The Death Hunter

by Lou Cameron

  The boy looked blank and Captain Gringo tried, “Do you know a trail that runs along the seashore to the south?”

  Zurdo said, “I have never been that far from this village, señor. But I am sure I can find the way.”

  Captain Gringo’s voice was firm but gentle as he shook his head and said, “You’d better stay here, Zurdo. We know you’re muy hombre but your mother and sister need you to protect them.”

  The boy looked pleased and said, “You may be right, señor. But I wish there was some way I could thank you for what you did for us. I will never forget how you saved Joselita’s honor.”

  Captain Gringo looked away and said, “Por nada, Zurdo. I was happy to be of service. Let’s go, guys. I want to get out of this valley before it starts to get hot.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sun was high and the trail was a dusty oven by the time they rounded a bend and saw the Pacific as an inverted triangle of blue between mustard yellow hills. Captain Gringo picked up the pace as the cooler tang of salt-scented air dried the sweat on his brow. But when the trail wound under a grove of gnarled trees he called a break. It was the first shade they’d seen for hours and there was no telling when they’d see more.

  As the weary men took off their packs and flopped to smoke and relax, Captain Gringo moved up the slope for a better view. Gaston joined him as he paused in knee-high wild mustard on the crest. The Frenchman pointed with his chin and said, “There would be a village down there if there was water enough to matter. This valley we have been following runs deserted into the sea.”

  Captain Gringo said, “I know. The map says this trail joins another running more or less along the shore.”

  “Merde, you call this a trail? It is little more than a goat path.”

  “There’s not much land traffic over here. The coast is dry and rugged. Most traffic moves by water. The few villages along the coast may as well be islands. You’d have plenty of privacy if you knew a cove too poorly watered to attract settlers.”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “We know the gang we wiped out came this way, in the opposite direction. Save for the mysterious Punta Purgatorio, they would seem to have passed every cove, deserted or not, non?”

  “Maybe. We’ll take our time and make sure we don’t skip anything. That shoreline ahead doesn’t look too promising. See how far out the waves are breaking?”

  “Oui, the bottom is most shallow, a mile off shore. But what if we find nothing at this Punta Purgatorio?”

  “We keep walking south, of course. The more I study the map, the more sense I see to those other guys not bothering. There’s only that one place you can land on the point with a sea-going ship. They might have thought it was a long detour for nothing.”

  Gaston nodded and said, “I don’t see any reason to hairpin out to sea there, either. How curious that one of them said it was because their leader was afraid. I fail to see what he could have been afraid of.”

  Captain Gringo said, “That makes two of us. They had guns and there were twice as many of them. They couldn’t have been afraid of the folks in that little fishing village. They didn’t hesitate to make themselves at home in another village just as large.”

  “Fishermen may be tougher than hill farmers, non?”

  “Not that much tougher. There must be something else out on the point that’s not on the map. The map’s survey date is 1880, so it’s over a dozen years out of date. There may be a new coast guard station or something out there, now.”

  “Hmm, in that case we may be well advised to avoid the place non?”

  “Why? We’re not doing anything the Costa Rican government doesn’t approve of.”

  “Are you sure? Colonel Delgado thinks we went to the east coast. He and his German friends may be upset to learn of your change in the agreed-on plans.”

  Captain Gringo nodded, but said, “You’re crossing bridges before you come to them. We don’t know what scared those other guys off.”

  Then he suddenly swore, grabbed Gaston’s arm, and hissed, “Down!”

  Gaston was too old a soldier to argue, but as they both dropped down in the weedy cover, he gasped, “What and where? I did not see or hear a thing!”

  Captain Gringo said, “Over thereto the northwest, in the sky!”

  Gaston stared openmouthed at a pea-shaped object against the cobalt blue Pacific sky and blurted, “Sacre! It looks like a balloon!”

  “It is a balloon,” said Captain Gringo, adding, “It’s being towed along the shoreline by a boat we can’t see from here. Isn’t it funny how Greystoke said I was crazy when I suggested that idea?”

  Gaston peered up at the bobbing observation balloon and asked, “Do you suppose his reaction to your suggestion was occasioned by the fact that we are now regarding a Royal Navy balloon in action?”

  “I’d be surprised as hell to find a Bulgarian vessel at the bottom end of that tow line! Whatever it is should be heaving into view through that gap in the hills over there any minute. Keep your head down and your eyes open.”

  A voice called up from the trees down the slope, “Hey, Cap? There’s a fucking balloon heading our way! Do you see it?”

  He yelled back, “Yeah. Everybody stay under cover! It’s not coming over us. It’s scouting the shoreline.”

  Gaston said, “Ah, there is our mysterious vessel, now.”

  Captain Gringo stared into the V of blue and said, “Gunboat. I wish we had field glasses. I can’t make out her colors, can you?”

  Gaston peered at the squat gray steam craft towing the balloon and shook his head, but said, “I would guess she was Yankee. The Royal Navy paints its ships a darker shade.”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “I thought it seemed a little raw for the British. Greystoke knows the U.S. Navy’s searching on its own. He got excited when I suggested it because he’s not supposed to know things like that. It’s not polite to spy on your allies.”

  Gaston said, “Merde, I see no reason for all this beating about les bushes. Everyone along this coast knows what the U.S. Navy is doing if they have eyes!”

  Captain Gringo said, “Greystoke wasn’t supposed to know about it in advance. The Yanks have obviously just started today.”

  “How on earth can you say that? How do you know they have not been at it for weeks?”

  “Easy. The U.S. Consulate sent those other irregulars as a diversion while they made their plans. U.S. Naval Intelligence hasn’t had any more luck than the British with shore patrols. So now they’ve taken the gloves off. How high would you say that thing was, a mile?”

  “At least, why?”

  “They’ve swept this far south and they haven’t spotted anything. Things are looking up. We can forget about everything north of us. The guys up in that basket can spot anything in the way of a hidden cove within fifty miles of the shoreline.”

  Gaston said, “True, and that gunboat is making eight or ten knots. We may as well head back to San Jose, unless you had some other place in mind.”

  “What are you talking about, Gaston? We haven’t even reached the Pacific trail yet.”

  “So what? That U.S. Navy observation balloon has made us tres redundant! Look, the gunboat just passed behind those hills to the south and the balloon will soon follow, much faster than we can walk. By the time we even reach our precious Punta Purgatorio, those others will have rounded it and be almost to the Panamanian border. If there is anything to these mad rumors of a secret German submarine base, they will surely see it from the air.”

  “Somebody still has to wipe it out, right?”

  “Dick, you are obviously not listening. We are a small band of lightly armed and very weary men. That gunboat carries cannon that go boom-boom, hein?”

  “Shit, the U.S. Navy’s not about to fire on a German force without a declaration of war. They’re bound by rules we don’t have to worry about. When and if they spot the base, Uncle Sam will send a polite note to the Kaiser about it through diplomatic channels. The Kaiser wil
l say it’s some sort of mistake and the next time anybody looks, the sub base won’t be there.”

  “The results as far as the safety of the canal will be the same, non?”

  “Hell no, Grey stoke wants it out of action, not moved to another secret location.” He watched the balloon bobbing off to the south and sighed, “Damn, if there was only some way to keep that thing in sight it might lead us right to the place. They’ll probably wire down for the boat to heave to and let them snap some photographs, once they see something.”

  He saw it was safe to expose himself, now, and got to his feet as he added, “Come on, we’ve got to get this show on the road.”

  Gaston followed him down the slope, protesting, “Merde, this is madness. Long before we can reach anything they find, they will have completed their reconnaissance and reeled that foolish balloon in. The Germans, having seen the balloon, will be packing up to move.”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “I know. I can’t think of a better time to hit them, can you?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Southern Californian would have felt at home on the west coast of Costa Rica, but a prudent sailor would have stayed well off shore. The Pacific swells swept in as long curling breakers on the shallow pocket beaches or horrendous explosions of soaring Whitewater against the rocky points. The narrow trail along the shoreline teetered on the lips of crumbling sea cliffs or dropped down through swampy canyon mouths choked with tule reeds and salt marsh mosquitoes who’d obviously been waiting for a good meal.

  The few sails they spotted from time to time stood well toward the distant horizon. There were no lighthouses or other navigational aids and Captain Gringo knew the gunboat towing the observation balloon was skippered by a dedicated and daring man, if not a fool. Patches of what looked like blood-stained seawater just beyond the breaker line bespoke kelp-covered reefs offshore. Things were looking up. The commander of a submarine or any other kind of war vessel would need two things going for him if he intended to put in along this treacherous coast. Aside from at least a narrow channel of deep water, there would have to be a landmark clearly visible from far out to sea. As he led his patrol up another rise, the tall American stopped and stared inland at the tawny hillsides.

  Gaston joined him as the other men sank down without being told to. Gaston asked what was up and the American said, “I’m trying to picture what these hills look like from six or eight miles out.”

  Gaston said, “The scenery is not unlike Corsica. Good bandit country. That brush is greener than the maquis we have around the Mediterranean, but it would serve the same purpose. These little isolated beaches were obviously designed with smugglers and coastal pirates in mind, non?”

  “We’re not looking for guys in shallow draft day-sailers. So far, I haven’t seen a cove a seagoing vessel could put in. And look how those hilltops to the east all flatten out at the same level.”

  “But of course. We know this country is the eroded edge of the main mesa we came down from. What of it?”

  “At night or even on an overcast day, this coast would just be a solid mass from the sea. I’m looking for something sticking up, like a butte or a substantial peak.”

  “Aha! I see. One does not thread the needle blind. But perhaps someone on shore could shine a light at night, non?”

  “Clumsy. The U.S. Navy patrols this coast and a dozen merchant marines follow that north-south sea lane just offshore. There are tuna boats out there, too. Fishermen don’t sail by time and tide. They move at random, with a lookout scanning the horizon day and night.”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “I still say one can buy a poor fisherman at modest rates.”

  But Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “There’s too many of them. Hell, Yank schooners sail down here from San Diego after tuna. There are bound to be tramp steamers running between North and South America out there, and they don’t post sailing times, either. Shore signals are just too big a risk.”

  Gaston stared morosely down toward the sea and as a town-sized patch of white water ebbed back from the shore to expose a shingled bottom, he said, “We are not going to find anything here.”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “I know. Everybody up. We’ll take a chow break in an hour.”

  He led them on, cursing and scuffing the red dust as they legged it up another rise. The sea to their right looked cool and inviting, but because the wind was offshore, they were breathing the hot medicine smell of hillside chaparral and the sun was hot as hell.

  Captain Gringo paced himself, aware that the packs and Maxim gun his followers packed were heavy, but some of the men still found it a killing pace. More than one secretly envied the deserter, Collins, even though common sense told them he’d probably made a dumb move. The men were legged up and in better shape than when they’d started out. But their leader knew it and kept calling for more from them.

  Captain Gringo topped the rise and stopped again, smiling thinly. Gaston grabbed a trailside branch to steady himself. Then he, too, looked pleased. He said, “That has to be Punta Purgatorio. A more reasonable man would have taken another day reaching it!”

  Captain Gringo ignored the thrust as he examined the distant land mass ahead. The shoreline swung out to sea in a line of scalloped black cliffs and dark rusty-looking pocket beaches, dominated by a brooding volcanic cone, Monte Purgatorio itself. The mountain’s base formed most of the point. The trail ran out along its dark flanks like a red chalk mark on dark slate. Far to the west, almost at the end of the point, a blurred whitewashed jumble and lighthouse was visible evidence of the one fishing village his map said was there. As his men clustered around him on the rise, Captain Gringo said, “We can make that town before dark if we forget the chow break. What do you guys say?”

  The Detroit Harp shifted the Maxim on his shoulder and said “I’ll race yez there, this gun and all!”

  T.B. Jones grinned and added, “I’ve never seen a seaport where they don’t have booze and bimbos, Cap. Screw the chow break. I’ll buy the first round in the cantina!”

  Captain Gringo smiled, but warned, “Easy does it, guys. That little town out there isn’t Panama City or Tampico. We’re more likely to find simple and somewhat backward fisherfolk.”

  Bomber grinned and said, “Hell, Cap, all we want is some simple fucking. They can fish backwards all they like.” Then he caught the look in his leader’s eyes and quickly added, “We’ll feel our way, Cap. We ain’t a bunch of green kids just over the border.”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Right. Nobody leaves the party or puts his gun down until we’ve secured the area. Let’s pick ’em up and lay ’em down. Route step four-forty.”

  He led off at a brisk march, knowing they’d have no trouble keeping up, with a visible goal to perk up their morale. The trail led them down through a brush-choked canyon and over another rise of squishy ice plant, then repeated itself. But each time they dropped low they could see the peak of the volcano now. And though it seemed to recede before them, they were old campaigners who knew they were closing the distance with each weary step. Gaston, as ever, had to find something to bitch about. So, as they were struggling up another slope, he pointed at the crest of Monte Purgatorio and complained, “There is smoke rising from that volcano, Dick.”

  Captain Gringo said, “I noticed. So what? Volcanoes are supposed to smoke.”

  “Perhaps a whiff of steam now and then. This is only natural for a tame and dozing monster. That son of a bitch is alive!”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “The map says it’s a dormant cone. That fishing village wouldn’t be out there sitting in its lap if Monte Purgatorio erupted very often, Gaston.”

  “Merde alors! One eruption is enough! You have heard, of course, of Krakatoa?”

  “Sure. It was in all the papers a few years ago. That was another volcano in another part of the world.”

  “I know. I passed Krakatoa on a troop ship, once, when I was still with the legion in Indochina.”<
br />
  “Jesus, were you out there the night Krakatoa blew its top, Gaston?”

  “Of course not. I am still, as you see, alive. The point I am trying to make is that Krakatoa was a dormant volcano, too. As our ship passed the island, they told us this. The fumes from the crater were not as dramatic as those we are approaching at the moment.”

  Captain Gringo slapped at a fly on the back of his neck and shot a glance at the ugly black cloud above Monte Purgatorio. Then he snorted in disgust and said, “So someday it might start acting up. So what? What are the odds of a volcanic eruption on the very day we show up?”

  “I would have said the odds on our arriving in Nicaragua just as the revolution blew up in our faces would have been most slim too, hein? I do not like volcanoes. Especially out on a narrow point of land where one has no room to move away from one should one wish to sidestep lava!”

  Captain Gringo didn’t want the other men to stew about it, so he told Gaston to knock it off. The idea was ridiculous, anyway.

  They came to a stretch of soil that looked like coal clinkers and afforded little in the way of vegetation. He saw the trail branched. The main path continued south, bypassing the peninsula. The other ran out along the north shoreline of Punta Purgatorio. So he followed it. The lava rock was funny stuff. It lay about in spongy masses of almost metallic cocoa-black where it hadn’t been broken. But the crushed dust and gravel of the trail had turned brick red in the sea air. The trail was easier to follow by eye than it was by foot. It gritted like broken glass under their heels and a man in bare feet couldn’t have traveled a mile on it.

  The bright red path made Captain Gringo miss the thin strands of a barbed-wire fence until they were quite close to it. The fence ran across the trail with no provisions for a gate. A small wooden sign was nailed to a fence post. It read, in Spanish, “Private Property. Keep Out.”

  Captain Gringo paused and swept his eyes both ways along the fence. To his right it ended above a sheer drop to the breakers below. To the left it ran up the slope of Monte Purgatorio as far as he could make it out. Beyond the fence, a swale of chaparral followed a drainage line down the mountain to the sea and a low rambling cluster of stone buildings dominated the heights above a pocket beach. The rancho or whatever was a quarter-mile away and out of earshot. He didn’t see a sign of life. So he shrugged and put a foot on the lower wire to wedge it open as he said, “See if you can duck through with the machine gun, Harp.”