by Horst, John
Arvel sat Sally and smoked. In the past twenty four hours his life and the life of everyone else in the region had been turned upside down. They had lived peacefully and uneventfully for years. No Indians, no miners, no gamblers, no Mexican bandits. The community had slipped into a quiet complacency, and that suited Arvel Walsh just fine.
He was working on five mules nearly simultaneously when the young man came riding up to his ranch, out of breath, flush with excitement, to tell him the news of the Knudsen family. He was amused by the boy, who was young and hungry for adventure. Arvel thought that he was not unlike himself thirty years ago, but now, well into his forties, hearing of this kind of excitement only made him sad. He was sad for the Knudsens, of course, but he was also sad that his mundane, complacent, normal life had been disrupted. He was getting used to the sameness of the days, and the only excitement that he now experienced was when a hand got kicked by an overexcited donkey, or horse, or mule. Everything was humming along nicely for Arvel Walsh, until now.
Posse Comitatus
The men Arvel had been waiting for gathered just before sunrise. Since no one had been taken captive during the previous day’s slaughter, it had been pointless to give chase after sunset. Twelve men responded to the request by the deputy sheriff. The fellow in charge was a small man, no more than twenty five years old. He had been one of the deputy sheriffs for around six months and had proven himself in words only.
He had a fine Stetson and a fancy gun rig. His six shooter was bright nickel and the grip had a naked woman carved garishly on the outside panel. Many cartridges, more than fifty, were snugly fixed into loops across the front of his belt as he wore his rig with the buckle in the back. He had a giant knife, like an overgrown Bowie, with an ornate handle which stuck, menacingly, in front of the six shooter’s holster. He looked uncomfortable and out of place in these clothes, as if he’d put them on to have his portrait taken. His scarf was a bit puffy and too tightly tied around his neck and tended to creep up over his chin as he moved. He continuously pulled it back into place.
His past deeds were difficult to verify. He had spent some time, by his own account, as a lawman in Tombstone and, supposedly, working for the Texas Rangers. Judging by his blustery ways and fondness for hearing himself talk, everyone could pretty much agree that he likely hailed from Texas.
Dick Welles was there and Arvel was glad for it. He had known Dick since he arrived in Arizona. He was a good man, and a fellow veteran of the GAR, a rare thing in this part of the country as the land was populated mostly by former members of the confederacy.
Dick was a severe looking man with sharp features and blue eyes the color of a glacier. He sat, perched on his horse like a predatory bird, a dangerous hawk, ready to swoop down on his prey, looking on at the collection of volunteers. He looked terse, always; never cruel, but never friendly or smiling. He was the kind of man whom other men obeyed unless they were too stupid to know better.
His hair went white by the time he was forty. Once, his wife convinced him to dye it. So mortified was he at the outcome that he shaved his head, preferring temporary baldness to the hubris of such self-indulgence. He wore only brown or gray colored clothing of wool, as blue seemed too gaudy to him, silk was out of the question. He never wore black as he felt that this was the color reserved for undertakers and the clergy and he fit neither of those criteria. He was never without a cravat and waistcoat. He would wear a sack coat except in the worst heat.
Today he was dressed in his hunting clothes, which consisted of his older regular clothes that were deemed worn enough to get dirty. He was not a vain man, but proud enough to always be dressed properly. His hat was the only exception. He’d gotten it just after arriving in Arizona and it was once the color of honey. Now it was about as dirty as a hat could get and the grosgrain band was colored with a hundred different sweat stains. It was an exceedingly ugly hat and was incongruous with the rest of his outfit, looking as if perhaps he’d mistakenly picked up the property of a proper derelict, leaving a well-cared-for one behind.
“Bad business, Dick.” Arvel extended his hand.
“Indeed. The girl said they tortured Olaf for better than an hour. She just escaped after they walloped her good on the head and left her for dead. They were in a state, whoopin’ and hollarin’, so busy with the blood orgy that she jumped up when they were occupied and ran like hell all the way to town.”
“How many do you reckon there are?”
“She thought ten or twelve. Half Indians and half Mexicans, except for one white fellow, looked to be just running with them, and not all that connected with the gang. He didn’t seem to take much part in the really bad business.”
“It is all the same, lie down with dogs and get up with fleas.”
The rest of the posse was made up of young ranch hands from the area, and a fellow from the Tombstone newspaper. Word traveled fast about this incident. Decapitation always makes for exciting news.
The young deputy was animated. He barked orders, strutted amongst the posse, commenting on what was lacking in each man’s outfit. He was particularly concerned about the two elderly gents joining his expedition. He believed that fear was the best motivator. He eyed Arvel’s kit doubtfully. “Sir, that mule is not going to slow our progress. We will be forced to leave you behind if you cannot keep up.”
“Understood, Captain!” Arvel smiled.
“I am not a captain, Mister, and I’ll thank you to take this a bit more serious. We’re after some dangerous fellows.” He looked on with contempt at Arvel’s guns, consisting of his Colt thirty-six from his days in the war, and a Henry rifle, ancient by the standards of the well-equipped Texas lawman. Arvel wore his old garrison belt with the GAR buckle. It was so worn by now, that Grand Army of the Republic was nearly indiscernible. His big knife looked as if it had come from the kitchen. In fact, it had come from the kitchen and Dick Welles could swear it had retained the odor of onions.
“You have a cap-n-ball six shooter?” The young deputy sneered.
Arvel looked down at his revolver and smiled. He was enjoying this thoroughly now. The young man did not wait for his reply and began casting glances about in every direction, looking for evidence of even more incompetence among this group of volunteers.
The little fellow eventually wandered off, muttering something about having to nursemaid old-timers and kids. He lambasted a few other members of the posse, poking and prodding their equipment and generally making a fool of himself.
“Well, old-timer,” Arvel winked at Dick Welles, “Let’s do our best at not being a nuisance on this expedition.”
They rode off, last in line, Sally with her younger brother, Donny, in tow. Arvel always took two mules on an expedition, as he had an abundant supply of the beasts, and thus was well provisioned in the event that things would go wrong. With the little general in charge, he was certain things would, indeed, go wrong.
They reached the homestead quickly; it was not far from town. As they approached, they were struck with the sweet pungency of burning human flesh. Tim Brown, nephew to the slain homesteaders, broke and galloped hard to the site, rifle in hand. What he hoped to discover or achieve by doing so, no one could tell. He was inconsolable when the rest of the posse caught up with him. The scene was disturbing, even to the most hardened war veteran, and most of these boys had little experience in such matters.
Except for the one girl who had escaped, every member of the family was lying about the yard. The house had been burned, only the scorched adobe fireplace and chimney remained. Dead livestock mixed with the corpses. Olaf’s body smoldered in the dying embers of the fire-ring a distance from the home. The fingers of his left hand had been torn, rather than cut away, and they protruded from his gaping mouth. He had been scalped, evidently while still alive. His throat had been cut so deeply that the head was nearly off. The wife’s body remained relatively intact. They looked everywhere for her head, but it could not be found. Two small children lay on top of her;
from the amount of gore soaked up by their mother’s dress, it was likely they died last, bearing witness to the terrible execution of their parents. The little girl, who was approaching her ninth birthday, had been defiled.
Tim Brown was of no good use to the posse. Arvel knew this would happen, and would not have permitted him to come along, if he had any say in it. He decided the best thing to do was to talk to the deputy as the young man was going to get himself and, perhaps, several others in a bit of trouble if he was allowed to go on. Arvel looked over at Dick who understood what he was thinking, and nodded in agreement.
“Deputy.” He waited to get the man’s attention and knew, from his countenance, that they were in for a bad time. He had lost color in his face and had trouble forming his words. He looked at Arvel, bewildered.
“Yeah, what is it?”
“I think we should send Tim Brown back to town.”
The three of them watched the young man run from one body to the next, his actions defying logic. He tried to straighten the corpses’ clothing, waving flies from open wounds. “That poor fellow won’t be anything but a liability going forward.”
The deputy pondered Arvel’s words, then stood, stupefied. He began pulling at pieces of debris, and uprighted a bucket that lay on the ground at his feet. He removed his hat and began running his fingers through his hair repeatedly. He was trembling. “Well, I guess we’d better bury these folks and get that fire put out. I guess we’d better…” he began muttering incomprehensively.
Dick Welles intervened: “Deputy, why don’t we get these boys mounted up and follow up on the bandits? The fire will cause no further damage, and the undertaker’s already been alerted. He’ll be along shortly to take care of these poor souls. There’s nothing more we can do for them. But we really must take up the trail and get those black devils before they go and do any more harm.”
“The trail is cold.” The deputy spoke automatically, without emotion. “They could be anywhere by now.” He rocked from foot to foot, fingering the brim of his hat.
“No, sir!” Dick replied. He’d seen men act like this in the war. They’d lose composure and direction. Giving them a task is the only way to get them out of it. “They went off due west,” he motioned with a sweeping gesture of his hand, “and the only place for them to go is Potts Springs. They must take water there before heading into the desert. That’s where we’ll find them. It’s not more than fifteen miles away. If they’ve moved on already, we can track ‘em down and take them in the desert.”
This brought the young deputy to his senses, more or less. He soon came around, more assertive and annoying than before.
“All right, you men, mount up.” He looked down at Tim Brown, still fiddling with the headless woman. In a flash of clarity he instructed the man to stay at the homestead until the undertaker arrived. The young man did not hear him.
The bandits rode, just as Dick had surmised, to Potts Springs. They were well provisioned with spirits to celebrate their deeds and settled into the low mesa to take on a good drunk. They drank all night. Several of them wore the Knudsen’s clothing. One Mexican was wearing Mrs. Knudsen’s wedding dress. They lay nearly where they had fallen over in the early hours of the morning and were sleeping off a good drunk.
Potts Springs was the only logical place for them to go, if traveling west from the attack site. The reassuring thing about bad men is that they are almost universally stupid and this band was no different. It was easy enough to anticipate what they would do next.
The posse rode hard, too hard for Arvel and Dick’s comfort, toward the bandit’s camp. They knew that a brash attack would result in either an unnecessary loss of life or at least injury to members of the posse, and now they were down a man and outnumbered twelve to ten as the reporter could not be counted as a useful man. The two veterans knew well enough that it was always more dangerous to attack a position than it was to defend it.
Dick rode up next to the young deputy, trying to convince him to stop but the addled youth refused to listen and ran the posse to within a quarter mile of the spring. The dust cloud created by eleven men galloping hard would be a dead giveaway and was apt to give the gang time to prepare a defense.
The white man riding with the bandits was the first to stir. He had drunk hardily but was unable to sleep. The horrific images of the previous day’s attack would not leave his mind. He was a pathetic man of twenty with bad teeth. He was known as Hedor for his mouth emitted a stench out to a distance of several feet. No one particularly liked him. He was merely tolerated. Like a rat, he seemed to be able to sense trouble before it happened and was therefore some use to the bad men. He had stumbled upon the bandit gang in late winter and, as he had no money and no cartridges for his rifle, his prospects were limited. He joined up as a temporary measure and hoped to drop out of their company when he got near enough to Tombstone where his fortunes would likely improve.
He stood on a high rock, relieving himself while scanning the horizon. He saw the dust and raised the alarm. Mexican and Indian bandits slowly roused from their drunken sleep but most were too hung over to move as quickly as they should. The bandit with the wedding dress cut it off himself with his big knife; he stood in his underwear, looking about for his gun belt and rifle.
Arvel saw the man on the rock. “Well, there’ll be no surprising them now.” He pointed, “There’s one of them, right there, and he’s raised the alarm.” Arvel pulled out his Henry rifle and fired at the man, who dropped down instinctively, rat-like. The bullet parted his hair and started a stream of blood into his eyes, but he was otherwise unharmed.
The young deputy screamed at the posse. “No goddamned shooting until I give the command. We’ll never catch the sons-of-bitches unawares now!” He glared at Arvel, then at Dick.
He stopped the troop momentarily and looked through his field glasses. Everyone waited for him to tell them what to do. The deputy looked bewildered. “Damn, I knew we shouldn’t have stopped.” He looked accusingly at Dick. “Come on, you men, let’s ride.” The deputy did take the lead, which impressed Dick Welles, even though he knew well enough that it was more likely due to the heat of the moment than pluck and courage.
The posse bolted forward to within a hundred yards of the gang and the shooting began. Arvel stood up in the saddle, placing the butt of his rifle on his right foot, and pulled the magazine spring up, working on replacing the cartridge he had fired as Sally galloped ahead, Donny in tow.
Dick looked over at him and laughed. “Jesus, Arvel, you look like a one-armed paperhanger trying to load that damned old rifle.”
Arvel grinned. “You don’t worry about me; just keep an eye on that deputy. You might learn a thing or two from him before this day is over.” He got the cartridge replaced as Sally galloped on. He did not need to coax her. Sally knew what Arvel wanted, often before he knew himself.
The bandits’ shots were high and wide and had no effect on the posse. They continued forward until they found themselves in an arroyo. They stopped there and dismounted. Bullets flew over their heads, buzzing past them. It was a sound Arvel remembered too well and one he had hoped he would not have to hear again in his lifetime. The deputy stood, fidgeting with his reins as the men took up shooting positions. The reporter curled into a ball, yanking his derby down over his eyes. He was acting more out of prudence than fear.
“Well, this is a fine spot.” Arvel smiled at Dick as the man uncased his Winchester. “What do you say you flank left and I’ll go right, and we’ll see what can be done about this mess?”
“No, I think I’ll stay with you, Arvel. Those old timey guns of yours might get you in trouble. You might need me to take care of you.”
They moved along the depression to the left, placing themselves between the sun and the bandits. There was an outcropping large enough to afford a good vantage point into the bandit camp. The posse began to return ineffectual fire which at least served to keep the bandits occupied.
Dick and Arvel
made it to the high place. “There’s room for just one shooter. Go on up there, Arvel. I’ll keep the rifles loaded.” He handed Arvel his Winchester and held out his hands, fingers laced together, to give Arvel a leg up. “Hold on, Cowboy, give me your cartridges, that relic of yours takes rimfires.”
Arvel leaned Dick’s rifle against the rock wall, pulled out a handful and pushed them into Dick’s palm.
“What the hell are they covered in?”
Arvel looked down, “Sugar. Pilar gave me some pan de muerto,” he smiled at the irony of his cook’s food selection, “I guess they got covered in sugar. I had ‘em in the same pocket.”
“My God, Arvel, you are something. They’re going to gum up your Henry.” He stuffed the coated cartridges into his coat pocket.
Arvel grinned, “Come on, I’ve got ruffians to shoot. Lick ‘em clean before you load ‘em.” He stepped up into the stirrup made by Dick’s sugary hands.
Arvel slid forward on his belly, took up a steady position where he could look directly down onto the bandit camp. He placed Dick’s Winchester beside him and proceeded to pour deadly fire into the group, first with his Henry, then with Dick’s Winchester. Dick reached up and grabbed the Henry and worked on reloading it. The bandits, panicked, began to break from cover, allowing the rest of the posse to hit their marks. One bandit saw Arvel on the perch overhead. He turned, dropped his rifle and put his hands up, screaming to Arvel that he would give up. Arvel shot him in the forehead with Dick’s Winchester, noting in his mind that it shot an inch high at that range. The man dropped as if he had fallen through a trapdoor.
When the shooting finally stopped all the bandits were dead except for Hedor. He lay, moaning and holding a loop of gut forcing its way through the gash made by Arvel’s rifle.
“I am sorry for the low shot, son. You jumped up just as I was firing, otherwise I’d have killed you clean.”
The man looked up at Arvel. He did not know what to say. He looked back down at his blood soaked hands and the gray loop of gut, like uncooked sausage, uncoiling from his abdomen. “Oh, that’s all right.”