by Lou Cameron
The dim light and their own hurry helped. As the two Mexicans passed them, one asked Captain Gringo what was going on up the beach. He said, “Mexico just torpedoed a Yanqui gunboat. Pass the word.”
“Ay caramba! Are we at war with them again?”
“It certainly looks like we are. Viva Mexico! Death to los gringos!”
Gaston added, “Remember the Alamo!” as the Mexicans broke into a run to get in on the action without looking back. Captain Gringo muttered, “Remember the Alamo? That was real cute, Gaston. Be serious, dammit! We have to get around this town and make it up into the hills before first light. Where the fuck is Mazatlán, anyway?”
“In Mexico, of course. We are roughly seven hundred miles south of the Arizona border. Even farther from Guatemala to the south.”
“Oh, swell. Do you have any old pals in this part of Mexico?”
“Alas, the last time I was here, I was an officer in the Mexican army. I hope none of the locals still remember me. The reason I deserted, the last time, was because I was too idealistic a youth to carry out my orders to the letter.”
“Oh boy. I was sort of hoping you’d come up with one of your rogues, Gaston. Don’t you have any friends left in Mexico?”
“They’ve shot most of the decent rogues by now. I may be able to find some of the old bunch over on the east coast. The soldier-of-fortune business tends to be concentrated around the Gulf and Caribbean. Let me see, I used be married to a slightly soiled dove in Tampico. I don’t think she’d still have a light in her window for me at this late date. I suppose our best bet would be Vera Cruz. Oui, all sorts of ships put in there, and Vera Cruz is so infested with rogues the two of us would not attract much attention among them.
“Okay, how far is Vera Cruz?”
“Perhaps eight hundred miles as the crow flies. A thousand or more the hard way.”
“Let’s go, then. How do you get out of here to the hills, Gaston?”
“Wait, it is all coming back to me. I told you I was once stationed here. I, ah, don’t think one can get to Vera Cruz from Mazatlán on foot.”
“Okay, we’ll steal some horses. But let’s get out in the country a ways first.”
Gaston shook his head stubbornly and said, “Mais non. You must learn to listen to your elders, my adorable child! When I say you cannot make it out of here on foot, I of course include the feet of horses. Did you think I meant to walk a thousand miles on my own feet?”
Captain Gringo looked up at the sky. They’d stopped shooting rockets up at the tropic stars, but it was still dark, thank God. He said, “We gotta get out on some damned feet before sunrise, dammit! I’m not wearing a hat, my hair is blond, and by now the U.S. Navy has an all-points bulletin on us!”
Gaston shrugged and said, “They may have all drowned. They may think we drowned. Your gringo looks are not the problem. We can hopefully do something about that. Getting out of Mazatlán by land is the problem. It can’t be done.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Is Mazatlán an island?”
“Oui, in a trés annoying way. Those dimly visible hills you seem so fond of are trés steep, trés barren, and trés infested with wild Indians or even wilder bandits, where-ever there is water or shelter from the sun. To north and south alike, the mountains march out into the sea as impassable sea cliffs. Mazatlán lies in a crescent bitten into the coast of Mexico by the Pacific waves. The sea is calm tonight. But when the seas are up, one cannot get in or out of here even by boat!”
Captain Gringo turned to stare up the beach where the crowd had gathered. Some of the men had waded in to help haul a lifeboat lip onto the white sand. He said, “Oh, shit. What do we do now, squat down and build sand castles till someone notices us?”
Gaston said, “Follow me. I have my bearings now. The main plaza is this way.”
Captain Gringo fell in step beside him, but asked, “Do you really think this is a good time to hit the main drag, Gaston? We’re both soaking wet, haven’t a dime or a derringer, and they usually build the police stations near the center of town ”
“Let’s hurry Everyone will be down by the water, watching Yanqui gunboats sink and doubtless enjoying the spectacle. But any novelty wears off in time, non?”
Captain Gringo didn’t answer. He grinned as he caught on. He hadn’t been a rogue as long as Gaston, but he was learning, thanks to on-the-job training.
*
After they broke into the store and helped themselves to dry clothes of nondescript middle-class Mexican cut, along with sombreros to shade their features and hide Captain Gringo’s sun-bleached hair, they felt safer on the streets of Mazatlán. Some people had started drifting back from the harbor now, but most were still over by the water. The people in charge of the music and fireworks had simply moved the fiesta onto the beach to combine excitements.
Gaston had of course broken open the till in the store they’d robbed. But he hadn’t found much money. It was going to take serious money, or guns, to get them out of the odd blind corner in which some idiot in the past had seen fit to build a town. When Captain Gringo asked how the hell the people who lived here got in and out, Gaston explained that, like all islanders, they or their ancestors had arrived by boat, of course.
Gaston said, “Now that we are once more presentable, and have at least some drinking money, our best bet would be to loiter about the waterfront until we can steal a fishing goleta, non?”
Captain Gringo shook his head and replied, “Don’t think like a navy deserter. The navy’s expecting us to think like that. Are there any rurales stationed here?”
“Mais non, mounted police are rather pointless, boxed in against the sea. There are regular police, of course. Alas, a rather large force for such a small town, as I recall. Wait, don’t go that way. The police we speak of have their station down that way.”
“I know. I see the lights out front. Let’s see how many of ’em went down to rescue the U.S. Navy, shall we?”
Gaston kept up with him, but protested, “Dick, not even Mexican police are that casual! They are certain to have at least a few men left to guard the premises, non?”
“I sure hope so. If there’s nobody at the desk, it’ll mean they have no prisoners in the tank.”
Gaston frowned, then brightened and said, “Ah, oui, the more foxes the hounds must hunt, the better, non?”
Captain Gringo strode boldly into the police station. The sergeant seated behind the desk near the door saw they were dressed like people who had steady work, so he nodded politely and asked what they wanted.
Captain Gringo said, “Oh, are you alone, sergeant? It can wait till your watch commander gets back, I suppose.”
He moved back to the door and called out to nobody at all, “Bring her back later, amigos. We need an officer to handle such a delicate matter.”
The desk sergeant got up, passing Gaston as he joined Captain Gringo with a frown to ask him what the hell was going on out there. Captain Gringo didn’t have to answer. As the sergeant gasped and sank to his knees, eyes and mouth both wide, the tall American grabbed the front of his tunic and manhandled him back in, growling, “Jesus, Gaston, did you have to use the knife?”
“What else would you suggest, my prick? Here, let’s put him out of sight behind the desk.”
As they dropped the corpse between the desk and the stucco wall, Captain Gringo slid open a drawer, took out a ring of keys, and snapped, “Cover the door. Switch off the lights if you see anyone coming.”
Then, without waiting to see if Gaston obeyed, he moved to the nearest door off the main room, found the key that fit, and let himself into the arms locker. He said, “That’s more like it!” as he helped himself to a pair of Colt .45 Peacemakers and the gun rigs and extra ammo bandoleers they could use as well. He strapped on his own gun rig, hooked Gaston’s and the bandoleers over his free elbow, and ducked out to try another door. He didn’t want anything in the broom closet. So he found the way back to the cell block, and, sure enough,
a dozen-odd unhappy-looking guys were staring out of the cages at him. He nodded pleasantly, said, “School’s out, muchachos.” and handed the key ring to the nearest wildly groping brown hand. He told the Indio to whom he gave the keys, “Let everyone out. If only to make it harder for the bastards. The arms room’s open, so help yourselves. Viva la revolución!”
Then he turned and ran out to rejoin Gaston as, behind him, someone yelled, “What revolution?” and another yelled back, “Who cares? Get me out of here, God damn your mother’s milk!”
Captain Gringo chuckled as they got outside, made it to an arcade, and slowed down to a more innocent pace. He said, “I hope I started something back there.”
Gaston said, “You did, I am certain. Now what? Nobody ever looks on a flat rooftop, Dick.”
“I know. Nobody but an asshole would be up there under a tropic sun, wondering how the fuck to get back down unseen. Let’s go over to the beach and see how the U.S. Navy’s making out.”
“Are you mad, Dick?”
“No, I call it doubling back across one’s own trail. Who’s going to recognize us in these outfits by flickering firelight? Put this gun rig and bandoleer on. If anybody asks, you’re a vaquero just off the range, see? If the hills are full of wild Indians and bandits, the local vaqueros ought to be full of guns and ammo.”
“I know what a man in a charro suit is supposed to look like, Dick. I know one stands out less in a crowd, too. But what do we do when the fiesta starts to break up?”
“What do you want, egg in your beer? You’ve got a gun on your hip, money in your pocket, and maybe a couple of minutes before you have to start running again. That’s more than either of us could say a couple of hours ago, right?”
*
Drifting in to join the crowd along the beach from the shoreward side was no problem. Most of them were gazing out over the water. They weren’t looking at the gunboat anymore. The gunboat had sunk. Now everyone was watching the fireworks as rockets exploded out there above the oil slick and floating debris.
Almost everyone, anyway. A group of dejected-looking guys in U.S. tropic whites were gathered around a bonfire. Some friendly Mexicans had provided blankets for the shipwrecked sailors. Most were just sitting on them. It was a warm night, even wearing wet duds. There was a line of refreshment stands set up down the beach past the crew of the sunken gunboat. Gaston wanted to walk wide to get to it. Captain Gringo told him not to be an asshole. Why would innocent cowboys go out of their way to avoid a bunch of poor wet swabbies?
Still, it made even Captain Gringo feel a little uneasy, as he passed the group, to see Lieutenant Carson sitting on a blanket, gazing his way. Captain Gringo sincerely hoped his new hat was big enough. Carson didn’t seem to notice him. So it was. Carson probably had a lot of things on his mind that evening.
Captain Gringo moved over to a taco stand and ordered a couple for himself and Gaston. The taco girl’s hand felt nice as she handed him his change and murmured, “El señor is new in Mazatlán, no?”
He smiled down at her in the soft light and gallantly suggested, “La señorita no doubt knows all the single men in Mazatlán, eh?”
“Only the handsome ones, señor. I am called Felicidad.” He had to think about that. She was pretty enough, if you liked ’em a little on the plump side. Her heroic breasts were threatening to leap out at him over the low top of her frilly cotton blouse, and her big brown eyes were meeting his boldly. He said, “Felicidad is a pretty name. It suits its owner,” as he handed Gaston his taco and wondered how to drop it gracefully. He didn’t want to make her sore. He didn’t want to fight her hombre, either. He knew if he asked her if she had an hombre, he’d have to fight the bastard for sure, if the answer was yes.
He bit into his taco. She surely couldn’t expect further compliments from a man who’s mouth was full. She said, “Forgive me, I mean no offense. But one can’t help noticing el Señor is not Mexican. Were you on that boat that just sank, out there?”
He gulped, swallowed, and managed to keep his voice desperately calm, and his back to the sailors seated within earshot, as he replied, “No, my friend and I just rode down from the hills. We were prospecting for gold.”
“Ah, that explains the bandoleers. Even so, you must both be very brave. It is said El Aquilar Negro haunts the mountains to the east these days. I know you did not meet him, for I see you are both still alive. But did you find much gold, señors?”
Gaston was kicking hell out of Captain Gringo’s ankle as he smiled down at the flirt and said, “We didn’t find any. That is why I didn’t bring you any roses this evening, Felicidad.”
She fluttered her lashes and said, “I will forgive you, if you will tell me how you are called.”
He didn’t know how many of the guys who might be listening behind him spoke Spanish. He didn’t want to give his real name in any case. He said, “I am called Roberto. Roberto Duran.”
“Es verdad? I took you for a gringo, Roberto.”
“My mother had Anglo blood. Allow me to present my uncle, Don Pancho Garcia. Say hello to Felicidad, Tio Pancho.”
Gaston kicked him savagely and told the taco girl, in his flawless Spanish, that he was enchanted to meet her. Captain Gringo knew why Gaston was kicking him, and it hurt, even with mosquito boots covering his ankles. He had no way of assuring Gaston he wasn’t being dumb. He knew all too well the mess a stranger could get into trying to pick up a local girl at a Latin fiesta. Meanwhile, he had his back to that fucking Lieutenant Carson by the fire.
Carson would have shot him in the back by now had he recognized Captain Gringo’s voice. Most of their conversations had been in English, even before Carson had entrapped him. He wondered how long the damned navy was just going to sit there. Didn’t they have anyplace better to go? With the fire they were seated around shining at his back and the lanterns over the stands shining down from the other direction, this was not the time to turn his profile to Carson. So he kept staring down the front of Felicidad’s dress, and she seemed to like it.
He’d finished his taco and was pondering his next move when they all heard a lot of noise just down the beach. He knew the sailors would be looking that way. So he muttered something about seeing her later, maybe, and drifted the other way out of the light before turning to get a better grasp on what the hell was up. You didn’t have to join the crowd pressing around the two uniformed, yelling cops down that way to grasp that something awful had happened. Gaston had of course drifted into the deeper shade with him, and murmured, “So the jailbreak has been discovered and the fat is in the fire, non? What on earth were you flirting with that girl for? If you think you can hide out with a taco chiquita, forget it! Girls down here who sell food don’t sell anything else. She is a shameless flirt, but I learned long ago that girls like her only flirt for practice.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Tio Pancho. That fucking Carson was within earshot and I had to stay in character. Most guys wandering around in big sombreros aren’t as smart as you and me, see?”
“I’ll Tio Pancho you, you idiot! Why did you say I was your uncle?”
“They’re looking for a couple of old army buddies, not a young cowhand and his sweet old kinsman. Look, I’ll call you shit-for-brains if it’ll make you happy. But right now we’d better drift on up to dig clams or something. Look what those fucking cops are doing now!”
“Oui, I was afraid they were professional. Obviously, when one has a mass jailbreak, one checks identity papers. That triple-titted Diaz is a typical dictator when it comes to identity papers. In the days of Juarez, things were different. For one thing, not even the police could read.
Captain Gringo saw yet another uniformed lawman talking to Felicidad, and the pretty little bitch was looking their way! Gaston said, “Eh bein, we run up the beach to where it’s dark and the odds more even, non?”
“We gotta get out of here!” said Captain Gringo, turning away. Then he sighed and said, “Oh shit!”
Gaston f
ollowed his gaze. Up the beach, more cops were herding people toward them. He said, “Okay. One chance. We head for the main crowd, like we’re joining it. Then we ease around to the south side and see if they have it covered, too.”
Gaston said he was sure they would. But at least they were moving.
They didn’t see Carson by the fire now. But some of the U.S. seamen were still there. Felicidad had the cop leaning against her taco stand. But he was staring down the front of her dress now. If they eased through the middle …
They didn’t make it. The cop with Felicidad turned his head as another shouted, up the beach to the north. He spotted Captain Gringo and Gaston. He waved them closer and said, “Forgive me, señors. I mean no disrespect, but I do not recognize your features and this is a national emergency. May I see some identification, por favor?”
It sounded reasonable enough. It seemed a shame to have to shoot such a nice friendly guy. But it was getting about that time.
Then Felicidad laughed and said, “Oh, Officer Lopez, you are so funny,” and he said, “I am, Señorita Felicidad?”
“Si, and I suspect you are showing off for me, too. Surely you know los Señors Duran y Garcia? Roberto, come over here and let me introduce you two. I thought Officer Lopez knew everyone in Mazatlán. But he is new on the force.”
Captain Gringo and his “Tio Pancho” shook hands with the apologetic cop, who assured them he was only doing his duty. They said they understood. Captain Gringo asked Lopez what was going on and got a version of events at the police station that sounded pretty wild. Apparently one or more of the prisoners had gotten out of the cell block, knifed the sergeant on duty, and escaped to join the notorious rebel leader Captain Gringo. One unfortunate had been dumb enough to go home to his mujer and, when they’d picked him up there a few minutes ago, confessed in a confused way. He’d been too far back in the cell block to fill them in on all the details. But he distinctly recalled that someone had shouted something about another revolution. Lopez added that Ciudad Mexico had been warned by telegrafo to watch out for another advance on the capital by the terrible Captain Gringo.
