The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  “Did you miss me?” She felt his forehead, then looked at his head wound where Billy Livingston had bored the hole. “That black boy did a good job, Pendejo.”

  “Don’t call him black boy.” He was irritated with her. “How’d you like it if I called you brown girl?”

  She paced around the room. She had only recently recovered from feeling ill herself. She had been terribly nauseated these past weeks, and wondered if it was not something they had both picked up in Flagstaff.

  “And where’s my watch? I’ve bought three watches since I met you, Chica. I am getting tired of this. I’m going to start buying them by the gross.”

  “You better start buying better watches, Pendejo. The first one was good gold, but the second ones did not fetch a good price.”

  “I bought you something.”

  She brightened. “You did?” He directed her to look in the wardrobe.

  She liked the dress, and held it under her chin, admiring herself in the mirror.

  “I had it wrapped up nice, like a present, but you have been gone so long, I didn’t want it mussed, so I hung it up. It is supposed to be the latest fashion from New York.”

  She stripped out of her clothes and put it on, ignoring the undergarments. She was, as he anticipated, radiant in it.

  “It is a good fit, Pendejo.” She looked at herself and was pleased. She thought about taking the dress off and getting into bed with the Pendejo, but he was too sick. She decided to let him rest.

  “How do I look, Pendejo?”

  She stopped and looked on at Arvel again. “Pendejo, you don’ look so good.”

  XVIII Portent

  Chica sat at Dick Welles’ desk sipping from a cup of coffee given to her by Dan George. She liked the Indian. He was a pretty man and he treated her well. She liked his nice clothes and could see by the work he was doing that he was smart like the Pendejo. If she were not otherwise occupied, she might have gotten to know him better. She leaned back in the office chair and waited. Dick Welles was late. She thought about leaving when he finally arrived. Chica did not like the gringo right away. He talked too quickly and bothered the Indian too much. She waited until he sat behind his desk. He finally acknowledged her, nodding but not speaking to her. Dan intervened.

  “The lady has some Ranger business, Dick.”

  She tried her best to look respectable, but she was not well enough acquainted with Victorian propriety to pull it off. She exchanged her Vaquero outfit for the dress Arvel bought her in Tombstone while he was recovering from the Indian attack. She wore her sombrero and riding boots. Dick eyed her suspiciously. “I am the friend of your Capitan Walsh.”

  Dick looked her up and down and Chica felt a pang deep in her gut. She did not understand what she had expected, but thought that Arvel would have at least told Dick Welles something about her. She could tell the man had never heard of her.

  He was not tolerant of Mexicans, and had specific ideas on how women should dress and behave. Chica met none of the criteria. He began rolling a cigarette as he continued to look her over. She retrieved a cigar from a pocket. She leaned forward to light it from his match. They smoked silently.

  Chica finally spoke: “I have heard, from one of the gang that you have been chasing, of a plan to kill you.” She inhaled deeply and blew out a cloud of blue smoke.

  “And why didn’t you tell our friend Arvel Walsh of this plan?”

  “He has been sick.” Dick was aware of this, and the girl’s story was at least corroborated in that respect.

  “When is this assassination to occur?”

  “Next Wednesday, at just before sunrise. There will be a full moon. “You have been given a tip that some prized horses will be stolen by three men that day, no?”

  Dick was impressed. “Perhaps.” Dick had been told of the robbery, and interestingly, the owner of the horses had requested that he personally handle the surveillance and arrests.

  “They have told you that only three men will be coming to steal these horses. But, there will be a large gang of men, to outnumber your Rangers. They will kill you then. They have no interest in horses.”

  “Why me?” Dick watched her through his plume of smoke.

  “I don’ know.” She shrugged. “You have been doing a lot of damage to the bad men. Maybe they want to get rid of you.”

  This was interesting to Dick, as he had an odd feeling about the tip he had received about the horses. He wondered about the girl. What was Arvel doing with this little pepper belly? Arvel was a strange fellow sure enough but one thing was certain about him, he never cavorted with sporting girls. He never figured Arvel for a miscegenist.

  “So, you are a friend of Arvel Walsh, you say?”

  “Si.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “Que?”

  “How are you a friend of Arvel Walsh?”

  Chica felt her face flush. She was annoyed at this gringo, and she was annoyed that Arvel had told his partner nothing about her. Now he was trying to get at Chica. Trying to get her to tell him that she was Arvel’s whore. She blew smoke at Dick’s face. She would not give him satisfaction.

  “We have business interests. My uncle is Alejandro Del Toro. You and Capitan Walsh have been working with him, no?”

  Dick thought about this. It suddenly disappointed him. He was intrigued by the prospect of Arvel cavorting with this young woman. It was just like him to be so squeaky clean that he would not engage in such scandalous behavior.

  “Yes, we’ve been working with Del Toro.” He found himself admiring the young woman sitting so near him. She was just a Mexican, and he never found them attractive, but Chica was so remarkable that he had difficulty dismissing her.

  She could see it in his eyes. The old gringos with the lust in their eyes usually amused her. Dick just made her angry but she could not really understand why. She was angrier at the Pendejo. She crushed her cigar out on a plate sitting at the edge of Dick’s desk. She stood up and put her hat on. She nodded to Dick and looked at Dan working diligently at his desk.

  She walked over to him and smiled, extending her hand, “Me dio mucho gusto conocerlo.”

  Dan quickly stood up, bowed and shook her hand gently, “Encantada, señorita, muy encantada." She walked out. She did not acknowledge Dick Welles.

  Dick walked to a file cabinet behind Dan George. He began to open it. “What do you make of her?”

  Dan did not look up from his work. “What do you mean, Dick?”

  “I don’t know, just what do you make of her?”

  “Well, I believe she can be trusted.”

  “Not that, I mean, I don’t know…” Dick was becoming tongue-tied.

  “Oh, well, I’d like to get into her knickers, if she actually wore any, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What do you think of Arvel and the girl?”

  Dan stopped working. He grinned. “Arvel, let’s see. Well, God bless’m if he’s cavortin’ with her. Good old Arvel. I wouldn’t be surprised.” He was glad now that he hadn’t made a play for the girl. He wouldn’t want to cut in on Arvel.

  “Don’t you think that’s a little…?”

  Dan swiveled in his chair. “That’s a little what, Dick? What, you mean because she’s so young?” Dan suddenly had an epiphany, “No, that’s not what you mean at all, is it, Dick?’

  Dick felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Dan was making him feel suddenly very foolish. “No, no, let’s just drop it, Dan.”

  “Well, okay, she’s a Mexican, I guess at least she isn’t an Indian.” Dan was tired of it all, and he was beginning to unravel on Dick. He caught himself and stopped.

  “That’s not right, Dan, that’s not, oh, God, let’s just stop, I’m sorry I said anything.”

  “Shame on you, Dick.” Dick could never get used to Dan’s familiar tone. “Shame on you.”

  “I’m not the one running with a Mexican.”

  “If that’s all you’ve got to say about it,” Dan stood up and put his coa
t on, “I’m going down to have something to eat.” He looked at Dick again, and shook his head. “Shame on you.” He turned back when he’d gotten out the door and looked in at Dick. “You’re a good man, Dick, but sometimes you can be a regular goddamned bone head.”

  XIX Blind Charity

  Arvel’s health continued to decline. It had been more than two weeks now, and his condition seemed to be worsening rather than improving. The local sawbones had visited and was certain his recent visit up north was the source of his problem. He was not concerned about him. The young deputy did not leave his side, except for his one day off every week. He was more attentive now that he had become more used to Arvel, and his confidence seemed to improve.

  Arvel learned more about the young man, and what had happened in his life to form such a weak personality. Arvel’s kindness seemed to be having the desired effect, and the young fellow would often ask Arvel questions related to character, related to how a man such as Arvel behaved. He started to address Arvel in a more familiar manner, and would even make eye contact now and again. He always called Arvel “Captain” even after Arvel had asked him to address him by his Christian name. He liked to hear about the war. He was infatuated by battle, and how Arvel handled himself in conflict. He also would open up to Arvel about his thoughts on life’s general pecking order, which was particularly disturbing to Arvel. Again, he thought back on how his Rangering life had plunged him into this ugly world. Yet another poor soul whom had been beaten down sufficiently, only to rise up as a monster. Arvel tried every so often to interject his philosophy into the conversations. Perhaps he could make the man hate less.

  The young man once commented on his belief that if he could become a real lawman, and master control of his emotions, that men would respect and fear him. He thought that this would elevate him to a place in society where he would not have to bow down to any men, that he would be higher on the pecking order.

  Arvel smiled and thought about an experience in the war. It was probably the single most memorable and constructive advice he’d ever heard, and it was from a grizzled old First Sergeant Arvel met just after enlisting.

  “Right after the first battle of Bull Run, all of my schoolmates were ready to go off to war.” He got out of bed and put his robe on, and walked over to the desk. He sat down across from the young man who was sorting papers. “We were full of piss and vinegar. I remember my parents having a fit. I was only seventeen. They wanted me to finish my studies. My father had a job lined up for me as a law clerk. But I’d have none of it.”

  The young man leaned forward, he liked Arvel’s stories, and as he never did boast it was a special treat to hear Arvel talk about himself, particularly as it related to the war. Arvel was enjoying the attention paid by his audience. He did not feel so much the braggart, as this might help the young man sort things out in his mind.

  “When my parents knew I would not be swayed, they tried to convince me to let them get me a commission, as my father could pull some strings. But no, I was young and invincible and knew best, and I didn’t trust my parents. They cared for me so much, still do, and I didn’t trust them because of it. They would likely get me assigned as some general’s aide, and I had no intention of spending the war out of the fray.” He laughed, looked at the man across the desk from him. “I really thought I knew everything then. Anyway, I decided to sneak off and sign up. I changed my name, so no one would make the connection to my family. I didn’t give any qualification. I was a private soldier and in the infantry. I was so proud. Well, pretty soon I was under the protection of the single kindest and most fearless man I’d ever known.”

  “Your commanding officer?” The man put his pen down now and folded his arms on the desk.

  “Nope, nope, definitely not.” Arvel laughed at the thought. “He was an Irishman, a Catholic, what they call the Green Irish.” He began fiddling with a ring on his right hand. He licked his finger and worked the ring off, handing it to the young man. “He made a ring for every man under him. The young deputy looked it over. It was made of bone. On top was an American Eagle holding a shield, on one side the company and the other the regiment. The carving was filled in with red and black paint. “Rebecca always hated that ring. I told her it was made from a Rebel’s leg bone. She said it was disgusting. She never did find out it was from a beef.” The deputy handed it back and Arvel slid the ring back on. “Sgt. Mike came to America to escape the British in his home country and had been in the army since he’d arrived at seventeen.” Arvel chuckled. “My God was he a funny sonofabitch. He would constantly tease us, call us ‘me babbies’. He always knew what we needed, always got it for us. We never went hungry with Sgt. Mike around. He was in the war with Mexico. He’d been shot twice, bayoneted once, and got blown up three times in one day. Well, right after I’d been assigned to him, I heard Sgt. Mike give me advice that I have remembered to this day. I can still remember him saying it, like he was standing in the room here next to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, we had this young lieutenant, a fellow not much older than me at the time. The kind of fellow I was scared to death that I would have become had my father pulled the strings for me. He was an officious little oaf, what they call a martinet.” Arvel looked at the young man across from him. “Do you know what that is?”

  He squirmed in his chair. He still was not used to showing any weakness. He hated admitting that he didn’t know something. “Uh, no, not really.” He shuffled.

  “A martinet is a person who goes overboard by doing everything by the book, however ridiculous or unnecessary, usually just to make life miserable for the men he commands. Basically, a real pain in the backside.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, one day, that Lieutenant put us all through the wringer. Sgt. Mike handled him the best he could, but the young officer was relentless. Finally, he let us alone, and we all breathed a sigh of relieve. I remember Sgt. Mike pulling us all into a group. He looked us all in the eye, every one of us. ‘You remember this me babbies.’ He lit his old pipe and blew smoke into the air. ‘Yer man, there,’ we all leaned forward, as if the old sergeant was about to tell us the secret to the universe. Sgt Mike was stern-faced. He pointed off in the direction the lieutenant had walked. ‘That lieutenant shites out of a meat arsehole, same as you and me.’ Arvel threw his head back and laughed and laughed. The young man looked at him, confused.

  “That was it?”

  Arvel looked back. “Sure. That’s it. Don’t you see how important that is, son?”

  “Not really.” He was becoming embarrassed. He did not understand.

  “Son, the point Sgt. Mike was making is that nothing, I mean nothing, makes one man any better than another. No amount of money, rank, age, beauty, nothing. That’s what Sgt. Mike knew, God rest his soul, and that is what he taught me. It was like someone opened my eyes for the first time. It was…you don't see my meaning, son?”

  “I, I guess so.” He was still not certain. He didn’t understand Arvel at all. He couldn’t understand how he could be so smart and worldly and well to do if none of it made him a better man than his peers. What good was it? He felt like asking, then thought of another question.

  “Did your parents ever forgive you?”

  “Oh, sure. My mother understood. My father thought me a fool, but he did forgive me, especially when I got a commission. He just pretended my being a private soldier never happened. Dear old dad.”

  “Captain? What would you do if someone threatened your family? Your mother?”

  Arvel smiled. He thought about his mother, looked over at his desk and picked up her photograph. “Here she is. You know that, don’t you? My God, son. I don’t even know where to begin to answer such a question. What makes you ask it?”

  “I don’t know. Just wondering.”

  “I guess I’d just kill’em. That’s about it. I would not hesitate for a moment, son. If any son of a bitch ever suggested they’d harm my mother, I’d gut him
. I would squeeze the life out of him if I didn’t have a weapon.” He caught himself. Pain seared through his gut, and he felt sweat beading up on his forehead. Reminiscing about Sgt. Mike made him forget that he was ill. The thought of his mother being threatened got his blood up. He took a deep breath and smiled at the young deputy. The man became pallid before his eyes.

  “I see.” His mind raced to think of something to say. “What ever happened to Sgt. Mike, Captain?”

  “Oh, he died.” Arvel looked back at the photograph of his mother, and put it back in its place, facing the young man. Great tears ran down his cheeks. He didn’t try to hide them from the young man. He looked up and smiled. He wiped the tears from his right cheek, then his left. He sniffed. “He died at Gettysburg, saving that pain in the rump lieutenant.”

  These kinds of conversations went on, usually in the evenings. Arvel continued to feel worse, and he spent most of his days sleeping. He’d take a light meal and his best and most lucid times seemed to be in the evenings. Arvel would hold court, now pretty much confined to his bed, and the young deputy would sit behind the desk. He’d ask Arvel questions about life in general, courage in particular. He wanted desperately to extract out of Arvel the thing that made him the way he was. The young man was convinced that character and nobility could be learned, like a trade. Arvel was amused by this, and he’d indulge the young man. He suggested books for the man to read. The Greek Tragedies, Plato’s Republic, Virgil’s The Aeneid . Anything that would help get the message across. The young deputy was a good student, and he’d often have good, lucid questions about the works.

  One day, Arvel called him in and had him sit down. He was feeling especially bad, and took the opportunity, out of some morbid predilection that he might not be around much longer, and wanted to get some affairs in order.

  “How is everything going?” He motioned him to his bedside.

  “Fine.” The young deputy looked at the floor. He sat next to Arvel’s bed.

  “You know that we, my uncle and I, offer our top hands the opportunity to homestead on the land.”