by John Horst
Ben Wallace worked through the night in the back room of his shop. He tore the shotguns down and stoned the working parts until they were glass-smooth. He fixed the barrels and stocks according to the señora’s requirements. He next worked on the rifle, also stoning its working parts and then assured the trigger broke crisp and clean, neither too heavy nor too light. He checked the screws again on the telescopic sight assuring it would keep its zero, be dead-on.
As he worked he thought of the first time he’d met the Mexican beauty. Arvel Walsh and his Uncle Bob had been good customers for many years and the day Arvel brought his new wife in he recalled how happy the rancher was to show off his new bride. He grinned a little at remembering his own silliness, how he wanted to impress the pretty young woman, showing her in the most rudimentary terms, the mechanics and methods of guns and shooting. Oh, he felt such the fool when he realized how expert his new matron was in these martial arts. She took the guns from his hands and he knew immediately that she knew what she was doing. She’d ask questions of him about the various guns that proved this without question. He remembered that he was smitten. She was the paradigm, beautiful, alluring, smart, worldly, fearless, and a crack shot. He remembered that he was glad his wife was not in the shop, helping him that day. She’d surely notice his trance, and would tease him about it for the next year.
He remembered also the pretty Greener, the day it had finally arrived from England, how pleased he was to present it to her, and how proud he was when she put it up to her cheek and how nicely it fit her, as if she’d personally stood for the fitting in Birmingham. He’d done a good job measuring her. He remembered her broken English, how she looked at him and gave him a little smile. I feel like it is a part of my arm, Señor. He was so pleased to please her.
As he worked, he also thought about the last time he’d seen her, back in the winter, just before she went on her trip through California with her little girl and mother-in-law. She was looking for a new hideout gun and selected a nice two barreled Remington that he always kept in good supply.
The men, the little entourage who liked to keep the shop as their second home all stood up from their places around the stove and bowed to Chica. They watched her handle the little silver derringer, feel the weight of it in her hand, try the trigger.
He remembered the collective gasp that went up as, without warning, she put her foot up on one of the powder kegs next to the counter, hiked up the skirt of her long dress, exposing her lovely leg and thigh to check how the gun would ride there, secreted away until needed under her frilly black garter. He remembered grinning when Arvel blurted out, Je-sus, Chica, you’re going to give these boys a heart attack. He was genuinely embarrassed. He remembered Chica’s reply, Don’ say Dios name in vain, Pendejo. These men are all married; they’ve seen a lady leg. And then old Mose Harper, a man who was likely the oldest resident of Bisbee, leaning forward, and in his frail, soft, laconic voice commenting, young lady, in all my ninety-three years on this earth, I’ve never seen such a leg.
He fixed that gun up for her as well, went to the harness maker and had a little holster made up for her. Kid-lined, and with loops sewn around it to hold extra cartridges. He remembered Chica telling him she did not want the holster to chafe her down there and she gave him that look that excited and melted his heart simultaneously. She was a beauty. It was likely the most provocative thing he’d ever experienced in dealing with any woman, even his wife, and the best part of it was that the lady was neither intending nor expecting to titillate him. That was Chica.
He worked through the night thinking about the guns and how the lady would use them. He looked through the telescopic sight and imagined, wished it would be he who got the bandit in its sights and put the man out of the world, sending him to the next. He strangely thought about the fact that he wasn’t worried in the slightest for her safety. Somehow he knew, in his bones, that she’d be fine. She’d be fine and her little girl would be fine and the son of a bitch Sombrero del Oro would not live another week.
By four he’d just finished up, wiped down the oil he’d put on the fresh wood of the pistol grip he’d carved on the shotgun as ordered. He built a fresh pot of coffee and twisted a cigarette and sat on the front porch of his shop and waited.
II Getting Ready
Dan George would wake Ging Wa before sunrise. He’d been up all night, thinking, scheming, preparing. He checked on his baby little Bob who was sleeping peacefully, looking like an angel. He liked to walk around his house in the middle of the night, watching, listening to his wife and baby sleep. He liked to listen to the house, it would make little insignificant noises as it would either heat up or cool down, depending on the time of year. He liked to hear the metal from the lamps contract and cool off and make little sounds and liked to hear the stove cool down. He liked when the wind blew through the cracks around the windows. It was the sound of the outdoors, Mother Nature and his substantial house kept them from it, safe, secure, happy. They were all safe and he had provided a good home, a safe haven for them and it made him feel good and useful and happy when he could know these things. He had spent his entire life, from the time that he was deposited into the Indian School, working toward this goal.
It was initially a terrifying place for a boy of eight. It was in a foreign land and the people there were so severe. They weren’t mean to him, and they provided all the things required for a child to live; food, clothing, shelter, but the place was without love, without nurture. Dan soon learned that he could read fast and read well, and he loved it and read to learn and to escape his severe world. He learned about others in his situation, characters like David Copperfield, Oliver Twist and Pip. He pretended to be Pip and decided when he was nine that he would make something of himself. He remembered a young teacher named Hobbs who, one day, as the children were leaving a classroom, stopped him, looked him in the eye and, without emotion, or kindness or meanness, just in a matter of fact tone, like he was talking about the weather, told him that he had it in him to be something very great, something special, and Dan never ever forgot that.
He also remembered the remonstrations from another teacher, an old schoolmarm named Miss Sullivan who constantly warned the children of the dangers of predators who would touch them in their private parts and she taught them that most all people where wicked and essentially all men were wicked and they should always be on their guard for bad men. She told them that they should never interfere with themselves and that any intimate relations should only be between married people and that it was only for procreation. She told Dan that he had a fine fist which had inspired him to become a law clerk at seventeen.
Dan George was patient with Miss Sullivan, but he never paid her any mind as he was a big fellow, nearly six feet tall by his twelfth birthday and in possession of a certain innate confidence, a presence, so he never had to worry much about men who might want to do harm to him or abuse him in any way.
His first foray into the carnal world was at sixteen, when a merchant’s wife, who had business with the school, seduced him. She was a tall woman with blonde hair and dark blue eyes and a magnificent bosom. She ground herself against the young man and made animal sounds that he’d never heard before. It was very amusing to him at the time and he did not mind it at all. He learned at around this age that he was especially attractive to the opposite sex, and, while brief liaisons never did compare with what he eventually had with Ging Wa, they at least made a less than perfect substitution for real love and compassion. He was known in the region as quite the lady’s man and many were shocked at his choice of the little plain looking Chinese woman with bad skin. She was not beautiful to anyone but Dan George, and the first time he met her at Arvel Walsh’s ranch he could think of no one else. He was smitten.
He fiddled with the stove and washed a cup. He thought about little Rebecca Walsh and suddenly felt a despondency that he had not known in many years. He pushed back the urge to cry and considered what his friend Arvel Walsh might
be going through at the moment. He hoped that poor Arvel was sleeping now, dreaming good dreams of his little girl. He suddenly felt energized and looked at the clock in the hall. He was anxious to do something for the Walsh family.
Arvel had assured Dan’s place at the bar and that was just one of many kindnesses he bestowed on the Indian. He could still remember Arvel coming to see him at the Ranger’s office where he worked as Dick Welles’ secretary. Dan was the glue that held the Rangers together and kept the enterprise humming.
Arvel had suddenly had a wonderful scheme and could not wait to tell him. It was illegal as all hell, and unethical, from a lawyerly point of view and completely outside the realm of what Dan would ever imagine doing, but Arvel just went ahead and pulled it off. Arvel Walsh never minded skirting around or outright breaking the law when he thought the law was stupid, or if his motivations were pure. He called in some favors of some lawyer friends back in Baltimore, and created a bogus pedigree for Dan that would result in declaring the Sioux Indian as white as Arvel Walsh. When Dan balked, Arvel put up a hand. Now, Dan, just let it go. Let it go. Stupid laws need to be skirted around and we are just righting a wrong, so there’s an end to it.
So Dan George became a white man and a lawyer, and everyone pretty much knew it was all bogus and at the same time no one ever questioned it or cared. Dan was one of the most competent lawyers in the territory and it was ridiculous to not allow him to practice law. Besides, there now would be a place for all the Indians and Chinese and Mexicans and all the other undesirables to go to for legal help and keep them out of the hair of the sophisticated white attorneys in the region. There was no money in helping them anyway, and that was the thing that motivated the majority of them. Everyone benefited when Dan was admitted to the bar.
That was the way with Arvel Walsh. No one ever questioned his integrity. When it came to significant things, he was always given whatever he wanted. He had the reputation of taking the law into his own hands, and no one ever questioned it as he was a man with a conscience, and never took his actions lightly as it was always for the greater good.
Dan crawled into bed and gently pressed himself against, then held his wife tightly in his arms and watched her wake up. She turned onto her back, pulled him over so that he was facing her. She smiled at him and rubbed his back, pushing his head against her breast. She wondered how long he’d be gone.
“All ready?”
“Yes, just leaving.”
“Take care of her, Dan. Take care of her, and get everyone back safe.”
“I’ll do my best, but we are talking about Chica. Don’t know that anyone takes care of Chica.”
“You do. She’s a sweet soul, and she’s vulnerable now. Watch her, Dan, watch over her and don’t let any harm come to her.”
“I will darling.” He pulled himself reluctantly out of bed and headed for the gun shop. It was a pleasant morning and Bisbee was not yet awake in his part of town. He and Ging Wa lived and worked out of a fine brick home down the street from the Opera House on a steep hill overlooking the town. They had become a fixture in the community. Ging Wa, the only woman and Chinese physician in the territory and Dan George the only Indian attorney. They had done well despite spending half their time providing service to people who could not pay them. They were always well stocked with fresh meat, chickens, cheese, bacon and homemade wine and Ging Wa used to laugh about being paid in livestock for every baby she’d brought into the world. She’d never anticipated that she would need a slaughterhouse next to her examination room.
Uncle Bob had put them together, and Dan was immediately in love with the kind little Chinese girl saved from the clutches of Madam Lee by the Walsh family and the Arizona Rangers.
It was Uncle Bob who took her in and treated her like a daughter, immediately appreciated and helped to cultivate her sharp mind, assuring that she was received into The St. Louis Women’s Medical College where she became a physician. So competent was the couple that no one ever kept them from commerce. Often, people would seek them out over the older more settled white practices. They worked hard and were both proud of their success.
Ging Wa and Dan simultaneously had the idea when they received news about Chica and little Rebecca. They knew Chica well enough to know that she would not allow anyone other than Dan to accompany her, and at that, it would take some convincing to get Chica to accept even his help. Dan was a good negotiator, and they thought that somehow, if he accompanied Chica, perhaps he could negotiate Rebecca’s freedom. They simply had to try something to help the Walsh family.
Dan collected the guns and supplies, showing up at the convent just after sunrise. He had hired three horses for the journey in addition to his own favorite mount. He waited in the courtyard while a young nun fetched Chica and the mother superior.
He’d never visited this place before, though he’d passed it hundreds of times over the years. Dan had little use for organized religion. Now that he was inside the place, it, as it had Chica, also reminded him of the convents and monasteries he’d visited on his grand tour through Europe many years ago. It transported him, and suddenly he did not feel like he was in Arizona, preparing to go after slave traders.
He was brought out of his daydream by a diminutive nun who shuffled past him and peered out through a habit that was much larger and more confining than what was worn by the others.
Her face was also covered except for around her eyes which revealed the horrible disfigurement of a person who’d once been afflicted with leprosy. The veil most certainly hid much more and he pitied the wretched creature standing before him.
He’d heard stories, seen photos of the poor unfortunate victims in places like Calcutta and in various parts of Africa and China, they were appalling, poor creatures who literally lost a nose, or ears, developed great growths, scarring, monstrous disfigurement and were left to live out their lives alone or among others similarly afflicted.
She held out a basket, offering him bread and he immediately wanted to recoil, put distance between himself and the poor creature. He checked himself and nodded, bowed to her and took a piece of bread if only in an attempt to hide his initial shock and revulsion.
“Buenos días, Señor George.” He was startled that the being would know his name and immediately recognized the voice.
“Chica?”
“Sí.” She laughed for the first time since the attack, pulling the veil down to reveal her face. “I tricked you, no?”
“You did, indeed.”
“Mother superior made me look like a leper with some bumpy wax, she proudly revealed the makeup job to Dan George. “You see, it is glued on with honey and hide glue. She said Sombrero del Oro would probably not molest me.”
She looked on at the horses and traps. Dan had everything in order. “Why are you delivering these things?”
“Because I’m going with you.”
Chica smiled and suddenly Dan did not need the half dozen arguments he’d been preparing when Chica would invariably refuse him. “This is good, Dan. This is a good and I thank you for your help. I can think of no better man for it.”
She looked through the guns and found the shotgun she’d ordered modified. She hiked up her habit and tucked the gun underneath, slipping the sling over her right shoulder. Once everything was back in place it was impossible to detect that she was armed. “Now, Dan, here is what we will do.”
III Resolution
Alice Walsh gently woke her son. He was dreaming and roused slowly. Awakening to the reality of his predicament made him dread opening his eyes and when he did, the sight of his mother made him cry.
She was played out, sunburned, thin, exhausted, spent. He reached out with his good arm and tried to pull himself up in bed. She reached over and wiped his face, he could not stop drooling. He did not know why he was so emotional all the time. He seemed to drool and cry constantly.
“My boy.” She helped him up in bed, wrung out a washcloth and wiped his face.
He
worked hard to speak clearly. “Where are they, mother? What’s going on?”
“Maria has gone after them, Arvel. She told me to come home to get you and tell you to get to San Sebastian.” She watched him take in the news. He looked panicked, desperate, hopeless. “Rebecca is alive, Arvel. We have to remember that at least she’s alive.”
He cried harder at the thought, the realization of what it was that his little girl must be going through. He looked at his mother and smiled weakly, tried ineffectively to hide his despondency. “I’m sorry, mother. I don’t know why, but since the train, and the news, and my fit, I can’t stop crying.” He reached out and cried into her breast. He let out a cry, a wail that sounded otherworldly, a lament, a shriek of terror and sadness that she had never known, would have never, in a thousand years, thought her son capable of uttering. The old woman patted him and rocked him and did her best not to fall apart. She shushed him and eventually quieted him down.
“Arvel,” she tried to cheer him, “what sort of creature did you marry?” She got him to smile. “She was like, a, like a wild animal, Arvel. Like a wild, wonderful, otherworldly creature. She scared me so.”
He stopped smiling and began to think of things to say to defend his wife and his mother cut him off. “I was appalled and awestruck and proud, simultaneously, Arvel. She was ruthless. She killed, many…men. It was like being among an unnatural creature, Arvel.”
