Blood Runner

by Lou Cameron

  The fish took bigger bites and had less to devour, so the pool calmed to a flat mirror long before the horde of ants began to thin. By high noon the dusty soil of the clearing began to reappear in dun patches between red rivulets of ants, marching vaguely toward the west.

  This was an unplanned bit of luck for Captain Gringo and his followers. Any reinforcements coming from the direction of the railroad right of way would be blocked until the ants crossed the tracks or headed somewhere else. The American and his followers had no way of knowing the exact wording of the confused dispatches being sent along the wires at the moment, but they were easy to imagine.

  As they moved slowly back to see what the ants had left for them, Captain Gringo noticed that some of the soot was wearing off his skin and those of the others around him. They looked, if anything, dirtier and wilder than before. Blanca warned him to be careful where he put his feet. The bigger warrior ants who guarded the flanks of the moving columns were more apt to nip at anything, smoke-covered or not, that moved within range of their dim little eyes.

  They came to the body of one of the Indians killed by the soldiers. His smoked skin hung in folds on his bones as if he’d been mummified. The ants had followed the trail of spilled blood into his bullet wound, hollowed out everything between skin and bones, and crawled out via everybody opening.

  The dead troopers in the huts and sprawled across the clearing had been reduced to neatly uniformed skeletons, with every button and buckle fastened, and not a morsel of flesh on their glistening, clean-picked bones. Blanca nudged a skull with her sooty toe and said, “You see what a fine job they do? Smell the air now.”

  He sniffed and grimaced. There was a faint wet-wasp-nest taste to the air. The body odor of the ants. They’d cleaned up every bit of anything else that could smell. But he didn’t think it smelled exactly alpine. It was getting hot and he was sticky under his coating of sooty sweat. They walked over to the edge of the pool and stared down into the muddy shallows. The piranha had been a bit messier. Shreds of stringy sinew clung like moss to the human bones scattered across the mud in the tea-colored water. But the victims were just as dead.

  Gaston and Sor Pantera joined them by the pool, and Captain Gringo saw that the widow had put her skirt back on after letting the ants dry-clean it. She hadn’t found the blouse as yet, and he noticed that the hair on her soot-stained breasts had been singed off. It wasn’t much of an improvement. She looked like a beautiful, shapely woman dressed in a gorilla suit.

  Gaston had pulled on his boots and pants and was wiping his face with a smoke-stained rag. He said, “We gained more guns than we have any possible need for. More important, the rifle ammunition fits the Maxim gun. All in all, this was not a bad little battle we just had. But I have to discuss a distressing matter. The soldiers did not stumble over us by accident, hein?”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “I know. It’s Chino.”

  Sor Pantera frowned and asked, “Chino? What has Chino done?”

  Gaston slapped a palm to his forehead and said, “Merde! Of course! He alone went with us to wreck the train. He must have started leaving blazes within view of the tracks. He brought up the rear as we followed Little Turtle through that swampy maze. It’s so obvious, once one thinks about it seriously!”

  Sor Pantera growled low in her throat and said, “I see it, now! I thought he caught on quickly for an innocent-looking farmboy! Wait until I tell the others he is a traitor He will wish he died with his friends, here, when we get through with him!”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “Wrong move. It’s not professional to shoot a spy when you don’t have to.”

  Gaston nodded and said, “The boy does not know we are on to him, Sor Pantera. This leads to all sorts of interesting ideas, if one can but remain a bit more detached than the heat down here seems to call for.” He winked at the American as he added, “The first idea that comes to me is to lead Chino on a false trail and let him blaze it for his friends. I’m open to anything more subtle.”

  Captain Gringo said, “Let’s not worry about Chino for the moment. We’ve got to police the area for supplies and ammo. Then we’ve got to haul ass. I figure we’ve got an hour or so.”

  All three of them looked surprised. He understood the girls being puzzled, but when Gaston repeated they’d chased the Colombian Army away for at least the day, he snorted, “Jesus H. Christ, Gaston. Didn’t you use any artillery in the French Foreign Legion?”

  Blanca asked, “What is this artillery?” and he gestured with his free hand to indicate a shell coming in from the west as he said, “Boom, boom! Lots of boom, boom! The soldiers who got away know where this place is. We just taught them how dangerous it is to move in with bayonets.”

  Gaston frowned and said, “We don’t know they have artillery, Dick.”

  “You want to stay here and find out, the hard way?

  There’s nothing worth holding here. The book gives you three choices once contact’s been made with the enemy: We can dig in and attempt to hold the position, we can advance, or we can retreat.”

  Gaston nodded and said, “I vote for the latter, then. I still doubt the troops we just mauled will recover quickly, but discretion over valor has its points.”

  “The Indian girl, Blanca, had been following the discussion with difficulty. She nudged Captain Gringo and said, “I don’t know if I feel like running away. This is a good campsite.”

  He shook his head wearily and said, “We can argue about who the boss is later, honey. You trusted me to show you how to ambush the soldiers and it went well, didn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes! We San Bias have never beaten regular troops before.”

  “Right. And when your people repeat the story around a hundred campfires in the times to come, they will remember you were the bruja who led her warriors so cleverly.”

  Blanca thought, grinned, and said, “That is true. I was terribly clever, just now. Tell me, what clever thing am I going to order next?”

  “We should move in the last direction the Army will expect us to: back to the coastal swamps and offshore keys you came from.”

  “But there are white men there, with guns.”

  “I know. I don’t think they’re part of the Colombian Army. They are gun runners. Bullies and bandits. If we show up with rifles and a machine gun—”

  Blanca clapped her hands and squealed, “Oh, I see the cleverness of my latest plan! The evil white men will run away, thinking we are with the regulars. I, Blanca, will be the liberator of my people’s lands!”

  As she bounced away to start yelling orders, Gaston nodded and said, “You’d have made a good bullfighter. I thought we’d have to throw the little bitch to the piranha.”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and replied, “We’ve got enemies to spare. Her boys are pretty good with those arrows, and the combination must be driving the other side nuts!”

  With another warning to keep quiet about Chino, he moved back to where he’d left the Maxim gun, scooping up his clothes and snapping out a series of commands to the still bemused guerrillas. The Indians were already gathering their meager belongings. Captain Gringo dressed and sat on a palm log thumbing rifle rounds into the canvas machine-gun belts. As he’d let Blanca assert herself as Indian leader, he watched Sor Pantera boss her tattered Balboa Brigade around sans comment. It was easier to play boss than it was to really keep fifty-odd people alive against a hostile world.

  He envied Gaston’s “practique” approach to surviving. He knew the bitter little Frenchman had a point. Nobody expected a soldier of fortune to risk his own neck for total strangers and wild Indians. Nobody in Panama was paying him, save for Sir Basil, who seemed to pay people to get killed. A man with any sense would be long gone by now and left all these crazy Panamanians to fight it out among themselves.

  In less than an hour he saw everyone was ready to move out and he’d field-stripped, cleaned, and rearmed his machine gun. Gaston came over, a new Army rifle slung across his back
. He still packed his pistol and had ammo bandoliers crisscrossed on his chest. He looked like a Mexican bandit who needed a bath. He said, “I’ve ordered everyone to arm themselves the same with these new Lebels. We have standardized ammunition at last, thanks to the Army. How many do you think we polished off?”

  The American said, “Don’t know. A lot of them went into the water, guns and all. More we wounded will have died out in the jungle between here and the railroad. I’d say we chopped up at least a third of a short battalion. Make it three hundred if you want to remember it for your grandchildren.”

  “Merde, some of the others have already decided we killed a thousand. But enough of the joyous part of soldiering. I have a personnel problem I need help with.”

  “I told you I’d keep an eye on Chino. I’ll get him to carry my gun and we’ll see if we can spot how he’s been leaving a trail.”

  “Zut, Chino is not my biggest worry. I am being overextended sexually. I told you I had the two Indian sisters, but you insisted on giving me Sor Pantera. I don’t think I can take care of all this spare ammunition and three women if you expect me to walk from here to the coast.”

  Captain Gringo chuckled and Gaston sighed, “Go ahead and laugh. You know what an animal Sor Pantera is. You are younger than me, too. Won’t you take at least one of the girls off my hands?”

  The American shook his head and said, “Blanca is inclined to be possessive, and a bit murderous. I’d better stick to her for now. She’s starting to go along with my suggestions and I don’t want to rock the boat.”

  “Sacre! This is most unjust! I am old enough to be your father and you saddle me with three sex maniacs!”

  “My heart bleeds for you. Can’t you get rid of one of the Indian girls?”

  “Mais non, they seem to be part of a set. Sor Pantera by herself is enough for any man. With ingenuity one can handle two for a time. Three is simply too much of a good thing, hein?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Sor Pantera’s sort of losing her shyness and I might be able to stick Chino with her, if I word it right.”

  “Chino? You wish to saddle that little turncoat with a spitfire like the widow? It would serve him right, but she says she hates him.”

  “I said I’d word it right. Let’s gather the troops and move it out. We’re overdue some incoming mail.”

  He rose with the machine gun cradled in his arms, yelled for Chino, and when the boy trotted over with a worried look, he handed the Maxim to him and said, “I want you at my side. We’re taking the point.”

  As he started into the jungle Blanca fell in on his other side to ask, “Why am I leading my people this way? We seem to be trending toward the railroad tracks.”

  He said, “I know. When they start to shell the camp behind us, they’ll elevate and . . . Never mind. Just trust me to know what I’m doing.”

  Gaston caught up with them, as if to ask the same question. But the Frenchman had read the book, too. He said, “I see we are moving into the guns. But I still think you’re being melodramatic. Despite the fancy uniforms, few armies in these parts really know how it’s done.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer. A few minutes later, something whistled through the sky behind them and slammed down into the clearing with a soggy crump. Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Sounds like a seventy-five. I’d be using air bursts if I was in command.”

  An Indian ran up to Blanca, chattering rapidly. She hushed him and told the others, “There was a big boom at the edge of the water.”

  Before anyone could answer, there was’ a rumble of falling shellfire behind them and Chino started to run forward with the Maxim. Captain Gringo said, “Easy does it, Chino. They’ll plaster the clearing, elevate, and send the real barrage into the jungle to the east to get us as we run that way.”

  “But we are not running that way!” laughed Blanca, translating for the Indian before she added, “Oh, I am so clever! The soldiers are shooting the way stupid persons might have run. But we are headed toward them. It is fun to fight as the white men fight!”

  As they moved on, the jungle behind and to their right began to rumble with drumfire, and the rear of the column hurried up abreast. The explosions were close enough to leave a ringing in the ears between bursts, but far enough away for the tall American to yell, “Spread out and stay in line. It’s a walking barrage, and it’s headed the other way.”

  Gaston ran out to the flanks to herd the frightened guerrillas back into a semblance of order. Captain Gringo told Blanca not to let her Indians stray too far, and as the albino trotted off, shouting orders, he turned to Chino and asked, conversationally, “Have you noticed how they’ve written you off, kid?”

  “I beg your pardon, Captain?”

  “Look, I haven’t time to screw around. You’ve been working for the Army, the British, or Sir Basil. Don’t bother to deny it. Don’t ask me how I know. We’re talking about your future, Chino. You’re smart enough to know the people you’ve worked for in the past are not your friends.”

  Chino trudged on, the Maxim on his shoulder and a wooden-Indian expression on his face. Captain Gringo nodded and continued, “You’re busting your nuts trying to figure out what you should say. I’ll save you the trouble. You don’t have to admit anything. I just want you to keep thinking.”

  The sky behind them ripped open like tearing canvas, and as a rumble of explosions echoed through the trees around them, he added, “See what I mean?”

  “Bastard!” muttered Chino. Captain Gringo didn’t think the boy meant him. He said, “I’d say you’ve been working for Sir Basil. Neither the Colombian Army nor British Intelligence would throw away a good agent like a cigar butt. We’ll talk about it after you’ve had time to gather your thoughts a bit.”

  Chino laughed bitterly and said, “Consider them gathered. You’d have killed me when you found out if you hadn’t known you could turn me around.”

  “That’s true. What’s Sir Basil’s plan?”

  “I wish I knew! He told me I was to leave a trail so that others working for him would be able to keep track of you. He said nothing about the Army hitting us with artillery.”

  “I’ll buy that, Chino. Sir Basil likes to fish in troubled waters. He likes to keep his eye on all the bait. He’s probably got a few agents with the Army, as well as each rival guerrilla group.”

  “I can see that, now. But what is the old goat’s point? Does he just like to see people killing one another?”

  “Of course. He sells weapons. British Intelligence screwed up his original plans by blowing the whistle before anyone could get a real revolution going. Hakim’s trying to keep the fire under the kettle any way he can. He doesn’t care if we kill the soldiers or if the soldiers kill us. He just wants us all to make a lot of noise. You don’t sell arms when things are quiet.”

  A cluster of shells exploded in the distance. As the echoes faded, Chino asked, “What are we to do? None of us Panamanian groups can make peace with the far-off government we all hate.”

  “I know. You might start by stopping the stupid feuding among yourselves. I know you’re not a Balboa. What rebel outfit are you with, Chino?”

  Chino hesitated before he murmured, “Christian Democrats. We don’t approve of the Marxist ideas of Sor Pantera and these other Balboas.”

  “Okay, you’re right-wingers. The Balboas are left-wingers. If you got together, when you took over the country you’d have a two-party system all set up. You sure as hell won’t knock off the Colombians on your own.”

  “I know. The matter has been discussed. The problem is that we who do the fighting seem to have little to say. Our leaders seem to be more worried about theory.”

  “I understand. I’ve met my share of tea-party Fabians and barroom rebels. I generally ignore anybody who orders me to charge unless he wants to come along.”

  They saw that Sor Pantera and two of her followers were moving up to join them. So Captain Gringo said, “We’ll talk about it some more when we camp for
the night, Chino.’,

  “I understand. Do any of the others suspect me?”

  “Just one of the others,” he lied, adding, “I’m not going to tell you who it is. I want you to think twice before you decide to switch sides again.”

  Chino nodded and said, “Of course. I wish I had the same insurance. But don’t worry. You can trust me for the simple reason that I see no other way for me to stay alive.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As they made camp that evening Captain Gringo had to admit that Blanca’s tribesmen were handy to have along, if you could manage to get along with them. The San Bias went to work with their machetes and had smudge fires and huts for the night in little more time than whites could have erected tents.

  He found Gaston sitting cross-legged near a fire, morosely watching one of his Indian bedmates cooking an iguana as her sister fanned him with a palm leaf. They’d marched a good thirty miles that day and the older man showed it. But, as always, Gaston’s tone was bantering as he said, “Alas, I am bereft. Sor Pantera has just told me she no longer wishes to sleep with me and mine. How did you do it?”

  Captain Gringo hunkered down beside him, glanced around, and said in English, “I sicced her on Chino. I told her it was a counterintelligence mission.”

  Gaston laughed and said, “It might have been kinder to shoot the little spy. I have lost any curiosity I might have had regarding bestiality. I mean, she’s very nice in a hammock and not bad-looking, but merde alors, she has more hair on her chest than me!”

  The American didn’t answer. He’d been brought up under a different gentleman’s code than the rough little Frenchman. He noticed Gaston’s face was flushed and sweating under its fading coat of soot. So he tried to change the subject by asking, “Are you all right? You look like you’re sick.”