Renegade 29

by Lou Cameron

  “Sure you do. You have made love to her many many times, and now it is time for you to make an honest woman of her. Don’t you wish for to kiss your one true love, Captain Gringo? Do you want us all to think you are a fairy?”

  Captain Gringo turned to his bride with a shrug, moved closer, and lifted the veil to kiss her. But he screamed in his sleep instead when he saw who he’d married. The grinning skull under the bridal veil was fuzzy with graveyard mold and gun muzzles gleamed from each otherwise empty eye socket. Her voice was like the creaking of rusty hinges opening a door into a tomb as she asked him reproachfully, “What is the matter, darling? Don’t you find me beautiful, after courting me so long?”

  He didn’t ask her name. He didn’t have to. He decided to wake up instead. He lay quietly for a time, staring at the low ceiling as he debated with his still tired body whether it was going back to sleep after a pisser like that last one.

  The matter was settled for him when he heard Gaston’s coded door knock. He growled, “Yeah, yeah, coming” as he rolled off the bunk. It was still light outside, whatever the hell time it was, but he felt a lot stronger now as he moved to open the door. Gaston popped in, grinned up at him, and said, “You look adorable when you are angry. I am sorry if I disturbed your beauty rest, but we seem to have a problem.”

  Captain Gringo bolted the door again and sat on Gaston’s lower bunk, rubbing his face awake as he asked, “So what else is new? We’ve had a problem since we escaped that Mexican firing squad together. It’s called staying alive a few more hours.”

  Gaston remained standing, fishing out a smoke, as he said, “I don’t regard this one as life threatening. Annoying, perhaps. Mais on the other hand, we could always use the money.”

  “Is there any point to this conversation, Gaston?” Gaston lit his cigar before he shook out the match and replied, “Oui, did you get a good look at the other, ah, passengers aboard this adorable bucket of bolts as we clambered aboard, Sleeping Beauty?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “I just made sure nobody was pointing a gun at me. I make the others the Cuba Libre guys have recruited along with us the usual collection of knockaround gents, good, bad, and who cares.”

  “One of them is Turk Malone. You have heard of him, of course?”

  “Not recently. Wasn’t he mixed up in that not so well-run coup down Bolivia way a while back? How come he’s still alive?”

  “That is easy. He’s tough. Before he took early retirement from your U.S. Navy, something to do with murdering an officer, Malone was the boxing champ of the Pacific Fleet.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So now he wants to arrange a boxing match with you.”

  Captain Gringo frowned at the floor and asked, “What the hell for? I’ve never even met the bastard and if he says I stole his girl he’s nuts.”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “His reasons are probably financial. He thinks it would be an easy way to raise money if the two of you held an exhibition match on the well deck. Each passenger to contribute a modest amount to the kitty, the winner splitting their winnings with those who bet on him, see?”

  “I’m beginning to. What does the loser get?”

  “Merde, of course. It would be bareness of knuckles, fight to the finish, winner-take-all. I told him I would discuss the matter with you, hein?”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “You’ve discussed it with me and it sounds disgusting. So you can march right back and tell him I said no deal.”

  “He’s going to think you are a sissy, Dick.”

  “So what? I think he’s an asshole, and is he losing any sleep over it? I’m a professional soldier, not a prize fighter, damn it.”

  “Hue, mais you do have a certain reputation for toughness among others in the trade. That is why Turk thinks fighting you would generate enough interest for a handsome purse.”

  “It thinks, too? We’re on our way to a goddamn battle zone. There’s, no telling how soon we’ll be going into action, I hope on the same side. Would you like to advance on enemy guns with a guy you’d just kicked the shit out of maybe behind you, with a gun of his own?”

  “Mais non. Fortunately I appear so harmless few people wish to shoot me in the back at such times.”

  “That’s what I just said. If I licked Turk, I’d have to worry about him letting me down in combat. If he licked me, he’d worry the same way whether he’d have to or not. Neither of us would be able to do his best, and the Spanish Army must have a few good soldiers in its ranks. So tell Turk thanks, but no thanks. What time is it?”

  “Almost the hour of cenar. We’ll all be eating together in the ship’s mess. Are you prepared to eat with men who may have you down as a coward, Dick?”

  “I’m prepared to eat with Jack the Ripper if only he’ll keep his knife out of my plate. I’m hungry as a bitch wolf. You got me into this, so go get me out of it while I dress. I’ll join you when I hear the dinner gong. I know where the mess is.”

  Gaston left. Captain Gringo moved to the tiny sink built into one corner and inspected his face in the cracked mirror above it as he pissed in it. He could use a shave. But the tap water was saline as well as cold, and he didn’t expect to meet Miss Lillie Langtry in the ship’s mess. So what the hell. He wet one corner of a towel, brushed his teeth with it, then gave himself a whore bath with sea water and some sort of soap that didn’t seem to want to dissolve in it much.

  He hauled on his shirt and pants, stomped on his mosquito boots, and stood undecided for a minute as he considered his gun rig. Then he strapped it on over his shirt. Guns were like dames and money. A guy could never have too many, too much, or tell in advance when he’d be hurting for ’em. He put his linen jacket on over the shoulder holster to be polite. He’d lost his damned hat somewhere in his recent travels, but nobody but Orthodox Jews and cowhands came to the table with their hats on, so why worry?

  By the time he was presentable someone was beating a dinner bell or at least a frying pan in the distance. So he sallied forth to meet the rest of the passenger list and crew.

  Gaston met him first, in the doorway of the ship’s mess. Six other men were already seated at the long bare table, waiting to be fed. Only one, a big moronic guy with crooked teeth and sandy hair, was looking their way as Gaston quickly murmured, “Turk Malone is the moose at the head of the table, profile to us. I told him. He did not seem happy about it. The consumptive-looking individual in the seersucker jacket is Ace Cavendish, professional gambler, professional killer, depending on the stakes. The burly caveman with the eyebrows that meet in the middle is Bully Baker, not a bad sort if one does not ask if his mother really escaped from a zoo.”

  “Who’s the sandy-haired punk with the knowing sneer?”

  “Oh, that is Reb Ritter, born in a trés piney part of Alabama, and no doubt he should have stayed there. But they hang men in Alabama for rape, so, like us, he gets by the best way he can. He’s been in more waterfront brawls than revolutions, but like Turk he survived that disaster in Bolivia. So he must be doing something right, hein?”

  “He looks like an asshole.”

  “He is. A nasty one. The other two are Tex Thatcher and Rimfire McGraw, both no doubt better cowboys than soldiers of fortune, but when a man is wanted by the law in your trés fussy States he does the best he can to get by. Shall we join our fellow adventurers?”

  They did. Gaston introduced Captain Gringo all around. Nobody said anything nasty at first, but nobody offered to shake hands. Turk Malone, the Pacific champ, even managed a nod that was neither friendly nor hostile. Captain Gringo decided to keep an eye on him anyway. The son of a bitch was big!

  An Hispanic mess boy came out of the galley and began to distribute the food. As they dug in, Gaston told Captain Gringo the ship’s cook was a Chinaman. The tall American nodded and said, “It figures. It’s not bad grub.”

  Across the table, the sandy-haired Reb Ritter grinned foolishly and said, in a mocking falsetto, “Oh, isn’t that gra
nd, gents? The Damnyankee approves of our supper!” Then he added in a deeper tone, “I was old enough to screw wimmen afore I larnt Damnyankee wasn’t one word, Walker.”

  Captain Gringo nodded pleasantly and replied, “That’s fair. I was shaving regular by the time I learned Robert E. Lee wasn’t a steamboat.”

  Reb Ritter looked astounded and announced, “Whooooo-heeee! This here Damnyankee acts like it’s got hair on its chest! Ain’t that a bitch? I thought all Damnyankees set down to pee, but this one’s trying to talk like a man! Are you a real man, Yankee Boy? You don’t look like a real man to me. You look like a she-boy who’s been practicing in front of a mirror to talk like one.”

  Captain Gringo snorted in disgust and asked, “Is there any point to this bullshit, Ritter? I signed on to fight the Spanish, not the Civil War. And for the record, my dad was too old for the Civil War, and they said I couldn’t join up until I learned to walk and talk at least.”

  Ritter scowled and said, “Hey, watch that Civil War shit, Yankee! Where I comes from it’s calt the War Betwixt the States, hear?”

  “Where I come from some old farts still call it the Great Rebellion. But neither of us are where we come from, so eat your supper like a good little boy and let’s say no more about it.”

  Reb Ritter laughed mockingly and called up the table, “Hey, Turk, what do you make of this here Yankee Boy? I thought he was supposed to be afeared to fight, yet he’s sassing me shameful!”

  The massive Malone went on cutting his steak as he growled, “Watch it, Junior. Man said he didn’t want to fight. He never said he didn’t know how.”

  Captain Gringo was beginning to suspect he’d been worried about the wrong guy as Ritter turned back to him to ask, “That right, Yankee Boy? Could you be hiding unsuspected talents a hint that sissy face of your’n?”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer. The Texan seated next to Ritter moved his plate farther away, shaking his head in silent weariness.

  Captain Gringo decided Tex Thatcher was probably a real fighter despite his modest rep. Real fighters knew better than to get mixed up in fights they didn’t have to. A man got to be a real fighter by getting licked a few times, and knowing after that how filled with surprises life could be.

  The main course was filling, the coffee was good, so Captain Gringo decided to skip the dessert, if any. As he rose from the table Ritter called after him, “Hey, don’t go ’way mad, honey! Come back here and tell us how tough you are some more.”

  Captain Gringo walked out on deck, found a handy hatch cover, and sat on it to enjoy an after-dinner claro. The sun was setting over to the west now, outlining the mangrove-haunted shoreline they were steaming along like black Spanish lace against crimson satin. The sea was calm, more reddish than green in the sunset light, and from time to time a flying fish drew an arc of water turned to gleaming gold above the gentle waves. Captain Gringo had always liked this time of the day. It always seemed to end too soon.

  In this case, his peaceful mood was broken by the others coming out on deck to join him, belching and lighting their own smokes.

  Most of them had been down here long enough to have adopted the sensible Hispanic habit of never sitting down next to anyone uninvited. They’d all seen cantina fights started by no more than a drunk plopping down across the table from a man he didn’t know quite well. So Reb Ritter was obviously still looking for a fight when he sat down beside Captain Gringo and said, “My, ain’t this sunset romantical, Yankee Boy? Tell me something, Yankee Boy, if I was to court you proper, would you take it in the ass for me, or do Damnyankees only suck? I really want to know. For I’m just a poor old country boy who’s never fucked nothing uglier than a nigger, but I’m willing to larn, hear?”

  Captain Gringo sighed and said, “I read someplace that lots of natural bullies suffer from a hidden homosexual streak. Wife beaters, too. You must have interesting dreams, Reb.”

  “I’ll dream you, you mealy-mouthed Damnyankee! Where do you get off low-rating me with fancy professor words long enough to stick in the ground for bean poles? Was you trying to call me a sissy boy just now? If you was a man, you’d just come right out and say what you meant, hear?”

  Captain Gringo was aware nobody else was talking now as he weighed his own words and said, “All right. Since you don’t seem to have figured it out yourself yet, you’re an asshole, Reb. We signed on to fight a war with Spain, not one another.”

  “Mebbe so. But them’s fighting words just the same, Damnyankee, and anyone who calls me an asshole owes me a trip to Fist City. So let’s get on with it, hear?” Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “No thanks. Let’s just say you win and spare all the sweat and bother. I didn’t come aboard to fight you. I don’t want to fight you. So that’s that.”

  “Haw! You’re afeared of me, ain’t you?”

  “If you say so. Shit, for all I care, you can say Grant surrendered to Lee at Appomattox, Reb. We just don’t have anything sensible to fight about and, oh hell, I’m going back to bed.”

  He meant it. He stood up and turned away. Then both Gaston and Turk Malone, of all people, shouted the same warning. So Captain Gringo turned just as Reb Ritter swung. The warming saved him from catching the roundhouse punch with the nape of his neck, which could have killed him. But it didn’t save him from catching it with his jaw, which didn’t feel so great either!

  Captain Gringo reeled back from the staggering blow and would have fallen had not his back crashed into a cabin bulkhead. His legs felt like empty wading boots under him and the space between him and the man who’d cold-cocked him was filled with a pinwheeling galaxy of little stars. But he stayed on his feet. Then he wondered why anyone would want to do a dumb thing like that as Ritter bored in, landing punch after punch despite the dazed victim’s feeble attempts to block them with a pair of arms that felt heavy as lead.

  Then Turk Malone had Ritter from behind and was hauling him off, saying, “He’s had enough, and that was dirty, kid. The man said he didn’t want to fight and you hit him from behind!”

  Ritter yelled, “Just lemme go so’s I can hit him agin, damn it! The fight ain’t over. He never went down. Just lemme lay him on the ground once, so’s I can say he went down. I won’t stomp him, honest!”

  Captain Gringo shook his head to clear it, noticed most of the stars seemed to have flown somewhere else, and moved his weight from side to side to get some blood back in his legs as he said very quietly, “Let him go, Turk.”

  The professional boxer grunted, “Not yet. You’re still hurt, kid.”

  “I noticed. Let him go, anyway.”

  Malone shrugged and told Ritter, “If you’ve got any sense at all, start runnin’!’ and unwrapped his apelike arms to free the man who’d just cold-cocked Captain Gringo. It was darker now. Somewhere in the gloom, Tex Thatcher said quietly, “I got fifty dollars says the Yank will whup his ass.”

  There were no takers. Captain Gringo had fallen into a boxer’s crouch but was waiting to see what Ritter meant to do next. Ritter seemed to be having second thoughts now that he’d given the Damnyankee his best shot, from behind, and the man who should have been down there was still up here. He licked his lips and said, “Aw, shoot, I’m willing to call it a draw, Walker.”

  Captain Gringo said flatly, “I’m not.” Then, since the mountain didn’t seem willing to come to Mohammed, Captain Gringo was gliding forward in a fighting crouch, dukes up, with less expression on his face than a tobacconist ordering a wooden Indian would be willing to pay for. As Ritter backed away from him across the well deck, Turk Malone nudged Gaston and said, “You told me your boy had never boxed professionally. Were you trying to set me up, you sneaky little Frog?”

  “Eh bien, perhaps he had some instruction in the sport at West Point. I assure you he never fights for money, avec his fist!”’

  Captain Gringo feinted with his right and decked Ritter with his first thrown punch, a left hook.

  Malone said, “He’d make a fortune if he did.�
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  Rimfire McGraw, despite his own Southern background, yelled, “Stomp him, Yank! He’s got it comin’ after doing . you dirty! Kick his fool haid in! He’s a disgrace to the Stars and Bars!”

  Captain Gringo did no such thing. He backed away, saying, “All right, Reb. Are you going to get up or do I have to pick you up?”

  “I give! I give!” whined the man on the deck, wiping at the blood running down his chin as he added, “You whupped me square and it’s over, hear?”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “We’re playing by your own rules, Reb. Saying you don’t want to fight isn’t good enough. Last time I tried that some cocksucker hit me anyway, from behind, and now it’s your turn! If It’s any comfort to you, I’m fighting you fair. But I’ll tell you when this fight is over, and shit, you still owe me lots of punches, Reb!”

  Turk Malone called out, “Get up, Reb. If he won’t stomp you, I will. I told you not to mess with him. But you did, dirty, and it’s time to pay the piper, like it or not.”

  “He’s too good for me, Turk!”

  “You just noticed? Get up, Reb. You started it. Me and the boys are anxious to see how you mean to finish it, and so far, you’re putting on a piss-poor performance for the crowd.”

  There was an ominous growl of agreement from the others. Tex Thatcher announced, “Ten dollars say he’s too yaller to git up.” Ace Cavendish said, “You’re on. For just this one time.”

  Tex lost. With a sudden howl of mingled fear and shame Reb Ritter leaped to his feet and put up his dukes. But not ‘ empty. Gaston reached for his own blade as he snapped, “Dick, regard the cochon’s left hoof!”

  “I see it,” said Captain Gringo, adding, “Everyone else stay out of this. Come on, Reb, you’ve got your little pig sticker out. Let’s see you stick this little pig!”

  Ritter charged, leading with his right, the six-inch blade held closer in, ready to strike like an adder’s tongue at the . first opening. Captain Gringo dropped his guard to offer one. Ritter took him up on it, reversing his stance to lead with the knife. Captain Gringo sucked in his gut as the blade stabbed forward. Then he had Ritter’s knife hand by the wrist with his own left hand. He yanked him forward, off balance, grabbed Ritter’s locked left elbow from behind, and shoved hard. Elbows were not designed to bend that way. Ritter’s didn’t, until something gave with a sickening snap and Captain Gringo, having thoughtfully braced his own right heel on the deck across Ritter’s shin, tossed him head first into the scuppers with a broken arm. For a man who claimed to be so tough, Ritter sounded amazingly like a woman screaming in childbirth as he writhed against the bulwark calling for his mother, a doctor, or somebody, to make it stop hurting him so bad.