Renegade 19

by Lou Cameron

  “You are suffering sunstroke, despite the forest gloom, Dick. That rifle squad we took out was not made up of fruity rich Englishmen and four women for God’s sake! The only person on our side who looks at all tough is that big Matilda. These people are rank amateurs! Even if they were not, there are only a dozen of us to God knows what, hein?”

  “That’s one of the things we’ll find out when we get there. Don’t you have any curiosity, Gaston? Hell, for all we know, we scared them worse than they scared us! Those nine we took out might have been most of their strength.”

  “Sacre bleu, don’t shit my bull, Dick. Wallace marked out gun positions on both sides of the lagoon entrance. Cannon come with cannoneers. The one’s we brushed with were infantry. Trained infantry, despite their casual dress. Nobody hires a mere squad of infantry. The basic unit is a company.”

  “For God’s sake, you’ve been talking to Pat too much. You’re starting to sound dramatic, too. Wallace didn’t recruit any goddamn company, or even a serious platoon. They’re probably common criminals. Okay, so some may have deserted an army some time ago. There can’t be any official military units in the area. Honduras and Nicaragua are not at war this season, and if anyone else was invading, both countries would be yelling to Uncle Sam about the Monroe Doctrine by now. I read the papers back in Puerto Cabezas while we were screwing around to kill time that afternoon. There was not a word about any international crisis calling for anybody’s military intervention, and remember, Wallace planned this caper months in advance. The other side must have too, to beat him here.”

  “Merde alors, who cares? If we helped ourselves to one of the steam cars and loaded it up with extra fuel tins—”

  “Hold it!” Captain Gringo cut in, adding, “That’s pretty shitty, even from you, Gaston. I thought you liked Pat.”

  “Not enough to die for her! There are times a man must be practique. ”

  “Your idea isn’t practical. It’s murder. How long would these poor greenhorns last in this jungle if we deserted them?”

  “Long enough to walk back to Puerto Cabezas, if they had any sense.”

  “They don’t. I’ve already suggested they turn back. They won’t. Nothing is as stubborn as ten grand invested for a hundred. Break open an ammo canister and hand me a belt, will you? I’ll leave this one here and put the other on the far side if it doesn’t come out of its case too rusty. Guess who gets to take turns with me on perimeter guard tonight.”

  “Merde, I’d never be able to sleep with any of these other halfwits standing guard. Regard that species of Matilda waving imperiously over by the fire. Let us see if the food is better than Wallace’s other weird plans. It can’t be any worse, non?”

  *

  Captain Gringo was awakened by a hair-raising scream. So he sat up in his sleeping bag with pillow gun in hand before he figured out what it was. Then he sighed and lay back down, naked, to tuck the .38 away. A jaguar had been singing to its lady love in the jungle. The big spotted cats did that a lot, but they seldom came close to the smell of gun oil, and what the hell, Gaston was out there prowling, too.

  The big Yank didn’t check the time. Gaston had his own watch and he knew all too well that the Frenchman would wake him with worse noises than a jungle cat when it was his turn at bat.

  The canvas above him rippled gently as a mysterious night breeze swept between the big trees all around. That probably meant rain before morning. Meanwhile it had gotten comfortably cool. Had he left a tarp over the one good gun outside? Yeah, he had. The other son-of-a-bitching Maxim had been wasted freight. If Wallace had been alive when he’d opened the crate after supper, he’d probably have been as chagrined.

  You were supposed to ship weapons in oil, not rust. He’d cleaned and pocketed a few spare parts just in case. Most of the action had been shot after some stupid bastard packed the gun without cleaning and greasing it after it had last been fired.

  He heard his tent flap open. He couldn’t see who had entered but assumed it was Gaston. So he was surprised when whoever it was got under the sheets with him, naked. He knew it couldn’t be Gaston, even if Gaston had gone nuts. Gaston didn’t have such nice tits.

  He took whoever she was in his arms, since he couldn’t think of any better way to greet her. She snuggled closer to whisper, “I’m so frightened! What was that dreadful noise just now?”

  He said, “Jaguar. Big pussy cat. And speaking of pussies…”.

  “Sir! What on earth are you doing to my privates?” she demanded. Which was a pretty silly question coming from a naked lady in a bed roll with a naked gentleman. So he didn’t answer. He just rolled atop her, wedged her naked thighs open with his knees, and got into her with no further bullshit. She gasped, stiffened, then wrapped her legs around his waist as she protested, “This wasn’t why I came in here, damn it! Do you always rape helpless women who thought they could trust you?”

  “Every chance I get,” he replied, thrusting deeper into her warm wet interior. She was tight as hell, and must have noticed.

  She moaned, “Oh, you’re too big. I can’t stand it. This is so humiliating and, ah, could you move a little faster, you brute?”

  He did, and she said, “That’s better. As long as a poor girl has to get raped she may as well enjoy it.”

  Whoever the hell she was, she seemed to enjoy it very much indeed, and now that they were such good friends she commenced to run her nails up and down his spine while she tongued him deeply and drummed on his naked butt with her naked heels. He enjoyed it, too. It had been some time since he’d had anything half as good, and the fact that he had no idea which of the four girls in camp she might be added to the adventure. He took turns picturing her as Sylvia, Pat, Phoebe, and Matilda. No, not old Matilda. Matilda was too big and rangy. But what the hell, even a three-woman fantasy harem was a lot of fun.

  He was mentally laying the redhead when she stretched her legs out to both sides and gasped, “Deeper, deeper… I’m coming!” So he changed her to the brooding dark Sylvia and came in her at the same time. They went weakly limp in each other’s arms and she said, “Oh, you’re just dreadful. I never intended a thing like this to happen, Dick.”

  “Is that why you came in here naked and attacked me?”

  “Don’t be beastly, dearest. I was half-asleep and scared out of my wits by that terrible tiger scream.” She giggled coyly and added, “I suppose I’ll have to forgive you. Now that I’m awake I can see how you must have mistaken my visit for an improper advance. Uh, now that the damage has been done, do you suppose we could do it some more?”

  He rolled partly off her and groped for his shirt in the dark as he replied, “In a minute. I didn’t hold back at all so I need to catch my second wind. Let’s just share a smoke and some cuddles and …”

  “Don’t strike a light!” she pleaded. But the damage had been done. As he lit his cigar she looked away, shame-faced. He shook out the light, held the cigar aside to kiss her reassuringly, and said, “Why, Miss Phoebe, I hardly recognized you without your glasses.”

  “Oh, how will I ever face you and the others in the light of day?”

  “Well, I don’t know about me, but I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

  “You promise, Dick? I’d just die if the other girls knew I was so evil!”

  “Hey, you’re not evil. You’re just warm-natured. Come to think of it, I smoke too much.”

  He snuffed out the smoke and held her closer as she protested, “I feel so low, Dick!”

  “That’s because you’re on the bottom. Want to get on top?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant … Oh, God, I don’t know what I meant, that perishing great cock feels so good in me. But you must promise never to tell a soul!”

  He shut her up by kissing her again. She sure talked silly for a gal who screwed so sensibly. He knew, now, that Bertie had been right about the rumors he’d heard about her and her bohemian friends. She probably made some of them promise not to talk when she went slumm
ing. But naturally Bloomsbury blokes didn’t get a crack at many high-born ladies, so someone had bragged, the dumb prick. He knew that if he had something like this all to himself, he’d keep it all to himself.

  They shared another orgasm, and now that she’d dropped the act she took him up on his suggestion that she get on top. He’d meant for her to screw him in that position. The secret little bawd had naughtier views on love. But what the hell, they’d both had a chance to clean off since they’d last been with anyone else, and eating a lady who was eating you seemed only common courtesy. So they were going sixty-nine hot and heavy when the flap opened—in the dark, thank God—and Gaston said, “Dick?”

  Phoebe turned to stone atop him, his organ grinder still between her pursed lips as he growled, “Gaston, don’t you ever knock? Go find your own girl, dammit!”

  Gaston said, “I didn’t find a girl. I found a boy. An Indian. You’d better come out here and talk to him. His friends are all around us in the dark!”

  *

  It hardly seemed fair to call the Mosquito Indians Mosquitoes, or Moskitoes as some purists spelled it. For one thing, while they were little guys, they weren’t that little. And they didn’t sting as often, though some said they stung anyone who bothered them, with the long reed arrows they shot from bows taller than they were.

  The Indian standing outside with Gaston had politely left his weapons in the jungle before coming in for a pow wow. Since Mosquitoes didn’t have much else but their weapons, he was stark naked, unless the red paint on his dangling penis counted as formal attire in these parts.

  Captain Gringo of course had hurriedly dressed before coming out to see what was up. He hoped Phoebe had sense enough to get up and out pf his tent on her own before any of the others noticed. The other members of the expedition were coming in from all sides to join them and it seemed to be making the young Indian edgy, so Captain Gringo called out, “Okay, everyone back to their tents. This is a private conversation. I hope.”

  The Indian didn’t understand the English words, but smiled at the results. Captain Gringo smiled at him, held out a cigar, and asked, “Habla usted Espaniol?”

  Gaston murmured, “He doesn’t speak Spanish, I tried some on him.”

  The young Indian gravely accepted the tobacco and sniffed it before he spoke in a lingo that consisted mostly of mournful groans and high-pitched birdcall imitations.

  Captain Gringo got a word here and there, or thought he might have. He’d shacked up with more than one Maya and been very good friends with a San Blas sorceress one time, and, after all, how many kinds of noises could any Indian make?

  When he’d finished his oration, the young Indian put the cigar in his mouth. So Captain Gringo lit it for him. He didn’t seem surprised at the match flare. So he’d dealt with whites before. He blew smoke in Captain Gringo’s face, did the same favor for Gaston, and turned to walk away without another word. Gaston started to object, but Captain Gringo said, “Don’t grab him. We’re being watched. Why is that fucking fire going? I told you I didn’t want to advertise our whereabouts, dammit!”

  Gaston said, “I didn’t do that. He did. I was walking the perimeter and never suspected his presence until the species of savage was kicking the leaves off the coals as if he lived here! Merde alors, such manners!”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “He has good manners, when you consider how he might have gotten us to notice him! I don’t know what the hell the message was, just now. But I don’t think they’re mad at us.”

  “Sacre bleu. He sounded like he was giving birth to a broken bottle. What happens now, Dick?”

  “Good question. It seems to be up to them. I’ll stay here in sight. You stroll casually to each tent and tell everyone to keep their guns handy but to stay out of sight. I remember a similar occasion in Apache country one night. It turned out they wanted to have a man-to-man fight between me and a war chief, but this could turn out a nicer way.”

  Gaston shrugged and stepped away from the faint glow of the fire. Captain Gringo kicked a couple of pieces of fresh kindling on to make it burn brighter as he sat down by it, took out another cigar, and lit up.

  It felt like only a couple of hours as he sat there wondering what a reed arrow in the back felt like. They said the poison on the tip killed quickly and painlessly. Actually it was only about ten minutes before the same Indian kid came back with an old wrinkled guy and a young girl about eleven years old, judging by her bare pubis. Her breasts were those of a full-grown woman, though. The three naked Indians squatted across the fire from him as he pretended to ignore them. It wasn’t easy, looking at a naked lady’s slit as she squatted with her knees apart like that. The old man had a parrot feather in his iron-gray hair and his pecker was painted green. That probably made him important. He was smoking the kid’s cigar, too. It was odd how almost all Indians shared the same tobacco culture. He supposed that as tobacco had been passed from tribe to tribe in the old days, the rituals that went with it had been passed along as well. So far he’d never been scalped by an Indian who’d accepted a smoke from him, but there was always a first time.

  The old man said something to the girl that sounded dreadfully insulting. She nodded and said in Spanish, “The brujo wishes to know if you and your friends are wicked people. He says to tell you we are not savage people. But if you are wicked, he warns you he has many curses to sing over your images.”

  Captain Gringo blew a thoughtful smoke cloud and said, “That sounds fair and reasonable. Tell your brujo I respect and fear his powers, but that I don’t think he should curse me before he knows me better. ”

  The girl repeated his words in Mosquito and the old man favored him with a sinister smile. Medicine men did that a lot. Most of them were afraid that whites would tell them they were full of shit, and it never hurt to flatter one’s elders.

  The old man gargled razor blades at the girl awhile before she smiled across the fire at the tall blond American and explained, “The brujo says the spirits told him you had not come to harm us, since how could you have known we were here? Now he wishes to know if you are friends of the strangers over by the big salt water.”

  He was only half-faking when he pretended to choose his words carefully, as Indians preferred. His visitors hadn’t said what their current relationship to the other side was. Unfortunately, most Indians were smart enough to tell when you were beating around the bush, and didn’t like it. He took the bull by the horns and said, “Hear me; I know little about those other blancos camped near Laguna Caratasca. My friends and I were going there when they started shooting at us for some reason. As you see, we have run deep into the forest to decide in peace what we should do about them.”

  She translated. The old man made another speech, with the younger one chiming in, apparently in agreement. When they’d gotten it out of their systems, the girl said. “In that case, we are well met. We too were shot at by the strange blancos over that way. We have no idea why. Even when the pirates were there it was our custom to go over to the great salt water to hunt turtle eggs, and nobody ever bothered us. We are not evil people. It was wrong for them to chase us with their guns. Since they treated you the same way, the brujo says the spirits think you must not be evil people, either.”

  The old man started to rise. Captain Gringo said, “Wait! Where are you people going?”

  She said, simply, “Back to our own camp, of course. We have found out you are not evil people and so we don’t have to fight you. What else is there to say? I have heard of your strange god who is nailed to a cross of wood. That is how I learned your tongue. But I have never believed the story. It is not possible a god would allow himself to be treated in such an undignified manner. Even when the missionaries beat me, I refused to listen and, as you see, in time I got away.”

  “Wait, we’re not missionaries. We respect whatever spirits you and your people would rather pray to. Tell the old one we have guns, many guns, and we would like to help you fight the men who frightened yo
u!”

  The old man was already walking off into the darkness. The younger one exchanged more gibberish with the girl as he stood above her, as if undecided about something. She rose, too. Lightly and gracefully. Those stocky but shapely legs had to be powerful, since she was no lightweight, despite her short stature. She said, “My brother, here, says he would like to fight the bad blancos. But he is an untested youth. The old ones know all too well what happens to Indios who fight blancos. I will tell them your words. I do not think they will wish to do anything. You are the only blancos near our home camp, and since you are not evil, what is the point in taking the warpath?”

  He rose, too, saying, “I am called Dick. May I ask how you may be called, señorita?”

  “I am not a señorita, I am not a silly Cristiana. My real name is my own secret, known only to close relations. If you wish, you may call me Decepciona, for that is what the missionaries called me before I ran away.”

  Then she turned and walked off into the night without another word, with her brother following as silently.

  Captain Gringo chuckled. A lot the missionaries knew when they nicknamed her Deception. She seemed to be one little gal who just plain spoke her mind. Like most Indians uncorrupted by so-called civilization, she probably never lied unless it was important. Indians weren’t complete fools when it came to fibbing. Most would lie to save their asses. But they’d never picked up the charming habit of lying to be polite. It was too bad Queen Victoria never made that rule to go with all the other bullshit required in polite society these days!

  Gaston had seen the Indians go. So he rejoined Captain Gringo to help smother the glowing coals with more damp stuff. By the time Gaston was filled in, the others had come out, so Captain Gringo had to feed them a condensed version of the current situation, adding, “I don’t think we’ll have trouble with the Indians, and if anyone else we had to worry about was near enough to matter, the Indians would be long gone. The Mosquitoes have a rep as hit-and-run fighters.”