by Lou Cameron
Up on the bridge a Spanish-speaking crew member called down to ask what all the noise down there was all about. Gaston called back in the same language, “The boys are just fooling around. Nothing we can’t handle!” Then he turned to the others and asked in a softer tone, “Eh bien, how are we to handle it?”
Turk Malone said, “Easy. A coward with a busted flipper ain’t no good to nobody.” Then he bent over, picked Ritter up by the hair and belt, and as both Ritter and Captain Gringo shouted, “No!” threw the screaming Reb over the side!
There was a moment of stunned silence, punctuated by a splash and what may have been a soggy scream from somewhere far below. The bridge called down again to ask what in the hell they were doing down there and this time Turk replied in Spanish, “Just getting rid of some trash, skipper. It’s all over.”
Captain Gringo hadn’t been so sure it was over. So he’d moved out to the middle of the well deck to give himself more room as he slipped off his jacket and waited warily to see if anyone else wanted a piece of the action. Ace Cavendish was the one closest to him now, so it was Ace who said, “For God’s sake, he’s been packing a gun all this time!”
Turk Malone moved closer, stared soberly at the man he’d once been dumb enough to challenge to a fight, and said, “Right. How come you took a chance with your bare hands against that knife, kid? Didn’t your folks ever tell you it smarts to have your belly ripped open?”
Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “I told him I’d give him a fair fight. He only pulled a knife on me, not a gun.”
Turk nodded soberly and said, “Remind me never to pull a gun on you, either. You’re okay, Walker. I still think I could take you in ten rounds, Queensbury. But I sure don’t want to fight with you unfriendly!”
They shook on it. Ace told Tex he’d like that ten spot now, and Tex paid without argument. So it was beginning to look as if Captain Gringo had fallen among gentlemen after all. Nobody would ever mention Reb Ritter’s name again.
*
The hitherto sleepy and still out-of-the-way Mexican seaport of Progreso could be described by the time they arrived there in one word: crowded. It reminded Captain Gringo of a gold-rush town in the West he’d known in his U.S. Army days, save for the Spanish architecture and lush tropic vegetation sprouting where it still could. But the unpaved streets were rutted and puddled by traffic they’d never been designed for, and most of the crowd was costumed for, say, Tombstone or Silver City.
As he followed Gaston and the others down the gangplank, someone in the distance was plunking “My Cherokee Rose” on a banjo, and the trio of hombres waiting to greet them on the quay didn’t look like Mexicans or even Cubans. They looked like they’d just held up the Union Pacific. All three were Anglo Saxon of feature, ten gallon of hat, and armed to the teeth. Their buscadero gun belts and six guns made sense anywhere south of the border. But Captain Gringo couldn’t help wondering what sort of a town Progreso was when he noted the twelve-gauge sawed-off shotguns each of them carried as well.
The leader of the delegation was a tall, lean, middle-aged gent who described himself as Colonel Hiram Scroggs, late of the Army of Virginia. Captain Gringo didn’t think it wise to tell him he had to be full of shit. Scroggs hardly seemed old enough to have served as a field-grade officer in any war that had ended thirty years ago. But he might have made a couple of stripes as a pretty young Johnny Reb, and he didn’t look like a man who’d take being called a liar well.
The “Colonel” introduced his back-up as Major Morgan Royce, late of Her Majesty’s Indian Rifles, and Captain Sean O’Hara, who’d made his supposed rank in the Irish Fenian Movement, Sligo Brigade.
Captain Gringo didn’t tell them they were full of shit, either. Royce was big for a Welshman and if Irishmen came any bigger and meaner looking than O’Hara he wanted them on his side, too.
After they’d all shaken hands and congratulated one another on looking so tough Scroggs said, “We was told to expect eight of you boys. I only see seven. How come?”
Turk Malone said, “What you see is what you get. Somebody must have made a mistake.” And though Captain Gringo and the others off the banana boat got it and saw Turk was only telling the simple truth, nobody but Rimfire snickered. He was still new to the game.
Scroggs shrugged and said, “Well, seven’s better than none, I reckon. Some friendly greasers tell us tales of Mex Rurales skulking in the jungles all around. You boys will want to draw your front money and weapons, and we’ve quartered you as well as this shitty one-hoss town can manage. Let’s see, now… You two stick with me. You three go with O’Hara, here. Walker, we got a Maxim covered with axle grease you’ll be wanting to strip and clean and I hear Verrier here is your sidekick and armorer. So you two’d best go with Royce, here.”
The Welshman nodded and motioned Captain Gringo and Gaston to follow him. So they did. As they strode down the shady side of the calle side by side Royce said, “You’d both better wear some sidearms the next time you see fit to step out of your quarters. The natives are restless, you see.”
Captain Gringo said, “We’re already packing double action .38s in shoulder rigs, Major.” But Royce shook his head and said, “Not good enough, look you. It’s not enough to be well armed in Progreso. If you don’t wish to kill a local every hour on the hour you have to look well-armed. These greasers are like children. They have to be kept in their place. And most of them don’t know about shoulder holsters. When they see a nice pair of boots walking about without a gun they know of … Why am I telling you lads this? You’ve both been in this part of the world longer than I have, look you!”
That seemed obvious, but neither soldier of fortune commented. If Royce lived long enough he’d learn how to get along with Latin Americans, or in this case probably local Indians, better. A lot of the trouble people unfamiliar with Latin customs got into in this part of the world was based on mutual ignorance. One could hardly expect the less educated natives of any country to understand the customs of strangers. So it was up to the strangers to understand what was considered normal local behavior and what was considered stepping on local toes. For openers, very few Spanish-speaking people liked to be called greasers. On the other hand, many a good-natured gringo, looking for no more than a hot tamale or at most a friendly lay, could mistake good-humored Mexican joshing for an invitation to a duel. Captain Gringo said, “We know how to get along with Mexicans, unless they’re Rurales or Federales. Not even Mexicans can get along with those mothers. Where are you quartering us, Major?”
Royce said, “Big clean house, owned by some kind of Yankee naturalist, down here to study the local flora and fauna, she says. Frankly I think she’s a bit bonkers, but harmless, and as I said the suite of rooms we’ve issued you are clean and the food she serves should be more digestible than most of our lads have been eating of late.”
Captain Gringo frowned thoughtfully and asked, “You say you, or the rebel forces, have quartered us on this American woman? What did she have to say about it?”
Royce shrugged and replied, “What could she have had to say about it? She did raise a bit of a fuss, come to think of it, until we pointed out how much better off she’d be with a pair of armed men posted inside her house instead of trying to break in, full of rum and no doubt anxious to know in the Biblical sense one of the only white women living alone in Progreso.”
“That must have made her think twice. What does she look like?”
“A dog. She must be at least forty and looks like a spinster nanny, which she is, in a way. Keeps a bloody zoo of wild and domestic beasts out back and spends most of her time petting and feeding them. She won’t be any bother to you. Do you want me to requisition some better-looking adelitas for you, if you want to enjoy more reasonable sex?”
“We usually find our own, thanks. But what do you mean requisition, Major? That’s an unusual way to put fixing a pal up, isn’t it?”
Royce shook his head and said, “Not in Progreso. I just told you. Mos
t of the locals are a bit surly and when you just whistle at one of the mujeres they run inside and slam the bloody door in your face. So when one of our men wants to get laid we simply tell the alcalde to round up something nice and send it over, look you.”
The two soldiers of fortune exchanged glances. Gaston said, “Forgive me, perhaps I am dense. But did not someone say this was an army of liberation?”
Royce nodded and said, “Right. Soon as we’re up to full strength it’s off to Cuba to liberate the little brown buggers. Meanwhile we’re here in Mexico, and nobody’s paying us to liberate anyone in Mexico. Some of the local women aren’t bad, if you don’t mind moon faces and somewhat darker ass than one finds back in Blighty. It’s a matter of military discipline. Even the local government had to agree, once we pointed it out to them, that it’s better to issue field whores to an army than have them running about raping on their own. It’s all handled quite proper. The alcalde selects local girls who are no doubt no more than they should be and, meanwhile, his own wife and daughters are safe. The General has issued strict orders against any of us recruiting our own bed partners at the point of a gun.”
Captain Gringo said, “He sounds like a swell guy. Who is he and how did he get to be a general?”
Royce said, “Oh, we’re nominally under the command of a General Ramos. A Spic, of course, but not a bad sort, really. He was appointed by the Cuban Government in Exile to lead this expeditionary force. Doesn’t seem to know his arse from his elbow. No Spics know a thing about military tactics. But he doesn’t get in the way much. Once in a while one of us real soldiers has to tell him which end of a gun the round comes out of, but he’s an agreeable old fart and takes suggestions well.”
“I see. Who suggested the bit about the local girls serving as our play pretties whether they wanted to or not?”
Royce frowned thoughtfully and replied, “I really can’t say. One of us must have. Are you some sort of greaser-lover, Walker?”
“Depends on what they look like. I’m not out to fight any windmills, Major. Uncle Sam once sentenced me to death for trying to right what I thought was an injustice. I just like to know why, when natives start swinging machetes at my dome. I take it this Cuba Libre force is provisioned the same way it gets its quarters and quiff?”
“Of course. The homeowners required to quarter our troops are naturally supposed to feed them as best they can. But if they run short the General’s standing orders are that the neighbors just have to supply the extra provisions. It’s no problem, look you. Almost every peon in town keeps pigs and chickens if not a goat or milk cow.”
They were already coming to the end of the main drag, Progreso not being a large town. As they were passing a cactus hedge a skinny little Mexican with Mayan features and a machete in his hand popped out of a gap in the nopales, screaming something about his daughter, his pig, or both. Before he’d gotten to the point, or come anywhere near anyone with that wildly swinging machete, Royce had calmly pointed his twelve-gauge and blown the man almost in two with a double blast of number nine buck. As the Mexican beat his fluttering sombrero to the dust and just lay there, Royce said, “See what I mean? Some of them act crazy even when they can see you’re armed, look you!”
Captain Gringo stared down at the pathetic corpse in the spreading pool of blood and guts without comment. In fairness to Royce, he didn’t see what else the Welshman could have done. But he was beginning to understand the dead man’s point of view, too. Royce said, “Let’s go, shall we?” as he stepped over the man he’d shot, reloading his shotgun as he did so. Captain Gringo and Gaston walked around the gory mess. Neither asked Royce who was supposed to clean up after him. They knew.
Royce led them around the next corner, down the block of walled inwardly facing houses a ways, then stopped at a substantial oaken door, saying, “Ah, here we are.”
The Welshman knocked on the door with the muzzle of his shotgun. Naturally it opened without keeping them waiting long. A small, dark, frightened-looking chica seemed to be trying not to cry as she murmured, “Estrada, por favor. I shall take you to La Señora.”
She did, or at least she led Captain Gringo across the pateo to the main salon of the establishment as Royce turned away to go back to wherever he wanted to. The maid vanished too, once she’d presented them to a not bad but stem-looking white woman pretending to be Queen Victoria on her throne-like seat by the cold hearth of her baronial fireplace.
She sniffed and said in English, “So you’re the two gun-thugs General Ramos has seen fit to shove down my throat, eh? Very well. Behave yourselves and I won’t poison you. Lucrecia will show you to the quarters we’ve prepared for you and you’ll find your engines of destruction waiting for you there. The rascals who brought it in tracked mud all over my floors, and I’ll thank you to remember this is a respectable house! I dine at eight sharp, every evening. You two will be fed at six, by my servant, in the kitchen. You are free to come and go as you like, of course, since I have nothing to say about your no doubt marvelous military plans. But I’ll thank you to stay out of my back garth. There is nothing of interest to you there and some of my, ah, livestock bites!”
Captain Gringo decided he liked her. He smiled and said, “We won’t give you any trouble, Miss … ah?”
“Prunella Parsons,” she snapped, adding, “Doctor Prunella Parsons, Biology. Biology is the study of Life, a subject few professional soldiers would be interested in. Your own officers have already searched my biological specimens for hidden weapons and assured themselves I am a harmless eccentric. I only wish I could be as sure about you two. Don’t either of you ever shave, for heaven’s sake?”
Captain Gringo sheepishly fingered his shipboard stubble and said, “We weren’t expecting to meet a lady so soon, Miss Prunella. If you’d have your servants show us to our quarters we’ll get right to making ourselves more presentable.”
She said, “I doubt that. I only have one servant and she’s frightened half to death. I’ve assured her she’s safe. I hope neither of you will make a liar out of me.”
She clapped her hands, and when the nervous Lucrecia tiptoed back in, told the chica in perfect Spanish to get these louts out of her sight. So they followed the Mexican girl, although Gaston could not resist telling their reluctant hostess what he thought of her in a Berber dialect he’d picked up serving with the Legion in Algeria.
For the first time since they’d met her, Prunella Parsons smiled, and replied in the same language, but more fluently, “You’re not man enough, oh son of a sway-backed camel and a hunch-backed jinn.”
Gaston laughed incredulously and told her, “Eh bien, I had that coming to me. Mais you certainly don’t look Saharan, m’selle.”
She shrugged and said, “My work takes me lots of places, and your place is still upstairs, effendi.”
That was where Lucrecia took them. As she led them along the corridor, Gaston chuckled and said, “I like her. She’s almost old enough for me, too. Remember I saw her first, Dick.”
Captain Gringo laughed and said, “She’s all yours, but I doubt it. I admire the old dame’s spunk, too. But if a guerrilla army can’t make her really knuckle under, she shapes up as a pretty hard conquest for any man, don’t you think?”
“Poof, I have always enjoyed a challenge. The poor child has been an obvious virgin long enough. So stand back and let your elders show you how the path to a maiden’s cherry orchard may be won!”
The mental picture was so amusing Captain Gringo laughed again, louder. The little Mexican girl had no idea what they were talking about in English, but it made her nervous anyway. Women can always tell when men are laughing lewdly about something, and as far as she could tell she was the only thing in a skirt anywhere near them. So they were obviously laughing that way about her, and by the time they came to Gaston’s door Lucrecia was blushing furiously.
Gaston approved the spacious clean layout and said so graciously in Spanish. In the same language Captain Gringo said, “This is v
ery nice. Now suppose you show me what you have for me, Lucrecia.”
She gulped, ducked around him, and motioned for him to follow. As they passed another door he asked why that wasn’t it and she explained, “That is La Señora’s laboratorio, for to cut up animals and mix strange potions. She keeps the door locked and I am never to go in there. Do you think it is true what people say about her señor?”
“What do they say, Lucrecia?”
“That she may be a bruja. She has been very kind to me, but some brujas deal in white magic, too, no?”
He chuckled and said, “I don’t think she’s a witch, Lucrecia. In our country, what she does is called experimentad, see?”
“I think so, this experimentad is some kind of white Yanqui magic?”
“Close enough. I promise she won’t turn you into a frog.”
Lucrecia looked a bit relieved, but not very, as she opened the door beyond and said, “This is where La Señora said to put you and all those boxes, señor.”
She followed him in as he entered what could have passed for a fairly posh guest room if the big brass bedstead and other furniture hadn’t been forced to share the limited space with a pile of raw pine crates. Most of them were stenciled, “Woodbine Amis Limited, .30-30 Ball. Webbed.” But a larger, longer crate atop the ammo had been stenciled, “Maxim Patent Machine Gun. .30-30. One. Tripod Mount. One. Tool Kit. One.”
