THE KINGSTONE RANSOM

We cruised at a leisurely speed once we cleared the town, not in any hurry and anxious to get a better sense of the land we were passing through. Even though we hadn’t actually left the plateau the landscape proved to be dramatic in its variety: cultivated fields, grazing pastures, dense groves of trees in steep draws and on hilly summits. And the road itself was an object of study, requiring a fair amount of attention due to frequent blind spots caused by the twisting and turning of the poorly maintained macadam as it sought to conform to the undulating character of the terrain. It was at one of these blind spots about five miles north of the town that we ran into trouble. Don Ricardo and his two buddies had apparently monitored our approach from high ground adjacent to the curve, and seeing no other traffic approaching had pulled their pickup across the narrow highway, intending to block our way. Ricardo and one of his buddies stood behind the pickup, hunting rifles at the ready. The other guy was still on the summit of the hill, aiming down at us with a third rifle. We had no choice but to come to a halt. “Things are a little different now, eh gringo?” said Ricardo as he stepped around the truck and poked Boris in the chest with his rifle. Boris didn’t hesitate—in a lightning move he ripped the gun out of Ricardo’s hands with his right hand, tossing it laterally to where I was standing, while at the same time stepping up close and getting his left arm around Ricardo’s throat. With Ricardo serving as a human shield and locked into a potentially fatal chokehold his buddies held off firing. But I didn’t. I took Ricardo’s rifle and shot the guy standing behind the truck, hitting him in the shoulder and causing him to drop his rifle. Before the guy on the hill could get a bead on me I dropped to the ground and rolled up against the side of the truck—out of his line of fire. “Tell your buddy to drop his rifle and walk down with his hands up,” ordered Boris, releasing his grip on Ricardo so his vocal chords would work. Ricardo complied and the guy did as ordered. As he was carefully making his way down the hill I scrambled around the truck and kicked the other guy’s rifle away from where he lay. “Now this is the way it’s going to be,” I said, once all three of them were assembled at the rear of the truck, “if you report this incident to the authorities or in any other way attempt to cause us trouble while we’re in your country we’ll inform the police that we observed Don Ricardo here shoot his friend just as we happened to pass by on our motorcycles. He’s going to need professional medical help to remove the bullet and I’m going to confiscate Ricardo’s rifle. I’ll make it available to the police who’ll be able to verify the bullet taken from this man’s shoulder did indeed come from Ricardo’s gun. With material evidence like that no amount of influence you might have with the authorities as a consequence of your wealth will persuade them your fanciful story about how two norteaméricanos got the drop on three guys with rifles could possibly be true.” “Nobody will believe you,” sneered Ricardo. “Everybody knows I have no need to use a gun to discipline a subordinate. What would my motivation be?” “Your motivation? I’ll tell you why you shot the guy, it’s because he shot out two of the tires on your truck after you threatened to fire him,” I nodded to Boris who picked up the wounded guy’s rifle and shot out the two tires on the right side of the truck. “Jesus, you guys are crazy!” shouted Ricardo. “And the reason you threatened to fire him was because he kept bringing up the embarrassing matter of you having been bested in the barroom fight at the cantina.” “But why would you be in the possession of my gun?” snarled Ricardo. “That in itself would be a criminal matter—foreigners are not permitted to have firearms without special permits.” “I’ve got such a permit,” I said, showing them once again the handgun holstered to my belt, “and the means by which to have disarmed you. No, I think our story will hold up better than yours.” Ricardo slowly nodded his head, clearly convinced I’d made my case. “But everything changes if you return to my part of the country,” he said defiantly. “I give you my word we’ll not be returning…at least not in the near future…so why don’t you help your wounded companion back to town where he can get some medical attention while we continue on our way.” Ricardo, shaking his head in frustration, climbed into the cab of the truck and started the engine. As he maneuvered the pickup to the side of the road, Boris and I got back on our bikes, started them up and resumed our journey.