The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride

by John Horst

  They told her about the army of Rurales and some Americans who were closing on Del Oro’s fortress. It was not more than ten miles away. She looked at the sun and her pocket watch, it would be noon shortly and she hoped she’d not missed the battle. She thanked the Indians and urged the pony on, it felt good to have an animal that fit her, and Chica thought how the mare was not unlike her own beloved Alanza.

  XVIII Attack

  They arrived at noon, greeted by Will Panks and little Raphael, the two smiling broadly. Will swept his hand across the horizon behind him, surveyed the ground he stood upon.

  “Pretty good base of operations, eh?” And it was. They stood on a rise and, terrain-wise, it placed them a good thirty feet higher than the top of the parapet of the old Spanish fortress, five hundred yards south, out of reach for the poorly trained bandits manning the Napoleons with their bronze cannon balls.

  Del Oro was not savvy in the ways of military strategy, he thought the bronze balls were more effective than the iron, as they were more attractive, a pretty orange and green color compared to the boring old dark grey of the iron.

  None of his gang really ever expected that the cannon would have to be used anyway. It was more a show of force, and every now and again, when Del Oro was in a particularly festive mood, he would have his men fire a few rounds off, just to enjoy the noise and smoke.

  Kosterlitzky set up his French guns. They were fierce looking contraptions, they looked new, modern, deadly and they were. He’d trained his Rurales well, and they could hit a man-sized target at twice the range their enemy was now. Will smiled at Arvel and Dick Welles as they rode up. He looked on lovingly at his plungers. “You just say the word, Arvel, and I will give you a show.”

  Arvel cast his eyes about the site, he was looking for Chica. He felt in his bones that she was nearby. He wanted to ask Will about her, then thought it a stupid question. If she were there, Will wouldn’t have kept it a secret from him. He smiled at Raphael, still wearing the vestiges of lamp black around his eyes and in his ears. He was a mess. “Old Will hasn’t blown you up yet, I see, Raphael.”

  “No, no Capitan, he is a good teacher.”

  Kosterlitzky set up his men, fanned out at three hundred yards, dismounted so that they could shoot their Mauser rifles with better effect. It was Arvel’s turn to make a move.

  Arvel said. “Colonel, I’d like to have a parlay with them down at the fort.”

  Kosterlitzky smiled. “I think that is a bad idea, Captain, but it’s your funeral. I’d sooner just let the miner give us a display of his expertise and let my boys reduce the whole mess to rubble with the French guns.

  “Let’s see what we can do without shootin’ up the place. Now that Del Oro’s finished, and they’re sure to know it by now, maybe the rest’ll give up easy, maybe they won’t want to fight.”

  Kosterlitzky smiled as he lit a cigarette, “as I said, Captain, it’s your funeral.”

  Dan prepared to follow as Arvel worked on removing his old Henry rifle. He got Billy to tie a white flag to the muzzle. Arvel looked at Dan and smiled, “No point in asking you to stay back, I guess.”

  “No.” Is all the Indian said. He sat resolutely on his horse until Billy had finished. Arvel looked over to his captain partner, “Dick, get the boys with those big Winchesters ready. If I need your help, you’ll know it, just come ridin’ as fast as you can.

  Dick nodded and looked at the ground.

  The guard at the parapet spoke up first. “Alto!” They stopped short and waited.

  “What do you want, gringo?” The man was a younger version of del Oro, as he was one of the old bandit’s many sons. He looked primitive, like a version of a human being who’d not fully developed.

  Arvel looked at Dan George and whistled quietly between his teeth, “Je-sus! Contact Dubois, I've found his missing link!”

  Dan George chuckled, “amen to that, Arvel, amen to that.”

  Arvel lit a cigarette and smoked as he spoke to the ape on the wall, “Sombrero del Oro is dead. We have eight hundred men and thirty cannon ready to reduce you to rubble. Surrender now and we will go easy on you.”

  They were met with silence; a group of them could be heard speaking in a muffled tone, conferring behind the wall. One stuck his head up and shouted, “Sombrero del Oro is not dead, and you have nowhere near that many men and guns. What business does an old man, and Indian and a whore have in making such bold demands?”

  Chica was suddenly there, off to Arvel’s right, in his far periphery where he could not see her. He looked on and smiled. He was about to speak to her when she pulled something from a feed bag, quickly so that he did not have time to make it out until it was raised high over her head, pointed at the bandits on the wall. “How do you suppose he lives without this, puta?”

  A collective gasp came up from the wall. Chica held up the severed head of their father and beloved leader. Her horse pranced in circles, as if the animal knew the importance of its cargo.

  Arvel spoke out, automatically, without thinking, “Jesus, Chica, not another head! What is it with you and severed heads?”

  “Shush, Pendejo, and don’ say Dios’ name in vain.” She directed her attention back to the wall, “Well, what’ll it be, boys, I am in a head collecting mood today, shall I take some more, or will you give up to my husband?”

  A shot was their reply and Dan George slumped forward, nearly falling from his horse. Arvel was immediately upon him, covered him with his body as best he could and grabbed the reins of Dan’s horse; he wheeled and began to gallop back to Kosterlitzky and the French guns. Chica dropped the head, it bounced three times, like a cocoanut falling from a tree. She fired quickly with her Winchester, covering them as they retreated. The Rurales’ Mausers began to thunder on the hillside. Dick and his men came riding and overtook the retreating Arvel and Dan George. They fired as they rode.

  The ape men ducked behind the parapet. Some fired back wildly, without aiming or exposing their heads as the Americanos rode back to safety.

  Arvel was furious now. He grabbed Dan and tried to ease him from his horse as others came to their aid. He knew he should not have let his friend follow. They got him to the ground and Dan looked up at each of them. He smiled weakly and looked down at the wound in his shoulder. His clothing was now red, drenched in his blood, he was ghastly pale and this made his long raven hair look unnaturally dark. He grinned at his friends looking at him with fear in their eyes. He swallowed hard and spoke in his best articulate voice, “Well, I guess that’s the end of this suit.”

  Chica bowed over him, held his hand and looked him in the eye. “You listen to me, Dan.”

  He looked up at her, trying to remain calm, trying his best to be the quintessential Dan. He hid his terror well. He was a brave and stately man, even with a big hole in him and he was very much afraid to die. He managed a little grin, “Yes, Chica?”

  “You will not die. You hear me, Dan? You will not die. I am going to go get some more heads now, and I expect you to be just as alive as you are now when I get back.” She held his cheek gently with the palm of her hand. “Even shot up, you are the prettiest man I ever seen.” She reached over and kissed him.

  The wound was a dandy, and it was big, a big slug from a shotgun which had gone through the meat of his chest and punched a nice hole through his left scapula. He was even paler now, pale as face powder and began to drift away. Alice Walsh held him and got the men to move him to a comfortable spot where Billy Livingston could do his best. The aborigine was on him, all over him, pouring potions and preparing bandages. He looked on at Dan and gave him a confident grin.

  “Don’t worry, mate. I’m just going to patch you up well enough so that Ging Wa can put you all back together again when you get back home. No worries.”

  Arvel was now possessed with his usual battle mania. He’d remounted, rode to Dick’s aid as his ranger partner brought up the rear, firing as they moved back to their base of operations. That was the way when Arve
l was in the kill mode. He was trance-like could think of nothing but going into battle. He was ready to go do some killing.

  There would be no stopping him now and just at the most inopportune moment, one of the Americans who’d followed on the expedition came forward, white as a sheet and unnerved by Dan’s wound. The man touched his trembling lips with his trembling fingers. “Arvel?”

  Arvel turned his head, barked a reply. He suddenly looked into the man’s eyes and was brought back to reality. “Chica! Where’s Chica?”

  “I am here.” He took solace in seeing his wife safe for the first time since the ordeal began. She was beautiful in her lovely koyera and looked more deadly in it than in her sombrero. Arvel tried to focus, get back to the task at hand, he looked on at the rattled man, “Sorry, Tom, what’s the matter, my friend?”

  “Arvel, it’s, it’s just, my boys and me,” he pointed to two young men who looked like younger versions of the spokesman, “well, Arvel, your little girl’s safe now, and well, this ain’t really our fight. We’d ride through hell for you, Arvel, if it was for your little girl, but like I said, this really ain’t our fight, and Arvel, these boys, they’re the only thing their mother’s got.”

  Arvel smiled, “Enough said, Tom. You and your boys hang back here, no harm done.” He was now distracted with the task at hand. He looked at Kosterlitzky.

  “Colonel, do your worst.”

  Kosterlitzky smiled and saluted the Ranger captain. He nodded to Will Panks who directed Raphael to the machines. The boy pushed one plunger, then the other in quick succession and a pair of unimpressive explosions went off at each far corner of the fort.

  Will smiled at the apparent disappointment among his party. He nodded to Raphael who hit the remainder of the machines. Two more explosions, even less impressive than the first. Will smiled again and waited. Watched, when suddenly, as if a lead domino had been set into motion, the great front wall imploded on itself, dropping into a heap of rubble, trapping everyone who’d been on or near the fortress walls. The great wood and iron doors stood, as if by magic for several moments, then came crashing down. Dust rose up all around the destroyed walls and for several moments, the entire scene was occluded by the red dust of the desert floor. The surviving bandits began to scurry uneasily about their destroyed fortification. Many were now caught in the open and the Rurales’ Mausers began to find their marks. At this rate, it would be an even battle in short order.

  Kosterlitzky smiled. “You are going to disappoint my boys manning the French guns, Mr. Panks.

  “Well, Colonel,” Will replied, “If you’d shoot your guns up high there, along say about thirty feet from the top of the mountain, that’s some good limestone and’ll peel off and fall right on those bastard’s heads.”

  Kosterlitzky made it so and soon most of the mountain began to rain down on the remains of the bandit fortress. More dust and confusion and now the chorus of cries of fear and pain and confusion could be heard. The sheared rocks became a thousand little bombs, dropping and cutting and smashing into the miscreants’ heads, torsos, limbs. They were being cut to pieces and Kosterlitzky had not yet unleashed his exploding shells.

  He ordered his men to remount and they began to charge headlong into the center of the bandit stronghold. Arvel was with them and Chica soon began to follow. Alice Walsh called out to her.

  “Maria, would you rather ride Alanza?” Her pony stood beside the old woman, she’d barely been able to control the animal ever since Chica’d arrived. She grabbed the reins from her mother-in-law, switched her guns over as Alice put her hand to the pretty face, “It’s good to see you child. Be careful and take care of Arvel for me.”

  “Sí, Abuelita, he will be okay.” In one motion she threw herself on the animal, felt good now, was one with Alanza and her pony was happier than she’d been in months. They rode into the fray, excitedly, fearlessly, as if Chica were off riding to nothing more an afternoon of foxhunting, without a worry or care in the world. She soon overtook Arvel and nearly caught up to the Rurales now fully engaging the bandits, who still had some fight left in them.

  At two hundred yards, the bullets began to pass them, over their heads, past their cheeks, between and over and under and all around them. As if they were protected by some great invisible shroud, a magic spell, nothing could touch them. Nothing could impede their attack and they came on with an irascible energy. They came on with their shotguns drawn and ready to unleash the fury, the anger and vengeance that had been pent up in them these past days.

  At fifty yards Chica began to fire, the shots hitting their marks, pattern wide and still a bit too far for good effect and several bandits, hit with the little balls jumped back here and there, feeling the spots where the buckshot had entered, through muscle, smashing bone, into gut, into arms and legs and torsos, blinding, searing pain, but only enough to maim, cause distraction. Not enough to outright kill.

  They were upon them now, on top of them, the bandits on foot, Chica and Arvel and Rurales all mounted, looking down upon them, guns blazing, Chica shooting men at point blank range, the shotgun doing its horrific worst now, great chunks of flesh now torn away, men dropping, toppling like ten pins, all life immediately leaving their bodies. This was a slaughter.

  The Rurales were getting their revenge. For years, Del Oro’s bandits were giving them hell, making them look foolish, picking them off one by one whenever they got a Rurale alone or in small groups. They were taking full advantage of this opportunity and now that the fighting was close, many put up their Mausers and used their swords to good effect. They slashed and cut and lopped away. Chica would have many heads to collect when the orgy of destruction was complete.

  A half dozen of the Mexican soldiers made their way up high on the destroyed mountain and fired with precision at the bandits occupied by the onward attack. Soon bandits were fairly spinning about, not knowing which way to face, they were utterly surrounded, many were shot multiple times, every side of their bodies riddled with bullets. Some simply stood still, not fighting or running or trying to surrender. They waited like animals in a slaughter yard for their turn to come.

  The soldiers on the hill watched Chica riding and firing. She was like a Centaur, welded, enmeshed as if she and her beloved beast had grown into one, Alanza knowing the way, which one to kill next and she took Chica to one destination after another so that her love could deliver her many kisses of death. Chica kept the reins in her lap, they were not needed and now she fired deliberately, with both hands, unencumbered, working the slide on the shotgun so fast that the gun appeared to be firing itself. The spectators all called out, “ole, ole,” as if they were watching their favorite toro de once on a warm fall day in September.

  Dick Welles and his cowboys flanked wide and took the attack to the west. They were in open terrain but the ground was hard and flat and they made good progress. Dick looked left, then right, his men looked good and he was proud of them.

  They received no opposition until they hit the downward slope of a small rise and all hell broke loose. Suddenly, as if they’d been pulled down by a great invisible rope stretched across their paths, horses and riders were tumbling to the ground. A staccato of fire, firing so powerful, so fast, so alien to the frontier men, blasted above the cacophony of Kosterlitsky’s French guns.

  The men rolled about on the dusty desert floor, regaining their bearings. Two men and ten horses were hit bad. Dick Welles looked about and over to one of his companions.

  “What the hell?”

  An Englishman, a former British soldier riding in the posse spoke up. “They’ve got a Maxim.”

  “A machinegun? Holy hell!” Dick looked himself over for holes. He ducked down as the firing continued, kicking up dirt and rocks all around him. The bandits had loaded the Maxim’s belts with Dum Dums and the carnage was appalling. The bullets cut through them like razors, tearing out great hunks of flesh and bone as they exited the unsuspecting bodies.

  Dick’s favorite mount, Rosco
rolled about screaming in pain, all fear and panic, his forelegs broken in two. Dick pulled his six shooter and comforted the poor beast as best he could. He cradled the animal’s great head and whispered calmly into his ear. He pressed the muzzle to the old gelding’s head and fired. Just as quickly he turned his attention to the task at hand, thought hard and was suddenly transported to Gettysburg. He called out to his men, was focused, ready to handle this tactically.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man riding hard, a circus rider, like the one he’d seen with Arvel and Chica and little Rebecca at a traveling show up in Tucson two years before. A man was riding and someone, a performer, was standing upright, on the back of the horse, both hands full of something, something smoking, hissing, burning.

  Will Panks rode so fast that the bandits with the Maxim gun could not traverse quickly enough to pick them off. Raphael stood, bolt upright, pressed tightly against Will’s back, big cigar burning between clenched teeth, ready to light another fuse. He waited until they were within thirty yards, threw the first stick high, in a graceful arc, with the precision of a surgeon, right down into the gunner’s lap. They all exploded, men and gun and cartridges flying into the air. The second stick was not required, and Raphael threw it anyway, threw it so that he and his mentor and partner could continue on unscathed.

  Will turned and smiled at the cowboys, he waved his hand and they remounted the best they could, the riders with dead horses carried on the fight by foot. Dick took the mount of one of his men who was too badly wounded to carry on. He tipped his hat to the two mad bombers as he galloped by. “Much obliged, gents.”

  Will patted the lad on his legs. Grinned broadly. “Our pleasure.” They wheeled and were off to see what more damage they could inflict on the camp and were soon out of sight. Now and again an explosion could be heard, measuring their progress.

  Dick and his boys made it over the destroyed wall of the fort. The men picked their targets amongst the piles of rubble here and there. Many of the bandits were stunned, blood pouring from their ears as the French guns were now loaded with exploding ordnance, Colonel Kosterlitzky and his gunners firing so accurately as to avoid hitting their fellow combatants. The sound was deafening.