Arvel glared at him. Dan coughed and sputtered. “Awe, eeh ah; Some blood must be spilled.”
Arvel stood up, then got down on one knee before the Indian chief. He begged for mercy. He offered his own life in place of the family.
“Arvel Walsh, I would gladly kill you now for making me do this ridiculous thing, but I would never get my money.”
Arvel looked, hope in his eyes. “He said he will do a blood ritual, but you will have to lose a little blood in order for it to be accepted.” He looked at the girl with pity, “But at least no one has to die.”
She looked up, rubbing the tears from her eyes ineffectively. “I’ll do it, I’ll do whatever he wants, just tell him please do not hurt my family.”
Arvel gesticulated and babbled to the Indian. The Indian nodded. He grabbed the girl by the arm, then turned her head away. Arvel grabbed her dramatically. He grabbed a lead ball from his cap pouch. “Bite down on this and hold onto my arm! Squeeze it as hard as you like, and try not to cry out too loudly when the cutting starts.”
She closed her eyes and sobbed, offering up her arm, which she was convinced would soon be severed at the elbow. Arvel pulled out his penknife and pricked the girl’s thumb. She made no sound.
The Indian whooped a war cry and danced around them three times. As suddenly as he appeared, he was gone. The girl collapsed, exhausted. Arvel grabbed her hand and bandaged it to the wrist. He pierced his hand and applied a liberal amount of his own blood to the bandage. He helped her up.
“Miss Tuckman?” She had fainted momentarily. “Miss Tuckman?”
“Ye…yes?”
“It is over. He is gone. You have saved your family, Miss Tuckman.”
“He is? He really is gone?” She looked around. Off in the distance she could hear a cry in a tongue she could not comprehend: “Arvel Walsh, this paint better come off or you will owe me five hundred dollars!”
“What did he say?”
“He said, Arvel Walsh, take the fair maiden back to her family, and tell her that she now is the spiritual light of her clan. She must protect and guide them for the rest of her days.”
“He did?”
“This is powerful medicine, Miss Tuckman. The shaman chief has put a curse on you.”
“Oh, my God!” She began to panic.
“No, no, this is a good curse. I guess really a blessing. Not a curse. That’s right, it is a blessing.”
“He called me a maiden?”
“He did. A fair maiden. And his curse blessing cannot be undone.”
She stood up. Finally wiping the tears away. She stopped crying. She hugged Arvel. “You saved my life.”
“No, you saved your family’s life, Miss Tuckman. You should be very proud, but we should leave this unholy ground right away.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll get my things.”
Ariel Tuckman had ridden quickly back toward home, then turned and waited a mile out for his daughter to return. She galloped toward him. “Father, father! I…we saw an Indian chief. He made me do a sacrifice. I am sorry, father, I will never leave home. I cannot!”
Arvel slowed and watched them together. He saw Mr. Tuckman hold up his hands, clenched into a fist, signifying victory. His eyes were wet. Arvel tipped his hat and turned Sally, headed back toward town and Dan. He met the Indian a few miles down the trail. Dan tossed the carpet bag at Arvel and pulled up next to him.
“That was some performance for an Indian who knows nothing about Indians.”
“I read it in a dime novel.”
“How’s the law study going?”
“Fine, but it is a fool’s errand. One must be twenty-one and white to practice law, Arvel. I can meet the first, but not the second requirement.” They rode along and smoked.
“That doesn’t seem right, Dan. They did everything they could to make you a white man, then they won’t let you do the same things that a white man does?”
“It is the way of the world, Arvel. It is just the way of the world.”
Arvel thought on this, and Tuckman’s comment about keeping out of the public eye when one is a Jew. It was a cruel world.
“That poor thing. I felt terrible for her when we scared her so badly,” said Dan.
“I thought you were going to give us away with your ‘awe’.”
“I know. I just felt bad for the child. Those dime novels are something. Isn’t it strange how we are trying our best to be like the folks back East, with taming the land, setting up law and order, civilizing and modernizing our towns, and the folks back East want to escape to the Wild West.”
Arvel thought about that for a while. “You are correct Chief. I guess we always yearn for what we don’t have.”
He looked over at Dan and smiled. “You should’ve seen Tuckman’s face. He was very happy to have his girl back. We did good, Dan. She will likely have a story to tell for the rest of her life, and she won’t be tempted to wander off on any fool adventures. Hell, maybe if you had been around when I was seventeen, I’d be somebody back in Maryland instead of running around this God-forsaken land.” He laughed.
“Maybe you would be a Senator by now.” Dan knew Arvel’s disdain for politics.
“Or a free, white and twenty-one lawyer. God help me.”
X Alejandro Del Toro
The old cattle thief had been run out of Texas by the Rangers, and moved his operation to Arizona and New Mexico many years ago. He had never considered himself a thief, as most of the original stock from the cattle ranches up north had once been owned by Mexicans or had at least ranged wild on Mexican soil. The Americans had been sneaking into Mexico for years, taking the largely unguarded cattle and moving them up north to feed the insatiable appetite of the Americanos back East. Alejandro Del Toro simply did the same thing, except in reverse.
He was a tough old hombre, and it was rumored that he carried eleven bullets in various parts of his body, most of them in his lower back and buttocks, as he was good at outrunning posses. If you pushed hard on the region of his Adam’s apple, you could feel the stone point of an Apache’s arrow. They say he killed twenty one white men. No one bothered to keep count of Indians.
He was not an ignorant man. He could read and write fluently in Spanish and English. He liked to read English novels, and collected Chinese fans. He had a Koi pond in the desert.
His letter read:
Honorable Captain Walsh:
I would be pleased to entertain you at my hacienda, and am honored by your request. I too have grown tired of the lawlessness of our great nations, and look forward to your arrival with enthusiasm.
Your humble servant, A. Del Toro
Arvel and Uncle Bob sat on the veranda, smoking as the sun set. Uncle Bob wanted to talk.
“Wonder what ever happened to that little Mexican girl?” He did not wait for a reply. “Do you have everything you need for the trip, you sure you don’t want me to go along? You think that mule is an appropriate present for that old scoundrel? I don’t know that you should be giving him anything, you think…”
“I’m fine, Uncle. I’ll be just fine, it’s best if I go alone. I know the area, it’s not far. Del Toro will likely have me shadowed when I cross the border.” His thoughts had drifted to Chica. He had been wondering about her, too.
“I’d like you to take my new Winchester.”
“That would leave you without it.”
“Hell, son, we have a cabinet full of guns. You know that.” He checked himself. He was anxious about this journey, and did not want to take it out on his nephew. He sat quietly again for a while. “Wonder what happened to that Mexican girl.”
The trip south was uneventful. Sally led, followed by Donny and the new mule that was to be a gift to Del Toro. He had named the mare mule Dina. She was carrying provisions as was Donny. He would travel comfortably. The trip was just over ninety miles and he decided to take his time and complete the journey in three days. It was good to be out with his mules, alone. He had time to think and enjoy the starkn
ess of the countryside. He thought more clearly when he was riding, and he liked to ride to a destination, instead of just for pleasure. It gave him some direction. He loved Mexico, even the wild lands and there was no recent news about rogue Indians or bandits in the area. The weather was pleasant enough and he thought he would try some hunting on the way. It would be nice to eat deer or javelina rather than the salt pork Pilar had packed for him.
The trip was important, as he and Dick worked out their plan to placate the ranchers while simultaneously achieving Arvel’s goal of not wasting the Rangers on a lot of work just to serve the territory’s business interests. He did not want to give up a Ranger’s life to protect a steer.
Del Toro was just as vexed by the problem as were the Arizona ranchers. Small bands of rustlers were hitting everyone, and it was beginning to take its toll. Del Toro had not needed to break the law for some years now, as he had a thriving operation, breeding a good stock of healthy and fat beef cattle on his own. His lands were measured in miles rather than hectares. He had a staff of fifty vaqueros, and they were an industrious bunch. He was a father figure to them and he’d just lost a half dozen of them to a band of particularly ruthless bandits, comprised of Texas cowboys, Mexican vaqueros and a half dozen rogue Apaches. He wanted the bloodshed to end.
This was the kind of alliance Arvel hoped to form. If he could get a commitment from Del Toro, and use his money and men to fight the cattle thieves, he could focus his Rangers’ efforts on serving the burgeoning population of settlers, such as the ones who had lost their lives earlier in the year.
Near late afternoon he had settled on Javelina for dinner, as the deer would not cooperate, and he’d killed a young sow. While he was dressing it, Sally warned him of company, as she brayed and stiffened, her ears laid back in alarm. Arvel slowly looked up from his work to see a lanky Negro man watching him from a rock above.
“G-day.”
“Hello.” Arvel went back to his work. The man was queer looking. He had blue eyes and reddish hair. He stood with a straight back, and he gave Arvel a curious look.
“Care for some pig?”
“No, thank you, they give me the wind colic something fierce. I have some chicken and rattler stew going at camp, if you’d care to join me.”
The man’s camp was in a low valley against a steep hillside. There was a cave and deeper into it was a spring. The man more or less lived here. They ate silently. Arvel finally spoke.
“You are evidently from another land, sir.”
The Aborigine worked on the campfire. He did not look up as he spoke. “I am from Australia.” He sat back when he was satisfied with his work. “Came out here it fifty-nine.”
“You are a long way from home.” Arvel remembered reading about the place as a young man. It had always fascinated him and now he was meeting one of its people. He imagined this fellow dressed in the native garb he had seen in the photographs those many years ago. He wondered if the man had ever hunted with a spear.
The man went on to tell him that he’d been sent to Arizona by an entrepreneur who had a notion that camels would be the future for Arizona. That he was promised a great fortune in the camel trade, and that the gold would be an added bonus. Most of the camels died coming across, and the ones that survived proved no better than horses or mules and were sold off to various circuses and traveling shows as curiosities. He ended up drifting about the desert and was currently making his livelihood killing wolves for the government. The Indians and Mexicans never bothered him, as he never had anything worth stealing except for his mule, and they seemed put off by his strange features, which he attributed to a Dutch father and Aborigine mother. The natives never saw a red haired blue eyed Negro before.
He admired Arvel’s mule and proudly talked of his own. Arvel replied that the Aborigine’s mule was a hinny.
The Aborigine was intrigued by this. “How can you tell?’
“You can’t, actually. Well, sometimes a hinny looks more horse-like, but I know this mule. I bred him. He’s one of mine. Where’d you get him?”
The Aborigine was amused. “I got him the last time I turned in my bounty, up in Tucson. He’s a fine beast, and I am pleased to meet you. You have a great gift, sir.”
Arvel went on to tell him that the beast was four years old and originally sold to the Army. He was pleased to see the animal in such good shape and have gone to a worthy master.
They sat back and smoked. The stars were in full splendor and it was bright and cool.
“I’m glad we had the good fortune of our paths crossing, sir.” The Aborigine agreed. They chatted into the night. The Aborigine told him of his home in Australia, and how the two lands were similar and also how they differed. He seemed without regret or remorse for leaving and was happy to be the only one of his kind in this land. He liked to be alone in the desert with his work and his mule, a true vagabond and hermit.
The conversation turned to Arvel’s favorite subject, mules, and he told the Aborigine about the time that he’d seen President Lincoln when he was in the army, and that it had tickled him to see the president more concerned for the welfare of the mules than for the men. This was before Arvel had learned to love the creatures so much, but the experience had a considerable impact on him.
The Aborigine, Arvel learned, was named Billy Livingston. The man had never seen a mule until he had come to Arizona, and always thought them to be curious creatures. Far superior to the camel, to his mind. His own mule had been responsible for saving his life at least three times, as far as he could remember, and likely more often when the man had fallen asleep while riding.
“That is the truth,” Arvel said. “You can run a horse off a cliff, and they’ll go happily to their deaths, but that will never happen on a mule.”
Arvel pulled a bottle of whiskey from his pack and took a long drink. He handed it to his companion. Billy Livingston drank from the bottle, then pulled out a couple of cups and poured some for each of them. Arvel drank, and emptied the bottle’s contents equally in each cup. They drank until it was gone.
They smoked in silence for a while, and Arvel’s thoughts had wandered to Chica. Before he could check himself, he was asking Billy Livingston if he’d known her.
Billy Livingston pulled out an ancient clay jug and pulled the cork on it, handing it to Arvel after taking a swallow. Arvel liked the odd tasting liquid. “What is this?”
“Don’t know. I traded a Mexican for it. He says it’s made from spit.”
“Seriously?” Arvel swallowed hard to keep the drink down. Then drank more. “Well, I’ll be.”
Billy drank again, wiping his mouth. “I don’t think it’s made of spit. That’s chicha, and is more like a beer, and it doesn’t keep. You have to go far south for it.”
He sat back and began rolling another cigarette, and Arvel handed him a packet of premade ones from back East. He lit one. He looked at the curious paper cylinder filled with tobacco and grunted in appreciation.
“Only know the girl by stories,” he said between draws on his cigarette. “I have heard of a wild young Indian girl in these parts, not Mexican. She dresses in man’s clothing and has two silver six shooters. She’s a dangerous creature. They say she’s killed a hundred men. She beds her victims, like a black widow spider, then cuts their throats. That’s what I’ve heard. She carried one bloke’s head in a bag, tied to her saddle. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I have never seen her.” He flicked the end of his cigarette into the fire. “Probably not all true.”
Arvel flicked his cigarette into the fire and lay back on his saddle. He dozed while dreaming of heads rolling about the desert floor. The spit drink, on top of the whiskey, was strong and induced him to dream fitfully. At one point he watched shadows dancing against the fire. He saw Billy Livingston stripped naked, walking about, then gyrating in an odd fashion. He was carrying a long spear and he danced on one foot. Arvel did not know if this was real or imagined. At some point during the night, Billy Livingston sto
od over him, holding an ember. He spoke in a tongue Arvel had never heard. He finally spoke some words in English, “you will suffer, Arvel Walsh, for your kindness.”
Arvel heard himself mutter, with great difficulty, as the spit drink made his tongue work poorly, “I have heard that before.”
Chica appeared and took the torch from Billy Livingston. She held it for a moment, then dropped it at her feet. She spit on it and the flames leapt up around her, as if a jug of coal oil had been thrown on the fire. She opened the palm of her hand on which sat a black widow spider the size of her fist, and she blew on it, launching it to him. She laughed and was suddenly a serpent, she licked the air with her forked tongue, dropping to her belly and slid away, toward the moon. White molting scorpions rode on her back. She turned back into her human form and was sitting on her pony; her Conchos reflected silver in the moon. She wore Rebecca’s white dress. She rode away.
Now Billy Livingston applied symbols to Arvel’s face with yellow paint. The paint was cool and the Aborigine’s fingers tickled. He said some more words and Arvel fell into a deep sleep.
He awoke the next morning, and it was well daylight. He was alone, except for the empty jug and his mules. A cryptic handwritten note with thanks for the smokes, mate, stay as long as you like was written on a scrap of brown paper. Billy Livingston was gone.
He did not see another person for the remainder of the journey. He thought about Chica more than he cared to and more than he had thought he ever would. His Quaker mother and Presbyterian deacon father, they would not know what to make of the spitting, cursing, vulgar Chica. His mother taught him tolerance. She was an abolitionist, and believed that all people must be respected, regardless of the color of their skin or the cut of their clothes. She had taught Arvel to be kind. Arvel had broken her heart twice, and he always regretted it. The first time was when he ran off to war, the second when he ran off to Arizona. She, in an absurd gesture, being a pacifist, bought him his guns. She told him to use them wisely, and to never take a life without reason. It was likely why he never replaced them, even when they had become obsolete.
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