getting bourbon and branch water whether they
asked for it or not. Morgan Sinclair was a man used to having his
own way, apparently. But the drink was cooling and the blonde
wasn’t bad, either. It must be nice to own banks.Captain Gringo waited until they’d run backward onto a side route, reversed the engine, and were pulling out due east on the cross-country line before he climbed up to the shining-brass rear platform of the private varnish attached to the rear of the new train. Up ahead, his followers were making themselves comfortable on the plush seats after throwing all the passengers off at the last stop. They were somewhat consoled for the loss of their abandoned ponies by the luggage they were looting happily. The people in the private car had been making blustering remarks about fighting to the death and had locked themselves in. So the tall American had left them to whatever they thought they were up to in there as he attended to more important matters. Now that they had the wires down and the train running the right way, it was time he had a talk with them.
He rapped on the cut-glass rear door and called out in English, “Hey, open up. We have to discuss your future.”
A surly male voice replied in English, “Get away from that door or I’ll let you have it!”
“Don’t be stupid. You shoot me and these Mexicans will have no reason at all for keeping you alive.”
“Are you an American? What’s an American doing with Mexican bandits?”
“It’s a long story. Open up and we’ll talk about it.”
“You’re trying to trick me. But I’ve got a gun.”
“So have I. So what? If I wanted to hurt you I’d just uncouple this car on a long uphill grade and let you enjoy some sudden scenery until you left the tracks on a turn.”
There was a murmured discussion on the other side of the door. The man’s voice insisted, “Damn it, it’s some kind of trick, I tell you!”
Then the door opened and a statuesque blonde in a silk slip and open black-lace kimono said, “All right, mister. It’s your show. What do you want … money, or my fair white body?”
Captain Gringo holstered his revolver and stepped inside, saying, “Let’s see what both of ’em look like. My name is Walker and I’m wanted in the States for murder, so let’s not get cute. These people call me Captain Gringo because I think I may be in tactical command of … whatever it is.”
The blonde said, “I’m Flo Swensen. The colored boy hiding from you behind the bar is named Calvin. This gent is Morgan Sinclair and he’s usually able to buy anyone he wants, so why don’t you start naming your price?”
Captain Gringo smiled crookedly at the florid stout man in striped pajamas standing nearby with a British Webley aimed at his feet and said, “Put that thing away. Are you the same Sinclair who owns all those banks in Texas?”
The man placed the gun on a rosewood table near the curtained window and nodded, saying, “I assume you’ve kidnapped me for ransom. Very well. How much do you want me to send for?”
“Sinclair, I had no idea who was aboard this train when we took it over. We’re rebel guerrillas, not bandits. I’d keep quiet about having too much money, though. Some of my followers are a bit flexible about liberating Mexico.”
Sinclair looked somewhat relieved as he took a seat and called out, “Calvin. Let’s have some service back here.” Then he smiled thinly at Captain Gringo and added, “There’s no such thing as too much money. I’m in a hurry to get back to the States. So let’s say I’m contributing to your cause, eh? You look like a sensible man, Walker. I see no need to spar around about what this is going to cost me.”
As the blonde sat across from them, alone on a plush seat, Captain Gringo hooked a rump over an armrest and said, “It’s not that simple. If we get through to Tampico you’ll all be free to go on your merry ways. If we don’t, it’s likely to take you longer.”
“Tampico?” the banker blustered. “Why in Hell are we going to Tampico?”
“Because the federales think we’re going to Oaxaca and because it’s closer and good guerrilla country. My friends don’t have a chance up here in the mesas and deserts of central Mexico. The banana jungles down along the coast offer a better chance to play hide-and-seek. Naturally, we won’t roll right into downtown Tampico, but we’ll abandon this train close enough. If you behave yourselves, this’ll all be over in a few more days. If you don’t, we’ll have to kill you. You look like a smart man, too. So I don’t think we’ll have any trouble.”
The servant brought a tray of
drinks and served Sinclair first. The younger American man noticed
they were getting bourbon and branch water whether they
asked for it or not. Morgan Sinclair was a man used to having his
own way, apparently. But the drink was cooling and the blonde
wasn’t bad, either. It must be nice to own banks.
As Calvin went back to stand at attention behind the bar, Captain Gringo glanced over the lush carved-mahogany interior of the car and asked, “Do you have any other servants? How many compartments to this thing?”
The blonde said, “Calvin’s the only help. There’s a room for him up forward, with a toilet. Then there’s a master bedroom and a larger privy. There’s a pantry, and that bar. You can see the rest of it from where you are. Do you want me to show you around?”
“I’ll take your word for it, right now. I assume you can both see it would be suicidal to play games and, as I said, you have my word we won’t even scratch the furniture in here if you just sit tight and enjoy the ride.”
Sinclair, sipping his drink and recovering his poise a bit by now, said, “See here, I have to be in Texas before the stock market opens Monday morning. I stand to make a real killing if I can get to my New York broker before certain news goes out on the tickers.”
“Oh? You weren’t down in Mexico City just to buy El Presidente a cigar?”
“All right, I’ve been scouting a really big deal. Something that could make a lot of people rich. I’d be willing to cut you in on the chance of a lifetime if you could see I reached the border pronto.”
“Where would they send the money? Care of the nearest hangman?”
“Hey, look, so you got in a little scrape up in the States. So what? Don’t you think I could take care of it for you?”
Captain Gringo glanced at the blonde, who seemed to be very interested in her own fingernails. Then he took another sip and asked, “You mean, what’s a little murder between friends?”
“I can buy and sell judges like I buy and sell everybody else. But look, forget the fix if you don’t trust me. How does one cool million in cash sound to you?”
“Sounds nice. Assuming I could trust you.”
“Tell you what. You just drop me off at the next town and I’ll let you keep Flo, here, as a hostage to my good faith.”
Captain Gringo noted the stricken look the blonde shot at the little banker and chuckled, asking, “Gee, do I get to keep the colored boy, too?”
“You keep anybody you want. Just so I make it to Texas and a stock-market wire before the market opens Monday!”
“How do I get the money?”
“I’ll wire it to Flo in Tampico. How about it, Flo? You’ll go along with that, won’t you?”
Flo’s voice was bitter as she asked, “Do I have any choice?”
“Attagirl. How about it, Walker? One million clams just for letting me off at the next stop.”
“It’s interesting. This deal of yours is about the canal, right?”
The banker’s eyes narrowed as he asked, “What makes you say that, son?”
“I used to read newspapers. It’s obvious both the French and Washington are planning a canal between the Atlantic and the Pacific. Now that they’ve dug one through at Suez and have those new steam shovels, the daydream’s about to become a reality. El Presidente’s pumping for the route across Tehuantepec. Been talking it up for years. It’s my guess they’ll build across Nicaragua or farther south, near Panama City.”
The banker shook his head and said, “That’s where you’re wrong. Mexico is the only country down here with a stable government. The route across Tehuantepec is longer and rougher, but Nicaragua has an earthquake every other day and those crazy Colombians who own Panama keep jacking up the price and playing off one big combine against the others. The greasy, greedy bastards.”
“I see. But El Presidente Diaz offers stability and slave labor, eh? Yeah, I can see how Washington might go along with that, and how a man with advance information could corner the contracting, too.”
“I said I thought you were smart. So, do we have a deal?”
“Put some pants on. I’ll let you know. Right now, I have to run up to the engine and find out where we are.”
He left them to discuss Flo’s continued captivity and let himself out through the locked front door of the private car.
As he walked the length of the other passenger cars he fended off questions put to him by the comfortable but still bewildered peones. Trying to fend off Rosalita was a waste of time, so he let her follow as he made his way through the rail and baggage cars to the cabin of the big 4-6-4 they’d captured.
He asked, “Where are we?” and Robles, at the throttle, said, “We just passed a sign that read “Parras.” Monterrey is about a hundred kilometers down the line. But how are we to run through a big town like that?”
“We’re not,” he answered, taking out his map. He consulted it and said, “There’s a little whistle stop at a village called Cepeda, just ahead.”
“We don’t need water, yet.”
“We’ll top the tanks there anyway as we cut the wire. I’ve got to warn the others not to smoke the place up if they can help it. We’ll be dropping off a passenger there and I want to make sure he gets back to the main line safely.”
As the train pulled out of Cepeda, Morgan Sinclair and his colored servant stood with his baggage on the platform. Calvin looked worried, but the banker was waving smugly to the blonde and Captain Gringo as they watched him from the rear platform.
Flo had put a dress on but she didn’t wave back as the train pulled out of sight. She led the way back inside and said, “I guess I’ve been promoted to bartender. What’s your pleasure?”
He said, “Beer, if it’s cold. I could have kept the servant, if you’d thought to ask. One gathers Mr. Sinclair doesn’t worry about people who work for him.”
Flo turned, eyes blazing, and snapped, “All right, you have my number. I’m a mistress for hire, and apparently not as expensive as I thought!” She added, as she fumbled for glasses, “I don’t think you’re so much, either. You fell for that snake-oil story of his, too.”
“Which one was that, Flo? The bull about the canal or the tall tale about his wiring us a million dollars in Tampico?”
“You knew he’d break that promise?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t you? Meaning no offense, you’re a nice-looking girl, but a million dollars?”
“The son-of-a-bitch would have sold his mother for ten! But if he didn’t con you, how come you let him go? Can’t you see he’s sure to double-cross you?”
“I sure hope so. I told him we were bound for Tampico and that I’d be waiting there like a chump for that money order. The federales might think it’s a better plan to trap us there than to chase us all over the country.”
Flo blinked and gasped, “You mean we’re not going to Tampico? Where are we going, and what happens to me now?”
“Never mind the part about where. I’m tired of people jumping off with helpful hints for El Presidente. Do you have any money of your own?”
“A few dollars, and the jewels he left me with might be worth something, if they’re not paste. Are you going to rob me, too?”
“I’m not going to do anything to you, if you behave. Do you have the steamer fare to New Orleans, once you reach the coast?”
“I think so. I behave like anything, too. I only want to get out of this mess alive and … we can be friends, can’t we?”
He noticed she’d put down her glass to fumble with the buttons of her frock. He said, “You don’t have to be that friendly. I told you we wouldn’t hurt you. Just sit tight and we’ll drop you off safe and sound near civilization.”
She looked uncertain and licked her lips before murmuring, “I know it sounds horrid, but I’d feel safer if you were less detached. Most men find me attractive. It’s the ones who look through me I feel frightened by.”
He smiled and said, “I find you attractive indeed, but this is a funny country. It’s harder to stay alive down here than it is to get a woman. In fact, it’s harder to get a good smoke in Mexico than it is to just keep breathing.”
She dimpled and moved down the bar to a humidor, saying, “Morgan left plenty of dollar cigars. So we’re halfway home!”
She opened the humidor and handed him a Havana Perfecto to go with his beer. He put it between his teeth with a grin and thumbed a light. She smiled back, uncertainly, and asked, “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want?”
He blew a ring of expensive smoke and said, “Yeah, I think a nice warm bath would kill me, but it would be a lovely way to go. I haven’t had a real tub soak since Hector was a pup!”
“You want me to run you a bath? We’ve hot and cold running water, thanks to a steamline from the engine. I’ve scented soap and lavender bath salts, too. Come on. Bring your drink and I’ll show you.”
He started to shake his head. Then he said, “All right. But let’s lock the forward door. I have a mujer who might not take your offer too innocently.”
“Oh? She’d be the little thing in the too-tight white kneepants, wouldn’t she? I noticed her talking to you back there, through the curtains. Is she that jealous?”
“I don’t want to find out. After I soak my own hide I may bring her back for a bath, too. There’s something to be said for riding first class.”
Flo opened the bathroom door, saying, “I suppose so, if you call that little mestiza class.” Then, having taken her shot at Rosalita, she bent over to run the water into the galvanized tub, affording him a view of her from behind he was sure was as deliberate.
As she stood to one side, he took off his gunbelt and hung it near the frosted window, saying, “I’d feel better in here alone, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh? Are you bashful? I thought I’d scrub your back.”
“I’ll scrub my own. All I want is the bath.”
“Are you sure? The door is locked and I said I wanted to be friends.”
He laughed, shoved her gently out, and closed the door firmly as the tub kept filling and the room filled with the warm, clean smell of lavender-scented water. He locked the latch and peeled off his grimed uniform, draping it over the commode before climbing into the small, shallow tub. He leaned back and sighed, “Oh Christ, it’s better than screwing!” as he soaped his tindery flesh. He wanted to soak forever, but he didn’t dare. They were rolling through enemy territory with the whole Mexican Army looking for them and he’d feel silly as hell dying with a cake of perfumed soap in his hand instead of a gun!
He scrubbed and rinsed quickly, still puffing the cigar between his teeth. God, to think of all this luxury being wasted on a fat-faced twit like Sinclair! He wondered what it would be like to live like a bloated plutocrat for just a few days and nights. The goddamned floor was marble tiled, for God’s sake. What a way to travel, with all the comforts of a very expensive home and that plush, luxurious blonde out there to boot!
He became aware he was getting an erection and got swiftly out of the warm tub, drying himself with a big, clean Turkish towel and grinning at himself in the full-length mirror on the door. He needed a shave and hadn’t taken time to wash his hair, but he felt clean for the first time in days. That blonde smelled clean, too. He knew she’d been servicing that pink little banker but, what the hell, he was probably cleaner than anyone of recent memory. Her cunt was probably sweet-smelling as a lush pink rose and—
There was a soft tap on the door and Flo asked, “Are you all right in there?”
He snapped, “No. I just fell out through the drain. I’ll be with you in a minute, damn it!”
He dressed, grimacing in distaste at the sleazy feel of sweat-stained gritty twill on his newly clean flesh. The reason soldiers on campaign tended to get gamey was simply that it hurts less to wear dirty clothes once there’s a layer of dirt and grease and one’s gotten used to the smell. He felt dirtier now than before he’d taken the bath.
Unlocking the door, he stepped out and said, “Thanks. I’ve got to go up to the engine. Don’t lock the door behind me. I’ll post a guard, but if any of us need to reach the rear platform in a hurry you’ll have a shattered lock.”
“Are you sure I’ll be safe, alone back here with no man to protect me?”
“None of us will be safe if they catch up or cut us off. If you hear shooting, fall to the floor and stay there.”
“I wasn’t talking about the federales. I’m afraid of being raped.”
“You are? I hadn’t noticed. Most of our men have mujers. I’ll post one with a good-looking jealous one up front. Don’t invite him in for a bath and he probably won’t get fresh.”
She flushed and snapped, “Listen, I know what you think I am, but damn it, I have feelings, too!”
“Flo, I don’t know what you are. I don’t care what you are. Everybody has feelings and it hurts like hell to get shot. So stop playing chess when the name of the game is checkers. I’ve told you where you stand and there’s no advantage to you in trying to maneuver or manipulate. Just do as you’re told and you’ll be on that steamer before you know it.”
He left her and moved up to the next car. He found a sleepy-looking youth sharing a seat with a plump, pretty girl and told him not to let anyone back to the private car.
He was nearly midtrain before he swore under his breath and muttered, “Jesus! You’re getting sloppy from too little sleep!”
He’d just realized he’d completely lost track of that revolver the banker had had! Had Sinclair left the train with it? Did the blonde have it stashed amid all that luxurious clutter back there? And if she did, was it worth a complete search? If he took her word about it there’d be no point in searching the car. If he didn’t take her word, they’d have to tear out every panel and pry up every floorboard to make certain. It would be simpler by far to just uncouple the damned thing and the hell with it.
On the other hand, there was no advantage to the blonde in shooting anyone in particular, and she seemed smart enough to see this. He wasn’t sure he wanted to abandon all those goodies just yet, either. There were two private bedrooms back there and a bath for Rosalita. Yeah, it was worth the calculated risk.
He found Rosalita squatting with some other women around a small fire they’d built in a metal pan in the middle of the aisle. They were making coffee. He knew peasants were careful with fire, but, damn it, the car had a wooden floor! He hesitated, then decided they’d only do it behind his back if he forbade them to have fires. One of the tricks every officer soon learns is never to give an order that won’t be obeyed. He smiled pleasantly as he sidled between the dangerous little fire and the plush seats. Then he caught Rosalita’s eye. She rose to join him and he said, “Go back to the last car and tell the blond woman I said to give you a bath. You’ll be more comfortable there and I’ll join you later. Tell the guard I posted who you are and—”
“Everyone knows I am your mujer. You smell beautiful! Did that rich puta put perfume on you or did it rub off when you made love to her?”
He laughed and said, “We only went sixty-nine. She says she’s saving her virginity for the right man. Seriously, I want you to keep an eye on her. I don’t want her blowing kisses or dropping notes as we pass through switch-points, but if I post one of the men back there with her—”
“Ah, you appoint me her guardian?”
“Right. But don’t get carried away with it. She speaks a little Spanish and I think you’ll find her friendly. She’s frightened and wants to stay on the good side of us. Ask her if she has any fresh underwear for you as well as a bath and perfume. Those pants you’re wearing are getting overripe.”
After sending the girl on her way, Captain Gringo moved up to the locomotive. He found the professor at the throttle this time. He nodded to the old man and said, “Slow down just a bit. The map shows an old abandoned mining town just this side of Saltillo. From the way the country is starting to roll, we’re getting close to the Sierra Oriental.”
The professor said, “Of course. We have to cross the mountains to reach the coast.”
“We’re not going to Tampico. If the mine siding is in any shape at all we’re going to pull off this line, wait until well after dark, then double back the way we came.”
“We are? But you’ve told everyone we’re headed for the lowlands around Tampico!”
“I lie a lot. That banker we put off behind us should have made it to a telegraph by now and told them how clever he is. The Rurales are waiting for that blonde and me to walk into the telegraph office in the port of Tampico. The last place they’ll expect us to be headed is right down the throats of pursuing choo-choos.”
“I can see that, but how long can we hope to keep this mad dashing up? In the end, where are we going?”
“Good question. You’re right we can’t spend the rest of our lives playing tag along the rail net. Not unless we don’t intend to grow much older. But we’ve lost the ponies we had and we have to reach heavy cover if we hope to dodge them on foot. The jungles of the lowlands are still our best bet, but there’s a lot of lowland to choose and some razzle-dazzle left to go in getting there. Somebody in headquarters must be sticking pins in a map, trying to plot our next probable moves. By now any second lieutenant should have figured we’re trying to get down off the meseta. So they’ll be rerouting trains to head us off at every pass through the coast ranges. So we double back, avoiding their rail blocks. By the time they have us located again they should be very confused.”
The old man sighed and said, “I know I am. Just where is this false lead intended to make them think we are going?”
“The U.S. border is the last place El Presidente wants us headed for. So if we can kid them into thinking we’re making a run for Laredo—”
“That’s crazy! We’d never reach the Texas border, and if we did, the U.S. Army would be waiting for us there!”
“I know. Makes you wonder about this ever-so-stable government they have down here, doesn’t it?”
For the first time the old man grinned, boyishly, and said, “I see what you mean! I love it! That bastard, Diaz, will be forced once more to inform the outside world of our revolution! They will know in Washington that not everyone down here finds his dictatorship a paradise!”
“Never underestimate the stupidity of those congressmen in Washington, but some of the papers will pick up on it. As to grand strategy, that fat banker let slip that Diaz is trying to sell the Tehuantepec Canal scheme again. Frankly, I don’t think most Americans give a damn about how well you folks get along with El Presidente. But would you buy stock in a canal company offered by a stable government if it didn’t sound all that stable?”
“Fantastic! I see what must be done to further our cause in the lowlands! Hell must be raised in the Tehauntepec peninsula. But how are we to get there? It’s even farther south than Oaxaca, and los federales will have blocked that avenue to us. No?”
“Have you ever watched the old shell game, Professor? We fed them a false clue about Oaxaca. By now they’ve figured we’re not really going there. We should be headed for Tampico. But if we shift the pea under a shell marked Laredo, then double back again—”
“Oh my God, it’s too confusing to follow.”
“That’s the idea. If you’re mixed up, how’d you like to be the officer in command of our pursuit? I don’t know if we can really make it that far south without leaving the rail lines. Irregulars have to play it by ear. But if we can get our people to those southern rain forests alive we’ll be able to raise holy Ned with one of El Presidente’s pet projects.”
The tall American stared out at the passing eroded hills for a time before adding, thoughtfully, “While we’re on the subject of grand strategy, there’s a few questions I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Really? I thought you’d more or less seized command. Not that I have any complaints, for the moment. I’m a politician, not a soldier.”
“That’s one of the things that’s bothering me. You keep calling this a revolution and mentioning a committee. Just who is this committee and how organized is this so-called revolution? So far, we seem to be taking on the whole government on our own. Is anyone out there doing anything to help us? Do we ever get supplies? Do you have any plans at all about when and where all these guerrillas get paid?”
The old man looked hurt and said, “I see. You think money is more important than the cause we serve.”
“I’m not sure I know what your cause is, Professor. I sort of fell into this, whatever, simply because the Rurales decided to shoot me for no reason at all and I didn’t like it. Up to now, it’s been great fun. But sooner or later a man has to start thinking of his future, and I’ve got less than a hundred dollars in my pants, counting what I stole from other people. Wait: Before you cloud up and rain all over me as a heartless mercenary, forget my expenses and let’s talk about all those other men and women back there. Sooner or later, even a crusader expects to be paid something for risking his ass. During our American Revolution men deserted Washington’s army because they hadn’t been paid on time in anything they could spend. An army has to have a quartermaster and a pay officer. The flags and uniforms are less important. So let’s talk about this revolutionary committee. Are they doing anything about organizing a real army, anywhere at all, or is this all a dangerous pipe dream?”
“That is a very nasty way to put things, Captain Gringo.”
“We have over a hundred men and women back there in a very nasty situation, Professor. It would be nice to think there was some point to it all.”
“Damn it! Of course there’s a point to it all! Mexico needs land reform, social justice, a controlled economy!”
“In other words, you and your secret pals are Marxist Utopians. All right. I can see that any change in this country would be for the better. So I’ll not quibble about the holes in the socialist argument. Just tell me how serious this mysterious committee is about them. Where the hell are they?”
“Most of our leaders are living in exile. The States. Other Latin-American countries. They support our cause with publications and advice for the most part. Funds, as you can imagine, are limited.”
Captain Gringo swore and said, “That’s just what I was afraid of! We’re fighting a war in Cloud Land, but the other side shoots real bullets!”
The professor looked as if he were ready to cry as he protested, “You mock our cause and I will not have it! I had much this same discussion with that Frenchman, Gaston, just before he deserted. It was your idea to join us. Nobody asked you to declare war on the Diaz regime!”
“You and Gaston both have a point. I didn’t declare war on Mexico. Mexico declared war on me. As to Gaston’s reasons for leaving, it’s obvious others will be thinking along the same lines before very long. It may not sound noble, but soldiers expect to be paid. Those men back there have women to think of. Some have kids. They’ve all given up what little they might have had for your cause and they’ve put their lives on the line for you. You owe them, Professor.”
“I know. After the revolution—”
“Screw your revolution! You said yourself it’s going to take at least twenty years to put your glorious reforms through! When do my men get a square meal, or a bar of fucking soap?”
“Your men?” The old man blazed. “Since when have these peones become your men, Yanqui?”
“Since they trusted me with their lives. I may be an outlaw and a foreigner, but I’m a professional officer and one who looks after his people. So you worry about theory and land reform and I’ll look after these poor idiots you’ve drawn into this mess.”
“See here. If you are not enthusiastic about our struggle you are free to leave, as Colonel Gaston did.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ve been thinking about it. One man and Rosalita could fade into the scenery pretty good with a hundred bucks and a head start.”
“I know. I don’t think Gaston was taken either. But tell me: If desertion is so tempting, what keeps you here with us?”
“Jesus, haven’t you grasped a thing I’ve said? You and those other poor bastards would be dead and gone by now if I’d left you to your own devices in Vegas Salinas!”
“I agree. We are both idealists. If you are not going to desert us in the next few minutes, would you tell me what I should do about something I see just down the track ahead? We seem to be rolling into another town.”
Captain Gringo swung himself out the side opening and stared at the dark mass of an approaching water tower for a long, thoughtful minute. Then he said, “Looks like another little tank town. Couple of shacks and a loading corral. The trackside wire’s tied in to that small building near the tower.”
“Do we stop or run on through?”
“We stop and take on water. There can’t be more than a handful of men, and this uniform should bluff ’em with the wires down behind us.”
The professor eased up on the steam and let the train coast in to a halt with the tender under the water tower. For a moment there was no sign of life. The sleepy little pueblo dozed in the afternoon sun. Silent, save for the rattlesnake buzzing of the trackside grasshoppers.
Then a door opened and a disheveled man came out, adjusting his pants. Captain Gringo called down, “Passenger Special for Tampico with a military escort. We need to top off our tanks. Do you want to see our dispatches?”
The stationmaster answered, “No matter, I can’t read. I don’t have a tower crew, either. I used to have a tower crew. Lazy good-for-nothing Indios. They ran away when we got reports about bandits along the line. Have you seen bandits, señores?”
“No. Heard about ’em. That’s why they assigned us to this special. We’ll pull the water down ourselves. Do you have a telegraph here?”
“We have a telegraph, but nobody to work it. We used to have a man who knew how to send telegraphs, but he got married and moved away. Everybody moves away. This town is dying since the mines closed down up the line.”
Captain Gringo thanked the man, and the man wandered back to his shack, apparently half asleep. As Robles and some other men pulled the sheet-iron spigot down to water the tender the stationmaster went inside and closed the door. Then he nodded grimly at a uniformed man inside and said, “It’s them, all right. I knew it the moment I saw all those unwashed peones grinning out the windows at me. Since when do peones ride in the first-class coaches of any train?”
The Rurale moved to the desk and began to send a message on the waiting telegraph set, saying, “You did well. You should be on the stage.”
“One acts as one must, Sergeant. The bastards had a dozen guns trained on me as I played pobrecito.”
Outside, as the water gushed into the tanks behind them, the professor was saying, “Nobody could be that stupid! Who ever heard of a stationmaster who can’t read and write?”
Captain Gringo grinned and said, “I know. This comic opera’s getting interesting. They probably don’t have a dozen guns in the whole town and know the pass through the mountains ahead are blocked.”
“We pull out, innocently, then cut the line as usual?”
“No. No trick works if you keep repeating it. They can’t send a wire back the way we came. So let’s let them wire Monterrey we’re headed their way. They’ll expect us about sundown and—”
“But Captain Gringo, you said we are not headed for Monterrey and the Sierra Oriental!”
“You’re learning, Professor. What you just witnessed is known in poker as a double bluff.”
“And do you win at poker often, Captain Gringo?”
“I do against greenhorns. They’ve gotten over their first confusion and are starting to play a cooler game. I’m hoping they don’t know I know about that abandoned siding up the line. We’re running out of chips.”
“And if they do think to search for us there?”
“Damn it, I just told you. The game is over. And guess who’s won?”
As the sun went down, a group of officers in far-off Mexico City stared morosely down at a railroad map. The map was spread on a plywood table under a hanging bulb and was dotted with colored pins in a bewildering constellation of red and blue. The blue pins stood for government positions and could be shifted at will by wired instructions. The red pins stood for reported positions of the professor’s rebel band, and made no sense at all to any of the men in the room.
The door opened and an officious noncom bellowed, “El Presidente!” as every man in the room snapped to attention. The white-haired man who swept in, ramrod stiff but oddly benign in appearance, said, “As you were, gentlemen. This is no time for ceremony.”
President Porfirio Diaz was that most dangerous of tyrants, a sincere and dedicated patriot convinced he knew what was right for his country. As a younger man the sleekly charming mestizo had fought hard and well for Mexico’s freedom. He was a gallant officer and gentleman who loved little children. His only blind spot was his firm conviction that everyone in Mexico, of any age, was his child, and that Father knew best. He was quite sincere in this conviction and was deeply hurt that some of his naughty children didn’t love him as they should. As a strict albeit loving parent, he believed naughty children should be shot. It was simple justice. He obeyed God, and lesser people obeyed him. Anyone who couldn’t grasp this was obviously and dangerously mad.
The dictator smiled pleasantly at the officer in charge and asked, “What is the present situation with those cockroach rebels, General?”
“Forgive me, El Presidente, but I do not understand what they are up to! As you see, they keep bouncing back and forth like a tennis ball. Our last report has them making for Tampico. We have blocked the tunnels through the Sierra Oriental.”
“I approve. But we must contain this situation soon, gentlemen. The damned foreign press has gotten wind of the story, and you know we have a stable government with a very contented populace. Professor Morales is already some sort of Robin Hood to the so-called liberal press in other parts of the world. The damned communist must be run to ground, and soon!”
“May I suggest discreet censorship, El Presidente?”
“You may not, General! What would you have them call our government, a dictatorship?”
“Forgive me, sir. Some thrice-accursed foreign papers already do.”
The old man shrugged and said, “Not the papers most respectable world leaders read. Not yet, at any rate. It’s essential this situation be swept discreetly under the rug as soon as possible. Aside from putting pretty pins in that map, what are you gentlemen doing about these bandits?”
“We’ve dispatched an armored train north, sir, and—”
“Recall that damned armored train! Better yet, shunt it on a siding and leave it there out of sight! Where did you leave your brains when you got up from your siesta this afternoon, General?”
“I did not take a siesta today, sir. As for my dispatching the fortified troop train, the rebels seem to have a machine gun.”
“So I have heard. And the international community has eyes! That rolling stock we got from Krupp is for display, here at the capital. I want them all to know Mexico is strong, not that she needs Krupp steel against her children!”
He caught the look that passed between two officers and quickly added, “Listen, boys. I, too, am an old soldier. I know what you’re up against and what a stupidly small guerrilla force can do against organized troops. I once led a stupidly small guerrilla force and we chopped the shit out of the French Foreign Legion. But now I am a politician, and you must trust me with the political angles. The damned French syndicate seems committed to building across near Panama City. I’ve got a British syndicate sparring with Washington about a canal across Tehuantepec, and it’s very delicate. The Americans are, as always, worried more about their hazy Monroe Doctrine than practicality, so they’ll probably send us more money just to twist Queen Victoria’s senile tail. On the other hand, those bastards in Nicaragua have the Vanderbilts and other Yanqui big shots clamoring for yet another canal route. Frankly, most engineers I’ve talked to seem to think Nicaragua has certain geological advantages. The card I keep playing is Mexico’s political stability. The crazy Nicaraguans have a revolution every Sunday. The Colombians who own Panama sit up in the Andes pretending they are Olympians and arguing obtuse theology while ignoring the bandits and wild Indians in the lowland jungles near Panama. Most of the international business community is convinced we have the most civilized country in Latin America, here. So this is how we must keep it. I want those guerrillas civilized quietly, against a wall in some remote pueblo.”
The general nodded and suggested, “If you would permit us to lock off every rail division north of the city and shut down all traffic for a day or so, sir—”
“And strand thousands of passengers, including foreign visitors, in the dry heat of the meseta? Surely you jest! We’re supposed to be in full control of this democracy, goddamn it! Everything must appear as normal as possible. I have just come from a press conference where I assured both the London Times and the Wall Street Journal that we were having a small local disturbance with some cattle rustlers!”
A junior officer took a deep breath and said, uncertainly, “May I make a suggestion, sir? Our uniformed federal troops do attract attention as the rebels run them around in circles. If we simply let the Rurales handle it, with a full sweep across country—”
“Are you trying to make corporal, Major? You know Los Rurales are a bunch of worthless butchers.”
“El Presidente said this, not I. But since the subject has been raised, sir, I have often wondered why we have Los Rurales policing the rural districts, since, as El Presidente just observed—”
“They are little more than bandits. I can see you are not a student of Machiavelli. Will you explain it to him, General, or am I the only politician in this room?”
The general grimaced in distaste and said, “We have irregulars in vaquero costume policing the open country for several reasons, Major. For one thing, countries who use their regular armies as police are known as military dictatorships, and Mexico, as you know, is a democracy.”
Diaz smiled thinly and added, “More important, Los Rurales attract our more truculent peones as recruits. Many of them are congenital killers who, in less well-run countries, would be out there anyway, as bandits. Our sainted Juarez never understood this. When we won our revolution he thought all the peones we’d armed and trained would simply go home to their corn fields and the simple pleasures of poverty. I take personal credit for seeing how their natural lust for blood and slaughter could be put to use. In time I hope to modify their roughshod methods, or at least to get rid of the more obvious lunatics in Los Rurales. For the moment they serve to keep the people in line and, more important, help our tax collectors instead of robbing them.”
He took out a pocket watch and glanced at it before adding, “We are not here to discuss Los Rurales, gentlemen. It’s those other bandits I am worried about. You say that Texas banker, Sinclair, has been mollified and sent happily on his way?”
The general nodded and said, “Yes, sir. He’s on his way home with an armed escort and a check to cover the loss of his private car. He says it was very white of you, whatever that means.”
“I know what it means. He wasn’t commenting on my Indian grandmother. What was that he mentioned about a gringo machine gunner riding with the professor?”
“Sinclair was hazy about this, Sir. He wasn’t clear whether the gringo was in command or simply being important. The bandits call this mysterious one Captain Gringo. He’s obviously an adventurer. Probably a wanted man who’s jumped the border from the North. I have run this Captain Gringo’s description through the files. He almost fits a U.S. Army deserter named Walker. But Walker has blond hair, and this Captain Gringo is a redhead. The only red-headed gringo who might have been in Chihuahua when this mess started was a short, fat Texan wanted for stealing cattle.”
“No matter. We shall learn his identity when we shoot him. Most gringos make foolish remarks about being American citizens about the time we put them against the wall.”
“I agree, sir. Do you wish us to inform the American authorities of his capture, after his execution, of course?”
“I certainly do not! Do you think we have nothing better to do with our time than to answer endless questions from the American Embassy?”
“But if the man is a wanted criminal, sir.”
“I don’t care who else may want him. I want the son-of-a-bitch in an unmarked grave and forgotten forever! It is well known and accepted that gringos have a habit of vanishing in our large, mysterious country. So let it be with Captain Gringo. I want him out of my hair, not in the newspapers. I have to go to a party at the German Embassy, now. I trust by the time the party’s over you’ll have taken care of the matter.”