Chapter 31

SMALL TENTS WERE STREWN about the edge of a sparse tree-line forest of stunted pines and scraggly eucalyptus. About fifty men sat in camouflage jungle uniforms, sporting red stars on their helmets and caps. They rubbed their hands together briskly, not clothed for the high-altitude chill.

They busied themselves cleaning weapons, gambling and drinking. A skinned guinea pig roasted on a spit above a small cookfire, tended by a lanky man who looked as if he had no intention of eating the rodent meat, no matter how hungry he got. Others cooked armadillos, iguanas, and even canned Spam as a last resort.

As Yaquita and Smith approached the rebel camp with their weary burros, the men grabbed their weapons and came running. “We’re under attack!”

“It’s the cavalry! Mounted soldiers!” another sentry yelled.

When the four shaggy and weary burros plodded into sight, the other troops laughed at the sentries, cuffing them and sending them running into the tents.

As the redheaded lieutenant came closer, the men raised their rifles in the air, waving in wild greeting. They set up a cheer that rang from mountaintop to mountaintop. “Ai! Pedrito!”

Stormy-faced Commander José strode out of the headquarters tent, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He was an evil-looking brute with a pockmarked face and a Cuban officer’s uniform. The commander pushed his way through to the front of the cheering crowd. He chopped his hand down like an axe in a signal to be quiet. “Shut up!”

Slumping on the burro’s bony back, Smith felt sore and trail-worn. He saw the troops, witnessed the welcome and waved. He was just glad no one was shooting at him, for once. It was a good thing these people thought he was Pedrito.

José glared at Smith. “You are no longer in command here, Pedrito! I rule these men. They owe their blood allegiance to me!”

Smith was taken aback by the man’s vehemence. He had no idea who this commander was, but the guy didn’t seem willing to extend a warm greeting. “Uh, look —”

“No! No looks, Pedrito! These men have to attack the government garrison at Bellanova in two days, and you would just make some grandstand play out of it!”

“Attack a garrison?” Smith said. “Why would we want to do that? I can’t even get a map of this damned country.”

“Shut up!” José said with mounting rage. “I am going to lead the attack. Not you! Your time with these troops is finished.”

Among the rebels, with a red-star cap slouched as low as possible over his exotic features, Bolo stood dressed as a sergeant. He watched José’s display of bravado with confident anticipation. So far Smith had performed admirably in his unwitting role.

“But you can’t just attack a government installation,” Smith said in horror. “That would be . . . that would be an act of revolution! And against the law, too.”

The rebel troops broke into loud guffaws as Smith looked at them, bewildered.

“Challenge him to another duel, José!” Bolo shouted. “That way you can settle who’s in command once and for all.”

“Yes!” someone else agreed. “It’s been a week since we’ve seen anyone killed in a duel!”

“That’s a good idea!” José said with an evil grin as he eyed Smith’s bedraggled form. “Shall we say bayonets at dawn?”

“Couldn’t we just flip a coin to settle this?” Smith muttered.

Yaquita came up and proudly slipped her arm around him. “I know you will win, my darling. The blood flows hot in you. Just pretend you are fighting for me!”

The news of the upcoming duel filled the camp with enthusiasm. They raised their rifles and caps over their heads, waving, shouting and shooting.

* * *

That night Smith and Yaquita sat by a small fire, eating out of stolen Colodoran-issue mess kits. They had an alpaca wool blanket wrapped around their shoulders. Between bites, Yaquita put her mouth close to Smith’s ear, talking very quietly. Her breath was warm against his cheek.

“I don’t know who you really are, and you mustn’t tell me — some mercenary, no doubt, who volunteered to play this double role.”

“You actually believe me then?” Smith asked. “You don’t think it’s just memory loss or delusions?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “But I know this for sure: if these men found out you’re not truly Pedrito Miraflores, they would kill you for impersonating him.”

“That’s a switch,” Smith said with a sigh. “Up until now, everyone’s been trying to kill me because they think I am Pedrito.”

On his knees, Smith unrolled a double sleeping bag under a wind-bent mesquite bush, hoping the fabric was as warm as it looked. Yaquita smoothed the fabric. “Sleep well, my darling. Everything will be settled tomorrow. You will defeat José, then we can begin our assault on the fortress of Bellanova.”

In the firelight, Smith pulled off his boots. “But I don’t want to fight José or attack a friendly country.”

Yaquita fiddled with her buttons, half out of her khaki jumpsuit. In the cold, goosebumps stood out on her golden skin. She paused in her undressing, looking cross with Smith as she poked him in the chest.

“You must convince them you’re the real Pedrito!” She went on undressing, glancing eagerly at the double sleeping bag. “He might have been a two-timing scoundrel, but he earned a lot of respect from these men. He was the hardest-drinking, hardest-riding, fastest-shooting agent anybody ever met.”

“I’ve got to live up to that reputation?” Smith said, peeved. The mountain air was very cold and sharp.

“You better! I don’t want you killed. We’ve got better things to do.” Once they were together in the sleeping bag, Yaquita was very loving. She kissed him, and very shortly Smith felt warm again, very warm.