The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  “Yeah.” He did not look up. He sensed that Arvel had something on his mind. The boy suddenly felt sick.

  “Well, you’ve done well, here. I just thought that you’d like to do the same.” He waited for some kind of reaction. The man never showed much of any kind of emotion. He never said please or thank you. This was a plum opportunity, and Arvel expected something from the lad, some kind of reaction. “We give you the land, and we’ll pay for the materials to build your house. You have to build it and you pay us back for the cost of the materials, interest free. You don’t have to pay for the land; it is yours once you pay off the debt. A lot of the folks on the ranch already own their own homes.”

  The young deputy was unmoved. He thought for a moment. He squirmed a little in his seat, and tried to come up with a reply. He finally looked out the window and spoke. “Well, I’m not sure I’ll be around these parts that long. I’ll have to think about it.” He got up and began walking out of the room, then stopped. He looked back at Arvel. “I am glad we met, Captain. I am. I hope you know that.”

  That night, Arvel experienced a strange incident. It was late and he was feeling particularly low. He slept fitfully, as his stomach was giving him hell. He tossed about, trying to get comfortable. He was just fairly drifting off to sleep when the young deputy was closing up the house. He extinguished the last of the lamps. He stood over Arvel, as he had done before, staring at the man who had given him another chance. This time, he was crying and Arvel was awakened by his presence. He looked up at the man. “What’s the matter, boy?” The young deputy knelt down beside the bed. He grabbed Arvel by the arm, and held his hand to his forehead. He was fairly blubbering now.

  “I am sorry, I am so sorry.”

  “Calm yourself, boy.” Arvel patted the man’s hand. Just as quickly, the young deputy turned and left the room before Arvel could inquire as to what was the source of his anxiety. He thought of following him, but was too weak to move.

  Uncle Bob was not so convinced that the young deputy was the faithful servant he seemed. He was sullen and evasive with Uncle Bob and he never interacted with anyone but Arvel. He had the annoying habit of taking over the preparation of meals for Arvel, which particularly disgusted Pilar. She had wanted to help with Arvel’s illness, but was continuously stopped by him. Ordinarily, this would be the sign of a devoted servant, but there was something about the young deputy that made it feel suspicious. Arvel would override all protests, as if he were trying to get the deputy to somehow learn to trust him.

  Uncle Bob sat by Arvel’s bed and waited for him to awaken. “How’s the invalid?”

  Arvel looked up and smiled. “Not bad.” He lied to the old man.

  Uncle Bob looked out through the window. The young deputy was moving some firewood. He looked back at Arvel.

  “Uncle, hand me my shaving gear.”

  Uncle Bob prepared a basin of water, stropped Arvel’s razor for him and put a hot towel over his face. He made up a lather in Arvel’s shaving cup. “Arvel, we’ve been worried about you, son. Pilar is beside herself.”

  Arvel took the towel off his face and, with shaky hands, started to brush the lather on. He fell back on the pillow. Bob took over. He started to shave his nephew.

  “We think we ought to get you up to Tucson to be looked at. This has gone on too long to be a bug.”

  Arvel thought about how miserable a ride to the town would be, even in a wagon. He stayed still and quiet while his uncle shaved under his nose.

  “And.” Bob cleaned the blade on a towel. “We’re both full up with that kid.” Arvel did not look up. “I just don’t like him, Arvel. I don’t trust him.”

  “I know, Uncle. I don’t know what having him around has to do with me being poorly, though.”

  “No, I’m not saying that. But we would like, Pilar, and me, and the rest of us on the ranch, we don’t feel like we’re helping you, Arvel. Like you we’re being kept away from you. I don’t understand it Arvel.”

  He knew Uncle Bob was concerned. He never called him Arvel unless he was particularly worried about something.

  “I know, Uncle. I, I just don’t know what to do with him. He’s coming around. You know that boy’s not cut out for any kind of law work. I’m just trying to get him to come to realize that. Trying to instill something in him.” He took a towel from his lap and wiped his face. He felt his beard. “You’re a damned good barber, uncle.”

  Arvel remained unmoved. Uncle Bob worried about him all that day. He rode out to the edge of the ranch, rode back up to Rebecca’s place. He liked to ride out around his land when he was particularly worried over something. Being alone helped him think, and his horse Sandy seemed to know his favorite route. He came back late and ate supper alone. By late evening he sat on the porch, outside of Arvel’s room, pondering all these things. He remembered when Rebecca and Kate died. He remembered the telegram and how he and Arvel rushed to San Francisco. How they had been too late. The girls where dead by the time they got there. He didn’t want to lose the only family he had left.

  It was dark now; only the glow of Uncle Bob’s cigarette could be seen, dancing about like a wounded firefly. The young deputy nearly ran into him as he passed by. Uncle Bob stopped him. He was especially annoyed with the young man this evening.

  “I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he snuffed his cigarette out on the heel of his boot and glared at the young man.

  The young deputy had only just regained his composure from his visit to Arvel the night before. He spent the entire day trying to avoid anyone on the ranch, especially Uncle Bob. Why were old men constantly man-handling him? He looked at Uncle Bob. He was afraid of the man in the plaid suit, but Uncle Bob terrified him. He stood still, said nothing.

  “Let me tell you now, boy. If any harm,” he swallowed hard, he was so angry that he had difficulty finding his words. He pointed at Arvel’s room, “If any harm comes to him,” he shook his finger at the boy, “well, son. You remember what happened to that family, the Knudsens?”

  “Yes sir, I remember.” He would never forget the victims of that slaughter; the headless wife, the defiled little girl and the burning corpse.

  “Well, that will look like a church social, boy. That will look like a goddamned church social when I am finished with you.”

  The young deputy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He did not look up. He waited for the chance, and walked quickly out of sight. He did not want to be near Uncle Bob.

  XX Artemis

  Chica road aimlessly for a few hours after her meeting with Dick Welles. She felt hollow inside, and did not know why. She did not like the gringo Welles. He was typical of the gringos. Always looking at her as if she were trash. She was independent and a free spirit. She drank too much, and she was a thief. She knew these things, and was unapologetic for them, but she never got over the sting of the revulsion on their faces. The gringos, sometimes, she hated them. She missed the Pendejo, wondered why he never told his Capitan partner about her. Did not mention that the Mexicana had saved his hide. She wondered if Pendejo cared at all about her. She wondered how he was feeling. She thought he should certainly be better by now, and considered riding out to see him, and then, for some reason did not want to. She did not want to visit him, and perhaps see the look of revulsion on his face. Maybe he only used her, like a sporting girl. So many of the gringos spent all their times in the whore houses. He might be no different. Perhaps he was ashamed to associate with her.

  She rode north, back to her Indios, to the red rocks. She stayed with them for several days. She thought about going further north, to Flagstaff and getting drunk, perhaps shooting up the town again, but she did not have the energy for it. She put on the dress that Arvel bought her. The old women and children of the village fawned over her, and braided her hair on the floor of the hogan.

  She thought about the Wild West show and Ivan Yakovlevich’s offer. Perhaps she could go with him and Joaquin. Would she own a house in Bayonne New Jersey? She heard storie
s about the world back East. She imagined the great land of Europe would be even worse, more packed with gringos. She would not be able to ride off when she got the urge. She could not carry her pistols and fancy rifle she had stolen from the Colonel. But the people of the show were kind to her, better than any others, excepting Pendejo and Uncle Bob, and the Indian family.

  Chica thought about going to see the old priest. He had taught her about Jesus and the Virgin, whom she was named after. She did not come to know about these things until she was nearly an adult, when the priest caught her stealing candle sticks from the alter. He was a kind old man, and treated her well. He was a gringo too, but spoke Spanish well. He baptized her and asked her to stay in his village, to turn away from the vagabond life of a thief. Chica thought about it. She thought a lot about Jesus and being baptized. She thought about eating the Eucharist. Many things the old priest taught her made no sense. She often stopped at each station of the cross in the church and imagined that, if she were there, when Jesus was so terribly mistreated by the gringo Romans, she would kill them all, and save Jesus from this terrible fate. She told this to the priest, and he smiled, and said that Jesus had to die, so that all our sins would be forgiven. It made no sense to Chica that a good man should die. It made no sense to her that Jesus dying made all of our sins go away. It also confused and angered her when the old priest told her that babies who died before baptism could not go to heaven. That they lived in a place between heaven and hell. This was not right, to Chica. It was not the fault of the baby that no priest was around, or that the baby was an Indian who had not learned of Jesus. The Eucharist always just tasted like bread to Chica. She did not think it really turned into the flesh of Jesus. Most of the time, she just went along with the priest. It made him upset when she asked too many questions, and she did not like to see him sad. He always seemed sad enough to her. He seemed to bear the burden, like Jesus, of all the sins of all the people in the village. He often seemed very unhappy. He told Chica that she would go to heaven one day, when she died, if she lived a life like Jesus and the Virgin. She would have to stop stealing and killing and she must never have relations with a man until she was married. She would go to hell if she did not stop doing these things, and ask for forgiveness for all the things she had done. This bothered her until one day, when she decided that the priest must have gotten this information wrong, as he had with the flesh of Jesus and the babies going to Limbo. He probably forgot what he had learned, as he was so old. Chica decided that she really was good, and to kill bad men was not a sin, nor to be with men of her choosing. She could not see how something so fun and that felt so good could be a sin, so Chica formed her own version of Catholicism. It was the Chica version, and she lived by it every day.

  She decided not to go see the old priest. It was a long ride, and she knew that if she told him about Pendejo, and all the Apache bastards she killed that he would be cross with her. She knew he would tell her that her stealing and taking too much whiskey and mescal was wrong, too. She just did not have the energy to nod and agree and pretend to be sorry. She was not sorry and she knew she was going straight to heaven when she died, because she was good. This is why she was never afraid in battle. She was not really afraid to die, yet she was happy to be alive. She wanted to live as long as possible, but she would never be afraid to die. She thought about when she was in the flood, and the water was coming up, and she was afraid then, but she decided that she wasn’t really afraid to die, she was just nervous. She knew that she would have to go to the priest eventually, as she had promised to do so when she survived the flood, but she would not do this now.

  The time with the Indians cheered her and she went to the ranch where the ambush of Dick Welles was to take place. She felt renewed purpose, and reconsidered how she felt about the Pendejo not mentioning her to his Capitan partner. He probably had his reasons. She thought that maybe Pendejo really loved her so much that he was embarrassed to tell another man about it. Men do not talk of such things, and this was probably the reason why he did not speak of her to Welles. Plus, Welles was more like a servant, she thought, especially after meeting the gringo. He was not nearly as smart as Pendejo, and he had a cruel face, and he did not treat her with respect, the way Pendejo always had. She thought that probably, Pendejo thought the man a fool and a lowly servant. That is why he did not mention her.

  She was excited about the ensuing battle. She felt more connected to Arvel, and would see the thing through. Her guns were ready, Alanza was rested and well fed, and she was equally well provisioned. She rode back south, and planned to be ready well before the attack began.

  Dick Welles had planned thoroughly. The Mexican girl was to be trusted after all, according to Uncle Bob, who had given the Ranger captain his full endorsement. Uncle Bob made it clear to Dick, whom he had known to be pretty rough on Mexicans and loose women, to treat Chica with proper respect, considering her special relationship with Arvel and the fact that she had saved his life. Dick suppressed a grin as he listened to Uncle Bob. He thought that his friend and partner was indeed even more of a complex character than he originally surmised.

  The ambush was to occur when Dick and a few of his men were lying in wait in a stable on the ranch property. Dick placed a two-man detail in this building and the rest of his detail, totaling twenty men, formed a crescent-shaped line, on a hilltop surrounding the ranch below. The moon was high and visibility good. They were set up by midnight and rested on their horses, waiting for the assassins to show.

  Chica set up further south of Dick’s ambush spot. She did not let Dick Welles or his men know she was there. She knew that he would not expect her, but she wanted to be there, none the less, to assure everything was as she said it would be. She felt responsible, as if her word was as important to Arvel Walsh’s reputation as it was to hers. She did not want this to go badly.

  She sat Alanza on a rise, watching the road that led to the stable. She waited through the night with the strange rifle she had stolen from the rich Colonel. She sat among an outcrop of boulders, and peered through her telescopic sight periodically. She dozed, and sometimes dreamed of the Indian children. She always had hard candy for them, and she loved the excitement in their eyes when they saw her. She dreamed a little of the Pendejo. And she dreamed of Dick Welles. One day, he would not look at her with that expression. She thought about the gringo informant. He was an ugly young man. He had beady eyes and his face bore many scars and his one eye looked off in another direction when he spoke to Chica. He was too friendly to Chica, and he told her this first tip would be free, but the next time it would cost her, and he looked down at her breasts. She thought about killing the young man on the spot, but decided that he might be useful to the Capitans. The only thing she could do is wait to see if his information was correct.

  Finally, at the last hour of dark, some riders approached, as expected. Chica was surprised at the small number, as she counted only four. She began to doubt the informer. She looked at each one through her telescopic sight. They rode quickly past her, then picked up speed, riding at a gallop toward the stables. She lost sight of them, and soon a barrage of rifle fire erupted, and nearly as quickly, one rider was galloping fast, back in the direction from which he had come. More shooting could be heard, sporadic, and in clusters, as if small skirmishes were now taking place. It was lighter now, and Chica could make out the solitary rider in full gallop, coming back down the road. He would soon be galloping past her, within forty yards, but traveling at full speed. She aimed for the horse, and dropped him, the rider pitching forward, tumbling several times on the mesa’s hard rocky floor. Chica jumped on Alanza and was looming over the assassin instantly.

  The rider was stunned; he sat up and began brushing his clothes, as if he had just finished breaking a fresh pony. Chica threw a rope around the man before he could sense the danger he was in. She dragged him at full gallop a hundred feet, to take the fight out of him. She tied her rope off, Alanza frozen as Chica walked up on
the rider. The man looked on in disbelief.

  “You little brown bitch, you shot my horse!” He looked at her angrily.

  Chica pulled her pistol and shot the man in the thigh; the bullet tore a long trench through his chaps and lodged below his right buttock. He swore and screamed violently.

  “Jesus, Lady!” Chica had the man’s attention now. She stood over him and placed a foot on the wound in his leg.

  “Why are there so few of you, gringo?” She let up on his leg, so that he would not scream so loudly.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, my God, I am dying.”

  “You are not dying, gringo, but you are lying.” She cocked her piece again, and it barked flame, shattering the femur of his other leg. He screamed again, more loudly this time.

  “Oh God, oh God, please don’t, please stop.” He held up his arms, hands clasped together in prayer.

  “Tell me, gringo.” She cocked her pistol a third time. “Next will be the cojones, gringo. You speak a Spanish, gringo?”

  “No, no, please, no.”

  “Cojones is your nuts, gringo. You understand?”

  “No, please, he was crying now more intensely.” He had a hand over each thigh wound, but quickly covered his genitals. “We were supposed to come in and shoot, just shoot, then turn around and ride out. That’s all, that’s all.”

  “What about the Capitan Welles, you weren’t to kill him?”

  “No, no.” The man now knew that Chica was aware of the assassination plot. “Welles isn’t to be killed. It is the other captain, Walsh, and the governor.”

  “Keep talking.” She ground her foot into his right thigh, then eased up.

  “The other Captain, Walsh. They’ve been poisoning him and he’s going to be killed this morning. The rest of our gang is going in to his ranch to kill everyone there and all of his stock, to make it look like an Indian attack. Oh, God, my legs hurt so bad.” He sobbed and began rocking, back and forth. “Another group is going up to Tucson, and kill the Governor as he travels from his home to his office. I swear, I swear.”