The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  “You don’t look so good, Dick.”

  “I don’t feel so good, Arvel.”

  “Come on, pull your ass out of that bed. What you need is some coffee and a bit of grub. We’ll both feel better when you’re up and moving about. You go ahead and wash up, and I’ll get you some new boots. You can’t wear those vomited in ones until, well,” he looked at them doubtfully… “maybe you should just throw’em away.”

  They did feel better after a meal. The men who had had the argument were long gone; the young reporter observed them getting into a coach together, heading further west. It would likely be an unusual ride for both of them. The manager approached the men’s table and thanked Arvel profusely. He had saved the hotel of any embarrassment and kept the patrons happy. The Alhambra worked hard at overcoming the Wild West image. Their motto was, “a bit of civility in an uncivilized land.” The manager chatted on for a while, and eventually, the reporter showed up and sat with the two men. He looked at Dick Welles a little doubtfully.

  “Mr. Welles, you have no color in your face, sir.”

  Dick smiled at him. “I’ll live.”

  The reporter was in a good mood. He liked the men. They were the kind of men he had heard about all his life, the real men who fought in the war, had seen real hardship, had been tested and showed their courage. They were, simply, men, and everything they did was always right, as far as he was concerned. Dick Welles’ drunkenness did not change his perspective of him at all. He had gotten drunk a time or two himself. Dick was obviously not a drunkard. He was drinking coffee the next morning. A drunk would be drinking, at least, a beer.

  Arvel received his final bill. The manager had graciously discounted it by the cost of Arvel’s sum for his Ranger services to the establishment. It amounted to eighty-three cents. There was a request for a receipt from Arvel for the payment rendered. Arvel laughed and added the amount back on his bill; he tore up the request and threw it in the trash. His actions did not seem to merit an eighty-three cent discount.

  V Col. Charles Gibbs, Esq.

  “Pendejo…Pendejo.” He had not dreamed of the Mexican girl. “Pendejo.” He felt a shove, and sat up in bed. She stood over him with mescal on her breath.

  “Oh, hello.” He rubbed his eyes. “Why are you in my room, standing over my bed?”

  “I missed you, Pendejo.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.” He looked outside. It was dark. “Most folks come calling during the day.”

  She began walking slowly around the room, looking at things, picking up pictures. “You have a nice place, Pendejo.”

  He was pleased to see her, and smiled at the absurdity of having a young senorita in his bedroom.

  “Who are these people, Pendejo?”

  “That is my wife, and the little one, my daughter.”

  “They are dead, Pendejo?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is sad.” She put the photos back. “So…what are you doing, Pendejo.” She began fidgeting with the lampshade tassels by his bed.

  “Well,” He yawned. “I can tell you what I am not doing.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and sat at the edge. “I am not sleeping.”

  She grinned, “You are funny, Pendejo.”

  “What is your name, Chica?”

  “Oh, I go by many name, Pendejo, why don’ you guess, and I will tell you what is right?”

  “Jezebel?”

  “No.”

  “Lorelei?”

  “No.”

  “Ophelia?”

  “No.”

  “Lucretia?”

  “No. But I like that name.”

  “Chiquita.”

  “No.” She grinned. “You called me that last time.” She ran her thumbnail across her teeth.

  “Diablo?”

  “Now, you are being silly, Pendejo. And I would be Diabla.”

  “I give up, Chica.”

  “That is it! I am Chica.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What is your name, Pendejo?”

  “Arvel.”

  She laughed. “That is a funny name.”

  “I am a funny man.”

  She yawned. “You are a funny man, Pendejo. Why don’ you get angry with me?”

  “I don’t know. I think you are funny, too.”

  “I am tired, Pendejo.”

  “Then you should go home, and go to bed, wherever that might be.”

  “I am thirsty, Pendejo. Would you get me some water?”

  “Oh, you are a lot of trouble.” He stood up, and reached for a robe.

  “Ay, chingao! Wha’ happened to your back, Pendejo?’

  “I got blown up, in the war.”

  “Ay, you are a mess, Pendejo.” She stretched, catlike, “I am tired, Pendejo.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  He returned with a glass of water and she was asleep, in his bed.

  “You are a lot of trouble,” he muttered under his breath, and curled up on the divan at the foot of the bed. He dozed, began to dream.

  “Pendejo.”

  “What?”

  “What are you doing, Pendejo?”

  “Not sleeping.”

  “Come to bed, Pendejo, I am cold.”

  “It is sweltering, Chica.”

  “I am cold.”

  His mind raced.

  “I am afraid, Pendejo.”

  He laughed. “You, afraid? I think not.”

  “You do not like me, Pendejo? No?”

  “No…Yes, I like you Chica. Like I like a pit of rattlers.” He sat up, then stood to face her. “It is not appropriate, Chica.”

  “What is this, appropriate? What does this mean?”

  “Proper.”

  “Ay, you are a fool, Pendejo,” She looked into his eyes and pouted her lips, like someone who had not gotten her way. She lifted the covers, and scooted away from him, making room for him in the bed. She tilted her head, beckoning him.

  “My God.” She did not look sixteen now.

  She awoke at dawn, her brown skin contrasting against the white sheets. She stretched again, enjoying the comfortable bed. She looked up at him, her head resting on his arm, “Pendejo, why are you looking at me?”

  He was fiddling with the earring dangling nearest to him, and then the bangles on her wrist. He laughed. “I was thinking of something funny.”

  “What, Pendejo?”

  “And I will visit upon her the days of Baalim, in which she burned incense to them, and she decked herself with her ear-rings and her jewels, and she went after her lovers, and forgot me, saith the Lord."

  She wriggled more deeply into the bed, turned on her side, facing away and pressed herself against him, “You are funny,” and fell asleep.

  She appeared at noon, freshly washed and wearing one of Rebecca’s white cotton dresses. Uncle Bob, occupied with Arvel’s work in the corral, did not notice her until she was standing next to him. He jumped out of his chair and removed his hat. “Ma’am.” He bowed.

  Arvel saw her and stopped what he was doing. “Hello.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Uncle Bob, this is...Chica.”

  “Good morning Uncle Bob.”

  “Well, good morning, Miss Chica.” Uncle Bob held out his hand, took Chica’s and kissed it as he bowed lower, his hat across his breast.

  “It is a beautiful morning,” Chica looked up at the sky.

  “It is now,” Uncle Bob grinned. He hopped up on the top rung of the corral rail fence.

  Arvel went back to working the young mule. Chica grabbed Uncle Bob’s hand and climbed up on the rail next to him. Arvel worked the mare mule hard, and the animal did not like it much.

  “Watch him Miss Chica.” Uncle Bob leaned closer to the girl, as if to impart a secret. “This a particularly willful one.”

  Arvel moved around the corral like a boxer in the prize ring. He led the animal with a long rope, and spoke words to her calmly and constantly. Chica could not make out the words. He did not strike th
e animal, but never let her take control. In short order both man and beast were fairly running about the ring. Arvel would push the animal, and then force her to stop, change directions, commanding the animal to do what he wanted until she complied. He did not let up for a moment and soon they were sweating, nearly exhausted, and the young mule began, as if by magic, to heed the man’s every order.

  “He is good, Uncle Bob.” She smiled and looked at the man sitting next to her. “He does not look like a mule trainer.”

  Bob smiled. “Arvel’s a deceptive fellow, Miss Chica.”

  “He looks like a mild boy.” She struggled for the word, “un sacatón …but not really.”

  In the old days, they’d refer to a fellow like him as a bully trap.”

  “Que?”

  “A bully trap. A fellow that would appear to be a pushover, a weakling, a coward, and thus easy pickings for a bully, until the bully gets hold of him, then he wonders what fell on him. That is Arvel.”

  Chica watched him work. She grinned, “Si’, Uncle Bob. Bully trap.”

  Pilar called them for the midday meal, and Chica grabbed Arvel’s arm as he closed the gate. “You are pretty good Pendejo, you know mules.”

  “Oh, it is easy, Chica.” He smiled at her. “You just have to be more stubborn than them. Sooner or later, you wear them down, until they start thinking it’s their idea to do what you want ‘em to do.”

  They sat around the table at the veranda. A good breeze made it comfortable. Pilar poured drinks and leaned next to Chica and whispered something in her ear. Chica grinned. She nodded.

  They had a fine meal. Uncle Bob treated Chica as if she had been an expected guest. They talked of mules mostly. Chica ate heartily, with little concern for table manners. The normal hour-long meal turned into an entire afternoon with Chica holding court. Uncle Bob immediately loved her. He always had a weakness for pretty young women and Chica was like early Christmas for him.

  As the sun moved across the sky, it shone on Chica’s face and Bob stood up to move a panel down from the ceiling to block it. He interrupted the midday molt of a bark scorpion causing it to drop down onto Chica’s dinner plate. It got its bearings and turned, facing Chica with its claws outstretched, telson poised to strike. Arvel leapt into action, looking about for something to contain the creature as Chica pounded her small brown fist down soundly on the arthropod’s head, smashing it into a white wet goo. “Is okay, Pendejo,” she wiped the mess from her hand with her unused napkin, “I got him.”

  “Hah!” Uncle Bob laughed out loud. “I’ve been trying to get Arvel to do that to scorpions for years, Miss Chica. He always wants to brush ‘em up and put ‘em out in the desert.”

  If he were not so old and if Arvel was not already somehow caught up with this young beauty, Uncle Bob would have proposed marriage to her on the spot. He was smitten. “You should take Chica up and show her Rebecca’s place.”

  Arvel looked dumbfounded by his uncle’s suggestion. Not that it was a bad idea, but he just had not given thought of what he was to do with the girl, or how long she would be visiting, or what even the next hour would hold, let alone considering taking the girl to his old family retreat.

  Chica was amused. She had never been treated so well by gringos. These were strange men. “What is this Rebecca place, Pendejo?”

  Oh, it is a little camp my wife and I used to visit. Haven’t been there for years. It isn’t much, but it is cooler up there. There is a stream and an old cave dwelling that we fixed up a bit. The snakes are likely bad up there now.

  “I like this, Pendejo.”

  “I sent Romero and a few of the boys on up to prepare it for you.”

  Arvel looked at the old fellow. “Well, you are full of surprises today, Uncle.”

  Pilar put some things together for you. If you leave now, you’ll have time for supper up there.”

  They saddled Alanza and Sally. Arvel began looking over Chica’s traps. He pulled a queer looking rifle from a tooled leather scabbard. “Where did you steal this?”

  She slapped his hand. “I did not steal it, Pendejo.”

  “You certainly didn’t buy it.”

  “I did.”

  “From where?” It was a new kind of rifle, with an action that opened the breech by pulling on a bolt handle. It was mounted with a long telescopic sight.

  “I ordered it, from the Montgomery Ward catalog, Pendejo.”

  The stock had a silver plate inlayed which read, Col. Charles Gibbs, Esq.

  “Oh, I know your name, now Chica. Colonel Charles Gibbs. Nice to know you Colonel Gibbs.” He reached out to shake her hand, which she pushed away. She put the rifle back in the Concho covered case. She climbed onto Alanza and they began to ride.

  “What did Pilar say to you at dinner?”

  “Nothing, Pendejo. Let it go.”

  “I want to know.”

  She smiled coyly. “She said I was taconera.”

  Arvel thought on it, trying to remember if he had ever heard the word before. “Que?”

  “I am, eh, how do you say, ah, traveling whore.” She grinned proudly. She liked that Pilar had given her so much consideration.

  “Oh.”

  Uncle Bob watched them ride off. Pilar stood beside him, drying a dish. The housekeeper was never not doing something. She looked on at the Mexican girl. She leaned over and spat on the ground. Uncle Bob laughed at her.

  “She is no good, that one.”

  Pilar was not an attractive woman. She was forty-five and looked sixty. She had buried three husbands. One had been killed by Apaches, one by a drunken gringo, and one of heat stroke while working on the railroad. She had seven children of which only one lived. She began working for Uncle Bob when he first arrived in Arizona. She was a pious Catholic and she did not like women to act differently than what was expected. She did not like Chica’s sensuality or her crass behavior, the fact that she dressed like a man, or her general foolishness. Pilar was all business, and she felt, as the matriarch of the household, that she had some obligation to protect the two men in her life.

  Uncle Bob looked around, and when the coast was clear, he reached over and kissed her on the forehead. He was not ashamed to show Pilar affection, but she would not have it. No outward display of affection was permitted.

  “Awe, you don’t like her, old girl, because she reminds you too much of you.”

  Pilar did her best to look terse. She pushed him away. “You are a silly old man.”

  “Will you come to see this silly old man tonight?”

  She put down the dish and picked up another. “Did the girl put ideas into your head?”

  He sat down, grabbed her and pulled her onto his lap. “No. You put some ideas in my head.” He kissed her neck. She pretended to push away.

  Rebecca’s place was on the northeast corner of the ranch, around an hour’s slow ride from the hacienda. She found it one day while exploring and it became a regular retreat at the height of the summer. A deep pool was fed by a stream that cut through the rocks, carrying water collected from the mountain above. The water was cold, even in summer. An Indian family also thought it a good place a thousand years ago, and the remnants of their cave dwelling remained. They rode slowly and chatted along the way.

  “Pendejo, why do you like mules so much?”

  He reached over and patted Sally on the neck. “I never used to know anything about mules, until I was courting Rebecca. Then I learned to love them and realized how wonderful they were. Better than any stupid horse.”

  “Now, Pendejo, you cannot say that Alanza is not pretty.” She patted her pony. “She is a fine animal and muy intelligente.”

  “No, no, she is that, Chica. She is a lovely pony, and she suits you.” It was true. The pony was beautiful, and feminine, like Chica. There was no mistaking that woman and horse were perfectly matched. Sally’s great ears moved back, as if she was waiting for him to defend her honor. “But look at my Sally. She is absolutely perfect, with her great, bea
utiful…”

  “Jug head.” Chica laughed at the Pendejo.

  “No, I was going to say beautiful ears.”

  “Face it, Pendejo, she is an, an how do you say it…aberración. Mules are an insult to God. They were not made by God, they were made by man.”

  He leaned over and whispered into Sally’s ear, “Don’t listen to her, she’s just jealous. Because I love you so much.” He kissed her on the neck. Sally snorted.

  Chica smiled. “You are such a Pendejo.”

  They rode on a bit.

  “Did you know that mules were prized by the Pharos? They were considered too good for anyone but royalty?”

  “Who are Pharos?” She leaned over and spit on the ground, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She had been riding with her left ankle propped on the big Mexican saddle horn, her skirt hiked up to the waist and thighs splayed to keep cool. She had not bothered with undergarments. Her ignorance and vulgarity were irresistible. She did her best to outrage Arvel, and Arvel did his best to ignore her. She leaned back in her saddle and unbuttoned the dress to her waist. “Ay, it is hot, Pendejo.”

  Arvel looked on at her exhibitionism, then onto the trail. “You are going to get sunburned, Colonel.”