Dorotea had to tell Clete where to turn off the macadam-paved highway onto Estancia Casa Chica. There was no sign visible from the highway, but one hundred meters down a road paved with small, smooth riverbed stones, the powerful headlights of the Horch lit up two short pillars formed from fieldstone. A sturdy rusty chain was suspended between them, and hanging from the center of the chain was a small sign that read: CASA CHICA.
“Oh, damn!” Dorotea Frade said. “I don’t have a key.”
“Great!” Clete said.
Enrico Rodríguez got nimbly from the car the moment it stopped, found in the shadows the padlock fastening the chain to the left pillar, tugged at it a moment, then matter-of-factly pulled from his shoulder holster his .45-caliber pistol—an Argentine copy of a Colt Model 1911 semiautomatic—took aim, and fired.
Clete noticed that Enrico had not first worked the action, which meant he had been carrying the pistol with a round in the chamber.
The first shot dented the massive brass padlock, but it still securely held the chain. Enrico fired again, then again. The lock then dropped off the chain and the chain dropped to the road.
“Did he have to do that?” Dorotea asked, seemingly taking the abuse of the lock somewhat personally.
“Well, since unnamed persons didn’t have the key . . .”
Enrico came back to the Horch, stopping to stand in the beam of the headlights. Clete could see that the hammer still was back and locked. Enrico replaced the magazine in the pistol with a fresh one, then put the pistol back in the shoulder holster.
That means he’s back to eight available shots, Clete thought, seven in the magazine and the one he left in the throat.
Now what the hell is he doing?
What Enrico was doing was recharging the magazine he’d taken from the pistol. When he’d finished, he slipped it into the left front pocket of his pants and got nimbly back into the car.
He didn’t say one word, Clete thought, smiling as he put the Horch in gear.
Three hundred meters down the road, just past a curve, a two-wheeled horse cart was blocking the road.
Clete slammed on the brakes, pushed Dorotea down onto the floor, and got out, grabbing a Remington Model 11 12-bore self-loading shotgun from under the seat as he did so.
“It’s all right, Don Cletus!” a familiar voice quickly called from the darkness. “It’s Sargento Gómez here.”
A moment later, Sargento Rodolfo Gómez, Argentine Cavalry, Retired, stepped into the light of the headlights. He had a 7mm Mauser carbine cradled in his arms like a hunter.
And, a moment after that, Staff Sergeant Sigfried Stein, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, came running down the road carrying a Thompson .45-caliber submachine gun. Before he reached them, two gauchos on horseback, both carrying shotguns, came onto the road.
“I heard shots,” Stein said, but made it more a question.
“Enrico had to shoot the padlock off the chain,” Frade said.
“I forgot the key,” Dorotea said. “For which sin, I was just shoved onto the floor.”
“Don Cletus was protecting you, Doña Dorotea,” Enrico said.
"I’ve been trying to convince myself of that,” Dorotea said without conviction.
“Sorry, baby,” Clete said, then turned. “Sergeant Stein, say hello to Lieutenant Fischer.”
The two shook hands.
Frade looked at Fischer and said, “Around here, we use ranks to dazzle our guests. Siggy is Major Stein and I am El Coronel.” He turned to Stein. “Speaking of our guests?”
“José,” Stein said, and pointed to one of the gauchos, “his wife is with Frau Frogger. Frau Frogger’s not talking to Herr Frogger.”
“Why not?”
“Because he came to me and told me that if we didn’t watch her close, she was going to try to get back to Buenos Aires.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Frade said. “Fischer, you are now another major.” He paused. “Oh, hell! Fischer, how’s your German?”