The Death Hunter

by Lou Cameron

  Gaston appeared and said, “Merde, we did not come from the earth. We came from the sky.”

  Captain Gringo said, “Never mind all that. Report, Harp!”

  The Detroit Harp said, “Well, they tried to stop us getting back to the mainland as you said they might. We drew some fire from the houses as we passed, so we decided to smoke them up a bit as we tried to teach ‘em to act decent. We must have hit something, for one of them buildings did blow up lovely. We lost two men. Old Winston and that quiet lad, Peters. The rest was a lovely running gunfight, as you just saw. Sure, I wouldn’t have been so worried had I known you’d planned for us to lead them into such a lovely ambush!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “They certainly are persistent,” sighed Gaston as he and Captain Gringo studied the dark dots far below from their vantage point on a hilltop. Their pursuers were moving along the winding trail they’d just climbed and numbered about two dozen. Gaston added, “The Kaiser must have said he’d be annoyed if their scheme failed. But they only outnumber us two or three to one and we still have the Maxim, hein!”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “Those aren’t Germans. It’s a shore party from the gunboat.”

  “Ah, no doubt they are still annoyed, too. But how can you be sure, from this distance?”

  “Easy. By now the Germans left are long gone and trying to say it never happened.”

  “Do you think the American gunboat crew has explored the mine and crater by now?”

  “They’re sure stupid if they haven’t. Our private war was a violation of the Monroe Doctrine and Uncle Sam is sure going to want to know what all that shooting was about. That patrol on our tail probably hopes we can enlighten them.”

  “They may want their balloon back, too. Have you any idea where it drifted?”

  “No. Fortunately, it sailed far enough after dumping us to fool those Germans into not expecting us to be where we wound up. Now, if we can just fool the U.S. Navy, we’ll be in the clear.”

  “I take it you are too sentimental to consider just shooting the sons of bitches?”

  “There’s a more pragmatic reason, Gaston. How the hell are we to collect out money from Greystoke after smoking up U.S. military personnel? The U.S. Consulate’s just down the street from the British.”

  “True, but U.S. law has no authority in Costa Rica, hein!”

  “You want to bet? Right now this game’s between a shore party and some guys they think are bandits or something. Let Washington get a real casualty list and there might not be a Costa Rica – not a Costa Rican government, anyhow. I’d hate to try and make it to Greystoke’s door with U.S. Marines patrolling San Jose!”

  “Hmm, discretion may well be the better part of valor after all. But, as I said, those men following us seem to be tediously intent on catching us!”

  “I know. But we’re shaped up and they should have some kinks in their sea legs by now. We ought to be able to outdistance them.”

  They moved down the far side of the rise to join the others. Captain Gringo said, “We’re having a walking contest with the swabbies. There’ll be moon enough for a forced march.”

  “T.B. Jones complained, “Don’t we get to camp at all, Cap?”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “We’ve lost half our packs and grub anyway. You ate and slept last night. What do you want, egg in your beer? I thought you hired on as a soldier, T.B.”

  The Detroit Harp spat and said, “You just lead out and we’ll be after, following, Cap. I never met a sailor yet who could walk down an old infantryman.”

  T.B. said, “I was cavalry.” But he fell in and followed anyway as Captain Gringo led off. The tall American packed the Maxim. Not because he didn’t think anyone else would, but because he intended to set a pace both sides would remember.

  They almost tore down the trail to the bottom of the next valley. Then, as he led them up the next steep slope, one of the men called out, “Hey, Cap. They’ve topped the rise behind us and, Jesus, look at ’em move!”

  Captain Gringo called back, “Keep your shirts on. They’re moving downhill as we’re moving up. We’ll gain on them again as we top the next rise.’

  Gaston, at his side, muttered, “This accordion business is always annoying. Do you want me to spell you on that gun, Dick?”

  “No, thanks. The example I’m setting is pretty obvious, but it’s worked ever since Alexander thought it up.”

  “True, even I hesitate to bitch at a man packing all that scrap iron. Would not it be much lighter if you drained the water jacket?”

  “It would. But I may want to shoot it before we find more water in this scrub country.”

  “Ah? I thought you said we could not shoot Americans.”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t. I said I didn’t want to. I’m not about to let them take me home for a hanging. But if we have to shoot it out with them we can kiss our finder’s fee good-bye. Once we’ve spilled Yankee blood, we’ll have to run like hell and forget the whole deal!”

  “Mais oui, but where do you suggest we run? We’re wanted in Panama to the south and Nicaragua to the north.”

  “Now you see why I’d rather outrun that shore patrol than fight it!”

  Gaston glanced back along the trail and sighed. “They are still gaining on us, for the moment. But they will be slowed by this hill as we rush down the far side. How far inland do you imagine our valiant sea dogs intend to follow us?”

  “I don’t know. The pirate, Morgan, led his sailors clean across the isthmus, once. They’re not likely to give up as long as they can see us out front.”

  “Then we must vanish, non?’

  “That’s a swell idea. How do you suggest we do it?”

  “Merde, I leave details to the technicians. I am one for thinking big.”

  Captain Gringo laughed and called back, “Pick it up, men.” as he started walking faster. T. B. Jones stumbled and cursed. Then whined, “Jesus, Cap, I got a stitch in my side. I can’t walk no faster!”

  Gaston suggested, softly, “Leave him behind if he can’t keep up.”

  But Captain Gringo growled, “No. We all get away or we stand and fight it out!”

  “Sacre, must you always be such an idealist?”

  “Idealism has nothing to do with it. If they capture any of our guys they’ll find out who we are, and they’ll find out where we’re going.”

  “True. I don’t suppose you’d consider shooting stragglers, hein?”

  “I’d shoot you, if I thought you meant that. These guys have done the job we hired them to do. Two of their buddies bought the farm doing it, and they haven’t blamed me. I mean to get them back to San Jose and I’m going to get their money for them!”

  And so the ragtag band struggled on, gaining on the downslopes and losing their lead again as they struggled uphill, with the other party dogging their heels like the pros they were. The Navy deserter had said their officers were hard-nosed bastards. Naval Intelligence had obviously chosen good men for their mission. It would have made Captain Gringo proud to be an American, if the bastards hadn’t been out to kill or capture him.

  A couple of hills and dales on, as they were staggering upslope, one of the men called, “Hey, them swabbies are taking a trail break!”

  Captain Gringo swung around and stared through the heat shimmer to a far ridge, where, indeed, the shore party had fallen out to rest their legs. It was tempting to use the respite to gain some ground on them. But his men, and even he, were flesh and blood, too. So he halted and yelled, “Take ten. Smoke if you got ’em.”

  As his weary men flopped down on the hot dusty soil, The Detroit Harp limped over to him and Gaston and asked, “Wouldn’t we be better off if we took our break on the far side of this hill, Cap? Sure and them other rascals can see we’ve halted here!”

  Captain Gringo put down the heavy Maxim and sat next to it before he said, “Sit down, Harp. I want that other leader to see we’re breaking. He’ll rest his men longer
if he knows we’re not gaining on him. He’s good. He’s taken his trail break on a cool ridge with a downhill job for rested legs when he’s ready to move again.”

  “Sure, that’s my meaning, Cap. We’ve three hundred yards of climbing ahead of us before we can do the same.”

  “I know that. So does he. You’re missing my point, Harp. As long as they break, we can do the same. I don’t know about you, but I can use all the time on my butt we can steal.”

  The Detroit Harp nodded and said, “I’ll pack that gun for you, Cap. You’ve already proven you’re willing to share our discomforts.”

  Captain Gringo started to shake his head as he fished out a smoke. Then he nodded, but reached out to turn the petcock on the Maxim’s water jacket. As the sun-warmed water trickled out to run downhill Gaston observed, “Why not leave the entire mess, since we can’t shoot it, now, in any case?”

  Captain Gringo said, “As soon as I empty the jacket I’m taking it off and throwing it away. We’ve only got one belt of ammo left and we’ve fired a machine gun dry in our time, remember?”

  “Out But it is most rough on the mechanism, even firing short bursts.”

  “Short bursts are all we can afford, and water weighs eight pounds a gallon.”

  The Detroit Harp licked his parched lips as he stared morosely at the red stream. He sighed and said, “Jasus, I wish there was eight pounds of the stuff in me canteen! We can’t drink that jacket water, huh, Cap?”

  “No. The oil and anti-rust in it would make you shit your brains. If you’re really dumb enough to carry this gun, make sure you stick close to me.”

  For some reason this seemed to please Harp and he was grinning boyishly as he struck a match and lit Captain Gringo’s smoke. Gaston had his own cigarette rolled and as he pasted it to his lower lip Harp did the same for him. Then, as he held the match and reached in his shirt pocket for a stogie, Gaston warned, “Merde, don’t light three on one match!”

  The Detroit Harp put the stogie in his mouth and lit it before he asked why. Gaston said, “It’s bad luck. I thought you were an old soldier.”

  Captain Gringo snorted and said, “Luck has nothing to do with it, and the reason doesn’t apply right now.” He saw the puzzled look on Harp’s face and added, “That notion started somewhere two armies faced each other in fixed positions, with snipers on both sides watching for a target at night.”

  The Detroit Harp looked down at the smoldering match stick in his hand, broke it to make sure it was out before he tossed it aside, and said with a nod, “I get it, now. Sure, it’s the time it takes to light three smokes, not the numbers.”

  “Right. A sniper might not have time to swing his sights on a short flare across the lines. Give him the time it takes to light three smokes and the last man’s asking for a bullet to inhale along with his tobacco.”

  Gaston said, “Bah, you are both wrong. As I learned of it in the Legion, it has something to do with the Holy Trinity. The details escape me, now, but three on a match is tempting fate and I forbid you to do it again!”

  Then he sighed and added, “Merde! Those tiresome sailors are getting up to play tag with us some more!”

  Captain Gringo got up and yelled, “Okay, guys, I lied. But three minutes is better than none. Let’s go!”

  As the others rose, cursing, to stagger up the slope after him, The Detroit Harp fell in beside him, packing the Maxim, and said, “They’re really gaining, now, Cap!”

  Captain Gringo nodded and said, “We’ll gain on them after we top the rise. It’s getting tedious as Hell.”

  “Jasus, how long do we have to keep this up, Cap?”

  “Five minutes longer than they do. We’ve had our beauty rest. Let’s pick up the pace a bit.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They quick-marched all day and into the night with the shore party dogging them every step of the way. There was a full tropic moon, which was good and bad for them. It made it possible to see where they were going in the rough country of the Pacific slope, but the moonlight exposed them to view as they struggled onward to the east, too. Gaston suggested leaving the trail and trying to lose the pursuers up some draw or canyon, but Captain Gringo vetoed the idea for two reasons. The trail they were following seemed to be leading them to San Jose in the high country to the east, and they didn’t want to take a chance on getting boxed in a blind canyon. The other leader acted like he knew his job and there was more than enough light to follow footprints off the trail. Their best hope, tiresome as it was, was to just trudge on until the sailors decided they were as far inland as they were supposed to go. He was sure the gunboat skipper had given them orders on that point. But they were already miles from the sea and the sons of bitches showed no signs of giving up.

  He muttered, “Horses.” as they topped another rise.

  Gaston asked, “Pardon? I could swear you just said, ‘Horses’.”

  “I did. That eager officer back there isn’t going to break off hot pursuit as long as he keeps spotting us ahead of him. Those sons of bitches are as good as we are and they have the numbers on us, too. We’re not about to out walk them. But if we could just rustle up some horses to ride—”

  “I salute your sage plan, my old and rare. But where does one intend to find these noble steeds? We haven’t passed a ranch or village since we began this fatiguing business!”

  Captain Gringo said, “I know. This old trail must be a post road built by the Spanish in the old days. They tended to run their communication lines through country nobody could live in. You notice we haven’t passed a single stream or water hole?”

  “I have, to my distress. It’s no wonder the Spanish failed to hold their empire together. They were most obviously insane!”

  “No they weren’t. If you send your dispatches through country too grim to squat in, you avoid a mess of Indians. I noticed the same thing up in Arizona Territory when I was fighting Apache with the old Tenth Cav. We never followed the old Spanish trails, looking for Geronimo. The sons of bitches led through places no Apache would be dumb enough to be!”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “So much for your idea of horses, then. You won’t even find wild mustangs where there is no water.”

  They marched on in silence, each man wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts and discomfort. The night was cool and would have been pleasant, if they still had water in their canteens and weren’t so tired. Captain Gringo knew that dawn would be the test. If another hot day caught them out in this dry brush he wouldn’t be able to drive them much farther without water. His own cramped muscles warned him that he was dangerously dehydrated. Some of the whiners, like T.B., had fallen silent and just plodded on, glassy-eyed. A dangerous sign. They were going to have to dig in for a stand wherever the first man dropped. If that meant a fire fight with the U.S. Navy, so be it. They were really starting to piss him off. That other leader was obviously a wise ass who’d picked the best men from the crew and loaded up on water before he started out. He wondered if they had any automatic weapons with them. The odds were lousy even if they were only packing Krag repeaters.

  The trail horseshoed around a bend and Gaston said, “Regard! A light!”

  Captain Gringo said, “I see it.” As he trudged on, squinting at the tiny pinpoint of orange to the northeast. Whatever it was, campfire or ranch house, it was not on the trail they were following. But the slope was flattening as they marched east and the moonlight painted silvery ridge lines between them and the mystery light that didn’t look too rugged. Captain Gringo called back, “Watch where you put your feet, guys. We’re cutting across to that light over there I”

  As he left the trail to wade through waist high scrub, the others followed. It was rougher going and he knew they were leaving a clearly visible path of broken branches and trampled ground cover behind. Worse yet, they were breaking trail for the goddamned Navy. The men on their tail would find it easier, faster going. But if they found horses near that light.

  Gaston had been thinking
along the same lines. So he kept his voice low as he asked, “What if they only have two or three horses. Or only one? You and I could ride double, but—”

  “Jesus, don’t you ever get tired of being such a fucking optimist?”

  “In country so desolate, one hardly expect to find a large ranch, hein? I shall be most surprised to find a remuda of mounts for us all.”

  “Look, they may have no horses at all. They may have a railroad station. At least it gives us a straw to grasp. So stop flapping your fat lips. You’re giving me a hard-on.”

  The light was farther off than they’d first judged and the brushy draws they had to cross getting to it were bitches, but at last it started to get closer and they saw it was a big light. Captain Gringo said, “That’s no lantern in a window. It looks like a house on fire.”

  Gaston said, “Mais oui. Why do we struggle on? Do you intend to piss on the flames? We certainly have no other water to put it out with.”

  Captain Gringo kept going, losing the light as they crossed low ground and seeing it closer each time they topped a rise. At last they staggered up a last ridge and he waved his men to cover as he studied the scene ahead.

  He’d been right about it being a ranch. A cluster of connected adobes formed a horseshoe with its open end facing them. The end of one wing was burning. The flames licking through the caved-in tile roof cast a ruddy glow on the well in the yard and two bodies lay sprawled in the dust near it. One was a woman, face down with her limp arms almost reaching the broken water jug she’d been carrying when she went down. The other was a man in peasant cotton, with a stick still clutched in his dead hand. As they watched, a shadow moved between them and the fire, and a gun flashed from the house forming the top of the horseshoe. Someone down below yipped a taunting coyote laugh and a coarse voice called out in Spanish, “Hey, Don Alberto, for why do you wish to be so unreasonable, eh? Give it up, Don Alberto I We only seek for to share your wealth. You can keep your fucking wife and daughter! We don’t wish for to kill you. Just send out your money and silver and we will leave, like the caballeros we are”