The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  He slept fitfully, between Sally and Donny, and relied on his trusted mules to raise the alarm in the event of danger. He could not understand the rider’s behavior, as he continued to shadow him until late afternoon. He lost contact when he made his camp and decided to eat a cold supper of Del Toro’s goat cheese and bull jerky. He chose not to even smoke, and wished for the company of the strange Aborigine man. At least he would not be alone.

  The rider continued to shadow him the next day. Arvel picked up the pace and hoped to be in Tombstone by dusk. He did not enjoy this return ride nearly as well as the trip down. The rider shadowing him shook his confidence and the thoughts of his dead wife and daughter threw him into a state of melancholy. Chica failing to see him off probably had the most to do with his mood, and he continuously chastised himself for having such thoughts about the girl. He was convinced it would lead to his ruination. He also secretly hated the idea of her being with Del Toro, or any other man, for that matter. He felt like a hypocrite. He felt that he had been with her, no strings attached, and it would only seem natural that she bedded down with others. He was convinced that he meant nothing to her. He was just some fauny gringo, who happened to strike her fancy at the moment. He was likely one of dozens. He became angrier at the thought. He thought about the fat Mexican Jefe on top of her, grunting and sweating like a big bloated hog and he suddenly wanted to shoot the man through the head with his Henry rifle. God he hated feeling this way. Why did she affect him so?

  So distracted was he that he failed to sense Sally’s hesitation, and continued to coax her by tapping her sides with his spurs, through a narrow path between two boulders. He knew this would open up to a plateau, which would help reveal the rider shadowing him more clearly. He was anxious to get through.

  He turned a corner and surprised the Apache bandits as much as he was surprised by them. He had not unpacked his six shooter and his Henry rifle was tied down. Before he could react, a rifle shot exploded, just inches away; he suddenly found himself on the ground, hot blood covered his face. He regained his senses and realized that Sally was down, a bullet through her neck. Donny broke, and ran off; several shots were fired at him, but went wide. Arvel lay next to his favorite mule and held her, speaking softly into her ear, oblivious to the danger all around him. Her eyes were wild with fear and confusion; her great, lovely ears moved about, trying to comprehend what was happening. She breathed in deeply, and brayed weakly. She was dead. Everything went black.

  Arvel awoke, his hands and feet bound and he was propped against a rock. Blood had dried his eyes shut, and only with great difficultly could he open them to see what hellish situation he was in. There were seven of them, all outlaw Apaches. They were drunk, and were gathered around some form who Arvel eventually determined was a Mexican soldier. He was in much worse shape than Arvel, as the Apaches had captured him the day before and had been working on him, off and on, ever since. He had no ears, nose, lips or eyelids, and absent these appendages, his face put Arvel in mind of a bloody skull. He was beyond the ability to speak, as his screams so abused his vocal chords that they no longer made sound when he cried out. He had become blind as he was unable to close his eyes over the course of two days. His teeth were constantly exposed in an horrific grin.

  One of the bandits noticed Arvel stir and ran over to him, whooping war cries. He kicked Arvel in the nose, opening a stream of blood which washed over his mouth and down his throat, adding an intense thirst to his pain and discomfort. He fell back again into darkness.

  When he awoke next, the bandits were working on something with a saw, and he finally pried his eyes open enough to see them sever the man’s remaining foot, just above the ankle. They used an old rusted saw, abandoned from some mining operation. It chopped through the bone with difficulty.

  Once his feet were gone, the bandits all screamed joyously. One grabbed the severed feet and made them walk around their captive. Sensing he was imminently dying, the lead bandit told him to march back to his army post. They kicked and prodded him until he was up on his bleeding stumps, walked a few yards, collapsing at Arvel’s feet. He was finally dead.

  Their attention now turned to Arvel, and they began to giggle like school children. The leader pulled out his big knife and came at him. He loomed over Arvel, ready to begin cutting, when, suddenly, as if an errant gust of wind had kicked up, the Indian’s hair rose, and, as if by magic, a neat hole appeared just between his eyes. He gazed more stupidly than he had ever done in life. The back of his head became an open crater, his brain splattered on three of his companions. He pitched forward on top of the Mexican soldier. Now Arvel had two corpses at his feet. The others looked on in bewilderment. The faint sound of a gunshot could be heard far off to the southeast, but it seemed to not register with any of the miscreants that they were under attack. The two drunkest bandits started to laugh at the plight of their leader. The others looked on dumbfounded.

  The second Indian was hit low, the bullet shattering his jaw, removing a good part of it. He reached up slowly with his hands, and felt the spot where he used to have a face, then pitched over. The others finally comprehended and began milling about, holding their guns at the ready. As they were distracted, Arvel grabbed the knife at his feet and freed his hands. He jabbed the knife into the gut of the nearest Indian, raking it sideways and severing the artery in his abdomen; the bandit collapsed. Arvel just as quickly turned and slashed the neck of the next one. Another fell to the long range rifle shot, and the two remaining ran for their horses. Arvel grabbed a Winchester lying among the corpses and placed a shot into the back of the head of each escaping bandit. He fell over, exhausted.

  He dreamed of Chica again. “Pendejo, Pendejo, wake up.” He felt her shoving him on the shoulder. She turned him over and assessed the damage. His nose was broken and he was having trouble focusing. He wanted only to sleep. She got him up and out of the sun. She poured water over his head and cleaned the blood from his face and eyes. He looked better, at least. “Stay awake, Pendejo. I knew a man who got kicked in the head by a horse, and he went to sleep, and he never woke up. Come on, Pendejo, stay awake.”

  She tried to get him on a horse, but he was too unstable and vomited every time he sat upright. “Let me just lie down, Chica. I’m very tired. I’ll be alright in the morning.”

  She pushed him hard on the shoulders and became angry. “Pendejo, you must wake up. Please Pendejo.”

  He understood and focused. “I’m sorry, Chica. I’m not trying to cause trouble.”

  She found Donny and fashioned a litter, the kind the Indians used to make from their Teepee poles. She coaxed Arvel into it and he sat back in the hammock formed by the bedroll Chica stretched over the long branches she had found. She formed a tent over him to keep him out of the sun, and doused him again with water. “We must get you to Tombstone, Pendejo, there will be a doctor there.”

  She rode hard for most of the day, impeded here and there by uneven terrain and loose rocks. By late afternoon she stopped to check on him. He had fallen in and out of consciousness. He looked up at her and smiled.

  “Rebecca. Rebecca, it’s awfully hot.”

  “I know, Pend…Arvel, I know it is hot. Try to rest, we are almost there.”

  “Will Kate be there?”

  “Yes, sure, she will be there, Arvel. Now, sit back, and rest, we are going on.”

  He babbled incoherently. “Kate, Kate, my little baby cake, Kate.” He sat up again. “Rebecca, I’m awfully hot. I have a headache.”

  “It is okay, Arvel, I will put some wet cloths on you. Have a drink.”

  He smiled at her again. “Give us a kiss.”

  Chica leaned over and kissed his cheek and he grabbed her, trying to pull her onto the litter. She pushed him away.

  “Now, now, Arvel,” she pulled away, “Not while Kate is around.”

  He smiled again, and held his head. “Not while Kate is around,” he rested again, and became quiet.

  Billy Livingston had seen he
r, off in a distance, while checking his traps and soon arrived to render help. He approached cautiously. Chica was dangerous in the best of circumstances and in her anxiety, she was deadly. Billy looked under the tent covering the litter.

  “It is the mule breeder.” He blurted out, thinking at first that Chica did not know. He remembered Arvel speaking of the Mexican girl, and now he was meeting her. She looked just as she had been described in all the stories he had heard. He looked at her pony to see if any heads were tied to her saddle. He now understood why Arvel had inquired about her.

  Chica told him about the fight, and Billy had heard the shooting earlier in the day, wondering what was going on. “You got that bunch? That is good, they were some bad hombres.”

  “Indios!” Chica corrected him. “Goddamned Apaches bastards.” She spat on the ground between them.

  Billy led her to his camp and went about making Arvel comfortable. Chica protested and insisted they get to Tombstone straight off.

  “It’s a bad idea, Miss.” He looked Arvel over. “How long has he been in this state?”

  “Since early today.”

  “Look at his eyes, Miss.” The pupils were dilated. “Now, look at mine.” He grabbed her hand and put it to Arvel’s neck. “Feel his heartbeat? Feel how slow? Now feel your own.”

  He stood up and looked at Arvel. “His brain’s swelling.”

  Arvel looked up at Billy Livingston. “General? General, everyone’s dead, General.” He sat up on his elbows. “I told him not to attack straight on, I said flank, flank, flank, but he wouldn’t, he’s dead, too. I’m the only one left, General. I wasn’t yellow. I got hit, spun around and hit again. I got hit in the back, but I wasn’t running away General, I wasn’t running. I wasn’t. I told him to flank, I told him, General, but he wouldn’t listen.” He lay back, exhausted.

  “What can we do for him? He cannot die.” For once in her life she felt vulnerable. It was the first time in her life she had felt real compassion for any man.

  “I can help him, but you will not like my idea, I think.” He looked at Chica. She looked back at him, helpless.

  “What can you do?”

  “Cut a hole in his head.”

  “Ay, chingao!” She began pacing, not knowing what to think. “You are a Wolfer. What do you know of these things?”

  “I have done some doctoring in my time, Miss. My father was a healer.”

  “And you are sure of this, Wolfer? What is your name?” He told her.

  “I am sure of one thing, Miss. It is more than thirty miles to Tombstone, it’s getting dark, and the Captain here’s gonna die if we don’t take the pressure off his brain.”

  She thought about what he said. Why did she get involved in this gringo? She should have let the Apaches have him, or shot him the first day she met him. She should not have begun to like this Pendejo. She paced around a bit more and looked up at the strange Negro. “Okay, Billy Livingston, but if he dies, you will follow him. I promise you.”

  Billy swallowed hard. He knew she would not go back on her word.

  Billy did yeoman work on Arvel’s skull. As he worked, Arvel looked up at Chica. He said: “Rebecca, that hurts. What is it, Rebecca, ticks?”

  “Yes, Arvel, it is ticks.”

  “Oh.” He held her hands tightly. “Got to get those ticks off. Don’t want tick fever.” He drifted off again. Billy finished up.

  The pressure was relieved, and Arvel slept where he lay in Chica’s lap during the operation. Billy boiled a half eagle coin and plugged the hole with it, neatly suturing the scalp back in place. He looked odd, reaching down, as if kissing Arvel on the head, to bite the suture off, close to the skin.

  Chica watched him intently. He did everything with care, and so cleanly. He boiled every instrument, and washed his hands thoroughly before and during the procedure. She looked at his stitching and decided she would not kill him, even if Arvel did not survive. The Negro had done everything he could, and his handiwork showed that he cared and wanted to help.

  “Feel his heart, now, Miss.” Chica felt at the spot Billy had shown her before. His heart beat more regularly, and more strongly now.

  “We can let him sleep now, Miss. I’ll help you move him to his bedroll if you like.”

  “He is fine, here.” She held him like a newborn in her lap, and they both slept until morning.”

  They stayed at Billy Livingston’s camp all the next day. Chica rode Alanza back to the battle scene and stripped the corpses of any valuables. She rounded up the horses and took the saddle off of poor Sally and collected all the guns. She did her best to clean up the Mexican soldier’s corpse, found his feet and buried them with his body in a shallow grave. She took her favorite crucifix from around her neck and placed it in his hands and covered him with rocks, then fashioned a cross from some branches. She said a prayer she learned from the old priest who taught her to be Catholic. She left the Indians to rot. She propped their corpses up for all to see, in the hopes that other Apaches would happen on them, and fear their ghosts and be damned.

  One of them was not dead, as Arvel’s shot went wide, gouging out a portion of his skull and severing his right ear. The Indian jumped up, startled by the young woman moving amongst his dead comrades. He pounced on one of the horses and rode as fast as he could. Chica shouted at him in Chiricahua, “You run from a woman, you dog.”

  The Indian stopped, wheeled his horse and kicked its flanks. He began a long scream, shouldering his Winchester. Chica drew her Schofield and pointed it at him, as if she were shooting bottles off a log, her left hand rested on her hip. She did not fire.

  This unnerved the Indian more so, and he picked up the pace, closing the distance more quickly between them. He began firing wildly at her as he closed. Rocks and dirt kicked up around her, and the steadier she stood, the wilder and more ineffective he became.

  One shot creased her left cheek, just below her eye, and the Apache was certain he hit her well, yet Chica stood, like a rock, unmoved, unflinching, a stream of blood washing down her neck. She did not even put her hand up to assess the damage inflicted by the ball’s impact.

  He was committed now, and there was no turning back. Like a moth, hurtling toward a flame, he somehow knew that this would be his end. She was irresistible, like a witch whom had cast a spell over him. She pressed the trigger of her silver six shooter, and the Indian pitched backward. He went down hard, on his neck, blood began to flow freely from the hole Arvel had given him in his head, where he once had an ear. Chica walked up on him, pointing the revolver at his head. She lowered the gun, fired, severing his spine, just below the jaw. The Indian’s body flopped, lifeless, while his eyes darted about him, trying to comprehend. She spit on his face: “Hijo de tu puta madre,” is all she said. She left him to die slowly in the company of his friends.

  When she returned to Billy Livingston’s camp, Arvel was sleeping soundly. Billy met her as she rode up, and helped her with the horses and traps. He forgot himself for a moment, and grabbed Chica under the jaw, turning her face to the sunlight. Her eyes flashed, but she allowed him to look at her wound. She was still flush from battle and a little keyed up.

  “I can fix that, Miss.”

  “It is nothing, leave it alone, I need a get Pendejo to town.”

  He beckoned her to the spot where he had treated Arvel, and began pulling out his kit. He smeared something on her wound, which made it feel as if she had slept on it funny. He began suturing her face. “Much too pretty a face to end up with an ugly scar, Miss.”

  She sat, uneasy, not comfortable with the man sitting so close, not liking the feeling of being out of control. She looked over at him. He was not leering at her; there was nothing bad in his eyes. He was simply caring for her.

  He finished, and looked back at his work. He handed her a wet rag and broken piece of mirror so that she could clean the dried blood from her neck and breast. He sat back and surveyed his work. He grunted in satisfaction.

  He gave Chica an
unguent and told her to put it on her wound every day. In ten days, she could remove the stitches. She looked at her face. She was pleased with Billy’s handiwork.

  “You are good, Wolfer.”

  Billy looked on at Arvel, who was sleeping quietly. He looked at Chica and spoke more than he normally would to a pretty young woman.

  “He’s a good bloke but he’s too good for his own good, Miss.” He waited for her reaction and continued. “You saved his life, Miss. You need to keep savin’ it, for the rest of your time.” He immediately regretted meddling into the affairs of these strangers but was compelled to say it. He knew how different these two were, how they had so many barriers between them, that their alliance balanced on a razor’s edge. He got up and began busying himself with insignificant tasks.

  “You see a lot, Wolfer.”

  She stayed another day with Billy Livingston and left early next morning. She took Arvel into Tombstone and found a doctor who looked Arvel over, and kept him in his home for a couple of days. He was impressed with Billy Livingston’s work. Arvel slept soundly for a full day and awoke in a strange room. It smelled of antiseptic and leather. The doctor was dining in another room with his family. Arvel asked them what had happened to the girl who had brought him. He realized he no longer had any money, and his new pocket watch was gone. The doctor simply shrugged. He told him that the girl had left the same day she had delivered him there. She said to tell him that Donny was in the stable, and his clothes had been laundered. All bills had been paid. The doctor went back to his meal.