Renegade 35

by Lou Cameron

  As they rode down to the cattle trail Gaston swore, pulled a thorn out of his knee, and muttered, “I wish we’d agreed I was to shoot them instead of their horses. I would have gun-shot all four of the bastards! Mais, all is well that ends well. So let us be on our merry way, non?”

  Captain Gringo said, “No. We have to stop and doctor these barbs. It ought to be safe to build a fire in this secluded glen, and I need some light on the subject.”

  Gaston bitched as they dismounted, tethered their mounts to handy brush, and gathered more brush to build a bright, crackling blaze on the bare dirt of the old trail. He stopped arguing once he could see what Captain Gringo meant. Both barbs had picked up dozens of thorns. Captain Gringo was gentle, but both barbs fought like hell as he pulled the thorns out and washed the punctures with a rum-soaked kerchief. By the time he finished, the fire was dying down and Gaston was drinking the rum. What Captain Gringo told him it made more sense to wash his own injuries off with the same, the little Frenchman replied, “You take your medication your way and allow me to take mine my way.”

  The American laughed but said, “No shit, Gaston, you can pick up a nasty infection down here in the tropics from an untreated scratch.”

  Gaston said, “Merde alors, I walked away from the siege of Camerone avec two bullet holes and one bayonet wound in my tender hide, and I assure you that the tequila I drank did more for me than any other first aid.”

  But he did, in fact, spill some rum on his pants once they were mounted up again, to ride on cursing in French, Spanish, Arabic, and, as long as he was on the subject, Pipil.

  They rode until moonset, stopping to rest their mounts every hour, and had to give up once total darkness set in. Then they led their mounts into a grove of tropic pine, poured canteen water as well as corn into them, and made cold camp in their bedrolls under the trees. Captain Gringo figured that they’d covered less than twenty miles so far. Gaston called him a species of optimist. But at least they seemed to be headed the right way now, and the border was about forty miles from San Salvador.

  When the no-nonsense tropic sun popped up about six without much warning, they broke camp and rode on. The old farmer who’d told them of this cattle trail or smuggler’s route had been more truthful than his muchachos, it seemed. The trail kept trending the right way. They encountered nobody on it more vicious than an occasional bird-eating spider a man on horseback didn’t have to worry about, and by noon the air was getting cooler, the vegetation more lush, and they even stumbled into some trumpet trees with fruit ripe enough to eat. Trumpet fruit was an acquired taste at best, but the ponies enjoyed it, and the soldiers of fortune had learned never to pass up even insipid fresh fruit that was safe to eat in the tropics. So much of it wasn’t, and the local diet of corn starch and peppers could play hell with one’s digestion.

  As they rested and grazed their mounts, lazing under the trumpet trees, Gaston decided that they had to be in Honduras by now. Captain Gringo said he didn’t know where the hell they were when he broke out the map and failed to find any landmarks on it that fit the surrounding scenery. He naturally didn’t expect to find a cattle trail few knew about on a map that was probably largely guesswork to begin with. So he folded it away again, saying, “I wonder what guys get for drawing maps. Whatever it is, it’s too much. They’re not allowed to leave any blank paper, so they draw in shit whether it’s there or not. It was better when they were allowed to just stick in a unicorn or a mermaid instead of mythical landmarks. An over imaginative mapmaker almost got me killed in Apache country one time. He didn’t want to admit that the fucking desert had never been properly surveyed, so he put in a railroad town the Santa Fe had never heard of. I led one very thirsty patrol that way, figuring if there was a railroad stop, there had to be a water tower.”

  Gaston asked what might have been there instead and was told, “Not a damned thing. We got to the tracks okay. That was only twelve miles off. They ran over the horizon both ways. Lucky for us a train came along, as I hoped one might, the next day. We waved ’em down and commandeered some boiler water for our canteens. That got us back to the post alive, at least. Later I found out that the so-called town on the map was an imaginary line where one railroad section began and another left off, out in the middle of zilch.”

  Gaston threw away a half-chewed trumpet fruit and said, “You have no idea how you just cheered me up. Merde alors, how are we to find those gunrunners when we don’t even know where we are?”

  Captain Gringo pointed over his own shoulder with a thumb to reply, “The Sierra Neblina has to be that way, and Hakim says those other guys are using the same maps. So it doesn’t matter if those hills are off a few miles one way or the other. There are only a few passes through the spine of the ridge, and we know they’re leading mules. So that narrows it down to the easier passes, I hope. But we have to recruit more locals once we get to the high country. Not to find any particular pass but to find out which one’s more likely to be used.”

  “Mais, what if Hakim’s gunrunners do not take the easy route?”

  “That’s what I just said. By now they’ll have figured out what a great map Hakim gave them too. So if their leader has the brains of a gnat, he’ll ask some local to show him the best way to get over the hump.”

  “And if he has not the brains of a gnat, Dick?”

  “We’ll either miss them or luck on to them. There’s no way either side can follow every damned pass. I’m betting on them looking for two features that ought to narrow the field. They’ll want to avoid large towns or even villages that might have a telegraph. At the same time they won’t want to spill more mules into a ravine than they have to. So, like this cattle trail, their best bet will be a fairly well used trail that’s not too well known by outsiders. The far slope is more exposed to the trade winds. So it’ll be more eroded, wetter, more treacherous, with less visibility, once you’re combing clouds out of your hair. I’ve been trying to figure what I'd do if I was coming the other way with more to worry about. I think I’d go for the safer trails and to hell with what the neighbors might think. Once you’re up in solid overcast, who’s going to spot you, even a mile away?”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “Nobody, including us, I fear. How are we supposed to know if we pass them on the trail -by less than a mile, hein?”

  “We won’t. But we only promised Hakim we’d try. If we screw up, we screw up.”

  “Does that mean we have to tear up those deposit slips as well?”

  “I’m still working on that. If that gun shipment stumbles on into El Salvador, Hakim could wind up in jail, you know.”

  Gaston brightened and suggested, “In that case it would be safe to cash in the paper! Eh bien, why are we having this très tedious discussion? Why don’t we simply head for Costa Rica the short way and cross the species of old rogue double? I for one would feel better about our chances of cashing the paper if I knew for certain that Hakim was in the Tower of London and unable to cross us double!”

  Captain Gringo smiled wistfully and got to his feet, saying, “I don’t think they put traitors to the crown in the bloody tower these days. Even if they did, Hakim swaps bedmates and bedtime stories with the Prince of Wales a lot. So he’d probably beat the rap. We’re not saving his ass. We’re just saving him some legal expenses and, of course, the arms themselves. The junta that never ordered ’em would get to keep ’em without paying for ’em. So, yeah, we’re working cheap when you consider what we’re saving him. But we’re not saving his life and liberty, so it’s not as bad as it might look. Let’s mount up and see if we can ride onto that dumb map.”

  He headed for his tethered mount, blinked, and groaned, “Oh, shit, it’s too early for that.”

  Gaston joined him to stare soberly at the pus-filled boils bursting all over the bay hide of his barb. Gaston said, “You were right about infection in this climate. Mais, I still say that horse must be a sissy. Do you think lancing might help, Dick?”

  Captain Gringo
shook his head and said, “Not really. The pus is already running. If I drive him hard enough to work up a good sweat, it might drain the infection faster. But that poor brute needs a vet. What about your mount?”

  Gaston moved around to view his own barb. He began, “Healthy as a species of horse so far.” Then he sighed and said, “I spoke too soon. Your animal’s boils are draining, at least. Mais, what have we here?”

  As Captain Gringo moved closer to watch, the Frenchman got out his penknife, pinched what looked like a minor swelling between thumb and forefinger, and cut it open. A gout of green pus shot out to land between Gaston’s boot tips, alive with tiny wriggling worms. Captain Gringo spat and said, “Looks like horn fly. I’ve never seen ’em hatch that soon, though.”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “Everything but the people down here happen faster than in cooler climes. Merde alors, here’s another infestation, and the first one is bleeding more than I desire.”

  Captain Gringo grimaced and said, “Think of the pony’s desires and leave it alone. Given a choice between bleeding the brute weak and letting him itch like hell until the bugs take off on their own, I’d go with letting nature take its course for now.”

  “Mais, Dick, I have seen this species of mess before. Neither one of these barbs is going to last much longer unless someone get them to your vet indeed! By the way, how many horse doctors do you expect to find in the rain forest ahead?”

  “Not many. Let’s mount up and see how far we can get before we have to put them out of their misery.”

  They did, and the two injured barbs made it through the rest of the day, sort of. By late afternoon Gaston’s was staggering, head down and tongue hanging, even with the Frenchman now afoot and leading. Captain Gringo had dismounted first. So his pony looked a bit more alive, or perhaps it was just suffering a different malady. Its boils had stopped draining now. But they were more swollen than before, and from the way both barbs drank each time they came to a mountain stream, they were both running fevers as well.

  As they topped a rise Captain Gringo spotted wood smoke rising from what had to be a clearing ahead. He said, “We’ll leave ’em here with whoever’s there. It’ll be easier to pack our gear than drag two sick horses along, so what the hell.”

  Gaston slid his saddle gun out to carry in his free hand as he asked, “Do you really feel this is wise, Dick? Remember what happened the last time we called on friendly peasantry.”

  “Who could forget? But we can’t duck everybody, and everyone out here in the woods can’t be a part-time bandit. If we don’t get someone to take these sick horses off our hands, we’ll have to shoot ’em. I’d rather shoot a bandit than a horse. So add it up and what have we got?”

  “It sounds très disagreeable, either way. I, too, would prefer to see an unpleasant peasant die. Mais, there are still certain mild advantages of executing livestock. For one thing, it almost never shoots back.”

  Captain Gringo got his own carbine out and told Gaston to quit his bitching. Knowing how some people living in remote locations felt about armed strangers popping into view without warning, he swung the muzzle up to fire a polite shot to alert the folk ahead. The results were sort of noisy. As the echoes of his carbine shot faded away an invisible hound began to bay at a moon that wasn’t up yet as someone else began to beat on a drum, tree, house, or something big and made of wood. Gaston murmured, “Dick, off to your left.”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “I see ’em,” as a pair of dark guys with big hats and no shirts began to edge in at an angle to the trail, both packing machetes but holding them down politely.

  It was one of those they-know-that-we-know situations. So Captain Gringo stopped, grounded his carbine, and took off his own sombrero to wave at them. They stared soberly at each other. Then one came on over, smiling uncertainly. At closer range he looked younger but no less muscular. But Captain Gringo had already proven the advantages of a .38 against a machete at close range. So he snicked the safety switch of his carbine and put it back in its saddle boot as he said, “We are looking for Honduras, not trouble, amigo.”

  The full-blooded Pipil looked even more confused and said, “I mean no disrespect, señores, but you are in Honduras, a little. The border is over that way, I think. Is it permitted to ask for why you are approaching my family’s rancherita? We are poor but honest people, and none of our sisters are wicked.”

  Captain Gringo pointed at the sick barb he was leading and said, “Our animals are in no shape to go on, as you can see. We saw the smoke of your hearth and, with your permission, would like to leave them with you and your people. Should they live, you’ll come out two horses ahead. Should one or both die you still might have some use for the hide.”

  The Indian nodded soberly and said, “I believe the one you lead might recover in time. Your companion’s horse is done for, if those swellings are what I think they might be. Pero we have no remounts for to trade and we have no money for to give you for even a most sick animal, señor.”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “I would not expect anyone but a fool to pay uno centavo for a horse with a fifty-fifty chance of making it through the night, amigo. As things now stand, these animals are of no use to anyone. But if you take them off our hands, por nada, it is possible that you may wind up with at least one fine mount.”

  By this time the other Indian had drifted within earshot, unable to restrain his curiosity. The other Indian couldn’t seem to understand it, either. The youth who’d first joined them turned back to Captain Gringo to demand, “For why would anyone give two horses, even sick ones, to strangers por nada? I told you we have not even a burro for to give you in return. How can you hope to go on afoot with all that gear, eh?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “The country ahead is a bit steep for horses in any case. We’ll just pack our weapons and bedrolls.”

  “What about those saddles and bridles, then?”

  “They might as well stay with the horses, amigo.”

  “Es verdad? You intend for to give us those fine saddles as well as two horses, after I just told you we can not pay for anything!”

  Captain Gringo nodded and asked, “Why not? We believe you when you say you don’t want to buy what you never ordered. Believe me when I say that I’d rather give away a saddle I can’t use than carry it on my own back into the sierras ahead.”

  The Indian frowned thoughtfully and, said, “Wait here. You are too much for my simple mind to contend with. I must ask my elders about this most mysterious business.” He turned and dogtrotted down the trail until he vanished into the trees ahead. The one standing off to one side simply moved back out of pistol range, staring at them open mouthed. Captain Gringo turned to Gaston and asked, “Did you get any of that dialect? All I could follow was that we seem to be crazy.”

  Gaston said, “Oui, I think it might be wise to move back and take cover too. The younger one is going to tell his mama on us. I heard no treacherous intent, mais they only exchanged a few words, and who knows what mama will say, hein?”

  Captain Gringo said, “Just hang back and cover me with your not-so-polite carbine. I can’t imagine somebody’s mother as the head of a big bad bandit gang, can you?”

  “Oui, I can. Your own Belle Starr had several children, as I recall, and she, too, maintained her hideout in a patch of isolated woodland. Latin peasants by nature prefer to gather together in villages. As we just saw last night, clans dwelling apart from neighbors who go to mass more regularly would seem to be what Yankees of the southern species refer to as white trash, hein?”

  “No argument about that other bunch,” said Captain Gringo, “but the ones ahead could be squatters or smugglers, this close to the not-too-well-defined border. Why pay land tax or import duties when you don’t have to? There’s probably not a cop within miles.”

  “Oui, that is what I just said, and, regardez vous, our young Pipil returns, running faster.”

  The Indian youth did seem more sure of himsel
f now. He ran up to them and said, “If you still wish for to come in, I have been told for to tell you that Madre Mia offers such hospitality as poor ones can provide. She said nobody but a kind person would feel as you do about sick animals. I am called Juanito.”

  Captain Gringo introduced himself and Gaston by their first names and followed as Juanito and his companion, Juaquin, led them down the trail a ways and then off up a side path lined with thick second-growth. Gaston didn’t have to be told to watch the solid wall of pine needles for sudden moves. Captain Gringo kept his eyes on the bare backs of their Indian guides. If he went down, they’d go down. But that was about the only comfort a knock around guy could take from situations like this.

  He felt better when they came out into a good fifty acres of stump-covered open ground, and he saw that he’d been wrong about that smoke he’d spotted from the trail. Little or no smoke rose above the thrown-together cluster of brushwood shacks in the clearing. It drifted up from what looked like a smoldering haystack covered with dried mud. He nodded and told Gaston in English, “They’re charcoal burners.”

  Gaston said, “Oui, and the nearest large town is on the far side of the border, so they’re smugglers as well.”

  As they approached the improvised housing a chicken ran out and a woman in a striped Mother Hubbard of Indian home-weave appeared in the low-slung doorway. She couldn’t have been over five feet tall, but her braided and parted hair just cleared the rustic lintel above her head. At closer range she was younger and prettier than one expected a mountain matriarch to be. On the other hand, she was a bit broad across the hips, had to be somewhere in her late thirties, and they called her Mamacita. Some dames started young down here. She came out to meet them, making the sign of the cross as she got a better look at the horses. Once the introductions were out of the way—she said to call her Rosa—the lady of the house said, “Alas, we have no choice but to nurse those poor animals until they die or get well. We are good Catholics even if we are not pure blanco. I wish there was something we could offer you in exchange, señores. We have not even food and shelter for to offer. I know you must think this monstrous, pero we just consumed our modest rations for this day and there is no space inside for to spread even one more sleeping mat, even, if we had a spare mat.”