“I think they’re enough to spare you—provided you accompany me to the transcontinental railroad at Promontory, and then see me safely to San Francisco.”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“You could say no, but then I’d have the Indians kill you. They’d like nothing better.”
“I think we’ll save that for another time.”
“I’ll retain the option.”
“But why San Francisco?”
“I should think that’s obvious—it’s where you’re going, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but…”
“I need a chaperone for a big city like that.”
“But Rachel…”
“I saved your life. Your duty now is to protect me.”
I couldn’t deny that. And so I started on the trail anew, with Bad Boy, Billy Jack, Sister Rachel, my horse Marshal Ney, and my spare mount Edward. The Indians retreated whence they came, and, I assumed, we were not followed.
I grieved, of course, that my previous companions had been so horribly murdered and mutilated, but I gave the Indians credit: they had left our supplies intact. Moreover, Rachel’s cooking was such a dramatic improvement over Private McCutcheon’s, and Billy Jack was so much better and more affordable as a pathfinder than Herr Fetzer that even I—who, as you know, dearest Libbie, am not much given to theological speculation—had to wonder at how Providence had turned Herr Fetzer’s and Private McCutcheon’s grisly fates into our good fortune. Their lives had been well spent.
The conversation, too, improved. Rachel believed in self-improvement and spent many an evening conjugating French verbs with Billy Jack, eyeing me as she did so. I, however, took no part in language lessons, and instead sat by the fire, sketching diagrams of old battles in the dirt with a stick, instructing Bad Boy in the proper use of Cavalry. He was an attentive pupil.
These were pleasant days and nights, the weather was crisp and comfortable, the aroma of pines and firs wafted over us, and it seemed as though we traveled without a care. Occasionally I would go hunting to provide fresh meat. Sister Rachel was quite the picture, in her nun’s habit, with billowing sleeves retracted so she could stir our evening stews over the campfire. Really, it was almost idyllic, save for your absence, dear; but such things must be endured.
There were, of course, difficulties along the way. Some of the trail was hard, as Herr Fetzer had warned: there were precipitous cliffs and steep mountain ranges; the weather was not always kind; Indians we saw no more, but we noted bear-scratches on tree bark, and at night coyotes serenaded the moon. I will not bore you, though, with the details of that treacherous and exciting journey, which pitted me against the elements and the overbearing rudeness of the stationmaster at Promontory (I had to flash my badge to commandeer a suitable railcar for Bad Boy, Marshal Ney, Edward, and the horses belonging to Rachel and Billy Jack). As challenging as the journey was, it is not germane to my main story, and it might mislead you as to the tenor of our travels, because by the time we reached Promontory, we felt as optimistic as the wide open plains, a trio of titans—Marshal, Indian scout, and nun—on a pilgrimage to the city of Saint Francis.
At Promontory, we took advantage of its modicum of civilization. I bathed and shaved—and even acquired a new set of clothes (shirt, vest, and suit: more suitable, I thought, to a city like San Francisco) and laundered my buckskins. I don’t know how she did it—a mystery, perhaps, of the monastic life—but when I rejoined Sister Rachel, she was fragrant and glowing, her nun’s habit fresh and finely pressed, her cheeks aglow as from a perfumed bath, her eyes alight with—well, one could say “devilment,” but “anticipation” might be a better word—for the exciting journey to San Francisco.
“All aboard!”
Sister Rachel stepped onto the train, I followed, and Billy Jack came bearing our slight luggage—two bags I had bought at Promontory to hold whatever wouldn’t fit into our saddlebags. We entered a passenger car—and into a mystery. The entire car, though designed for passengers, had been turned into a baggage car, with boxes and cases resting on nearly every seat. It was as if the passengers had been kidnapped, leaving their voluminous belongings behind.
As a nun, mysteries and miracles were surely part of her daily prayers, but Sister Rachel stopped and gawped. Billy Jack, a red man of practicality, gently eased her aside and cleared two rows of seats for us.
“You and Sister Rachel take front row; I take back row with luggage.”
Sister Rachel and I did as we were bidden. The train jerked forward and then rocked gently on its rails.
“Strange,” Rachel said, “for a passenger car to be used like this.”
“Yes, isn’t it? But if it pays the freight—perhaps all this belongs to some millionaire in San Francisco, having it shipped out for his wife or something.”
“Oh, Armstrong,” Rachel said, grasping my arm in a way that I thought inappropriate for a nun. “San Francisco—civilization: dances, dresses, dinners.”
“Yes, my dear, but since you have the window seat, I suggest you enjoy the view. The West, my dear: big, expansive, untamed—I feel at one with it.”
My eyes looked beyond her, out the window, and appreciated the passing countryside. I had but a few moments, however, to enjoy it. Billy Jack leaned over the seat and whispered, “Marshal, passenger come.”
I turned to see a delightful young lady who had entered our car from the rear entrance. I stood as she approached. She bowed and curtsied, almost like a supplicant—then I realized it was for Rachel’s benefit, given her nunly garb.
“Excuse me, señor; sister.” She pointed at the aisle seat of our row of three. “May I?”
“Why certainly, ma’am.”
She took the seat. As I sat adjacent my sense of duty was immediately aroused. She was quite the exotic character, dark of hair and eye, olive of complexion, and with that Latin intensity that comes perhaps from the promiscuous use of peppers in Spanish cooking. Her black, coal-fired eyes burned—as so many have done in my presence—with a passion that belied her demure fluttering lashes. When she spoke, it was with fiery rapidity, but in a whisper, and with a beguiling trace of Spanish.
“Señor, I am loath to disturb you. I did not expect you to travel with a nun… and with an Indian.”
“They were unexpected but most welcome company, as are you, señorita.” I thought my own touch of Spanish might put her at ease.
“You are most kind. When I entered at the rear of the car, I saw you. You appeared deep in thought. You write in your head?”
“Right in my head?”
“They told me you do such things.”
“Really, they did?”
“Wait, señor, before we continue, it is important that I know: you are alone—except for the sister and the Indian, yes?”
“At present, yes; my companions are in a separate car.”
“I see. You come with many men?”
“Not men exactly. I sent the men away—if you mean the Indians.”
“Indians? Away, señor? Not to Neustraguano?”
“No, señorita, not to… may I help you in some way?”
“I expected to find you in San Francisco.”
“You did?”
“Why yes, señor.”
“Why?”
“Ah, I understand—you fear being overheard. You suspect hidden ears behind these bags and boxes. But, señor, I assure you, I booked this car for myself; so if you boarded alone with the sister and the Indian, then you are still alone, except for me.”
“You booked this entire car for yourself?”
“Yes—I took no chances.”
“My dear señorita, a car so large for a woman so petite—but these bags are all yours?”
“Of course, señor, I had to be prepared for many circumstances.”
“My apologies, señorita; I didn’t realize we were trespassing.”
“It is quite all right, señor.”
“The stationmaster and I had exchanged wor
ds—at length. Perhaps he didn’t care what car I took after that. He just wanted me gone.”
“And I am content to have you here, señor, with my luggage. It is just most unexpected—like the nun and the Indian. But they told me to expect the unexpected from you.”
“They did?”
“Yes—and I have tried to be unexpected too. I thought the docks in San Francisco would be watched. So I traveled to New Orleans to confuse our enemies. They would not expect me to arrive by train across America. You can imagine how difficult my journey has been—all the way from Neustraguano.”
“Yes, I can only imagine. Just how far away is Neustraguano?”
“First, I had to cross Mexico; then a week’s sailing to New Orleans.”
“And yet—you knew I would be in San Francisco?”
“They told me you were there—why aren’t you?”
“Actually, I’m on my way.”
“Ah, you too are trying to avoid detection, yes?”
“Indeed, I am. And how, señorita, did you detect me?”
“They gave me your description. They said you were tall, blond, fierce, determined, and handsome. These things are true, are they not?”
“Well, yes, I have that reputation.”
“I see you now: un hijo de la estrella de la mañana.”
“I suppose that might be true, but who told you all this?”
“I think, señor, that perhaps you are right, after all—we should not talk here. One can never be too careful. How well do you know this Indian?”
“That,” I conceded, “is a very good question.”
“I know him,” said Billy Jack, “all is well.”
She seemed skeptical—as was I, frankly—but she glanced at Rachel, was reassured, and continued, “They told me to give you this—a token of good faith.” She produced a small black purse from which she drew a gold coin, kissed it, and placed it in my palm. On one side was a cross, on the other a queen.
“Your monarch?”
“Mary, the queen of heaven,” she explained, bowing her head, and nodding at Rachel.
I smiled indulgently—these Latin royals and their titles. “I’m much obliged, señorita. What am I to do for it?”
She looked puzzled. “Nothing now, señor—just an advance payment.”
“Of course—but your name, señorita, what might that be?”
“Consuela Victoria Margarita Monteverde Cristóbal.”
“I see. Which one do you prefer?”
“Prefer, señor?”
“Victoria will do, then, will it?”
“Yes, you may call me that. And you, señor, what shall I call you?”
“Ah, a good question. You may call me… Señor Generalissimo.”
“Is that wise, señor?”
I looked penetratingly into those dark, passionate eyes, which reminded me of boiling coffee. Plumbing their depths, I risked an answer, “Sometimes, señorita, the best disguise is no disguise.”
“You are a bold man, señor—of that I was warned—but I hope not imprudent.”
My face flushed with irrepressible anger; my teeth gritted in righteous frustration. You can understand, Libbie, how that word—that horrible, horrible word—shook me to my core. I expostulated in my most vigorous manner: “Imprudent! Really, señorita, you cannot know how that canard, that calumny, that epithet chases me like an old maid chases the town drunk. Imprudent, impetuous, reckless, they say. The fact is that if Benteen and Reno had supported me—as duty demanded—I should never have been killed!”
“Killed, señor?”
“Yes—killed, with all my men—it’s something I can never live down.”
“You are dead, señor?”
“Up to a point—but even if dead, señorita, I do my duty: I am the hero you take me for.”
“But you are a dead hero?”
“Only in name, señorita: if you require a knight errant, I am ready to pledge my troth.” And I took her noble, delicate hands in my own, even as Rachel’s elbow dug into my ribs.
“You are Señor Bierce?”
“Bierce?”
“Yes, Comandante Ambrose Bierce.”
“My dear woman, I fear there must be some mistake.”
“You have second thoughts?”
“No, señorita, I have no thoughts at all, I assure you.”
Just then we bumped over a trestle, our seats rocked, and fearing that she might fall I gripped her shoulders tightly and pulled her to myself, knowing that not all women, my dearest Libbie, have your strength and balance.
A conductor meandered down the aisle and winked his approval of my gallant deed. But I had not reckoned on Victoria’s Latin blood. “You take liberties, señor.” She pushed me away—with a force that would have done you credit, my dear—and Rachel, taking her cue, gave me a stinging slap across the chops, and said, “Really, sir, I must ask you to behave yourself!”
Rachel’s blow and admonition were as nothing to the fire in Victoria’s eyes. “Señor Generalissimo, my country needs you. El Caudillo himself sent me to find you. Only you can save us from the republicans. But that gives you no right…”
Suddenly I thought I finally understood. Putting a finger to my lips, I signaled her to silence and wondered at the machinations of fate. Had I not been killed at the Little Big Horn, I might have been the Democratic Party’s nominee for president—and now this woman, representing some power broker, someone apparently named Claudio, was asking me to return from the dead and take the party’s standard.
“Señorita, I know you are fearful, and you speak in riddles lest anyone overhear us—but state your case plainly, and I will answer in the same fashion.”
“I should say no more, Señor Generalissimo, until we reach San Francisco.”
“Am I to be unveiled there—as the party’s candidate?”
“Señor, you are the one who speaks in riddles.”
“If there are Republican spies aboard this train, it is best that we stay together. Perhaps you could pose as my wife. That might throw them off the scent. You don’t look like Libbie—and they would never guess.”
Her dark eyes rested on mine. Behind those swirling pools of coffee, I sensed the rapid calculations of a mathematician. “Señor, I think we are in danger.”
I had been so mesmerized by my duty to the señorita that my normal Indian senses had been blunted; as, indeed, had those of my Indian scout Billy Jack. We were not alone. A revolver cocked at my ear. Its barrel tickled my dangling lobe. I did not turn. I kept my eyes on Victoria, but I intuited a large, dangerous, manly presence behind me. He spoke—not to me, but to my companion—in Spanish-accented English. “Ah, Consuela, all that trouble for this old gringo. And now he is captured. Such a waste.”
“I must tell you, señor,” I said, turning slowly until the tip of my nose hit the muzzle of his revolver, “that if you think the Republican Party can intimidate me, merely because I am dead, you are mistaken.”
My interlocutor, dressed in the brummagem finery of a commercial traveler, was a man much browner than Victoria. His hair was black as a raven; his cheeks had the bristled look of a shaved porcupine; a large black moustache drooped around his mouth; and his eyes were hard as iron. He had two henchmen, similar in appearance to himself, with revolver barrels resting on Billy Jack’s ears. “We are republicans, señor, yes. But your death—that awaits.”
We hit another trestle, his revolver bumped off my nose towards the roof of the carriage, and I announced, not quite biblically, “My vengeance waiteth for no man,” and drove my fist directly into his face; my other hand wrestled the revolver away from him and pressed it against his ribs. “Touché,” I declared.
Behind us Billy Jack was still under guard. But Rachel had stood, turned, and was facing the chief villain with a derringer in her hand.
I said, “Tell your men to drop their guns on the seat beside the Indian.”
He nodded to them, and Billy had those guns flipped on the miscreants faster th
an a dog leaps on his dinner.
Their leader pulled back from me, dabbing his nose with the back of his hand.
“You are a bastard, señor—but they told us that.”
“I’ve heard a lot about they—who are you?
“I am Hervé Manuel Gonzalez-Gonzalez. You have heard of me?”
“No.”
Victoria said, “He is an anarchist, a revolutionary! He is an enemy of my country!”
“An enemy of its Caudillo!”
“Who is this Claudio?”
“El Caudillo,” said Victoria. “He is the hereditary soldier-emperor of Neustraguano; a defender of our nation and its faith.”
“An exploiter of its people; defended by superstition!”
“Anarchist! Revolutionary!”
Gonzalez-Gonzalez raised his fist, grinning wolfishly; I noted the blood on his teeth, loosed there by my own strong hand. “Viva la revolución!”
As you know, Libbie, I have often been tempted by politics, but I have never understood politicians or their ways, and it is with no shame that I confess that I was terribly confused. I saw but one course forward. I grabbed Gonzalez-Gonzalez by his collar, dragged him past Victoria and Rachel, and shoved his face at the window. “Open it!”
He seemed flustered, and his fingers fumbled with the latch, but he finally succeeded, and with my one hand gripping his collar, and the other seizing his belt, I lifted him and heaved him off the train into the wilderness. “Adiós!”
I closed the window, brushed off my hands, and eyed his two compadres. They weren’t such confident desperadoes now. They regarded me with shock and fear. “Billy Jack, what should we do with these two?”
“Castrate and disembowel?”
“There are ladies present.”
“Hmm, I suppose they must follow their master.” He said to one of them, “You open window; then I either launch you with gun or you jump.”
Victoria shouted at them in Spanish—preempting Billy Jack’s own translation.
Picture this, if you will: two cowardly thugs facing an Indian with two revolvers, your beloved Autie with gun drawn, Sister Rachel (who cocked the hammer of her derringer for melodramatic effect), and that Latin spitfire Victoria who, I suddenly noticed, also held a derringer. Who wouldn’t lose his nerve in such circumstances? The villain nearest the window fingered the latch, and slowly, reluctantly slid the window open. He climbed into the vacancy and paused. Billy Jack stuck a revolver in the seat of the blackguard’s pants, and he screamed and jumped out. His accomplice followed quickly—no doubt hoping to reunite with his co-conspirator if they survived their leap into the wilderness. Billy Jack closed the window and stuck the revolvers in his belt.
Armstrong Rides Again! Page 3