The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  “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 on 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,” He 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 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, as 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. 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. They protruded from his gaping mouth. He had been scalped, evidently while 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, had he 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 would be allowed to go on. He 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.

  “Yea, what is it?”

  “I think we should send Tim Brown back to town.”

  They watched the young man run from one body to the next, his actions defying logic. He tried to straighten the corpse’s 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 these 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 these 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 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, they 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 fell over in the early hours of the morning, and were sleeping off a good drunk.

  This 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. 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. The reporter could not be counted as a useful man, and 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. The addled youth refused and ran the posse to within a quarter of a mile of the spring. The cloud of dust created by eleven men galloping hard would be a certain alarm.

  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 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 went along to just get along 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. Most were too sick 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 will be no surprising them now,” he pointed, “there is one of them, right there, and he’s raised the alarm.” Arvel pulled out his Henry rifle and fired at the man, who dr
opped down instinctively, rat-like. The bullet parted his hair and started a stream of blood into the young man’s eyes. He was otherwise unharmed.

  The young deputy screamed at the posse. “No goddamned shooting until I give the command. We will 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 react. 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 young man did take the lead, which impressed Dick Welles. It was more likely due to the heat of the moment than pluck and courage.

  The troop bolted forward to within a hundred yards of the gang when 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 and found themselves in an arroyo, stopping there to dismount. Bullets flew over their heads, buzzing past them. It was a sound Arvel remembered too well, and one he hoped he would not have to hear again in his lifetime. The deputy stood, fidgeting with his reigns as the men worked at taking up shooting positions. The reporter pulled himself 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 will 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 onto 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 alright.” He winced, cried out. He could not catch his breath. He watched as the blood flowed out onto the ground beneath him. “I ain’t never been shot before.” He curled his body. “I want to tell you boys, I didn’t have any part in all that yesterday.” He gritted his teeth. “I ain’t tellin’ you I don’t deserve to be shot. I’m glad you killed me. I can’t keep livin’, seein’ those folks go the way they did and every time I close my eyes, that’s all I see.” He bent forward again, and let out a groan. “I didn’t do anything for ‘em, and shame on me. I will go to hell for it, sure enough.”

  “You a praying man?” the reporter spoke up. He looked at Arvel and Dick for approval.

  “I, I guess.”

  “Well, you may atone for your sins and see where it gets you.” He regretted, as a man who used words for a living, the inarticulate way he was stating it, but he was not certain what fate awaited the dying man. He felt better when Hedor seemed to take comfort at the thought.

  The deputy pushed past them. “Get him on a horse; we’ll take him back for trial.”

  Incredulous, Arvel replied: “He won’t live another hour.” The dying man begged for water, he looked down at the ribbon of gut, squeezing between his fingers. His eyes darted back and forth, first at Arvel and then to Dick.

  “He’s been gut shot, don’t give him water, it’ll only make his situation worse,” said the deputy, with authority.

  Arvel pulled out his canteen and gave the man a drink. He glared at the deputy. Hedor drank, but just barely, the color fading from his face. He cried out again.

  “Get him on a horse.”

  Arvel faced the deputy again: “He will not be moved.”

  “And I say he will,” the deputy put his hand on the grip of his six shooter. He hoped for some live prisoners. At least he would have one. He stared back at Arvel, who was no longer smiling. Arvel knew the man’s game. He was driven by greed for recognition and any potential bounty. Arvel had no great compassion for the miscreant, he knew he would soon be dead, but there was no call to add to his suffering.

  “I say…” Arvel was interrupted by a shot from Dick’s Winchester. The bullet pierced the desperado’s heart. The deputy looked at the two old timers. He swore, and marched off.

  “Well, there’s an end to it,” said the reporter with the derby.

  The deputy should have been pleased. All the bandits were dead. None of his posse suffered so much as a scratch. It was true that they did not get Gold Hat, but with his reputation, it was unlikely that he would have waited around for any posse to catch up to him. He was simply too slippery. The deputy was angry nonetheless. More likely, it was because he was disappointed in himself. He’d lost his nerve. He knew the score, and he didn’t like it much. The reporter did not help, as he chattered incessantly about the two real heroes of the day. As he sauntered back to his horse, the little man encountered Sally, quietly resting among the horses. He pushed her on the flank, and when she did not move, thumped her smartly across the neck with his quirt. She hee hawed and jumped aside.

  “Woa, there, cowboy,” Arvel stiffened at his mule’s cry. “You don’t touch my mule, son.”

  The deputy’s face reddened. He kicked the ground and jerked the hat from his head. He swatted Sally with it, then pushed her all the harder. “Then get this goddamned beast out of my way.”

  “Partner,” Arvel called out again, “You molest that animal one more time, and I swear I
’ll put a ball in you.”

  The young deputy scoffed, and continued to attack the animal. “I hate mules! They are worthless beasts!” raising his quirt. Before he could harm Sally again, Arvel pulled out his Navy Colt and shot the deputy in the toe.

  Falling over, the deputy let loose with a stream of obscenities. He held his foot, rolling about on the ground. “You son of a bitch, you shot me!” He looked up at Arvel, fury and pain welling inside, he reached for his revolver. Before he could clear leather, Dick buffaloed him senseless, blood now pouring from the gash on his head as well as the hole in his boot.

  Arvel attended to Sally, holding her face and speaking softly to her. He kissed her on the muzzle. He did not look at the deputy again.

  By now the others had had enough of this young upstart, and they looked at him with disdain. No one blamed Arvel. They would not blame him if he’d shot the man dead. They admired his restraint. Arvel was a legend for his love of his mules. He’d even been known to buy mules back from people whom he thought did not deserve them, or who had misused them in any way. He often balked at selling them to the Army, as there was no guarantee they’d be treated properly.