“The Arizona Rangers,” said Dick.
“Exactly, Mr. Welles. And we believe you and Mr. Welles are the men to do it, Mr. Walsh.”
“And there are too many cattle interests any more in Arizona to ignore the rustlers.” Mr. Hennessy interjected.
“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Hennessy,” Arvel began handing out cigars. He looked over at Hennessy and whispered to him, “fifty cents apiece.” Dick Welles kicked him under the table.
Arvel blew a strong cloud of smoke. “I am less interested in working on behalf of the railroad, or the cattle barons, or Wells Fargo than I am getting rid of the kind of savages who killed the poor Knudsens.”
“It is all the same to me” said Hennessy. “The kind of brigands who steal are the same kind who will kill and butcher. They all need to be run out of Arizona, or forced to pay the piper.”
Dick Welles had difficulty keeping his seat. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. He had the most at stake in this discussion. He was the least well off of any of the men in the room, and he could benefit from the work. Arvel knew this and spoke up. “Gentleman, all my talk is academic and irrelevant. We know well that we cannot rely on the US military, by law, to help us. Town police forces and county sheriffs have their hands full, and are doing the best they can do. We know the Ranger concept works, as evidenced by our neighbors to the east. And,” he patted his friend Dick on the back, “we have just the man for the job.”
Governor Murphy smiled, “It is interesting, Mr. Walsh, that you say that. On the way here, Mr. Welles suggested the same thing, except that he named you.”
Arvel pushed himself away from the table and laughed, “Oh no, no sir, not me. I am getting too soft and too old for a life on the trail. Dick is your man. He’s a good man, and a fair man, and he knows how to fight. He’s your man.”
Uncle Bob intervened. In his zeal to build Dick up, he brought age into question and Dick was nearly ten years older than Arvel. “Well, you men are both fit, Arvel. You can both outwork men twenty years your junior, and with age comes experience and maturity. Both you and Dick have been around, particularly in the arena of battle. I believe you’d both be well suited for the job.”
Dick leaned forward and nodded at Uncle Bob, “Thank you both, but we, that is, Governor Murphy and I, believe that the enterprise could benefit from your skill as a negotiator and manager, Arvel. You’re a genius at organization. And, there’s the politics of having a balanced representation. Everyone knows I’m an old Democrat, and that’ll go far in recruiting men of every stripe to do the hard work of Rangering, but you being a Republican will put us in with the money folks.” He glanced at Hennessy and Murphy. They nodded their approval. “In order to sustain the Rangers, we’re going to need funding, and we’ll get it sure enough from the territory, but also from the ranchers, railroad and Wells Fargo. They all have an interest in this concept succeeding, but they are a suspicious bunch, and want to make certain both sides of the bread are buttered.”
Uncle Bob sat back, amused at the spectacle before him. None of the family had ever stooped to the lowly realm of politics. It would be interesting to see what his nephew would do. He knew this kind of thing was not to Arvel’s liking.
Arvel leaned back in his chair, took a long draw on his cigar, and looked the men over. “Well, gentlemen, it seems the Arizona Rangers will be facing danger from every corner.”
He looked over at the young reporter, “Getting this all down, son?”
“Yes sir, every word.”
Uncle Bob was already working with a mule when Arvel awoke the next morning. He took him a cup of coffee, and stood at the corral, watching the old man work. “What do you make of all this politics?”
Uncle Bob watched the young mule as he considered the question. “Well, Arvel, you know we’ve always avoided the politics, both your family and mine. It is a low business.” He deftly coaxed the mule, “but it might not be so bad to get involved in this thing. It would certainly help Dick. He’s a good man and could use a leg up. It’s dangerous work, for certain, both for you and Dick, as you’ll have as many potential assassins as Caesar, I’m sure of that. Once you enter the public life, your own life’s not your own.”
“Yes, Uncle. I appreciate what you’re saying, and we’ve always valued our privacy.”
Uncle Bob handed the mule over to Manuele, the top hand. He walked out of the corral and sat in the shade. He put a hand on Arvel’s shoulder. “You’re up to the task, Arvel. I’m damned proud of you, son. You’re the son I never had and I’m grateful for you.” He knocked the dust from his chaps and looked at the ground. “I’d never want any harm to come to you, Arvel, you know that. This is a great land, and the people who live in it deserve to live clean, decent lives. We’ve come a long way, but we have a long way to go yet. Any time something terrible can come to some homesteaders, like what happened to those poor souls last month, then there’s work to be done.” He leaned back against the cool adobe wall behind him. “I know your concern about working for bastards like that Hennessy, and the railroad and the banks and all the other parasites who suck the blood of the hard working folk, but lawlessness is endemic, and one kind of lawlessness begets all others. I’m convinced of that. There’s the old notion of noblesse oblige, Arvel, and we are the fortunate ones. I don’t mean we are the idle rich. We’ve earned our money, no doubt, but we’ve been lucky and we’ve done well. I’ve always felt, at least on the ranch here, that we’re responsible for the folks who work for us. You’ve got a gift, son, and you should probably use it for the benefit of our good land, be it this ranch or the whole territory. I just hope”, he looked at his hands, “that you don’t end up the sacrificial lamb.”
“So, we are resolved to the fact that I’ll become an Arizona Ranger and a politician, uncle.” He smiled. “I just wanted to make certain you wouldn’t disown me.”
III Chica
The wild Mexican girl was having a good summer. The money and watch she had gotten from the gringo kept her well provisioned. She did a lot of traveling and visiting with many of her friends and associates on both sides of the border. She’d spent most of the summer in Mexico and was now heading north, maybe to Flagstaff to see what adventures she could have up there. When her money began to run out, she decided to take a detour and stop at a small settlement with no name, where there was a saloon and gambling house. The place was simply known as the Hump, just west of the New Mexico and Arizona border. Chica was told that a new gringo bouncer and faro dealer there was very stupid and it was easy to win money. She figured if she could double what she had, it would carry her well into fall.
The Hump had one advantage in that it sat over top an aquifer that provided ample water. Over time a few people built structures around it and it became a small settlement. One man had the notion that, if he held out long enough, something would happen to turn the place into a real town; perhaps Wells Fargo would make a stage route along its road, or a rail line might come by, or someone might discover gold like what Schieffelin did for Tombstone a few miles north. There were too few people in the region to merit much, but the one building that did exist of any consequence was a saloon, boarding house, brothel, gambling house, and dry goods and hardware store all under one roof. The proprietor was a drunkard who had tried his luck in just about every endeavor the West had to offer and was finally making enough money to live in meager comfort. He was forced to cater to Mexicans, but he drew the line on Indians except in the most limited capacity. He would sell them items when it suited him, other times, they would be subjected to screaming tirades and threatened with being shot on the spot. He was, essentially, the law in the area as the county sheriff was too far away and the Hump too inconsequential to merit much attention.
Chica knew the place. She had visited it a few times. Once she nearly killed a pimp for trying to recruit her as a sporting girl. After that, no one bothered much with her. They gave the girl a wide berth. They knew it was a bad idea to offend her in
any way, and the problem with Chica was that you never knew exactly what she might find offensive.
She rode into the settlement in the late morning, and already the sun was nearly intolerable. She found a shady spot for Alanza and tied her to a hitching post nearby. She found the pony some water.
Chica stood at the bar near the entrance where a light breeze afforded some relief. The door was always left open which allowed thousands of flies to accumulate on the ceiling and around the beer taps. Every surface wore a fine coating of dust. The place stunk of stale beer, tobacco spit, sweat and coal oil. The air bore a permanent haze from the poorly trimmed wicks of the lamps hanging from the ceiling and the incessant tobacco smoke. Everyone was constantly either smoking or spitting tobacco.
She quickly downed two beers and eyed the man at the faro table. No one addressed her except for the man tending bar, and he just. He took her money then mumbled something about the new rule they had enacted, pointing to a sign near the door, instructing all patrons to check their firearms with the bartender. Chica complied. She pulled her pistols out of their holsters and handed them over, the muzzles of the guns pointing menacingly at the man’s chest. She smiled at the bartender and said: “Now we are all equals, no?” The bartender looked at her, stupidly. He did not remember her from her last visit.
Chica watched the dealer for a while. He was playing against another man, obviously even more stupid, as Chica observed some basic blunders that both men seemed not to notice. It was simple dumb luck on the part of the dealer that he continued to win. All the while, the dealer kept up a constant tirade about various things. Simply talk, to make himself out to be a lot tougher than he was. He nursed one foot, as if he had been recovering from having a horse step on it, and Chica thought that perhaps he was not just a gringo, but a greenhorn gringo at that. Maybe he did not even know horses. She waited patiently until the man lost his last hand, then approached the dealer.
When dealing with men, Chica usually decided right away how she would likely appear to them solely on their body language and expression. She was always dangerous, she could not help that, and she could never appear to be helpless or vulnerable. But she could easily work somewhere between having men lust for her and fear her. In some instances, they were simply revolted by the fact that she was Mexicana. Some men were so blind by prejudice against Mexicans or against women who did not fit the Victorian ideal, that they were immediately repulsed by the girl, even in places where women were few and far between. They’d sooner fornicate with an old worn out white hag than with a pretty senorita. These men were wise to hide their revulsion, for to show it might well be the last thing they do.
Lila, the madam, saw Chica approach the dealer and quickly moved in. She caught the girl’s eye, and nodded to her. “Ma’am.” Lila remembered Chica all too well. It was her pimp who was nearly snuffed out.
Chica responded in kind. She could just make out that the old prostitute was warning the faro dealer about something. She could not make out exactly what, but she had a good idea. The man sat up a little straighter in his chair. He looked at the cards and simply mumbled: “What will it be?”
Chica liked faro, but knew poker well, and thought that she might extract more money from the stupid young man more quickly. She decided at the last moment to just go with faro, as he had won recently and would likely be overly confident.
Lila sauntered over to a piano and began playing. She had a good view of the game and wanted to keep an eye on the two. This bouncer was her latest flame and she didn’t want him snuffed out. He was an idiot and a bit of a show-off, but it was the best she could do at present.
“Faro.” She lit a cigar and sat back in the chair. She eyed the young man as he set up the game. He was not bad looking, but she could tell that he was one of the kind of gringos who did not see any beauty in Mexican women. He would have also not extended a game to her had Lila not intervened. Lila did this of course, not out of courtesy to Chica; she did not care one way or another about the Mexican woman. She knew that if the little man ran his mouth, that Chica would likely shut it for him.
Chica won quickly, and won often, in fact, nearly every hand. She watched the dealer, reading his reaction. He was beginning to lose his temper. Chica could see that, and she did not want to have to kill the young gringo. She simply needed to increase her bankroll. She suggested they switch to poker, and he obliged. He quickly lamented that decision as Chica began beating him as badly. In less than two hours, she was ready to call it quits, and decided, by the demeanor of the dealer, that it would be healthier for everyone if she did. She was just about to tell the dealer that she would be playing her last hand when a commotion caught her attention at the bar.
Two Indians sauntered into the saloon. One was about thirty and the other no more than twenty. They were a pathetic sight. They wore essentially rags and old straw sombreros riddled with holes. The older one wore a wool vest and no shirt, the younger one peon clothes. The proprietor had a good drunk on by now, and looked at the two men through bleary eyes. He immediately started screaming at them. They were only doing what he had told them to do: to come back in a month to see if he had any of the shells they needed. The proprietor, of course, did not remember.
“I told you two before, I don’t have pinfire shells. And we don’t sell anything to Indians. Goddamnit, how many times do I haveta say it!”
The Indians stood, looking at one another. They were confused. They began speaking to each other in hushed tones. This caused the proprietor even more anxiety. He let loose with a stream of profanities, so quickly that the words ran together until he was voicing nothing much more than gibberish, with a couple of good, clear swear words coming through now and again.
Chica lit another cigar and turned her attention to the yelling man. “Hey, you don’ need a yell, gringo, we can all hear you, all the way over here.” She nodded in the direction of the whore. “We can’ even hear the piano.” Lila stopped playing.
The man looked at Chica, then at the dealer. He was watching his bank-rolled dealer lose his hide, and the Indians added to his frustration at how the afternoon was deteriorating for him.
“Thas nona yer business, squaw. Not sure why you were even ‘lowed in ‘ear.”
Chica pulled the money before her into a pile; she folded it, and tucked it between her breasts. She walked over to the Indians and looked at their shotgun. It was a rusted relic, but still worked at getting game, when they could find shells for it. Chica looked behind the proprietor who stood, mesmerized by the girl.
“How much is that one, behind you, gringo?”
He looked around and saw the shotgun. “Ten dollars.”
“We will take it, gringo, and give you eight dollars and this shotgun in trade.”
The proprietor threw his head back, remembering that he had the girl’s pistols. “Hah,” he slurred, “what the hell kinda trade is that? Tha’ piece a shit id’nt worth ten cents, much less two dollars. I’ll give ya nothin’ for it, and you can all get the hell outta my saloon, now! I said it before,” he wiped some spittle from with the back of his hand, “I don’ trade with goddamned Indians, squaw.” He leaned forward, into Chica’s face, squinting hard to focus. “Now, whatta hell ya think ‘bout that?”
Chica closed the distance between them and from under her vest, pulled a smaller version of the silver plated pistols she carried in her holsters. She always kept this ace in the hole and her dagger hidden when visiting saloons. They came in handy with establishments that had rules against patrons carrying guns. She pressed the revolver’s muzzle against the proprietor’s forehead and cocked the piece. “I think it is not good, gringo.” She anticipated the dealer’s actions and waited for him to approach, which he did with trepidation. He reached out, without enthusiasm, in a halfhearted attempt to stop the girl. She pushed him off balance, and put her foot behind his heel. He pitched backward. She placed her boot on his neck and pointed her dagger in the direction of his eye. She felt the energy, t
hrough the leather sole, drain from his body. She had full control of him now. The old madam jumped into action.
“Come on, now everybody. Let’s just settle down. We can solve this civilized, like.” Chica looked over at the fat woman and smiled. “Come on, Bill, go ahead an’ make a trade. You’ve had that old shotgun back there for two years. Miss, why not sit down and we can have a nice friendly drink.” Lila was working hard. She knew how dangerous Chica was, and the two men who kept her in business were about to meet their maker. “Ma’am, you’ve got beautiful hair, why don’t you let me braid it for ya. I’ve got some nice tortoise shell combs, right from Paris France. What a ya say?”
Chica ignored the woman’s pleas. She smiled at the two men, and said: “You gringos ever hear of a Mexicano standoff, eh?” She looked at each of them calmly. “Well, this is a not a Mexicano standoff, boys. I will kill you both if we cannot make a trade. What shall it be, gringos? Do you want to die for a ten dollar shotgun?”
The bartender stood, sweat running into his eyes. He was shaking. “I’ll trade, I’ll trade…Miss.” He suddenly felt sober.
“Well, okay, then. Firs’, hand me my pistols, gringo. Then hand the Indios the shotgun.” The Indians stood, awestruck. They did not move to either escape or help the young woman. They were in the precarious spot of being both victims and conspirators at the same time.
The Mule Tamer Page 4
