Chica holstered her pistols and placed the hide-out gun back in its holster. She held the dagger and lit a cigar. She continued to stand on the dealer’s neck. “An we need some bullets for the shotgun as well. We need a box of bird shot, some buckshot and some heavier shots, for rabbit. She looked at the Indians, “Anything else?”
They nodded energetically.
“How much is all of that, gringo?”
“Don’t, don’t worry ‘bout it. Take ‘em… as a gift.”
“No, gringo, we are not robbing you, just making a good trade, we will pay for the bullets.” She peeled off a few bills and put the rest in her pocket.
She sent the Indians on their way and stepped away from the dealer, who got up slowly and sat back down at the card table. Chica looked at them and smiled. “Oh, by the way, gringo, I am no’ a squaw, I am Mexicana. You might wantta change your sign,” she pulled the handwritten placard from the doorway, and threw it at the bar. It read, “No Indians allowed”.
Outside, she untied Alanza and climbed onto her saddle. She kept an eye on the entrance to the saloon, but did not need to. No one inside was interested in following her. She cantered Alanza over into better shade. It was so hot that she regretted not getting one more beer before leaving the gringo saloon. She counted her money and was pleased. She would be good through November. She glanced down the street at the Indians. They were standing under a lean-to, ogling the new shotgun. It was not a good one, but it was new and a double barrel and it handled shells that could be easily obtained. They were very pleased. One of the Indians approached her. As if paying tribute to some pagan goddess, he offered her a silver crucifix. Chica could see its value and refused. She pointed to a brass bangle around the man’s arm and said that she would have that as a gift if he would part with it. He gladly complied. The other, younger Indian summoned his courage and ran up to Chica. He grabbed her hand and kissed it, and just as quickly ran away.
Chica touched Alanza’s sides with her spurs, let her jog a few steps, then urged her into a gallop. They flew down the dirt road, kicking up dust which blew through the open door of the saloon. She pulled Alanza up and wheeled her around, back past the saloon and sent half a dozen shots through its window, just to keep the gringos excited a little longer. She rode out of sight and was gone.
IV Alliance
Dick Welles sat at the lounge of the Alhambra Hotel in Tombstone, waiting anxiously for Arvel Walsh to arrive. This was their first get-together since the meeting of the delegation at Arvel’s ranch. Dick was fairly giddy with excitement. He smoked the finest cigar offered by the hotel and was finishing his second scotch. He kept looking at his watch, he couldn’t wait to talk with Arvel about the dozen or so ideas he had about the new Rangers. He fiddled with the silver stars he brought along. He had them made by a jeweler in Bisbee, and each had Captain, then Arizona Ranger engraved around the center. The other stars for the Ranger Privates would be numbered, but he purposefully did not do this with these. There would be no number one or number two Captain in this outfit. The whole thing was a simple five point star. He hoped Arvel would approve.
Dick labored under the delusion that hard work and perseverance would guarantee success in life. Unfortunately, he was hurtling through his fifties and still had not achieved the level he had hoped for since he was a child. More than money, he wanted to be recognized as a gentleman. He worked toward this, but as the saying goes, it takes two generations to make a gentleman, and Dick’s father had not made strides toward such a goal. His father was a good man, but he was a laborer and utterly uneducated. He had no aspirations other than to keep his family fed and a dry roof over their heads. He was hopeful that his children would do well, but to him, doing well meant learning a trade or perhaps becoming a farmer.
Dick had very specific ideas about what it meant to be a success. Most of which were not only unrealistic but also unattainable. Society in America by this time was more tolerant, particularly when it came to the upper strata. So long as one was white, a gentile, and not Catholic, he would be welcomed with open arms, provided he had enough cash on hand. Dick did not seem to fully grasp this concept. Try as he might, he seemed always to be on the outside.
His first experience with this was during the war. He was a supreme soldier, starting as a private. He was an enlisted man who was later commissioned for outstanding leadership on the field of battle and made a Brevet Officer. But this only made him alien in both worlds. He no longer fit in with the enlisted men, and he did not fit in with the likes of Arvel Walsh, the well-educated and well-heeled officers of the upper level of society. And he continued to struggle with this all his life. He was not educated, and he did not like to read, although he could read well. He was not intellectual in any way. He seemed constantly to be a day late and a dollar short. He never was a failure at anything he had tried. He was always a good employee for whomever he worked. But he could never achieve any significant financial success, no matter how hard he worked. But now, things appeared to be going his way, and he was anxious to get started.
By the time Arvel and the reporter arrived for dinner, Dick was on his way to a good drunk. Arvel was amused, as he rarely saw Dick so relaxed and animated. He was in a talkative mood. Eventually, they made it from the hotel lounge to the dinner table. They chatted as they looked over the bill of fare.
Dick smiled. “Look at this, gentlemen. Even in this dying town of Tombstone, we have cold beer, oysters from South Carolina, Salmon from the Pacific, and fresh vegetables from, from…” he could not remember where the fresh vegetable had come from… “back East. My God, when I first came out to Arizona…”
Arvel grinned. “Oh, God, don’t tell us you drank water from a muddy hoofprint.”
“No. No!” He took another drink of beer. “That’s disgusting, Arvel. No, I never drank muddy water from anything. I was going to say you’d be lucky to get canned beans. Now look,” he waved his hand across the table laid before them.
“Well, you’ve been here the longest of the three of us, Dick.” He smiled at the young reporter. “You should know.”
Dick laughed. “Well, I’m not boasting, I’m just saying how far we’ve come. It is a great thing to see, and I’m hoping we’ll help to move it on even further.” He finished his beer and after dinner insisted that they have one last drink for the night. They went to the hotel bar and Dick had trouble walking. He began laughing at everything. Arvel got them a table in the corner and propped him in a chair. He would not stop smiling. Their pleasant, albeit unproductive evening was disrupted by some loud talking at the end of the bar. Two men became engaged in a heated discussion about the war.
In short order, the hotel manager approached Arvel and his group. They had already become celebrities in the region, and everyone seemed to know the new Rangers. The manager was naturally a nervous man, and was embarrassed to approach them.
“I am sorry to disturb you, gentleman, but as you can hear, we have a rather drunk and belligerent young man at the bar.” The manager wiped his brow, “We don’t typically have such ruffians here. A very unpleasant business.”
“Where is your hired man?” Arvel was a little put out by the request. He had forgotten that he was no longer just a private citizen. Dick was in no condition to do or say anything. He sat back in his chair and looked, stuporous at Arvel and the manager.
“He is down with a bad bout of lumbago, Captain Walsh, I am very sorry for this imposition, and your bill will be accordingly adjusted as a token of our appreciation.”
Arvel sat up, he waved the man off. “No worries. I’ll take care of it for you.” He leaned over, close to Dick. “Give me your shootin’ iron, Dick. I’m not heeled.”
Dick looked at him and smiled. He pulled back the lapel of his coat and the butt of the revolver could be seen jutting from his vest pocket. Arvel grabbed it discreetly and put it in his pocket. A dozen notions ran through his mind as he considered his plan. Before he left his party, he leaned over to the reporter
and asked him to put Dick to bed, then rejoin him at the bar. The young man dutifully complied, yet he was disappointed in not witnessing Arvel’s first act as a lawman. He knew, based upon the look on Arvel’s face that he should not object.
Arvel walked up to the men arguing. The Alhambra was a civilized hotel, and the bar was similarly populated. Sound rarely exceeded a murmur, and often well-dressed ladies could be seen seated at the tables at the nearby lounge. Arvel sized the men up as he approached. One, the younger of the two, a man no more than thirty, was definitely armed, the other he could not be certain of. The older man was clearly working on agitating the younger, provoking a fight, and he looked as though he could make short work of the younger, drunker man. He also would be the most easily diffused, as it appeared to Arvel that he would likely not want to get mixed up with the law. Both men were traveling through. Arvel walked up between them, casually, and ordered a drink. He opened his coat long enough to display his star and Dick’s revolver. He downed the drink and then took advantage of the temporary pause in the fracas.
“Gentlemen, I could not help to overhear your conversation about the war.”
The young man huffed, “This Yankee was disparaging the honor of the fighting men of the South.”
The older man snorted. “Hell, son, you weren’t even born ‘til after the war, I bet.”
“I was five years old in sixty-five, you mudsill, and my daddy and two brothers died with honor.” The young man’s face was turning a deeper red. He was going to unravel at any moment. Such anger, Arvel thought and we were nearly thirty years out of the war.
“All right, all right. Gents, the war was a long time ago, and it was a bad time, but it is over, now, and we need to just let it go. He looked at the older man and motioned for him to leave. “I’ll be happy to drink a toast to both sides.” He looked at the men, “tomorrow, when we’ve all had a good night’s sleep, and we’re in a properly respectful state.”
The older man bowed. He was not nearly as drunk as the younger one. He could tell Arvel was a GAR man and that some insults by a youngster were not worth getting into hot water over. He was moving on next day anyway. “That’s a fine idea, Sir. And with that, I will bid you all a good night.”
He had gotten rid of one, now he had to deal with the other. He thought better of buying the man a drink, and looked over to see that the reporter had returned from his task of getting Dick to bed. The young man was muttering something about Yankees having tails when Arvel suggested they move to the lounge. He offered the man a cigar and ordered coffee. The young man was confused. He did not understand why the Yankee Captain was being so nice to him. The reporter was cordial as well.
“Mister, I am sorry, what is your name, sir?”
“Collins.”
“Mr. Collins.” Arvel extended his hand. “Names Walsh, Captain of Arizona Rangers.” Arvel suppressed a laugh. He had not introduced himself as such until now. It sounded ridiculous to him. He looked at the reporter. “Mr. Collins lost his whole family in the war.”
The reporter looked at him, confused. He realized then what Arvel was doing. “Oh, oh, I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Collins. I lost quite a few family in that terrible conflict as well, but it was before my time. Family still talks about it, like it was yesterday.”
“North or South?” The young man demanded.
“The Army of Northern Virginia.” The reporter stood a little straighter. He spoke in a tone to suggest it was a ridiculous question. Of course he was a Southerner.
“Yes”. Arvel sat back in the leather chair, and crossed his ankles; he blew a long plume of smoke at the ceiling. “Yep, I believe just about every person in the country lost something in that war.” He stretched. “But, it was a long time ago, and we really just need to move on.” He sat up and looked at the young man. “Looks like you are putting the affairs of your family back in order, Mr. Collins.”
The young man blushed. “How do you mean, sir?” He liked this Yankee. He never thought he would like any Yankee, but he did this one.
“You are well enough dressed, staying at Tombstone’s finest hotel, you have money, looks like you take care of your old mother well enough.”
The young man nodded.
“Let me just give you some unsolicited advice, if you will indulge me, my friend.” He touched the man’s forearm. “Let it go, son. To honor your family, let it go. There is no good that can come from hating. Your father and brothers made the supreme sacrifice for something they believed in, the best you can do is let ‘em rest in peace. Remember them that way, and move forward. You are going to encounter more and more men of the Yankee persuasion as you move west. Some of them will kill you sooner than look at you, and then your old mother will have no one left. It ain’t worth it, son.”
The man sat quietly for a few moments, pondering what Arvel had said. He worked on his cigar and looked at the floor. He stood up and shook both men by the hand. “Thank you for the cigar and coffee, Captain. I have to leave early tomorrow, so I will be bidding you a good evening.” It was the best he could do for an apology and thank you, and Arvel responded in kind.
The reporter was amused by Arvel’s method. Most of the lawmen he had seen in Tombstone would have been rolling around on the floor by now, and someone would be missing a few teeth, after such an altercation. Arvel Walsh bought the man coffee and a cigar. He likely had the man thinking about things that might well change his life. This was an unusual and remarkable lawman, indeed.
Arvel let Dick sleep until noon. He opened the door slowly and was assaulted by the pungency of a sick room. Dick squinted up at him, through one bleary eye, too weak and sick to lift his head from the cool pillow. “Do you still have my gun?”
“Sure.”
“Do me a favor, and shoot me with it.” He slowly sat up, rubbed his eyes and the back of his head. He looked for his watch.
“It is noon.”
“You didn’t have to kill anyone last night, I presume?”
“No, no, everyone slept soundly in their overpriced Alhambra beds, no problem. I changed their diapers and put them both to bed without incident.” He tossed the borrowed revolver on the bed.
“God damn, what is that stench?” said Dick.
“Vomit.”
“Where?”
Arvel looked around the room. A chamber pot was full, and he looked further on.
“Oh, my.”
“What?”
“You didn’t pay a lot for those new boots, did you?”
“No, four dollars. Why?”
“They are full of used oysters.”
“Damn!” He slowly turned his legs and sat on the edge of the bed. He tried to twist a cigarette. His hands were cold and clammy, his fingers would not work. Arvel handed one from his pack. Dick lay back again. They both smoked as Arvel opened a window to let the rank air circulate. Dick breathed deeply then sat up abruptly, grabbed the least full vessel at his feet and belched into it. He waited for the next round of retching to commence. “Hey.” He peered into the bowl. “I don’t remember eating noodles.” He looked up at Arvel, the nausea had passed for now.
“Let me see,” Arvel peered into the chamber pot. “That’s an onion.” Dick pushed the bowl away and sat back on the bed.
“I am sorry, Arvel. I shouldn’t have been in that condition last night.”
“Oh, there is nothing in it. Don’t give it another thought. You are not a sot, I know that, you were just celebrating, and it got the best of you. At least you were armed. I didn’t have a gun.”
“A real pair are we.” He grinned, embarrassed. I’m a drunk and you with nothing more than harsh words for the outlaws.
Arvel blew smoke rings at the window. The town was bustling below and he was shocked at the activity on a Sunday. Dick’s words weighed heavily on him. Their lives were going to change, and at his age, he suddenly thought it was a stupid plan. He never carried a six shooter. He never needed it. He was nearly always anonymous in Tombstone, and al
ways anonymous in Tucson and really any other place he would go. Now he would have to deal with drunken angry young men, had to get into their business, had to learn what sort of nonsense made them hate the world. He’d have to protect the interests of businesses, whose owners and managers didn’t give a hang about him. They just needed to keep the flow of commerce going; they needed a garbage man to pick up the refuse, or diffuse it before it negatively affected the bottom line.
Dick seemed to be having the same thoughts. In the glow of a nice drunk, when you feel invincible, like you could take on the entire world, fantasizing about the greatness of your exploits, it all seems a grand adventure. You feel like a young buck again. Now, in the cold clarity of morning, with the added pain of a roaring hangover, being a Ranger Captain did not seem to have the same appeal. He thought about his vulnerability. What if they had been hosting a reporter from the Democrat Nugget, rather than the Republican Epitaph? My God, the papers would be filled with the shameful actions of the new Rangers, one drunk, the other killing a man over a Southern insult. He knew Arvel, and he knew the man didn’t mind pulling a trigger on a fellow. He felt like he was going to vomit again.
The Mule Tamer Page 5