A MEXICAN VIVANDIÈRE
By H. C. Washburn
Night had fallen on the third day at Vera Cruz, and from navy headquarters the commanding officer, his orders snapping like wireless, was directing the clean-up of snipers.
“Lawrence,” he said, “you’ll find six machine-guns—buried in boxes—backyard of No. 17 Avenida Cortes.”
As Lieutenant Lawrence left headquarters with his squad Ensign McHenry came in and reported.
“McHenry, you’re next. This is Gonzales, who knows where you can round up Fernando Diaz. Get Diaz to-night.”
McHenry started at once with Gonzales, listening to his flood of directions. The Mexican smiled in spite of himself at the American’s burst of speed, but kept up with him easily. They turned corners into filthy by-streets leading to the market space.
At the entrance to a dark alley Gonzales stepped aside.
“After you, señor.”
When the white uniform entered the shadow of an awning “Gonzales” whipped out his revolver and fired pointblank into the officer’s back. Flinging away his weapon, he ran to No. 17 Calle de Zamora and whistled.
“Pava, Pava, ven aca! I have shot an American officer! The marines are hunting for our machine-guns. I said ‘Avenida Cortes,’ but that dog, Vicente, who betrayed us, will lead the Americans here.”
“Let them come,” said La Pava. She bolted the door as he stepped in. “What name did you give?”
“Emilio Gonzales.”
“Listen, Fernando. Don’t stay a minute. Let me think. What if I cut your head, a very little, so?” He winced under the knife, and she kissed him. “See, it bleeds enough on this bandage, which will hide your face. Quick! To the Military Hospital! Sleep there, safe among hundreds of our wounded. Go!”
Meanwhile Vicente, the informer, had followed Diaz. Hearing the shot and finding McHenry wounded, he scurried to headquarters. The news went to Lawrence, who took his squad “on the double” to Calle de Zamora. Rifle butts shattered the door, and Lawrence, automatic in hand, led the men in with fixed bayonets.
La Pava, the beautiful Azteca, stood facing the bright steel, a thin wisp of smoke drifting from her cigarette.
“Buenas noches, señor?”
“You have six machine-guns. Where are they?” Lawrence looked at his wrist watch. “I give you three minutes to answer.”
La Pava had faced death before. A crack shot, riding in advance of Villa’s army, she had drawn the enemy’s fire, had stolen plans, food, money. She had sold herself to the opposing general and learned his strategy. She was a scout, a spy, a harlot—a patriot. Now she gazed innocently, admiringly, at the young lieutenant. His men, fascinated, unconsciously lowered their rifles.
“Señor,” she pleaded, “you will do me a great wrong if you shoot, for I have no guns. Some one has lied. Search and you will see.”
The marines turned the place inside out.
When Lawrence asked La Pava to take him into the courtyard she showed no hesitation, and his flashlight told him the ground had not been disturbed.
Stooping over, he caught the gleam of a knife, and in the same breath twisted it out of her fingers.
“You are quick, señor. But some day I will get you—you who would not take my word.”
The sergeant returned and reported, “I can find nothing, sir.” Then, seeing the knife, he added, “Put her in irons, sir?”
Lawrence knew her breed; she would be flattered by handcuffs and would consider him a weakling.
“No, sergeant. The lady will walk with me.”
Through the streets to prison, wafting a powerful scent of perfumed powder, she walked at Lawrence’s side, using her eyes with that dazzling effect known only to women of the tropics.
He would confront her with Vicente, Lawrence thought, but as the battlements of Ulloa Castle came in sight, the “Place of Executions” suggested another idea.
“Halt!” He formed a firing platoon and blind-folded the prisoner. Thinking of Vicente’s story of the guns, he asserted, as if he meant it, “With my own eyes, during the fighting, I saw your gun boxes taken from the arsenal. Where are they now?”
La Pava gave no answer. She folded her arms and held her head proudly.
“Ready!... Aim!...” Lawrence raised the muzzle of the sergeant’s gun; the men, following this lead, aimed high.
“Squad——”
It was too much even for La Pava. She dropped to her knees.
“Wait, señor! I will tell all, on one so small condition—that you spare the life of Emilio Gonzales. If not—you can kill me. On your word as an officer save him, and let me see him, and by the Blessed Virgin I will tell you the truth.”
“Where is this man?”
“He is in the Military Hospital.”
“I will do all I can for Gonzales—I’ll take you to him. Now, where are the guns?”
“They are buried in the patio—in front of my house.”
Even then she smiled.
“Remember,” he warned, removing the blindfold, “if you have lied, you will be shot. Sergeant, look for them; report to me at the hospital.”
As the men marched off Vicente, the ubiquitous, who had trailed La Pava, emerged from the shadow of a doorway. La Pava, whom nothing seemed to startle, sneered at him. Lawrence gripped his automatic, recognized Vicente, and thereupon wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Señor,” whined the beast, “her lover’s name is not Gonzales, but Diaz, the traitor.” La Pava glared at him murderously. “It was Diaz,” Vicente added with unction, “who shot the officer in the back.”
“You gave me your word——” she began, turning to Lawrence.
“To save ‘Emilio Gonzales,’” he reminded her.
“True, my captain, alas!” Her black lashes drooped over a message of love. “But you will set me free?”
“When I see the guns.”
Furious, she sprang at Vicente, who stepped back. Haughtily she faced him and spoke shrilly in an Indian dialect. Despite this, her manner reassured Lawrence. Apparently, she was in a mad rage. In reality, she was telling Vicente to take the underground passage from Ulloa Castle to the hospital and warn Diaz. “Do this,” she was saying, “and I’ll see no more of Fernando. You will have me—you alone—for life.”
She ended with what seemed a torrent of invective. Vicente played his part—with his heart afire, he seemed to Lawrence merely scornful.
“Hasta la vista, señor.” Vicente, triumphant, sauntered toward the castle.
“Ugh!” said La Pava, with deep loathing. “He is but carrion. Because I do not give myself to him he would destroy his rival.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Will you take me to the hospital?”
“We are going there now.”
“I am very tired,” she sighed, leaning against him. “I grow faint.”
They walked slowly, Lawrence giving her the support of his arm. Finally, nearing the hospital, they turned into a plaza where the street lamp had been shot down.
In a flash La Pava swung under his arm, drew his pistol, wrenched herself away, and covered him.
“Ah! You are not so quick this time. Don’t move! You Americans say you will shoot, and you do not shoot.” She fired twice, rapidly, over his head. “But I have still four shots, and I am a Mexican.”
A mounted figure, leading a second horse, whirled up and reined in with a jolt. Fernando Diaz showed his white teeth, smiling cordially, as he took the automatic from his mistress and levelled it at Lawrence.
“What say you, querida? I finished Vicente. Shall I do away with this gringo?”
La Pava mounted as Diaz spoke.
“Let him live,” she said, “for he is a brave man.”
“Adios, señor! The machine-guns are safe through the lines. Take my advice, teniente, and never trust a woman——”
Diaz’s spurs dug deep, and sparks flew from the cobbles.
“—unless,” La Pava laughed back through the darkness, “unless, señor, she loves you.”