by John Horst
The little child put her hand up to his face and wiped his cheeks. “Don’t cry, caballero, don’t cry.”
He smiled and regained his composure. He gently put her off his lap and stood up, unbuckled his money belt and handed the old woman all of his folded bills. He stood up and kissed them both on the head. He knew now what he had to do.
XV Chica’s Ride
Rebecca and Marta had rounded up as many mounts as they could find, and Chica rode off into the desert to find the rest, first donning her nun’s garb one more time in the event that she might encounter any other bad men. She’d gone just a mile or so out and picked up a couple more horses, not enough, the little ones would have to double up.
Off in a distance, through a mirage of heat devils, she saw the small figure sitting in the sun, in the stark heat of the day, all alone. She got closer and recognized him as the child on the train, the one with the red rubber ball. She quickened her pace and made it to the boy, gave him her canteen and he drank nearly until it was empty. She pulled him onto the saddle and held him gently as she rode. She remembered suddenly, reached into her pocket and produced the rubber ball. She did not know why, but it was a symbol, something tangible from the normal world, the world before the train attack and she’d carried it with her ever since. Now it had a particular purpose and she handed it to him just as she had that day they’d met on the train.
He looked it over and wondered how the nun had gotten hold of it. He turned and looked into her eyes. She had pretty eyes and he remembered from earlier, the day he’d first seen her in the desert, just before she’d been caught that she had a destroyed face, around the eyes, but they weren’t destroyed now.
Chica read his mind and pulled back her habit, shook out her hair and smiled. “You remember me, mi minito?”
He smiled weakly. “I do, ma’am.”
“I am taking you to your mamma. She is good and all the bandits are gone.” She rubbed his shoulders as they rode and she hummed in his ear. He pushed himself against her, snuggled against the woman who was so beautiful and lovely and nice to him.
“Your mamma will be so happy to see you, little one.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, she will. She has been treated bad, just like you. You both need to take care of each other, for the rest of your days. You needa do this thing, little one. Don’t forget, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She made him feel all tingly in the pit of his stomach. She was a lovely creature and he wished for a moment that she was his mother.
The old nun prepared the captives for the journey home. It all seemed too easy to the old woman and when the two riders approached from a distance, she was certain their ordeal was indeed not over. She searched desperately for Chica who was not back from rounding up the extra mounts. She tried to move off in the direction her companion had gone, but didn’t get far when the first bandit called out to her.
They were two stragglers and had not seen the mock crucifixion, the supernatural vengeance heaped upon the bandit gang. They’d heard from some of their companions in the desert that something evil had occurred, but like a pair of doubting Thomases, had to witness for themselves.
They were encouraged to see so many useful animals left, and the marquee tent still standing. There were a few captives left as well, and some of these were still attractive, despite their past mistreatment. They both looked on at the redhead. She still had some appeal and they grinned broadly. They’d save her for later that night. They ordered everyone to dismount, and were obeyed. The mother superior looked at them and began to pray. They told her to shut up and began poking and prodding the women. They ignored Rebecca and Marta. One bandit walked into the marquee tent and returned grinning broadly, a small chest under his arm. This was a worthwhile venture.
They found a jug and began pulling on it as if they had not had a drink in a year. It was quickly having an effect. In short order, they were preparing to get down to business, and pulled out two young women from the group. They backhanded one woman’s child when he protested, but before they could do any further harm, Chica was in their presence. She jumped off her horse and ordered them to stop.
“What will you do if we don’t little nun?” The man speaking looked on at his partner, proud to have come up with the clever name for the figure standing resolutely before them.
“It would be healthier for you two to go away.” Chica hid her hands in her robes, steadily readying the shotgun she had secreted there. She did not want to kill the men in front of her little girl and all the captives. They’d been through enough. Unfortunately, the bandits were particularly stupid, and they looked on at each other, then back to the little nun.
“You are a stupid bitch.” They began to pull their six shooters as Chica swiveled the shotgun on its shoulder sling with difficulty.
For the first time in her life, Chica did not have the upper hand. She was tired, nearly exhausted from stress and lack of sleep. She was convinced that the fighting was over for now and she’d not anticipated these two. This little battle would be touch and go. The black robe of her nun’s costume felt that it had been woven with lead and was now an overwhelming encumbrance.
But before anyone could react further a shot was heard, then another, then silence. The bandits sat on their horses with a ponderous expression. They no longer went for their guns as the new distraction was too great.
The first one bore a strange wound, like a plug, the size of a quarter, dug out from his cheek just below the left eye, then torrents of blood. He reached up, felt the wound carefully, as if he were taking inventory of a newly discovered blemish, an ingrown hair, or the result of a stone kicked up by his mount. Then suddenly, he was down, all energy leaving him, he pitched over onto the desert floor.
The second one looked down, and desperately began tearing at his shirt, just below his chin, as if a yellow jacket had worked its way down and was preparing to sting. He looked back up at the little nun, and he too pitched over.
Little Marta stood behind them. She looked about, as to assure that no one else needed shooting, and once satisfied, put her miniature six shooter in its miniature holster.
All was silent, no one dared move, no one dared to say a word and then, as if on cue, the captives began clapping, the little bandit remounted and stood up in her stirrups. Her pony pranced around in a circle and Marta looked on proudly at the little nun and then the adoring crowd, a little embarrassed by so much attention.
Chica walked up to the redheaded woman. She took her by the hand and led her to her son. The woman had not looked up from the ground in many days and had not noticed the little fellow sitting in the saddle. “Look, lady. Your son is alive.”
The redhead looked up at the boy. She stood, as if in a dream for a moment, then on at Chica. The Mexican children and now this Mexican woman had shown her the only kindness she had known since this hell began. She cautiously reached for the boy, and slowly, awkwardly, pulled him from the saddle. She grabbed him up in her arms and hugged him, looked over at Chica and whispered, “thank you, Miss, thank you.”
Chica looked on as the surviving women stripped the guns from the dead bandits. They knew how to use them and armed themselves. They nodded to Chica. They would not be molested again.
Chica smiled at them as she got back on her horse. “That is good ladies, you kill anyone who tries to hurt you. You kill anyone who tries to do this again.”
She rode up next to the big redhead and reached down to touch her cheek. “Is okay now, lady. You take care of each other. You two needa take care of each other for a long time.”
The mother superior called out to everyone. “We will leave this unholy place now, before any other calamities can befall us.”
Chica smiled at the little girl. “You will be in charge, Marta. I am counting on you to get everyone home, back to Bisbee to the convent. Will you do this for me?”
“Sí, señora, sí.” The little girl sat straighter in the saddle. She wi
shed she had a cigarette.
Chica looked on at the mother superior, “Madre, wait for us, there. Ride hard north, the next village will be a better place to rest than out in the desert. No more bandits should bother you. I am guessing they will be running south.”
The old nun smiled and was suddenly grave. “Come with us, my child, you’ve got your girl, and we’ve done enough, come along with us.”
Chica wheeled and began to ride off, “I have to get my Arvel. Adios, my lovelies. Adios, Rebecca. You all take care of each other.”
“I love you, Mamma,” Rebecca strangely was not sorry to see her go. “Bring daddy back. I love you!”
They rode on at the front of the line. Everyone was so happy now. The mounts were good, everyone had big sombreros to stay out of the sun, and no one bad was in the desert to torment them. Marta was in a chatty mood.
“What will your mother do when she gets to San Sebastian?”
“I don’t know. She’ll get my daddy and all his friends, and she said something strange. I heard her tell the mother superior that she would raze the fort to the ground.”
Marta rode on, saying nothing.
“Is the fort in a hole, Marta?”
“No.” The little bandit grinned at the thought of a fort being down below the ground. “It’s a fort, it is big, with big walls.”
“How can you raise something that is already up high?”
The old nun overheard the children chatting. She laughed and pulled up next to them. “To raze means to knock down. I know that sounds silly, children. But that is what it means.”
Marta became sullen and rode on for a while, she kicked her mount and rode him a little faster, away from Rebecca and the nun. She suddenly wheeled and galloped past them.
Marta yelled. “I’ll catch up.” And before they could inquire or protest, the little bandit was far away, riding back in the direction of the Marquee tent.
In short order she was riding up to Chica who’d seen her off in the distance, recognized the slight profile and her horse’s stride. She stopped and lit a cigar as she waited for the little bandit to arrive.
“What is this, Marta?”
“Señora.” She cast her eyes to the ground. She didn’t even know why, but she was reverent to this woman, always. “I need to ask you something.”
“Que?”
“Will you kill everyone in the fort?”
“No, Marta. I do not kill innocent people or women or children.” Chica smiled at the little girl’s sudden concern. “Why do you want to know this?”
“There are people there. A man. They should not be killed.”
“There will be much fighting, Marta, you know this. We will not let innocent people die if we can help it, but we cannot make sure, you understand.” She saw the child deflate, suddenly wilted. “Tell me, little one. Tell me who you are afraid will die?”
“There’s an old man, Señora. He is blind and he used to be the carpenter, but he can no longer see and he’s…” she could not come out and say that he was good and that she loved and cared for him. It was too much to show, too much emotion to allow.
“I see.” She pulled her mount up next to the child. “What is his name?”
Marta looked up at Chica, mortified. “I…I don’t know, Señora. I just called him old man all the time.” She was ashamed of herself for never learning the man’s name. She was ashamed of herself so much these past days, since meeting Rebecca and the old nun and Chica. She suddenly brightened. “He lives above the dungeon. You will see it.” She jumped off her horse and found a stick, traced the fort for her in the sand. She showed Chica the layout, the well, the blacksmith shop, the armory, where the cannon were located and finally, where the old man lived. He had a craggy little dugout room, up high, in the side of the mountain. It was accessible only by climbing a ladder. He stayed there, often for days and days. Marta took care of him as, once he became blind, he could no longer serve the maestro and was at risk of execution or worse, banishment to the desert.
“Sí, I understand, Marta.” Chica dismounted and walked to the girl who was still stooped down in the dust, looking over her map. Chica reached down, pulled the girl up with one finger, under her chin. She looked into Marta’s face and saw herself looking back at her from twenty or so years ago. She brushed the hair from the little girl’s eyes and placed her hands on her shoulders, could feel the girl stiffen and want to recoil, get away like a spirited puppy whose owner had placed it onto its back. Chica knew what the girl was feeling and advanced nonetheless. She hugged the girl and kissed her forehead. “You don’t worry about the old man, Marta, he will be alive when we are finished, I promise you.”
On the ride back to the captives, Marta thought about the old man. He taught her everything good. She learned to read in both English and Spanish. One day, she was reading an old tattered copy of a book the old man had in his collection written by an Italian man. It was called The Inferno. The old man took it from her, giving her back the bible which he liked to use for her lessons. He was funny. He didn’t want her to read it because he was afraid it would give her nightmares. Marta thought this was very funny, because the fort was much worse than the world in the book.
She liked the story very much. She liked each circle of hell and she loved the man called Virgil. She imagined that she could go down to the deepest part of the dungeon and find the gates to hell, in fact, one day she did, she went to the deepest part, and she found a rock and scratched out a little doorway, and then she wrote over the doorway the words from the book, Abandon all hope ye who enter here. And when she was finished, she used to pretend that she would go down there and she’d find Virgil standing under her sign and she’d ask him to come up and grab the maestro and his assistant and take them down to the deepest circle of hell where they would stay for all of eternity and they would never be seen or heard from again.
She told the old man this and he really laughed. He loved the little bandit so much and she never understood why until one day he told her, before he’d become blind and worthless, that he could see a light in her. She remembered that she looked down at herself to try to find the light but there was nothing there and the man laughed again and said that it wasn’t a light that was like a fire or a torch or a star, it was an invisible light and that Marta had the best mind of any creature he’d ever known and that she needed to learn as much as she could so that one day, when she would leave the fort she’d be able to live well in El Mundo.
He always called the area outside the fort El Mundo, and one day, when she asked him why he said that, and asked him why he didn’t call the fort and the ground that he stood on El Mundo, he gave a laugh and told her that this place was unnatural, evil and it was the mouth of hell and that it was not El Mundo and she’d understand him one day.
As she rode north, she thought about Rebecca and wondered what it must be like to live like her. Maybe she lived in El Mundo that the old man referenced. She was excited now. She thought about the beautiful Señora and how she got the big flutter in her stomach when the lovely lady kissed her on the head. She loved that feeling more than the feeling she had when she shot the dark Jesus in the face, and when she shot the two bandits. She loved it more than when she rode a good horse fast or when she made fun of the bandits and they would look so angry at her, when they wanted to beat her or kill her but dared not to touch a hair on her head. She loved it more than when she and Rebecca helped the captives and gave them food and water when they were forbidden to do so. She loved it more than when she did the tatting and got all the knots right and didn’t have to tear her work apart because she’d blundered.
At one point she stopped her horse and wanted to wheel around and go back to the beautiful Señora so that she could hug her again and be kissed by her again, but then she remembered that the Señora had given her the task of getting the captives and Rebecca and the old nun back to Bisbee.
Bisbee, it was fun to say. It sounded funny, like the buzzing of a bee. She
thought that maybe Bisbee was El Mundo too and she could not wait to go to it. She tapped her mount’s sides and got him into a canter, then a full gallop. She tapped him from side to side on his neck with her reins, not ugly, but just to urge him on and soon they were galloping and galloping. In short order she could see her party and they were all happy. She felt good. She felt the best she’d ever felt in her entire life.
Once Marta was out of sight, Chica rode hard back to the place where she and the mother superior had first encountered the bandit gang, found her traps and was back to the marquee tent before sunset. She crept inside and looked the maestro over. She was initially disappointed, as the man appeared to be dead. She was relieved to see him breathing.
He slowly roused from his fitful slumber and looked at Chica smoking a cigar at the foot of his bed. He remembered her promise to bring him some companions and looked down at his bed in a panic.
“I could not find any friends, mierda, I am sorry.” She casually pulled up a chair and sat next to him. She saw that he was lying in an awkward position and she helped him sit up so that he breathed better and was more comfortable. He could not comprehend her kindness. She wrung out a rag and wiped his brow. “Are you awake?”
The old man nodded. Chica gave him a drink and he was now fully conscious.
“Good. I have a story to tell you.” She poured herself a mescal and sipped it. “That is good mescal, mierda.” She placed her cigar on a plate on the little table next to the old man.
“One time, many years ago I met a bandit who looked very much like you. He had the same face as you, and he wore very fancy clothes like you. He had two gold teeth, right here,” she pointed at her own mouth. The old man gasped.
