Citadel of Death (A Captain Gringo Western Book 11)

by Lou Cameron

  He hesitated, decided he wasn’t giving anything away a lot of other people didn’t already know about, and just in case she was as innocent as she claimed, he said, “I think the Dreyfus Affair is over. But that was a side show. If they can’t knock him off to shut him up before he’s released, the best move for his enemies would be to drop it and hope nobody takes it seriously. By now everyone’s mind is made up one way or the other on the Dreyfus Affair. Those on his side will go on saying he’s innocent no matter what, and the anti-Semites in France will insist he was guilty to the day they die.”

  “I hope you’re right, dear. But what’s the main show?”

  “Not sure. The original plan, as it was sold to me, was a convict uprising backed by some planters who don’t like to pay taxes to Paris, with the wild tribes out in the bush keeping the French troops off base. But now the Ashanti have a new chief and it seems to be a whole new ball game. Damned few Frenchmen, even convicts, are going to want to shoot at the only army standing between them and a general massacre of Whites.”

  He took a thoughtful drag on his Claro and added, “If the guy’s planning the coup have any sense, they’ll follow our example and just lay low while the military shows M’Chuma the advantages of civilized behavior.”

  Birdie said, “I had a briefing on young Chief M’Chuma, Dick. He’s said to be progressive. A French missionary I spoke to said he was counting on M’Chuma to settle the hash of some witch doctors who’d been getting out of hand. The old chief had some kind of lingering illness and the witch doctors had him in the palms of their hands. M’Chuma’s not a Christian and doesn’t seem to want to be one, but the missionary said he wasn’t a bad sort, for a heathen.”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “Whatever he is, he doesn’t seem to want to join the rebels against the French army. He doesn’t like the French on either side, judging from the way he’s been shooting up both sides. He smoked up some guys I know are rebels, and then wiped out an army column. Your missionary must have met him before he came to power. You never know a man until you’ve played cards with him, gone after the same girl, or given him a little rank. I’ve seen more than one swell private turn into a raving bastard after making Lance Corporal. M’Chuma seems to be the same type.”

  “He may just be misunderstood, Dick.”

  “Lots of guys who kill people are just misunderstood, Kitten. It’s not our problem. The French military can handle him now that they know he has modern weapons and doesn’t like them. They have a handle on the rebel plot, too. So if those nuts rise in the near future they’ll find out what a 155 shell can do. The little brushing up I’ve had on the local French powers that be have impressed me. The guys are pretty good for this neck of the woods. The easy wins against the rotting Spanish empire down here have made everybody think he’s another Simon Bolivar. But Bolivar never took on a major colonial power.”

  Birdie wasn’t listening. She said, “If you and Gaston could get me out to the bush to interview Chief M’Chuma—” So he cut in, “Have you been smoking opium, Dollface? The Goddamn French army is forming a defense line between here and the jungle hills, so in the first place there’s no way to get to M’Chuma if you wanted to. And you wouldn’t want to if you paid attention. The guy’s a certified savage who hates Whites and the last time I looked you were white all over!”

  “They say he speaks English, Dutch, and French,” she insisted. The Missionary who told me about him said M’Chuma enjoys a good religious argument and had a twinkle in his eye while they discussed the advantages of Mumbo Jumbo over the Trinity. I’m sure he wouldn’t hurt us if we approached him right, Dick.”

  “Honey, you don’t approach armed tribesmen right. You don’t approach them at all! I know you interviewed Geronimo. You should have known him when he was sniping at the Tenth Cav from the rimrock. Atilla the Hun must have been a good host, when he wasn’t mad at you. But M’Chuma is mad as hell and I know one of the reasons. One of his favorite wives was taken from him to serve as a love toy for White riff-raff and I shudder to think how he’d pay us back if he got his hands on a White woman about now!”

  “Then you won’t take me?”

  He snubbed out his cigar and said, “Sure I’ll take you. How do you want it this time, dog-style, old-fashion style, or shall we think up something new?”

  She sighed and said, “Damn it, I wish you wouldn’t treat me like a silly girl.” But then as he rolled her over, pulled her up on her hands and knees to enter her again from the rear she started acting silly as hell and he assumed he’d convinced her it was wild enough here behind the French lines. He still had a lot to learn about Miss Birdie Peepers, girl reporter.

  ~*~

  By morning he’d had Birdie in every position that didn’t hurt and the street outside lay quiet under a soft rain. Off in the misty distance the talking drums of the Ashanti muttered hollowly and every once in a while the French gunboat offshore sent a round rumbling across the gray sky to remind anyone listening that La Belle France could be one tough lady if she was needlessly annoyed. He figured the French military had the same ideas as he about that machine-gun ambush of the jungle patrol and no doubt Herr Von Linderhoff was explaining a lot at the German consulate. Getting another round of ammo into the bush was going to be a problem, now that the authorities were on full alert. Any agents with the Ashanti would be leaving soon, if M’Chuma let them.

  He dressed, woke up Birdie, and told her to have her trunk taken openly to the steamboat, explaining, “We’ve established that you were here all last night. By now they’ll have snooped around the tramp steamer and satisfied themselves. Stay on board until Gaston and I join you.”

  “Where are you going, darling?”

  “Recon patrol. Have to make sure nobody went crazy and got picked up by the gendarmes last night in all the excitement. I’d hate to have you drop me off in Costa Rica with a warrant for my arrest wired ahead. I have to make a graceful exit by returning some front money, too. It’s bad for a soldier of fortune’s rep to double cross a client who looks like he might survive to gossip about it.”

  “Take me with you? I don’t really have much of a story yet.”

  “Hey, I told you what to do, damn it. Nice girls don’t associate with the kind of people I do business with. I’ll give you an exclusive as soon as I know what the hell is going on.”

  He kissed her goodbye running a fond hand over her nude curves as he considered how great it would be to make love to her in broad daylight when he returned. The kiss turned out longer than planned and he almost gave in to her entreaty for another quick one. But he was firm and departed to look for Gaston. The bistro the little Frenchman had mentioned was closed and shuttered. Gaston had doubtless found someone to spend the night with, too. He grinned and went to the livery where they’d left the horses. He tipped the convict hostler to saddle the one he’d ridden in from Van Horn’s and headed back to the plantation.

  On the edge of town he was stopped by a roadblock manned by gendarmes and some convicts with arm bands and guns. It was obvious Frenchmen stuck together in a real emergency. They didn’t arrest him, but the sergeant-in-charge said he was travelling at his own risk if he left town. He said he had to, so they told him he was crazy and let him through.

  The security lines had been drawn around the real estate that mattered to the government, so there were a few scattered farmsteads and shanties along the road this close to town. But he saw they’d been deserted by their worried owners and stood open mouthed and empty. Or, at least, they looked that way until he spotted movement in the open doorway of a pasteboard and palm thatch shack to his right.

  He rode on to a clump of gumbo limbo, cut suddenly off the road, and slid out of the saddle to tether his mount and circle back on foot through some growing corn, guns drawn.

  He eased up to the rear of the suspicious shack, spotted an open back door, and moved in fast, guns cocked and ready for anything. Then he had a good laugh at his own expense when the stray cat
he’d flushed darted out the front way, hissing and scared.

  He holstered his six guns as he watched the cat cross the road, shaking his own head as he muttered, “Jesus, you’re sure getting edgy in your old age.” Then he stiffened as he saw three riders coming up the road, one of the riders wearing a white hat! Nobody was supposed to be on the damned road unless they had serious business to attend to.

  Captain Gringo nodded as he drew his guns again and stepped closer to the doorway, albeit still in the shade of the overhanging thatch. He and the guys trailing him had the whole open countryside to their lonesome, with no nosey French officials likely to butt in, and he was getting tired as hell of that white hat.

  They were riding abreast, guns drawn, and trotting their mounts as they tried to catch up with a rider who’d vanished down the trail ahead of them. Captain Gringo dropped to One knee, bracing the gun in his right hand on his left knee to take dead aim as he let them line up in his gun sights, and then, when he had the three of them set up like domino pieces he emptied the six gun into them, rapid fire, dropped the first gun, and shifted the other to his right hand to continue the process as they rolled about in the dust with their horses running every which way!

  He saw he was being redundant by the time he’d emptied the second six gun into them, so he holstered both empty weapons, drew his .38, and stepped out cautiously. He looked up and down the empty road, saw nobody seemed interested, and moved in on the men he’d ambushed, .38 ready for sudden moves.

  There weren’t any. The only one still breathing was the guy he’d blown out from under his white hat, and he was breathing sort of raspy. Captain Gringo walked over, kicked him in the ribs, and said, “Howdy, Klondike. I understand you’ve been looking for me.”

  Up close, the shot up mystery man was a middle-aged guy with a drinker’s nose and yellow teeth bared in pain. He stared up at Captain Gringo and groaned, “Jesus, Kid, you’re really as good as they said you were. I’m embarrassed as hell about this. I s’pect I’m kilt, too!”

  “I think you’re right. But you can still hurt, so let’s talk about the way you’ve been tailing me. Are you working for any government in particular or are you just a bounty hunter?”

  Klondike grimaced and said, “Bounty hunter is a harsh way of putting it, son. I’m a licensed private detective, recognized as such by the French Colonial Government.”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Right. That accounts for the way they let you sweep that gunfight in the old church under the rug. I don’t suppose you saw fit to tell them there was a nice reward on my head, huh?”

  “That wouldn’t have been professional, son. Let the damned Frogs do their own work if they want to share in rewards, right? That head of yours sure is worth a lot of money, these days. But if you’ll just get me to a doc we’ll say no more about it.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer.

  Klondike licked his lips and said, “No shit, son, the rounds you put in me are starting to smart. You got me fair and square and it won’t hurt you to get me some medical attention. Nobody but me and my boys knew about the papers on you, so the Frogs won’t arrest you if you help me, see?”

  “Oh, sure, that would be smart as hell of me, wouldn’t it? If they don’t have a telephone at the hospital you’ll just have to send a note to the police.”

  “Now why in thunder would I want to do that, son? If the damned old Frogs arrested you they’d get the reward, not me!”

  Captain Gringo glanced down at a nearby body and said, “You wouldn’t want revenge for your men, huh?”

  Klondike shook his head and answered, “Revenge ain’t professional. I told the boys you were good and they knew the chances they were taking. I’ll tell you true that as soon as I’m up and about I may try for that reward on you again. But I doubt like hell I’ll be in shape to pester you for a good six or eight weeks, so what do you say, as one Yank to another?”

  Captain Gringo smiled thinly and said, “I say you’re a pretty dedicated son-of-a-bitch, but I admire your gall. I won’t risk a hair getting help for you, but I’ll fetch that horse of yours that’s grazing up the road and I’ll help you aboard. Then I’ll take you with me to a place I know where you can’t make trouble until I’m ready to move on.”

  Klondike tried to sit up, failed, and said, “I ain’t sure I can ride, Walker.”

  Captain Gringo told him that was his problem and moved slowly up the road so as not to spook the bay gelding cropping weeds a hundred yards up the road. The gunfire and the still-throbbing distant drums had the bay on the prod and he showed the whites of his eyes as Captain Gringo approached with soothing words. But the horse didn’t resist when the tall American gathered the reins and headed back to the men he’d put on the ground. He saw Klondike had now managed to prop himself up on one elbow. As Captain Gringo led the bay toward him, the bounty hunter raised the derringer in his other hand. Captain Gringo let go of the reins, crabbed to one side as Klondike fired, and blew the side of the treacherous bastard’s skull away with his own .38.

  This time the spooked bay just kept running. Captain Gringo muttered, “Some guys just never learn!” as he stood there reloading all his guns. Then he walked to where he’d left his own mount and rode off, satisfied he’d cleaned up at least one small detail, but all too aware that he and Gaston still had a mess of chores cut out for them in the near future.

  ~*~

  The open countryside was deserted and a man got lonesome fast riding by banana and coffee groves with jungle drums throbbing like some angry giant’s pulse. He knew some of what he heard had to be just echo, but that didn’t help much.

  He made it to the Van Horn plantation and swung in, noting no guards at the gate. He rode past the house and dismounted out back by the convict compound. There wasn’t a soul in sight. He left the horse saddled, tied to a corral post, and stepped into the nearest shed. The convict called Pepe was on a bunk with another guy. Pepe was on the bottom, playing the woman’s part, and neither seemed aware of Captain Gringo as he grimaced and said, “Excuse me.”

  The convict on top looked up and flushed beet red, but Pepe smiled sensuously and said, “Oh, good morning, M’sieur. Would you like to be next?”

  “No thanks. Where the hell is everyone, Pepe?”

  “Out chasing niggers. Claude and I were left here to guard the plantation.”

  “Carry on, then. Maybe someone in the house can tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  Pepe laughed, “Ooh, la, la! Fucking is my favorite subject!”

  Captain Gringo left them to it and looked in the shed where the weapons were supposed to be stored. They were gone. Van Horn had taken three machine guns as well as the bigger boys in his outfit. The question now was where and why.

  He walked up to the house and big blond Wilma met him on the porch, wearing nothing but an open kimono a size too small for her. She had one big cantaloupe peeking out at him as she sighed, “Oh, Dick, I thought you were with my brother and the others! This is marvelous! We have the whole house and the whole day to ourselves!”

  As she flattened herself against him, he took her in his arms to be polite, but said, “Hey, we’re on the back porch. What about the servants?”

  “Screw the servants. Better yet, screw me. We can go into the solarium if you’re bashful. Nobody comes in there unless I ring for them.” Then, as she took him by the hand she added, with a low lewd laugh, “Nobody come in there but us, I mean.”

  As she led him down the veranda to the glassed in wing, he said, “Listen, Wilma, I have to know where your brother and the others went. This could be serious. The French authorities are on the alert and this is a lousy time to be leaving the plantation at the head of an armed mob of convicts!”

  The solarium was furnished with potted tree ferns, hanging flower pots, some bamboo chairs and a big rope hammock with a nest of throw pillows. Wilma dropped her kimono on the tile floor and climbed into the hammock stark naked, like a big pink pig in heat, albeit a reason
ably attractive one. She rolled on her back, hooked a knee over either side of the hammock and said, “This is serious, too. I’m so hot for you I could die. Where on earth were you last night? You’ll never believe what I had to use to put myself to sleep!”

  “A banana?” He grinned, feeling a tingle despite himself. The contrast was even better than he’d imagined, thinking of her while laying the little redhead. He wondered if thinking about Birdie while he pawed Wilma’s big melons would be as interesting, but, damn it, he was in a hurry.

  He said, “No fooling, Wilma, where did they go? I tried to ask that Goddamn Pepe but he was in the middle of a Greek orgy and didn’t make much sense.”

  She laughed and said, “Oh, we haven’t tried that. I’ll let you put it in like that if you’ll play with my clit while you’re doing it.”

  He saw she wasn’t in the mood to talk but she laughed and said, “You must know, they went after the bush niggers. They raided us last night. They’ve gone crazy.”

  “So I heard in town. But what about the authorities?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know? It’s all right to arm convicts now. Paul has permission from the military. Just during this emergency, anyway. He saw the colonel last night and they say if he’ll be responsible it’s all right to issue arms to his plantation workers.”

  “Oboy! Your brother was right. The colonel is a moron. But even if he has permission to arm his workers, that wouldn’t include the right to lead them anywhere, would it?”

  “How should I know, dear? I guess nobody much cares who shoots M’Chuma now, as long as somebody does. Paul said we have to make sure the niggers are subdued before he carries out any other plans. But never mind all that, what about us?”

  “I have to get back to town,” he said. “I’ll never catch up with your brother’s expedition, even if I was dumb enough to try alone in the bush. Will you be all right here?”