Renegade 29

by Lou Cameron

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “If any of them are sober. Meet us at GHQ in half an hour. That ought to give us time to round up a dozen or so good guys.”

  Smith frowned and asked, “Only a dozen? I was thinking along the lines of at least thirty or so. Full platoon strength.”

  “Did the General put you in command of the patrol, Smith?”

  “No, but …”

  “Half an hour, in front of GHQ. I’d rather take a few guys I know than stumble around in the woods with guys I don’t. Some of the greener recruits might not know a bushmaster from a dry stick, and they run about even out there. By the way, do you know a bushmaster from a dry stick, and do you have a first name, Major?”

  “They call me Soapy, back in the States. This is the Nogales Kid. What’s the matter? Want to check our reps?”

  Captain Gringo said, “The name Soapy Smith rings a bell. If Nogales Kid doesn’t go with a knockaround guy, I don’t know what would. Okay, like I said, half an hour, GHQ. We’ll find out if you’re any good or not. I’ll watch out for Rurales. It’s up to you to watch where you put your feet down in the jungle.”

  *

  The men assembled in front of the Alcalde’s office half an hour later looked more like a band of hoboes who’d just been thrown off a train than a combat patrol. Half of them were hung-over and none of them seemed too thrilled at the prospect of an early-morning romp through the woods. But they’d all been issued rifles, mostly Krags, and Ace Cavendish had even fitted his with a bayonet. He was a rather fragile looking guy who probably could use the edge. In addition to the gambler Captain Gringo had selected Turk Malone and the others he’d met on the boat coming up. Gaston had found a couple of rogues, as he called them, he’d served with before. One was a big black called ’Bama, and the other an ex-Legionnaire as old as Gaston but a lot bigger. He answered to Jacques. Smith and the Nogales Kid made up the rest of the party. Smith noted the Maxim on Captain Gringo’s shoulder and asked, “How come? I though you said that thing was busted.”

  The taller American said, “I think it still is. But in a pinch it can still fire single shots, and if it works on automatic, it could come in handy.”

  “It looks awfully heavy, Walker.”

  “It is. But you don’t have to carry it. If the rest of you are paying any attention at all, let’s get moving. We don’t have to go through close order shit and read our general orders, do we?”

  There was a murmur of laughter as Captain Gringo turned and just started walking. He didn’t look back to see if anyone was following him. Professional soldiers would and he didn’t want any other kind tagging along. They were on the outskirts of town in no time and as he led them along the clay road running through the com and pepper milpas surrounding the community, he noted Turk and Tex Thatcher moving out on point without being told. He started to direct someone out as flank guards. Then he saw Rimfire was out to the right, ghosting through the tall com with his Krag at port, while Bully Baker had taken left flank scout without having to be told. Soapy Smith caught up with Captain Gringo to say grudgingly, “You have these guys well trained, Walker.” But Captain Gringo just shrugged and said, “You don’t have to train good soldiers. And, no offense, but I just remembered that when I was chasing Apache with the old 10th Cav there was a con man and killer-for-hire fleecing marks up in Denver, Colorado. They called him Soapy Smith.”

  Smith shrugged and said, “You got my number. I got run out of Denver by a spoilsport with a badge and a .44-40. Then I had to kill another gambler in Oregon, self-defense of course, and so I decided the States could manage without me for a while.”

  “That sounds reasonable. What’s the story on your pal, the Nogales Kid?”

  “Not much different, except I’m white as the driven snow and old Nogales is half Papago. He’s not as skilled with his hands as me. So he goes in more for simple stick-ups than the card or con games I’m more famous for. Are you writing a book or something, Walker?”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Yeah, an Order of Battle for this outfit. I hope you won’t take this unkindly, Major. But how in the hell did you get to be a major?”

  Smith frowned and said, “The Central Committee in New York commissioned me a major, of course. I told them I wasn’t about to serve down here as a common soldier.”

  Captain Gringo nodded grimly, and said, “Right, you said you were a con artist and you’d play hell serving as a common soldier with your previous military experienced What brevet rank does Nogales hold with the Cuba Libres?”

  “Oh, he’s only a captain, like you.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer. The machine gun on his shoulder was getting heavy. So he shifted it to his left shoulder and adjusted the ammo belt running down from the breech and wrapped around his waist like a sash. He called back, “Are you still there with the extra belts, Gaston?” and the Frenchman replied, “Oui, mais is this trip really necessaire? Regard the tree line ahead, Dick. A good place for an ambush, non?”

  “If it wasn’t there’d be no point in this recon patrol,” said Captain Gringo. Then he raised his free hand, stopped, turned, and shouted, “Okay, guys, spread out and form a line of skirmish at two-yard intervals on either side of this path. I’ll keep the bee line with this Maxim and we regroup after we bull through the brush into the open rain forest beyond. Any questions?”

  A distant voice replied plaintively, “Is it too late to go on Sick Call, Captain?” and Captain Gringo moved on. That wasn’t a question, and the gag wore thin once you’d heard it a dozen times.

  Soapy Smith asked nervously if there was anything he could do. Captain Gringo said, “Yeah, hit the dirt and roll to the right if we come under fire. Gaston will be crawling up along my left with the extra ammo.”

  He moved on another hundred yards and then, as they were getting within rifle range of the tree line, he swung the Maxim down to ride with its action braced against his right hip and its muzzle trained on the now not too distant wall of spinach beyond the last com milpas. His men had by now spread out in a wide flanking front and weren’t doing the com a hell of a lot of good as they advanced in skirmish, their own gun muzzles aimed the same way.

  As usual, in the tropics, the edge of the jungle grew more like greenhorns expected a jungle to grow. Underbrush that couldn’t grow in the deep shade of more “Substantial trees or stand up to the machetes of the local farmers formed a hedge-like solid wall of tangled green. There were more species of plants in a single acre down here than one could classify in a whole New England forest. So whether one busted through without a machete depended a lot on just what in the hell was in the way. Supple gumbo limbo was slick barked and easy enough to bull through. Sea grape stems broke easily. But some of the crap seemed made of rubber tubing covered with broken glass. So as Captain Gringo made it to the tree line he slowed down to give everyone time to work through at the same pace. There was nothing interesting on the path ahead as he crouched in the shady arch of gum trees interlacing overhead. In the distance Turk Malone, who’d gone through with Tex—on point of course—stepped back on the path and signaled all clear. Captain Gringo shouted, “Pick it up!” and moved deeper into the jungle, which seemed more like the moldy floor of a vast, pillared cathedral once the tangled edging was left behind. He glanced left and right to see others breaking through on either flank. Some idiot fired a gun and shouted, “Snake! Snake!”

  Some idiot always did.

  Captain Gringo shouted, “Keep it down to a fusillade, God damn it! Let them guess we’re coming, shall we?”

  He put the Maxim back on his shoulder and waved Turk forward. They advanced into the jungle a little over a mile, his followers, save for the flank scouts, falling in behind him again to avoid walking in the slippery black muck of rotting leaves and mushrooms everywhere else. Then up ahead Turk stopped, turned, and signaled a question.

  Captain Gringo halted the rest of the patrol and moved forward to see what was up. Smith and of course Gaston followed him to
where Turk stood in the center of a big X formed by another trail crossing the one they were on at right angles. Turk asked, “Which way from here, kid?” and Captain Gringo reached for his pocket compass. But then Smith beat him to it with his own folded pocket map. Smith spread it open and said flatly, “To the right.”

  Captain Gringo frowned thoughtfully and said, “We can’t be more than a mile or. so from the Gulf, that way. Wouldn’t it make more sense to take this other trail, inland? If it’s part of a gum and charcoal gatherer’s network surrounding the township, we may be able to circle Progreso completely before sunset, but—”

  “General’s orders,” Smith cut in, adding, “We got a report there’s a mysterious schooner ghosting around just offshore. The map says this path to the right leads to a cove deep enough for a shallow-draft sailing vessel. We’d better check that out before we lock anywhere else, Walker.”

  “Oh? I thought I was leading this patrol. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

  “Well, I am a major, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know you let me shape it up and get it started for you because you couldn’t drill a squad of rookies without them laughing at you, too. But okay, Major. You want us to go right, we’ll go right. I just work here.”

  But as Captain Gringo waved the patrol toward the seacoast, Smith made no attempt to take full command. It figured. Political appointees were like that in every army. Why bother to bone up on tactical commands when there was always an NCO or junior officer who could give them for you? Smith was probably no worse than the so-called Cuban general back in town. Maybe better. At least this shithead seemed willing to come along. General Ramos just sat on his fat ass and let the real soldiers worry about what they should do next.

  Captain Gringo’s guess about the lay of the land ahead was both right and wrong. They hadn’t gone far when Turk stopped again with another questioning signal. When they moved forward to join him they saw they were indeed within sight of the Gulf, and in the distance a bare-poled lugger, not a schooner, lay at anchor in a sheltered cove. After that it got complicated. The ground around the cove had been cleared for a quarter mile inland. There were no houses or even shacks in view. That wasn’t hard to figure. The cleared ground around the secluded cove was planted with pretty flowers: opium poppies. Mexico had no current laws against growing opium as a cash crop, but there was one hell of an export duty on all drugs leaving Mexico.

  Captain Gringo told Smith, “It’s a smuggling operation. So what?”

  “Don’t you think we’d better investigate them fully?”

  “Why? If there were any Rurales anywhere near here they’d have shot the shit out of that lugger by now. Evading export duties is a federal offense in Mexico or, come to think of it, anywhere else. On the other hand, if I was the skipper of a smuggling vessel, putting in where the local law shoots first and asks questions later, I’d have my crew armed to the teeth and keeping a sharp eye on the tree line all around. So what say we live and let live?”

  Smith shook his head and said, “General’s orders. He’ll expect a full report, Walker. We can’t just guess. We have to know!”

  “Jesus H. Christ, what’s to know? Do you expect them to tell us anymore than we can figure out from here, Major? Those poppies are in bloom. So they have to be the new crop. That lugger’s waiting for someone who collected the raw opium from the seed heads of the last crop to deliver. They wouldn’t still be anchored there if they’d already picked up here. So about sunset, or maybe even sooner, a mess of local opium growers should be showing up around here, too, and guys who grow opium without bothering to tell their government about it tend to be truculent and well-armed. The smartest thing we could do, right now, would be to head the other way, poco tiempo!” Smith shook his head, took out a white pocket kerchief, and said, “We’d better have a word with them, at least. If they are outlaws, the General may have use for that lugger.”

  “You expect them to sell you a profitable smuggling operation for a flag wave? Forget it, Smith. Those guys won’t want to go into the ferry boat trade. They’re making more each voyage than the Cuba Libre Movement could afford for a whole fleet!”

  But Smith had stepped out into the open and was waving the white kerchief wildly now. Captain Gringo cursed, turned to the others, and said, “Stay here and cover us. Nobody’s shot the asshole yet, but you never know.”

  He moved out after Smith. Gaston followed with the extra ammo until Captain Gringo said, “You’d better stay with the others. If this deal goes sour they’ll need someone to get ’em home safe.”

  Turk Malone said, “Gimme them spare belts, Frenchy.” But the Nogales Kid said, “My job, boys. I’m with Soapy, see?”

  Nobody argued. So the three of them advanced down the path between the poppies, Smith in the lead, Captain Gringo in the middle with the Maxim, and the Nogales Kid bringing up the rear with an ammo belt. Gaston had refused to hand over more, saying, “If it’s a trap, none of you will last long enough to fire one belt, hein?”

  As they approached the water, someone waved something white from the deck of the lugger and by the time they’d reached the beach of limestone pebbles a longboat was coming ashore. A man in the bows called out, “How’s it going, Masters?” and the man who’d said he was Soapy Smith called back, “Not too badly. The others were too coy, but this one’s Richard Walker, the main one we want.”

  Captain Gringo had just digested this when the so-called Nogales Kid behind him said, “All right, Walker, drop that machine gun and stick ’em-up. I’ve got you covered.”

  Captain Gringo did no such thing. He whirled, threw the heavy mass of steel in the Secret Service agent’s face and as “Nogales” went down, firing the pistol in his hand at no place in particular, dove head first over him to land in the waist-high poppies, rolling, as he got out his own .38.

  “Smith,” on the path, made the awful mistake of standing still, fully erect, as he pegged pistol shots at waving poppies. He only got off three before the tree line in the distance blossomed a long line of gunsmoke and, though most of Captain Gringo’s men missed at that range, some of them couldn’t, and the real SS Agent Masters went down with a dozen or so .30-30 slugs in him.

  Captain Gringo crawled back to the path where his Maxim lay atop the so-called Nogales Kid, who was breathing sort of funny through the smashed raspberry jam face he had left. Captain Gringo smashed his skull with the .38 to put him out of his misery. Then he put his pistol away and, still prone, swung the Maxim around atop the dead man’s chest as, sure enough, the guys in the longboat had reversed oars and were on their way back to the lugger, firing wildly in the general direction of the shoreline.

  Captain Gringo yanked the Maxim’s arming lever, growling, “All right, I told Paco you guys were just doing your jobs, but enough of this shit. I’ve got a job to do, too!”

  He opened up on the longboat, aiming of course at the water line, but since the men in the boat had at least their feet in the bottom of the boat, there was considerable howling as hot slugs and cooler jagged splinters tore through ankles, shins, and as the boat sank deeper, more important parts of human anatomy. As the longboat went under, a puff of oily black smoke rose above the lugger and they seemed to be weighing anchor as well. So Captain Gringo elevated his sights, reloaded with the belt “Nogales” had been kind enough to bring along, and proceeded to pepper the lugger with plunging fire.

  Meanwhile Gaston and the others had gotten the range from the tree line and were putting telling shots into the same target. A machine gun fired six hundred rounds a minute. A repeating rifle could only get off about sixty in the same time, allowing for reloading with fresh clips. But when that many rifles were firing they added up to about the fire power of a second machine gun, so the guys on the lugger were in trouble and knew it. They couldn’t get their anchor out of the mud with the exposed deck windlass. Their secret steam screw didn’t have the power to drag it across the bottom. So they did the next best thing. They ran up a white flag. />
  Some of the soldiers of fortune in the distance ceased fire for some reason. But Captain Gringo growled, “Surely you jest,” and put a long burst into their water line amidships. His followers took the hint and resumed fire. Captain Gringo wanted to, but he was running low on ammo, damn it.

  Then Gaston joined him, after a long crawl through the poppies, muttering, “Merde alors. It serves you right for not listening to your elders.”

  Captain Gringo grinned and asked, “What kept you?” and took a fresh belt from the little Frenchman to reload and resume firing. It took a lot of small arms fire to sink even a wooden-hulled vessel of modest dimension. But they were getting there now. The lugger was listing shoreward as the sea bled into its hold through a multitude of mosquito bites and, better yet, the deck was now fully exposed. So nobody alive dared expose himself above it as the bodies on deck slid down into the scuppers, leaving long red streaks across the planking. Gaston asked mildly, “Are we not to give quarter to even their sea cook, Dick?” and Captain Gringo snarled, “What would we do with ’em? Oh, I forgot to tell you. It was a U.S. Secret Service ruse. They must have known a lot of guys wanted in the States would be here with the Cubans. Smith and Nogales were trying to take me aboard the easy way.”

  “Oui, so I assumed when they threw down oil you. But if Tío Sam is secretly backing the Cuba Libre Movement—”

  “That’s what I just said. General Ramos would just have to let ’em go if we brought ’em in. So why bring ’em in?”

  Gaston chuckled grimly and said, “It’s going over, non?”

  He was right. The lugger suddenly rolled bottoms up and, as muffled cries from inside rose between the bursts of gunfire, the whale-like bottom slowly submerged like, well, a whale.

  Captain Gringo rose to his feet with the Maxim braced on his hip, feeling a little sicker than he let on, for he’d once worked for the U.S. Government, back in the dear dead days when he’d still thought the world was run on the level. But what the hell, their wives would get nice pensions and who wanted to be married to a fucking sneak, anyway? There were no heads bobbing in the harbor now. Guys bleeding good in tropic waters didn’t last too long, anywhere, and the hammerheads of the Gulf were quicker to hit than most sharks. He swallowed the green taste in his mouth and muttered, “Okay, now let’s get back on the job we were sent to do. We still have to find out why charcoal burners keep saying they’ve seen Rurales in the jungle.”