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  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.”

  Chapter Seven

  They rode slowly into the mountains by moonlight, following the ridgeways and Gaston, who said he knew the way. Captain Gringo could only hope he did. He could tell by the stars overhead that they were trending east, but the Frenchman led them a zigzag course through the brushy hills and steep-walled blind canyons, and the American, bringing up the rear with the two young Mexicans between them, worried more about their flanks than he did the stars. As an old Indian fighter, he knew Gaston had played tag with them too. You rode the high country at night if you wanted to make it tough for ambushers. Scouting Indians kept to the heights, too, watching for anyone dumb enough to be camped by water and a fire down in
the valleys. At night the skyline didn’t betray a rider to distant eyes. There was always the chance of a head-on encounter with Indians as you rode along a ridge, but at worse it evened the odds. Gaston, he saw, set a slow, silent pace, walking his pony on point no faster than its eyes were good for in the darkness. The two kids had chattered like magpies when they started out. He’d explained about noise on the trail in Indian country and it was nice to see that they caught on fast. People new to the game were usually killed in the first two weeks, up north in Apache country. The bromide about old soldiers never dying was pretty true. Most soldiers in any kind of action die while they’re still wet behind the ears. He’d found that a trooper who could last two weeks started to become immortal. A human being is one of the hardest animals to kill once it learns a few basic rules. And the little Frenchman had been at this for nearly thirty years.

  Behind him, the machine gun rode with the other supplies on the two packhorses he led. If they were jumped, his plan was to cut at least one pack pony loose as they headed for cover. Sometimes Indians settled for a pony and its pack instead of pushing the fight to a showdown against armed white men. The reason Indians gave so much trouble was that like old soldiers, they didn’t die if they could help it. The game was not to get yourself killed, but to kill the other motherfucker. According to Gaston, the Yaqui were sort of a Mexican version of Apache, albeit speaking another lingo, related to ancient Aztec. Some people said they were unreconstructed Aztec, hiding out in the mountains and still mad at anyone who spoke Spanish. He hoped they were wrong. Apache were bad enough, but at least Apache had the common sense of men simply out for loot and a little blood sport. An Indian who fought like an Apache and took the whole thing seriously would be a bitch to run into.