Renegade

by Lou Cameron

  “Certainly. Then, when he got to Vegas Salinas, Tico could start looking for you, and as I said, it’s a very small town. A gunfight of his choice and timing might prove amusing if you saw him first, but the resulting explanations to the alcalde might prove tedious.”

  “What if we bypassed Vegas Salinas and went someplace else?”

  “Merde alors! I told you we’re going there to rejoin my battalion. Besides, there is no someplace else. Vegas Salinas is a rebel stronghold because it’s miles from anywhere, surrounded by desert. If you rode on without me you might make it to Ciudad Chihuahua before you ran out of water. But there you would find Rurales waiting to discuss your red hair and blue eyes with you. As for me, since I’d be in Vegas Salinas when the boy walked in, most annoyed, I’d have to shoot him in any case and all your quixotic nonsense would lead to nowhere.”

  He grinned and added, “By the way, your hair is getting blond at the roots. A suspicious Rurale might let an ordinary foreigner pass without comment, but really, a gringo who’s obviously dyed his hair for some mysterious reason?”

  “You don’t give a fellow much choice, do you? I’m still for letting him live, if I can figure something out. For one thing, if we kill him the girl’s bound to make a fuss about it in Vegas Salinas.”

  “I know. We’d better kill her, too.”

  So there it was, like a bucket of vomit out in the open and drawing flies. Everything the little Frenchman said made a heap of ugly sense.

  He’d gotten himself into one mess after the other by trying to be a nice guy and it was time he started looking out for his own ass, but—

  As if he’d known they were plotting against them, Tico suddenly came running around the bend, gun in hand! As both of them stiffened and slapped leather the boy shouted, “Riders! Four of them! Heading this way from the foothills!”

  Gaston reached for the machine gun but Captain Gringo said, “No time, and we have the firepower for four without it! Where’s Rosalita, Tico?”

  “I told her to stay with the horses and calm them if there was shooting, Captain Gringo!”

  By now all three of them were running back up the draw, and as they passed Rosalita, Captain Gringo saw the girl had cupped her palm over the nostrils of that one roan mare who tended to whinnie. He called, “Good girl! Make sure those reins are secure!” and then they’d left her behind and reached a western bend in the bank where Tico had been on lookout.

  The tall American leaned against the dry clay bank and cautiously peered over, his eyes at ground level to the four horsemen riding their way, about a quarter mile out. Gaston joined him and murmured, “Not Yaqui, not Rurales. I’d say, from the charro outfits and crossed bandoliers, that they’re bandits.”

  “Maybe some of your bandit friends from Vegas Salinas?”

  “No. Leaving aside the distinctions between the liberation movement and simple thieves, they would be wearing red armbands if they were part of my battalion with any honest business in these parts. I’d say, like us, that they came over the Sierras to avoid the Rurales. Our activities on the far slope have doubtless made thing hotter than usual over there.”

  “What’s the form, then? Do we parley or shoot?”

  “Zut, a discussion with strange bandits when one has a woman, six horses, and a machine gun under consideration? I’ll take the two to our left. You pick off the ones to the right. Remember: You shoot first at the horses, then finish them as they’re trying to rise.”

  “I know how it’s done. But what if they’re simply four innocent cowhands?”

  “What indeed? We live in unjust times. Tico, where are you? We need three guns here and … Sacre!”

  A bullet slammed into the clay near Captain Gringo’s floating rib as Gaston fired his rifle at his other side! The American didn’t look behind him to see what was happening, the four men out on the desert had reined in and were pulling their saddle carbines out, so he held his revolver in both hands and started shooting.

  He hit all four ponies with his first four shots. After that it got more complicated. As the ponies went down in clouds of dust he picked off one of the grounded riders as the bandit started to stand up. His sixth and last shot missed as his intended target rolled cleverly. This left him facing three armed men with an empty revolver, and two of them were already returning his fire, aiming at the haze of gunsmoke above his head. He ducked below the rim of the wash as Gaston threw his more accurate Krag over the rim, a few paces away, and opened up. Captain Gringo squatted, with his back to the bank, and started to reload. That’s when he first saw Tico.

  The boy lay spread-eagled on his back, staring open mouthed at the sky with a patch of wet red in the dead center of his thin, cotton-clad chest. The Krag he’d fired lay across his shins. The American thumbed the sixth fresh round into his Colt and holstered it as he rolled to his feet, ran over to the corpse, and scooped up the rifle.

  He worked the bolt to reload the chamber and ran back to flop against the bank six yards from Gaston as the Frenchman fired again and laughed, “Voila! That will teach you to keep the derriere down when crawling through the bushes, my foolish friend!”

  Captain Gringo shoved the rifle over the brim and stared out at the drifting clouds of mustard-colored dust, asking, “How many to go?”

  Gaston said, “I think I just picked off the last one. Behind that clump of cactus near the spotted pony. He was most unskilled at cover and now he has the broken spine from showing me his ass.”

  “I noticed you were a good shot. Rosalita’s going to have a fit.”

  “These things happen in a fight with bandits. You are aware, of course, her brother died most gallantly as he tried to help us fight them. Don’t you remember me telling him not to expose himself to their fire so bravely?”

  “Yah, it’s all coming back to me now. I owe you, Gaston. How did you know he was fixing to gun me?”

  “I didn’t. Fortunately, I wondered why he was hanging back, so I looked. He probably thought he’d never get a better chance.”

  “Poor dumb little shit! What did he think he was going to do about those others without our help?”

  “I thought it was agreed the boy was not very bright. But the problem seems to have solved itself. Eh bien, I see we have company from above.”

  The American looked up in time to see a formation of vultures spiraling in for a landing. One of the ugly birds settled on the rump of the dead spotted pony, folded its shabby wings, and began to explore the dead animal’s rectum with its wickedly curved beak. As others settled down to feed, Gaston said, “I like vultures. So many men have died moving in too quickly to make certain of a fallen enemy. Let’s give them a few minutes, then see what valuables we may have earned from our honest toil.”

  “We’d better do something about Tico, before they start on him.”

  “He’ll keep. The vultures never land this close to anything living. That is why they cheer me so out there.”

  There was a long shrill scream behind them and the American turned to see Rosalita running toward them, her eyes fixed on her fallen brother. Leaving the rifle in place, he ran to intercept her and wrapped her in his arms before she could throw herself down on Tico’s corpse. He soothed, “Easy, easy, kitten! I’m sorry. Sorry as hell.”

  “What happened?” she sobbed. “I heard the shooting, and when it stopped I … Is he really dead?”

  “I’m afraid so, querida. I know it’s small comfort, but he fought like a hero. He fired the very first shot and, well, at least he never knew what hit him.”

  Everything he said was true, of course. Yet he couldn’t help feeling a little shitty about the whole thing.

  Chapter Ten

  They rode all night across the playa, the girl at Captain Gringo’s side and sobbing from time to time about the brother they’d left in a lonely desert grave. They’d given her some of the gold double eagles one of the dead bandits had been carrying, so she was richer than anyone from her village had ever hoped to be, now. But she
didn’t really want to hear about starting a new life for herself with a new identity in a strange town. By the time the sun rose again both men were heartily sick of hearing any more about fallen women and a fate worse than death.

  Only Gaston had been cruel enough to observe that there is no fate worse than death, but Captain Gringo had given up trying to comfort her. Like any other grownup, she’d just have to get over it all as best she could.

  As the sun rose bloodshot over the far horizon, Gaston pointed with his chin at what looked like a distant row of dots and dashes and said, “Regardez—we are approaching Vegas Salinas. They will see us soon, and send someone out to discuss our intentions. Let me do the talking and do not be tedious if the talk gets rough. Some of my comrades have developed a rather rustic sense of humor after fighting most of their adult lives. There is another delicate matter we must discuss. Have you settled down enough to listen to fatherly advice, Rosalita?”

  “I am prepared for anything, Señor Gaston. As a fallen woman with no family—”

  “Oh, shut up and listen! You are partly right as well as mostly wrong. These people, as I said, have rustic manners. To a rebel army a woman, any woman, either has a man or she has not. You are young and beautiful as well as rich. If you don’t want one of the men ahead to claim you, perhaps a bit roughly, we shall have to tell them you already belong to one of us.”

  “You think I should say I am your mujer, Señor Gaston?”

  “I have a mujer in Vegas Salinas. She is old enough to be your mother and would cut your heart out if you said any such thing. Captain Gringo must be your new owner.”

  The American blinked and asked, “Me? How did I get into this?”

  “By bringing her along, of course. Do you want to see her passed around the battalion?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “But me no buts. The matter is settled. You are big as a moose and I shall tell them how dangerous you are. I don’t think anyone will fight you for her. Just remember she’s yours and shoot a thoughtful stare at any young buck who looks directly at her before he’s had a drink with you. Flirtation is very subtle in Mexico. The mere mention of a woman you have not been formally introduced to by her man or her family is a deadly insult to be avenged in blood by any real man.”

  “I know the rules. Know they’re not followed too closely, too.”

  “Bah, you’ve met Mexicans on the border and simple villagers. We’re talking about fighting men. These men we’ll be meeting tend to back their act with more than words. The thing that gets most Yanquis into trouble down here is that they simply don’t know the facts of life. In the States you call a man a bastard if you want to pick a fight with him. Down here it is nothing to call a man a shit-eating dog, in friendly conversation.”

  “I thought you just said they were touchy?”

  “Let me explain. The rules of honor are not the same down here. You can call most Mexicans a thief and he’ll just grin at you. You can say he has bad breath. You can say he needs a bath most urgently. You can call him an idiot, a beggar, or a fat pig. You can accuse him of cheating at cards and he’ll observe a man must make a living. If you accuse him of child molesting he’ll grin and agree his lust is a fantastic force over which he has no control. Accuse him of masturbation and he’ll challenge you to a contest. Say he likes young boys and he’ll ask if you would like to bend over. None of these things are taken seriously. But two things are.”

  “Jesus, there’s something left?”

  “Yes. A Mexican’s courage and his woman, or the women of his family. If any man even hints another might be the least bit afraid of him the insulted man has no choice but to challenge his tormentor. You must get used to being called a dirty gringo, a big moose, or an obvious spy and take this in good humor. If anyone even hints you are a sissy, you must kill him on the spot. I will not be able to help you. These affairs of honor are settled man to man.”

  “I know about hazing the new boy on the block. How far do I let it go with Rosalita, here?”

  “Not an inch. If anyone asks a very innocent question—her family name, for instance—you may let him off with a friendly smile and the observation that the open mouth draws flies. If he insists, or, God forbid, speaks to her without your permission, kill him.”

  “Just like that? What if his friends don’t like it?”

  “It’s a chance you have to take. They all play by the same rules, and no man likes to be drawn into a fight by a fool. Your Nordic features are liable to tempt men who should know better into testing you more than they might a fellow Mexican. This is why I take so much time to explain the matter to you.”

  “I think I know the form. What about Rosalita, here. How is she to act?”

  “She is not to act at all. As your mujer, she is to be quiet and obey you. If you carry yourself correctly, none of the men will talk to her. If she tells one of the other women she is not your mujer … well, she’s been telling us all night how much it distresses her to be raped.”

  Captain Gringo ended the grotesque discussion by observing, “I see riders up ahead. Looks like about a dozen.”

  Gaston raised his hand and waved, saying, “I see them. From this moment on you are on your own. I am a most pragmatic survivor and my comrades are too clever for me to offer any signals or suggestions.”

  The three of them halted and sat their ponies silently as the band of riders loped toward them. One of them wore a U.S. Cavalry hat. The others wore floppy sombreros. Gaston said, “We’re in luck. The one trying to look like an officer is El Generale Carillo himself. Don’t let him provoke you. He is a reasonable man, albeit, as I said, rustic.”

  As the guerillas came closer Captain Gringo could see they wore red brassards on their left sleeves. He asked if this didn’t make it easy for the Rurales to identify them and Gaston said, “The Rurales tend to shoot any armed man on horseback in any case. The armbands keep us from shooting one another. If El Generale doesn’t shoot you, he’ll issue you one.”

  The oncoming riders spread out to circle the trio as they approached. A man approached the American’s flank with a drawn pistol pointed at him, but he resisted the impulse to go for his gun. The one in the American hat slid his buckskin stud to a dramatic halt and called out, “Mirar! It’s that ass-hole Frenchman, Gaston! Where in hell have you been, you cunt-licking little bastard?”

  “My general has put it neatly. I have been to hell and back. The Rurales had me and were going to shoot me. My young friend here saved my derriere.”

  “Ah, he must be a spy for the government then. It is known they do such things to obtain information.”

  “If he is a spy, he certainly puts on a good act. Between us, we killed a whole company of Rurales getting here. The other night we wiped out a band of Yaqui. He is called Captain Gringo. The woman is his and we stole a machine gun for you.”

  “Really? Perhaps in that case we won’t shoot him right away. How about it, gringo? You think we ought to shoot you?”

  The American stared at his gold-toothed smile and said, “It’s Captain Gringo if you don’t mind, sir.”

  “Hey, he’s muy hombre and talks fancy too! Where’d you pick up that Castilian accent, boy? You want to talk like that in Chihuahua you better know how to fight!”

  “I do. Are there any offers?”

  Carillo laughed and turned back to Gaston, saying, “Hey, I like him. You say you have a machine gun?”

  “Yes, my General, and he can play it like the violin. He’s an ex-Army officer from the North and knows all about machine guns.”

  “Good. I have need of such a weapon. We just got word about a troop train, over to the east. It’ll be coming through tonight and the committee wants me to do something about it. You ever hold up a train, Captain Gringo?”

  “No. I’m only wanted for murder, in the States.”

  “Bah, all of my men have murdered a few people. I need a real train robber.”

  “I’m willing to learn, General.”


  Carillo laughed again and said, “I like your spirit. Frankly, I don’t like anything else about you, as it’s well known all gringos eat shit and cry at the moon. But if you’re really good with that machine gun, I may get used to your crazy hair. Why you got such crazy hair, Captain Gringo? It looks like you dye it, like a puta!”

  “I did. They were looking for a blond when I jumped the border.”

  “Jesus, red’s not bad enough? You have to be a blondie?”

  One of the others laughed and asked, “Hey, you take it in the ass, Blondie?”

  “Open your mouth wider and I’ll show you where I like to shove it, friend. Better yet, just close your mouth and keep it that way. I don’t like talk like that in front of my mujer.”

  Carillo soothed, “Hey, don’t be so touchy, Captain Gringo. Let’s all ride back to town and out of this sun before we all go crazy. We’ll have a drink or two before siesta and discuss the matter of the train like comrades.”

  The little pueblo got its name from the brackish spring water that occasioned its only reason for being there. Once it had been a stopoff on the mission trail north across the desert. There wasn’t a two-story building, or a building with a real floor, in town. Vegas Salinas was simply a ring of low adobe houses wrapped as a natural fortification around the one well in the center of the dusty plaza. The corral was walled with adobe, too. The whole layout looked like some unskilled masons had thrown it together out of children’s mud pies.

  Captain Gringo and Rosalita were ushered to a one-room unused hovel furnished with wooden crates, a sleeping mat in a corner, and some stray chickens their guide chased out the door with his boot.

  He told the girl to make herself comfortable, an obvious impossibility, and went with the rider to the cantina, where he was expected.

  Inside the crowded little bar room, he found Gaston and the general seated at a table with a tall, elderly man in a snuff-colored business suit. The old man stared up at him in surprise and gasped, “Lieutenant Walker! What on Earth are you doing here?”