Renegade 21

by Lou Cameron

  The day dawned gray and clammy as a used contraceptive. When Captain Gringo was able to see far enough to matter, he was miles north of Gaston and the others, still running on high ground. Instead of plunging into the brushy canyon winding north from camp, the tall American had kept to the high open savanna it wound through. With any luck at all, by now he had to have outpaced anyone moving through the .scrub below.

  But if they were down there anywhere within a mile, they’d have him outlined against the sky now. So he cut right and slid down the slope on his heels and butt, holding the rifle across him at port arms, until he hit bottom.

  The canyon, as he’d assumed, had a fairly open sandy water channel winding through the tangled spinach filling most of it. He dropped behind a fallen tree, still in full leaf despite its roots having been undercut by the last flash flood through this particular stretch. He levered a round into the chamber of his Krag. Then he waited. He waited at least a million years.

  A bird that wasn’t in any nature-study book sang a song he’d never heard before above his head. A lizard covered with emerald scales came wandering along the fallen tree trunk, darting its little licorice-whip tongue to taste the bark ahead as it sensed Captain Gringo’s presence without being able to tell the exact location of the immovable object it sensed.

  The distraction helped. Captain Gringo knew all too well how many an ambush went sour because somebody got impatient. Aside from the way his balls and mosquito-bitten cheek were itching, he had to fight the growing certainty that he was waiting, and waiting, for nothing much. If the guys he’d tried to cut off had made better time than anticipated along the dry hard-packed sand running down the middle…

  “They didn’t,” he insisted to himself, remembering how far he’d run across the high ground above, in a straighter line. He told himself the wise-asses with the stolen machine gun wouldn’t have just bolted down a strange canyon in the dark. Aside from having to hack their way at least some of the time, they’d have stopped from time to time to cover the trail behind them, in case.

  Or had they? They might have assumed that, with any number of escape routes to choose from, and given the fact they had the only serious weapon for miles, nobody had been dumb enough to follow them. In that case, they could have passed this stretch by now, and as Captain Gringo crouched there like an idiot listening to birds…

  He told himself it wouldn’t hurt to move north down the sand a way and see if he could pick up any footprints. Then he stared at the open sand in front of him and warned himself not to listen to idiots. The crust of dead flat sand he had the rifle trained on was unbroken.

  But, of course, if they’d been smart enough to avoid open stretches and if they’d hugged the slopes above where the brush met dry grass…

  “If the dog hadn’t stopped to shit he’d have caught the rabbit!” Captain Gringo growled silently. It was well he did so. He’d no sooner growled the old army bromide when he heard voices coming his way from the south.

  The tall American was already down and sighting the Krag. So he didn’t move a muscle as he heard someone complaining, “I can’t carry this all the way, señor. I have hurt my foot. I have not boots like yourself, por favor!”

  A more familiar voice replied, “You will carry for me or I will kill you. Move, you lazy peon!”

  Then they broke cover. Lieutenant Vallejo was herding the porter called Ernesto at gunpoint. Ernesto was packing the Maxim. Vallejo had another Krag’s muzzle against Ernesto’s floating ribs.

  Captain Gringo grimaced. He’d have liked to have a longer conversation with the son of a bitch, but Vallejo’s rifle was aimed right at him, through Ernesto. So Captain Gringo drew a bead on the shaded brow under the fancy tasseled brim of Vallejo’s Spanish hat, and fired.

  Vallejo fired too, in a mindless reflex as his brains exploded from his shattered skull. The lieutenant’s body fell backward, and Ernesto fell forward, landing face down with the machine gun across the nape of his neck.

  Captain Gringo moved in to survey the damage. He picked up the Maxim and brushed off the sand. Then he lay it on a patch of dry grass and rolled Ernesto over. The peon’s eyes opened. In an injured tone, he said, “I think you have killed me, señor!”

  “I didn’t kill you. Your amigo, Vallejo, did. Shall we talk about that? You’ve got at least a few minutes left and you may as well spend them as comfortable as you can.”

  “Por favor, don’t hurt me, Captain Gringo! It was all the lieutenant’s fault! I told him you would catch us. He made me do it. This I swear!”

  The American nodded and asked, “What was the hold he had over you?”

  Ernesto said, “He knew I once deserted the army. I don’t see why he cared. It was never my fight and I never asked to join any army. But he said if El Generale found out, my people would suffer and—”

  “Skip the details. Frankly, this doesn’t figure to be a long conversation, amigo. Do you know how he worked that prank on me in the swamp?”

  “Si; he was very pleased with himself and boasted to me about it. He awoke to find Morales gone. He went after Morales without waiting to put on his clothes. He saw you in trouble. He tried to help you die. When it did not work, he came back ahead of you, put on his clothes, and, as he said, made the big fool of you!”

  “Okay. Did Morales get away after Vallejo filled his head with stories about his cheating wife being passed around among the officers?”

  The wounded man didn’t answer. He wasn’t wounded anymore. He was dead. Captain Gringo closed Ernesto’s eyes for him, then salvaged both the dead men’s arms and ammunition before hoisting the Maxim to his shoulder and heading back. The load was a bitch and going up the steep slope was a lot rougher than sliding down it had been, but he made it.

  Early as it was, the sun was burning off the morning mists now and the day figured to be a scorcher. He was sweating like a pig by the time he made it back to Gaston and the pathetic handful of survivors waiting by the piled supplies and fresh-turned mounds of red earth.

  Captain Gringo dropped his load atop a canvas-covered mound and told Gaston, in English, “The lieutenant. He told us he was getting tired of walking.”

  Gaston nodded and murmured, “Let’s keep it among us girls. I have put two and two together and already come up with a possible breach of contract if Portola wants to be silly about his observation team, hein?”

  “Right. We don’t know nothing. Morales must have gotten lost in that swamp. Who can say where Vallejo and Ernesto went after we got smoked up by some person or persons unknown? Where’s old Nogales?”

  Gaston pointed with his chin at a grave mound and said, “Four men and six women left. The other adelita we had to bury with Florita was Luisa, and she was ugly. C’est la guerre. You didn’t really need to bring those rifles back, Dick. We have more guns and debris in general than six men and six women can possibly carry, non?”

  “Yeah. We’ll eat as big a breakfast as we can hold and only pack the absolutely essential ammo and explosives.”

  Gaston frowned and asked, “Don’t you have that backwards, Dick? We’re several hungry days and nights from the Costa Rican border, and the idea about the dam will have to be shelved, non?”

  “No. With guns we can eat off the country. Now that we’re down to half-a-dozen guys and maybe some tough dames, it’s going to take every stick of dynamite we can carry to take that construction site out.”

  Gaston sighed and made the sign of the cross as he muttered, “Why did I not listen to my poor old mother when she told me I had the makings of a good cat burglar? I keep telling us you are going to get us all killed, and, as you see, you are doing it trés rapidly! Use your head, you species of stubborn bull! Now that we have been whittled down to a modest crowd, crossing the border should be no great problem, but—”

  “Oh, shut up and let’s eat, dammit,” Captain Gringo cut in, adding, “The map says we should be somewhere near the headwaters of that tributary the other side wants to dam. We’re not
gonna get paid unless we blow it, and I’m tired of being a bum. We go back to San José with money to spend for a change, or dammit, we just ain’t going.”

  “That’s what I just tried to tell you,” said Gaston.

  The next twenty-four hours were more uncomfortable than interesting. After stuffing their guts, the survivors marched downhill half the day, packing ammo, explosives, and a little coffee and rice. At noon they cut through swampy lowlying jungle for a few hours, then got to march uphill until Captain Gringo called another halt for the day atop a savanna-covered rise that looked much like the one on which they’d spent the previous night.

  The male and female membership of the expedition evened out now. But Captain Gringo hadn’t taken time to get next to any of the adelitas left. He was heartsick, leg sore, and none of the sweaty dirty-faced mujers inspired him in particular. They brewed a pot of coffee to pass around, and he noticed that Gaston had been working on old Teresa, as the fat but still fairly pretty one was called. Captain Gringo turned in alone. He’d replaced his bloodstained bedding with odds and ends less shot up before leaving the other camp that morning. He still had trouble getting comfortable after dark. He knew it was only his imagination, or the body odor of some other adelita, that was haunting his lonely bedroll now. It bothered him anyway. But he managed to catch a few hours’ sleep before Gaston shook him awake to say they had trouble.

  They hadn’t posted guards. Partly because they were so far out in the middle of nowhere and mostly because they all needed rest. Captain Gringo cursed himself for risking it when Gaston said two of the men and their adelitas had deserted during the night. They’d left most of their ammo behind, but they’d swiped the last of the coffee and rice.

  So as they sat around the dead embers of the campfire in the morning mist, the two soldiers of fortune and their dumb or faithful remaining followers shared cigar smoke for breakfast.

  The four girls and two male peones looked more frightened than hungry. Captain Gringo assured them they’d doubtless flush a deer before they starved to death, and there was no water problem in the rainy season. As if to make his point, it started to rain some more. He didn’t want to get their map in worse shape than it was. So he read it from memory as he pointed southwest with his chin and said, “You can’t see it from up here, but the valley ahead is it. This rain is freshening the headwaters of the Rio Dorado and the Rio Dorado runs into the San Juan, when nobody dams it. I figure we’re maybe two days’ march from the dam site. We may be able to make better time rafting down the Dorado. Does anybody here know if it’s navigable?”

  They just stared at him dumbly from under the dripping brims of their sombreros. He nodded and said, “That’s what I thought you’d say. Bueno. We’ll find out when we get there.”

  Gaston had been thinking. He said, “I have never been up the Dorado. But the name is trés interesting, non?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “The old Spaniards were always expecting El Dorado around the next bend. They may have named it the ‘gilded river’ because there was some placer gold in it, or just because they hoped there was. There’s a little color in lots of the Central American mountain streams. So far, nobody’s ever found a serious mother lode.”

  “True. But when one mentions gold in the same breath as one discusses vast construction activities across a stream-bed.”

  “Forget it. If there was enough placer to matter near the mouth of the Rio Dorado, there’d be a Spanish ghost town instead of empty jungle there. We’ve got enough to worry about without abandoned gold mines, Gaston.”

  “How do you know? Can you think of a better reason to indulge in trés fatigué dredging and damming that nobody seems to be paying for, Dick?”

  Captain Gringo let it go. Maybe if the last two porters thought they were hunting for gold they wouldn’t desert right away. Captain Gringo got to his feet and said, “Well, we’re going to have to leave one box of dynamite and the extra rifles behind. There are eight of us left. Eight times forty is three-twenty and that’s not enough. Okay, if the four girls pack forty each and us tough guys pack sixty … damn, that’s not going to leave us much boom-boom when it’s time to boom-boom, is it?”

  Gaston said he had a better idea. Captain Gringo told him to shut up.

  He got everybody loaded up and moving out before he wondered if he was really going anywhere important packing the heavy Maxim and an extra hundred pounds of gear. But what the hell. At least it was cool with the rain coming down. So he headed down slope.

  The view ahead was mostly shifting veils of rain, but the grassy savanna was open and free of machete work. So they were making good time. It now seemed pointless for Gaston to bring up the rear of what was no longer a column. So the Frenchman walked at Captain Gringo’s side, bitching about their going the wrong way. He pointed to their left and said, “This ridge must run close to the San Juan and the border, non? Wait, before you say boring things about a deal being a deal, let us consider that we have tried as much as any reasonable general could expect!”

  “General Portola isn’t reasonable and he can stop that check with one wire, dammit!”

  “True, if he decides to do so before we can reach the bank in San Jose. But who is likely to tell him he should, my Quixotique reader of oral contracts? If those deserters are picked up at all, it will be days from here and now. Portola has no reason to assume we are not still trudging madly on toward the doomed dam site. If we hasten for San Jose, before he begins to wonder …”

  Captain Gringo shook his head stubbornly and said, “We can’t cash that check without doing the job.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Dick. I just explained how we could.”

  “Yeah? Then what? Who’s going to hire a couple of soldiers of fortune after word gets around that they double-crossed a client? Besides, I want that bonus Portola promised.”

  “Merde alors, to collect the bonus, we’d not only have to try for the thrice-accursed dam, we’d have to destroy it so completely that Portola and the Leon junta would never have to worry about it again!”

  “Yeah, and I’m not sure we have enough dynamite, even if the guys at the dam site showed us where to plant it. But pick ’em up and lay ’em down, old buddy. We sure as hell can’t do a thing about it till we get there.”

  Gaston dropped back to talk dirty to Teresa. Captain Gringo trudged on alone on point, frowning as he heard the rumble of thunder ahead. That was all they needed now. So far, the only thing they’d escaped getting hit by was lightning. But they were on a high open slope. So how did one get off it pronto?

  He swung for a brushy draw running more or less westward down the open savanna slope. He heard the crackle of… lightning, again. He frowned as he scanned the open sky over that way. He didn’t see any sign of lightning in the ash-gray clouds ahead.

  He called a halt and whistled Gaston over near the lip of the ravine. Gaston said, “Oui, it sounds more like gunfire than thunder to me, too. What do you think we should do about it? If it were up to me, I’d of course be digging in or moving in a sensible direction. But I see you have that wicked look in your eye again.”

  Captain Gringo started unloading most of the gear he was packing. He told the others to take cover in the brush below. As they did so, he checked the fit of the soggy canvas ammo belt in the Maxim, then wrapped the free end loosely around his waist. Gaston sighed and made sure there was a round in the chamber of his rifle before he told the peones to stay put and followed Captain Gringo.

  They didn’t duck down in the arroyo to their right. It was there for cover when and if they needed it. Meanwhile, they could move faster along the grassy rim, and nobody could see more than a city block in the falling rain in any case.

  They moved down slope until a tree line loomed ahead. A rifle squibbed in the distance. Gaston nodded and said, “Oui, the firefight is taking place on the other side. Hopefully nobody is expecting anyone at all to drop in from this direction. But do we really have to, Dick? Nobody on either
side ahead could possibly be anyone we’re fond of!”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer. He saw, as they neared the wall of trees, that it was merely a planted shelter belt. A rusty barbed-wire fence ran between the double row of cedar. Vines and other crud had of course climbed up to dangle from the three strands of wire and the patent metal termite-proof posts it was strung between. The vines offered a screen, albeit not a bulletproof one, as the soldiers of fortune eased up to it for a look beyond.

  The view was interesting. Down slope was a substantial ranch house, with gun smoke drifting from its shattered windows. Farther up the slope, backs to Captain Gringo and Gaston, a skirmish line of men in ragged khaki and crossed ammo bandoleros was peppering the ranch house from behind tree stumps and an occasional boulder. As Captain Gringo braced die Maxim across the fence, Gaston whispered, “Wait! How do we know who the good guys and the bad guys are, Dick?”

  “Jesus, can’t you tell banditos when you see ’em?”

  “Eh bien, ragged rascals bearing arms are hardly ever anything else in these parts. But what if the ones in the house are as bad?”

  “We’ll have half as many to deal with,” Captain Gringo replied, as he let the ammo belt fall between his booted feet and opened up with the Maxim at point-blank range.

  Sombreros, weapons, and other bits and pieces flew skyward as spine-shot men jerked one last time and died while Captain Gringo traversed the line of exposed skirmishers. One rolled over the rock he’d been behind as Maxim slugs bounced off it. So Captain Gringo missed him. But someone from the house didn’t, and that was that. Captain Gringo still had half a belt left when he stopped firing. It seemed eerie, listening to the kitten-clawed raindrops all around in the sudden silence.

  Finally a door opened a crack and a voice from the besieged house called out, “God bless you, whoever you are, and look out for your flanks! There were others on the far side! They seem to have ridden off, but they may not have.”