Renegade 35

by Lou Cameron

  The Indian nodded and said, “Si, no doubt El Duende. Is not for to worry about, señor.”

  “The hell you say. Someone else is out there. You told me that this area’s not inhabited, ’Sus.”

  The Indian said, “I said no campesinos lived in these hills, señor, and I spoke the simple truth of God.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then who the hell’s wandering around out there with a lantern, ’Sus?”

  “I told you: El Duende. He is not a campesino. He is simply, ah, who he is.”

  “What are we talking about, some kind of wandering lunatic?”

  “Por favor, nobody knows. From time to time someone chases the flickering light of El Duende. But nobody ever catches him, and it can be a most dangerous sport. Some times those who follow the light of El Duende never return. Pero if you just ignore El Duende, he is harmless.”

  “You call luring people off in the dark harmless? Don’t you have any idea who or what could be behind his imitation of a firefly?”

  Jesus shook his head and said, “No. Nobody alive has ever seen El Duende in the flesh—if he is flesh at all, that is. I once led an Americano, like yourself, out into the trees for to hunt gold. He found no gold, but he, too, saw El Duende. He said he had heard of such matters in his own country, where El Duende is called, let me think, was it Jack-O’-Lantern or Will-of-Something?”

  Captain Gringo frowned and said, “If he believed in the will-o’-the-wisp, I don’t think he was my kind of Americano. Jack-O’-Lantern is what the Irish call him and … What am I talking about? There’s no such thing as a will-of-the-wisp, damn it.”

  Jesus said, “Si, that is what the other Americano said at first. Pero one night he insisted on following it. I did not expect for him to return, but he did, the next morning, covered with cuts and bruises. Making the sign of the cross many times, he told me that he had followed the light off a cliff in the dark. Pero fortunately it was not a very high one. After that, like my people, he simply paid no attention to El Duende, and in the end he left for to search for gold in other parts of the world. I think it was Ireland he said he meant for to go next.”

  “No doubt. But that was still a real light I saw. It could have been meant as a lure, come to think of it. Tell me about the Indian situation around here. They’re called Bravos, right?”

  Jesus nodded but said, “Los Bravos are not a tribe, señor. It is a way of life. Those who follow it speak many languages. Some even Pipil, like myself. They are called Bravos because when the Spanish came in the old days, they refused for to give up their old ways like sensible people. Los Bravos dwell all through the central sierras on top of the clouds or a little below them, depending on how hard the Spanish speakers press them.”

  “I’ve met Indians with similar views in the lowland jungles. Are they wandering food-gatherers, or do they tend to stay in one place?”

  Jesus looked confused and said, “¿Quien sabe? I am not a pagan. Los Bravos live wherever and however they wish for to live, avoiding most strangers. Some, as you say, roam the foggy forests for wild food. Others stay in one valley and farm as more civilized people are supposed to. Like El Duende, it is best not to search for Los Bravos. They simply wish for to be left alone. Pero some can behave unpleasantly if they feel oppressed.”

  “That sounds fair. What about the Bravos that mission on the far side of the sierra is named after?”

  “May God forgive me, it is a superstition of Mother Church. The Dominican brothers are very kind. They do many good things for the Indios over that way. Pero no Indio who is willing to turn his back on the old gods is really a Bravo. They just say they are, for to make the brothers happy.”

  Captain Gringo chuckled and said, “We have Indians like that back where I come from. How do you feel about the old gods, ’Sus?”

  “I would think that they were very weak, even if I had not been named after the Son of God. My woman still puts out corn for the old weak ones on certain nights. All women are superstitious. I have asked her more than once how the Spanish crushed our Pipil chiefs and could burn our old priests at the stake so freely if their own gods were not stronger. Pero, no matter how many times I beat her, she insists on making cornmeal mush for them. So I give up. She is a very good woman, even if she is a little stupid.”

  Captain Gringo was tempted to ask what he meant about gods, plural, but he didn’t. He’d met other primitive Christians who seemed to feel that the Christian saints constituted a pantheon of gods, and he didn’t feel up to a theological discussion with an illiterate. He felt like hitting the sack and finding out if Consuela was still fond of him.

  Apparently she wasn’t. He stripped and slid into his bedroll on his own. There was no sense waiting up for her this late, so he went to sleep. Gaston booted him out after midnight. His second tour was less interesting. There wasn’t a third, thank God. The sun was up by the time Gaston finished his second turn at bat.

  They got everyone up and moved them out, hard and fast. Captain Gringo had his good reasons for driving harder the second day, but Gaston was feeling guilty, so, during a rest stop, he hunkered down by the bigger Yank to complain, “Merde alors, had I known you would take it so personally, I would not have fucked the très tedious tub of lard, Dick.”

  Captain Gringo laughed and asked, “Is that where she spent the night? I figured it had to be somewhere.”

  Gaston grinned sheepishly and said, “It was not my idea. She began by begging me not to tell anyone I had seen her adorable pussy, and somehow I seem to have found myself, ah, comforting it.”

  “I told her you gave good head. Better you than me. Doesn’t it bother you to go down on a dame who puts out so freely, no offense?”

  “None taken. At my age everyone I meet is more innocent than I, and it’s only common courtesy to help out a friend when she’s down on you, hein? Do you want her back now that I have, ah, swabbed the deck for you?”

  “Not on a silver platter. Give her to ’Sus or one of the burros—if you’ve got one of the others lined up. I’m pushing them hard because I’m worried about their legs, not what’s between ’em. People who’re not used to exercise don’t feel it really bad until the third day. So I’m hoping to get them over the pass before they all come down with charley horses. ’Sus says he thinks we can make it in under three, if we don’t stop to pick daisies. Try not to spread Consuela’s legs too wide, or too often, between here and El Paso Ruido. It would be as rude as hell, considering, if we had to leave her behind.”

  Gaston laughed and said that he was the one doing most of the work. Captain Gringo got up, yelled, and waved his party on as they sobbed and cursed. He noticed that Consuela seemed to be avoiding him. That was jake with him. What could one say after one said good morning to a lady who’s sucked off one’s best friend?

  He had no chance to line up any of the others, even had he wanted to, as he herded them over hill and dale, ever higher. They were in fairly dry country, on this side of the sierras, so the sun got to them through gaps in the forest canopy, and when they tried to stick to shade, the monkeys shit on them. The howlers began to give way to a little white-faced bastard who liked to tear off strips of blood-red Indian Tree bark, chew it to a gory pulp, and spit it down at one. Their shit was red too. He wondered if they ate the bark or just had bloody piles. Either way it smelled awful.

  So when they came to a mountain stream late that afternoon, he called a halt and told the girls that they’d be there long enough to clean up a bit. As the women moved downstream to strip and giggle in the cold water, he sent Gaston and Jesus upstream to do the same as he stood guard by the tethered pack animals. So he was alone when he heard his name called, turned, and saw the girl who’d gone back to the convent with the bushmaster victim staggering his way, apparently riddled with high-velocity rounds.

  But at closer range she’d been spattered with the same crimson monkey crap. The dusty sweat was real, and she still looked like she’d been gang-raped and made to do the dishes after the party. H
e moved to meet her. He saw that it was a good move when her knees buckled. He grabbed her just in time to keep her from falling. He lowered her to a patch of shady grass and offered her a chocolate bar. But she shook her head and croaked, “¡Agua, agua, por favor!”

  He ran back to the burros and got a canteen. As he propped her up to put the water to her lips, he warned, “Just a few sips at first, Anita. How on earth did you catch up with us?”

  She didn’t answer before she’d had as much water as he’d give her. Then she sighed and said, “It was difficult. I knew which way you were headed, and from time to time the burros left fly-covered clues. Pero you have been moving faster than I expected.”

  He said, “That was the general idea. How long have you been on our trail?”

  She replied, “Since the first day. Poor Ynez died just after noon, despite all the nuns could do for her. They wanted me to stay. They said they were sure that they could hide one girl among them. Pero I was afraid. So I have been trying for to catch up ever since.”

  He broke off a bit of chocolate and made her eat it, saying, “You have lots of guts, lady. You’d better stick to sweets and liquids until your insides rejoin the human race. We planned on a few more miles before dark. But it’s pretty late, we’re near drinking water, and under good cover, so I guess you won’t have to walk much farther before you’d had some well-deserved sleep.”

  She thanked God, which was hardly fair, and he said, “By the way, were you searching for a sign last night with a candle or maybe a mess of matches?”

  She looked blank and he added, “Never mind. Stupid question. El Duende was between us and the Sierra Neblina.” She looked puzzled and asked, “You believe in El Duende, señor? I thought he was just a campesino superstition.”

  He said, “So did I. But I saw something spooky, and there has to be some explanation for country folk from Ireland to Australia reporting the same ghostly glow, starting way, way back.”

  He told her to stay put for now and yell if anyone messed with the burros. He moved upstream through the brush, to find Gaston kneeling bare-assed on a bare rock, scrubbing his wet clothes with a smaller cobble. Jesus was still soaking out in midstream. He must have thought that it would save time and effort if he just left his soiled cottons on. They did look a lot cleaner now.

  Captain Gringo told Gaston about Anita and the change of plans. The Frenchman said, “Eh bien, I was afraid these linens would not dry on me before sunset, and the nights are très clammy at this altitude. ’Sus says we shall be in the clouds by this time tomorrow. Leave it to me to tell the women that we shall be spending the night here. I may be able to spy some bareness of derriere, and meanwhile you can explain to Anita the advantages of sleeping with you, non?”

  “For God’s sake, Gaston, she’s a lady. I mean a real lady. She just proved it twice.”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “Mais so what? Both Don Juan and Casanova agreed that whores enjoy being treated like ladies and vice versa.”

  “Bullshit. Don Juan is a folk tale, like Robin Hood, and Casanova was a senile court librarian who told tall tales of his youth.”

  “Can this be true? I have always found his advice so helpful.”

  Captain Gringo laughed despite himself and said, “Anita lit out after us with nothing but the clothes on her back. We sent both girls’ packs back to the convent with them. I hope you mean to sleep with Consuela some more tonight.” Gaston frowned and said, “Merde alors, that sounds très unimaginative when one considers how many adorable children we brought along on this military expedition. I’ve been working on a skinnier one, as a matter of fact. Mais why do you ask?”

  “Anita’s going to need a bedroll. That won’t work unless at least one of us doubles up with someone else.”

  Gaston laughed and said, “I am not about to share a roll with you or even ’Sus, clean as his asshole now may be. I grasp your plan. Mais it seems needlessly awkward to play musical bedrolls at the last minute, and I am still not sure that the skinny one likes me. Would it not be more practique if you simply told Anita that she could sleep avec you and save a formidable amount of discussion?”

  “I don’t think she wants to discuss anything but a good night’s sleep. Aside from being exhausted, the poor kid doesn’t know whether she’s a married woman or a widow. She’s still calling me señor. So cut the comedy and make sure you have a spare bedroll for her. We both know Consuela's game.”

  “Oui, mais it’s your turn with that species of free-for-all, Dick. A man my age seldom-gets such a chance at adventure, and I shall never forgive myself if I spend two nights in the sack with the same snatch when there are nine to try for!”

  “Make that eight. I don’t want you messing with Anita,” said the tall American, turning away. He went back to rejoin Anita. He found her in better shape. She was bitching about how dirty she was. So he knew she was recovering from her ordeal. He told her about the swimming hole downstream but said, “Hold the thought until Gaston’s rousted the others out and started to make camp on the far side. He peeks. You can enjoy a moonlight dip after supper and hang your wet things up to dry overnight, see?”

  She nodded but asked, “Where am I to sleep, señor? I was well on my way after you before I realized how stupid I’d been about my pack.”

  He said, “I am called Ricardo or Dick. You never would have caught up if you’d been packing forty pounds. Don’t worry. We’ll find spare bedding for you.”

  “At this altitude, Ricardo? I almost froze last night, and we are now much higher, no? It would not be just to deprive others of blankets, and should it rain …”

  He told her that they could worry about it later. He helped her up and led both her and the burros across the stream and up the far slope to a saddle where Jesus was already building a fire and most of the girls were spreading their bedrolls.

  Most, but not all. He asked the Indian where Gaston was. Jesus pointed with his chin and said, “He did not return from the stream after he told these other mujeres to join me here, señor.”

  Captain Gringo turned away as the other women leapt up to greet and question Anita joyously, or jealously, depending on their nature. He moved through the underbrush downstream and stopped when he heard happy voices and considerable splashing. He stared over a clump of amalgo and watched, bemused, as Gaston and the skinny teenager called Concepcion frolicked naked in the water. He was about to call out when Gaston said, “Enough of this foreplay,” and shoved the girl down on the bank with her bare back on grass and her skinny butt in the mud. Captain Gringo moved back silently. It was Gaston’s problem if he couldn’t breathe with his face under water. He felt sure they’d both prefer cold coffee to an early supper.

  Back at the camp he found, as he’d expected, that ’Sus was already boiling beans and frying coffee on the small, nearly smokeless hardwood fire. Some of the girls were already in their sleeping bags or bedrolls. They probably felt that they deserved to be served in bed after such a long hard day. Old Consuela was not only alone in her roll but snoring with her mouth wide-open. She’d had even more exercise of late, and skipping a meal wouldn’t hurt her. Captain Gringo saw no need to awaken her. It hardly seemed likely that Concepcion would be needing her own bedding after dark.

  The most recent arrival was huddled with some of the more wide-awake girls, exchanging hen talk. Captain Gringo checked the burros, saw that they were securely tied and able to get at lots of juicy leaves, then took his own roll up the slope just out of sight. He spotted another waist-high growth of amalgo. It was a good place to bed down. So that was where he spread his own bedding. Amalgo was a variety of wild pepper. It smelled okay to humans. But bugs didn’t like it. That was no doubt why amalgo tried to smell that way. Even on the dry side, Honduras had so many bugs that science had yet to name half of them.

  He went back to the fire. By now the rough camp fare was in shape to eat, if not to enjoy. He hunkered down to inhale some coffee and beans. It was starting to get dark, so he couldn’
t read the expression on Anita’s face as she stared at him from across the way. One of the other girls was putting a bug in her ear. He hoped it wasn’t about him and Consuela. He didn’t kiss and tell, but he’d found that some dames were worse than men about bragging.

  He’d just about finished when Gaston and the skinny Concepcion joined the party, looking even more oddly mismatched with their duds on. Gaston, as ever, looked cool and dapper despite his now trail-worn linens. The teenager looked as if she thought she deserved a good spanking. She probably did. As she hunkered alone to take some supper Gaston joined Captain Gringo, who said, “Don’t tell me. I’m bedded down up the slope in good cover. The brush farther on is thick and crunchy. If you set up on the far side of the stream, off the trail but covering it, I don’t think we’ll have to post pickets tonight. Anita followed us this far with no trouble. So it’s safe to assume that nobody else has been. There’s no way for anyone ahead to know we’re headed for El Paso Ruido, since we didn’t know that we were going there when we left San Salvador. But try to sleep light, anyway.”

  Gaston chuckled and said, “No problem. The child can’t seem to get enough.”

  “I hope you haven’t been fooling with cherry at your age, pal.”

  “Cherry can get a man in trouble at any age. That is why I always check avec my tongue, first. Mais she’s just right, as the baby bear said before he ravaged Locks of Gold. She’s had some in the past, mais not as much as a recent recruit desires, so—”

  “Never mind,” Captain Gringo cut in with a snort of annoyance. He leaned forward to place his cup and tin plate on the dirt near the fire and said, “I’m going to have a skinny dip, rinse out my duds, and turn in.”

  He picked up his carbine and rose. It was now so dark, he’d have had trouble finding his way to the stream if he hadn’t known the way already. It was a little lighter over the water but not much. The moon was up, full, but a solid overcast rolled overhead from the jagged sierra to the northeast. He almost hung his hat on a fortunately harmless tree snake. As it hissed away, he had better luck with other branches. He draped his shoulder rig over one but hung on to the .38 and lay it beside the carbine on the grassy bank. Then he emptied his pockets and took off his boots before jumping in fully clothed.