Fishing for Americanos
The sun was warm but the breeze coming off the pampas was strong and cool, scouring their faces as they walked west toward the ‘fishing village’. A hacienda could be seen to the north on the right, and the capital of this miserable little cattle-ranch of a nation had faded out of sight behind the rolling grassland in their rear.
Boss Hornito and his two men road three abreast ahead of them. About three paces back walked Sensei and Radcliffe. Just behind Sensei on the right walked Alfonso. Randy trailed Radcliffe on the left. Behind them struggling in their wake, were Belson and the two tiny kids that were hauling all of Radcliffe’s junk. The second kid was about ten, only 60 or so pounds, and was the younger half-brother of Puni. They were the only two redskins he had seen since arriving in the past.
You would have thought there’d be more of them, tribes crawling all over the place in service to the Spanish masters.
I guess that service already took its toll.
Who cares, they are all just gravel under Thor’s boot heels.
Up front Boss Hornito signaled a halt with his hand. Alfonso then turned to him, walking as he was with his hands in his pockets, and nodded at his carry-case of scotch, suggesting a liquid lunch perhaps. Just as he was caught between the decision to be rude or act on his suspicions the little red kid behind him gave a soft whistle which drew the evil eye from Alfonso. Then he heard additional horses snort close by—as one rider each emerged from over the slight rise fifty yards to the north and south of this dusty little track—no, two riders from the south!
Hornito and his men were turning and Hornito began sliding his carbine out of its scabbard. He heard a hammer cock to his left as he pulled Radcliffe back toward him by the collar with his left hand and drew the derringer from the right hand pocket of his duster and leveled it at Alfonso—who was busy telling him not to try anything stupid just as he blew the man’s front teeth out of his mouth!
Fuck me? Fuck me!
No, fuck you!
At that point everything—even the sound—began proceeding in extra-slow-motion. He could already taste the bitter gunpowder with his tongue as smoke billowed from the little piece. He loved the smell of black powder more than the burnt cordite of the modern equivalent. The smell of black powder always reminded him of his youth back in West Virginia, hunting and poaching with Pa Bracken. That acidic smell relaxed him, even now.
Lay them out in reverse triage, not in a traversing pattern.
He dropped the derringer and pulled the jabbering, pissing, tip-toeing Radcliff to his left side and ducked down behind him as he drew the Navy .36 and leveled it at Hornito. Sensei was now pulling Hornito’s right hand man out of the saddle as they wrestled for the man’s pole. His .36 was rising into his line of sight just as Hornito leveled his rifle, so he let fly before he had a bead on him and watched the round impact the horse’s jaw, which ruined Hornito’s shot. The bark of the carbine was lost in the noise of the animal’s scream—and the punch of cracking thunder to his left as Radcliffe’s head exploded into his left cheek and the body went limp.
Leave Sensei to take care of Hornito.
He heard the sound of Hornito cursing as he was rolled under his thrashing horse and Sensei grappled with his man. He also heard a horseman pounding down behind him.
He could hear nothing with his left ear, but could feel Radcliffe’s brains dripping down his neck on the left side. He turned to his right to face the man riding in behind him, leveled the .36 and squeezed off a round, which sunk into the man’s left lung like a spoon into split pea soup.
That was better than sex. Hell that was better than good sex!
Let Radcliffe go. He’s done.
He let Radcliffe’s body fall as he turned back left and saw the other horseman. The cowhand was riding in on him as Arnesto climbed down out of the saddle of his spooked horse to reload his carbine.
That was Arnesto’s shot that did Radcliffe.
Arnesto’s man was riding at him like a knight with a lance, intent on knocking him to the ground with his long pole.
Sorry boy, I’m not eating horseshit today.
Randy leveled the .36 and put a round between the pony’s eyes, resulting in the horse and rider tumbling end-over-end to his left. He felt something come up behind him.
It is the little Indian kid taking your bowie!
Let it go, the carbine will kill you quicker.
Screaming and snorting horses and cursing Spaniards sounded to his right as Sensei let go one of his karate ‘kias!’ He walked calmly toward Arnesto who had just managed to dig the bent copper casing out of the breech of his low-tolerance large-caliber Italian carbine. He drew the Colt .45 from his left hip as he walked calmly toward Arnesto, who was even now—with shaking hands—sliding another round into the carbine.
Randy then cocked both of his pistols. He closed with long sure strides through his own pistol smoke while the man before him fussed with the hammer of his prized European firearm. There were more yells, cries, curses and ‘kia’s’ behind him.
He was five paces away when the shaking Arnesto finally managed to raise his weapon. Randy squared up and leveled both pistols as Arnesto rose and leveled his carbine.
He squeezed off a round with the .36, which just winged Arnesto in the left elbow. The man cursed and staggered as Randy re-cocked his .36 and placed his left foot forward to get a better aim with the cumbersome .45.
Arnesto, fighting through the agony of his shattered left elbow, aimed his carbine over his ruined arm and fired high to the right. Randy then did his best spaghetti western whistle, while wishing dearly that he was just now chewing on the smoldering stub of a thin cigar. He smiled at the thought right into the watering eyes of Arnesto—yes, that is a crooked smile—and calmly squeezed off a .45 caliber slug into his guts.
Randy walked calmly up to Arnesto who was now kneeling and saying the Hail Mary in Spanish as he shook and shivered and clutched his oozing belly. Randy had been pleased with the impact of the .45 and pressed the muzzle to the man’s forehead.
Arnesto looked up into him without terror but with—or so Randy thought—some great regret which would forever remain unknown to whoever cared about him. Randy cocked the .45, spit in his face, and hissed in his worst Spanish, “Your mother is a whore and her son is dead”, and then squeezed off a round and watched the hat blow off the back of the man’s exploding head.
Check behind. It could be bad.
When he turned he could see Sensei knocking the snot out of Hornito who was still stuck under his crazed horse, another man down behind him, and Hornito’s second man circling, trying to get in behind Sensei with his lasso.
Another time asshole.
He leveled the .36, which turned out to be pretty accurate, and shot the pony in the hind quarters. The small horse promptly threw his rider, who was now at Jan’s mercy, having lost his own staff in the earlier melee.
The other thrown horseman!
He looked to his right and saw a savage sight. The other one of Arnesto’s horseman, the one that had been thrown face-forward over his dying horse, was crawling on all fours trying to get up off the ground while the little Indian boy repeatedly ran him through the guts with Randy’s crossada bowie knife, held like a two-handed sword in both of his tiny hands.
Belson was on his knees crying and the other little kid was hiding under Radcliffe’s now pointless luggage.
Look at that piece-of-shit Alfonso playing dead.
He felt his face crease in an even smile as he approached his tiny ally, still thrusting away at the crawling cowhand. The other one of Arnesto’s men was moaning in the grass to his left and ahead next to Alfonso’s shivering body with a frothing chest wound.
First things first.
He holstered the .45 and walked up behind the little boy even as he heard a skull split open to his left—good, the hearing is coming back already.
“Nice one Sensei; love the sound of coconuts hitting the pavement.”
As he suddenly towered over the tiny boy and his crawling victim, he placed his hand on the boy’s head and turned his face so that he looked into his eyes and spoke in Spanish, “Step back here Little-boy.”
He then took the large knife out of Little-boy’s bloody hands, holstered his .36, and then reached into his left pocket and inside pocket and produced two derringers, which he promptly handed the boy. He then guided the boy with a gentle hand as he demonstrated correct shooting form and the cowhand complained, “No boss. Please boss, mercy.”
“Mercy? Oh, but of course! Little-boy, shoot him through the ear.”
The cowhand cried and Little-boy pursed his lips like a university student cramming for finals as he leveled the derringer and put a round right through the man’s ear into his brain. That’s when he heard Alfonso breathing through his tooth-splintered mouth as he panicked and began to crawl away.
He tapped Little-boy on the head and nodded at Alfonso trying to crawl off. He drew both .45s and started from the ankles, blowing out every joint as Sensei moaned in protest even as he stood holding his blood-spattered staff and wounded horses snorted and cried in the background. He then stopped and turned to Little-boy as he felt himself grin. “Pop the head Little-boy. If you make the shot you can keep the gun.”
He kept the gun.
“Give me the spent weapon and give your sister a kiss for me when you return.”
With those words he put a round into the head of the dying cowhand and then looked to Sensei for instructions, as the man attempted to wipe the brains off of his nice leather loafers with his blood spattered pole.
