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  Verdugo said, “Stop the train! One of those soldiers who came over to us just jumped off! He must have been just waiting for such a chance!”

  But as the engineer eased off on the throttle without being told, the American said, “Steady as she goes. Let the bastard walk his way out.”

  Verdugo asked, “Are you going to let him go, Captain?”

  “Why not? Poor bastard’s in the middle of nowhere and we’re well rid of him.”

  “But he will tell the other soldiers what happened! He will tell them about our having the machine gun and, now, this train!”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “Not for a while, he won’t. With the wires down and the tracks blown out behind us he’s going to find himself in one hell of a mess by morning. By the time anyone finds him, if they ever do, we’ll be long gone.”

  The professor called down, “But that double-crossing deserter knows where we are going, Captain Gringo! Once the federales know our plans—”

  “Relax. We’re leaving them plenty of trail to follow in any case. We’ll probably have other desertions along the way, and it’s a safe bet you have at least one or two government informers among your original crew.”

  “You suggest some of my followers are traitors? You dare? What makes you think such a terrible thing, Captain Gringo?”

  “West Point. It’s a military maxim there’s always a spy or two in any army. Good commanders don’t waste time fretting about it. They simply take it into account that the other side usually has a fair idea of any plans he might have made.”

  “But how can one hope to fool the enemy if one assumes he is aware of one’s every move?”

  “I didn’t say the federales were aware of our every move. I said they’ll probably learn of them sooner or later. It’s the later I’m depending on to keep them off base. They have the numbers and the strength. We have the sudden moves in our corner. You ever hear of a Confederate raider named Mosby, back in the sixties?”

  “No. I am afraid I am not a student of your Civil War.”

  “You ought to be, if you’re thinking of having one of your own down here, Professor. They called Mosby the Gray Ghost, and some say Jesse James learned his trade as a rebel guerrilla from him. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make about old Mosby is that there was nothing mysterious about his plans. The Secret Service knew what they were. The Gray Ghost was out to tear the shit out of the Union’s communication lines. He said so, right in the Confederate newspapers.”

  “We, too, have boastful generals. He was caught by your Union forces, of course?”

  “No. He was running around behind our lines ripping up tracks and cutting down wires weeks after Lee surrendered. With half the Union cavalry on his ass. They knew who he was and what he was up to, but he kept moving like spit on a hot stove and led them a merry chase to the very end. The men chasing him were pretty good, too. They’d been fighting a modern army for five years, not butchering unarmed villagers or shooting it out with barefoot bandits on their own terms.”

  “I thank you for your high regard for our forces of liberation. But what was that you said about spies among us?”

  “Oh, the North had oodles of spies in the Confederate Army and I’ll be surprised as hell if some of your men aren’t on El Presidente’s payroll. You were betrayed that time you jumped the border, remember? And we just stepped aside from a sweep toward Vegas Salinas with a seriously thought-out campaign. But let’s not worry about the inevitable spies in any group this size, Professor. Verdugo, how many of those brakemen back there did you have to shoot?”

  “Only one, Captain Gringo. He was very argumentative. The others have agreed to behave themselves.”

  “Good. You’d better go back and make sure they only work the brakes when we slow down for water in a few minutes. Tell the others to watch for any paper dropped from the cars as we pull out of Agua Moreno, too. We don’t want a firefight every time we stop if we can avoid it.”

  When Verdugo left, the professor said, “I wish you’d discussed this spy matter with me privately, Captain Gringo. Verdugo is a good lad, but not the most discreet of my followers. He is certain to repeat what you just said.”

  “I hope so. I think I see a light ahead. Could we be getting to Agua Moreno, Señor Engineer?”

  The older man sounded the whistle and eased off on the throttle as he said, “Yes. I assume you want us to follow the usual routine?”

  “Maybe. What is your usual routine? If you have a woman or a card game in mind, forget ’em.”

  “I usually stay here in the cabin while they water the tender. One of the brakemen should walk the length of the train, checking for hot boxes under the cars.”

  “This time we’ll have to assume you’re chancing burned-out bearings because you’ve been running light. Do the Rurales usually question you about your orders?”

  “Sometimes some of them are down by the tracks, killing time. They are not interested in my dispatches. I don’t think they can read.”

  The professor said, “Perhaps I should go along the train and make certain everyone knows what they are to do.”

  But the American said, “No. Jumping from car to car is more dangerous than anything else I can think of going wrong. The people in those cattle cars have their instructions to keep quiet and play it by ear. There’s nothing we can add at this point. With luck, any questions will be asked up at this end of the train.”

  They were rolling in at a crawl now, and Captain Gringo leaned out the side for a better view as the rails clicked under his heels. The little town, like so many in Mexico, seemed more alive in the guttering orange illumination of hanging lanterns than it might have by day. He could see the black outline of the water tower near the loading platform under the open shed roof, and a yard worker was waving a yellow bulls-eye lantern at them. As they rolled into the siding he could see men, women and children on the platform, attracted by a chance to see such little action as a passing freight might offer. A man in the hated uniform and big sombrero of Los Rurales stood near the end of the platform, eating a tamale wrapped in newspaper. The American hoped none of the many guerrillas in the dark cars to his rear would be tempted. The federal policeman probably had it coming, but there were too many innocents in the way.

  They passed the Rurale and hissed to a stop under the water tower’s sheet-metal spout. A workman leaped from the tower platform to the top of the tender and began to unscrew the big cap of the train’s tank, calling down, “Hey, you are running late, Vargas. The line is down and we thought the bandits got you this time!”

  The engineer called back, “We stopped to pick up these federales and some refugees. Hurry with that water, will you? I know we’re late and they’ll have my ass for it in Durango.”

  The tower man began running water into the nearly empty tank with some good-natured insults they could hardly hear above the gushing stream of boiler water. Captain Gringo had just decided the engineer was doing just fine when the Rurale strolled up to the ladder of the cabin and called out, “What’s going on, soldier? Who are all those people back in the cattle cars?”

  Captain Gringo called down, “We’re moving everyone out of Vegas Salinas. You know about the action up the line.”

  “Vegas Salinas? I thought that was the rebels’ stronghold!”

  “That’s what we heard, too. That’s why we’re moving these probrecitos out of there. Hey, where’d you get that tamale? It smells good.”

  “Listen, you’d better talk to my chief about this. The wire is down and, damn it, some of those peones back in the other cars have arms!”

  “Do you have wax in your ears, cop? I asked where I could get a fucking tamale!”

  “Hey, don’t get huffy, I’m just doing my job!”

  “I spit on your job! What do you mean by questioning the Army, you unwashed watcher of pigs and peones? You think my men and I don’t know our job? Of course we have armed guards in civilian dress among the others back there. Don’t you kn
ow about our irregulars?”

  “Irregulars?”

  “To patrol the desert, you moron! How do you think we rounded those suspicious villagers up for questioning? By marching in behind a brass band?”

  “Ahah! To catch the coyote, one wears the skin of the sheep, eh? I hadn’t heard of this new policy. I must admit some of those men peering out through the slats look like real desperados.”

  “What would you have them look like, schoolboys? About that tamale, do I have time to get one before we water up?”

  “I doubt it. The old woman who sells them is down at the other end of town. Listen, I’d better get my corporal. He’s going to want to know about this new business of federales in civilian outfits.”

  Captain Gringo shrugged, knowing the tank was almost loaded, and said, “Be quick about it, then. We haven’t got all night.”

  The Rurale turned and started to walk away. He was just about across the platform when a shot rang out and the sweat-stained back of his shirt blossomed red!

  As the Rurale pitched forward on his face, Captain Gringo shoved the engineer aside with a curse and opened the steam throttle wide. The metal platform vibrated under them as the drivers spun on tortured rails for what seemed forever. Then the locomotive lurched forward in a scream of scorched steel, tearing the water spout from the tower and swamping both the professor and the outraged tower crewman, who began to rage, “Are you crazy? We’re still hooked up!”

  Then the dripping-wet professor shoved a gun muzzle in his nose and snapped, “Jump or die!”

  The man jumped. The professor was learning. The young fireman, who’d been watching for such a chance, dove out the other side to the dark tracks on the train’s left. The old man scrambled over the wet coal to fire, but the American snapped, “Let it go!” not wanting to fill the night with even more gunfire. He stayed at the throttle until they were clear of the siding and back on the main line. Then he cut the steam, hit the air brakes, and told the engineer, “This is where you get off, Vargas.”

  The engineer nodded, swung out over the slowing ballast, and said, “Good luck. It’s been most interesting. I take it I’m to return to Agua Moreno alive?”

  “Hit running, head for town, and don’t look back.”

  As the engineer leaped away into the blackness, Captain Gringo slid the locked wheels to a screaming stop and jumped after him as the bewildered professor called out, “What are you doing?”

  “Grab the throttle and wait for my signal,” the American called as he hit the ground, staggered, and ran for the nearest telegraph pole. He shinnied up it, tearing his pants on a sliver as he made his way to the crossbar, hooked his left arm over it, and drew his pistol again with the right. He placed the muzzle against a glass insulator, turned his face away, and pulled the trigger.

  The insulator exploded into flying shards, grounding the wire. He repeated on the remaining three wires, then slid down the pole and ran for the stalled locomotive, shouting, “Open the throttle!”

  The grab irons were moving once more as he swung aboard, shoved the old man from the throttle, and opened it wider, saying, “What were you waiting for?”

  “You, you maniac! What was all that about?”

  “Knocking out the wire to the south. With luck they haven’t had time back there to figure out what happened, let alone put it on the line. If I ever find out who shot that Rurale—”

  “I agree the fool should be court-martialed, of course.”

  “You court-martial him! I’m going to blow his head off! There were kids back there in the line of fire!”

  Verdugo dropped in on them from the catwalk, calling out, “Two of our men jumped off the train back there! Lopez and Sanchez! I don’t understand it!”

  Captain Gringo snapped, “I do. Which one of them fired the shot?”

  “Oh, that was Sanchez. I told him you’d be annoyed, Captain.”

  “That means Lopez was the spy, then. We’re well rid of them both.”

  The professor gasped, “Not Lopez! He has been with me almost from the beginning! Have you forgotten he was one of us when we were taken by your Army in the States?”

  “I know which one Lopez was. I remember you were betrayed somehow after I let you all go that time, too! Yeah, we live and learn, Professor. It’s a cruel world, but the other side just lost a marked card when the bastard decided to quit while he was ahead.”

  “What about Sanchez? Won’t they shoot him?”

  “Sure, after they make him talk. Between the two of them, they’ll eventually have headquarters convinced we’re making for Oaxaca.”

  “But I thought you said we were going to Oaxaca!”

  Captain Gringo laughed and said, “I know what I said. But tell me: Did you really think I was that stupid?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dawn found the captured train highballing through the State of Durango in a more organized condition, although the same could hardly be said for Durango and points north. The locomotive was a 4-6-4 Baldwin made in Philadelphia in the early eighties. It was a rugged mass of rolling stock and easy enough to operate, so Captain Gringo had taught the professor and a trio of the brighter guerrillas how to act as engineer and fireman. They worked in two-man shifts, two hours at a time. The American knew the danger of night hypnosis and, once the novelty wears off, driving a locomotive down a straight track in total darkness is monotonous to say the least. The professor had been worried when the American doused the headlight and, in truth, there was danger they’d barrel into something on the track as they ran blacked out. But the danger of announcing their approach with a headlight that could be seen for miles was greater, and, as he kept telling the less professional rebel leader, there’s no way a soldier can avoid all dangers, if he aims to soldier at all. The so-called art of war consists for the most part of choosing between God-awful risks and offering the other side as difficult a target as possible.

  As they rolled, the guerrillas made their cattle cars more comfortable by shoveling the dried dung out the open doorways and spreading bedrolls on the evil-smelling planks. Captain Gringo ordered a guard mount, and the men took turns riding up on the brakemen’s platforms with rifles ready and dire warnings about falling asleep. He appointed a sergeant of the guard to walk the catwalk and keep him posted every fifteen minutes.

  The locomotive had no condenser. Exhausted steam was vented up the smokestack, creating a forced draft that kept the boiler breathing fire and gulping water at an awesome rate. The American engineers who’d built the Mexican railroads had gotten around this problem as they’d done in the North by placing water towers every fifty miles or so. Many of the “towns” on western U.S. or Mexican maps were little more than jerkwater stops with perhaps a coal tipple and some occasionally used loading platform or cattle chutes. Some of the water stops were uninhabited. The tower kept filled by a self-operating and ingenious Yankee windmill. Other stops, like Agua Moreno, were manned by section crews and had a telegraph shack. In either case, whenever they stopped for water they knocked out the north-and southbound wires.

  In the wan light of morning on a lonely stretch of track they came to one of the robot water towers and took advantage of it. As they topped off the tender’s tank, Captain Gringo got down from the cabin to tidy things up completely. He crunched back along the trackside ballast, gathering a work detail to uncouple the caboose, and he showed them where he wanted eight crowbars and some honest sweat.

  Rosalita joined him as he supervised the sabotage, plastering herself against him and sobbing that she was lonely and afraid. He patted her absently, saying, “All right, muchachos. Put your backs into it and heave!”

  Rosalita asked what they were doing and he said, “They’re supposed to be rolling the son-of-a-bitch car on its side to block both tracks.” Then he disengaged himself from her and stepped over to throw his own weight against the rocking caboose, getting in time with his men as he dug in his heels and grunted, “Now, goddamn your eyes!”

  The
car almost went, rocked back to threaten them with mangled obliteration, then slowly swayed the other way and, this time, kept going to land with a splintering crash on its far side. The men laughed and the girl sighed, “Oh, my toro!”

  He said, “Yeah. Now I want the machine gun carried up front and mounted atop the tender. You two, Pedro and Jose, see to the gun. The rest of you come with me. The wires are down, but we still have to do something about that water tower.”

  A man grinned, “Can’t we dynamite it?” and the American shook his head, explaining, “We save explosives for real demolition. I think if we tie a cable to one of the wooden tower legs and hitch it around the coupler of that last car—”

  “Ay, que Chihuahua! You are very amusing to serve under, Captain Gringo.”

  “Since you catch on quickly, I’m leaving it to you, Pablo. Make sure you hook up to the northwest leg, farthest from the tracks. I want to bring it down on the roadbed if possible.”

  “You want the windmill down too, no?”

  “No. Bust off the governor and leave the blades spinning. With no head of water to pump against, it should suck the well half dry and leave a lovely muddy mess for the repair crews when and if.”

  With Rosalita at his side, the tall American moved up the cars to where the captive brakemen were sharing coffee with their guards. He said, “I’m dropping you boys off here with a sack of corn and some beans. You’d better stand clear of the tower until after we pull it down on our way out. After that you’ll be all right for the day or so I figure you’ll have to wait.”

  One of them protested, “We’ll be stranded out here alone for a month! You have completely wrecked the line behind you and if you do the same to the south … Jesus!”

  Another, younger crewman asked, “Can’t we join you guys? They don’t pay us much and I have no great love for the stupid government of this country.”