Dick responded. He’d heard Arvel’s Kit Carson story at least a half dozen times, “Which Indians?”
“I don’t know, it doesn’t matter.” Arvel tried to continue.
“Was it during the first Navajo campaign or the second?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Well, it does.” Dick was having some fun with him now.
“Do you want to hear the story or not?”
“Yes, please. It would just be nice to know when it happened, and with what Indians.”
“Well, Kit Carson got captured, and the old chief granted him three requests before burning him at the stake.”
“Which chief?”
“Dick?”
“Yes, Arvel?”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry, Arvel, proceed, please.”
The men were paying attention now. They liked to hear about the Old-West heroes.
“So, Kit Carson says he needs to parlay with his horse, and the old chief allows it. So, Carson whispers in the horse’s ear, and the stallion runs off. In short order, he reappears with a beautiful young sportin’ gal in the saddle. Carson takes the beauty into the woods and does his duty. The chief is pleased with Carson’s first request and grants the next. Once again…”
“You mean he fornicated with that woman?” Dick asked with rapt attention.
“Yes, Dick, he fornicated. So, the Chief grants another request, and Carson whispers in the horse’s ear again. The horse runs off.”
“What happened to the woman?” asked Dick.
“I don’t know. She just stayed in the woods, Dick.”
“This must have been the Southern Plains campaign. There are stands of woods up there. Don’t know of any woods down in Navajo country.”
“I’m sure of it, Dick. You are right. So, the horse comes back a second time, this time with a beautiful little Mexican girl. And once again, Carson takes her in the woods, and does his duty.”
“My God,” said Dick. “He had stamina.”
“Yes, well we are talking about Kit Carson. He’s now down to his third request, and again, he speaks into his horse’s ear. And, in short order…”
“Another whore?” One of the Rangers spoke up now.
“Yep. Another whore. And you know what Carson does?”
“Fornicates with her?”
“Nope. He looks his horse in the eye and yells, ‘I said posse!’ ”
Arvel sat back, satisfied at his little story. He waited for the men to react. One began to snicker, then another, and soon they were all laughing. Dick sat back and took another drink from the bottle being passed around. “You are too much, Arvel.”
Arvel took the bottle and had a drink. He raised it to the men and drank. “True story. All true.” He laid back on his bedroll and yawned. “I wish we had some prairie chicken.” He picked his teeth with a knife.
“Really?”
He looked around at the other men. “Any of you boys have a shotgun?” Several had reported that they did. “Anybody have any birdshot shells?” One man did.
“See if you can kill us a few chickens tomorrow, will you?”
Dick rolled his eyes. “Maybe one of the men can catch a goat and make some cheese for you, Arvel. Would that please you?”
“That would be nice.” He pulled a blanket up to his neck. “Anybody have any wine or a bottle or two of beer?” No one responded.
“You are too much, Arvel.”
Next morning, Arvel was up and shaving. Dick chuckled at him. “Going to church?”
“There is no reason to look like a savage, just because we have to live like one.”
“You are wasting water with that silliness.” Arvel looked on at the stream flowing freely below. He continued shaving. “All through the war, we used to have some pretty tough times, but I always kept my coiffure in check.” He looked into a little mirror. “I find it has a calming effect on the men.”
“Well, too bad you don’t have a fresh shirt and tie to put on, the bandits won’t know whether to shoot at you or kiss you.” Arvel got up, put his mirror away, and pulled a fresh shirt out of a saddle bag tied to Donny’s rack. He rummaged around and found a cravat. He rummaged some more and found a bottle of toilet water, splashed some on his face and offered it to Dick, who took a drink of it.
“Hey, hey, not so much. We need to save some for Hennessy.”
They were catching up to the thieves, and Arvel and Dick lagged behind. The Rangers were closing in on the rustlers.
“When we get back, you report to Hennessy. I can’t stand that man. He’s a bore. He’ll probably want to be compensated because his stupid cattle have lost weight. By Jasus and begorrah, me cattle have lost two stone…”
“The dollar is dear to him, that’s certain.” Dick understood not having money. “It’s easy to be carefree about money, when you’ve plenty of it.”
Arvel smiled. He appreciated the little barb. “You’re right about that, Dick, and your point’s well taken. I’ve never wanted for money, but somewhere a balance must be struck. He probably sends all his fortune to the Fenians.”
“He’s Church of England.”
“You’re kidding me.” He laughed. “Goddamned Irishman.”
Dick misinterpreted Arvel’s comment and got a little annoyed with him. “I was with those Goddamned Irishmen at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg. I have no quarrel with the Irish.”
“No, I don’t either, Dick.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I have known my share of them. They are a fine race of people. Prolific breeders. I knew an Irishman who had seventeen children. And hearty. They all survived into adulthood.”
They caught up with the rustlers just beyond the border. Dick did not want to go on, as he did not feel that such a small herd of cattle was worth an altercation with Mexico, and they had no authority there. Arvel was not so concerned with such details. As far as he could see, there was no good delineation of the border, and he wanted to satisfy Hennessy. They had completed all the hard work of tracking the herd, and he was convinced that they should finish the job. Even though he did not like the man, he still wanted to do him service, and maintain him as an ally.
This was a sorry lot and they surrendered without a fight. Most of them were unarmed. They wore peon clothes with ragged straw sombreros. They huddled together as if awaiting execution. Some prayed, some just stood there, looking at the ground. They were so hungry that they had already killed one animal and eaten a good part of it.
Dick had the Rangers pull out three of the scrawniest cattle, and sent the rest back north, toward Hennessy. He told a Mexican Ranger to tell them to get moving, and that if they were ever seen in Arizona again, they’d be hanged.
Arvel had the Ranger ask the men if they worked for Del Toro. They responded that they did not. Del Toro was a rich and powerful man. He did not need to steal a few cattle. They were on their own. Bandits had attacked their village, leaving them with almost nothing to eat. Del Toro hated the bandits but could do little to stop them. The men were desperate.
Riding back, Arvel could not help ribbing his partner. “You are much kinder than I ever gave you credit for.”
Dick ignored him.
“Those boys’ll eat good for a while, at least. How are you going to explain to the Irishman that he is shy four head?”
Dick shrugged. “Anything can happen on the trail, Arvel. Hell, the rustlers could’ve been rustled.”
“Sounds like old Del Toro is in need of some Arizona Rangers himself.”
Dick wiped his forehead with the brim of his hat. “Let’s civilize one land at a time, Mr. Capitan of Rangers.”
VIII Anarchy
The young deputy followed the man to a place on a side street in the shadowy section of Tucson. The front was a laundry. He remembered walking past several Chinese working on all sorts of clothes. It smelled of bleach and starch, the air thick and hot and damp.
He was led into a back room where a ta
ll Chinese woman called Madam Lee was sitting at a large oak desk, counting money. She looked up at the two white men. She was beautiful forty years ago. Like the man in the mustard suit, she had come from a long line of slave traders. Madam Lee was sent to America many years ago to handle the steady stream of young Chinese girls sold by their families to feed the insatiable appetite of the outlaw West. She was better educated, more intelligent, and more ruthless than the old man. She tolerated him because he made her money.
She was a kind of an idol to the old man and he could not help to find her alluring as he was seduced by her coldness and cruelty and was impressed with his own open-mindedness. The reality, to his thinking was that she was an inferior member of the Mongoloid race yet he could not help having his mind wander over the fantasy of bedding this Amazonian paradigm of evil.
The young man remembered the two talking. He was beginning to doze, to fall asleep on his feet. Someone led him into another room and two young Chinese women began to remove his clothing. They put him in a tub of warm water and the room began to spin. They bathed him for what seemed like hours, and he remembered lying on a low couch, wearing a robe. They gave him a queer pipe and he drew on it regularly. He had never felt better in his life.
The young deputy spent the better part of two weeks in the laundry. He never moved far from the bed, and he took the pipe often. Finally, some days later, the man in the mustard suit showed up. He pulled the young deputy up, out of his stupor. The man was diminutive and old, but tough and wiry. He called out rudely to the young deputy. “Wake up, you sot.” He slapped him several times across the face. The young deputy could not understand his own complacency at this outrage, but he only wanted to sleep and smoke and dream. The man was angry and he said something to Madam Lee, who in turn spoke something to the girls, who dumped cold water on the reclining deputy. He sputtered and sat up, his head was swimming, and the room was moving about him. He was going to vomit.
“Get up, you. Time to start working.”
“I need a pipe.”
“You’ll get your reward when you’ve earned it.” He grabbed the young deputy by the hair and pulled him up to his feet. “This is the way it is going to be, lad. Get used to it.”
“Take it easy, take it easy.” He grabbed the man’s hand, then thought better of it. He stood, looking sideways. “What do you want from me?”
“You’ll find out, soon enough.” There was a new man now. A German. He wore old fashioned clothes from Europe, though he was much younger than the man in the mustard suit. He looked the young deputy over, then at his tormentor. The deputy was seized with stomach cramps. He vomited on the German’s shoes. The man in the mustard suit cursed him, and backhanded him, knocking him back onto the bed. The German grunted and wiped his shoes on the deputy’s hair.
“He does not seem of much use.”
“He’ll be okay. What news do you have from our brothers up north?”
“Nothing.” The German was watching the deputy, checking his ability to comprehend.
“What do you mean, nothing?” The old man measured his response, and checked his anger. He must be careful with the German.
“I mean nothing, as I said. When the time comes, we will take action. The Chicago group will be contacting us with instructions.”
“The Chicago group be hanged. The Arizona Anarchists don’t need them.”
The German looked over his glasses, then around the room. “It would be wise to not mention our organization so freely.” He spoke with a cold, emotionless precision. “I do not believe this one will be much good to us.” He finished cleaning his shoes on the deputy’s pillow.
“You’ve nothing to worry about here. They’re all one step ahead of the law as it is. Madam Lee can be trusted, and she runs this place with an iron fist.”
Ging Wa cleaned the deputy, then his bed. She was fourteen when she was sold to Madam Lee. She had come to Arizona four years ago. She was a servant, as she suffered from eczema too badly to be used as a sporting girl, the cowboys and gamblers finding her skin condition too off-putting and possibly catching. So, for the first time in her life, Ging Wa’s condition was a blessing. She learned quickly to never look up, and to comply always with her tormentors. The way to survive the torment of a sadist is to never give them what they want; to resist only feeds their appetite. To never resist will result in being left alone. She had survived this way.
The young deputy watched the girl work. She had a lovely face, though he hated Chinese and thought the women had the bodies of little boys. He snapped at her when the red patches on her skin were exposed. “Cover yourself.” He kicked the girl as she leaned over to straighten his bed, she fell backward. Another lesson she learned was to never cower, never utter a sound. Yelping or crying out only encouraged the tormentor.
He spent more time with Ging Wa than with anyone else during his confinement at the laundry. He took out his frustrations on her, and despite his best attempts to hurt and humiliate her, could seem to get no response from her one way or another. This infuriated him at first, and he tried beating the girl until she cried out, but Madam Lee would have none of this. Any abuses meted out would be by Madam Lee, and not some second rate thumper.
Sometimes, he would pretend to be asleep, and watch the girl as she went about her chores. When she thought no one could hear her, she hummed, and quietly sang songs in her native tongue. He saw her smiling when she did this. He wondered how anyone could be so pleasant in such a world. He himself felt despondent most of the time. He did not regard the girl on the same level as a white. Surely she lacked the intelligence of a white, but her resilience intrigued him.
One day he spoke to her. She did not respond, but kept working diligently at her task. Another rule she followed was to never let anyone know you understand them. “I know you speak English, girl. I heard someone talking to you in English and you knew what they were saying.”
She mumbled, “I understand.”
“What is that singing you do?”
“No, nothing.” She rushed her work, trying to get out of his room.
“It is something. What is it?”
“It is a song I learned as a girl, at home.”
“Well, it sounds stupid. Don’t do it anymore.” He rolled onto his side, and faced the wall.
Later he watched her. She made no sound, yet her lips were moving. She was singing her song.
IX Ashtoreth
Ariel Tuckman was waiting for them at Dick’s office in Bisbee. He was pacing about the office when the Rangers walked in. Dan George had informed them that Tuckman had been waiting for two days. He had come calling four times each day since then. Arvel shook the man’s hand and beckoned him to sit down. “How’re you settling in to your new home, Mr. Tuckman?”
“Well enough, Captain Walsh, but we are having a particular crisis at the moment.” He handed Arvel a page from a newspaper. It read:
Freak of Sixteen-Year-Old Girl In Arizona Territory.
Published in The Daily Nugget Daily News,
Arizona Territory, -- [Special] – Ashtoreth Tuckman, 16 years old, was captured at Strowbridge Saturday night after an exciting chase. She is the victim of dime novels and says she wants to be a cowboy. Her father says Ashtoreth declared her intention to become a cowboy while en route to Arizona. Two or three times she has arisen at night, saddled a pony, and with provisions, camping outfit and pistols, started for the mountains. She was, however, each time brought back by neighbors.
Saturday Ashtoreth started out again, first going to her father’s barn, with two pistols. She remained there several hours and when discovered fired a shot, scattering her pursuers. A parson ventured into the barn, hoping to quiet the girl, but she thrust a pistol into his face and he retired. Ashtoreth soon ran out of the barn and made for the river. The crowd started after her. At length a constable fired two shots over her head, which startled her and she sprang into some bushes, which stopped her progress and she was captured.
Arvel read with interest. He tried not to laugh, as Tuckman was visibly shaken by this turn of events. “How can I help, Mr. Tuckman?”
“She has done it again, Captain Walsh.” He stood up and began pacing again. “Look at this, Captain Walsh. Look at it.” He hit the article with the back of his hand. “This is most shameful to our family. The girl has been called a freak! A freak, Captain Walsh. It will not do.”
“I understand.” He offered Tuckman a cigarette and they smoked together. “When did she go?”
“Three days ago. Understandably, the constable and the parson, and the rest of the neighbors have grown tired of these antics. It is not wise for Jews to become so notorious in the community, Captain Walsh, if you get my meaning.”
“Understood.” Arvel thought for a moment. “Perhaps your daughter needs an adventure that’s not so romantic as what’s found in the novels.”
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