Renegade 21

by Lou Cameron

  Rosa was softer, looser, warmer, and more experienced than the one he’d had before. She moved great and he forgave her for being built bigger when she contracted with skill on his questing shaft and bounced so good he hardly had to do any work. Their upper torsos fit nicely together. He could lay more weight on her big soft breasts without worrying about her comfort. Considering what the two of them had put him and Gaston through only a little while ago, he was able to come in her fast. He could tell she enjoyed novelty too.

  But when she whispered further suggestions, nibbling his ear lobe as they relaxed in each other’s arms, he said, “I think we’d better quit while we’re ahead, querida.”

  Somewhere a tinny bugle sounded. He sighed and said, “See what I mean?”

  “Put it up my ass at least once,” Rosa pleaded, adding, “You did it to Dulcenita, no?”

  He laughed, dismounted, and wiped himself off before groping for his duds and insisting, “Later. There’s a general who might want to screw us, too. Are you girls coming on the expedition with us and the others?”

  Rosa pouted and said, “No. We are attached to the mess staff. And they say the odds are against either of you nice boys ever coming back alive. It’s not fair. Dulcenita got to take it in her ass and mouth with you and I’ll probably never see you again.”

  “Well, look at it this way, you’re ahead of her with Gaston’s dong, so it ought to even out. Are you getting dressed, Gaston?”

  “In a minute. At the moment I am giving this adorable child a Greek lesson.”

  “You see?” sobbed Rosa, swiveling around on her knees to shove her broad derriere almost in Captain Gringo’s face. He had his shirt on already. But he wanted to leave her with fond memories of them both. So he laughed, rose to his knees, and rubbed his semi-erection in the moist groove between her buttocks until it was hard enough to go almost anywhere. He said, “Lady’s choice,” and Rosa took the matter firmly in hand to work her tight rectal opening over the head, gasping, “Oh, wait, what am I getting into me?”

  “Maybe we’d better settle for doggy-style, eh?”

  “No, hold still, and let me get used to this … Oh, my God, are you sure Dulcenita took you this way, Deek?”

  “I never said she did.”

  “Well, she did!” Rosa gasped, pushing back with a determined grunt of mingled discomfort and dawning interest until it was well up her rear and she was able to take his first gentle thrusts. He asked how it felt and she said, “Just do it!” before switching to her own dialect to jeer at the giggling girl with Gaston. Then, as the tall American began to get interested enough to move faster, Rosa laughed lewdly and explained, “I caught her in a lie. Bueno. Now I, Rosa, am the only one who can say I took you both in the ass, no?”

  Across the tent, Dulcenita protested, “Pooh, I have just taken Señor Gaston so, and I sucked them both besides, so there!”

  Captain Gringo let himself go, to satisfy Rosa’s boast and his own horny nature. Then he wiped off carefully and hauled his pants and boots on before either of the adelitas could show off anymore.

  He noticed Gaston walking sort of funny too as they went outside to see what else was up. The sky was gray as the belly of a big dirty sheep and the whole world looked fuzzy and damp. They didn’t bitch. They both knew that by noon they’d be either sun-baked or under a cold shower with their clothes on. The only time the temperature was reasonable this far south was when it was dark or overcast but not raining.

  They noticed a commotion down the line and drifted that way, ignored by the few soldados moving up and down the tent rows on their own camp chores.

  The fuss was taking place just beyond the command tent. The general wasn’t in sight. That made sense, when you thought about it. Nobody fussed at generals. A junior officer and a senior noncom were arguing loudly while others stood around rooting for one side or the other. As the two soldiers of fortune approached, the sergeant was protesting, “For why must I leave my mujer behind in camp? By the beard of Christ, she is no mere adelita. We are married in the eyes of the Church as well as in the eyes of God, lieutenant!”

  The officer, the same young sullen guy who’d led Captain Gringo and Gaston to their tent the night before, looked just as snotty as he told the sergeant, “Your wife must stay behind precisely because she is your wife, God damn you both! As a military dependent she is carried on the official records as such, sergeant. El Generale’s orders are that no official records shall ever show that anyone connected with his command went with those foreign thugs he hired off the record!”

  The lieutenant spotted Captain Gringo and Gaston about then and added, with a nod, “Good morning. We were just talking about you.”

  Before either of them could answer, the sergeant demanded, with a puzzled scowl, “What am I, then, an orphan? I mean no disrespect, lieutenant, but, I have been regular army longer than any cabrón within sound of my voice right now!”

  The officer shrugged and said, “That may be true. But I still outrank you and I still say you’re coming with us for to cook for me. You are an army cook and I prefer army food to the beans and rice El Generale has issued those peon porters and their mujers. I am taking along my own rations. I need someone for to cook them. If you are captured, the books will say you were a deserter. If your wife was captured, the paperwork would smell of fish, since it’s well known that army wives do not desert too often.”

  The sergeant started to say something else. But the young officer snapped, “I am through discussing the matter, Sergeant Morales. You have your orders. Get your gear together and be ready to move out in half an hour. Oh, I almost forgot. We are moving out disguised as civilians. Find yourself some nondescript clothing and a campesino hat. You can wear your boots, and ponchos are optional.”

  Not giving the sergeant time to reply, the lieutenant turned to Captain Gringo and Gaston and said, “You two, come with me. Our peones are assembled along with our gear, down this way.”

  As they followed the snooty lieutenant, the sergeant was heard to announce to the world in general, “All right, you cabrónes, a good soldado does as he is commanded. But remember, I am coming back, and he who touches my woman dies!”

  As the soldiers of fortune followed the officer out of earshot, Gaston observed, “Eh bien, I admire your sense of strategy, Lieutenant. If the surly enlisted man’s wife remains here as a hostage to his good behavior, he shall no doubt behave trés good, non?”

  The officer permitted himself a frosty smile and replied, “They are like children. One has to direct their minds in wholesome channels. As a matter of fact, Sergeant Morales was stretching the truth with that remark about his long military service. It is true he’s been a soldado a long time. But up until a year or so ago he was cooking for the Granada forces.”

  Captain Gringo frowned and asked, “Can we trust him? How did he make sergeant for you guys if he started with the other side?”

  “Easy. Morales is a very good cook. El Generale only shoots POWs who are of no use to anybody.”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “Well, I guess you guys know what you’re doing.” But he only said it to be polite. Had it been up to him, they wouldn’t be taking along anybody just to serve the spoiled and pouty young officer. But if wasn’t up to him, and what the hell, Morales probably wouldn’t poison anyone if he really wanted to see his wife again someday.

  Gaston asked if any other regulars were going along with them. The lieutenant shook his head and said El Generale had only assigned him to tag along and make sure the mission went according to plan. He said his name was Vallejo and that he wanted to be called Lieutenant Vallejo even out of uniform. Captain Gringo said that was jake with him, as long as everyone remembered to call him Captain. Vallejo didn’t seem to think that was amusing.

  At the end of the tent line, a ragged-ass band of mestizo men and women stood as patient as burros around a big mound of canvas-wrapped bales. Captain Gringo counted bales and noses and it came out one hell of a load for
the dozen men and eight women. Vallejo indicated a log like object under a tarp and said, “That is your machine gun. The ammo belts are in the pack under it. Now, if you will excuse me, señores, I must go get dressed for the costume party.”

  He marched off in step with himself as Captain Gringo and Gaston moved over to the people around the pile. The tall American smiled and said, “Buenos dias, señores y señoras. Who is encargado here?”

  The peones looked bewildered. Then an older man took off his sombrero and said softly, “Por favor, nobody is in charge here, señor. None of us, at any rate. El Generale said all of us had to do just what you officers said for to do, or he will burn our village.”

  Captain Gringo nodded understanding and said, “Well, generals are like that. All right, my name is Ricardo Walker and I am called Captain Gringo for obvious reasons. This is Lieutenant Gaston Verrier, and if he tells anyone to do anything he’ll have my backing, whether I’m in sight or not. How are you called, viejo?”

  The old peon said, “I am called Nogales, Captain Gringo. My real name is Pedro, but everyone calls me Nogales for some reason and—”

  “Nogales it is,” Captain Gringo cut in, adding, “You’ll be in charge of the civilians attached to this expedition . Can you do it?”

  Nogales nodded hesitantly. A younger, bigger peon, who had been sulking in the rear of the class until now, protested, “For why are you putting Nogales over us, Captain Gringo? He is old and stupid!”

  “How are you called, muchacho?”

  “I am called Bruno. I am the toughest cabrón in our village too!”

  “You look tough, Bruno. But when I asked who was in charge, nobody answered but Nogales here. So, tough shit. Do you want to fight, Bruno?”

  The village bully blanched and stepped back a pace. Captain Gringo nodded curtly and said, “Bueno. Nogales, have you and your people eaten yet this morning?”

  The old man shook his head sadly and replied, “We have been waiting here all night for our orders, Captain Gringo.”

  “All right. Look through the packs for some rations you can eat cold. We’ll stop for a decent meal once we’re clear of this unfriendly neighborhood. So don’t overdo it.”

  As the old man smiled and began to open canvas flaps, Captain Gringo removed the tarp from the machine gun and handed it to Gaston. The weapon was a Maxim. So far so good. He opened the action and cursed. Gaston snorted in mutual disgust and said, “I could have told you. But look on the bright side. If it’s still stuffed with petroleum jelly, none of these fumble-fingered rectal openings have had a chance to fuck up the action since it left the factory in this trés greasy condition, non?”

  Captain Gringo snapped the breech closed and muttered, “I’ll have to field strip it total and adjust the head spacing before we dare to fire one round. Oh well, I didn’t bring any heavy reading anyway, and we figure to be on the trail a few nights before we run into anything important enough to use it on.”

  “True. I have always wanted to machine gun those damned bugs one meets in the jungle, but the little bastards won’t hold still long enough.”

  As they covered the Maxim, the cook, Morales, came to join them, wearing a big floppy sombrero and poncho. He spotted old Nogales handing out hardtack and roared, “What are you lousy mestizos doing in my rations? By the tits of the Virgin, I mean to flay your brown asses for this!”

  Captain Gringo said, “Take it easy, sergeant. I told them to chow down.”

  “You told them?” Morales roared, adding, “Who in the fuck do you think you are? I, Morales, am in charge of the rations, damn your Anglo eyes!”

  Captain Gringo said, “Oh, shit,” and decked Morales with a left-handed sucker punch.

  Morales was more surprised than hurt to find himself on his ass with blood running down his chin from a split lip. He rose to one knee, growled deep in his throat, and reached for something hanging at his side under his poncho. Then he froze as he found the muzzle of the tall American’s .38 staring him down. Captain Gringo said calmly, “Go ahead and try it, sergeant. I don’t give a shit either way. You’re not sassing a green junior officer now.”

  “You … you struck me!”

  “No shit? I thought you just wanted to play stoop tag, Morales. Let go that pistol and stand at attention when you address an officer, dammit! I’m not going to hit you again. I promise you that the next time you give me any lip, I’ll kill you.”

  Morales moved his hands out from under the poncho as he rose, saluted, and hit a brace. Captain Gringo put his .38 away, returned the salute, and said, “At ease Sergeant. The hombre I have distributing the breakfast rations is called Nogales. You tell him what you want him to do with your rations packs and he’ll do it. Carry on, Sergeant.”

  He deliberately turned his back on the red-faced and bewildered noncom, partly to test him, as he knew Gaston was covering the son of a bitch in Gaston’s usual sneaky way, and partly because he had had better things to worry about. He called Bruno over and said, “As soon as you finish that hardtack, we’ll see about letting you pack the machine gun for me. We’ll leave the tripod here, and I don’t see any reason for the water jacket to be filled while were lugging it, so …”

  “Can’t my mujer pack the machine gun for you, Captain Gringo? My mujer is very strong and I have an old back injury.”

  “Right. We’ll leave the water jacket filled. Water weighs eight pounds a gallon and the exercise will do you good. I have more gear here than all of us put together can carry. So what’s it going to be, Bruno? Do you want to sit down with a split lip too?”

  “No, thank you, Captain Gringo. I was only trying to be helpful. My mujer is most surefooted and never drops anything I tell her to carry.”

  “Bruno. I don’t want her dropping her pack, either. If you drop the machine gun I’ll blow your head off, and we wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?”

  Bruno was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Lieutenant Vallejo, at last. He was dressed like a very rich peon under a flashy poncho and a flat-crowned Spanish hat with fly tassels hanging from the stiff black brim. Captain Gringo resisted the impulse to suggest a rose between the lieutenant’s teeth. The jerk-off carried a brace of six-guns under the poncho, and El Generale would probably be a pain if they left him behind, dead or alive.

  Captain Gringo nodded at Vallejo and said, “We’ll be moving out in a minute. Just wanted to put something in their guts for breakfast first.”

  “For why?” Vallejo asked in apparently sincere bewilderment.

  Captain Gringo said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve tried to get people to work for me by just winding them up. But I can’t seem to find any keys on their backs. Before we get in any more trouble, could we settle on some ground rules, Lieutenant? As I get the picture, the general’s sending you along as an observer. With me in command, right?”

  Vallejo shrugged and replied, “My orders are not specific on that. I suppose as long as I think you’re doing your job right, I won’t have to issue you any orders. Why?”

  “Just wanted to get it straight. I, ah, had to hang a left on your cook, Sergeant Morales, just now. I think we got his position in the pecking order straightened out. Any objections?”

  Vallejo smiled for the first time since they’d met, albeit coldly, and said, “Be my guest. I would have done so earlier, if gentlemen fought with their fists. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you ever lay a finger on me without my permission, do I?”

  “No. I said I liked to see all the cards on the table, and if you don’t cross me I won’t cross you. Shall we get the show on the road?”

  “By all means, Captain Gringo. I am looking forward to seeing how a famous military expert does things. I shall just, how you say, watch?”

  Captain Gringo nodded curtly and muttered in English, “Watch this, then, shavetail!” as he turned and called out, “Gaston! Front and center! Bring Nogales with you on the double!”

  Gaston dragged the confused peon over
and asked, “What’s up, Dick?”

  “We’re moving out. I’ll take the point. You bring up the rear. Nogales, you and your people will load up and walk in single file between us.”

  “Por favor, señor, who carries what and—”

  “You were put in charge of that, old man. So do it!” snapped Captain Gringo as he strode over to the pile the machine gun sat atop, calling out, “Bruno! Get your fat ass here on the double!”

  As the big peon joined him, the tall American had already opened the petcock on the Maxim’s water jacket and was removing it from its tripod as the water dribbled like piss. He handed it to Bruno, saying, “Here, let this drain, since you’ve been such a good boy. Then wrap it in that tarp and hoist it to your shoulder. Grab that ammo with your free hand and catch up with me poco tiempo. I’ll be at the head of the column, and you’ll be right at my heels if you know what’s good for you.”

  Captain Gringo looked around, saw everyone busy as bees, and started walking, not looking back. He spotted the hard rubber hilt of a machete sticking out of a loose bundle and grabbed it on the fly, even though there was nothing important growing in his way as he entered the palmetto scrub. He’d need some guidance once they were out a way, but meanwhile the sun through the overcast threw enough shadows to show which way was west, at least. He wanted to shake out the kinks and rub in his dominance a bit more before he admitted that even he needed occasional advice, when and if he asked for it.

  He heard trotting footsteps behind him. He just kept walking at a brisk, but not too brisk, pace until Lieutenant Vallejo fell in at his side to say, in wonder, “I can’t believe it. They’re all lined up behind you and somehow everyone seems to be packing his or her fair share with no further orders from you or Verrier!”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “It’s a trick I learned from General Grant. Not Grant himself, of course. They told the story at West Point. Once upon a time General Grant needed a new aide-de-camp. There were three new shavetails fresh from the Point who wanted the job. Old Grant called the first one in and said, ‘Mister, if I told you I wanted a fifty-foot flagstaff erected in front of my tent, how would you go about it?’ How would you go about it, Lieutenant Vallejo?”