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

by Lou Cameron

  He called out, “Everybody calm. It’s over, amigos! We are not Colombian soldados. I think we may be on the same side.”

  As the others began to recover their wits and balance, the girl who’d finished off the trooper brushed her dusty hair from her dusty face as she came closer and said, “You are on our side, señor, if you came straight out of Hell! We are all that is left of the Blue Brigade and they were marching us to who knows what doom! I am called La Diablilla. My gallant father was our leader before he was betrayed to the betrayers who stole our revolution out from under us.”

  A bearded mestizo who’d just helped himself to one of the downed trooper’s guns and ammo stepped up beside Diablilla and said, “Hey, I know you, hombre! You are the Yanqui they call Captain Gringo. Do you not remember me? Pancho?”

  Captain Gringo frowned down and said, “Wait a minute. The last time we met, you were in uniform. We tangled with those banditos down in the lowlands, more or less on the same side. But you didn’t know I was Captain Gringo then, right?”

  “Es verdad, it was ages ago, before the revolution. Our sergeant later figured out who you were, but it did not matter, since we had joined the rebels by then.”

  Pancho slung the captured rifle from his shoulder with a bitter little smile as he added, “How was I to know we’d picked the losing side? We were young and foolish six weeks ago.” Then he turned to the girl and told her, “He’s all right, muchachita. You just saw how good he is with that machine gun, and they say he is immortal. I vote we make him our new leader. God knows we need one, now.”

  Diablilla beamed up at the American standing on the flatbed and for the first time Captain Gringo noticed she was quite pretty, given a face wash and a comb run through that tangled, dusty mop. She said, “Attention, all of you. Pancho has nominated Captain Gringo to lead us out of here, and I, La Diablilla, daughter of El Diablo Azul, second the motion!”

  There was a chorus of agreement and someone shouted, “Viva Captain Gringo!” The American turned and glanced at Gaston, who shrugged and said, “You and your big mouth. Now look what you’ve gotten us into, Dick.”

  Chapter Ten

  As it turned out, the bread he’d cast on the waters hadn’t been such a bad move after all. They didn’t have to carry the machine gun and ammo themselves, for one thing. For another, one of the other men in the band knew the area and so he saved them from following Captain Gringo’s first chosen path over the ridge into another valley that ended in a blind alley.

  They left the stolen Lenoir with the dead troopers. They killed and disarmed it, too, by shooting the tires and fuel tank full of holes. Diablilla wanted to burn it. But he told her someone might see the rising smoke. They took the horses, of course. The man who said he knew the way over the sierra said the horses could make it partway at least.

  So Captain Gringo put Diablilla, the machine gun and its ammo, and the other five women in the party aboard the purloined mounts and led Gaston and the other men on foot as he followed the volunteer guide.

  The horses made it over the higher pass the guide led them to, five or six miles farther south. On the far side they found a mountain stream and refilled the eight canteens of the dead troopers and the larger canvas water bag they’d taken from the horseless carriage. One of Captain Gringo’s first direct orders to his new recruits was to husband the food and water they were packing. It was true they were high among cool mountains with summer snow visible on peaks all around them. But deserts were not the only places man and beast could suffer thirst. Horses needed far more water than humans to begin with and the thin dry air sucked moisture from one’s lungs like blotting paper. His own lips had started to crack and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a bird cage as he panted on the upslopes.

  They found themselves on another winding trail leading south-southwest between grassy alpine slopes. There was no sign of human habitation as far as one could see, but wherever the trail ran uphill for a stretch Captain Gringo noticed a cairn of stones set beside the trail on the crest of the rise. He asked the guide what they meant. The guide said he didn’t know. But Diablilla, sitting side-saddle on her mount just behind him, had overheard the exchange and called down, “The Quechuas have been leaving a stone at the top of each climb since the days of the Incas.”

  “Quechuas?”

  “Indians. The ones you strangers and even ignorant Colombians keep calling Incas. The Inca was the Sun King of the Quechua Empire. Nobody else was an Inca.” She grimaced and added, “The Brothers Pizarro were not too interested in such distinctions. They only wanted the Inca’s gold and emeralds. The survivors of the conquest were enslaved and told to put on pantaloons and be in church Sunday morning sharp, as Spanish subjects. The history of the native peoples has never interested His Most Catholic Majesty or the many so-called liberators we’ve had since.”

  Captain Gringo shot her a curious glance. She’d washed up and combed her hair, back at that brook. She was even prettier than he’d first thought. But while her high cheekbones and dark almond eyes hinted at a dash of Indian blood, she was obviously mostly Castilian. Nobody but a Castilian aristocrat, or a Hispanic bullfighter of any background, ever held their head like that.

  But he was more interested in where they were going than he was in the story of Diablilla’s life. So he asked the guide about the trail.

  The peon shrugged and said, “I have never been all the way to the town of Gueppi myself, señor, but I know they pack mail to Gueppi along this trail.”

  Captain Gringo frowned and said, “Gueppi? Where the hell is Gueppi? I never heard of it. It doesn’t even sound Spanish.”

  Again the guide was stuck for an answer and again La Diablilla supplied it. She said, “The name is Indian. Gueppi is the last outpost of Colombia on the headwaters of the Rio Putumayo.”

  Captain Gringo consulted the rough mental map of the country that he’d memorized and gasped, “Jesus, that’s way the hell south! Isn’t the Putumayo on the borderline between Colombia and Peru?”

  Diablilla nodded and said, “Yes, it runs down into the jungle lowlands to join the Solimões and the main Amazon.”

  “Hell, that’s no good. I was hoping to hit the headwaters of the north-bound Orinoco. We want to get back to the damned Caribbean.”

  “The plans of myself and these others are flexible, Captain Gringo. We most obviously cannot go back to Bogotá now. I have heard one can reach the Orinoco from the Amazon, via a swampy water passage in the low country. Even if one can’t, do we have much choice?”

  Gaston had been walking well to the rear, flirting with one of the other women. When he heard his tall friend’s tone of voice he abandoned her to her own devices and moved forward to ask the leaders what was up.

  Captain Gringo explained and Gaston shrugged and said, “What does it matter? We shall all wind up with our shrunken heads on poles in any case.”

  He smiled up at Diablilla and added, “Since you are the Indian expert, M’selle, forget the way back to civilization and let us discuss the trés distressing customs of such Indians as we might meet before we get there.”

  Diablilla said, “We shall descend to the rain forests a bit south of the main Jivaro tribes’ usual haunts, but they have been severely harassed by the savage flagelados of late. They could be anywhere.”

  Captain Gringo knew the Jivaro were Indian headhunters. The flagelados were a new one on him. So he said, “The scourged ones? What are these flagelados, some sort of self-torture tribe?”

  Diablilla laughed and said, “No. They are supposed to be Christians from Brazil. They come in all colors, but in your country they would be called white trash. Their nickname indicates the esteem the Brazilians hold them in. When they meet an Indian in the rain forests they tend to rape or kill, depending on the Indian’s sex. Although, even in such matters, Los Flagelados tend to be mercurial. Sometimes they kill women or rape men. They are desperate men, with uncultivated tastes, even for Brazilians.”

  “We’ve met t
he type in other places, Diablilla. But what are these wild banditos doing out in the jungle?”

  “Some work as rubber tappers. Others are just outlaws, attracted into Brazil’s wild west by the rubber boom.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t ask about the rubber boom. He’d already heard about it, although he’d had no idea it was causing Indian trouble all over the Amazon Basin. The new bicycle craze and the demand for rubber insulation on the electric wires that seemed to be spreading like spider webs across the whole civilized world had launched a demand for latex that poor old Charles Goodyear, who’d found out how to use the stuff, had never lived to see. That Lenoir motorcar they’d abandoned on the other side of the mountains had worn far heavier tires than any bike, and of course even horse-drawn carriages were starting to run on rubber these days.

  Gaston broke in on his chain of thought by saying, “I am getting my bearings now, Dick. It’s not so bad. If we can make it to Manaus, on the Amazon, we can hop a freighter out. Manaus is almost in the center of the continent, yet it may as well be on the sea. Ocean-going ships steam in and out of Manaus, and you will like it. It’s the wildest town this side of Singapore.”

  “Hmm, Diablilla, here, tells me there’s a way north to the Orinoco through the river maze.”

  “Bah, what is the point? I just told you Manaus is a seaport. Ships leave Manaus bound for every part of the world. I vote for the line of the bee. We have yet to see the green hell of Amazonia and I am already trés fatigue of it.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer. He’d spotted a higher than usual stone cairn on the rise ahead and held up his hand to halt the column as he hissed the guide to a sudden stop. The guide turned to ask, “What is it, señor?” and Captain Gringo said, “I thought I saw movement up there. Keep everybody here while I scout over the rise.”

  Gaston fell in beside the taller American as he legged it up the rest of the slope, drawing his .38. Gaston did the same as he whispered, “What do you think you saw, Dick?”

  Captain Gringo replied, “Not sure. Just a blur of something sort of reddish brown behind that cairn and moving away. If somebody spotted us and lit off down the far slope, he’ll be in plain sight for miles. So we should know in a minute.”

  They lined up with the cairn and used it for cover as they reached the crest. Captain Gringo peeked around one side of the rock pile as Gaston did the same on the other.

  A few yards down the far side, out in the open alpine meadow and under a vast empty vault of sky, a dusky old Indian herdsman, naked from the waist down, was fucking one of the big brown shaggy beasts he was supposed to be grazing. He held his sweetheart fast with a fistful of her rump hair grasped in each hand as he humped her from behind, standing up. Captain Gringo grimaced and said, “Jesus, that’s disgusting,” and Gaston answered, “Mais non, it’s a llama. I understand they’re better than sheep for one who indulges in such hobbies. What do you think we should do, now? Assuming we do not wish to join the party, we have women with us and they may have delicate feelings.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. He’s going to have to knock it off until we pass by.”

  Captain Gringo stepped from cover and walked down the slope toward the beastialist, calling out, “Hey, amigo, can I talk to you for a second?”

  The herdsman stared owlishly at him but went right on shoving it to the llama as she swung her camel-like head and, chewing her cud, gazed at the approaching American. Captain Gringo said, “Listen, I don’t want to spoil your fun, but we’ve got some women with us and, what the hell, it’s not like you haven’t got plenty of time.”

  The herdsman said something in his Indian dialect and went on screwing his big pet. Gaston joined the American and observed, “He’s been chewing coca. I don’t think he cares about our delicate feelings.”

  Captain Gringo glanced back up the slope. The crest was empty, thank God, but he knew the curious Diablilla would be wondering what was keeping them. Gaston said, “He’s not going to stop. Coca does that to one’s sex drive. The silly creature probably does that day and night. Hmm, I wonder if she enjoys it.”

  Captain Gringo growled, “Okay, enough is enough,” and stepped over to take the herdsman by one elbow with his free hand. The coked-up peon yelled and took a swing at him as he hauled him off the llama’s rump. So Captain Gringo hit him on the head with his pistol barrel and knocked him senseless to the ground. As the semi-nude idiot lay on his back with an erection aimed at the sky, Captain Gringo stepped over to the poncho he’d dropped in the grass nearby, picked it up, and threw it over him. The llama stared back at him reproachfully as she walked away sedately, her moist, pink, surprisingly human-looking vagina winking at them from between two vast shaggy buttocks. Gaston raised an eyebrow and said, “Hmm, this may well have been a most fortunate encounter, Dick.”

  “Goddamnit, this is no time to think about sex.”

  “Merde, there are six women with us and I have not really tried one of them, yet! There are other things one can use a llama for. I have noticed the way our stolen horses are breathing. I see ten … no, eleven llamas grazing trés tamely about us. They are no good as saddle mounts, but they are reasonable pack animals. They are natives to this high country and require less nursing than even a mule. What do you say, Dick?”

  Captain Gringo glanced down at the unconscious herdsman and replied, “Well, it’s sort of shitty to rob this guy, even if he did act sort of weird just now.”

  “Look, we can leave him the horses as a more than fair exchange, hein? One supposes he will notice the difference when he comes to and tries to make love to a mare. But one can always sell a horse for more than a llama. Eight horses should make him rich. Who knows, he may be able to afford a woman, or even a boy, non?”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Makes sense. That guide back there, Nunez, says we have to go higher before we can go lower. Let’s get the others and make the switch.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The sunset caught them high in the Andes, leading the stolen llamas over frost-shattered scree between scattered patches of snow. They’d only taken four of the herdsman’s charges, leaving all eight cavalry mounts in exchange. But the female in heat had followed, despite occasional rocks tossed to discourage her, and Gaston kept needling Captain Gringo that she liked him. An amorous llama was the least of his worries as the shadows lengthened around them. He and Gaston were warmly dressed, albeit hardly well enough to play Eskimo in the chill night air. The captives they’d rescued were wearing only cotton rags. They’d taken eight blankets from the saddle rolls of the slain troopers, of course, but eight blankets weren’t going to do thirty people much good once the sun went down.

  Diablilla must have been thinking along the same lines as he walked beside her. She hadn’t complained about having to go the rest of the way on foot. Diablilla knew her high country and had agreed the llamas had been a good notion. She said, “We must find a sheltered place for to build a fire, Captain Gringo.”

  “I agree, but call me Dick. I’ve been looking for some boulders or something. We have two problems with a fire up here. The wind will blow the heat away from us unless we find a backstop, and a night fire in the open can be seen for miles, even when you don’t build it on a mountain top.”

  Diablilla nodded and pointed up a boulder-strewn arroyo running at almost right angles to the trail. She said, “I have never been here, but I know a bit about the old Quechua ways. In places along this trail one can see where the Inca ordered steps cut in the rocks.”

  “Is that who carved those boulders back there a couple of miles? I thought maybe the old Spaniards did it.”

  “Bah, they never looked at a rock unless they thought there was gold under it! Almost all these high trails were Inca post roads. Those who came later just used them and, as you see, wore them out a bit. But, as I was about to say, the ancient Inca empire was well organized. They built rest stops for their travelers at convenient places along the old road network. That arroyo over there offers the
only permanent water supply for several kilometers around. There should be at least the ruins of an old way station, no?”

  Captain Gringo raised his hand to halt the column, but as he stared up along the jumble of house-sized boulders he frowned and said, “I don’t see anything in the way of walls, Diablilla. Come to think of it, I don’t see any water either, and we could use some.”

  She laughed and said, “Silly, one does not see water running over the rocks, when it has not been raining or snowing. The steady trickle is always under the rocks. Come, I will show you.”

  Leaving the others in Gaston’s charge, he followed her across and upslope at an angle that took them to the long wavy line of rounded granite boulders paving the apparent dry wash. She led him down the gentle slope into the jumble of big dusty rocks. Then she paused, resting one hand on a waist-high boulder, and said, “Listen.”

  He did so, cocking his head to one side. He could hear the liquid gurgle of running water, as if someone had left a tap on in the cellar. He nodded and said, “Yeah, it sounds like a fair-sized babbling brook. But how the hell do we get at it?”

  She said, “We can’t, from here. It would take dynamite to blast these boulders out of the way. But let us explore farther. If there is anywhere a passing traveler can get down to the water, the ancient Quechua engineers would have found it.”

  She started up the arroyo, leaping lightly from boulder to boulder on her bare feet. The view as he followed was interesting as hell. She flashed well-turned sturdy limbs as the loose skirt flapped flirtatiously. She leaned forward as she climbed the slope, her nicely rounded derrière aimed much like the llama’s had been presented to its human abuser, or maybe amuser, back down the mountain. He wondered if she had anything on under that skirt, and what she’d say if he caught up with her and shoved it to her dog style. He doubted like hell she’d chew a cud, so he decided to pass on the idea, even though it was teasing as hell to catch a flash of thigh now and again without knowing just what lay above and beyond. He was glad it was getting harder to see by the minute.