Over the Andes to Hell (A Captain Gringo Western Book 8)

by Lou Cameron

  “I know who you are, Captain Gringo.”

  “Shut up. I haven’t finished. I’m giving you my word that you and your comrade will come out of this alive and unharmed if you do just as I say. All bets are off if you try anything cute. Do you understand?”

  “I am an old soldier, Captain Gringo. Soldiers do not get old by being cute.”

  “Es verdad. I want you to call your comrade out here. If he comes out shooting, you’re both dead. I’ll leave the dialogue up to you.”

  “We have your promise, Captain Gringo?”

  “I said you did. What do you want me to do, sign it in blood? We haven’t got all night. As a matter of fact, we have, about ten seconds and then the egg hits the fan and we do it the hard way.”

  The captive sighed, then called out, “Hey, Ramon? I need a hand out here!”

  There was a long pregnant pause. Then the other man came out, squinting into the darkness, with nothing but a bottle in his gun hand as he asked, “What do you mean, you need a hand? You want me to hold it for you while you piss? Hey, Chico, I’m not that kind of a boy.”

  Then he saw Captain Gringo and Gaston and froze, adding, “Oh, shit.”

  Captain Gringo waved his gun and told the two of them to get in the back. Then he hauled himself up to stand over them, holding the gun post as he covered them. He said, “Okay, Gaston. You’re driving. Let’s get out of here.”

  Gaston blinked and said, “I told you I knew how to start the engine. I said nothing about knowing how to drive one of these monsters, Dick.”

  “So start the fucking engine and learn! It’s obvious you steer it with that tiller bar, isn’t it?”

  “Oui, but these other pedals and levers are trés confusing. Let me see. There is something one should know about putting the gears in a certain position before one twists the starting crank.”

  Captain Gringo swore softly and said, “Get in the passenger seat.” Then he pointed his muzzle at the captive he considered most reasonable and added, “You, start the engine and get us out of here, muy pronto. Gaston, you take his gun and keep an eye on his hands.”

  The old soldier didn’t argue. He was smart enough to see the advantages of clearing the neighborhood before the posada keeper became curious enough to come outside, too. The engine was already warm and started on the second crank with the gears in neutral. The soldier leaped in and threw them into gear and they were on their way. Nobody had had to tell the captive driver that they wanted to go north, away from the capital. But after they’d putted half a mile he asked them just where they thought they were going.

  Captain Gringo yelled above the put-puts, “Where we want to go is not your problem. Where were you boys headed?”

  The driver hesitated before he shrugged and said, “Well, it hardly matters now. We were on our way to the Arroyo Blanco salt mines with this gun car. El Arano expected you to try for mules and water there.”

  “I keep hearing about El Arano. He sounds pretty good. Did he mention us by name or was this just S.O.P. following a shoot-out in town?”

  “Por favor, señor, Colonel Maldonado does not take enlisted men into his confidences. Sometimes I don’t think the officers know what he’s up to, either.”

  “That’s not the question I asked, amigo.”

  “Look, let us not be grim with one another. I can tell you he is indeed after you and Señor Verrier here, without betraying secrets. After all, you both know who you are, too, no?”

  Captain Gringo told him to keep driving and stood, legs braced, as he held the action of the machine gun with his free hand and considered these new developments. It seemed obvious now why they’d had a cordon around the railroad depot. Why hadn’t they cordoned off the main country road out of town? Easy. It would have taken the whole army to seal off every lane leading out of town and El Arano had foreseen that anyone with half a brain could play hide-and-seek with infantry or even cavalry in the dark. So he’d sent these guys and probably others to race ahead and hold the bottlenecks. If the tricky colonel had thought of them needing mules and water to cross the desert, he was expecting them to cross the desert. Captain Gringo knew this gas buggy could get them across the wide open salt flats muy pronto. But the wires led beyond the desert and guys waiting on the far side could spot them coming for miles in daylight. Hell, they’d hear them for miles, even if they crossed the treacherous salt at night with their lights out!

  Okay, there was no way El Arano could know this soon that they’d stolen his horseless carriage cum machine-gun nest. If they drove like hell they might just get across the desert before … But that wouldn’t work either. If the other side had thought to secure those mules at the salt mines on this side, they were already expecting them on the far side.

  Gaston must have been thinking along the same lines. He kept turning in his front seat and asking where they were going. The American switched to English as he called down, “Later, damnit. I told these guys we were going to let them go alive.”

  Gaston said, “Oh,” and shut up. The driver felt better, too. He spoke English, although he liked to keep some things to himself. He’d never know that Captain Gringo had hoped he’d understand. A desperate man might try anything. An old soldier who knew he was getting a break tended to behave himself.

  They drove on for nearly an hour with the roadway getting rougher and the country around more rugged. The springy construction and rubber tires of the Lenoir allowed a speed that would have been suicidal in a regular buckboard at night. None of them knew, as later drivers would, the danger of outrunning one’s headlight beams. So the driver just had time to spot the eye glows of a startled furry something in the ruts ahead before they’d run over it with a sickening crunch. He braked to a stop without thinking. Captain Gringo said, “I noticed. It was a wildcat. If it wasn’t dead we’d be hearing about it now.”

  The driver started to throw the Lenoir in gear again. But Captain Gringo said, “Hold it. We must be fifteen or twenty kilometers from that posada by now. This is as good a place as any to say adios, muchachos.”

  “You promised us our lives, señor.”

  “No problem. Just take off your uniforms and boots and leave them with us before you start walking.”

  “You are stranding us out here, in the middle of nowhere, stark naked, señor?”

  “Well, consider the alternatives and you’ll see it’s not so bad. You can keep your underwear. But let’s get a move on, shall we?”

  Grumbling and bitching about the cold as well as the indignity, the two soldiers undressed to their socks and union suits and Captain Gringo told them they were free to go. So they went, before he could change his mind.

  Captain Gringo chuckled and waited until they were out of earshot before he said, “Okay, Gaston, the engine’s running. Slide over in the driver’s seat and see if you learned anything.”

  “Maybe you had better drive, Dick. You’re better at machinery than me.”

  “I know. I want you at the tiller in case I have to use this machine gun. Move over, damnit. I’m tired of standing up.”

  So Gaston did as he was told and Captain Gringo forked a leg over and joined him behind the curving dashboard in the other bucket seat. It was just as well he’d seated himself firmly; Gaston threw the Lenoir in gear and they flew backward, then stalled when he tromped the brakes.

  Gaston muttered, “Merde.” as silence closed in around them. The tall American sighed and said, “Okay, I’ll get out and crank, but for God’s sake put it in neutral, huh?”

  Gaston fumbled with the gear levers and said, “There, it is either in neutral or I am about to run over you,” as Captain Gringo climbed down. The husky American started the warm engine on the first crank and climbed in as the Lenoir stood shuddering and complaining with an occasional backfire. Gaston said, “Here goes,” and tried again. This time they rolled forward, albeit in a series of rabbit hops until the little Frenchman got the feel of things, or just got lucky. Captain Gringo said, “Slow down until yo
u make sure you can steer this thing,” and Gaston answered, “How, you species of imbecile? This creature has a mind of its own!”

  The springs bounced them sickeningly as the horseless carriage ran off the road and across the open range at an angle. Fortunately, there was nothing much to hit out there and before they could find anything worth crashing into, Gaston had the tiller under control and was saying, “Regardez! I am a genius! I have never had a lesson and already I am trés formidable at the steering of these things!”

  Captain Gringo said, “Swell. See if you can get us back on the road, for Chrissake.”

  Gaston swung them in a tight circle that threatened to capsize them, and as his companion swore again, Gaston said, “Ah ah, one learns with experience. A gentle hand on the reins is called for. But regardez, I can go right, I can go left, see?”

  “Will you stop fucking around and get back on the road?”

  Gaston laughed gleefully and hit the roadway at an angle, bouncing over a rut with a Godawful jolt. As Captain Gringo saw they seemed, indeed, to be tearing up the roadway at an alarming clip, he said, “That’s swell. Now slow down, for God’s sake.”

  Gaston replied, “Poof, I have only learned to guide this ridiculous thing. The way one sets the rate of speed eludes me.”

  Captain Gringo leaned over and adjusted the throttle lever. Gaston said, “Spoilsport,” as they dropped to about fifteen miles an hour. But he felt better about it, too, despite his delight with his new toy. He said, “We can outrun any mounted patrols with this adorable creature, Dick. But I was thinking about an ambush ahead, before we rid ourselves of those unwelcome guests.”

  Captain Gringo said, “Great minds run in the same channels. We’re never going to make the north coast now. Every outpost between here and Barranquilla has been alerted by now. They’re going to be sore as hell about this gas buggy, too. Those guys have a long hike ahead of them, but they’ll get to a telephone long before we can get anywhere important.”

  “I agree. I would have shot them, but you Yankees are so sentimental. Unless we intend to drive around in circles until we run out of fuel we really should be considering some place to go, hein?”

  “Yeah. Let’s turn right at the next crossroads.”

  “Right, my old and rare? There is nothing over that way but the Andes. As a Frenchman, I am trés pleased with the way Monsieur Lenoir’s creation marches, but I doubt very much that it can climb mountains like the goat. And even if it could, there is nothing on the other, side.”

  “Sure there is. The Colombian border is on the other side of the high Cordillera Oriental, right?”

  Gaston gasped. “Mais oui, but now I know you are suffering from the altitude, Dick! Assuming we can get over the mountains, which we shall never manage aboard this thing, they drop off on the far side into unexplored jungle. A lot of unexplored jungle. Colombia’s eastern lowlands extend at least four hundred miles, and when you got to your thrice-accursed border we would still be in the middle of the Amazonian rain forest!”

  “So what? You just said it was unexplored. If it’s unexplored, nobody lives there.”

  “Nobody civilized, you mean. The jungle is not uninhabited. Some of the tribes on the far slope are cannibals. Others, more delicate, merely cut off one’s head and shrink it. Even armed with a machine gun, the country over there can be dangerous to one’s health.”

  “So what do you want to do, hang around up here until we meet some other guys with machine guns?”

  “Hmm, since you put it that way, perhaps we should start watching for a road to the east, non?”

  Chapter Nine

  M’sieu Etienne Lenoir had designed his horseless carriages for the paved streets of Paris. So they were already stretching their luck trying to run at over 8,000 feet. Even with the fuel mixture as rich as possible, the engine was complaining bitterly about the thin air when dawn found them tooling up some sort of leftover Inca road between steep alpine slopes. They, of course, had no idea where they were, but since all roads had to lead somewhere, and since the one they’d found ran more or less east, they’d been following it for some time before the sun came up to reveal the desolate grandeur all around them.

  The country would have been okay on a postcard sent from the Alps. It didn’t offer much but rocky scenery and no cover at all if anyone was scouting them from the ridges all around. But at least there were no telephone poles. So who could be expecting them?

  As the sun rose higher Captain Gringo suddenly said, “Shit,” and Gaston asked why. They’d been chilled to the bone, even with the stolen uniforms over the pants and shirts they’d been wearing, and Gaston welcomed the sun as an end to their discomfort. But the tall American pointed up at the sky with his chin and said, “We’re trending south, not east, damn it! We’ve been driving all night in a circle!”

  Gaston said, “Mais non, we are most definitely in the mountains. Listen to the way that engine coughs for breath. Besides, we keep rising, non?”

  “Okay, so we’re off the alto piano, but we still must have circled south of Bogotá by now. These damned mountains have a north-south grain to them. We’ve got to get across them, not follow them.”

  “That sounds most reasonable, my old and rare, but what do you want me to do about it? Do you see any triple-titted passes over there to our left?”

  “No. But you’re right about this road still climbing. It may lead to a pass somewhere south of where we intended to cross over.”

  “And if it does not?”

  “Beats me. We’ll just have to follow this road until we run out of fuel or it starts downhill again. If there’s not a main route over the sierra we may spot a footpath or something. We sure can’t go back down to alto piano again.”

  “Why not? They’d hardly expect to find us south of Bogotá, would they?”

  “Not until somebody noticed a couple of funny-looking guys in ill-fitting uniforms and a motorcar. There’s no way out, down that way. I looked at the fucking map before I headed north, damnit.”

  Gaston thought before he nodded with a sigh and said, “Ah, oui, the mountains do run together at the south end of the plain like the bottom of the sack, now that you mention it. Le Bon Dieu did not lay out these Andes with much consideration for weary travelers.”

  The road they were following wound around a gentle bend, trending even farther to the south, and as Captain Gringo spotted something far ahead he said, “Slow down and look innocent.” Then he climbed back to the mounted machine gun and stood behind it as they overtook the party up the road.

  It was a column of about thirty ragged, dusty men and women on foot with a corporal’s squad of mounted troopers herding them. The armed guards rode at intervals beside the obvious prisoners. Gaston called back, “What is our story if those soldiers question us, Dick?” and Captain Gringo said, “I’ll handle that part. You just drive by. Fast, if they don’t ask us to stop.”

  Gaston shoved his throttle forward and, although the engine coughed and sputtered, they picked up speed. Naturally, the mounted troopers heard them and looked back, surprised. Captain Gringo stood at the Maxim and waved nonchalantly as the guards herded the ragged peons off the road and sat their mounts, bemused, on the grassy verge. A couple waved back with their rifles and one of them with stripes on his sleeves shouted something. But then they were past the column and it was too late to reply. But the tall American shouted back, “Up your ass!” as if he’d answered whatever with something sensible.

  As they left the unusual development behind, Gaston called back, “If those are rebel prisoners, we would seem to be headed toward the prison camp those troopers were marching them to, non?”

  Captain Gringo answered, “I think you’re right. Slow down again and keep your eyes peeled. This bastard road might dead-end against some mountain outpost.”

  The engine wheezed and Gaston replied, “I have little choice. Now that it is warming up, the air grows even thinner. I don’t know how much higher she will take us.”


  The road wound up a bit more, then leveled off and began to descend to the south-southeast. Captain Gringo shouted, “Hold it. I think this is the end of the line.”

  Gaston braked to a stop in the middle of the road, but said, “Oui, one can see this diabolic road is taking us back to the alto piano. But we have to go somewhere. Those damned troopers are right behind us. They will be coming around the bend back there any minute, now.”

  The tall American pointed up the slope to the east with his chin and said, “Looks like a sort of footpath zigzagging up between the boulders over that way. See how it leads to that saddleback between the peaks up there?”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “It may be a pass over the sierra. But that’s a two-mile climb, Dick. Those troopers would get here long before we could reach the top. And even if we found some cover up there, what about this motorcar? We can’t take it with us and I see no big wet rock to hide it under.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. We could probably get away, but this Lenoir would make a neat map coordinate once they reported it abandoned here.”

  “Oui, so what do we do, Dick?”

  “We make sure they don’t report it, of course! Turn around and head back to meet them. I don’t want anybody connecting the next few minutes to that path over the ridge to the east!”

  Gaston grinned wolfishly but bitched, of course, as he threw the Lenoir in gear and made a U turn. They met the column again just around the next bend. The leader of the troopers swore when his horse spooked at the tinny rattle of their engine. He waved his free hand to halt them as he fought to control his mount. Gaston just drove into them as Captain Gringo opened up with the machine gun.

  The tall American manning the Maxim traversed from his right to his left, aiming just above the heads of the screaming prisoners as they scattered in all directions. The mounted troopers’ midsections were at just the right level as he spread his lethal fan of hot lead. So he emptied all eight saddles before anyone on the other side had any idea what was going on! All but one of the troopers hit the dust dead or dying and unconscious. As one struggled to rise, a quick-thinking female captive picked up a rock in both hands and smashed his head. As he collapsed in a gory heap at her bare feet, she looked up at the tall American behind the smoking Maxim with a mingled expression of resignation and hope.