Bill & Betty Visit Mexico



Part 18

The couple was practically home.  They had come through Las Cruces, New Mexico to trade the Jeep for another car.  The Cherokee was expected to bring a handsome price in the States but, instead, was confiscated because its unaltered vehicle number proved that it had been stolen in Texas.  Their new choice came down to a Chevrolet or a medium-size Dodge.  Betty chose the Dodge from brand loyalty.  It had a manual transmission, which she couldn’t operate but would have to learn for practical reasons.

They were held up at a military roadblock, coming over the San Augustin Pass approaching the missile range.  "The block has been up a long time — people are bored and wandering around outside their cars."

"A guy up there just hid a gun under his jacket."

"There are a lot of guys down about four cars.  What you suppose is happening?  Bring your purse, let’s check it out."  Bill dug his holster from under the seat and plopped his hat on.

The first car, a new Ford sedan, was unoccupied.  The next, a station wagon, held a couple of 20 year-olds in the back seat.  The old hillbillies approached a young man at the back of a motor home.  The couple split up to be one on each side of him.  Bill greeted him, "How’s it going?  Where’s everybody at?" he gestured toward the cars behind.

Before the fellow could answer, a muffled scream issued from the house-on-wheels, and he was faced with a 45 automatic and a revolver.  Betty reached for the rear door as she spoke, "Watch him, I’m going in."  She silently pointed the single-action into the vehicle and climbed the step to enter.  Bill could not see inside from where he stood.

Betty saw a man astride a young girl on the deck, ripping her clothing away.  The attention and firearm of a second scoundrel were directed through a sliding window into the driving compartment.  A middle-age couple, probably the girl’s parents, sat frozen in the front.  Betty stepped forward and vigorously booted the rapist from the rear.  The man shrieked, and the girl, who might have been hurt by the kick, screamed again.  As the accomplice turned, a magnum revolver exploded with a deafening roar in the confined space.

The Gringa rang everyone’s bell again when she shot the kneecap off the first man.  She spoke to the girl, "Dear, fix your clothes a little and put a shoe on.  You had better kick this fellow unconscious so he can’t cause more trouble."  Betty demonstrated how to do it by swinging her size-six into the predator.  She heard a shot from outside and hurried to the door.

Bill steadied himself against the motorized butcher shop and sent 45-caliber slugs after a gang member, escaping across the highway right-of-way.  By that time, it was obvious that the outlaws wore a distinctive jacket, marking them as targets.  The fellow that Bill had been guarding was running toward his car.  The two passengers had remained in the back seat, at Bill’s insistence, but bailed out when his attention was diverted.

Bill advised his wife, "I think there is another one with a gun.  Watch around the other side."  His target finally fell and began to crawl away.  Gringo Billy pivoted and began firing after the getaway car, which was maneuvering out of the line of traffic.  He ejected an empty clip and plunged into a hip pocket for another.

Betty peeked around her side of the small freight car and saw a criminal coming with a pistol in his hand.  From her right-hand barricade, she hit him on the first shot.  The man fell and his revolver rattled across the macadam.  Betty scuttled toward him, ready to fire again, but he didn’t move.  She retrieved the weapon and, opening the cab of the truck, ordered Mrs. Tourist, "You have to help your daughter.  You’re safe now."

Bill was on the other side, advising the driver to run the cripple down on foot, "He’s real slow and isn’t armed."  He grinned at Betty, "Hey, Señora Bety, let’s have a car chase.  ¡ Vamos !"

Betty pointed toward two figures, disappearing into the stunted juniper, "Those are bad guys."

"That’s the nonparticipants that were sitting in the back seat.  Let them go.  You drive."

"No, I can’t.  You drive."

"That guy has three flat tires and a leaking gas tank.  We have plenty of time.  Keep the clutch pushed in while you hunt for gear number one . . . look at the picture on the knob.  There you go.  Now, give it gas just like you would to take off with an automatic, and let the clutch out slow."    lurch  squall  CRUNCH    She rammed the Ford Taurus in front.

"Damn, honey, you have to steer just like any car."  He repented from his harsh comment, "I’m sorry, we’re doing fine.  Hold the clutch in while you restart the engine.  Try reverse, look at the map on the knob."

Betty eventually achieved second gear and the engine screamed at forty miles per hour.  Bill sweat bullets but tried to be calm, "That’s perfect, leave it right there.  I think we can catch the guy before he gets to the Interstate."

They gained on the station wagon.  The villain hit the ditch and ran on foot through the bushes.  "Pick your spot to stop and jam on the brakes.  The engine will die all by itself."

They climbed out and took pot shots at the fleeing miscreant.  When he hid behind a bush, Betty reloaded.  He emerged, limping badly.  She was ready to take another shot but asked, "Is that the one that was standing outside?"

"Yeah.  What do you think, should we take him or not?"

"I don’t want to chase out there after him."  She lowered the muzzle.

"Me neither.  Let’s leave before the cops come.  I’ll drive this time."

The woman wondered, "What were they doing besides gang raping?"

"Rape?  I didn’t realize that.  Was that the scream we heard from the motor home?  Just one guy?"

"Two."

"Whatever.  It looks like they were going down the line of cars robbing people — old-fashioned highway robbery."

(San Antonio)  They returned toward Las Cruces and the Interstate to avoid the traffic snarl and police converging on the roadblock.  As Bill pulled onto the pavement, two Highway Patrol cruisers howled past them toward a reported shoot-out at the pass.  The station wagon in the ditch didn’t attract attention from the road, it’s broken windows were all that showed.

Our heroes took the Interstate, I-25 north, intending to exit at San Antonio, New Mexico.  From there, they would travel across the lava flow, the most direct route to Alamogordo.  Before reaching cruising speed, Betty called his attention to two hitchhikers in the shade of the only small tree in sight.  "It’s a man and woman."

"We can help them as far as San Antonio.  It isn’t too obvious they are hitching, but what else would they be doing out here?"  He pulled onto the shoulder.

The couple carried a bedroll, containing their every possession in the world . . . and no water.  Bill greeted them in Spanish, assuming their command of that language and indicating his own ability.  Although from the nearby Mesilla Valley, they were not conversant in English.  Betty provided tepid water from a canteen and offered Coca-Cola from the ice chest before rearranging the junk in the back seat.

"We can get you as far as San Antonio but . . . there is something you must understand.  Explain time-stop to them, Betty.  We have plenty of time now."  Bill pulled in behind an ancient semi-trailer truck, which was plastered with interstate permits, a system of regulation not required for many years.  The 1957 Gimmy wore Missouri plates, decades out of date, and carried a load of hogs in the louvered trailer.  A fragrance of nature wafted over the sedan behind.

She didn’t understand, "Time-stop?  I’m not sure what you mean."

Bill continued the explanation, "Kind of like a time warp.  Time will stand still, but the drive will seem normal-length when we resume.  We’re starting already — notice there is no more traffic in either direction."