had been a comrade, and I regretted his demise, as the little circle of people I knew in this armpit wasn’t getting any larger.
The station guards were a different cut than the gun thugs, being neat in their dress and professional in their manners. They also weren’t Mexicans-Cubans was my guess after hearing two speak Spanish after I rode up and asked for the patron. They speak a lot faster out in the Gulf islands than they do in old Mexico, and I’m told their Spanish is a bit different as well.
The guard I asked quickly established that my Spanish and his English were not up to the job so he motioned for me to wait and whistled for the corporal of the guard. After a briefing that worthy headed inside, and returned a few minutes later to wave me inside.
While I waited I took the opportunity to water the mare and to wash my face and hands as best I could. I was pretty dirty and disheveled, and but for the guns would appear to be nothing more than another refugee. I checked the mare’s hooves and wondered where Pork Chop was.
When the second guard motioned for me to follow him he led me into the darkened room where passengers would wait after buying their tickets. There, amidst more crates, I found a white man in a linen suit holding court. He was an older gentleman, in his fifties I would guess, with gray burr-cut hair and a posture that suggested a lot of time spent on horseback. He had hung his suit coat on a chair, exposing a shoulder rig supporting a Luger and pale blue suspenders. He was sitting at a wooden pew-like bench talking to two white men I pegged as Americans and ex-soldiers who were leaning against crates, holding a meerschaum cigarette holder with an amber mouthpiece between his thumb and index finger.
He motioned me over as the guard returned to his duties. “Good afternoon. I am Walter Bockmann. My man said you were looking for me?” I placed his accent as German, a German who spent a lot of time not speaking German.
“Yes, sir. I am Seth Peak, of the Pinkerton Agency.” I handed over my credentials.
“A Pinkerton?” The American on my left straightened up and took my credentials, holding them up to catch the light. He was a big fair-haired lout with a Boston Irish twang and a Colt Bisley worn cross-draw. “You lot turn up in the damnedest places.” He passed the leather folder back, giving Bockmann a slight nod as he did so.
“What brings the Eternal Eye to this part of Mexico?” Bockmann asked, taking a puff of the cigarette in his holder.
“It started out as a hunt for a man wanted in the United States, but it has developed into a lot more.”
“Did you get him?”
“The Pinkertons always see the job done. There’s something else going on down here, in this specific part of Mexico. I came here to warn you and ask you for help.”
“I am grateful for any warning you may give, but I am merely an agent of a firm devoted to the sale and distribution of quality manufactured goods,” Bockmann spread his hands in humble helplessness. “It is all I can do to help myself.”
“I understand. There is a man here who is infecting people with a sort of snake oil, it drives them crazy like nothing you’ve ever seen. It hops them up so bad that nothing short of a bullet to the head puts them down, and I’m not saying that as a figure of speech. You have to shoot them in the head.”
“Tough, huh?” Boston Irish grinned.
“The reason I look like I do is because this morning a friend and I located Colonel Sanchez of the Coranadoes to ask for help. I was with him when he took four hundred rebels and two Maxim guns against around eight hundred of the crazies and lost.”
“Colonel Sanchez was defeated?” Bockmann leaned forward slightly.
“Not just defeated, but killed; about a third of his command is dead and the rest scattered.” I waved a hand at my own appearance. “I was lucky to escape with my life.”
“What sort of arms are these ‘crazy men’ using?”
“Not much more than their bare hands.”
The three stared at me in disbelief. “I am familiar with Colonel Sanchez,” Bockmann smiled at me the way you smile at a raving drunk. “And his column. They would have had to be drunk or asleep for such a thing to have happened, and even then, there would be no guarantees.”
“You would think so,” I shrugged. “I certainly wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it. I don’t expect you to believe me, either. In the last few days these crazies have wiped out two Mexican Army detachments the same way, and the bunch that dealt with Colonel Sanchez is on their way here, so I rode ahead to give you the news. Just tell your men to aim for the head.”
“That is all? You rode all this way to warn us as a good Christian should?” Bockmann smirked.
“Not exactly.” I dug out the letter Brother Andrew had given me. “There’s an orphanage square in the path of this entire business. The monk in charge of it wanted me to give this to you.”
“So, shoot ‘em in the head, huh?” The other American, leaning against a crate to my right, observed. He was a short, stocky fellow with ginger hair and big hands.
“You would be well advised, yeah,” I nodded as the German studied the letter. “Keep it in mind while you wait for a train. Speaking of which, any idea when the next one arrives?”
“Wires are cut,” Red Hair jerked a thumb upwards. “Nothing coming through. Last word we had was that it was supposed to be here an hour ago. We’re packing up shop and heading elsewhere.”
“Made your sales?”
“Some. Enough.”
“We heard word of plague,” Boston Irish said thoughtfully. “That’s one reason we’re packing up.”
“I heard that, too, but I haven’t seen any.”
“Just crazy men who kill you with their bare hands, huh?”
“Plenty of those.”
“One of my boys was talking to the peons,” Boston Irish jerked his head to indicate the refugees outside. “They said that this is the end of times, that the dead walk and cities lay abandoned to the jackal and the crow.”
“Sinaloa is deserted,” I shrugged. “More than one village is, too. The bunch coming here won’t leave a man, woman, or child alive.”
Burgmann carefully folded the letter and tucked it into the inside pocket of his suit coat. Flicking the smoldering butt from his holder, he extracted a gold cigarette case and chose a fresh cigarette with care. Fitting it into the holder, he replaced the case in his pocket and accepted a light from Boston Irish. Taking a long drag, he absently flicked ash onto the floor as he blew a thin stream of smoke at his shoes, his face pensive. Finally he looked up at me. “Do you have any t
ransport?”
“Just a horse,” I said, startled.
“Benjamin, give him one of the wagons we are leaving behind. There are two boxcars, the western two, in which are odds and ends we are abandoning, along with a quantity of engineering supplies. Take what you will, and may God go with you.”
To say I was startled was an understatement, and from their expressions Boston Irish, Benjamin to the rest of the world, and the ginger weren’t expecting this, either.
“Sure thing, boss,” Ben jerked his head towards the rail side of the building. “Come on.”
A guard leaned in the door and reported something. “The train has been sighted,” Ginger-hair advised Bockmann, who immediately stood and donned his suit coat.
Out on the platform Ben rattled off some Spanish, orders from the tone, to a guard. “What was in that letter?” he asked.
“Haven’t a clue. Hadn’t read it.”
“I would give a week’s pay to have a look-the boss isn’t inclined towards charity.”
“He struck me as a shrewd businessman.”
“Better than shrewd. There’s men making money hand over fist down here, buying up arsenal leftovers from every war in the last fifty years and selling them to both sides. Burgmann’s one step ahead of everyone: he’s selling factory fresh weapons to both sides, and he’s doing it for free.”
“Free?”
“Yeah, at least as far as the buyers are concerned. These yokels are in a fight to the death, and he’s selling guns to both sides in return for signed contracts and leases. You know they have oil in Mexico?”
“No.”
“They do, quite a bit, I’m told. Burgmann is accepting mineral rights leases as fair currency, and selling them to Standard Oil, making a profit at both ends of the transaction. No matter which side wins, Standard Oil will have rights to the oil.”
“How much damned oil do they need, anyway? They’re drilling all over Oklahoma and Texas, too. Somebody’s going to go broke building enough tanks to hold all of it.”
