Chapter 24

AT THE MIRAFLORES’ HACIENDA, Smith stood uncertainly beside a corral. He wore the fancy leather bolero and flat-topped hat of a vaquero with silver conchas, a wide riding belt, gaucho pants, and boots to complete his outfit. He was supposed to go out riding with Bonita, but he wasn’t sure he even knew how to get into a saddle.

Thirty vaqueros lounged around on the split-rail fence, taking a break from the day’s chores in hopes of hearing some of Pedrito’s adventures, or at least hoping to see what the wild redheaded revolutionary would do next. The other horsemen applauded his arrival, clapping him on the back and shouting encouragement.

Inside the corral, a buckskin stallion reared and plunged and squealed, circling like a hungry shark that smelled blood. A daring or foolish vaquero had managed to saddle and bridle the fuming stallion — but the reins hung loose and the hapless vaquero was even now receiving medical attention.

Smith stood ten feet from the snorting horse, on the other side of the fence, swallowing hard. The vaqueros wanted him to ride that monster — and he had trouble keeping himself upright on a bicycle!

The obese major-domo also sat on the fence, barely keeping his balance. The split rails creaked under the burden. “Go on, Pedrito. You’re the only one who could ever sit in his saddle. Show us you haven’t lost your touch.”

“He’s your own horse, after all!” another vaquero called. “A wild stallion for a wild horseman!”

“He, uh, doesn’t seem to want company at the moment,” Smith said. He wished he had turned around and run back to the plane with Yaquita the day before. Now he was trapped here in this ranch with people who thought he was part of the family. All the attention was nice, but the responsibilities were troublesome.

“Aww, that horse has just forgotten you!” the major-domo said, nudging Smith toward the corral gate. “You must remind him who is the boss.”

Smith backed away from the rail, mincing his feet to avoid piles of horse manure as the vaqueros egged him on. “I think you’d better take him away. I’m a sailor, not a cowboy.”

The vaqueros on the fence exploded with laughter. The major-domo slapped his knee. “That is the best joke I have ever heard, Pedrito!”

During the laughter, a new vaquero darted into the corral like a matador confronting an angry bull. He wore a floppy hat that hid his dark Turkish features. He managed to grab the dangling reins of the rearing horse, then yanked its head down. Bolo secretly slipped his palm against the horse’s snorting nostrils. With a sniff, the stallion wolfed a small lump the mysterious vaquero held in his hand — and then looked suddenly cross-eyed.

The two colonels might want Smith dead, but Bolo had other plans — at least for the moment. Beaming, Bolo gestured for Smith to climb into the corral. “Come on, Pedrito — see, he is a pussycat after all.”

Smith was too frightened to recognize the man. He diffidently approached the horse and reached out a trembling hand for the reins. Everyone here expected this of him, and if they grew angry, they might make Smith walk back to the Santa Isabel airport. He didn’t have a single friend here . . . not even Yaquita.

The mysterious vaquero nudged him toward the saddle, and Smith swung himself up. He gripped the pommel desperately for balance. The stallion weaved and crossed his legs, blitzed by whatever drug Bolo had slipped him.

As the lieutenant sat up in the saddle, looking almost like he belonged there, the vaqueros cheered. “Ai! Pedrito! Ai! Pedrito! Ai! Pedrito!”

Smith lifted his hat to them, swayed backward, then held the saddle to keep his balance. “Hey, I did it!”

* * *

Later, Smith rode with the lovely Bonita across an expanse of grassy, rolling plains, far from human habitation. Isolation wasn’t hard to find on the five thousand square kilometers of the Miraflores ranch. Bonita seemed to have a destination in mind as she guided them toward the steep hills thick with cloud forest.

Smith’s vaquero clothes felt more natural to him now, though he still missed his Navy uniform. Fresh and smiling, Bonita wore a black riding habit and a top hat tied down with a white gauze scarf. The young woman refused to ride sidesaddle, choosing instead a voluminous split skirt that allowed her to wrap her legs around the horse’s ribs.

Smith’s stallion ambled erratically in the grip of the tranquilizers. Despite the easy pace, Smith rode with far too much bounce, as if standing on the deck of a ship in a severe storm.

“There’s something you really need to know, Miss Bonita,” Smith said earnestly. “I am pretty sure I’m not really Pedrito Miraflores Santa Garcia . . . oh, I forget the rest of the name. I might look like him, but I’m a completely different person. I’ve never even met the man.”

Bonita let out a silvery laugh and looked at Smith with her emerald-green eyes. “Oh, you poor thing. I can see it all now, the terrible fights you’ve had, the close escapes, the death-defying feats. It must be battle shock! Or mental fatigue. But don’t worry, Pedrito my love, I’ll take care of you until your mind is all healed.”

Smith tried to convince her, raising his hands so that he nearly fell from the saddle. “I’m not Pedrito!”

Bonita tried to calm him. “Don’t say things like that — they’ll send you to a psychiatrist and make you into a vegetable. Santa Isabel has some of the best lobotomy clinics in all of South America, and the doctors there are always searching for new victims. Even dogs in the street are not safe.” Then she brightened. “I’ve got my own treatment to restore your memory.” Bonita pointed ahead toward the edge of the cloud forest. “Come! I’ll race you to that grove, and there you’ll see what I mean.”

She laid on her quirt, and her horse bounded ahead. Pedrito’s stallion ran drunkenly after her, and Smith had all he could do just to hold on.

* * *

They followed a thin trail into the thick, dark trees. A few lichen-covered boulders protruded from the tall grasses, but the shade inside the forest seemed very inviting. Huge banana leaves drooped like umbrellas. A colorful green toucan with a scarlet rump sat in one of the trees, watching them with impenetrable eyes as he patiently ate green berries from a bush.

“Here’s the place!” Bonita said brightly. She paused, waiting for his reaction. “Don’t you recognize it, Pedrito? It’s where you caught and ravished me when we were young. You were just a kid, too, but very precocious! Look, there’s the very log.”

Smith glanced around uncomfortably. The jungle was filled with a profusion of colorful flowers and flitting butterflies. They stopped their horses near the mossy log and dismounted. “I’m sorry, Miss Bonita, but—”

Bonita pulled a large Indian blanket with triangle patterns from her saddlebag and spread it on the damp, weed-covered ground. She threw off her hat and began to unbutton her jacket. “Well, I’m not a little girl anymore, Pedrito. I’ll try to make the experience a bit more memorable this time.” She arched her eyebrows.

Smith stood there, staring in disbelief as she undressed. Who was this Pedrito, and what sort of hold did he have on so many women? Swallowing hard, he looked around huntedly, searching for some way to escape.

“Well, come on!” Bonita said. “Only this time you don’t have to pull my hair, you naughty boy.” She smoothed the blanket. “Remember, if you’re not nice to me, I can always tell your father, and he’ll be mad at you again.”

Smith wondered, what were the chances that another man who looked just like him and who spoke both English and Spanish flawlessly was living in New York? The odds seemed incredible.

Maybe it really was all a delusion. I, Pedrito Miraflores, was mugged in Santa Isabel and lost my memory. That’s all that happened. Maybe.

Smith gave up and with a sigh began to unbuckle his wide leather belt. If he had to play the part, then he would do his best.

The toucan in the tree looked down, watching curiously. Its huge black beak cracked down hard on a seed.

Bonita smiled as he finished undressing. “I see you’re not a little boy anymore, either!”

Before it could be embarrassed further, the toucan squawked and flew away.

* * *

Afterward, Smith and Bonita let the horses trot home. Smith continued to bounce badly, sore in numerous places from so much enthusiastic riding.

Beside him, Bonita looked at him as satisfied as a cat that had eaten all the cream. Her green eyes gleamed. “Now isn’t that better than getting a lobotomy, dearest?”

“You’ve got a point,” Smith said morosely.

“So no more of this talk that you’re not the real Pedrito. If your memory ever lapses, I’ll be delighted to remind you again.” She adjusted her hat and took the lead with her horse. “I just can’t wait until we’re married.”

“Why is everybody so fixated on getting married?” He shook his head.

“I read it in a story somewhere,” Bonita answered matter-of-factly. “That’s what women are supposed to want. Don’t you know?”