The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  His father was proud of his war record, but thought the move to Arizona ridiculous. He believed that Rebecca’s uncle was a lunatic, and would lead to Arvel’s ruin. It is unfathomable what he would think of Chica, which amused Arvel all the more. He rode on, trying to imagine his father’s face, that grimace, or would it be revulsion, or perhaps horror, or a combination of all three if he would ever meet the girl face to face.

  So he rode on the last leg of the journey pondering these things. The dream was the most remarkable thing that he had experienced in a long time, and he wondered if any of it had been real. The dancing by Billy Livingston seemed very real, but how could it be? What did Billy know about him? Did he say those things to him? Did he paint his face? How would he be dressed in native garb and carrying a spear? He felt for any remnants of paint, but discerned nothing. What did Chica’s presence mean, if anything? He decided that he would never drink strange spirits from jugs again.

  He arrived just after noon, and was told by some peons which road to take to get to Del Toro’s. He rode another half hour and could see the ranch a mile ahead. It was a low, sprawling affair. With its adobe walls and tile roof, it rivaled the finest houses around Tucson. No one met him, no guards were present. Arvel thought certain he would have been stopped and escorted the rest of the way. He stowed his guns to present the least threat. He had his badge in a saddle purse. He never wore it.

  Alejandro Del Toro towered over all he could see on the porch wrapped around the front of his hacienda. He wore a black sack suit with a red brocade vest of Chinese silk and a beaver felt sombrero. He smiled at Arvel and welcomed him to his home.

  Arvel smiled back, then looked beyond the man to the figure sitting at the far end of the porch. “Hello, Colonel.”

  Del Toro looked around. He smiled back at Arvel. “So, you know my niece, Capitan Walsh?”

  “Please, call me Arvel”, then added, under his breath, “or Pendejo.”

  The old Mexican walked out to greet him, took his hand and held it for a long time. His eyes went to the three mules.

  “Ay, what fine animals, Capitan.”

  “The one at the back is for you, Senor.”

  Del Toro walked back and held his hand to the mule’s muzzle. “She is a fine beast. Gracias.”

  They sat on the veranda for most of the afternoon, sipping mescal and drinking beer. Chica said nothing to Arvel, but sat back, out of his view and, at the least opportune times, ran her bare foot up his leg to see just how annoying she could be to the Captain. She was impressed with his ability to hide his consternation.

  Del Toro’s ranch was a showpiece, set at the southeast corner of the foot of a mountain range. There were mountain springs which Del Toro used to create fountains, and more importantly, power. Each room had a grand ceiling fan, moving the air and making the adobe walled rooms cool and comfortable. The hacienda was actually made up of four buildings, joined at each corner. They formed a square, and in the middle of the square was a courtyard; a large fountain was its centerpiece. The long over-hanging roofs and open airways kept the courtyard cool and inviting.

  He was eventually shown to a spacious room in the hacienda, and unpacked his carpet bag. It was as fine as the Continental Hotel in Philadelphia, where he and Rebecca spent time on their honeymoon.

  Chica slid into the room, staying in the late day shadows as they advanced against the adobe walls. Arvel did not acknowledge her, but kept unpacking. He spoke into his bag, “You’d better not be in here, Colonel.” He put some clothes into a wardrobe. “Uncle might not like it.”

  She laughed. She wore a sheer cotton dress off her shoulders and had collected more bangles since the last he saw her. She grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around, pushing him off balance and onto the bed. She straddled his hips, and kissed him hard on the mouth. “I am glad you are here, Pendejo.”

  “Stop that, Chica. You’ll get me killed.”

  “You are afraid of Del Toro?” She began to laugh and caught herself. “That is good, Pendejo, you better be afraid of Uncle Alejandro.”

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” With effort, he managed to push her off of him. She had a strong grip for such a small woman. She wandered around the room. She put his hat on, and began pulling at his clothes. “And where is my watch and money clip?” She kissed him again.

  “Hurry, Pendejo, you will be late for dinner.” He ignored her. He had several hours until dinner and the cool breeze of the fan overhead and mescal and beer made him drowsy. He planned to make good use of Del Toro’s fine feather bed.

  “Pendejo, are you not glad to see me?”

  “I am, Chica.” And he was, more than had could ever imagine.

  “You never act very glad to see me.”

  “I am good at hiding my enthusiasm.”

  “Are you not jealous, Pendejo, that I share a bed with the Mexican Jefe?”

  “No.”

  She acted hurt. “Why not?”

  “I don’t own you, Chica.”

  “You are strange, Pendejo.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “I’ve missed you, Pendejo.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt that. But, I have missed you, too, Chica.”

  “Really, Pendejo?” I like to know that. She smiled. “You never are afraid to look at me, Pendejo. gringos never look at me.”

  “Oh, they look at you, Chica. They most definitely look at you, but not so that you know it, and not for too long. To look at you, Chica, is like gazing at the sun. It’s not possible without doing permanent harm.” He pushed her out of his room and went to sleep.

  Del Toro spoke slowly and carefully. He spoke English well and it impressed Arvel that he did not care to be impressive. He knew that he was successful and he knew that he was a Mexicano. He did not see this as a handicap. He never tried to act like a gringo.

  They dined on roast pig, bull and chicken, lounging on the terrace overlooking the valley below. The sunset changed the earthen colored walls, first to a warm auburn, then purple. Servants lit Japanese lanterns. The lights danced and cast shadows on the walls. Arvel was overcome with a sense of calm.

  Del Toro spoke plainly of the fact that he could not tolerate the bandits in his land, or for that matter en el Norte. He was proud of what he had achieved, and had no apologies for his past, and was proud to say that he never stole from a poor person, or took food out of a baby’s mouth. He never killed a man who did not deserve it, and he never had killed a woman or child. His was a chivalrous kind of banditry. The cattle from which he built his empire really did not belong to anyone, just as the wild horses or elk or deer roaming the desert never actually belonged to anyone. They were there for the taking. Sometimes they had been taken from the wild by aspiring cattleman first, but simply putting a brand on them did not make them automatically off limits, to his mind. You had to possess them once you branded them, and, if you had been too greedy or ambitious, and branded too many to watch, then you would have to suffer the consequences. Del Toro learned to watch many many head of steer.

  “So, my friend, Capitan,” he leaned forward and put his hand on Arvel’s shoulder. He liked to touch and be close to his friends. “Your Rangers will be like the boys from Texas, and we will run the bandits off the land of Arizona, no?”

  “That is our intention, Senor Del Toro.”

  “Please, it is Alejandro, or, if you do not mind my little joke, Jefe.”

  “Absolutely, Jefe.”

  “You know, that we are not good here in Mexico, at fighting the bandits. We do not have a good force, such as the Texas Rangers, and now, the Arizona Rangers. I would like to offer what assistance I can, but it will be limited. What I can offer to you is the cooperation of my neighbor ranchers, and the eyes and ears of the peons who live on my lands. They do not like the bandits, and our region is wealthy enough, with opportunity enough to keep the young men from choosing the bandit life.”

  “And
that is all we can ask, Jefe.”

  He paused, trying to find the right way to say what he felt. “I am an old man, Capitan. I was ambitious as a young man, and I wanted to be rich and powerful, and in some part, I have done these things. It is a great, how do you say, eh motivator, when you have little to eat and see the suffering of your friends and family. I did work hard for my fortune, and now, I will soon die, and I am more interested these days in making life better for my people.”

  “Noblesse oblige.”

  “Que?”

  “Something I was reminded of not long ago, Jefe. Those who have privilege and wealth bear the responsibility to help those in need.”

  “Si,si!, Capitan. These is exactly what is in my heart.”

  They talked into the night, mostly of cattle and mules and bulls, as Del Toro was an aficionado of bulls and bull fighting. His dream was to someday visit Spain and see the great bullfights. He talked of the toreadors, and how he had tried a little bullfighting on his own, but, he grabbed his belly and said that he was too fat to get close enough to the bull. He began to grow tired, and finally suggested they retire, as he had much to show Arvel the next day.

  Arvel retired to his room. His bed had been freshly made and lamps had been lit throughout the room. They had prepared a big metal tub for him. The water was tepid. Del Toro was an excellent host. He soaked in the tub until midnight, smoking a cigar left on a small table and finished off the last of a bottle of wine he and Jefe had been working on after dinner. He wondered at how nicely Chica could fit into the tub with him and it gave him some ideas. He thought about creeping about the compound, looking for her. He thought better of it and went to bed.

  Chica finally arrived, just as he was fully asleep. He did not mind one bit. She was gone when he awoke momentarily at three. She was like a ghost, silently wandering in and out of his life. He slept soundly to the gentle rhythm of the big fan overhead. Such sophistication compared to his humble ranch…and the Americanos feature themselves superior.

  He awoke at sunrise to the crow of a cock that had wandered into his room, pecking at centipedes and spiders. Del Toro let them roam as natural pest control. He slept well and wondered what happened to Chica. She was a busy girl. He wondered if she was with Del Toro and experienced a fleeting twinge of regret. The girl was getting at him, despite his attempts at ambivalence.

  He shaved and got dressed. We wandered out to admire Del Toro’s gardens and fountains. Great clay pots abounded with hibiscus; richly colored flowers adorned their branches. An elderly housekeeper beckoned him to the veranda. She had no English but Arvel understood her all the same. She had laid a table with fresh bread, tomatoes and goat cheese. He relaxed while waiting for his host to rise.

  He wished Rebecca could share this with him. She loved the desert and would have enjoyed Del Toro’s place. He had not thought of her for a long time, and oddly, now that Chica had come into his life, he thought more and more of his dead wife. He missed her and his little girl, and had done a good job of forcing them to the back of his mind, filling his life with the mundane tasks of running the ranch and managing the mules. It seemed that, the more leisure time he had, the more time for contemplation he had and this engendered a melancholy that was not necessarily bad, but often overwhelming. At that moment, he felt an overpowering desire to see the girl, punctuated by a sense of doom, and wondered how much longer he’d have to wait for her.

  The entire idea was preposterous, of course. Notwithstanding the difference in age, the fact that she was beyond crude, ignorant and seemingly either incapable of or completely unwilling to learn any sort of manners or propriety, as if he had fallen in love with some otherworldly creature; to have a love affair with a muse. What could she ever want with him? As difficult as it was for him to admit it, he was old enough to be her father. Admittedly, he had kept himself well enough, and he wasn’t a bad looking fellow, and he was quite handy between the sheets. He thought about that a bit. Of all people in the world, his mother was the one who opened his eyes in that arena. Just before his wedding, his mother gave him a copy of Martin Luther’s writings on marriage, and this was no small thing at the time. She never spoke of it, but she taught him to reject the Victorian notion that sex was relegated strictly for the act of procreation, and that is was not just to satisfy the desires of men. It was a great lesson, and one that Rebecca always appreciated. It seemed Chica was benefitting as well. Despite this, it was certain a beauty such as Chica would have many much younger men at her disposal and he found it vexing that she would give him any consideration at all.

  And then there was the fact that she constantly left him without saying good bye. Not knowing where she went, with whom she kept company, and when she would return. Could he tame her? If he did, would she cease to hold such an allure for him? Would he destroy in her what made her so exciting and appealing? It was like living out a tragic play, and he feared that he could not withstand any more heartache or pain. Could he simply let this play unfold? Forget about judging her, controlling her, making her comply with his sense of comfort or propriety? Could he not just let go and enjoy her for what she was, live in the moment and let her come into his life, bring joy into his life on her terms and let her go off until the next time? If only he could be left to his mules.

  They rode together at a leisurely pace, Arvel on Sally and Del Toro on a giant roan stallion. The animal had to be big to handle Del Toro’s weight, but the horse was so tall that Arvel had to look up whenever he spoke to the Jefe. He understood that the old bandit did this for a reason. He was wearing riding attire today, consisting of striped wool trousers, tucked in his boots, a brightly colored cotton shirt, and a short vest. He wore the sombrero he had on when he greeted Arvel the previous day. His saddle and gun belt and holster were nearly as fancy as Chica’s. He was evidently fond of silver.

  They headed south, across the big mesa that held Del Toro’s hacienda, to a steep decline, down to another large flat area. It was here that he had his cattle operations. He stopped at the edge and looked down. He pointed for Arvel. “Over there, Capitan, is where we get the cattle on the train,” Arvel squinted to see the rail line off in the distance. In front of it, men worked on horseback, looking like an army of ants preparing for winter. He estimated that two thousand head of cattle roamed below.

  “It is astounding, Jefe.” The old man smiled.

  “Let’s go down and see the men, shall, we Capitan?”

  They made it to a branding fire where several of the hands were gathered. They did not look like the rustlers he and Dick ran down for Hennessy. These men were well-to-do cowpunchers. They were older than what one would normally see up north. These men were cowboys for life. They had excellent horses and their outfits were similar to that of Del Toro’s. Arvel always liked the way the Mexicans and Indians dressed. They were not timid about bright colors and patterns.

  Arvel’s eyes wandered to the railroad siding. Jefe responded: “We were able to lay tracks west, to the sea, where we ship the cattle all over. It is more efficient and safer that way, and cattle do not lose so much weight.”

  My God, Arvel thought, if only Hennessy could see this operation. He could hear him now, “By Jasus and begorrah, how much did the track cost per foot, Mr. Del Toro?”

  They were back by midday and had dinner. Chica did not show when he and Del Toro had returned from the ride through the estate. Neither he nor Del Toro had spoken once of his niece. Del Toro acted as if she did not exist other than in the form of one of his inanimate fixtures, as if she was nothing more than a beautiful fountain or flowering bush, something to add to the scenery.

  Jefe continued to put plate after plate of food before Arvel. He overindulged and wanted to sleep, but forced himself away from the table. He packed and waited for Chica to interrupt him. She did not come into his room. Once he was packed and on Sally, Arvel thanked the Jefe for his hospitality. The old fellow handed him a package, wrapped like a Christmas present. He looked strange, the big, to
ugh bandit, in a vaquero outfit, holding a present in his hands, like a tremendous, overgrown child. “A little token, Senor Capitan.”

  Arvel smiled and took it, laid it on his saddle horn as he carefully opened it. It was a big Mexican daga, with an ivory inlayed handle, decorated with silver. The sheath was leather, tipped in silver, which all matched in the engraved pattern. It was a fine piece of work and reminded him again, of Chica’s.

  “It is fine, Jefe.” He pulled the knife out of its sheath and admired it. He wondered how much teasing he would get from Dick Welles when he wore this on his old, beat up belt with the GAR buckle he had since the war. He tucked the knife in his waistband and headed north. He looked back and Del Toro was waiving, smiling as if he had known Arvel for years rather than days. As he rode off, he did not see Chica appear next to the Jefe out of the shadows. He was annoyed again that she did not show up or see him off.

  Despite this, he left Del Toro heartened by an alliance that would help him and Dick Welles achieve their ultimate goal of taming the territory and the Mexican border along its boundaries. He liked and trusted the man.

  He rode steadily the rest of the day, Sally was happy and fit, Donny plodding along behind them. His mind wandered, pondered what was happening to his nice, normal, ordered life, how and why things became so complicated in just a few months. After Rebecca and Kate’s deaths, he successfully shut off his emotional being, and happily plodded along, like Donny, drifting through his existence without much effort or care. Now he was having a strange affair with an unpredictable senorita, and he was a captain of Rangers, making alliances with Jefe, the cattle baron. It was all simply ridiculous. His distractions were interrupted periodically by a feeling that he was being shadowed, and every now and again a bright flash, off to his southeast. A good quarter of a mile away, something metallic, something worn by the rider, deceived them in the late-day sun. He kept counsel of this stranger, and was careful not to be obvious in measuring the rider’s progress.