“Well, I guess we can’t just leave him here,” the reporter finally said. A couple of the men threw water on the young deputy, who regained his senses. They bandaged his foot, now absent one toe, and put him on his horse. One of the young men rolled up the toe in the deputy’s big scarf, stuffed it in his bloody boot and tied the whole affair with a pigging string onto their former leader’s saddle horn. Half of the detail escorted him back to town. The other half stayed to arrange the corpses and collect their traps. They would later inform the undertaker who would bring out a wagon and retrieve the bodies. Arvel and Dick stayed with this group, deciding it best to avoid any further dealings with the new amputee. Arvel thought of the Mexican girl as he looked amongst the dead men’s belongings. He felt a little cocky. The evil Sombrero del Oro did not seem so difficult to beat. He was ultimately disappointed when he realized the leader was not among the corpses. The bandit leader had once again slipped away.
Dick talked the whole way back to town. It was how he unwound from battle. He liked to talk to people he liked and this was incongruous with his otherwise stoic demeanor. He laughed about Arvel’s shot. He spoke of the good shooting, and teased Arvel about his Henry rifle, his old fashioned gun. “Guess those old-timey shootin’ irons still work.”
They rode a little further, Dick continued: “Did you smell that white boy’s breath? My God.”
“I thought that was from his intestines, you did notice they were mostly in his hands.”
“Nope, nope, that was definitely his breath. I definitely discerned breath.”
Arvel was preparing to drink from his canteen, and remembered giving a last drink to the dying man. He upended the container, draining it onto the ground, lifted the opening to his nose and sniffed doubtfully. He recorked it and put it back on his saddle horn. “I’ll boil that later.” He took it back off his saddle horn, “on second thought,” he flung it into the desert. “I’ll just get another one.”
The posse met up at the saloon later that day. They convinced the two old timers to join them in celebration. Most of the town folks and all of the inhabitants of the nearby ranches seemed to be jammed in the saloon and overflowed onto the streets. Even Miss Edna the church organist made an appearance, pounding out some happy tunes on the establishment’s upright. They all were celebrating the end of the bandit gang. It would not bring the Knudsens back, but at least some solace could be gained by the fact that the bad men were all dead.
This was a quiet town which never attracted the rough company such as what was seen in Tombstone and Bisbee. No gamblers found it worth their time, no cowboys had business there. Most of the men were married, or well enough settled that whore houses could not be sustained. But today, the townsfolk were giving the saloon good commerce and the beer and whiskey flowed freely.
The younger men talked and joked and backslapped their comrades. It was only in such a life and death struggle could one form this kind of bond. Many of these men were tough, tough from living on the land, living rough, but few had experienced the sting of battle, as they were born after the war. Certainly they had been in the occasional bar fight or disagreement at the branding fire, but none had yet experienced mortal combat.
They all spoke excitedly of the two old timers. They had never seen shooting like this. They each took up Arvel’s old Henry rifle, which most of them had never seen before. The men began pressing the old veterans about their time in the war. They wanted to know where they had fought and how many men they had killed. Arvel just smiled and told them that it was too long ago to remember, and that Dick was the man with the most battle experience.
Finally, when everyone was sufficiently drunk, the reporter stood up, and offered a toast: “To the great toe shooter of the East. Boot makers fear him, chiropodists revere him!”
The younger men looked on, silently. Most did not understand the joke, and wondered if it was not an insult. Finally, Arvel began to laugh, and everyone cheered. He patted the reporter on the back. “Anyone who can weave a chiropodist into a toast has my undying respect, son.”
As the drinking continued, and the conversation inevitably deteriorated, Arvel seized the opportunity to slip out. He headed home. He rode alone and began to feel a little melancholy. He regretted shooting the boy in the foot. He always regretted doing things out of anger. He did not mind killing the bandits. Soon, he would be back to the mule ranch. He preferred the company of mules to people. He hoped that there would now be an end to the little excitement, and that he could go back to his simple uneventful existence.
II The Proposition
Uncle Bob dropped the Tombstone Epitaph on the table in front of Arvel, nearly dipping the paper into his plate of eggs and sausage. “That’s quite an article son.”
Arvel read it quickly. Nodded, and pushed the paper aside.
“Looks like they’ll be making you a senator, next.”
“Or at least name a street after me.” He grinned. “Let’s wait for the Nugget’s version, Uncle.”
“Did you really shoot all those hombres?”
“Don’t know, uncle. It got so smoky from all the firing; I did not get a good view.” He enjoyed his uncle’s ribbing.
Uncle Bob was a tough old bird. He moved to Arizona in 1870. By 1880, he had the ranch working so well that he felt comfortable enough to convince his niece to bring Arvel out to expand the family ranch. Uncle Bob had no family other than his brother and Rebecca, and he took to Arvel immediately. The dashing young officer from Maryland had the looks, temperament, breeding and education to capture the heart of Uncle Bob’s dearest possession. The young couple was a perfect match, and both had enough wanderlust in them to find the move to Arizona appealing. Rebecca was an independent woman and soon discovered that she had nothing in common with the circles her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother moved among. She found them all fairly boring and pedantic. None would ever dare talk about much more than the weather, or entertainment or the latest fashions from Europe and New York. These society folk were continuously shocked and dismayed that a woman from such a fine and old family would be running about, riding and breaking mules. She never looked back, and even during the harshest summers and loneliest winters on the ranch, never missed her comfortable life in Kentucky.
Arvel and Uncle Bob were a couple of bachelors now. Uncle Bob rarely left the ranch. He, like Arvel, had received a fine education. Their families lived comfortably, and had for many generations, going back to well before the Revolutionary War. Uncle Bob loved mules and had a sense for business, and, as the family ranch was doing well in Kentucky, he yearned to branch out, to seek his manifest destiny, as he liked to joke about it. A fearless man, he was a natural for the movement west. Just how far west was a source of consternation for his family. Arizona may just as well been on the moon in the 1870s.
His instincts were right, and mules became indispensable to the taming of Arizona, with their great resilience and ability to thrive in the desert. Uncle Bob brought the methods handed down by three generations of his family. He had also brought the best breeding stock of donkeys and horses to the region. He was a welcome addition to the territory.
By 1880, Arvel was a capable mule breeder, as Rebecca and her father had taught him everything they knew. He and Rebecca were ready for their own adventure. They loved Uncle Bob and the three of them formed an alliance that increased the family wealth significantly. They would never want for anything and this made them a curiosity among people of the territory. The family was neither greedy, nor ambitious. They were comfortable, and loved breeding and breaking mules more than wealth or station. They were Republicans, but quietly and respectfully stayed out of politics and the inner circles of Arizona’s polite and largely Democratic society. Sometimes this caused a bit of a stir, particularly their old abolitionist ways, as well as their kindly treatment of Mexicans and Indians, whom the family employed on the ranch to the exclusion of all others.
Arvel later read the article more carefully in priv
ate. He secretly enjoyed the little excitement. He did like battle. He liked it in the war, and he liked it now, more so now that he no longer had a wife and child to worry about leaving in the event that he would be killed. He was cool under fire, and the fact that he did not brag, and that he did not look the part of the stalwart hero, made the whole business that much more remarkable. He felt good about doing those bad men in. He did not like to kill. He did not even enjoy killing wild game. He was not a violent man; he demanded civility always on the ranch. But, to have a hand in removing the kind of evil capable of doing those horrible things was gratifying. Some people just needed killing and he did not mind obliging.
Governor Murphy had learned of the incident, and was pleased with the outcome. The governor was so impressed with the actions carried out by Arvel and Dick that he wanted to confer with them about a more permanent role in the process of running this kind of trash out of Arizona. This amused Arvel, and he thought about it a lot. He would likely work with Dick on raising a force, but was not keen on spending a lot of time on the open frontier, in search of bad men. He was not an old man, but he was no youngster, either. A comfortable bed on the ranch was more to his liking. He knew he had a God given talent. He saw enough of how men handled the strain of battle in the war. He often wondered why he handled it so well. He was never really prepared for it as a young man. He was always actually more studious than active. He had learned of course to ride and shoot, but he was not much for sports. He learned fencing and boxing at school, but was never remarkable in those endeavors. But, when it came to real battle, he knew how to anticipate the enemy’s actions, seemed always to know the right thing to do. His commanders used to give him the toughest assignments and he’d often carry them out alone. At one battle he spent more time on the enemy’s side of the lines than on his own, reconnoitering. He did not like to lead large groups of men into battle. He did not like to lose men, so he avoided that responsibility as much as possible. He could be careless with his own life, but not so with the life of others. He would definitely help Murphy in raising a force, but once it got under way, he would do his best to distance himself from it.
Arvel’s ranch sprawled over a dozen square miles on a large mesa at the foot of a low mountain range. It had streams running through it at the base of the mountains, and they had several good wells. The house was a low adobe building, designed by Rebecca. She built it next to a mature Palo Verde tree, so that the tree became the focal point at the front of the structure and afforded excellent shade. Most folks in the area, when they became wealthy enough, built their houses of milled lumber, and copied the style of the fine homes found back East, but Rebecca loved the land, and built with stone and adobe. The house blended with the terrain, and the low sloping roof with its long covered porches made the building cool during the hot months. In winter they used fireplaces in each room. Just out front was the main corral and next to it the barn. There were other outbuildings, ranch houses, and a smoke house. Twelve families lived on the ranch, a mix of Mexicans and Indians. They worked hard and lived well, as the ranch owners spread the wealth among everyone who contributed. The workers loved Uncle Bob, as he acted not only as their employer, but took care of them in many other affairs. He was a good boss.
In mid-June the delegation arrived, including Governor Murphy, Dick Welles, a rancher named Hennessy, and the young reporter who had ridden with the posse during the Knudsen affair. It was all very pleasant, and Uncle Bob put on a fine spread. The hands at the ranch worked diligently for several days sprucing up the place. Both men gave a tour of the ranch, proudly showing their finest mules, horses and donkeys.
Hennessy was a dour man, and Arvel knew of him. He was stingy and obsessed with the cost of things. He could have no conversation that did not evaluate the value of everything in the discussion. He came with not a penny to his name, straight from Ireland, and Arvel did respect that he had made something of himself, but sadly, the man was a bore and a bigot. Arvel decided he would have some fun with him.
He stayed with Hennessy during the tour of the ranch, and Dick stuck close by. He knew Arvel did not like the Irishman, and wanted to be available in the event that Arvel got out of hand. Hennessy eyed the corral fence. “It seems that method of fence construction causes a lot of unnecessary expense.”
“A dollar a foot.” Arvel spoke automatically. He actually had no idea what the fence cost, and was making numbers up to confound the man. Dick winced and tried to change the subject.
“You were going to start raising bulls, weren’t you Arvel? That’s why the corral fence was made that way.” He glared at Arvel.
“Yes, but they cost a thousand dollars a head, so we abandoned the idea.” Hennessy was calculating feverishly.
“A thousand dollars? By Jasus and Begorrah, what kind of bulls were they, Mr. Welles?”
“Andelusian Greybacks, Mr. Hennessy. They come from Spain.” Arvel made this up as well. He knew nothing of bulls.
Dick suppressed a laugh. He could not be angry at Arvel. Hennessy was an ass, but too important to the success of the Ranger project. He did enjoy seeing Arvel tease the clueless man.
“They eat so much, Mr. Hennessy. It is estimated that you have to feed them only grain. They will not graze.”
“My God.” Hennessy was calculating again. “How much do they eat?”
“Oh, well, about three times what you’d feed a horse. These greybacks get up to twenty five hundred pounds.”
“That is astounding, sir!” Hennessy was trying to figure the amount of meat produced by such a beast, and what its offspring would likely bear.
Arvel put his arm around Hennessy’s shoulder; he presented him with his packet of cigarettes. “Try one, Mr. Hennessy. They cost a penny a piece, but I think they are worth it. They are pretwisted.”
Hennessy took two. He did not smoke cigarettes, but could not resist the offer.
The young reporter was pleasant enough. He was an Easterner, from Maryland, like Arvel, and they had some pleasant chats about Baltimore. He had become taken with his new home, but never made the transition to the Western garb. He wore sack suits of dark grays or black and wore a derby that afforded no shade. He constantly wiped the dust from his Congress gaiters and, as he seemed always to be writing, his hands and sleeves perpetually bore ink stains. He lived in Tombstone, and this was the first place he had ever lived away from his family. It was a wild place, and the young man was simultaneously intrigued and revolted by it. He enjoyed seeing Arizona become tamed, but not too quickly. There was something in its wildness that held a promise of adventure. It was irresistibly exotic.
Despite his profession, Governor Murphy was a fine fellow. He measured every word, and was a gracious guest. He was surprisingly quiet for a politician which impressed Arvel. The man seemed to listen more than he spoke. Murphy knew Arvel’s and Uncle Bob’s mules well and had respect for their craft. It was folks like the Walshes who would make Arizona a respectable, productive part of the union, and he hoped to bring it into statehood during his lifetime.
The Irishman looked with disdain at the Mexican and Indian girls serving the dinner. He huffed, “You have a lot of darkies on this ranch, Mr. Walsh.”
Arvel took a bite of his meal, sensed Uncle Bob’s cautionary shuffle in the chair next to him. Uncle Bob was fair minded, but knew Arvel’s abolitionist zeal could be overbearing. Arvel chewed slowly, as he collected his thoughts and prepared his words, “Well, Mr. Hennessy,” he took a drink. “We find the local folks are the most reliable and handle the climate so well. In fact, these locals, Mexicans and Indians call this place their home. They didn’t come to Arizona chasing their dreams and fortune.” The Irishman was quick enough to sense the barb. He sat up a little straighter in his chair. He stared down at his food.
“In fact, it seems that every young white fellow coming out from back east expects to be tripping over nuggets of gold or plans to make a fortune at the faro table. None seem to be interested in a good, honest day
’s work.” Arvel was exaggerating, he knew plenty of white lads who worked hard every day, but he was making a point. “Or, if you do have the good fortune of getting one to stick around, he wants to be gone for days at a time once he gets a little money in his pocket, running down to Tombstone for the whores or to get drunk. At least, that has been my experience. My darkies, as you call them, like to work, love our mules, and are more concerned about the welfare of their families than fame or fortune.”
Governor Murphy interjected, “And that is why we are here, Mr. Walsh. To discuss the welfare of the families,” he leaned forward in his chair, and glanced around the room at the servants and guests, “all the families of Arizona. We want to make this a safe place, and, unfortunately, as the last real wild place, Arizona has become a haven for outlaws. Texas pushed them out of their state with their Rangers, and we believe it is time we do the same here.”
The Mule Tamer Page 3