by Lou Cameron
As the shadows lengthened he figured they’d covered a good thirty miles since that morning. The forest floor was pretty dark under the canopy, now, and the bugs were starting to annoy them. He called a halt in a deep patch of gumbo limbo and said, “We’d better build our smudge fire here. By the time anyone spots our smoke and maps it, it’ll be dark and we won’t be here.”
As most of the party slumped down to rest, Chino and another machete wielder cut deadwood from the tangled gumbo limbo all around and built a small camp fire on the damp forest litter. They let it burn a layer of coals, then threw on fresh wood and the pungent leaves they’d been picking on the fly all day. The green leaves smoldered in a white cloud of strongly scented smoke.
Captain Gringo saw the others were nervous about undressing. So he said, “I’ll put my toe in and tell you how it feels.”
He hung his gunbelt up, pulled off his boots, and started peeling. He felt a bit ridiculous and was very aware of Sor Pantera, even though she seemed to be trying to ignore him. He stripped down, wondering what he’d say if he got a hard-on, then planted a foot on either side of the fire and let the smoke envelop him. He held his breath and swayed back and forth to let the pungent fumes bathe as much of his skin as he could manage. Then he stepped out, scooped up his pants, and said, “Okay, Gaston, let’s go.”
The Frenchman shrugged and undressed as if he were alone in a dark room. He smoked his wiry frame, choked on the smoke, and stepped out, muttering, “Merde. I’m sticky and it itches, almost as bad as the damned bugs.”
Chino was next, blushing like a girl as he kept his back to Sor Pantera. The others followed, some grinning, others looking pained, until only the woman was left.
Captain Gringo had intended to have the others fully dressed and moving on before he ordered the woman into the smoke bath. But Sor Pantera had been thinking about it for hours and when the moment arrived she behaved like a child being forced against her will to enter a cold swimming pool. She’d obviously decided to jump in and get it over with.
Sor Pantera removed her blouse and dropped it. The men lowered their eyes politely, but not before they’d seen her naked chest. Her breasts were heroically proportioned with almost black nipples and a heavy down of dark hair. A line of fur ran up the centerline of her torso to form a grotesquely masculine T to each nipple. Captain Gringo caught himself staring as she dropped her skirt around her ankles and stepped out of it, stark naked. Her face was flushed and her eyes were on the ground as she walked quickly to the fire and stood in the smoke.
Captain Gringo knew he shouldn’t look, but he was fascinated by the spectacle. Sor Pantera had a beautiful, completely feminine body, but she was hairier than he was. The shapely legs were almost black with fur, and her pubic region sported a black beard worthy of U. S. Grant. She turned her back to him in the smoke and a heavy stripe ran up her spine from the groove between her ample, shapely buttocks. It was oddly exciting and a little repulsive, like the smell of her tawny body. He wondered what in the hell she was. Her features were Spanish aristocrat. Her curves were worthy of a Greek goddess. But, Jesus, she had to be part ape!
Nobody had said a word and nobody seemed to be staring, but they must have been, because nobody noticed they had company until it was too late to do anything about it.
Gaston stepped over to Captain Gringo, buttoning his shirt, and murmured, “Indians. They have us surrounded on all sides.”
The tall American raised his eyes casually to meet the unwinking gaze of a brown face staring back from between two gumbo limbo trunks. Captain Gringo raised his voice calmly, just loud enough for everyone to hear, and said, “Don’t anybody move. We seem to have company and they have the drop on us. Keep your hands away from your guns and just go on as if nothing’s happening.”
Someone murmured, “¡Madre de Dios!” but didn’t move. Sor Pantera called out, “How long do I have to stand here like this? It’s getting hot.” Captain Gringo made his voice light as he replied, “Just walk back to your clothes and pretend you don’t notice them.”
As the woman moved out of the smoke there was a patter of oddly lilting comments from the brush all around. Then a high voice called out in halting Spanish, “Hey, are you really people, or are you Christians?”
Captain Gringo turned with a numb smile to call out, “We are people. Who are you?”
“We are people, too. When we first saw you, we thought you must be Christians. You dress like Christians. But you act like people.”
The Indian addressing him stepped into view and again Captain Gringo caught himself staring. The Spanish speaker was an Indian girl. Sort of. Like her companions she was naked save for some pearls around her throat and waist. She was about four feet, eight, and had the stocky build and solid, conical breasts of other San Bias women. She wore another pearl in her rather flat pierced nose, and her eyebrows, like her pubic hair, had been shaved or plucked. But she was white—not racially white, but pure albino. Her skin was baby pink. Her wide-set eyes were the color of a white rabbit’s, and the straight hair she wore in bangs above her startling eyes was the color and texture of raw silk.
She said, “I am called Blanca by the Spanish.”
It figured. He nodded and said, “I am Dick Walker, and these are my comrades of the Balboa Brigade. Where did you learn to speak Spanish?”
“Some Christians stole me from my people for a time. They said they thought I was a white girl. Christians are very foolish as well as most cruel. Everyone knows many of the San Bias are albino. We are famous for this among other tribes of real people.”
A darker San Bias with a bow and arrow scowled and said something to Blanca in their own dialect. She nodded and said, “My brother wants to know what you are doing here. He thinks you must be Christians, even though you smoke yourselves against the night creatures like real people.”
“We are real people, too, Blanca. We have come here because the soldados are after us.”
“¿Soldados? Do you mean the army ants or the men with guns?”
“The men with guns. They want to kill us.”
“Oh. I understand. They are always shooting at us, too. I think it must have something to do with their religion. They tell us we are bad because we will not put on their clothes and sing their songs.”
An arrow suddenly snicked into the ground near Captain Gringo’s foot and he snapped, “Steady!” as he heard the intake of breaths and a hand slapping leather. Blanca trilled something in her own language and explained, “Some of my brothers want to start a fight because they are afraid.”
He said, “I know. My people are afraid, too, but we want to be your friends.”
“I don’t think you are a bad person, but this is very confusing for us. Most of the time, when the soldiers come into Mother Forest with their guns, they are not after people who wear clothes and speak Spanish. Are you sure you are not Christians?”
“Blanca, there are many tribes of people who live as you do, right?”
“Some tribes. The Christians came here a long time ago and started killing people. Many became Christians themselves. There are only a few other tribes who live as we San Bias, but they are good people.”
“I understand, Blanca. Try to understand us. We are not Indians like you. We are from another tribe of what you call the Christians. We are enemies of the government of Christians who won’t leave you alone. If my friends win, there will be another government, with other kinds of soldados. They won’t hunt you. You’ll be free to go back to your islands and pearl beds.”
Blanca nodded and turned to repeat what he’s said. The other Indians started calling back and forth across the clearing, and he could see there was a division of opinion. Before it could be settled, another Indian stepped into the clear and walked over to Captain Gringo. He looked like the young hunter he’d offered the crocodile tail to a few days back. The Indian walked around the American in a circle, like a dog deciding whether or not to piss on a lamp post. Then he put a hand on Capta
in Gringo’s arm and thumped himself on the chest to tell something. Whatever he was saying, he was taking it seriously.
Blanca smiled and said, “Little Turtle says he knows what is in your heart. He says he thinks you are a good person. He says he will fight anyone who puts a poison arrow in you.”
“Tell him I like him, too.”
“Oh, Little Turtle doesn’t like you. He thinks you’re funny-looking. But you and Little Turtle shared meat and he thinks it would be wrong to kill you before you did something bad.”
Another pair of San Bias stepped out of the trees with bunches of deadwood and began to build up the fire, making themselves right at home. A shy-looking naked girl came forward dragging a huge snake by the tail. Chino gasped, “Madre de Dios! That’s a boa! A big one!”
Blanca said, “We will all share meat together. Then we will decide what to do about our enemies, the soldados.”
Captain Gringo wasn’t sure if he felt like eating a snake, but that was the least of his worries. He asked, “Are you sure you and your people want to join us, Blanca?”
She said, “You speak so oddly. We are not joining you. You are joining us. First we will eat. Then we will sleep. Just before dawn is the best time to kill soldiers.”
Gaston drifted over and the American said, “I think we’ve been drafted.”
Gaston asked, “Which one of these Indians is the chief?”
Blanca smiled and explained, “We are not ruled by bullies as the Christians are. I am la bruja of my band.”
The Spanish term was lost on Captain Gringo, who hasn’t heard it before. Gaston noted his confusion and murmured in English, “The witch. I’ve heard of these San Bias. They’re an inbred tribe with a high infant mortality. Freaks who live are probably magic, non?”
Blanca said, “That is true.” In English!
Both white men stared at her in wonder. She nodded and said, “I speak French, too. I told you I spent time with white missionaries. It took me nearly seven years to get away. I hated going to Mass in those itchy rags you wear for some reason, but I learned much. My people value me for my wisdom as well as my odd color.”
Captain Gringo asked, “Are you sure you’re not at least part white?”
She laughed and said, “I am whiter than yourself, if you speak of our colors. My mother and father were pure San Bias. They were first cousins, so the missionaries may have been right when they said this was the reason for me being a freak.”
She didn’t sound like the word bothered her. She seemed proud to be a freak, if one could call an otherwise quite pretty and well-formed girl a freak.
Sor Pant era had dressed and come over to join them, leaning a bit possessively against the tall American. They introduced her to the Indian witch and Blanca said, “You are pretty. You look almost as dark as a real person. Are you?”
Sor Pantera said, “I am a Canariana. My people came from the Canary Islands. They say they were Spanish, but before the Spanish found the Canaries there were others living there. Some say they came from North Africa. Others say they came from lost Atlantis. They were called Guanchos and they must have lived very much like you.”
“I understand, Sor Pantera. They made your people wear scratchy clothes and go to church, too, eh?”
“I don’t know. It was a long time ago. When my grandparents came to Panama they spoke Spanish and had no memories of Atlantis.”
“You shall be a San Bias, now. Since you are called the Sister of the Panther, I will call you sister, too.”
Captain Gringo saw that the others were moving out of the trees, now, in sobering numbers. They were cooking the boa on the fire in its skin and it would be dark soon. He smiled at Blanca and said, “My friends and I intended to wreck a train. You understand what the railroad is, don’t you?”
“A little. Why do you wish to kill a train?”
“To block the tracks so other trains can’t come with soldiers. I don’t think they can catch us, now, by following us the way we came. But they may send others to head us off.”
“I see. Very well, you may take two of your men to kill the train. Your other friends will stay with us. If you don’t come back, we may get angry and kill them.”
“Now, Blanca, is that any way to talk? I thought we were all going to be friends.”
“If you come back after you kill the train I shall know you are a friend. Your friends will be our friends, too. If you are not a truthful person and want to trick us . . .”
Captain Gringo sighed and said, “Let’s go, Gaston. We’ll take Chino and the Maxim. We’ll derail an engine and get back before midnight.”
Gaston gasped, “Merde! Just like that? We hand over five of our own as hostages and simply walk away?”
“You want to stay here and eat a snake?”
Gaston grinned crookedly and said, “When you put it that way, I see the advantages of mobile guerrilla action.”
As he stepped away to get Chino and the gun, the tall American patted Sor Pantera and promised, “You’ll be safer here than near the tracks. Just sit tight and try to make friends.”
“And if they catch you and you don’t come back?”
“I don’t know. It won’t be my problem, will it?”
Chapter Twelve
“What I do not understand,” said Gaston,” is why we brought the gun, if you really mean to go back to that Indian camp.”
“Of course we’re going back. What else can we do?”
“We could always be practique. You and I are professionals. The boy, here, is at least useful. The others—”
“The others are counting on us, and I don’t want to talk about it. We’re coming to the tracks, if those sounds mean anything.”
They paused in the forest gloom to listen, and the moonlit night was filled with the rumble of an upgrade freight. Captain Gringo moved forward, saying, “Yeah, the right of way should be beyond that next wall of overgrown spinach.”
Gaston said, “You still have not explained the gun. We have no ammunition to spare, and the best way to derail a train is by pulling out some spikes.”
Captain Gringo slashed away a strangler-fig root and told Chino to put the Maxim down for a moment as he peered out at the moonlit ribbons of steel. The tracks climbed gently toward him from the even lower jungle to the north. The freight they’d just heard passing must have been heavily laden indeed to have labored so on such an easy rise. He muttered, “Damn. I wanted a steeper grade.”
Gaston joined him and said, “But of course. One pulls the spikes on an outside curving rail and the train goes bump-bump-bump into a canyon. Here we will do well to drop a few cars in the trackside mud!”
“I don’t want to derail a locomotive. Someone might get hurt.”
Gaston raised an eyebrow and said, “Ah, of course. It is Halloween and we are bobbing for apples. Heaven forfend we should hurt anyone on the other side!”
“The other side deserves what it gets. Most of the people in this neck of the woods are innocent bystanders. Marie Chambrun and who knows who else could be riding back and forth on the railroad. Our enemy is Colombia. Killing Panamanians or innocent tourists would be dumb if there’s any point at all to this revolution.”
“We are still fighting a revolution? Forgive me, I thought the name of the game was simply survival, now. But, idealism aside, what the devil are you planning, if it is not to destroy the railroad?”
Captain Gringo didn’t answer. He stepped out into the right of way and began to hack down trackside growth, tossing leafy branches on the track. Gaston watched morosely for a few moments before he observed, “That salad is hardly thick enough to stop a downgrade engine, mon ami.”
The American said, “I know. We’ll have to clear it away, once the bluff stops a train. We’re close to the Indians and our friends. Don’t want them to map the exact spot.”
“Of course. Anyone can see a speeding locomotive will be utterly crushed by those twigs and leaves. Are you certain there was no marijuana in tha
t smoke we just bathed in? This is ridiculous! That pile of trash won’t even scratch the paint on the cow catcher!”
“You know that and I know that. Would you plow into a dark mass of anything across the tracks in the dark, if you were an engineer with any thoughts at all about your future?”
“Hmm, I see some method in your madness after all. We stop the train. We shoot everybody, and ...”
“Get Chino out here with the Maxim. That distant toot might mean two passing trains. We should be having company soon.”
As Gaston ducked into the jungle to gather the boy and machine gun, Captain Gringo finished piling a weak but massive pile of fluff across the tracks. Far up the grade he spotted what looked to be a star on the horizon. It was growing. They were in luck. He was anxious to get back to Sor Pantera and the others before the Indians got nervous.
As Gaston and Chino rejoined him, Captain Gringo took the Maxim and crossed the tracks. Gaston started to ask why, -then nodded and said, “Of course. Any survivors will report we hit them from the west side of the track.”
They took cover near the brush pile and waited as the Atlantic-bound train came down the track. The headlight’s beam picked up the mass of leaves across the right of way and Gaston marveled, “Merde! It does look like a big tree has fallen across, non?”
Apparently the train crew saw things that way, too. The ground tingled under their feet as the engineer hit the brakes and the locomotive started sliding on its lock drivers. Captain Gringo braced the Maxim on his hip and said, “They’re stopping. You guys stay back but keep me covered.”
