Gringo Wade

by Tony Masero

  “But why do you think your father agreed to lead such a disloyal venture in the first place?”

  “I believe he was in debt to Captain Stockton. It was an old thing my mothers says, a debt of honor. I cannot believe he would agree to go on this journey willingly for any other reason.”

  Gringo nodded. “We’d best go back. Night draws in and we are alone out here.’

  “My thoughts exactly,” she said with a saucy grin, as she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest.

  It was some little time before they made their way back to the mission house.

  The courtyard was alive with separate fires when they got back. The convoy had partitioned itself along either racial or inclination lines. The Mexicans sat to one side, the sailors to another and Mrs. Darby and the mountain men to another. The collapsed outbuildings had supplied a mountain of fuel and none of groups were stinting in its use.

  Gringo frowned as he looked up at the columns of sparks and reddened smoke rising into the night air. It was an advertisement for trouble, he considered.

  “Captain,” he said, walking over to Alcazar who sat with his fellow lancers. “Do you think this is wise?”

  The captain looked up at him, spreading his hands in query.

  “The fires, man. Look up, that will be seen for miles.”

  Alcazar raised his eyes and then frowned in concern. “You are right. It did not occur to me,” he turned to his men, ordering them to reduce the blaze.

  Gringo crossed to the sailors to give them the same message and he noticed from the corner of his eye that Ellen hung back as he approached the group and momentarily he wondered at her reticence.

  Brewster sat on an upturned bucket, clay pipe clenched between his teeth and watched the mountain man.

  “See you struck lucky there, mountain man,” he sneered at Gringo before the mountain man could utter a word.

  Gringo jerked his chin, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

  “The girl, buck,” he pointed his pipe stem at Ellen, hovering in the shadows outside the glow from the fire. “Why it’s a fine piece of tail, isn’t it?” Brewster confided with a leering smile. “Almost made some of that myself.”

  The men around him chuckled in appreciation.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Gringo asked, his anger rising.

  “Gringo,” called Ellen nervously. “Come away.”

  Gringo turned to look at her, then back at Brewster. “What’s this about?” he asked.

  “Come on,” grinned the master gunner, his eyes narrowing and the firelight glinting on his stained teeth. “I seen you out there in the dark, dallying with the lass. We’d all like to dip our wicks. Wouldn’t we boys?”

  There was a low growl of approval from the others.

  “Old Brewster here got his back striped for chasing that one,” chuckled Bowley.

  “See, lads,” confided Brewster to his cronies. “I told you didn’t I. The girl plays the field. She’ll even give it up to a trapper in stinking buckskin.”

  He got no further as Gringo catapulted forward, his face a mask of anger. Ellen screamed as Gringo launched himself at Brewster. The gunner tumbled backwards off his seat with Gringo on top and they rolled in the dust as the rest of the sailors leapt to their feet.

  “Fight!” jabbered the bald-headed Jinks excitedly. “Lordy! It's a fight.”

  “Guess that little miss, means more than a kiss-an’-run to the mountain man,” laughed Bowley as Gringo cracked Brewster hard across the jaw with his fist.

  “Come on Brewster,” called Kirby, “Get off your duff and give him what for!”

  Brewster who had not been expecting the attack and was completely taken by surprise, began to recover and booted Gringo away from him. He had no notion of the affection the two lovers had formed and thought that to Gringo, like himself and his shipmates, Ellen meant no more than a tidy looking plaything. Gringo, for his part, had not been told of Brewster’s assault on Ellen and the sailor’s crude words bit him deep.

  The two got to their feet and squared off. Gringo crouching, ready to spring again whilst Brewster circled, wiping blood from his split lip on the back of his hand.

  “You’re going to pay for that, you shitheel,” he snarled.

  Gringo said nothing, waiting for the opening. Brewster bustled forward, relying on his weight and brawny strength but Gringo moved like an eel and snaked to one side, delivering a hefty hook to Brewster’s side as he moved. The gunner whoofed air and winced, gritting his teeth. He reached out to encircle Gringo in his arms but the mountain man slid easily out of his grasp.

  “Stop dancing and fight like a man,” spat Brewster angrily.

  “I only dance with girls, so I guess that says it all,” quipped Gringo back at him.

  More by luck than judgment, with a roar Brewster feinted and swung a wild roundhouse loop that caught Gringo on the side of the head. The seaman’s hard knuckles cracked into Gringo’s temple and the mountain man staggered back dazed, shaking his head as Brewster surged forward.

  “You’ve got him now,” growled Kirby, urging his fellow sailor on. “Go to it man.”

  Brewster waded in against the stunned Gringo. He delivered a series of clumsy but effective blows that thumped into Gringo’s torso with the sound of a blanket being beaten. Instinctively, Gringo twisted this way and that to avoid the blows, suffering the attack until he could slide away, moving lightly on his feet to escape the gunner’s fists. His vision was blurred and his head rang as he rotated left to avoid an oncoming hook that Brewster telegraphed by cocking his right fist. As it came, Gringo’s left arm went up and solidly blocked the blow, striking with his own right hand against Brewster’s nose.

  The gunner grunted, his head flying back as a stream of blood ran from his nostrils. With a determined look on his face, Gringo came on arms raised. Both of his hands clapped down on each side of Brewster’s head, slapping onto the man’s ears. The explosion of air in the canals almost burst Brewster’s eardrums and he howled in pain.

  Gringo brought his head back and delivered a swinging forehead strike to Brewster’s wounded nose. With a smack they all heard the nose broke and it lay as a flattened mess on the gunner’s face.

  “Oho!” grinned Bowley. “Old Brewster won’t like that. No siree, he won’t like his pretty face remodeled like that.”

  Brewster’s breast was heaving and sweat ran from his brow. He was too bulky to maintain the pace and was failing fast. In desperation he scooped up a burning brand from the nearby fire and swung it at Gringo catching him a blow on his buckskinned shoulder. An explosion of sparks flew and Gringo turned his head away from the spitting flames.

  The rest of the convoy had come up and crowded around the two struggling men. Ellen clung to her mother, her eyes wide and staring, tears wet on her cheek. Alcazar stood to one side and watched silently with a grim expression on his face. His men took another stance and joined in with the sailors, whooping loudly. Although it was plain that their reactions were for different reasons. They were only too pleased to see two Americans battling it out amongst themselves. Alumette and Judas watched silently also, Judas keeping his hand on his hatchet, ready to intervene if anyone in the audience decided to take a hand.

  Brewster was meanwhile making wide sweeps with his blazing brand and Gringo leapt back as they passed close by his body. Finally in desperation, Brewster threw the brand at Gringo, who ducked it easily as it whirred past him and into the darkness behind.

  With a glowering grimace, Brewster reached down to raise his ragged pants leg and draw a long knife from his boot top. He flicked the blade in Gringo’s direction with a come-on gesture and a silence fell over the watchers as they realized the fight had taken a more serious direction. The knife blade glittered in the firelight the reflected flames flickering along its length as if were alive with an almost demonic possession.

  “Now, buckskin,” snarled Brewster. “I will gut you like a spiked cod-fish
.”

  Gringo drew a deep breath and began to circle his opponent, bringing him around until the brightness of the fire was in his eyes. Brewster was obviously better with a knife than his fists as he took up a practiced knife fighter’s pose. Chin tucked in under lowered shoulders, both arms bent and open in front with the blade held alongside his forearm and not pointing forward as many amateur fighters with the ‘Tennessee Toothpick’ displayed.

  Gringo thought of his own butcher knife couched in the scabbard at his waist but he was confident he could take this bully without its use. He waited patiently, watching Brewster’s bloody face and ready for the change there that would foretell of a coming lunge. Brewster duly bared his teeth and moved in, his disadvantage being that he had to be an arm’s length away from Gringo to strike.

  Brewster arced the knife in front of himself as he advanced, seeking to dazzle Gringo by drawing zigzag patterns in the air and creating a stream of reflected firelight that appeared like rippling lightning against the darkness behind. Gringo ducked down suddenly and grasped a handful of dust. He threw it full in the face of Brewster, the white dust exploding over the lowered head. Brewster blinked and gasped, the thin dust filling his mouth and eyes.

  Then Gringo leapt forward, one hand grabbing Brewster’s knife arm, the other pushing at his chest and forcing the sailor’s weight onto his back legs. With his right leg, Gringo moved in close and hooked behind Brewster’s knees and swept the man’s legs away. The sailor dropped like a stone to the ground, the air driven from his body as Gringo stood over him and twisted his wrist until he could pull the knife away. Flinging the blade aside into the shadows, Gringo sat down heavily on his opponent’s chest and began an incisive pummeling. His blood was up and it was obvious to the watchers that he meant to finish it now.

  Alcazar stepped forward. “Enough!” he shouted. “That is enough!”

  To those watching it appeared that Gringo ignored him or chose not to hear as he continued to beat the semi-conscious Brewster.

  “Senors,” Alcazar pleaded, turning to Gringo’s companions. “Will you?”

  Wrinkling his nose and with a shrug, Judas moved forward and lifted Gringo easily away from the prone sailor.

  “That’s it, scout,” he said, carrying the still swinging Gringo under one arm. “You’re like to kill the boy at this rate.”

  Brewster’s cronies rushed forward around their fallen comrade and began to lift him from the ground. Brewster, coming to his senses, pushed them away irritably and watched the departing Gringo as Judas carried him away. Swaying but managing to keep his feet, Brewster nodded slowly as he dabbed at his bloody face with his sleeve. Strangely, there was a confused look of respect filtering across his battered features. He recognized that he had met his match in Gringo Wade and although there was the usual undertow of resentment normal to his nature, in his warped code of ethics there was a grudging inclination to defer to a man who could give him such a sound drubbing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Breakfast was almost over next morning when a warning cry from the Cazadore pickets rang out.

  There were riders coming.

  In a whirl of dust, a snaking column of men rode over the surrounding hills and down towards them. They moved together in a tight band riding two abreast, their lumbering supply wagon coming on ponderously behind.

  “It’s Le Touquet,” said Gringo, coming up beside Alcazar, who stood with his musket at the ready.

  Alcazar turned to him and took in the bruises and lumps on his face. “And how are you feeling today, senor Wade, after your altercation last night.”

  Gringo rubbed his ribs. “A little sore as you might imagine.”

  Alcazar smiled. “It was a fight to end all fights I believe.”

  “Aw,” said Gringo mildly. “Not so you’d notice.”

  “But to defend a lady’s honor. This is an honorable thing, I think.”

  “I aim to make that lady my wife,” Gringo confessed. “And no man shall speak ill of her.”

  Alcazar offered a slight bow of his head. “I did not know, my congratulations, senor.”

  Gringo nodded thanks in reply and turned his attention to the mountain men arriving through the mission gateway.

  “Good day,” cried Le Touquet as he drew up beside them. “Captain,” he said, sweeping off his hat in recognition of the Mexican officer.

  Alcazar inclined his head. “Buenos dias, senor.”

  “This is Captain Alcazar, who commands the troops here,” Gringo introduced.

  “And you, Mister Wade, it appears you have been in the wars. Nothing serious I hope?”

  “Should see the other fellow, Boosway,” laughed Alumette as he and Judas walked over.

  Alumette’s arrival was met with cries of pleasure from the gathered mountain men whirling about on their ponies. “What’s for breakfast, Alumette?” they cried expectantly.

  “Ah, you are too late, my friends. But perhaps a swift omelet can be arranged if those chickens you carry in the wagon have the eggs.”

  “You men!” Le Touquet ordered sharply above the noise. “See to your horses first.”

  He dismounted and shook Alcazar’s hand. “I trust our little invasion will not distress your camp, Captain?”

  Alcazar looked at the rowdy bunch of men as they slapped Alumette on the back and obediently led their ponies away. “We shall do what we can to accommodate you,” Alcazar offered politely.

  “We saw your fires last night,” advised Le Touquet. “And my scouts warn of some Indian presence. Have you seen anything?”

  Alcazar shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

  “Well, they are about, but now we are many it should deter them from starting any trouble.”

  Alcazar looked around at the bustling mountain men. “So it seems,” he said. “Well, if you will excuse me, senor, I must...”

  “The gun!” Le Touquet said suddenly, stopping Alcazar in his tracks.

  Alcazar turned, his head tilted in question.

  Le Touquet nodded. “Yes sir, my apologies, but we will have it.”

  Alcazar bit his lip. “That, I am afraid, I cannot permit.”

  “You have little choice in the matter, I fear,” he said, turning to the mountain men. “Men! To arms!”

  At his call, the troop of trappers swiftly left off what they doing and raised their muskets to form a line behind the Boosway.

  Alcazar backed away, drawing his sabre and calling on his own men to stand to.

  Battle lines were drawn. The lancers and Cazadores, standing to one side of the courtyard, and mountain men to the other. Behind them all, untethered horses fretted nervously and oxen lowed dismally in the background.

  The bruised figure of Brewster, with two wads of bloody cloth stuffed in the nostrils of his broken nose, bustled up between the facing ranks of men. “What’s going on?” he demanded in a muffled voice. “What’s this all about?”

  “Stand back, sailor,” ordered Le Touquet. “We shall relieve you of this mighty gun. It will not go to serve the Mexican president.”

  “Now just wait a minute here,” argued Brewster, coming up to Le Touquet who stood with his wall of men bristling with aimed muskets behind him. “This cannon is navy property and I command the naval detachment here. Nobody takes the cannon without my say-so.”

  Le Touquet looked the shabbily dressed Brewster up and down critically. “Stand aside, you imbecile,” he warned impatiently. “I don’t have time for your idiocy.”

  “Then you’d best make time, mister. We have our orders. This ordnance goes to Mexico, that’s the word and that’s what we’ll do.”

  “If you stand where you are any longer, all you’ll receive is a hail of ball when I give my word.” Le Touquet’s brittle temper was about to break and he stepped forward, pushing his angry face close to Brewster’s battered one. “Move!” he shouted.

  “Best do like he says,” warned Gringo from where he was positioned behind Le Touquet.

  Brewst
er looked at him over the Frenchman’s shoulder. “You in on this?” he asked brusquely.

  Gringo nodded. “We cannot let them have this weapon.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Brewster turned to his own men, standing waiting to one side. “Lads,” he called. “To me!”

  Obediently the three sailors ran over to stand alongside the master gunner. They carried whatever weapons they could find to hand. A club, pistol, musket.

  “You want that gun,” warned Brewster. “You’ll have to go through us first.”

  “That’s right,” called Bowley belligerently, waving the piece of timber he held in a threatening manner.

  “I’ve no love for these greasers, believe you me,” snapped Brewster. “But we stand to make payment on this delivery. Enough to give us a life of ease and comfort far away from tiresome sea duty. We’ll not part with that promise easy, you understand?”

  “You’ve got that right,” growled Kirby, handing Brewster his navy cutlass.

  Le Touquet ignored him and looked past them in the direction of the Mexicans.

  “Take aim!” The Frenchman ordered and the sound of forty muskets snapping to full cock followed his words.

  Brewster glared at Le Touquet, his face was covered with swollen bruises from the fight, and they now glowed red with anger. Gringo watched him as he teetered on his toes, about to leap forward and attack the captain. Calmly, Le Touquet raised his pistol and levered back the flint, aiming it directly at Brewster’s forehead.

  A moment of frozen tension filled the yard. The two groups of men facing each other, their weapons raised, with the small band of sailors standing crouched ready between them. A thin line, standing between two opposing forces of combatants. Alcazar raised his saber high, ready to give the order for his men to return fire.

  It was a scream that broke the moment.

  They all turned to the hillside beyond the mission where a great wave of Indians appeared, they covered the hilltop in a black swarming mass that seemed to have risen up from the ground itself.

  “My God!” Le Touquet stared aghast, Brewster was forgotten as he watched the tide of Indians advance, flowing endlessly over the hillside in a dense crowd of running men. “There must be over five hundred of them.”