The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  Arvel moved into a local boarding house where he would end up staying for a few days, still too weak to travel home. He sent word to Uncle Bob and Dick Welles to report on his whereabouts and checked on Donny at the livery stable where Chica had left him. The proprietor was a dirty and short fat man by the name of Dobbs. He was too friendly to Arvel. He assured Arvel that everything was in order and inquired into how he had come upon the horses and equipment. Arvel let his Arizona Ranger badge show for the first time on his lapel. He tended to Donny.

  “Didn’t the young lady tell you?” He didn’t look up at the fat man.

  He laughed lewdly. “That little squaw’s quite a firecracker…a real wildcat, I bet.” He winked at Arvel.

  Arvel’s eyes flashed, and the man responded by cowering and averting his eyes. “She’s not a squaw, you fool, and she’s got a name, but you can refer to her as the lady. I see you had exhibited better manners around her than you have with me.”

  “How…how’s that?” the fat man stuttered his reply.

  “Because you’re still alive.”

  Arvel finished with Donny. “Let’s see these traps left by the lady.”

  “I’ve figured a good price for everything, it’s all here, and accounted for. I’m certain you’ll find it to your satisfaction. None of the horses bore brands, so they all belong to you, and the lady. She told me to deal with you once you were feeling less poorly.”

  The guns and other valuables lay on a table. Arvel recognized the big knife and the Winchester he used in the battle with the Indians. The knife bore dried blood on the blade and hilt. The Winchester was in fair condition, the rest of the guns were poorly maintained and had little value. The sight of the equipment made him ill. He quickly signed the proposal and handed it to the fat man without looking at him.

  “How’d you say you came across all this, Captain?” He forgot himself, and continued to get under Arvel’s skin.

  He looked the fat man in the eye. “I didn’t say, but I was attacked by a band of Apaches in the desert while returning from Mexico. They were torturing a Mexican soldier to death and when it came my turn, the lady killed most of them with a fancy hunting rifle she stole from a wealthy Colonel. I killed the rest with that knife there, and that Winchester. I’ll take cash if you please. Send it to the Harper boarding house. I’m leaving for my ranch in the morning. Please have it to me by then. Good day.” He turned away, wanting to leave before the merchant said anything further to annoy him, his head was spinning and when he walked out into the midday sun, he thought he would fall over. He took a deep breath and grabbed onto a nearby stair rail and slowly regained his composure.

  He wandered about Tombstone for the rest of the day. He felt ill at ease, spent, washed out. He had never been affected by combat, but the killing of Sally and the brutal torture of the Mexican soldier and his wounds made him feel vulnerable and weak. It was the first time in his life that his confidence had really been shaken, and it was the first time in his life he had known fear. He did not like to feel this way. He saw a gun shop and thought about his old timey guns. He considered trading them, buying a new set. He kept walking, he was having difficulty focusing. He did not want to talk to anyone, and he was in no mood for conducting such business.

  Chica was on his mind constantly. He was awestruck by her courage and fortitude, and just as vexed and frustrated by her constant leaving. He hated that she always left without so much as a goodbye. He would have to wait for her to turn up, at her choosing, at her whim. It made him hate her as much as he loved her. He thought a lot about the fat man at the livery stable. He was typical. The whore Indian and the old white man. He hated the thought of men thinking lewd things about Chica. He imagined that, despite her bravado, she must feel the sting of their gestures and sneers. The bloated cowards. They could sneer and mutter under their breath, but they would never outright ridicule her, as they knew that it would likely be the last thing they’d ever do.

  He heard a woman laugh and could swear it was Chica. He quickened his paced and walked around a corner toward the sound and nearly bumped into a group of vaqueros. They were loading a wagon. A young woman was with them. It wasn’t Chica. They looked at the pale gringo looking at them. The leader nodded to him.

  Arvel caught himself, and greeted them, “Buenos dias.” He looked at the ground. He looked up at the woman, sitting in the driver’s seat of the wagon; he tipped his hat to her, “Ma’am.” The vaquero leader gave him a smile and they all went about their work. Arvel wondered if any of them knew Chica. These were the kind of men she should be with, young people of her own kind, not some aging gringo.

  He stopped at a shop specializing in women’s clothing and stood, uncomfortable in the doorway. A pretty young woman greeted him. He nodded and removed his hat. He looked around nervously. The young woman inquired into what he was seeking.

  “I don’t really know.”

  The young woman had been in Tombstone long enough to know not to inquire too deeply into the affairs of gentlemen customers. She did not ask for whom the purchase was intended. After watching Arvel fidget for a few minutes she finally spoke.

  “We just got in some of the latest fashions from New York. They’re quite lovely.” She grabbed a dress and held it up under her chin. She smiled at Arvel. Arvel stared at her for several moments. She was a lovely young girl, from back East, considering her accent. She reminded him of the young ladies he knew just before the war. He wondered why she was here. He wanted to ask her, then didn’t. He wanted to tell her to go back home, where there were no Apaches or Mexicans or bandits, go back East to civilization. His mind was off onto a dozen different thoughts. “Or perhaps something else?” She brought him back out of his trance.

  “No, no, that’s fine, that would be nice.” He imagined Chica’s brown skin against the white fabric. “Will that fit you?” The girl seemed about Chica’s size.

  “We have one that will.”

  “Yes, that’s, that’ll be fine. And all the undergarments that would be appropriate to it, if you please. And shoes. I don’t know the size, but something that will go well with the outfit, but the best you have. It has got to be the best you have.” He thanked the woman and left. He felt better now. He felt good when he was doing things for Chica.

  XI A Deal With the Devil

  The young deputy was visited three more times by the man in the mustard suit. He was beaten each time. He did not know why. He did nothing wrong. He did nothing, really but sleep, eat a little and smoke the pipe when they let him, which was less and less often. He seemed to need more of it as time progressed and they gave him less. He could not understand.

  One day the old man and the German came to visit. The deputy sat up in bed, put his legs to the side and sat as upright as he dared. He was always about to vomit, it seemed. He received no beating this time. He sat quietly and did not look up. He responded to their questions, but said no more.

  “He’s ready, I believe.” The German was impressed. He did not hold much hope and did not really care. The man in the mustard suit was a minor player in his scheme, but he was a zealot for the cause and a zealot anarchist was not to be ignored. He let the man in the mustard suit proceed. They talked with their backs turned to the young deputy. He could not hear what they were saying. He had no energy, and wanted to sleep. He found himself unable to control himself any longer, and fell back on the bed. The man in the mustard suit looked over his shoulder, then back at the German. They spoke some more.

  The deputy was jarred from his sleep as he was being pulled by his hair from his bed. The old man threw him to the floor and began kicking him. He kicked him on every part of his body, then grabbed a coal shovel and beat him with that. He beat him until the old man was wheezing and too weak to swing the shovel any more. Great streams of drool ran out of the old man’s mouth as he worked the young deputy over. He could feel it run onto his neck and back. It made him more nauseous. He could feel the beating and the drool but by this time, the d
eputy could not see. The old man left him there, on the floor of the laundry. The deputy did not understand.

  Ging Wa waited until the old man left. She pulled the deputy with all her might, and got him back on the bed. She cleaned him and made him comfortable. Went out to get him some soup. When she returned he was staring at the ceiling. He cried great tears that rolled down his face and onto his pillow. He did not try to hide them from Ging Wa. She fed him, all the while dabbing his tears away, and saying nothing. He shook and cried until his hysteria gave way to exhaustion. He lay still, breathing shallowly, trying to gain control. Ging Wa held him, brushed his hair away and hummed her tune. He was utterly broken. He had no dignity left, he cried in front of Gin Wa, and he would have cried in front of his own mother, had she been there. He did not care who saw him cry. He just wanted to make the torture stop, and he wanted the pipe so badly he could not stand it.

  They awoke some time later, not certain how long they had been asleep, likely through until morning. The windowless room made it impossible to tell the time of day. The young deputy woke and felt the girl resting her head on his chest. He could smell her hair. She woke and looked up. He looked into Ging Wa’s eyes. He held her tenderly. He felt better today. Ging Wa was given courage to speak. “You must not cry out when he beats you.” The young deputy welled up again. He wanted to cry.

  “I want to go home.” He turned on his side, facing the wall. “I just want to go home.” She rubbed his back gently.

  “You must not take the pipe the next time they give it to you.”

  “I can’t help it. All I want is the pipe.”

  “I will help you, but you must not take the pipe.” She left him and came back with a plate of meat. They had been starving him. He had only eaten soup since he had gotten there. He picked at it and became ill. He finally kept some down.

  “If you can keep away from the pipe, I can get you more meat, and you will be stronger every day.”

  He turned toward her. “Why would you do this for me?” The meanness came through. She did not know the answer to the question. She just wanted to help him.

  She stood up. “When I bring you the pipe you will smoke it, but it will contain only herbs. You must act as if it is real. You must be dreamy.”

  He thought about this. He wanted the pipe badly, but he wanted to end this torture more. He nodded agreement.

  They played out their deception for a week. The young deputy was stronger. He could keep food down now. He still wanted the pipe, but took Ging Wa’s advice and denied himself of it. The man in the mustard suit did not come around. He would have to be prepared for him when he did. Ging Wa would sneak him newspapers and milk. He did not find her damaged skin so appalling. He began to see her as a human being. He missed her when she was not around.

  He was terrified on the day the old man arrived. He greeted him more lucidly. The old man was shocked to find him in good order. The young deputy told him that he would be leaving, and would like his traps. The old man sneered. “I thought you’d turn yellow. You might want to look at this before making any bold plans, my lad.” He handed him a letter from his mother. She had responded to the anarchist’s letter. She was pleased that her boy was in his employ and thanked him for paying her son such generous wages. The deputy looked on, not comprehending.

  “So what?”

  “I won’t dance around it, lad. If you don’t do what we want, we’ll kill her.”

  He felt ill again. He looked beyond the old man and peered into Ging Wa’s eyes. The old man looked at the two of them and smiled.

  Ging Wa was beaten for helping the young deputy. Madam Lee had a special treatment for the young woman and locked her in the laundry’s garret without light, food, or water for four days. The temperatures reached one hundred thirty degrees. She hummed her song and never uttered a word to Madam Lee.

  XII Waiting

  Arvel was feeling better, less vulnerable as he regained his strength. He still grieved over Sally. He loved her so much, as she was the best mule he had ever owned. He never had even a dog that was so good a companion. He blamed himself for her death, and had difficulty getting over it. He was also annoyed with Chica. She had not come to see him, and he did not know where she was, or what she was doing. It was beginning to occupy his mind constantly. The waiting was unbearable, as he would wander out to the edge of the ranch, looking for signs of a rider coming up the dirt road to visit. He often woke in the night, believing he had heard her sneak into his room. She was never there, and a pain struck his gut at every realization. He stopped eating and lost weight.

  Finally the opportunity came for him to get away from the ranch, to deliver some mules up to a customer outside of Flagstaff. He liked to travel north. There were fewer Apaches up that way, and the Indians who did live around the area were fine people. He traded with them when he could. He resolved to ride by train most of the way as it was especially hot this summer and there was talk of a drought.

  He left early. Donny and the sale mules were behind his new mount, Tammy, whom he had been training to handle riders. She was gentle and of the same parentage as Sally. She actually looked a lot like Sally, and this made him feel a bit less blue. He made his way to the train station and from there would ride the rails up to Flagstaff. He’d then ride Tammy the rest of the journey.

  He had avoided trains mostly because they reminded him of his little girl who used to love them so much. She would sit on his lap to get a boost so that she could watch out the window. She would never take her eyes off the countryside, and ask one question after the next. She wanted to know everything. She had a wonderful, curious mind.

  He decided to stop over in Phoenix to let the mules exercise and recover from the ride. It would be a leisurely journey to give him some time away from the ranch and to keep from constantly looking for Chica.

  He had a couple of hours to kill and made his way to Washington Street, one of Rebecca’s and Kate’s favorite places to visit. He wanted to get something else for Chica as he’d left the dress he’d bought her at the ranch and held out some ridiculous hope that perhaps he’d bump into her during his travels. He stopped into Dorris Brothers. He missed coming here with his girls. It always smelled good at the Dorris Brothers. It smelled of new things, of opulent things. New, finely dyed wool, exquisite leather, perfume. He could not decide what to get her. None of the jewelry at Dorris Brothers looked anything like what Chica wore. He’d already gotten her clothes. He wandered over to the perfume counter. A lovely, mature woman was busily working behind the counter. She looked as if she’d just arrived from Paris. She looked at Arvel over her pince nez. She smiled, addressed him in a heavy French accent. She showed him some perfumes and he settled on Eau de Cologne Impériale. He was pleased. The box itself was worth the cost and he was excited about presenting it to Chica. He added some hair combs and a mirror.

  He decided against having them wrapped, the Dorris Brothers bag was ornate enough and for some reason, he could not articulate, he wanted to show off the packages. He wanted to let everyone know that he’d bought some things for Chica.

  The train ride was pleasant enough and he had passed the time by reading the latest newspapers from back East. He found a fairly recent copy of The Daily Record, a newspaper from Baltimore. He was amused to read about things happening in his hometown. It seemed like a world away, and the memories it brought back made him melancholy. A rotund man in a striped suit sat across from him. The man fidgeted, then coughed, and finally started talking. Arvel looked up from his paper. He had read the same line five times and was thinking of Chica. He smiled at the man who desired so much attention. “I see you noticed my hat, sir.” Arvel had not, but smiled politely.

  “It is a dandy.” Arvel looked out the window briefly. The fat man stood up and bowed briefly, he extended his hand.

  “Name is Chaney.” He plopped down abruptly as the train lurched. “They call it a Homburg.” He pronounced it carefully, as to assure he had gotten it right. He fid
dled with the brim, turning it over and over in his hands.

  “Are you on business, Mr. Chaney?”

  “Oh, yes. But I’ve been in Arizona for a month now. Lovely country, Mr. Walsh.”

  The big man handed him a card, National Cash Register. “I am in the theft avoidance business.” He smiled and offered Arvel a twenty-five cent cigar. “These are for the customers, when we close the deal. Arvel smelled it and allowed Chaney to cut the end for him. They smoked in silence for a while.

  “I hope you do not mind, but I like to play a little game.”

  Arvel nodded, “Be my guest.” The fat man sat back and looked at Arvel for several moments.

  “You lost your wife around five years ago. And your daughter too, I am sorry to say.” Arvel squirmed in his seat.

  “You are some kind of law, but not in a full capacity.” The fat man blew smoke at the ceiling. “You have had two watches stolen recently. You were in a battle lately, which had affected your health, and you are presently courting a younger lady, which is giving you some anxiety.”

  Arvel looked at the man and smiled, amused. “That’s some parlor trick, sir.”

  “Oh, it’s no trick, Mr. Walsh.” He tapped a long ash off his cigar. “Strictly observation. I am paid to observe folks, to find out what it is that will make them buy, close the deal.”

  “Will you share with me how you know all these things about me?”

  “Well, yes, first, your wife has passed away, as you are wearing quality clothing, but nothing purchased within the past five years. That suggests to me that you will wear fine clothes, but will not bother to buy them for yourself. Your daughter, I am sorry to bring up sad memories, and please forgive me, made part of your watch chain of her own hair, but it is not as neat a job as if she had done it recently. You also have gifts, but none of them are for a child. The gifts you do have are for a lady, fine perfume by the style of the box and the scent I detect and some other baubles that a young beauty would appreciate. You have pin holes on your lapel from wearing a law badge, but you are not a retired detective, as I see you are well off, far beyond what could be obtained from that of a lawman’s salary, and I saw you handling your mules before embarking on our trip. You handled them as one who has been doing such craft for many years. And, I see no evidence that you are armed, so, you must be some kind of law in a nonspecific capacity. You have been in battle, as I see the wound on your head, by the way, a very capable trepanation if I do say so. You have lost weight, as your clothes are loose on you, so I surmise the young lady has put you off your grub, and, I suppose, that’s about it.”