One of the guerrillas failed to return by the time they were due to move out. They would never know why. He could have simply been slow, his woman could have balked, or he might have had second thoughts and made his own survival plans. They had to assume Consuela would soon know, and tell the lake patrols, about the nine young women and one baby they’d come back to get. Consuela and her friends might be confused, they might suspect a change in plans, but they still wouldn’t know what Captain Gringo was up to. With luck, some wise-ass officer might think they were making a run to the south and try to cover that route, too. He pointed that out to Gaston when the Frenchman chided him for being so soft on his men. He said, “We’d have desertions for sure, once some of them figured they might not be coming back to their bed partners.”
“Consuela will wonder why you didn’t just leave with the women in the first place.”
“No she won’t. She’ll think some of the men slipped back against my orders because they didn’t want to fuck their fists for a couple of weeks on the trail. When she questions her servants she’ll get stories we could never make up.”
“What if she suspects that we are on to her?”
“She won’t. You heard Rosalita. These people play rough with double-crossers. Consuela’s never met a man who’d kiss her good-bye and pat her ass if he thought she was trying to get him killed.”
Gaston laughed and said, “I noticed. Was she any good?”
“I’m sure she was trying to be a perfect hostess. I doubt if her pride will ever let her consider the idea that I might have been using her, too.”
They saw Sancho had stopped at another fork in the trail. As they caught up with him, Sancho pointed with his chin and said, “This is the way to Managua, señores.”
“Where does this, other trail lead, Lieutenant?”
“¿Quien sabe? I have never taken it. We are pretty far from the hacienda, now. It seems to run somewhere to the east, no?”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Gaston, you’d better take the rear. Move it out, Lieutenant.”
“We are not going to Managua, my captain?”
“Not right now. Let’s see how far east we can move before the sun comes up. It might not be that long. I think it must be about four-thirty by now.”
Sancho nodded and called out, “¡Vamanos, muchachos! We are moving out of gun range from the triple-titted lake!”
The guy was a natural soldier, Captain Gringo decided, as he stood to watch how the others would take the change in route. Nobody seemed too worried about it. Men and their women nodded to him as they followed Sancho into the unknown without questioning their leadership. Rosalita, who’d been chatting with another girl back down the column, dropped out to stand at his side as he stood there, feeling mixed emotions. She said, “Some of them are beginning to wonder where we are going. I did not see fit to inform them.”
“Good girl. Do you think they’re starting to worry?”
“For why should they worry? They are simply curious. When one of the women asked her man if he knew what you were doing, he told her you had not consulted him about that locomotive, either. They know they have been blacklisted by the government, and they have faith in you.”
The tall American stared morosely at the passing figures. It was too dark to see much more than their outlines. But he knew what most of them looked like. They were mostly kids. Poor dumb trusting peones who’d never gotten a break from anyone and yet they still thought the world was run on the level. They thought their cause was just and that they were going to win. They thought things would be different if only they could exchange one set of piss-pot dictators for a new set of piss-pot dictators. And they were depending on him to help them.
“Listen. Is that thunder?” asked Rosalita, as she fanned the little hardwood fire in the clearing they’d stopped in at dawn. Captain Gringo had permitted his score of followers one fire, tended by a jungle-wise Indian who knew how to avoid a telltale smoke plume above the tree tops all around. As Rosalita reached for the ready basket of soil at hand, he said, “You don’t have to douse the fire. Wait until everyone’s had coffee.”
She said, “There is much smoke when it rains on a fire, señor.”
He said, “I know, but it looks like a fair day shaping up. That rumble over to the northwest isn’t thunder. It’s gunfire.”
Gaston strolled over to hunker down beside them, saying, “The lake patrol displays an astounding lack of imagination, non?”
Captain Gringo nodded and said, “Yeah, they have the routine down by rote. Toss a salvo of shells into the tree line and send the boys ashore shooting from the hip. They’re landing about where we’d be making day camp, if I’d been telling Consuela the truth.”
Gaston spat and said, “It is still a sloppy way to fight guerrillas. The odds of being right on target are less than even. Anything wise as a monkey over there will be scattering through the jungle in all directions. These people make too much noise to have a sensible civil war.”
“I know. Regular officers tend to get confused when the other side refuses to wear spiffy uniforms and line up neatly for a set-piece battle. They probably have another shore party waiting in ambush up the trail a ways. Guerrillas tend to get confused, too. They’re hoping we’ll bolt away from the sound of the drumfire and move north on the double, looking back over our shoulders instead of where we’re going.”
Sancho came over with his empty tin cup. He squatted and as Rosalita filled it for him, he said, “I have a scout up a tree, as you ordered, my captain. He says he can see nothing very interesting from up there.”
The American nodded and fished out a cigarette. He lit it with a twig shoved into the fire and said, “Tell your people not to worry about those guns in the distance. No landing party is about to patrol this deep into the trees after us. We’re way out of range for covering fire from the lake. I want everyone to rest up and catch as much sleep as they can between now and the usual siesta hours.”
“They are used to working during these cool morning hours, señor. For why should they try to sleep before la siesta?”
“Because that’s when we’ll be moving out again. We’re going to march between eleven and three, then hole up again until well after dark.”
“¿Es verdad? That is exactly the reverse of everyone else in Nicaragua.”
“I know. That’s why we’re doing it. I don’t want to stumble over any wandering woodcutter or mule train who’d remember seeing a dozen armed men and their mujeres.”
“Would it not be easier to just shoot anyone we met and keep to our regular hours, my captain?”
“Easier on us. Not so easy on them. And when people don’t come back, other people go looking for them. I know it’s shaping up to be a hot afternoon, Sancho. But we’ll be moving in shade for the most part.”
Sancho sipped his coffee and said, “For the next day or so, perhaps. But what can we do about the overhead sun after we reach the highlands to the east, my captain?”
Captain Gringo took a drag of smoke and let it out before he said, “I don’t know. Tell me about the highlands.”
Sancho looked puzzled and said, “Everyone knows the great lakes occupy a trough between higher ground on either side, no? To reach the Mosquito Coast we must cross mountains and mesas until we come to the valley of El Escondido, flowing to the coast near Bluefields. The river valleys are green hells, too thick for to travel through. The roads and haciendas are on the mesas. It is savannah country up there. The trees are further apart to begin with, and most have been cut for to make charcoal in the second.”
The American nodded and said, “I remember reading something about it being corn and cattle country, right?”
“Es verdad. And hotter than the hinges of hell when the sun is shining. As for the people dwelling up there among the rim rocks … Well, they are not our kind of people.”
Captain Gringo frowned and asked, “What do you mean, they’re not your kind of people. Aren’t they Nicaraguans?”
Sancho shrugged and said, “¿Quien sabe? Some may be. Others take their orders from the British at Blue-fields. Most take no orders at all. There are Indians, charcoal makers as wild as any Indian, rancheros who claim to be a law unto themselves. It is more than cattle country, my captain. It is bandit country, and just who it belongs to is not clear.”
Gaston chimed in to explain, “The British grabbed the Mosquito Coast from the Spanish back in the days of Morgan and other pirates. When Nicaragua became independent in this century, the Royal Navy kept its base there. Your own Yankee government evoked its rather tiresome Monroe Doctrine a while back and, since about ’50, the British have recognized the Mosquito Coast as part of Nicaragua.”
“But the British still hold Bluefields, don’t they?”
“But of course. How often does anyone from Washington visit the Mosquito Coast? Nominally, Bluefields is a Nicaraguan seaport. Actually, the town and surrounding plantations are run by Englishmen. They pay no taxes to Queen Victoria, since they squat there as semi citizens of Nicaragua. They pay no taxes to Nicaragua, either, since they are a rather truculent bunch devoted to free enterprise. Sancho forgot to tell you about the Marrons.”
“The who?”
“Marrons. Runaway slaves from the British plantations along the coast. They tend to be truculent, too. The British long ago gave up any ideas of returning them to the fold. Some live as ranchers or charcoal cutters. Others have reverted to the primitive and have intermarried with the Indians to form a rather distressing race called The Black Caribs.”
Rosalita grimaced and said, “My people do not like the Black Caribs. They are most unfriendly and it is said they eat people.”
Captain Gringo said, “Oh boy!” Then he smiled and added, “At least we should be safe from the central government in country nobody seems to control. In the meantime, let’s all try and get some shut-eye.”
He got to his feet and walked into the thicket of gumbo limbo he’d selected for himself. One of his followers had chopped out a circle of saplings as ordered and left the springy trunks and branches in a pile. Captain Gringo moved aside a sharp looking butt end and spread his poncho over the pile. He removed his gun belt and folded it, putting it on the ground near the improvised bed with the pistol up. Then he took off his sombrero and lay down, putting the hat over his face as he closed his eyes. He doubted that he’d really fall asleep, but he’d learned his body lasted longer if he at least went through the motions when he got the chance.
After he’d relaxed a while, almost dozing, he heard someone coming into the thicket to join him. He assumed it was Gaston, and since the little Frenchman never stopped talking, Captain Gringo pretended to be asleep.
Gaston, if it was Gaston, crawled on to the poncho with him as if to join him in a snooze. He wondered why his sidekick couldn’t find another place to rest his butt. Then, as he lay there resisting the impulse to ask questions, he felt a hand fumbling at the fly of his thin cotton pants. He lifted the brim of his sombrero to demand, “For God’s sake, have you gone queer?”
Then he saw it wasn’t Gaston. It was Rosalita! The little Indian girl had taken off her cotton smock and knelt there, sideways to him, as she fumbled with his fly buttons with a look of childlike curiosity on her pretty face.
He asked, “What do you think you’re doing?” and she said, “I am not used to these buttons you white people use. How do you get this open for to pee?”
“We manage. I don’t want to be a spoilsport, querida, but it’s broad, for Chrissake, daylight!”
He felt a button pop, but he didn’t know if she’d done it with her inexperienced fingers or if he’d done it with his experienced hard-on. The girl and his tool were getting ahead of him. He said, “What if somebody comes?” and she said, “I want us both to come, and I foresee no difficulties. You are ever so much harder than poor Santiago could ever get!”
Leaving him fully dressed, Rosalita cocked a brown leg over and squatted above him, heels on the firm footing under them. Her face was devoid of expression as she settled on to his shaft, but as he felt it entering, he could tell she was gushing with desire.
He reached down and finished unfastening his pants, saying, “Jesus, let me shove things out of the way before you get them all fishy!”
She rose just enough for him to move his pants down around his thighs. Then she closed her eyes and settled all the way with a contented sigh. He said, “This is dumb as hell,” but he didn’t try to stop her and, for some reason, it seemed less important than it had a moment ago that they might be caught tearing off a quicky in the bushes. Most of the others would be doing the same right now he knew. If someone caught him, they caught him. Rosalita wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. It beat getting caught with a fist around your dick.
The little Indian girl had amazingly strong legs. She was obviously used to squatting and was as comfortable up there as a white girl would have been in a chair. Though how you’d poke it up through the bottom of a chair eluded him. She started bouncing as smoothly as if she had springs in her brown spread thighs and he propped himself up on his elbows to kiss her swaying nipples. They wouldn’t stay put and she laughed and said, “That tickles!” as her moist turgid nipples played tag with his lips. He said, “Kiss me, I’m coming,” and she leaned forward. But as he raised his face to hers, she rubbed noses. He didn’t argue. He’d never known a nose rub could feel so sensual as he felt his shaft explode inside of her.
She said, “Oh, I felt that!” and threw herself backwards to brace her weight on her stiff arms behind her, with her back arched and her proud young breasts thrust up at the sky. She threw her head back until her hair was brushing across his shins and, while he couldn’t see her face from this angle, he could certainly see a lot. He watched his shaft slide in and out of her as she kept bouncing and he knew he was far from finished despite the first quick orgasm she’d surprised out of him.
As his own desire began to rise again, he fell back on the poncho to just float with it. She had him bent at an unusual angle and it felt like she was milking him.
It was no wonder the old hermit had beaten her. Just looking at that body of hers was enough to make any man want to dive in and drown. But the story about the corncob was even harder to believe, now. She was tight as a virgin’s asshole. Or maybe she was making it that tight He could, feel her internal muscles rippling in waves up and down his shaft in opposition to the thrusts of her pelvis.
Rosalita suddenly hissed, “Yes!” as she let her legs go limp and sat down hard, taking it all and keeping it deep. He tried to move, saying, “Me too, damn it!” But then he felt no need to, as Rosalita’s astounding little snatch literally sucked him off.
For a long silent moment neither of them moved. Then he said, “Let me get on top before you break it off.”
She straightened up and smiled down at him curiously, asking, “Do you wish for to do it some more? I thought you came?”
He said, “Yeah, enough of this foreplay. What do you say to some old-fashioned hayloft stuff?”
As he rolled her off and started to shuck his clothes, Rosalita said, uncertainly, “I don’t know. My people do not do it with the woman on the bottom, like the Spanish. My mother told me they were dirty men who bullied women by using them as a hammock.”
He said, “I’ll be careful. I know you’re little.”
She was still dubious as he put her on her back and braced her hips on the top of the brush pile with her head slanting down and away. He drew his knees up to take most of his weight as he opened her thighs and hooked an elbow under each of her bent knees. She said, “What are you doing? This feels most undignified. I can feel the sun shining down into my womb!”
He said, “I’ll give you some shade,” as he let his erection find its way home between her gaping wet lips. As he thrust into her she gasped, “Oh, it’s ever so much deeper this way. Maybe the Spanish women are not as mistreated as my mother thought!”
Then, as he started moving faster, she grinned up at him and said, “Yes, I like the Christian way. Now I see what the missionaries meant. I did not know missionaries knew so much about such things.”
He laughed and leaned forward to kiss her. She tried to rub noses, but he got his lips on hers and tongued her. She turned her face aside and asked, “For why are you doing that? I am not a Christian girl.”
“When in Rome. Don’t you like kissing, Rosalita?”
“I’m not sure. Do it some more, but please fuck a little faster. You have much stamina, but you move so slowly.”
He said, “I’m not a jackrabbit. I’m trying to make it last.” Then he kissed her again. This time she responded, sucking his tongue thoughtfully, then tonguing him before saying, “Yes, that feels nice in a naughty way. But for why do you want to make it last? Don’t you like to come?”
“Of course, but I like the way you feel in my arms and I want to keep you there for a while.”
She wrapped her own arms around him and began to explore his spine with her fingertips as she murmured, “I think I see what you mean. Is this what the Spanish call romance?”
“That’s close enough. Don’t try to hang a label on everything, kitten. Just go with it. Caviar and champagne are just fish eggs and grape juice if you get too technical.”
She started moving in time with him as she purred, “I have never heard of this caviar and champagne. Are they as good as what we are doing, señor?”
“No. Nothing could be. And under the circumstances, you don’t have to be so formal. Call me Dick.”
“Very well, Deek. But would you pound me harder? I think I am almost there again and, yes, I like it this way and I want you to kiss me some more while I am coming!”
He did as she asked and felt her nails dig gently into his back as she shuddered and went stiff in his arms. He kept going and she gasped, “Stop, it’s too much! I can’t take any more and … Oh, yes, give me more, more, more!”
He tried, but all good things must come to an end, and as he came, himself, he paused to get his breath back. She said, “That was very nice. But there is a sharp twig under me. You’d better let me get on top again.”
He laughed and said, “Hey, we’ve got some walking ahead of us this afternoon. We’d better rest.”
“Very well, but only if you promise to do this again, tonight. Do you know any other missionary tricks, Deek?”
He kissed her and said, “We’ll educate you some more when it gets dark. I’m not sure the missionaries would approve of some of the things I have in mind, but what the hell. You’re not a Christian, right?”