The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  “And you are willing to do some damage to these hombres?”

  “Of course. I’d kill ‘em all right now if I could, and sleep well tonight.”

  Arvel got up and walked Dick to the door. “Let me do some more thinking on it. I’ll stop by the office tomorrow, and let you know what I’ve come up with.”

  On the day of the robbery the two men met at the train station, heading up to Tucson. Arvel had a big article written up in the paper telling about the celebration put on by Governor Murphy to acknowledge the fledgling Ranger organization. Arvel and Dick would be the guests of honor. This would certainly satisfy Dick’s pen pal, and ensure that Dick was keeping up his end of the bargain. The robbery would take place that evening, south of Tombstone, too far from Tucson for them to be involved in foiling it.

  Dick stood nervously on the train platform. He held his hat in his hand. He was wearing his best sack suit, and was armed only with a small pocket revolver. He felt vulnerable. The guilt was nearly unbearable.

  The bandits hit the coach as it lurched up a steep incline. The horses struggled to keep up a steady pace. This was the standard ambush location for stage coach robberies. The driver and his shotgun escort offered no resistance and handed over the strongbox without incident. The robbers galloped off, west for a mile or so, then stopped to destroy the lock on the box and remove the contents to their saddlebags. There were three of them, and they had been assured by the boss of the caper that it would be an easy job. Certain they had not been followed, they walked their horses along at a leisurely pace.

  Up ahead, they saw a campfire, too large and too bright. It was raging in the middle of the road heading to Tombstone. They approached cautiously and could just make out the form of a man, sitting, back to them, facing the fire. They called out to him and received no reply. One of the bandits became nervous. “I do not like this one bit.”

  “Settle down, Claude.”

  “You there, give us the road.”

  He got no reply. Just as the three bandits prepared to draw their guns, they received an order, high above them on a hill overlooking the road to put their hands up. Unable to bolt, and too crowded together on the narrow road to turn and run, they were forced to comply. The seated figure stood up and turned. He removed the Indian blanket which had shrouded him from their view. A scarf covered his face. He pointed a shotgun at them and motioned for them to dismount. They stood, dumbfounded, not certain what to do. They heard the hammers on the ten gauge click into full cock. They dismounted. The man on the rock above them ordered them to strip and they complied. He came down and collected their horses, guns, and clothes. He too wore a scarf. He turned and headed back up the trail. The three bandits stood, dumbfounded, wearing not a stitch. They watched as their horses and traps rode off. They stood for five minutes with their hands in the air. The smartest one finally made a move and they all began walking to Tombstone wondering how they were going to explain this to the old man.

  “What are we goin’ to do now?”

  “Shut up, Claude.”

  The two Rangers rode for a while. Arvel suddenly laughed out loud. “That was some voice disguise, Dick. I thought someone else had joined us.”

  Dick finally had reason to laugh a little himself. “That was my impersonation of Buffalo Bill.”

  “Really?”

  “Have you seen his show?”

  “Never.”

  “Well, you can believe me when I tell you I sounded just like him.”

  Arvel rode along for a while. He turned in his saddle. “Why would you go to see Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show?”

  “Don’t know.” He grinned at Arvel.

  “That is a lot of foolishness.” He lit a cigarette. “Was it any good?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. It wasn’t like any Wild West I’ve ever seen.”

  Arvel shifted in his saddle, “I’ll never understand how anyone can ride a horse. Damned most uncomfortable creatures.” His big stallion perked his ears and turned them toward Arvel. Arvel patted him on the neck. “Sorry.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to pick the biggest animal you could find. Looks like a shire horse.”

  “That’s what Del Toro rides. I wanted to look like him. He’s called Jefe. Do you think I could get the boys to start calling me Jefe?”

  Dick looked at him sideways. “I send you on one trip south and you go native.” He lit a cigarette as he rode. “What was that silly looking knife you were sporting, anyway?”

  Arvel laughed. “They call it a daga.”

  “Next thing you know, you’ll be cavorting with pepper bellies.” Arvel felt himself blush, glad that it was not yet daylight.

  “I’ll just be glad to get back on a mule.”

  Dick thought about the events of the last few hours. He looked over at Arvel. He was an amazing fellow. “I was sure you were going to let that robbery happen, Arvel. All the way up to the point when we got on the train to see the governor.”

  “That’s called subterfuge.” Arvel shifted again in his saddle. “Did it a lot in the war, Dick.”

  “Well, you pulled the wool over my eyes, that’s for certain.”

  “You know I didn’t keep my plans from you out of mistrust, right, Dick?”

  “No, no offence taken.”

  Arvel always prided himself on his scheming abilities during the war. He was ambivalent, at best, about the Rebels. He did not agree with their cause, but he did not hate them. He did not like to see fine men wasted. Throughout the war, there were many times when he stood by, helpless, as men, thousands of them, would be thrown relentlessly at impenetrable defenses. The slaughter was appalling. He learned early on that he had a gift for various schemes and plots, which often resulted in victories that would avoid senseless loss of life. When he could find leaders smart enough to listen to him, he was often responsible for a decrease in casualties on both sides.

  “I always figured I could save lives if I did some good scheming.”

  Dick laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You sure have left a pile of corpses behind you since taking up this Ranger business. Not the sort of behavior I would expect from a conscientious objector.”

  “I’m not a conscientious objector.” Arvel smiled and thought of his mother. “I see no inconsistency in my philosophy and my actions.” He lit another cigarette and leaned forward in his saddle. The huge girth of his mount was making his legs ache. “Men who fight for a cause don’t deserve to die needlessly, Dick. But that bunch, the bandits and those Englishmen, well, they needed to die.”

  “Oh, so you are judge, jury and executioner, all rolled into one?” Dick was just trying to get his goat, now. Arvel did not take the bait.

  “ No, no. I’m not saying that. But, you know, Dick, there is no place on earth for those monsters. They just plain needed killing. Why wait, and risk an escape, or maybe the chance that they could kill again? A good riddance of bad rubbish.”

  “That is a nice way of putting it, Arvel. Did you make that up?”

  “No, no. It was a minor poet, named Smollett.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I did say he was a minor poet.” He shifted again, lifted one leg up and threw it over his saddle horn, and thought of Chica. He wondered what she was up to.

  “So, where was I, you’ve made me lose my train of thought, …I figured out a long time ago, Dick, that if I was going to formulate a plan, it was best to keep it locked in the old noodle,” he pointed to his head, “that way, there are fewer hands, and brains in it to get it muddled. I figured you’d understand all this.” He looked over at Dick. He could just start making out his face clearly in the dawning light. “And besides,” he smiled. “That look on your face was priceless when we were standing at the train platform. Any spies who were following us would have been convinced that you were doing nothing to stop the robbery. You were guilty as hell. The best actors can’t fake that.”

  Dick looked a littl
e sheepishly. “I guess you were thinking that I didn’t trust you, then.”

  “Not at all. There’s a lot that goes into all of this. I told you I’d make certain the robbery wouldn’t be a success, and you believed me. But, I also knew you’d still feel guilty about going up to a dinner, trying to enjoy yourself. I didn’t like to make you anxious, but I needed to, at least for a while. I’m just glad you took it so well, Dick. You’re a good man, and a good friend. I appreciate your trusting me.”

  Dick felt the weight come off his shoulders. He was tired, he experienced the feeling that only folks who work when everyone else is asleep can know. The bad man, whomever he was, had been defeated, but this was just the first round in a long fight. The great thing was that Arvel’s mind was likely superior to his enemy’s. He was glad of this. He always had a grudging respect for Arvel’s education and social standing. He was a working man, and never received the advantages of the social class of which Arvel was a member. He always felt that, if given the same advantage, he could be just as good. It was a nagging feeling that haunted him all his life, and what drove his ambition. But the stars were never in alignment for Dick Welles. He always came up a little short, was just behind in grasping the next great thing.

  Even in this encounter, he was not certain what he would have done, but it would not have likely turned out so well. He recognized this as a limitation. Not a failing, but a limitation. It was good to have Arvel on his side, and he, for once, did not resent the fact that someone other than he had been in charge.

  Arvel and Dick got to the ranch around sunup. They locked the Wells Fargo money in Arvel’s safe and burned the robbers’ traps. They turned the robbers’ horses loose in the desert after removing their bridles and saddles, which they threw off a cliff. There was nothing to associate them with the robbery of the robbers, and they had an alibi, thanks to the reporter on the Tucson paper. Dick’s Pen pal could not associate the Rangers with the foiling of the robbery. Dick could not be blamed if the robbers were robbed and as there is no honor among thieves, the mastermind of the robbery plot would have to conclude that somewhere along the way, his plan was revealed to some other bandits.

  Dick was encouraged, but they were no closer to learning about the organization than before. Nothing among the bandit’s traps gave them a clue. Their only hope was that Dick had passed the first test, and would be given another assignment soon. Something that would bring him closer to the mastermind of the plot.

  The three failed bandits stood before the old man. Spittle sprayed about them as he shouted profanities. He was out forty-thousand dollars. And he was livid. They could tell him nothing. They could not tell him how many men robbed them, they had inflated the number to six, but could not be certain. They could not tell what the men looked like. They could tell him nothing.

  “Well, there is one thing, sir.”

  “What?” he stared menacing at the youngest one.

  “Well, the man who called out to us, sir.”

  “Yes, yes?”

  “I swear it was Buffalo Bill.”

  XVII Interloper

  Arvel nearly clobbered the young deputy with the sack of flour he threw into the wagon. The man was asleep, his breathing so shallow that Arvel initially thought him dead. He tugged at the man who turned slightly to face him and Arvel recognized him. He was shocked at his appearance, as, though he was a small man, he looked even smaller now. He was emaciated. His face was scabby, skin yellow. He had black circles under his eyes. He stunk of vomit and urine.

  Arvel shook him by the shoulder to no avail. Finally he resolved to take him back to the ranch. He did not know what else to do with him, and still harbored regret at shooting the man’s toe. He made a bed of the sacks, then covered them with a heavy blanket so the man would not leak into his foodstuffs.

  He rode carefully home with his new ward. He wondered what the man had gotten himself into, to be reduced to such a state. Uncle Bob helped put him into one of the bunks, away from the hands. He did not want to offend them by putting a derelict into their home. Arvel went about his work and came back later to check on the man, who by now was sitting at the edge of the bunk, holding his head in his hands.

  “Hello.”

  The man looked up through bleary eyes. He looked back at the floor and grunted hello.

  “Here are some clean clothes,” he pointed at the foot of the bunk. “Give me yours and I’ll have Pilar clean them up for you. I’ve got a spare razor and some soap and a towel in there. If you want clean water, you can get some at the well. Just ask Pilar if you need anything else.”

  The young deputy thought on that. Just ask a servant. That is what he hated about the man.

  Next day, the young man sauntered up to the house and had the good sense to ask for an audience with Arvel. Uncle Bob immediately did not like this man. He told him to wait, and after a while returned, escorting him in to Arvel’s bedroom, which served additionally as his office. He sat at his desk and stood up when the young man entered the room.

  “Feeling any better?”

  “Yeah,” he grunted. “I was wanting to know if I could work for you.” Arvel beckoned him to sit down. He looked better today, still pale, and scaly, but cleaner, at least. Arvel looked the man over as the lad stared at the floor. He did not trust him to work with the mules or the hands. He knew the man would run his mouth and possibly be killed by the hands, or likely have his head kicked off by a mule. He didn’t want him working around the women, either. He thought for a while.

  “Can you read and write?”

  “Yeah.”

  He handed the man a tally sheet and a pencil. “Tell me the sum of these numbers.” And walked out of the room. He sat out on the porch and had a smoke with Uncle Bob.

  “What are you planning, son?”

  Arvel took a drag on his cigarette. “I know, don’t say it, I am too kind.”

  “Okay, I won’t say it.” Uncle Bob took a smoke from Arvel’s packet.

  “That’s the boy I shot in the toe.”

  “I see.” He smoked. “You do what you think is best, son.” They sat for a while and smoked. Uncle Bob crushed the cigarette out on the sole of his boot. “Just one thing, Arvel. Remember when we first met, and I was teaching you about mules?”

  “Certainly, Uncle.”

  “Can you remember what I said was the most important rule of training a mule?”

  “Don’t let it kick you in the head?”

  Uncle Bob laughed. “No. That’s a good one, but that isn’t it. I told you to never harm a mule. They will not train to fear, and they will always remember when an unkindness was done to them. They won’t forgive and forget.”

  “Yes, of course I remember that one, uncle.”

  “Well, this fellow. You and Dick Welles were a bit unkind to this fellow.” He held up his hand, “Not unjustifiably, son, don’t get me wrong. The little whelp deserved it. But a man like that, you just don’t know how long he’ll hold a grudge, or what he might end up doing to you if he gets the opportunity to take revenge.”

  Arvel finished his cigarette. “I know, Uncle.” He looked around to make certain the man was not around. “I just want to give him a chance. I don’t know, there’s something in him that seems to be alright. He just needs it coaxed out of him.”

  The young deputy came outside and handed the sheet to Arvel without looking at him. His writing was cryptic and small. The sums were accurate. The man spent the rest of the day sulking around, working at various clerical tasks as Arvel came up with things for him to do.

  Arvel set a routine for the young deputy as he felt that some sameness and stability would agree with him. Arvel did not let him wander far, except to let the young man leave the ranch one day a week. He could not say that he liked the young man, but something about him made him think that he had some goodness in him, and if Arvel showed him how decent people lived, and was given a square deal, maybe he’d come around.

  One evening Arvel was feeling low. He
was struck by severe cramps, and figured he’d eaten something a little off. He lay in bed, trying to relieve the pain, and faded in and out of sleep. The young man appeared, standing over him. By the time Arvel could fully awaken and ask the boy what was wrong, he had gone.

  Chica finally came. She arrived during daylight this time, uncharacteristic for the girl. She was sober and walked freely into Arvel’s room, as he tried to eat some breakfast, lying in bed. He could not shake the stomach bug. She looked at the young deputy, milling about the room and simply motioned for him to leave, with a nod of her head. The young deputy did not wait for Arvel’s instructions. He remembered the woman from his days at The Hump. He hoped he would never see her again, but somehow knew that he one day would. He was not surprised to see her connected to Arvel Walsh. It was just his luck that the two people who had been responsible for the most humiliating times of his life should be connected. Chica did not recognize him. He was just one of many gringos she had seen in her time. To her, one cowpuncher looked pretty much like the next.

  She looked Arvel over suspiciously. “Pendejo, you don’ look so good.” He was pleased to see her.

  “Where have you been, Chica?”