The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride

by John Horst

  Near bedtime, she sat near the fire and stole glances at her captives. They were a festive bunch, always laughing, usually drunk. They were crude and dirty and vulgar. They spoke ugly swear words, even in front of women and children. Rebecca knew all the swear words that men said, both in English and Spanish, and did not mind hearing them. Living on the ranch it was not possible to avoid hearing them, but the men on the ranch only spoke the bad words when they did not think women and children could hear them. These bandits did not act like the good men on her ranch or on her Uncle Alejandro’s ranch. They did not care how they looked and did not shave or comb their hair or clean their teeth or wash out their clothes. She didn’t like any of them and they left her alone only because their boss had told them to and not because they were gentlemen or nice or kind. They were not vaqueros; they were ugly bully bad men.

  After two days she met the boss. He was called Sombrero del Oro and he looked very old to Rebecca. He was also fat and wore his hair long. He had long mustaches that made his face look as if it could only frown. Despite his age, his hair was raven black, like her mother’s yet it did not look right. It was the color of the hair of a man they once saw in California, and her mother chuckled at the man and when Rebecca asked why, her mother told her that the man dyed his hair because he was afraid of looking old. This is how the old bandit looked and it made Rebecca feel better. Sombrero del Oro could not be so strong and ruthless and unbeatable, because he worried about looking old and his hair looked like someone dumped black ink on it and when he was very hot he would sweat and black streaks would run down his face and his gold sombrero bore black stains from the silly hair dye.

  He walked up to Rebecca and stroked her hair, gently, lovingly, yet she knew there was no love in his actions. Another man was with him all the time. This one was fatter still and he had bushy eyebrows, like two fat caterpillars had been pasted to his forehead. The hair on these eyebrows was so long and so wild that he looked like an evil genie. The genie on the cover of the book about Arabia that her father used to read to her at night, at bedtime.

  Rebecca could not be certain, but he seemed to wear ladies makeup, like the ladies she’d glimpsed at the bad saloons in Tombstone when she went down there with her father to get supplies. She looked at him a little too long, as he was fascinating in his ugliness. She’d never seen a man wear makeup, but he was, he definitely was. He had two red splotches on his cheeks and dark, black paint or something around his eyes. His eyelashes were black with some sort of material, charcoal mixed with beeswax maybe. He looked like a clown she’d seen at one of the traveling shows up in Tucson once. He looked at her and leered.

  Almost automatically he approached her and began running his hands all over her body and she stood, frozen, not knowing what to do. His great fat fingers rubbed her neck and hair and across her chest and down into her private parts and just as quickly as he started, the boss looked at him and made a quick hissing noise and the man stopped. He grinned at her and his eyes were wild, like an animal sick with hydrophobia or a creature who’d been mesmerized like what her father said about the cobras in India, that they would put their prey under a spell and that’s how they would capture them.

  She looked at the clown man and the boss and became angry. She decided that she would be ready for them next time and they’d not touch her like that again. She began shaking again, this time so hard that her knees knocked and she thought she might fall over. She wanted to stop shaking but could not and it made her angry and she hoped that the two would not see her shake. She didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of making her upset and scared.

  Later that night she was summoned to the bandit boss’s tent. He was a vain man, and every time he camped, for no matter what duration, he made his men erect a giant marquee tent that he’d stolen from some Mexican soldiers. It was well furnished with cots, a writing desk, although Sombrero del Oro was illiterate and had no use for such a piece of furniture, a dinner table, chairs, and canvas partitions, so that the tent could be divided into several little rooms. Each little room had its own coal oil lantern to light it.

  She walked in, head high. She decided that cowering would not help, and it was not in her nature. She was too much like her mother. She’d be polite, and to the point, but she would not cower. This made the shaking stop, and she decided to pretend to be her mother, to act like a little version of her mother, and in this way, she made herself kind of go to sleep or disappear from the madness. She was now little Maria, not Rebecca any more.

  The boss looked at her and grinned. The clown man sat next to the boss, on a low chair, like a court jester or trained monkey, waiting for his master’s commands. She did not like them looking at her, but would not look down. She decided to focus on an object, a little hole in the tent wall, just above the boss’s head. She stared at it and waited.

  “So, you are the daughter of the famous Capitan Welles?”

  “Walsh,” she found it comforting that he did not know her father’s name. His English was bad, too, not like Uncle Alejandro’s. This made her feel better. “My father is Arvel Walsh. You are confused, or ignorant. Welles is my daddy’s partner. He is a Captain of Rangers as well.” The clown man spoke in a hushed tone into the boss’s ear. The boss nodded.

  “Sí, sí. Yes, that is what I meant. Walsh.”

  “It would be a good idea if you would let me go. My daddy and mother will be very cross with you if you don’t. I think it would be better if you gave me a horse and some provisions and let me go on my way, I can find my uncle’s ranch from here well enough.”

  “Ah, yes, I know your mother. She is the whore who married Walsh.”

  “My mother is not that. You are a very bad man, Señor. You should not speak of her that way. She is a good lady and she will come to get me and you will be sorry if you don’t let me go.”

  “So, you don’t know that your mother es muerto?” He looked at the clown and laughed. “I blew her up, on the train.”

  Rebecca took a deep breath. The news was a hammer blow and she suddenly felt weak, like she might fall over. She breathed deeply again. The man was a liar. He was a bad man and he should not be trusted. Her mother was not dead. She knew it. Nor was Abuelita. She decided to not tell him he was a liar.

  “Well, even if she is dead, my father is not, and he’ll be after you.”

  The boss was impressed with this one. She did not scare easily. He grinned at her and then picked up a little bell on the desk, summoning a servant. He spoke quickly to the man who, in short order brought a chest full of women’s clothing into the tent, depositing at Rebecca’s feet. The clown man jumped up from his little perch next to the boss and looked into the opened container, perhaps for something in his size. He found something, balled it up and put it next to his chair. He was pleased with his little prize and once it was securely in his possession went back to leering at the little captive. He was a disgusting man who constantly handled himself as he watched her. She was becoming angry again and remembered his insult, his groping her earlier in the day. She spoke automatically.

  “That will make you blind.” She nodded and looked down at his hand, manipulating and pulling at his crotch. She remembered hearing the hands at the ranch say that one day, when one of the men was caught absent-mindedly scratching his privates. She did not know what it meant, but it seemed funny and teasing at the same time when the hand had said it, and she hoped it would offend the clown man.

  The boss laughed out loud. “Hah, you are a funny little girl.” He slapped the clown man on the back and looked over at Rebecca. “I make him wash his hands all the time, little girl, before he can touch any of my food.” He looked back at her as if he suddenly remembered the task at hand. “You find some nice clothes in there, little girl, and you go get cleaned. You will stay in here with me from now on." He motioned for her to go into the little room next to his quarters. She peered around the canvas wall. There was a comfortable cot, washbasin and clean water. There was a fine
linen towel and washcloth and a new bar of soap. She quickly grabbed a dress from the chest and left the room.

  She was alone at last and began searching the tent walls for an opening, some way out. The boss seemed to read her mind and called out. “If you try to run away, little girl, I will cut your legs off with a dull knife.” She swallowed hard and took off her old dress.

  She looked at the dress from the chest. It was way too big. It stunk, too. Musty and the armpits smelled like sweat. It was once the dress of a prostitute and now she had to wear it. She made lather with the bar of soap and scrubbed it carefully, periodically smelling it to measure her progress. In short order, the stains were gone and it no longer stunk so badly. She began to bathe and listened to what the two were saying.

  The clown man was hissing something into his boss’s ear. She could just make out that he was bargaining. Just what, she did not know, but it scared her and she felt that she wanted to cry. She knew that the boss was the only thing between her and the clown man and that the clown man wanted her for something. Her adolescent brain could not fathom what horrors he could have in mind, but she knew it was not good and she became terrified. She suddenly regretted making the remark about the man going blind. She was afraid that she’d gone too far, and that it would not bode well for her.

  Rebecca was suddenly exhausted. She lay back on the cot in her petticoat. It was the closest she had experienced to a real bed in many days and she fell into a deep sleep. She dreamed of her mamma and daddy and the ranch. She dreamed that Pilar had made her some pan de muertos, her and her daddy’s favorite and she was permitted to eat as many as she wanted. She ate the little sugar covered bones until she was full and they made her thirsty.

  She suddenly awakened and sat up on the cot. She thought she’d get a drink of water when she heard a curious sound, on the other side of the canvas wall. It was the muffled sound of a child crying, and the hissing clown man and the rhythmic slapping sound that she’d never heard before and suddenly she was terrified again. She grabbed up the pillow on her bed and placed it over her head. She blocked out the sounds and the world of the clown man and fell back to sleep.

  V Hunting

  Mother superior sat second in line of the unlikely avengers on the road to Uncle Alejandro’s ranch. She was followed by Dan George and three horses and a burro. She would be seventy on her next birthday and this was the millennium and there was talk of the return of Jesus Christ or perhaps the unleashing of Satan on earth. There was much talk of what would transpire in the year nineteen-hundred, and she thought that perhaps the coming of Chica to her was a sign or adventure that she should not fail to pursue.

  She was a pious but practical nun. She did not really expect that anything would happen in the first year of the new era. She held out little hope for mankind, and did not really expect the end of the world or a new era. But something in Chica promised something important in her life. Some destiny lay ahead for her and she was glad when the pretty Mexican woman came to her convent. They connected immediately and Chica knew that she could trust the old nun. She did not hesitate a moment when the old woman suggested going on the ride to free Rebecca. The old burro was slowing their travel a little but the old woman was not, would not, impede their progress. She watched the back of Chica’s head as they rode.

  She was a diminutive woman and looked even smaller on the big horse Dan had gotten for her. She’d shed her nun costume for the journey in hopes of perhaps meeting some of the bandit gang sooner, on hopes that she could perhaps kill them in ones and twos.

  She was dressed as a man with crossed bandoliers of cartridges and her big sombrero; she looked like a young child dressed in men’s clothing. Mother superior had heard the legend of Chica over the years. She secretly admired the young woman, despite having taken vows that rejected violence. She knew that Chica never killed without cause, and she’d heard about her many kindnesses to the poor over the years, especially now that she had become Mrs. Arvel Walsh.

  She was herself kind and caring but world weary. She’d had her fill of the evils of the world, was tired and was now not averse to the idea of letting someone like Chica take out a few of the worst examples of the human condition. She was not afraid to be one of the players in Chica’s scheme.

  She was glad for Dan George as well. He was a kind and intelligent man and was well known in Bisbee for helping the poor of the community. The old nun was completely unafraid and knew in her heart that their task would be complete, that the little girl would be rescued, that Sombrero del Oro would be brought to justice. It was just a matter of time, and luck and God, she was certain, was with them. She prayed for this as she rode.

  They got to Uncle Alejandro’s ranch by late afternoon and he was waiting for them. He grabbed Chica as she got down from her horse and squeezed her as he had never done before. His eyes were wet. She’d seen him just six months before, but now he looked as if he’d aged a decade. He loved Rebecca so, and the strain was showing. He moved on to help the nun down and shook her hand gently. He welcomed her to his ranch.

  He nodded to Dan George, “Consejero, I am so glad you are here.” He waited for Dan to dismount, and without thinking, grabbed the Indian, hugged him and held onto him for several moments. He patted Dan on the back, and held his hand as they walked to the veranda.

  “What do you know of Sombrero del Oro, Uncle?”

  “My boys have been following him, Maria. As soon as Capitan Welles got word to us we began to track him. He is not far, not more than eighty miles southeast.”

  “How many do he have, Uncle?”

  “About fifty men, Maria.”

  She nodded as she walked up onto the veranda. “Tomorrow we will go.”

  VI Healer

  Arvel had been dreaming of the old days, when he had first met Chica and all the strange things that had happened to him during that time. He dreamed of the strange aborigine man who’d saved his life. Thought about the gold coin the healer had placed in his skull after boring a hole through his head.

  Chica often joked that no matter how bad things got, Arvel would never be without money. He had not thought of Billy Livingston in a while and was suddenly roused from his sleep by a presence in his bedroom. He looked over at the figure working at something on the table by his bed and smiled.

  “Dr. Livingston, I presume.”

  Billy looked up from his work. “Mornin’, Captain.”

  “Arvel.”

  Billy Livingston could not stop calling the man Captain, despite Arvel’s constant admonitions. He started looking Arvel over carefully. He looked into his eyes, opened his mouth and peered about, then grabbed Arvel’s clenched right fist and gently pried it open. He placed the palm of his hand into the crippled hand and looked Arvel in the eye. “Give me a squeeze, Captain.” Billy grunted and turned away, began looking at the items on the table again.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Billy.”

  “Came as soon as I heard, Captain. I’m mighty sorry all this happened, Captain. Mighty sorry.”

  The tears flowed again and Arvel choked on his words. He cleared his throat hard. “I’m always cryin’ Billy. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s part of your condition.” Billy surveyed him, clinically, calculating, he was formulating his treatment plan as his eyes passed over his old friend. “That’ll pass with time, Captain.”

  He managed a weak smile as he brushed his cheeks dry with his good hand. “That’s good to know, I thought I was losing my mind.”

  Arvel was seized with cramps. “Please get Pilar, Billy.” He was losing control of his bowels again. Billy grabbed the bedpan and put it under his behind. “Where’s your commode chair, captain?”

  “Don’t have one, doctor said to keep me in bed.” Billy looked on, disgusted by his friend’s condition.

  “Oh, Jesus, Billy, feels like I’m crappin’ out my guts.

  He cleaned Arvel up as Pilar came into the room. He smiled at her.

  “Billy!”
She was happy. She, as everyone else who knew him, loved the aborigine. “I did not know you were here.” She took over the task and afterward pulled Arvel up in the bed.

  She prepared his next dose of medicine and Billy stopped her. “First thing, Miss Pilar.” He took the bottle from her hand. “We throw all this shit in the garbage.” Arvel looked over at him, confused. Pilar smiled. “Who prescribed all this anyway?”

  “Doc Hanson, from Tombstone.”

  “Quacksalver!” Billy began tossing the various ointments and pills and elixirs in a nearby trashcan. He read one of the labels. “Croton oil. No wonder your shittin’ yourself, Captain.” He looked at another, “Black Drawing Salve. Nonsense!” Arvel managed a weak smile. “You leave it to me, Captain. You gotta lotta years left in you. What do you say we start getting you back in shape?”

  Pilar was pleased. She did not like the doctor. He treated Arvel as if he were dying and she knew that he wasn’t. He wanted Arvel to be treated like an invalid, a baby, and Pilar knew in her bones that that wasn’t right. He encouraged her to keep him in his bed and told her not to even bother with the chamber pot, to let Arvel soil himself, that the extra movement would be too much for him.

  “Miss Pilar, get one of the lads to make up a nice commode chair for the captain, and we need a good padded chair for him to sit in. Get the lads to bring it in. He pulled a bottle of powder from his bag and a pill mold. “Make up a slurry of this and fill this mold for me. When they dry, pop ‘em out and bring me two.” He began forming a ball from some window putty he kept in the bag. He dropped this into a leather bag and once again pried Arvel’s hand open, placing the bag of putty inside. “That feel better?”