Renegade Read online

  “Bah! He let them roll right past him. Then he lost more than half of his command before losing contact. I’m going to bust his ass. His men will expect me to. It’s a matter of morale.”

  The other officers exchanged glances. Then a bolder one said, “Martinez is most popular with his men. Perhaps if we asked El Presidente—”

  “You want me to wake him up at this hour to ask him how to discipline a man who has botched his assignment? Mother of God! I am surrounded by boobs and idiots. Martinez is to be relieved, and I’ll hear no more of it. The subject under discussion is that fucking armored train. If any of you were this mad Captain Gringo, where would you be headed with it this instant?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then someone sighed and said, “Since we agree those rebels are led by a madman, his plans present us with a problem. He was last spotted running directly toward us, skimming the foothills of the Sierra Oriental to his left. He could be pulled off on any of a hundred sidings. He could have reversed direction and be heading back to the untamed country he came out of. He could be trying to get over the mountains to the coastal jungles. He could be coming right at us with those Hotchkiss guns. He could be doing anything!”

  The general grimaced, and said, “Let’s consider the worst for us. If he were to get within the Federal District before dawn we’d be in a hell of a mess. So let’s assume hat’s his plan. We can live with any other.”

  A junior officer piped up, “If I were Captain Gringo, sir, I’d try to get over the mountains. It would be suicide o run that trainload of bandits right into the outskirts of Mexico City!”

  “I know that and you know that, Lieutenant, but does he know that, or does he care? The man’s a maniac!”

  “But General, he only has light artillery and can’t really do anything important, stuck on the tracks. If we simply dig in and wait for him, with heavier guns—”

  “You don’t think the rumble of cannon fire, heard in the capital by foreign visitors and embassies, is important damage? My God, I predict you’ll retire as a private! We’re wasting time talking about it. I want a full division sent north. Well out of earshot of the city.”

  A major asked, “May I suggest we do something about the mountain passes, too, sir?”

  “I piss in the mountain passes! I don’t care where those bandits are going as long as it’s not here! We don’t have the manpower to block off every possible escape route. We do have to keep the fighting well away from where any foreign journalist can hear of it.”

  “But if they reach the lowland jungles, sir.”

  “I piss in the lowland jungles, too! What are they going to do down by the coast, eat bananas and write letters to the editor? The important thing, right now, is to get them the hell away from Mexico City! Los Rurales can round them up at leisure once we secure the important targets. What are you all waiting for? Do I have to draw pictures for you?”

  Meanwhile, aboard the armored train, they’d found a siding and turned it around, so they were running properly with the locomotive to the rear and the steel glacis of the armored end leading the way. Just where he was leading them wasn’t too clear at the moment to Captain Gringo. They were moving slowly, blacked out and surrounded by darkness. His map said there was a tunnel ahead. It ran through the spine of the Sierra Madre Oriental. Beyond the mountains the country dropped to the jungle-covered Gulf Plains and the track ahead ran to Vera Cruz. If anyone in headquarters had a map, they knew this, too.

  The sky was beginning to get lighter ahead. He could see the jagged outline of the great sawtooth range’s spine, perhaps twenty miles away. As the stars started to wink out in the dawn sky he pulled the signal line and stopped the train. Then he crawled stiffly down to stand by trackside. It was chill and quiet, save for the distant protest of a sleepy bird. He’d stopped far from anything, on a lonely stretch of the east-to-west line. He lit a cigar and waited as the professor and others climbed out and crunched over to, join him. The professor asked, “What is wrong? Why have we stopped here?”

  Captain Gringo said, “End of the line. We have to leg it the rest of the way.”

  “What, and abandon this train? For God’s sake, why?”

  “Simple. Our luck should be running out along these tracks. There’s a tunnel coming up. One squad of Rurales could bottle us in there, and that would be that.”

  “How do you know this? I see no tunnel. We are still at least an hour from any mountains!”

  “Professor, you don’t wait until you’re ambushed to find out if anyone is laying for you. You figure out where they could ambush you and then you go around it.”

  “On foot, abandoning everything, just on a hunch?”

  “A guy named Geronimo taught me a lot about hunches a while back. One Apache worth his salt can seal off a tunnel just by rolling rocks down on it. Your Rurales come in sets, and play as rough as any Apache. We can’t press our luck any farther by rail. So welcome to the infantry.”

  There was a murmur of discussion and someone said, “I have too much for my mujer and me to carry on foot. I vote we keep the train.”

  Another seconded the motion. The professor said, “It’s too far. Sunrise will catch us in the open on foot.”

  “I wasn’t planning on following the track, Professor. We can make the foothills easy in the darkness left and hole up in the brush until it’s safe to travel on through the ridges.”

  “Over the High Sierra, walking all that way?”

  “Cortez made it, and he didn’t even know where he was going. Mountains are natural guerrilla terrain, Professor. We have a better than even chance my way. My plan is to fill up the fire box and boiler, tie down the throttle, and let this train tear-ass back the way we just came, empty. With luck it should roll west at least thirty or forty miles before it hits something solid enough to wreck it. They’d throw a circle around the wreck and move in careful and by that time—”

  “Your plan is not my plan, and I am in command, here.”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “All right. Let’s hear it, if you have a better one.”

  “My decision is to keep this train and its heavy guns for the revolution.”

  “Swell. Who do you have who knows how to load and fire a Hotchkiss and, more important, where do you think you’re going?”

  “You will man the guns, naturally. Our destination is Vera Cruz.”

  “No to both ideas. I’m not sticking my head into a blind tunnel with or without a gun, and you’ll never make the coast with this rig. I’m not going to argue about it. We don’t have time. It’s been nice knowing you, Professor.”

  He saw most of the others were in earshot, now. So he called out, “I’m headed into the Sierra on foot. Anybody coming with me?”

  The two girls exchanged glances and Flo said, “I’m with numbers. If everybody votes to follow you, I suppose I’ll have to walk. If they don’t, I’m for traveling the easy way.”

  Robles nudged his woman and stepped forward, saying, “I am with this crazy gringo. He’s been right so far.”

  There were a few more, a very few more, who nodded in agreement. The professor blustered, “We do not need either of you to run the locomotive.”

  Captain Gringo said, “That’s for sure. I figure you’ll get maybe another forty miles at the most.” Then he said, “All right. Robles, let’s get my machine gun and—”

  But the professor snapped, “The revolution needs the machine gun. I shall not shoot you as a deserter, in view of your past services to our cause. But the heavy weapons stay with those of us who wish to continue in the service of the cause.”

  The tall American considered pushing it. Then he shrugged. The gun was heavy and there wasn’t much ammunition for it left in any case. He caught Rosalita’s eye and asked, “You coming, kitten?”

  The little mestizo lowered her eyes and said, “I don’t know. Flo has been so good to me and perhaps we should stick together.”

  He didn’t argue. It was the first time a lesbi
an had stolen a girl from him, and he didn’t think he liked it much, but they were both getting to be excess weight for a man on the run. So he didn’t point out that Flo must have been aware her American passport made her the only one of them the Rurales wouldn’t shoot without further discussion. He didn’t warn Flo she was probably overconfident about documentation in a country where not many people could read, either.

  He turned on his heel and started walking. Behind him, he could hear the footsteps of the half-dozen men and their women who’d thrown in with him. He didn’t look back as a taunting voice called, “See you in Vera Cruz, coward!”

  Robles left his mujer, carrying his pack, and trotted forward to fall in beside Captain Gringo, asking with a boyish smile, “Are we really going to Vera Cruz, señor?”

  Captain Gringo said, “Not hardly. First we put as much distance as we can between ourselves and those tracks. Then if it’s still dark enough we cut west and look for a place to hide out all day.”

  “West, Captain Gringo? I thought you said we were walking over the Sierra, to the east.”

  “We are, eventually. Those other poor bastards are sure to tell them which way we said we were going. So we’d better go someplace else.”

  “I comprehend! You think Los Rurales will catch up with them and make them talk!”

  “I don’t think it, Robles. I know it. But a soldier’s only responsible for his followers as long as they follow him.”

  “I agree. This is simple justice. Listen! They are pulling out on the train again. Moving east as you told them not to.”

  “I know. A professional soldier doesn’t worry about what other commanders are doing, either. He looks after his own, and that’s all he can do. Forget you ever knew them, Robles. We have enough on our own plate and I wish this brush was a bit higher.”

  He turned his head to yell back, “Let’s move it out, troops. That goddamned sunrise isn’t waiting for us!”

  They staggered on through the semi-arid wasteland as he kept a wary eye on the ever-brighter skyline. He said, absently, “There should be more cultivation this close to the capital. I thought the Valley of Mexico was fertile, Robles.”

  Robles said, “Most of it is. This is salty earth we travel over. I know this by the vegetation. We call it salt-bush. You see, there is no drainage from the meseta to the sea, and in the low places, where it should be marshy, the salt accumulates over the years.”

  Off in the distance there was a low rumble that sounded like thunder. But the sky was clear and the first explosions were followed by the tinfoil crackle of distant small-arms fire. Robles crossed himself and murmured, “Mother of God!”

  Captain Gringo grimaced and said, “Yeah. Frankly, I thought they’d last a little longer.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  In the presidential palace the leader of a stable government was having breakfast on the terrace when a uniformed aide came in to report, “It is over, El Presidente! Those bandits were trapped by Los Rurales in the Orientals just a few hours ago. There were no survivors.”

  President Diaz dabbed his lips and smiled at the plump, attractive redhead seated across the table from him before remarking, dryly, “There seldom are. Please spare us the details over breakfast.”

  He saw the aide was hesitating and asked, pleasantly, “Was there something else, Colonel?”

  “Uh, it is about Major Martinez, sir. There has been some discussion of his being punished for putting up what many officers say was a very good fight against serious odds.”

  “Major Martinez? A good fight? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is punishing this mysterious Martinez?”

  “The general, sir. Martinez took serious casualties chasing the rebels with small arms against those cannon. Some of the junior officers seem to feel it’s unjust to court-martial him. The major is most popular with his men and—”

  “For God’s sake, do you expect me to intervene for a junior against a senior officer? If the general says he is to be court-martialed, he must be court-martialed. When and where is the trial to be held?”

  “As soon as we recontact Martinez and his command, sir. When last heard from the major was still in hot pursuit of the bandits and, as you know, the wires to the north are a mess.”

  “But you just told me the runaway trainload of bandits was caught.”

  “They were, sir. But by Los Rurales, not the Army. Some of our Army units are still out in the field, unaware the search has ended. Forgive me, but there is much confusion because of the torn-up communications.”

  Diaz shrugged and said, “I, too, have ridden at the head of troops during troubled times. We were still shooting Imperiales for weeks after Juarez had proclaimed victory, back in the sixties. I assume dispatch riders have been sent out to gather in our scattered flocks?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Then let the general tidy up as he sees fit. I have a press conference scheduled later this morning. As long as I can assure the outside world that this slight disturbance has been taken care of, the picking of nits is not my problem.”

  He took a sip of orange juice before he added, “By the way, I trust no foreigners were injured in all this nonsense?”

  The aide looked unhappy and said, “An American passport was found in the belongings of the executed bandits, sir. We were unable to decide which of the dead women it might have belonged to.”

  The President saw the stricken look of his female companion and quickly said, “Don’t talk like that. Our brave rural police are not in the habit of shooting women. I would like to think the bandits took that passport from some unfortunate American they doubtless buried in the desert. The passport is to be destroyed and forgotten. This entire distressing incident is to be written off as a closed case.”

  Meanwhile, to the north, Captain Gringo and his handful of surviving followers were hiding in a brushy dry wash, hoping it wouldn’t get hotter but all too aware it would. The American had posted a man to watch from the rim of the wash as he sat in the shade with Robles and the others. The sand they sat on was dry as mummy dust and mixed with glittering salt crystals. It was going to be a rough day no matter what happened next.

  To pass the time, Robles had told the story of his life – a short, banal tale all too many young Mexicans could have told about taking to banditry as an alternative to starvation. His woman, a vapidly pretty girl he called Lolita, had run away from the great house she’d served as a maid because the master’s son tended to beat pretty serving girls as well as rape them. Some of the others told similar tales. The only one who had no story to tell was a young Chihuahua Indian they called Pepe. Pepe merely squatted silently and scowled at distant ghosts. It was hard to tell if he was feebleminded or simply shy. To Captain Gringo he looked exactly like an Apache who’d somehow wound up in the white cottons and serape of a Mexican peon.

  In time Captain Gringo saw he was expected to relate his own sad tale. So he told it bluntly, in as few words as possible. They seemed to think he’d gotten a raw deal.

  Lolita said, “I understand why you ran away, Captain Gringo. But I am confused about your devotion to our cause. You are not Mexican. Yet you fight for us like the tiger. Are there other socialists in your country?”

  He grimaced and said, “My parents thought the Democrats were radical enough. I voted Republican in the last election. I used to say Grace, too. Right now I’m not too pleased with political labels. When you get down to it, whoever is in power tends to be a bastard.”

  “Ah, then you are an anarchist?”

  “I’m not anything, Lolita. I’m a man on the run with no time for political theories. Isms are something to jaw about in the safety of a gentleman’s club or perhaps a workingman’s saloon. Out here in the real world, you have to think for yourself. Nothing said by Karl-Marx or even the Pope apply to us this morning.”

  Robles smiled gently and said, “You speak like a cynic, Captain Gringo. But, meaning no disrespect, you are a gentleman of the old school.”


  “Bite your tongue.”

  “I mean it. You could have run away like Colonel Gaston long before this. I, too, considered deserting more than once as I watched the professor and saw he was a probrecito puffed up with dreams and self-importance. You know how others kept dropping off that train to run for cover as we traveled south. You know they were the smart ones, too.”

  “Maybe. I notice you and these other guys hung on until the poor old fool gave us an honorable excuse to leave.”

  “Honor is the word I was groping for, Captain Gringo. It is a most foolish word. It has gotten me in a lot of trouble. Yet it must be important to us all. When the old man gave us the excuse to leave him to his fate I was so happy I almost shit. I know you were relieved, too. It was obvious from the first a small party had a better chance of hiding out. Yet if he had been reasonable, all of us would still be with him, and probably dead by now. How does one account for such foolishness?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and didn’t answer.

  Pepe, the Indian, suddenly surprised them all by opening his mouth to growl, “I spit on your honor. It is a Spanish invention in the first place and most rare in the second. I follow Captain Gringo because he knows what he is doing. If we were still with the others they would not be dead. They are dead because they were soft and foolish. We are alive because this man we follow is tough and smart. You mestizos talk too much. Let Captain Gringo think about his next move. Don’t pester him with foolish talk about your uninteresting points of view.”

  Captain Gringo said, “It’s all right, Pepe. We’re not going anywhere and, frankly, I don’t have too many ideas right now. I guess when it’s dark we’ll have to start thinking about getting over those mountains to the east. Any of you guys ever been over the Orientals?”

  There was an awkward silence. Then a man called Gordo, meaning “Fats,” said, “I spoke to a man from the lowlands, once. He crossed the sierra with a burro. He said the Orientals are not as high as the mountains to the west, but they are high enough. The air is cold and thin for to breathe. There is timber in the gullies. The ridges are bare and rocky like the desert, but much colder. Sometimes it snows there, even in the summertime. He said he coughed blood for a week after coming over the Orientals.”