The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  Now André stood up, raising one leg up on a log. He stuck his thumbs in the heavy leather belt around his waist. He gazed at the moon and began his recitation:

  “Ancient Person, for whom I

  All the flattering youth defy,

  Long be it e'er thou grow old,

  Aching, shaking, crazy cold;

  But still continue as thou art,

  Ancient Person of my heart.

  On thy withered lips and dry,

  Which like barren furrows lie,

  Brooding kisses I will pour,

  Shall thy youthful heart restore,

  Such kind show'rs in autumn fall,

  And a second spring recall;

  Nor from thee will ever part,

  Ancient Person of my heart.

  Thy nobler parts, which but to name

  In our sex

  (Jess giggled until she was swatted soundly by Ellen)

  would be counted shame,

  By ages frozen grasp possest,

  From their ice shall be released,

  And, soothed by my reviving hand,

  In former warmth and vigor stand.

  All a lover's wish can reach,

  For thy joy my love shall teach;

  And for thy pleasure shall improve

  All that art can add to love.

  Yet still I love thee without art,

  Ancient Person of my heart.”

  Everyone clapped. André sat down. He was pleased.

  Arvel was up early. He ate breakfast with Mose and the Pinkerton. He felt a little silly around the rough men with his recitation. They did not seem to care one way or the other. He heard André stir and took him a cup of coffee. The girls were sprawled on the floor of the tent, their togas heaped in a pile near the flap of the tent. Arvel covered them. Jess mumbled in her sleep and snuggled closer to Ellen.

  “I’ll be heading out, André. Tell the girls that it was a pleasure.”

  “The pleasure was ours, sir.” André shook his hand. The boy was frail, both in spirit and physicality. Arvel felt touched by the young man’s reaction to his encouragement. It felt good to do such a kindness.

  “Mr. Walsh, you have renewed my passion.”

  “That’s good, André. You keep to your work. One day, people will appreciate your art, and, your chronicling of this land. Don’t worry about the Maurices of the world. You’ll constantly be confronted by them. Pity them for their ignorance, and try to be patient with them. You may, or may not enlighten them.”

  André, without thinking, grabbed Arvel and hugged him, and just as quickly pulled away. Arvel patted the young man’s shoulder. He climbed into the saddle and tipped his hat to the young artist. “Au revoir, André.”

  “Au revoir, Mr. Walsh, au revoir.”

  XIV Joaquin

  Chaney was waiting for him at a table by the front window of the Flagstaff hotel. He was just buttering his toast. He stood up and shook Arvel’s hand, dropping crumbs from the napkin covering his lap onto the floor. He poured coffee for Arvel and smiled. Arvel felt good. He’d been enjoying the salesman’s company and the diversions of the land up north. The weather was cooler than at home and he felt a sense of accomplishment at delivering his mules to a grateful customer. The young artists had also improved his spirits. He drank coffee with Chaney and waited for his meal.

  Chaney pushed his spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose and looked at the morning paper. “This is what I love about your land, Mr. Walsh.” He cleared his throat and began reading,

  Cora Chiquita, Female Desperado, Runs Amok

  Flagstaff. — The peace officers of this county have arrested Cora Chiquita, known as “Cora the Cowgirl,” who made a sensation here on Friday night by riding up and down the main street, a revolver in each hand, yelling and shooting at everyone whose appearance did not suit her fancy.

  Not until the girl, who is known far and wide as “the beautiful devil,” had loped out of town did the sheriff and his posse show their heads. They later found her unconscious in an abandoned Indian hogan.

  La Chiquita is one of the best shots in the Arizona territory, and is said to be in close touch with a bad gang of outlaws in the Southwest. She is 23 years old, pretty as a picture, about a quarter-blood Cherokee, wears man’s attire, always carries two revolvers and is a fearless rider. Not long ago she was driven out of New Mexico for general reckless shooting. She has killed several men. She is being held in the Flagstaff jail, under triple guard, awaiting trial.

  He looked up at Arvel. “Where else in the civilized world would you find such characters, eh, Mr. Walsh?” He stopped grinning when he saw Arvel’s face. He’d lost color and looked as if he had just learned of the death of a loved one.

  Arvel looked blankly at the salesmen. “I am sorry, Mr. Chaney, but I have business to attend to. He absent-mindedly took Chaney’s paper, folded it up and tucked it under his arm. He quickly walked out of the hotel’s dining room. He was tempted to gather up every copy of the paper he could find, and burn them.

  “Pendejo! Wha’ are you doing here?” She smiled broadly at him. She was glad to see him. “I am in jail,” she spoke through the bars of her cell. She had been confined alone, as she had been ‘fomenting a riot’ according to the jailer.

  “I see you are in jail, Chica.”

  “Oh, Pendejo, I got too much whisky the other night.”

  He did not speak to her as they rode back to the hotel. He told her to wait for him down the street, while he gathered his belongings.

  “Are you ashamed to be seen with me, Pendejo?”

  He glared at her as they rode out of town. He felt that every eye was on him. “Not now, Chica, I don’t want to talk about this now.”

  She sulked for a while, then tried to tease him.

  “I don’t want to talk right now, Chica. Please keep your mouth closed. I don’t want to discuss anything; I don’t want to hear your voice right now.”

  She had never seen him angry. She did not like it. They finally stopped for the night at a boarding house just south of Flagstaff. He got them separate rooms. She left him alone for a while, then knocked on his door. He would not answer. He began to doze, and she was suddenly in his bed. He sat up with a start.

  “How did you do, that, Chica?”

  “I come in, through the window.” She grinned.

  “You’d better go back to your room, Chica.” He turned away from her.

  “Wha’ is wrong, Pendejo?”

  “I am just tired, Chica. I am tired of all this. I am not cut out to live the way you live. I missed you, and you go off, you don’t tell me where you are. Now, I have used my influence as a Ranger to get you out of jail. I constantly…” He was too angry for the words to come.

  “I am sorry, Pendejo. I should not have had so much whisky.”

  He looked at her. “You don’t get it, girl. You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “I see that you are sad, Pendejo. I am sorry that you are sad. I like you a lot better when you are funny.”

  He put his hands over his face and rubbed his temples. “I have lost my wife, my child, my Sally, and now, I am constantly thinking of you.”

  “Sally? Who is this Sally, Pendejo?”

  “My mule.”

  “Pendejo, you need a get a grip on yourself. Sally was a beast of burden.”

  “Well, I loved her.”

  Chica shrugged. “I am sorry if I make you sad, Pendejo. I din’ never mean to make you sad. If you like, I will go back to jail and take my medicine.”

  He turned and grabbed her. “I can’t stand this uncertainty. You come and you go. I don’t know where you are, what you are doing. I look for you to show up, and you aren’t there. I, I just don’t know, Chica. I just don’t know.”

  “Well, Pendejo. I don’ see, how do I say, no estímulo a permanecer.”

  “I have no idea what you are saying, Chica.”

  “You never ask me to stay, Pendjeo. I have never heard you say, don’ go, Chi
ca. Not once.”

  She got up and lit two cigarettes. She handed him one. “Come on, Pendejo, les’ stop arguing.” She smoked, while taking off her dress, crawled into the bed and pressed herself against him. “You are jus’ tired. Maybe that Wolfer drilled too deep in your head.”

  She was gone the next morning. He thought, hoped that she perhaps had gone back to her own room, but when he checked the door, the room was empty. He found a note, badly written, in childlike scrawl, half English and half Spanish on a table in his room. It was her attempt at meeting him halfway, as she could not stay around, be tied down in such a way. It was a promise to see him again, soon, but not where or when. He was missing another watch.

  Arvel turned back and rode to Flagstaff to get the train to Tucson. He felt hollow, drained. All the good that the trip had done him up until this point had been undone by Chica’s arrest. He did not know why he never asked Chica to stay. He could not put his finger on it, but something about her or the two of them together simply did not make sense. It was not necessarily the difference in age, and he was certain it was not her race. He was completely smitten, physically. He loved her mannerisms and the way she spoke. Her broken English was wonderful. It wasn’t so much even the fact that she was so uncontrollable and a thief. He felt stupid for being ashamed of using his influence to get her out of jail. She had done no real harm. Truth was the sheriff and the jailer had gotten a kick out of her. Anyone with a brain, with a sense of humor, and who could see without prejudice, seemed to enjoy Chica. But there was something about the strange interlude with the young debutantes at Walnut canyon, the fine conversation, the sharing of ideas that made him realize how much he missed intelligent conversation with clever and educated women. He missed that about Rebecca more than anything else. And Chica, it seemed to him that there was no way the girl would ever be interested in such things. She was not incapable, she was a bright woman, but she was so ignorant, and uninterested, as far as he could see, in ever exploring that world, that he wondered how long they could endure. Could he try to mold her, to teach her to be another Rebecca? Would he want her to be Rebecca? The whole business gave him a pain in his gut. It had only recently occurred to him that he had never felt this way in his life. With Rebecca, it was essentially an easy courtship. He met her, and knew they would be married the moment he saw her. They were perfectly matched, the same age, the same social standing. She was physically attractive, as he was to her. They just fit, and they always loved each other, but he was never really smitten with Rebecca. She had been the first woman he had ever been with, Chica the second, but even then, when he and Rebecca enjoyed the first forays into carnal knowledge, he had not felt the way he had with Chica. And was this not the most fleeting, the shallowest of all emotions? Wasn’t it the thing that was the least likely to engender a lasting marriage? He had known men from his school days who had become smitten with the most beautiful of the society girls. They were vapid, insipid, inane girls who were stunningly attractive, but, after a couple of years, the young men were ready to either open a vein, or become drunkards, or take on mistresses, just to escape spending time with their stupid wives.

  But Chica was not in that category, either. It was not only her carnal offerings; it was something about her, something so irresistibly pure, a purity of spirit that he could not resist. Chica was the genuine article. She said what she thought. She did not care to dance around the issues, or say or do things to please. But she was not a selfish monster, by any means, either.

  He thought about Chica the entire ride to Tucson. Chaney was gone, off to some other city to sell his cash registers, so he had no lively conversation with the big man to occupy him. He stared out the window as the train pulled into the station, and something, a glint, off on a high hill, caught his eye. He looked up and Chica was sitting on her pony, watching the train pass. He was dumbfounded, as if he had conjured her by his thoughts of her. She was watching the train go by, studying each window, as if she were looking for something. Arvel thought that perhaps she was looking for him, or perhaps contemplating the best way to get onto the train, to rob everyone of their pocket watches. Without thinking, he jumped up and opened the window. He called out to her as he passed, and she looked in his direction and waved. He gathered up his things. He was trembling at the thought of seeing her again so soon.

  She rode up to the platform, and addressed him as if they had been traveling together all along. “Pendejo, there is a traveling show behind your train.”

  “Hello, Chica. It is good to see you, Chica.” She paid no mind to his sarcasm.

  “We have to see this show, Pendejo.”

  “You go on, Chica. I have seen them. They aren’t for me.” Arvel hated traveling shows. He felt, once again, that nagging feeling in the pit of his gut, Chica’s interest in the gaudy exhibition just another example of the many differences between them.

  “It will be open tomorrow,” she seemed to not hear what he was saying. “We will go then.”

  They went the next day; Arvel paid the admission for both of them. Chica was quiet, and seemed on a mission. She went directly to the freak show entrance, and purchased entrance for two. Arvel stopped short.

  “Seriously, Chica, I don’t want to go in there.” He hated the freak shows in particular.

  She grabbed his arm and headed in. She walked past the various exhibits until she got to the Wolf boy. She waited patiently until the crowd cleared, then approached the young man on the stage. For an extra ten cents, customers could stroke the hair on his face. Chica looked the young man in the eye and called out to him. “Joaquin!”

  He looked at her, surprised. “Maria?”

  “Si!”

  He jumped off the stage and embraced her. They chatted animatedly for several minutes. Joaquin looked on at Arvel, and held out his hand. He was wearing a fine ditto suit of wool, white starched shirt, and silk cravat. He was covered from head to toe, as far as Arvel could discern, with long dark brown hair. They were speaking in Spanish to each other so excitedly that Arvel could make out but a few words. Arvel stepped back, to give them time alone together. They embraced again, and Joaquin returned to the stage.

  Chica grabbed Arvel by the arm, “Is okay, Pendejo. We can go now.”

  Chica fairly skipped along, she was happy and chatted constantly. Arvel walked along, amused at her new demeanor. She stopped at various stands, pointing to objects, which she had Arvel purchase for her. Once she had collected an assortment of candies and toys, she was nearly ready to leave. She smiled at Arvel, whose hands were full of the collection of junk. She squeezed his arm, then kissed his cheek.

  “What has put you in such a good mood, and why am I buying all this junk?”

  “It is not junk, Pendejo. It is for my babies.” She waited for him to give her the expression she expected. “They are not really my babies, Pendejo. They are the Indios, who I go to visit. They are very poor, Pendejo, and they need candy and toys.”

  Chica strolled along. “I thought I was going to have to kill some gringos, Pendejo, but it is alright.” She saw a fortune teller. “Come on, Pendejo, we need to see this lady.”

  They stepped into the tent and were greeted by a young gypsy woman, about the same age and build as Chica. She was beautiful. She beckoned them to sit down, and immediately requested the fee for the two of them. Once business was completed, she focused her attention on Arvel. She read his cards, then motioned for him to leave the tent. He waited outside impatiently. He had experience with spiritualists when Rebecca and his daughter died, as Rebecca’s sister was thoroughly convinced that one could reach out to the beyond and interact with dead loved ones. Arvel thought it nonsense and felt the fool when he had any dealings with it.

  Chica came out soon after. The fortune teller followed her. She hugged Chica and spoke to her quietly; they both looked at Arvel and laughed. Chica grabbed him by the arm and moved on.

  “We can go now, Pendejo.” She looked at him and kissed his cheek again. “We have
to come back later, at eleven o’clock. Do you have your watch?”

  “No, you do.” She smiled. “Hey, what was my fortune?” He looked at her, was pleased at her delight.

  “You don’ have to worry, Pendejo.” She squeezed his arm tighter. “You don’ believe any of it anyway, do you, Pendejo?” She smiled coyly.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It doesn’ matter why I say it, it is true, am I not right?”

  “Well, you tell me what is my fortune, and I’ll tell you if I believe it, Chica.”

  They walked back to the hotel. The clerk rushed toward the door, to open it for the young girl and her escort. “Good afternoon, Miss Chica.” The young man had recently combed his hair. Chica smiled and gave the man enough attention to keep him under her spell. She took Arvel by the arm and led him to her room. They stayed together until it was time to meet Joaquin.

  They woke at nine and had dinner. He had remembered the gifts he had gotten her in Phoenix. He wished he’d brought the dress along as well. She was pleased. It made him happy to give her the gifts. She dabbed some of the perfume behind her ears, then began playing about with the combs and mirror. The gifts put her into a particularly good mood. They were nearly late for the meeting with Joaquin.