Captain Torture, if that was his name, was a fat little man with a heavy drinker’s nose. His officer’s kit was stained with red wine and he looked like he had a terrible hangover as he stared at Walker from behind the desk of his cool adobe-walled office at the Rurale post. Two of the men who’d brought him in stood between Walker and the only doorway, pistols out but pointed politely at the tile floor. There were dark smears on the wall that might have been human blood. They were dry and Walker didn’t think he’d better comment on them.
He didn’t know it, but the fat little man called Captain Torture was in one of his nicer moods. He had a splitting headache and a very pretty peasant girl was awaiting his further pleasures tied to the bed in his quarters. Captain Torture asked the routine questions, got the routine lies from the wanted fugitive, and decided the game wasn’t worth the candle. He waved a fat fingered hand and ordered the guards, “Put him with the others in the cell. Maybe we will shoot them later this evening. Maybe in the morning.”
Walker asked, “Don’t I get a trial, sir?” and Captain Torture said, “You have had your trial. I could think of a charge, perhaps, if it wasn’t such a hot day. It should be most interesting to you, as an American. We just got one of those new Maxim machine guns and the men are anxious to try it out. As for myself, I am fatigued with this discussion. Perhaps we shall talk some more before your execution. Perhaps not. In any case, this conversation is over.”
“Damn it, Captain! I demand to see the U.S. Consul!”
Captain Torture raised an eyebrow meaningfully and one of the guards pistol-whipped Walker across the back of the head, sending him to his hands and knees on the tiles, righting not to black out. When the stars finally settled down enough for him to look up, Captain Torture was no longer behind the desk.
The guard who hadn’t hit him helped him to his feet, saying, “You were most fortunate, friend. The captain seems very indulgent today.”
As they hauled him away, he heard a woman’s anguished screams from somewhere in the distance. One of the guards chuckled and observed, “The little Indian girl has a lot to learn, eh?”
The other shrugged and answered, “True. I wonder why he takes them in the Italian manner after going to so much trouble about virginity. I mean, if you’re only going to put it up their ass—”
“Careful, the open mouth draws many flies. What the captain does in his spare time is none of your concern. Some men collect stamps. Some have other hobbies, eh?”
Walker was taken to a stout oaken door and they threw him into a crowded dark cell with perhaps fifteen others. It was hard to tell with all the noise, and there was no place to sit back and get an overall view. Once he’d assured the anxious prisoners he had no more idea than they of what was happening outside, they simmered down to a constant muttering of resigned, protested innocence. From scraps of conversation he could follow he gathered most of their stories were like his. All but two of the men in the fetid little cells were simple peasants who’d managed to cross some Rurale, any Rurale, some way. Apparently it was against the law to do anything in Mexico under El Presidente’s “stable government.”
One of the more interesting prisoners was the village priest, a Father Pico. He’d been arrested for protesting Captain Torture’s abuse of the local womenfolk. He was a bewildered little man in a dusty black frock. He looked and talked something like a sparrow and couldn’t understand how this was happening to him. El Presidente was said to be a good Catholic.
The other worth mention was not much bigger than the old priest, but there the resemblance ended. He said his name was Gaston, and he was obviously French. Gaston was in his mid-fifties, with thinning gray hair and bright, darting, blue eyes. He called himself a “soldier of fortune,” and when Walker asked him to explain the term, he said, “I came here as a boy with the French Foreign Legion, during Louis Napoleon’s ill-fated Mexican adventure with the puppet emperor, Maximilian. You know how it ended, of course?”
“Sure. We finished our Civil War and massed troops on the border after telling Napoleon he couldn’t have his puppet empire next door. You French went home and Juarez shot Maximilian. It was one of the few times U.S. foreign policy made sense.”
“Ah, but we did not all go home. Some of us switched sides when we saw the Juaristas were going to win.”
“You deserted France?”
“One may say France deserted us. The Legion had not been paid for months, the Juaristas were picking us off like flies. One does what one must to survive, m’sieu”
“I’m learning that. But how did you wind up in this fix if you joined the Mexican Army?”
“Ah, there are Mexican armies and there are Mexican armies, m’sieu. When Diaz seized power, there were objections.”
“In other words, you’ve been riding with one of those ragtag guerrilla bands most folks call bandits.”
“But what is any soldier but a bandit, m’sieur? If a man steals a few hundred dollars he is a thief and his men are bandits. If a man steals a country and taxes everyone for billions he is a statesman and his men are an army. It is all a matter of proportion, hein?”
The American laughed and said, “I’ll admit there’s little to choose between a bandit and these Rurales, Gaston. I wish those idiots in Washington could see the so-called stable government they’re backing down here.”
“Bah, your Washington is run by bandits, too. All men are thieves and bandits, when they get the chance.”
“Come on, we have our faults, but the United States is a democracy, damn it.”
“In what way is this important, once anyone is in power, by any means? Tell me, do not your people pay taxes?”
“Of course, but—”
“And are these taxes not backed up by the threat of force? If a man in your country refuses to pay his taxes, is he not punished?”
“Well, maybe, but it’s not the same.”
“How is it not the same? If I put a gun to your head and say I want your wallet you are out, at most, the little you may have been foolish enough to be carrying. If I am a government and I tell you I intend to take your money unless you wish to go to jail.”
“What are you, an anarchist?”
“Of course. All free men are anarchists. Since all governments keep us from being free.”
“I’ve heard the argument. It still seems you have to have some sort of rules and regulations. If all men were saints, we wouldn’t need to have governments, but—”
“Ahah! And since no man is a saint, any man in charge of a government will use his power unjustly! So we are better off with none!”
“What do you think we should have? Jungle law?”
“But of course. It’s the only real law there has ever been or ever will be. The strong man needs no one to protect him. The weak man is never going to be protected in any case.”
“But what does a soldier of fortune fight for, if he doesn’t believe in any cause?”
“Merde alors! He fights for the fortune, of course! I, Gaston, am a professional. I will fight anybody, anytime, for anyone who pays me well!”
“Why not just go out and rob a bank?”
“Oh, but I have, on occasion. This, however, while honest enough, is dangerous. It is better to have the cloak of legality, as a soldier, when one robs people.”
“Let’s get off politics. Have you given any thought to getting out of here?”
“But of course. It is most hopeless. We shall most certainly be shot.”
“Maybe if we and the other prisoners all started running at once when they led us out?”
“Some would get away, but who is going to be the first to run? These peones are sheep. How else would they have such a ridiculous government? The first night I was here I tried to enlist some of them. One, to save his life, told the guards and they beat me. The idiot who informed on me is still here, over in the far corner. He is only nineteen and perhaps he still thinks this world is just.”
“All right, let’s say it’s just you and me. We’re both professional fighting men and—”
“What do you think the Rurales are, circus clowns, perhaps? There are about a dozen men posted here. Most will be coming to watch the amusing demonstration of M’sieu Maxim’s new machine gun. The two of us would have little chance if we were armed. Without weapons, we are only asking for a slow, brutal death if we attempt resisting a quick one. But this is life. To live free, one must face the fact that all of us must die, sooner or later. At worse, it can only happen a bit sooner, and one may as well face the inevitable with such charm as one can muster.”
“I don’t feel charming at all about getting shot. They were going to hang me, one time, and I fought like a son-of-a-bitch.”
“Ah, but, in the end, you shall die in any case. Don’t you find all this desperation fatiguing? These Mexicans enjoy the game of death, played with style. Perhaps they will give us a last smoke, if we behave bravely at the end.”
“I don’t feel like a smoke. Have you been to many of these Mexican executions?”
“Of course, although this is my first time as the victim. Captain Torture is a species of insect, but he will behave correctly toward us if there are women watching. One imagines the whole village will turn out to see the new machine gun in operation. There are so few opera houses in this part of Mexico.”
Despite the situation he found himself in, Walker had to laugh at the little man’s grotesque view of life in Mexico. He realized Gaston had been part of it for a whole generation if he’d taken part in the revolt against Maximilian. Walker said, “This soldier-of-fortune thing of yours seems to have gotten you into a pickle, but I must say it sounds like you’ve had a lot of excitement in your time.”
“Exactly, m’sieu, and as you see, I am no longer a young man. How many men my age can say they have made love to a Yaqui squaw with her tribesmen shooting over his derriere? How many men of any age have looted a city, or been the general in command of even a small army? Ah, the things I could tell, if we had time. But no matter. Since we shall all be dead shortly, why should I attempt to load your mind with memories? By this time tomorrow, neither of us shall have memories of any kind, hein?”
“I take it you don’t think we’re going anywhere, in the hereafter?”
“Merde alors! If any man here really believed in a just God or anything beyond the grave this cell wouldn’t smell of urine and vomit! Did you fight so hard to stay alive until now just to avoid meeting some angels?”
“Touché! How’d they get you, anyway? You said something about being part of a rebel band.”
“Not so loud! If they knew that they’d treat me most harshly. I prefer to be shot with these other peasants.”
“You mean they don’t know? What in the hell are they shooting you for?”
“As I said, there is no opera in this part of Mexico. When a Rurale patrol stumbled over me I had no papers and, naturally, did not care to tell them who I really was. In Mexico, these days, this can be a capital offense. Is there a reward for you, in the States?”
“Probably. Why do you ask?”
“If I were you, I’d tell Captain Torture who you really are. Let him hand you over to your own government for the reward.”
“What good would that do? Uncle Sam’s fixing to hang me!”
“Ah, but not this afternoon, hein? You escaped once from a Yankee jail. Even if you couldn’t manage a second time, it would mean at least a few more days of life.”
Walker thought about it. Then he shook his head and said, “No. They’d take me back in irons and this time they’d hang me sure. The only bright feature of my getting shot down here is that those sons-of-bitches up there will never know it. I’d like them to wonder if I was still at large. Even if I die down here, those bastards will think I’m still alive, and lose some sleep over it!”
Gaston slapped him on the back and laughed, “Now you are thinking like a man of gallantry! As I said, we all must die, but a real man dies with style!”
The cell door suddenly flew open and a screaming, naked woman sailed into the room to land, still screaming, on her hands and knees between the legs of the men packed in the small, crowded space. Her face was bruised and her ivory buttocks were smeared with blood and filth. Before Walker could react, the old priest, Father Pico, had stripped off his frock and draped it over the sobbing girl. He was stripped to the waist in thin cotton pants as he helped her to a corner with soothing words. The other men parted, not looking at the girl’s shame-filled face as she continued to sob, as if in a nightmare, “He touched me! He touched me everywhere and he hurt me, too!”
Gaston shook his head wearily and muttered, “As I said, a species of insect. They are shooting her brother, too. He is that young man joining her and the priest in the corner.”
“Son-of-a-bitch!” growled Walker. “You can’t just shoot a woman after you’ve raped her!”
“Ah, but he does it all the time, they tell me. If you want my opinion, he’s afraid they’ll talk. Not about his raping them. Everyone knows about that, whether he shoots them or not. No, I would say our gallant captain has a very small penis. It fits with his sodomic desires, don’t you think? The girl can’t be more than sixteen and is probably a virgin. I mean, still a virgin, if you take my meaning.”
“Christ, you mean he corn-holed her?”
“But of course. When one has a small means of satisfaction, even the vagina of a young virgin may be too large. When I was a young boy in the Legion we had a sergeant who brutalized recruits that way. He had a very little penis, as I recall.”
“Jesus, did you find out the way it sounds like you found out?”
“Not exactly. I killed him. Our captain was most understanding. In the Legion, we were allowed to settle such matters informally and, while the sergeant was a good soldier, his habits were not conducive to good discipline.”
“Sounds like a rough outfit.”
“It was. Listen. I think they are coming for us!”
Gaston was right. The door opened again and a quarter of Rurales with Swedish Krag rifles ordered them all outside. There seemed little point in hanging back, so Walker and the strange little Frenchman were in the van as the fifteen-odd men and the still-crying girl were led out into a courtyard.
The Maxim squatted on its tripod in the center of the walled-in space, its ugly, water-jacketed muzzle pointed at the pockmarked adobe wall the guards herded them toward. Despite himself, Walker stared at the deadly weapon with interest as he passed it. The machine gun was only four or five years old, and few soldiers of his generation were really familiar with the new weapon. It was too bad his Army career had been cut short so soon. Warfare promised to be very interesting in the near future. Geronimo was still alive, playing possum on the reservation once again. Walker wondered what would happen if ever he jumped the reservation again. It seemed the Indian wars were over forever, between the machine gun and those new telephones they were installing at Army posts across the country.
The prisoners were shoved into a ragged line against the wall, facing the machine gun and a crowd of curious onlookers from the nearby village. The pudgy little Captain Torture strutted back and forth near the gun, smoking a cigar. Walker wondered why the watching peones didn’t do anything. Couldn’t they see there were only a dozen or so Rurales? Couldn’t they see their townsmen and kinsmen standing here, waiting to be shot down like dogs without any real attempt at security?
Speaking from the corner of his mouth, Walker said to Gaston, “They’re not even tying our hands! If all of us were to rush them at once—”
“Eh bien, you rush, and if anyone follows, I’ll join you. You can see how it is, my young friend. To move means certain death, right now. To stand here like sheep is to delay it perhaps a few more moments. This habit of humans as well as other animals makes it easy for those who wish to indulge in massacres.”
“God damn it, Gaston, I’m going to make a break for it. Are you with me?”
“Mais non. It sounds fatiguing.”
The Rurales were gathered around the machine gun now, engaged in a heated discussion. Walker knew the Maxim’s tripod was locked. It wouldn’t track more than a few yards to the right or left. If he waited until the last minute and ran the opposite way the muzzle was trained— But the others had rifles as well as six-guns.
Captain Torture walked over to them, chewing his cigar with an annoyed frown. He stopped in front of Walker and asked, “Is it true you were in the U.S. Army?”
“Why do you ask?”
“We are having trouble with the thrice-accursed Yanqui machine. None of my men is certain how the thing is to be cocked. I think they put the belt in wrong. Would you be good enough to come over and show the fools how to load and fire the damned thing?”
Walker laughed, incredulously, and asked, “Suppose I told you to go to hell?”
“You would die very unpleasantly. Perhaps on an ant pile, smeared with honey. On the other hand, if you show us how the machine gun works, I may let you live until you can teach one of my men its mysteries.”
“How long would that be, Captain?”
“A day or two, perhaps? We can always use the rifles, on these others. Why don’t you be a good sport? Show us how it works. This is all very embarrassing, with the villagers watching.”
Gaston hissed, “Do it, you fool!”
There was an odd urgency in the little Frenchman’s tone, considering what he was asking. The Rurale leader nudged Walker and insisted, “Come, we are wasting the time, Captain Gringo. Your friend is right. My men are not very good with those new Swedish rifles, either. It will be quicker and cleaner for everyone with the machine gun.”
Walker shrugged and followed Captain Torture back to the machine gun. The sergeant who’d arrested the tall American muttered, “Forgive me, my Captain, but to hand a loaded machine gun to a prisoner—”
“Silence! Do you take me for a fool? I know what I am doing. The gun is unable to swivel more than a few inches on that heavy mount. Were you really intending us to all go over and stand before the wall with the victims?”
“Forgive me, my Captain, I meant no disrespect. It was a stupid thought on my part.”
“I know. That is why you are an enlisted man and I am an officer.” He nudged one of the pipe legs of the Maxim mount and told Walker, “Be quick about it. It’s hot as the devil out here and we’ve wasted enough time with this foolishness.”
The American squatted behind the big weapon’s square breech, glancing along the water-filled cooling jacket of the rifle-length barrel toward the wall. The prisoners stared back at him in mingled horror and apathy. He saw the French soldier of fortune was lounging against the bullet-pocked wall, hands in his pockets. The old priest, still naked to the waist, was holding the sobbing rape victim upright. His eyes were closed as his lips mumbled silent prayers.
The Rurale officer asked, “What’s the matter, Captain Gringo? I thought you were an important Yanqui officer! Don’t tell me you don’t know how a machine gun works!”
“Captain Gringo” opened the chamber block and said, “Here’s part of your trouble. The first pocket of this canvas ammunition belt is empty. The mechanism won’t draw an empty belt. Your Krags fire the same ammo. Somebody give me a rifle round.”
Captain Torture barked an order and the nearest guard worked the bolt of his rifle, spitting a cartridge from his magazine into his free hand and stepping closer to hand it down to the American.
Walker shoved the round into the empty pocket of the machine-gun belt. The other end lay in accordion folds in the tin ammo box on the dusty ground to the left of the tripod. He tried to remember. Did a Maxim feed from left or right or … Yeah, they’d told him one of the new weapon’s neater features was that it could chew up ammo belts and spit out bullets from either side. This piston doohicky, here, was the thing that reloaded the chamber each time it recoiled. Yeah, he could see how the trigger sear connected to the complicated mechanism and—
“What’s wrong?” asked Captain Torture.
Walker placed the belt end correctly and slammed the action shut. He said, “This is the arming lever. You pull it back, so, and if I’ve adjusted the head spacing right it’s ready to fire.”
“And if this, what do you call it, is not adjusted?”
“Oh, the gun blows up in your face. You want to try it, Captain?”
“Please be my guest, Captain Gringo! You shall have the honor of seeing if it’s working now.”
The American took a deep breath, leaned forward over the gun, and got a firm grip on the water jacket with his left hand. Then he put his right on the grips, a finger on the trigger, and suddenly rose to his feet, gun and all, as he pulled the Maxim’s swivel pin from its socket on the tripod. Captain Torture gasped, “What are you—?” and then he was dead, torn almost in two as Captain Gringo fired into his fat gut at point-blank range!
Captain Gringo’s face was twisted with effort and pain as he turned on his heel, hozing the muzzle of the thundering machine gun across the line of startled Rurales at belt-buckle level. The execution squad was executed in a mad moment of total chaos as their screams mingled with the woodpecker roar of machine-gun fire and shouting encouragement from the other prisoners and their fellow villagers. The gun was hard to hang on to as well as heavy. Its barrel was hot as a steam radiator now, and the air in front of his eyes was filled with the acrid blue fumes of cordite, but he could see them going down and, Jesus Christ, it felt good to see them go down! They flew in every direction like bloody rag dolls tossed by a naughty child as two or three rounds slammed into each man’s guts.
And then the gun jammed on a poorly belted round and the sudden silence left Captain Gringo’s ear ringing oddly, as if his head was inside a tin bucket. He saw that none of the mangled bodies sprawled in the dust of the courtyard were moving and, suddenly aware of the pain in his left palm, dropped the jacket and let the muzzle swing to the ground at his side, kissing his scorched palm wet and muttering, “Kee-rist!” as he waved it in the air. Behind him, Gaston shouted, “To your left!” and Walker looked toward the stationhouse just in time to see a uniformed man in an open doorway jackknife and go down in time with the rifle splat of the Krag in Gaston’s hand!
Walker dropped the machine gun and scooped up one of the dead guard’s fallen rifles as he ran forward with the Frenchman, shouting, “Thanks. How many inside?”
“I thought they’d all come out to watch the fun! I’ll take that door. You hit them from the side entrance around the corner!”
Captain Gringo split off and ran for the south wall of the station in a crouch, bayoneted rifle at port. He tore around the ’dobe corner, noted the frightened horses milling in the corral out back, and hit the side door with his left shoulder, crabbing to one side as he entered. The dim corridor exploded in orange flame and filled with gunsmoke as something whizzed through the space he’d just occupied, like an angry metallic hornet. He spotted the outline of the Rurale who’d fired. The man was working the bolt of his own rifle for another try. He didn’t get it. Captain Gringo parried the other’s muzzle aside with his own and drove the Krag’s bayonet between his floating ribs. The Rurale went down screaming in agony, dragging the blade with him. The big American twisted the blade in the wound to break the suction, stomped on the dying man’s chest, and pulled the blade free with a loud, wet pop. Then he stomped on the man’s windpipe to finish him and moved on in time to hear another long, ghastly scream. Gaston’s voice called out, “Are you all right, Captain Gringo?”
“Yeah. Where are you?”
“In here. I found their telegraph room. The others seem to be empty.”
Walker joined the Frenchman in a small room with a telegraph key and some batteries installed on a long wooden bench. Another Rurale lay face down on the floor near an overturned chair. Walker asked, “Do you think he got it on the wire, Gaston?”
“I don’t know. He was sending when I put the steel between his shoulder blades. What is all that infernal noise outside?”
The American stepped to the window and glanced out. Then he grimaced and turned away, saying, “The villagers are staging some sort of fiesta. They’re using Captain Torture’s head as an improvised football.”
The Frenchman sighed, “Poor bastards. They’ll have little time to enjoy themselves. Los Rurales will doubtless wipe this village out, now. When one rules by terror, one does not leave witnesses to one’s humiliation alive.”
“Oh, come on, they can’t take it out on everyone. Most of those people out there weren’t involved one way or the other.”
“Do you think El Presidente Diaz will worry about that? We’d better be on our way, Captain Gringo. The nearest Rurale station is only a few hours’ ride from here and, all in all, I have met enough of the bastards for one day!”
“Hold on, I’ve got to think this through. That’s a dumb thing to call anyone, by the way.”
“What, Captain Gringo? It’s as good a name as any, for a man who’s wanted for murder by any other. Down here, everyone has a nickname. The names Mexican mothers give their sons are so banal—Jose, Pedro, Juanito, and so forth. By the time most Mexicans are old enough to drink they’re called El Malo, El Chivito, or something as grand. I like Captain Gringo. For one thing, how many Mexicans are liable to choose it?”
The telegraph receiver was clicking and Walker said, “Quiet! They’re questioning us!”
“You understand International Morse?”
“Yes. Shut up!”
The American snatched a pencil stub from the bench and started taking down the message from wherever on the dead telegrapher’s pad. When the clicking stopped, he read, “POST 46 TO POST 47: WHAT IS WRONG? YOUR LAST MESSAGE NOT UNDERSTOOD. WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT AN EXECUTION? SIGNED, GOMEZ, CAPTAIN, R.F.”
Walked picked up the chair and sat himself down in front of the key. He took a deep breath and started sending, “PREVIOUS MESSAGE SENT BY NEW MAN. REGRET CONFUSION. THIS POST CAPTURED SIX BANDITS REPUTED TO RIDE WITH NOTORIOUS JUAN PADILLA, ALIAS EL CHIVITO. REGRET TO INFORM PRISONERS ESCAPED AMID SOME CONFUSION, ASSISTED BY LARGE BAND OF COMRADES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. AM RIDING OUT IN HOT PURSUIT. REQUEST ASSISTANCE. THEY ARE HEADED DOWN VALLEY TOWARD YOU. PLEASE INTERCEPT. SUGGEST CAUTION AS BAND IS LARGE AND WELL ARMED. SUGGEST YOU FORM ROADBLOCK AND DIG IN. MY MEN AND I WILL ATTEMPT TO HERD THEM INTO YOUR AMBUSH.”
Gaston, who apparently knew Morse as well as most professional soldiers, muttered, “Merde alors! You are mad, but I admire your gall!”
“Shut up. What was Captain Torture’s real name?”
Gaston told him and he sent, “SIGNED, HERRERO, CAPTAIN, R.F.”
Then he grinned and asked, “What does R.F. mean, Rurales Federal?”
“Of course. Who in the devil is this El Chivito?”
“Beats me. I just made him up. If they buy it, they won’t ride up here for a while. They’ll spend at least the night dug in down the valley, shitting their pants as they wait for all those bandits to come barrel-assing into them.”
“Ridiculous! Your message was a farce. What Rurale captain is about to ride out after a large guerrilla band with darkness coming on? Captain Torture would have locked himself inside this station and sent for help!”
The telegraph key started to chatter and Captain Gringo, as he was now starting to think of himself, took down, “MESSAGE RECEIVED AND UNDERSTOOD. SUGGEST YOU STAY IN PLACE AND LET ARMY DEAL WITH FUGITIVES AND FRIENDS. STRONGLY ADVISE AGAINST FOLLOWING WITH SMALL FORCE WITH NIGHTFALL COMING ON. SIGNED, GOMEZ, CAPTAIN, R.F.”
“Do you see what I mean?” laughed Gaston. “Let’s stop this childish nonsense and be on our way!”
Captain Gringo shook his head and sent, “REGRET TO INFORM OUR GALLANT CAPTAIN HERRERO HAS JUST LEFT WITH OTHERS. REQUEST CONFIRMATION OF HIS PLAN AS MY ORDERS ARE TO RIDE AFTER HIM WITH YOUR REPLY. SIGNED, SANCHEZ, SERGEANT, R.F.”
“Now, who in the devil is Sanchez?”
“I don’t know. Neither will that other captain down the valley.”
As if to agree with him, the other post sent, “WE ARE SETTING UP REQUESTED ROADBLOCK UNDER PROTEST. INFORM YOUR CAPTAIN TO EXPECT US TWO KILOMETERS NORTHEAST THIS POST AND WARN HIM TO USE CAUTION. WE SHOULD MAKE CONTACT WITH ONE ANOTHER AFTER DARK AND IF BANDITS HAVE MOVED TO SIDE THERE IS DANGER OF OUR FIRING INTO ONE ANOTHER. ADVISE YOUR CAPTAIN I DO NOT APPROVE HIS PLAN BUT HAVE NO CHOICE UNDER CIRCUMSTANCES. ADVISE I HOLD HIM RESPONSIBLE IF ANYTHING GOES WRONG TONIGHT. SIGNED, GOMEZ, CAPTAIN, R.F.”
Laughing out loud, Captain Gringo sent, “MESSAGE RECEIVED AND WILL BE CONVEYED. THIS STATION CLOSING DOWN. SIGNED, SANCHEZ, SERGEANT, R.F.”
Then he leaned back and chuckled, “That other captain must be mad as hell. It’s going to work, goddam it!”
Gaston shrugged and asked, “Perhaps, but just what on Earth is this all about?”
“I thought you were reading over my shoulder, Gaston. Those other Rurales probably know Captain Torture was a jerk-off and I think I’ve gotten them pretty pissed off at him if they weren’t already. No officer likes to be told what to do by anyone who doesn’t outrank him. On the other hand, those other Rurales have no choice but to set up that roadblock. If our mythical bandits escaped from the brave Captain Torture through their refusal, they’d have their ass in a sling.”
“This much I see. But why go to all this trouble? While you were sitting there making up silly stories we could have been riding out and—”
“Sure. Then, after this line stayed dead for a while they’d send a patrol up here, find their buddies dead, and start shooting people. This way, we know they’ll spend at least half the night where we want ’em —dug in down the valley. Let’s go talk to the villagers.”
They went outside where someone shouted, “Viva Captain Gringo!” and a crowd of happy grinning peasants gathered around. The old priest had taken the ravaged girl somewhere. Captain Gringo motioned an obvious leader over and took him by the arm, saying, “Listen to me. If you want to save yourself and these other people you’re going to have to do just what I tell you to do, understand?”
“I shall follow your banner, valiant Captain Gringo! We shall take up arms against the dictatorship and be free once more, as in the days of our sainted El Presidente Juarez!”
“Don’t be an ass! Your people are farmers and the Rurales who’ll be here by the next sunrise are professional killers. You know what they’ll do to you unless we clean this mess up, don’t you?”
“Of course. That is why we want you to lead us. Since we are all doomed in any case, we may as well die like men.”
“That’s not the plan. I’ve sent a false message to the other Rurales. They think Captain Torture and his men rode out after bandits just-a few minutes ago. Will your people do anything you tell them to?”
“Of course. I am the alcalde of this pueblo.”
“All right. I want some work details on the double. This station must be cleaned up and left neat, with no looting. A few bullet holes more or less won’t matter. Captain Torture was trigger-happy anyway. I want the courtyard swept free of bloodstains. You know how to make it look as if nothing important happened here.”
“Yes, but the bodies, and some of the young men have helped themselves to their boots and guns.”
“That’s all right, as long as nobody’s fool enough to sport them in front of a policeman in the near future. You see, Captain Torture rode into an ambush down the valley and, naturally, the bandits stripped the bodies. We’re going to need some burros.”
“Burros we have, but I am confused. Everyone can see those bastards were shot down here, by our gallant Captain Gringo!”
“Not if you load them on burros and run them at least an hour’s ride down the valley. The other Rurales are already worried he may be taking foolish chances with a night ambush on the road to the next post. They’ll wait a time for him, then ride this way. With luck that won’t be before tomorrow morning. They’ll find him and his men dead on the road, say they told him so, and—”
“Oh, I comprehend! You are a genius, Captain Gringo!”
The alcalde turned to start shouting orders to the others, and Captain Gringo headed for the corral with Gaston at his side. Captain Gringo paused to pick up the machine gun, grunting, “You carry the tripod. We’ll pick up some ammo boxes in the gin ward and load up with plenty of water and grub before we leave. Where do you think we should go, by the way?”
“Ah, Captain Gringo asks advice for a change? I have friends on the other side of the sierra. You and the machine gun will be most welcome in Chihuahua, if the Yaqui don’t kill us.”
“You think we’re likely to run into Yaqui?”
“Fifty-fifty. That’s why we should ride for the Sierra Madres. The Rurales tend to avoid Yaqui country.”
“I was sort of hoping you’d say the coast. We could maybe get aboard a coastal steamer headed for Panama and—”
“You may have noticed, you were arrested before you got within the sound of breaking waves, my friend. The only place you won’t find police, these days, are deep in the mountains or out on the deserts to the east. You go where you like. I am bound for Chihuahua, Yaqui and all.”
“You know the country. Let’s put this gun over by the corral, pick out some promising ponies, and load ’em up.”
But at the corral, they found more than horses. The girl Captain Torture had sodomized was there with the young man Gaston had pointed out in the cell as her brother. She’d gotten dressed since last they’d seen her. She was wearing the cotton shirt and pants of a peone male and had a gun belt strapped around her firm, young hips. The boy wore crossed bandoliers of ammunition and packed a Krag in addition to the .45 on his own hip. He frowned at them from under the brim of his battered straw sombrero and said, “I am called Tico Garcia. This is my sister, Rosalita. We do not know where you are going, but we are going with you.”
Captain Gringo smiled and said, “It’s been taken care of. The other Rurales won’t punish your village for what’s happened. They won’t know you and your sister were supposed to be shot, Tico. Captain Torture was a sloppy bookkeeper.”
“You don’t understand. We are not afraid of Los Rurales. We spit on Los Rurales. But my sister can no longer stay here.”
“I don’t see why not. It’s your village, isn’t it?”
The boy flushed and looked down, saying, “It does you credit that you do not mock her for what has happened, Captain Gringo. But you were in there with us. You know those other men saw her flesh. You know that they know, all of them, what happened to her.”
“Come on, they all knew it wasn’t her fault, Tico. The man was an animal. It doesn’t count.”
For the first time the girl spoke, her face beet red as she stammered, “I am a fallen woman. No man of our village will ever be able to look me in the face again after … after my disgrace. The Father told me they would be kind, but they all know how I have been used. Sooner or later, perhaps after too much to drink, one of them is bound to mention it, and my brother here will have to kill him. You see how it is, señor. We can no longer dwell among these people.”
The American started to object. Then he remembered the harsh code of the Mexican peasant and reconsidered. He knew the mere mention of any woman to a male relative was the best way to start a fight in a Spanish-speaking community. He knew the unsophisticated humor of the drunken farmer, too. Yeah, he had to admit she had a point. Many a good ol’ boy on the other side of the border might be tempted to make a sniggering remark about a gal who took it in the ass. At best, she’d have trouble with the inevitable village romeos who, knowing she wasn’t a virgin, would protest that once the loafs been cut, another slice can’t hurt all that much.
He said, “We’re headed into Yaqui country. Do either of you know how to use those guns?”
The brother and sister exchanged glances. Then Tico said, “No. You shall have to teach us.”
Gaston muttered, “Merde alors! The Indians may let two well-armed men through. The temptation of at least six horses and a woman is asking too much of Providence!”
Captain Gringo sighed and said, “Let’s gather the supplies and load up. I want to make the foothills by sundown.”