Renegade Page 7

  They came to a sharp hairpin fold of the ridge they were on, and Gaston reined in. He called back, “Regardez! The sky is growing light to the east. It is time to think of getting ourselves off the skyline, hein?”

  Captain Gringo called back, “You want to hole up for the day in this hollow to our left?”

  “I don’t want to, but I think we’ll be hard pressed to find anything better around here. We’ll be on the shady side of this mountain through the day. The brush promises to hide us from view to the northwest, and we can take turns as lookout, up here on the heights. The slope to the south is clear, burned dry by the sun. Not the Grand Hotel, but it shall have to do.”

  Captain Gringo agreed. They dismounted and led the ponies down the steep slope to where the ground sloped at a gentler angle, but tied them to brush more than three quarters of the way up from the wooded valley floor below. The boy, Tico, observed, “There may be water down there. Do you want me to see?”

  Gaston snapped, “You and your sister will stay right here. Merde alors! We’ll know soon enough if Yaqui come to this valley for water or game. If anyone here even suggests a fire I shall shoot them. I am most distressed by traveling with idiots in Yaqui country!”

  Captain Gringo found a flat-rock outcrop and suggested that the two younger members of the party sit on it and keep quiet while he and Gaston unloaded the ponies and built the usual barricade facing downhill. Gaston noticed that the American fell to the task without comment or suggestion and said, “Ah, m’sieu has holed up in Indian country before, hein?”

  The American braced the machine gun behind a pack saddle and started putting the belt in place before he answered, “Yeah. I don’t think anyone’s living down there in those trees. We’re not too deep in the mountains, and even Indian kids cry some at night. If I’m wrong, this Maxim may surprise hell out of ’em. I think you’re right about the slope behind us: no cover and a long, steep climb into even a six-gun. You want me to take the first shift up there as lookout?”

  “I will move up as soon as it’s light enough to see anything. The boy is useless as a lookout, but I will be able to see both ways, so you can catch the forty winks and then relieve me about ten p.m. Agreed?”

  “Right. Tico? You want to do something useful?”

  The young Mexican was up like an eager shot, smiling, “What is it, Captain Gringo?”

  “I’d like you to take a blanket and rub down the horses. Then see they have no stones caught in their hooves. We can’t let them wander, so use those nosebags we brought and give them some water and oats. Make sure you give them the water first.”

  “Of course, Captain Gringo! I am not a stupid person! I know better than to bloat a horse.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m counting on you to take care of them for us. They have to last us to Chihuahua. When you’re finished, take one sip, only one, from your canteen. I know you may be feeling hungry, but the food has to last to Chihuahua, too. On the trail, it’s better to go hungry the first day. It shrinks your stomach to where you can nurse your supplies a lot longer.”

  “You learned this in the great American Army, no?”

  “No. I learned if the hard way. Most soldiers carry too many supplies at first and then run out of them before Apaches are even starting to feel the pinch. I’ll take this canteen over there to your sister. You join us with yours when you’ve finished here.”

  As Tico started with the horses, the American moved upslope to where Rosalita sat on the rock. Gaston followed, then kept on going and moved up to the ridge above with his stolen rifle. Rosalita said, “I heard. I do not wish a drink of water. Do you think we will be killed by Indians?”

  He sat beside her and said, “No. We’re just being careful.”

  “It was good of you to put my brother to work. He wants so to help, but he is such a boy.”

  “He’s all right. Don’t the two of you have any other family?”

  “No. My mother died when I was born. Tico is seventeen and I am sixteen.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Rurales,” she answered, bleakly. She didn’t have to explain further, and they both knew it.

  The American said, “We’ll be riding again tomorrow night. You’d better try and get some sleep while it’s still cool.”

  She said, “I don’t think I shall ever sleep again. My mind is filled with shame and horror. I know, as a fallen woman, I am doomed to a life of shame and sin, but I don’t think I can be a puta. I know one must eat, but to be a puta, and have the men look at me that way—”

  “Listen, Rosalita, I know how you feel, right now. But your brother loves and respects you. The Frenchman and I respect you and wish to be your friend. In Chihuahua—.”

  “Which one of you are going to have me first?”

  “Have you? Don’t be ridiculous, Rosalita. Gaston and I are not that sort of men, and even if we were, your brother is here to protect you.”

  “Against two grown men? You do not have to lie to me, Captain Gringo. I know how men treat fallen women. I am prepared. This time I shall not carry on so. Captain Torture said he only beat me because I kept crying. The nasty things he did to me were bad enough, but the beating hurt more.”

  “Listen to me, damn it! I know what that animal did, but as far as I’m concerned you are still a good girl. You didn’t give yourself to him willingly. Even St. Ursula was raped, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, but St. Ursula died when those Huns raped her and the others. I know I should kill myself if I don’t wish to become a puta, but I am afraid to die. When he said he’d kill me— Oh God, I let him! I mean, he never could have gotten it in me if only I’d had the strength of will to resist to the death and—”

  “It was still force, and against your will. I don’t’ think you should be telling me too much about it, either.”

  “Why? Does it arouse you?”

  “God, no! I just think, later, you’ll be more comfortable if you keep the details to yourself.”

  “The priest told me not to discuss it with anyone, too. Do you think I am going mad? For some reason I want to tell someone about it!”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy. But why not wait until we get to Chihuahua and confess to some other priests until you get it out of your system?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think a priest counts. They really know nothing of such matters, if they are good priests. Tell me, have you ever had a woman?”

  “Well—”

  “I thought so. All men except priests know about these matters. So you like to do it to a woman the way he did?”

  “Not exactly, unless she likes it that way.”

  “And if she does?”

  “Well, there’s such a thing as courtesy. Frankly, I’m a rather old-fashioned type. Let’s drop it, huh?”

  “I have heard the older women talking about such matters. From the way they giggled, I always thought it was supposed to be enjoyable, even if it is a sin.”

  “Yeah. Well, maybe after you get married—”

  “Bah. What man would marry me, now?”

  “Don’t be silly, Rosalita. You’re very pretty, and if only you’d shut up about what’s happened—”

  “I would have to tell any boy who courted me, and then he would call me a fallen woman. You do not know how it is with my people.”

  “I’m afraid I do, and I don’t want to fight your brother, Rosalita, so let’s drop this sort of talk. You try to get some rest. I’m going up to see how Gaston’s making out.”

  Leaving the girl in the hollow, Captain Gringo bulled his way up to the ridge and squatted next to Gaston. The Frenchman had taken cover in a clump of trailside greasewood, and as the American joined him, he said, “Our next camp will be in tall timber. That’s when we must worry seriously. What are you doing up here? I assure you I wasn’t masturbating on the job.”

  “That damned girl keeps talking about what happened.”

  “Naturally. One of us will have to throw a good f
uck into her. I suggest we draw straws.”

  “Have you gone crazy, too? The girl’s only sixteen and a virgin with an older brother!”

  “I am not crazy. I am French, and practical about such matters. You Yankees have no imagination. Can’t you see she’s dying for a real fuck?”

  “She keeps talking about that fat bastard raping her in the ass, but she says it was horrible.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. To be raped is bad enough. To be raped and not to enjoy it is a disaster. The girl is a typical peasant. She’s been saving her treasure for her wedding night, assured by the old women of her village she’s in for a delightful surprise. Can you imagine how annoying it must be to lose one’s virginity sans surprise?”

  “You mean she feels cheated, for God’s sake?”

  “Wouldn’t you? Let us be practical. It is impossible to have genital contact without feeling something. No doubt she was mad with shame, fear, and at least discomfort. Yet, as she looks back on it, she remembers at least some piquant moment or two. The excitement alone must have stirred her little body enough to bewilder her. Naturally, at her age, she’s started to masturbate and—”

  “Come on, you have a dirty mind. She’s just a kid.”

  “Show me the kid, as you say, who hasn’t started masturbating by the age of twelve and I’ll show you a liar. Doubtless she’s very ashamed of this. Doubtless she’s confessed and said her “Hail, Marys,” but if she is a woman, and she is, she’s come more than once in her hand. She probably has no idea what it feels like to fuck, but she knows that what happened to her wasn’t the real thing.”

  “You goddamned Frenchmen really must fight with your feet and fuck with your mouths! Don’t you think there’s any decency in the world?”

  “Decency? You talk like a Calvinist. In my opinion, you are the one with the dirty mind. We are such pathetic little animals, all of us, and we were created with such petty appetites and ignoble habits. It’s not just to expect decency, as you call it, from creatures who must shit and fuck their way through such a short lifespan. There is no dirt to it. It is simply life. Queen Victoria fucks, and the Pope must have to shit from time to time. How can you be so cruel as to suggest a poor peasant girl is not entitled to the same habits?”

  The American laughed, wryly, and said, “All right. I can see how some normal sex might straighten her out, but I’m not about to volunteer. Her kid brother might not like it.”

  “I know. I’ve been meaning to mention him. You know, of course, we’ll have to kill him before we reach Chihuahua.”

  “Kill him? He’s on our side!”

  “At the moment. He had no choice but to get his sister away from the jeers back there. Right now, he’s doubtless sincerely grateful to us for bringing them along. But they’re mestizos. Plenty of dark, brooding Indian blood in the family tree to go with that tricky Spanish sense, of family honor. Once he stops worrying about Los Rurales and the Yaqui, he’ll begin to brood about us knowing his sister was buggered, and that we both saw her naked in that cell.”

  “God, you’re a suspicious son-of-a-bitch!”

  “My mother thanks you for the compliment. I have been in Mexico since before you were born, and I am still alive. Did you think I was protected by a guardian angel, or would you consider that I just might know these people and how they think?”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him. Meanwhile, if I treat his sister with utmost respect—”

  “It won’t matter in the end. Whether you fuck her or not, he’s going to try to kill you, sooner or later. So why not shoot him, fuck the girl, and be done with it?”

  “I’d rather try it my way,” he replied, getting to his feet and turning to join the others in the hollow.

  But he had a sinking feeling, as he moved down the slope, that the little Frenchman was probably right, and she was pretty as hell.

  Chapter Eight

  The next three days and nights passed uneventfully, albeit not too pleasantly. They wended their way up over the Sierras without meeting anyone and were on the eastern slope, just making camp in another hollow after a long overnight ride, when their luck ran out.

  The little party had it down to a routine by now. Rosalita was helping her brother with the ponies, and Captain Gringo had just set up the Maxim when Gaston, crouched on a boulder above them, whistled for attention and called out, “Down there in that dry wash, by the salt cedars!”

  Captain Gringo looked down the long, bare slope just in time to see two shadowy figures taking cover in the wan dawn light. He called back, “I see ’em. Looks like two Mexican vaqueros. They have us spotted, too, or they wouldn’t be ducking.”

  Gaston snorted, “Vaqueros, in this part of the country? They are Yaqui, and there are more than two of them. At least a half dozen. They have no horses, so it’s a raiding party. The Yaqui fight on foot.”

  “Come on, the men I just spotted were wearing sombreros and white cotton.”

  “What did you expect, Sioux bonnets and war paint? The Yaqui are skulkers. Of course they dress like Mexicans. Whom did you think they intended to get close to, Scotchmen in kilts?”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Tico, move out to my right and take cover behind that boulder with your rifle. Rosalita, over to my left behind that other rock. I’m going to move the horses back.”

  Gaston snapped. “No! Lay the horses on their sides with their hooves tied. They’ll start by trying to panic them into running away from us!”

  Tico said, “I’ll put the horses down, Captain Gringo. Your place is at the machine gun!”

  The American didn’t answer. Despite Gaston’s obvious disgust, he’d taught the two young Mexicans how to work their guns. He didn’t know if they could hit anything with them, but they were bright and quick to learn. He squatted behind the Maxim and started to load it.

  But Gaston called down, “Bring that thing up here.”

  “Why? If they rush us up this slope I’ll have a clear field of fire.”

  “Sacre! Don’t you think they can see that? One man or even a boy can defend us on that side with a single rifle. We need that fucking gun up here!”

  The American picked up the Maxim, tripod and all, and struggled up to Gaston, asking, “What’s on the far side?”

  “Cover. It’s steep as a bitch, but overgrown with greasewood. They didn’t let us spot their point because they want to die.”

  Captain Gringo stood by Gaston’s shoulder and stared down the south slope of their ridge. The canyon below was choked with house-sized boulders and brush, ink black in the dawn light. He nodded and placed the gun in position to rake. Since taking it from the Rurales he’d had time to adjust the traverse for a wide sweep to either side. He depressed the muzzle and noticed the jacket was leaking. That was nice. He’d refilled the cooling jacket twice since they’d been in the mountains and could only hope there was enough water left to matter. They’d told him these things tended to blow up in one’s face if the barrel overheated.

  “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “We wait. They’ll let the others work around to what they think is our rear. Then they’ll start a parley to distract us while the real attack comes up through that brush.”

  Gaston turned and called down, “Tico? When the one with the white flag comes partway up the slope, don’t shoot at him. Don’t pay any attention to anything he says, either.”

  The boy called back, “My father told me about Los Yaqui, señor”

  The sun rose above the distant horizon. Tico called out, “Here it comes!” and Captain Gringo looked back over his shoulder to see a tiny, distant figure moving up across the clear slope waving a handkerchief.

  Gaston said, “The other way, you fool. They’ll crawl as far up as they can, like lizards. Observe! That clump down there to the left!”

  “I saw it move. You figure they’re in line abreast or single file?”

  “Abreast. They want to make this ridge together and come boiling over it while we discuss the terms
with the others, like idiotic Mexicans. It’s a very tedious trick, but it always seems to work on Mexicans. Latin armies are in the habit of talking before they get down to business.”

  Gaston slid off the boulder and took his place beside the gun, saying, “I’ll feed it as you fire. What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?”

  “I want ’em within a hundred yards.”

  “This gun carries at least three times that far, on the level.”

  “I know. Got another one spotted, over to the right.”

  Behind them, a distant voice was calling, “Hey, muchachos, for why are you afraid of us? We are simple wood cutters. We have come up here to make charcoal. Do you have any tobacco?”

  Tico didn’t answer. Tico was shaping up.

  Captain Gringo asked Gaston. “What’s their usual signal?” and the Frenchman said, “The one doing the talking will pretend to be insulted and go away. Then he’ll fire a shot as he reaches cover. These others creeping up can’t hear his voice on this side of the ridge, but when they hear the shot…”

  “Let’s throw their timing off. Tico! Do you think you can hit the one with the flag of truce?”

  “Perhaps, but is it honorable, Captain Gringo?”

  “Listen to me. I want you to count to one hundred silently and fire at him. I’m not going to make another sound. Pay no attention to anything he says or does until you reach one hundred. Understand?”

  “I will try, señor.”

  Gaston murmured, “Eh bien. Half of them, don’t speak Spanish. They may think we’ve left this ridge if there is an interval of silence. On the other hand, they may have us spotted, despite this brush.”

  “Doesn’t matter; not if they have an agreed-on signal both parties are counting on. They can’t count more than two heads up here and won’t expect anything worse than rifle fire at close range.”

  “Yes, but speaking of range, that bush I just saw move can’t be more than fifty meters down the slope!”

  Before the American could answer, Tico’s rifle squibbed behind them, and a long, ragged row of brown figures materialized above the olive-gray, waist-deep brush just a few dozen yards below them!