Aztec Revenge

by Gary Jennings

  “Brave talk for a prisoner,” Cerdo said. “I haven’t killed you yet because I want to take time and have the pleasure of cutting out your liver to feed it to a dog. The horse is already mine because you will be dead when we leave here. Watch him,” he told the others.

  I doubted whether the bandido had ever been on any mount larger than the poor skinny mule he came in on. But fool that he was, he walked boldly up to Rojo yelling, “Snort at me you stupid animal and I’ll—”

  Rojo reared and brought his hooves down in front of the bandido, sending him stumbling backward onto his rump.

  As Cerdo slid backward to distance himself from Rojo, I walked over and picked up the pistola where he had dropped it.

  The bandido leader came off the ground with his knife charging me.

  I swung around and hit his knife hand with the pistola, sending the knife flying, and swung back around, whacking Cerdo across the side of the head.

  I could have smashed his brains with the blow—if he had any—but I deliberately only grazed him.

  He dropped down to his knees, holding his bleeding head.

  The others simply froze in place and stared at me. If I had said boo, they would have run.

  They were outcasts, misfits, but I was also a misfit and an outcast and no doubt more wanted by the authorities than any of them.

  I realized the only path for me was to be almost continuously on the road because I would never be safe in a town.

  And that there would be strength in numbers if I could turn this rabble into a real gang of bandidos.

  I gave Cerdo a long look and wondered if I should kill him because I had humiliated him. Someday he might get his revenge with a knife in my back.

  But I was too soft to kill him, even though I was sure that I would live—or die—to regret it.

  PART 4

  VERA CRUZ ROAD, NEW SPAIN

  A.D. 1566

  Once a dumb lépero, always a dumb lépero.

  THIRTY

  AYYO! I’D SPENT months trying to turn hopelessly stupid and mean-spirited léperos into smart bandidos. My horse had more good sense than the pack of them.

  We were too small and weak to attack a big hacienda, and I would not let them steal from small rancheros, so that left stopping coaches on the open road—but not just any coach. If there were two or more guards for the coach we didn’t dare attempt to rob it because dealing with more than one musket carrier was too much for these fools.

  I had made sure they were well mounted on the best mules we could steal and had pistolas that at least made a big bang even if they did not project a ball accurately. Mostly I relied upon the fact that because there were five of us and we made a lot of noise and looked fierce, the coachmen would give up immediately without a fight.

  That was the entire purpose of organizing them into a gang of bandidos—intimidation by sheer number—because there was little behind the bravado except cowardly worms. But none of them had the brains of a worm.

  Shouting and a fierce appearance had to make up for the fact they could not shoot straight—when they were lucky enough to load the pistolas with the right amount of powder to send balls flying but not exploding in their faces, which is how I lost one of the gang. Lost, but he was not missed.

  I taught them to wear masks so they were not recognized, to search a coach more thoroughly than the passengers themselves because money and jewelry would be hidden the moment it became apparent that highwaymen were about, not to kill because the viceroy’s constables worked much harder to catch killers—not to mention that it makes it much more difficult to get into heaven.

  Finally, I drilled into them to turn and run if passengers in the carriage began shooting. I wasn’t worried about my men getting killed, but I didn’t want the innocent mules they were riding getting harmed.

  I also taught them to ambush the carriage to be robbed, one of them firing a shot in the air to surprise and terrorize the victims so that they knew we were armed and dangerous while the others charged, shouting like demons with pistolas appearing ready to throw death at anyone who resisted.

  Ayyo! It was inevitable we would have to shoot back at times, and I warned them that I would put a bullet in one dirty ear and out the other of the bandido who missed a man and hit a horse.

  Mounted on stolen mules, carrying stolen pistols, and wearing stolen clothes that shined in comparison to the dirty rags they wore when I first met them, one would think they had developed into a workable gang. But they could be counted upon to make mistakes that even a jackass wouldn’t.

  As we waited for a coach with a driver and single guard to approach, I again drilled the attack strategy into their heads:

  “We wait in hiding and charge out in ambush style just before the coach crests the hill, catching it at its slowest, when it’s least likely to try to outrun attackers.”

  We would come from both sides of the road, shouting like maniacs.

  One man would fire his pistola in the air. Because I could not trust them to load their weapons properly in the first place, I decided I would be the one to discharge the gun. I had a second pistola loaded and ready to use once I had fired.

  We had staked out a spot on the road between Vera Cruz and Xalapa, the mountainous route from the high plateau called the Valley of Mexico down to the sea. The narrow mountain road was the lifeline of the colony because it was used for goods being shipped to and from Spain, handling many times the amount of goods that came to Acapulco on the west coast from the Far East.

  More than ninety percent of the people and merchandise that entered or left the colony used the Vera Cruz route even though the steepest mountain sections were too narrow for coaches. Goods came by mule train, and women and other travelers unable to ride a horse or mule came by litters that were strung between a mule at the front and rear. At the top of the mountains, the passengers got into carriages for the final stage of the journey.

  Shipments of goods were too well protected for our little force to attack, as were “caravans” of travelers and merchants who banded together, so we waited for the rare lone traveler or a coach that had had problems and could not keep up with the others.

  I looked around at my little force as a carriage was coming up the hill, wondering what mistake would be made this time.

  When the carriage was almost at the crest of the hill, I yelled the command to charge out of hiding, and Rojo leaped forward as I fired my pistola in the air.

  They all fired a shot in the air.

  Eh, do you see the problem with everyone firing a warning shot when charging an armed carriage driver and guard? There is only one ball to a pistola. After it is fired, the bandido has to stop and go through the tedious process of reloading ball and powder. While that is being done, the would-be victims would shoot back, no?

  Fortunately only two of the four pistolas fired—the other two misfired, leaving the people on the carriage with the impression that two of the weapons were still loaded. It was embarrassing that the sole reason the carriage driver and guard didn’t blow the bunch of us away with their blunderbusses was the mistaken impression that my gang of street trash still had loaded weapons, when in fact I was the only one with a pistola that could be fired.

  I was lucky they didn’t shoot themselves or even something much more valuable—their mules—when they pulled their pistolas.

  On this day, the good Lord’s dark angel delivered unto us a plush carriage that had dropped back from a larger group because its rear axle had partially split. There was a single guard on the coach, and the driver had his hands full keeping the carriage on the road because of the narrow passage. Both the driver and guard leaped off the coach and ran as soon as we came riding up.

  The coach was roofed, but I could see that only two women were inside, a young woman perhaps in her late teens and an older woman who took one look at my pistola and screamed and fainted as I rode up to the coach window.

  I slipped off the stallion and jerked open the coach door an
d started in when I saw a redheaded señorita and the flash of a blade. I leaned back as the blade flashed by, and I felt the sting as it slit my right cheek.

  Ayyo! I howled. A woman cutting me with a dagger! I’d run into a redheaded she-devil.

  I pointed my pistola into a pretty face with emerald-green eyes, and she fell backward against the seat. I stuck my head in the coach and got the flash of white petticoats just before she kicked me in the chest with the heels of both shoes.

  I went flying backward and down to the ground, landing flat on my back with a thump that took the breath from me.

  Without a thought, I flipped back onto my feet, caught a quick breath, and jerked open the door as the young woman tried to hold it closed.

  The blade flashed again, and I grabbed her by the wrist and twisted it out of her hand.

  She yelped in pain, then kneed me in the stomach, and I flew off the coach but landed on my feet this time. I jerked the door open again. I saw another swirl of petticoats as her feet came at me like a pair of windmill blades.

  I threw my weight on her legs and got ahold of her dress about thigh high and pulled as hard as I could as I stepped backward out of the coach. My boot heel caught, and I went down to the ground again, on my back with the girl on top of me.

  We stared at each other for a pregnant moment. I was mesmerized by her startling green eyes.

  She banged her forehead on my nose and I howled with pain and rage. What the hell did she think she was doing? I was a dangerous bandido.

  I pushed her on the ground until I was on top of her. Her hands and arms were flying at me, and I tried to grab them, but she was bucking like a wild and untamed stallion.

  “Let me go,” she yelled, pounding on my chest with her fists and kicking with her feet.

  I tightened my grip on her. “You are acting like a wild animal.”

  “You’re the animal.”

  She tried to squirm out of my grasp, but I finally managed to pin her arms behind her back.

  She winced in pain and I immediately felt sorry for her. I had never handled a woman roughly before. Not having had a mother, a sister, or a wife, I knew little about women except that they were the weaker sex.

  She spit in my face.

  Ayyo! I wasn’t about to release this she-devil—not just yet. She was attacking me like a ferocious animal, and I knew that she would put a dagger through my heart if she had a blade.

  I looked into those sparkling liquid eyes that were on fire with rage and grinned.

  “And what do you find so funny?” she hissed.

  “You are like a wild horse that needs to be broken.”

  “And you are a filthy lépero who robs carriages and tortures innocent people.”

  “Hey, she is right, amigo,” Cerdo said. “We are léperos who rob carriages and torture innocent people—but we are not filthy.”

  That got a howling laugh from the pack of bandidos who had been standing there watching us as we wrestled on the ground.

  I grinned, too. I couldn’t help myself. What a woman! Most women would have cowered in fear, and this one was ready to take on a whole gang of murderous thieves.

  “Why don’t you show her how you torture innocent women,” Cerdo said, still laughing. “I’m sure she will like it. Then we will show her, too.” He started to undo his breeches. That caused another howling laugh from the pack.

  “Pull down your pants and I’ll cut off your pene and stick it in your mouth.” I turned back to the señorita. “Don’t worry, no one will touch you; you are under my protection.”

  She spit in my face again. “You filthy animal!”

  Such gratitude. I kept a tight grip on her. “We do not torture women.” I looked into those fiery green eyes again.

  “Sí, only men,” Cerdo said, smiling.

  She stared at me for a long moment. “You are hurting me now.”

  “I will release your arms if I have your word that you will not attack and spit on me.”

  Her face was not plastered with powder and lipstick like some of the other women but was soft, delicate, and innocent.

  She lowered her eyes and said quietly, “You have my word.”

  I did not trust this wildcat of a woman—the anger still burned in her eyes—so I slowly released her arms.

  “But you are still a filthy pig,” she hissed as she dug sharp claws into my face.

  THIRTY-ONE

  THE WILDCAT CLAWED at my eyes as the léperos pulled her off of me—she still managed to get in a kick.

  I got on my feet. My mask had been pulled off my nose but still covered half of my face. She had laid my cheek open and my nose felt as if Rojo had kicked it.

  And she stared at me, defiantly.

  “Animal!” she yelled.

  Ay, caramba! The wildcat thought I was the animal? This time I was the victim.

  “Tie that she-demon up,” I told Cerdo. “All of you help,” I said, knowing the swine would not be able to handle the young woman by himself.

  I opened the coach door to find the older woman, perhaps the girl’s aunt, mother, or chaperone coming awake.

  She opened her eyes, met my stare, gaped, uttered a faint cry, and swooned again.

  I didn’t know if her fainting spells were an act or a defensive move like a small animal faking death to fool prey, but as long as it left me free to ransack the coach without her coming after me like the younger woman, her swooning worked well.

  The first place I looked was in the crack between the front and back of the seats, where people stick their money and jewels the moment they know highwaymen are about. Since it was the first place a thief like me looked, it was not the best hiding place.

  I pulled out a gold brooch from the side where the girl had been seated and slipped it in my pocket.

  Moving the old woman over a little so I could check the seat crack behind her, her eyes fluttered open, then popped wide when she saw me inches from her. She gasped and closed her eyes tight again. This time I knew she was faking.

  The girl screamed and I swung around.

  Ayyo! The lépero trash had pulled up her dress and Cerdo was pulling down her petticoats.

  I flew out of the coach and knocked aside the first one of the gang who stood in my path, sending him sprawling, while two others quickly got out of my way.

  I stuck my pistola against Cerdo’s ear and said, “If you had any brains, I would blow them out.”

  “We want her.”

  “This is what you get for disobeying me.” I hit him across the side of his head with the pistola, sending him over onto his side. Then I kicked him in the stomach.

  I grabbed the girl by the arm and pulled her to her feet. She was wide-eyed from shock.

  “Get back into the carriage and help the old woman. No harm will come to you.”

  I called for the driver and guard to come out of the bushes where they were hiding and get the coach moving. They hadn’t gone far and they came out, slow and leery but hurried when I yelled at them to move faster.

  As it rolled away, the girl stared gravely at me out the window.

  I saluted her with my pistola and turned back to the léperos.

  I watched the coach until it crested the hill. As it disappeared from my sight, I suddenly felt emotionally empty. I realized that for a brief moment I had experienced something special—besides the slash of a knife or the bump on my nose. I had looked into the eyes of this woman and felt a connection, something beyond the urge to make love that I usually felt when I saw a pretty señorita.

  Ayyo … whatever I had felt, the source was gone, cresting not just the hill, but leaving me eating the dust of the coach wheels. There was nothing in the coach for a man like me whose closest connection to carriages besides robbing them was having been run over by one as I begged in the street.

  With a little sigh for what might have been had the Lord not given me tainted blood, I turned back to the worms.

  “Imbeciles. The whole lot of you combined don�
��t have the brains of a slug. Didn’t I tell you that killing and raping brings out the constables and army ten times more than just robbing? If you had raped that girl, her father would have put out a reward, and we would have been hunted down and crucified.”

  They said nothing. Just stared at me without any expression on their faces. Not even Cerdo showed any emotion.

  The blank stares gave me the shivers.

  Not because they hated me—I had known that since the day I teamed with them. And it wasn’t just Cerdo who wanted my blood, even though he was the one who was the most frequent objective of my kicks because he was usually the one leading the others into folly. The whole pack of them hated me for good reasons—they knew I didn’t respect them, that I treated them like the mangy dogs they were. But this was different. For the first time I felt that they would actually do something about it.

  Maybe putting them in clean clothes and on decent mules and making them think they were really bandidos had deluded the soggy mush they used for brains into thinking they really were dangerous desperadoes, that they deserved some expression of respect from me.

  If I stuck with them I knew I’d get a knife in me while I slept. No, I would get four knives in me because they lacked the courage to come at me alone and could only act as a pack—and only while I slept.

  I was finished with them, too. Not only were they hopelessly stupid and untrustworthy, it was inevitable that they would get me killed or hanged even if they never got up the courage to attack me themselves.

  Keeping my pistola trained on them, I gathered their guns, took the reins of the four mules, and mounted Rojo.

  “What are you doing?” Cerdo asked.

  “Going my own way.”

  “You’re leaving us without guns and mules.”

  “I’m protecting you from shooting yourselves. Go back to begging on the streets; you’re not worthy enough to be bandidos. Vaya con el diablo, amigos. May you rot in hell.”