Stringer and the Border War

by Lou Cameron

  Then, above the rumble of the casually rolling train, they heard the singing. Male and female voices, a lot of them, were belting out “La Cucaracha” as the train rolled past their hiding place. As the train rolled safely by, Stringer chuckled and said, “I guess that tells us who won. Don’t ask me how.” Then he kissed her again.

  She responded in kind, but murmured, “Please, Stuart, don’t start anything you don’t mean to finish.” Then she gasped and added, “Oh! Good heavens! With my underpants on?”

  He put a few more friendly strokes into her before he said, “You’re right. Let’s strip down and do this right.”

  So they did, but as he spread her naked beneath the desert stars she murmured, “Oh, this is lovely, darling. But what was that you said about conserving our strength?”

  He growled, “That was when I still thought we had some place sensible to get to. Villa can’t roll that train he just captured up and down the main line until he takes the railroad town I thought we were headed for. Meanwhile, it’s still cool enough to do this and, God knows, we may never get another chance.”

  So she wrapped her pale thighs around his bare waist in passionate agreement and they forgot about the rest of the world for an all too brief period in heaven.

  When at last they had to pause for breath, Stringer told her, “Hold the thought and save my place. We’ve got to find a safer spot to spread our bedding, and if you’re a good little girl I’ll even let you catch some sleep before the sun bakes us too hot for anything but cussing.”

  So she picked up her clothing to follow him in her knee socks and high buttons a half mile from the tracks, and as they lay down atop the bedding she was very good indeed. So he didn’t try to think about the coming dawn. It figured to be just awful no matter how you sliced it.

  They actually managed to sleep some time after sunrise before the hot rays of the desert sun found them snuggled naked among the shielding cactus to give them a good spanking. As they sat up, sleepy-eyed but already uncomfortable in the harsh glare, Bobbie covered her naked breasts with her forearms and gasped, “Oh, heavens, I feel so embarrassed! Don’t look at me, Stuart!”

  He handed her her dress, muttering, “I’d already figured you were blond all over. But we don’t want to get sunburned.”

  As she dressed facing away from him, he found their one canteen, unscrewed it, and held it out to her, saying, “Take it easy on the agua. I’ve got to find us better shade, as soon as I find my damned boots.”

  He hauled on the rest of his duds while he was at it and got to his feet for a look-see all around. There was nothing to see for miles but cactus and chaparral. The padded quilt was pink and blue. The wool blanket was deep maroon. He’d never seen a clump of maroon cactus or greaswood. But all colors ran together in desert sunlight. So they’d have to chance it. A day on the desert without shade was the most obvious danger for miles. So he spread the quilt closer to the cactus and draped the wool blanket over the spiney pads to form an improvised tent. Bobbie didn’t need to be told twice to crawl under it, but she said it still felt stuffy. He helped himself to some canteen water and crawled into the meager shade with her, saying, “It’ll get a lot hotter in the sun before it gets cooler.”

  She stared at him wide-eyed and asked, “Do you mean we’re stuck here until sunset, with only one canteen full of water?”

  He said, “It’s not full, now. But that’s the least of our worries. In a pinch we can refill it with cactus juice. It sure ain’t lemonade. It’ll make you sick if you drink too much on an empty stomach. But it’s better than dying of thirst.”

  He began to roll a smoke, sitting cross-legged in their tiny patch of shade, as he mused half to himself, “I was with a posse searching for lost greenhorns one time. We found them dead on the desert, poor fools. They’d died of thirst surrounded by many a barrel cactus. Barrel cactus juice is almost pure water, too.”

  She said, “I’m not thirsty right now. I’m hungry.”

  He said, “I know. That’s why I’m rolling us this smoke. It takes weeks to starve to death, as long as you have water. It helps a mite if you smoke between meals.”

  She said she didn’t smoke. That chewed up some time for them and by the time he had her puffing away she got to giggle and say there seemed to be no end to the naughty habits he was out to introduce her to.

  Then she had to spoil it all by asking where they’d go as soon as it was dark again. He grimaced and said, “I’m working on that. That train ride to Juarez and points north doesn’t look so good now. With Villa and Los Federales enjoying a running gun fight up and down the main line, we’re going to have to look for another way home.”

  She protested, “Riding double on my poor bicycle? We must be hundreds of miles south of the border, Stuart!”

  He nodded and said he’d noticed. He said, “I make it more like three hundred and change, as the crow flies, and that contraption ain’t no crow. There’s no road to follow, and even if there was, it would be crawling with rebels and rurales, now that Villa’s raised so much hell. Our best bet might be cross country, away from the few roads, on foot.”

  She protested she could never hike across three hundred miles of desert in high button shoes. He pointed out that she’d never know for sure before she tried. Then he said, “Stretch out and try for some shut-eye. I’ll wake you up if the sun ever goes down around here.”

  It took her an hour of bitching to fall into a fitful doze. He was about to join her when he heard something. It had sounded like brush popping against leather.

  He reached for the rifle and crawled out into the sunlight. It felt like crawling across the floor of a brick kiln with the firebox lit. When he finally felt safe to take off his hat and stick his head up through some mesquite leaves he saw he’d been right. Two riders had left the service road to investigate the patch of maroon wool they’d spotted off to one side, the sharp-eyed sons of bitches.

  They were paid to ride sharp-eyed. Nobody wore those big gray sombreros and matching charro outfits but Los Rurales. They had to be patrolling out from the main rail line, so that meant Villa had gone somewhere else with the captured train. Stringer knew they were supposed to be searching for Mex outlaws, not lost Anglo visitors. But as he’d told Bobbie, such uncouth lawmen, no more than licensed bandits in their own right, might not know just who they were after at times like these.

  As he watched, still uncertain what to do next, the rurales dismounted, tethered their ponies, and hauled out their saddle guns to move in on the mysterious patch of wool, afoot. Then Bobbie solved Stringer’s moral quandry by rising from the not too distant shade to wave and call out, “Yoo hoo, officers?” and damned near got her head blown off.

  But as both rurales moved as one to throw down on the blonde with their carbines, Stringer blew the farthest one away with a rifle shot and the closer one naturally pegged a shot at him instead of the girl.

  The rattled rurale missed. Stringer didn’t. From the way that big sombrero soared skyward Stringer knew he’d nailed the bastard with a spine shot. The other one was still moaning for his mother as Stringer moved in fast to finish him off with his third round. He was still standing there when Bobbie ran over to join him, demanding, “Have you gone crazy? They were policemen!”

  He said, “I noticed. They didn’t give a damn who we were. We have to get out of these parts, poco tiempo. These guys come in bunches and the buzzards will be pinpointing these two any minute.”

  She gasped and turned to head back to their bike and bedding. He said, “Not that way, damn it. Their horses are over yonder, and they carry plenty of water and trail provisions with them.”

  But even as he led her over to the tethered government mounts she kept moaning that if he wanted her opinion, they were already in enough trouble. He boosted her aboard the bay and handed her the reins. Then he untethered the pinto and mounted beside her before he took time to explain, “We’re already in as much trouble with the law as we can get. The law down here is wors
e than Villa and his rebels and by now he’s sore at us and it’s safe to assume every hand will be turned against us between here and the Land of the Free. There’s nothing like a little trip through other parts to make you realize just how good that sounds, whether you took it serious or not when the teacher made you salute the Stars and Stripes every morning, right?”

  “Oh, get me back to my own country again and I swear I’ll never make fun of my dear old teachers again!” she sobbed.

  They found a mesquite-shaded arroyo two hours north of the seldom-used tracks and holed up just in time to save the ponies and probably themselves from sunstroke. When Bobbie asked how he could be sure they were safe he told her, “There’s no such thing as safe in Chihuahua right now. But even the desert sidewinders avoid the noonday sun and there’s a lot of that all around. Watch where you squat to drop it in the bushes down here, though.”

  She assured him her ass was reserved for his abuse alone, so they spent the lazy afternoon abusing each other while the ponies broused mesquite pods and watered on the cactus pads Stringer peeled for them. He remembered what Villa had said about darkness and the Yaqui. He didn’t consult the already worried blonde about the odds. He decided on his own that army and police patrols were the greater risk, right now. The Yaqui should stay holed up in the hills if they had a lick of sense, and desert nights were cool as well as concealing. So they traveled mostly at night after that first mad dash away from the scene of their brush with rurales, then got to detour a lot as they circled wide of any night lights they spotted now and again in the distance.

  As they worked their way ever closer to the border and safety, the girl naturally bitched louder and more often about her discomfort and what she called his crudity. He thought he was just being considerate. There was just no way two people could travel under such intimate terms and pretend nobody ever had to take a crap. He couldn’t shave, she couldn’t douche and their duds were glazed and stinky by the time he allowed they were close enough to the border to risk a late afternoon dash for the same. She was sure they were lost and it hadn’t occured to either of them to make love in the heat and dust of the last arroyo he’d chosen. So he said she was free to stay there if she liked, and of course she tagged along, muttering mean things about crude cowboys out to get her lost forever in a trackless wilderness.

  But when they topped a rise to spy the wreckage of that border grandstand in the sunset light, and he told her what it was, she brightened and asked how on earth he’d managed to find the way without anything like a trail to follow. He said, “It wasn’t easy. Keep a tight grip on your reins. The ground ahead’s pockmarked by shell craters, and ponies spook when they catch a whiff of stale human meat.”

  But while both their mounts did roll their eyes and act skittish on their way across the now ominously silent battlefield, they saw no actual bodies. The victorious federales had been neater than usual, with others watching from a grandstand.

  The U.S. Army had recoiled its concertina wire and policed up its own spent brass. The stands had been half carted away by locals salvaging lumber in a land where lumber was expensive. Bobbie had been swearing all the way that as soon as they crossed the border she meant to dismount and kiss the sacred soil of the U.S. of A., but as they forged on toward town in the gloaming she contented herself with running a pocket comb through her hair and pinning it neater under her sunbonnet, protesting that she was in no condition to be seen in public, even in the dark.

  It was more like twilight when they rode at last into the once more sleepy little town of Columbus. A few lights were burning, but otherwise the place looked deserted. The local economy had reverted to one saloon and the one hotel by the railroad stop was open and anxious for business. The old lady behind the hotel desk was so happy to see them that she insisted they take the honeymoon suite, with bath, for one dollar, or seventy-five cents in advance. Stringer placed a silver cartwheel on the fake marble counter between them and scrawled something noncommital on the open register as he said he noticed business seemed slow. The old landlady sniffed and said, “You can say that again. We was thinking of closing until roundup time. That big show they promised us was a total bust. You heard about the battle they put on just across the border, of course?”

  He allowed they’d heard talk about some Mexicans arranging to fight a battle or something and she sniffed and said, “We got gypped. After all the fanfare all anyone got to see was a lot of smoke and dust for less than a full hour. Then it was over and all the dudes cleared out, mighty let down. Who ever heard of a battle lasting less than an hour?”

  Stringer told her that he’d heard Little Big Horn had lasted more like twenty minutes and led Bobbie upstairs. He told her he’d be back as soon as he checked in with the local law. She was already streaking for the bathroom. He shrugged and left her there to freshen up.

  He led the two ponies afoot up the dusty street to the town lockup. He tethered them out front and strode in. The old lawman he’d found so helpful before looked up from behind the desk, shot a glance at the wall clock, and said, “Evening, Stringer. We was about to close up for the night. You sure look dusty. Been out on the desert all this time?”

  Stringer nodded and said, “Yep. I got two ponies out front I thought I’d best talk over with you. They’re wearing Mex government brands and packing rurale saddles. I found them down Mexico way. You’d know better than me what the proper form of disposing of ‘em might be.”

  The old-timer smiled thinly and said, “Possession is nine tenths of the law as far as Mex stock goes in these parts. You aim to keep ‘em or sell ‘em?”

  Stringer smiled uncertainly and replied, “Can’t keep ‘em. I got a train to catch.”

  The town law got up from his desk, saying, “I’d best have a look at ‘em, then. I runs the town livery on the side, and you won’t get a better deal off anyone else in town. I got your old gladstone bag around here somewheres, by the way. Them French friends of your’n left your baggage in my safekeeping when they left town in that fancy private car. They seemed sort of pissed by the results of that battle they come all this way to take moving pictures of. I can’t say it looked like much to me, even though I’m more used to Mex revolutions. Did you watch it, old son?”

  Stringer followed the old-timer out front, muttering, “I did. From where I was watching I saw more dust and gunsmoke than anything else.”

  The old-timer agreed he’d seen a better show at Shiloh, then he stepped off the walk to examine the two horses, observing, “Well, they sure need currycombing, and I doubt they’ve tasted oats since they was foaled, but they’re both lessn’ four years old and the bay has some Spanish barb in her. How does four bits sound to you, saddles and bridles thro wed in, of course?”

  Fifty dollars was a lot more than Stringer had paid for them. So he said, “Done,” slapped the old man’s held-out palm, and asked, “When does the next train pass through?”

  The town law reached for his wallet as he said, “There’s an eastbound due any minute. The next westbound rolls in closer to ten this evening. That’s the one you’ll want to take back to the coast, right?”

  Stringer agreed. As the old-timer counted out fifty dollars in paper and silver coinage Stringer casually asked how the bounty deal on that hired gun, Jones, had gone. The old man chuckled and said, “I just now gave you some of it. Lucky for me, the reward poster read dead or alive. The son of a bitch died on us in his cell, the next night after you gave him to us.”

  Stringer blinked in surprise and asked, “He died? What in thunder might have possessed him to do a thing like that?”

  “Pizen,” said the town law, in an unconcerned tone, adding, “The doc said the symptoms read morphinous. He must not have cottoned to the notion of death by hanging.”

  “You mean he poisoned his fool self?” asked Stringer. To which the old-timer answered in an injured tone, “It sure wasn’t us as slipped the stuff to him. He had no visitors and we all et the same chop suey from the Chinee joint
up the street that night. He likely had the stuff hid on him in the lining of his duds, or somewhere. The doc said it was an easy way to go. None of us out front heard him going. He just lay dead on his bunk, come breakfast time. I fail to see why you should look so unsettled, MacKail. Nobody can say you done it.”

  Stringer put the money from the horse deal away as he said, “I was sort of wondering who might have sent him after me. I told you, before, someone tried to strand me in the Colorado Desert with that French film crew and, when that failed to work, they sent Jones to do me personal. I’d sort of like to know why.”

  As they went back inside for his gladstone the eastbound train rolled in, just down the way. The old lawman proposed, “Maybe someone didn’t want you covering the story of that battle. Did you notice anything unusual about it?”

  Stringer shook his head and said, “Nope, and I surely saw more of it than most. You say the Pathe crew rode out, safe and sound, with the whole thing on film?”

  The old-timer hauled Stringer’s gladstone out of a wardrobe and handed it to him as he nodded and said, “Yep. Nobody hung around once the smoke had cleared to reveal no more than dusty Mex troopers loading dusty bodies aboard dusty wagons. There was a couple of other moving picture crews who were just as disgusted, as I recall. One of the boys from that L.A. outfit told me over to the saloon, that the whole thing had been a big bust, with nothing recorded on film but blurry shapes dashing hither and yon in clouds of dust. You sure you didn’t wind up with a more sinister news angle?”

  Stringer shook his head and said, “The one thing I am sure of is that Pancho Villa wants his name in the papers, and I had no idea Los Federates meant to butt in before they did.”

  They both went back outside so the old lawman could lock up and lead his new stock up to his livery stable. As they shook hands to part friendly, the town law said, “Villa’s getting famous, true enough. Word just come in that he got licked again, near some railroad town down yonder. Last anyone heard, he was streaking for Texas again with Los Federates on his tail. If you ask me, that boy ain’t never going to amount to much until he learns not to bite off more than he can chew. They’re going to kill him one of these days. You just mark my words.”