The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  “I like riding this way, Pendejo. What do you think?”

  “Rebecca used to ride side saddle.”

  Chica laughed. “I like to ride a this away, she sat up, straight in the saddle, scooting toward the big saddle horn. Sometimes, Pendejo, I just ride and ride, for no good reason than it feel good.” She looked at Arvel. “You know, Pendejo, it is said that a woman who rides like a this is difficult to please.” She threw her head back and laughed when he blushed.

  When they had finally arrived, everything was in order as it was readied for them by some of the hands. They had cleared out in time, so that Arvel and Colonel Gibbs were now alone. The fellows had stocked a pile of firewood near the deep pool and fixed up the old fire ring.

  “Ay, this is pretty, Pendejo.” She leaned down next to her pony, and shared a drink. Arvel surveyed the site, reacquainting himself with it. He had not been here since his girls had died.

  “It is a pretty place, Colonel.”

  “I am Chica, Pendejo.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  They put bedrolls inside the cave dwelling, and Arvel stepped back with a start, as a rattler had been coiled, waiting for a late-day meal. He picked the serpent up with a mesquite branch, and carried it some distance away. Chica looked on.

  “One day, your kindness will be your end, Pendejo.”

  He smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard that before.”

  He gathered more wood to keep the fire going through the night as Chica smoked a cigarette in front of the pool at the base of the cave. She pulled her boots off and dangled her feet in the water.

  Arvel sat next to her and began looking through the picnic basket. “Let’s see what Pilar packed for us.”

  “I hope it is not poison, Pendejo.” She laughed and swished her feet in the pool.

  Arvel looked up at her, a bit worried. “You aren’t going to kill Pilar, are you, Chica?”

  She laughed out loud. “No, Pendejo. I do not kill women. Why would I?”

  “Because of what she called you. I don’t think she likes you very much, Chica.”

  “Well, she would not be a good woman if she did. I would not like me if I was her.” She flicked her cigarette butt into the water and watched it float away, downstream. He handed her a drumstick and a tin cup of wine.

  “This is good, Pendejo. I am surprised you are not fat.” She ate ravenously. “I like Pilar. She take good care of you, Pendejo. She will like me after a while, I think.”

  She ate quietly for a while. Arvel worked on building a fire next to the pool. “How did your wife and daughter die, Pendejo?”

  “Typhoid fever, Chica.” He got up and sat next to her, he took his boots off and dipped his legs into the pool. “They went to San Francisco for a few weeks and stayed at the finest hotel there. They got some bad water and both died there.”

  “That is sad, Pendejo.” She reached over and kissed his cheek. “I am sorry to make you remember sad things.”

  “It is okay, Chica. They are in a better place.”

  “Do you think so, Pendejo? Do you believe in heaven and hell?”

  “I guess.” He lay on his back and looked up at the sky, “I don’t know, Chica. Maybe when you die, you’re just dead.”

  “No, Pendejo. That is not right. There is a heaven and a hell. Your wife and daughter are in heaven.”

  “That’s good, Chica. I am glad.”

  Chica scooped up water and dribbled it on his head. It felt good.

  “We used to swim up here.”

  Chica looked at him and smiled. “Why don’ we swim now?”

  “I didn’t bring a bathing suit; don’t know where Rebecca’s is anymore.”

  Chica stood up and peeled the dress off. She jumped into the pool. “You are such a Pendejo.” She splashed him until he joined her. He had never seen anyone so uninhibited. Even married, in the middle of the wild, he and Rebecca would never have dreamed of swimming naked. He felt himself blush, absurdly looked around for any onlookers. Chica lay on her back and spit water into the air, like an Italian sculpture he’d seen in Tivoli. When he was satisfied no one was around, Arvel removed his shirt, then trousers. He slid into the water. It was one of the single most provocative and exciting experiences of his life.

  Chica wrapped herself around him. Told him to take a deep breath and pulled him to the bottom.

  They lay on the rocks, drying in the late day sun. Dozed, talked, loved and played until evening. They stayed there, under the stars all night, leaving the bedrolls in the cave. They talked some more, loved and slept and every couple of hours awoke and started again. She was lovely. He noticed a small depression just above her left breast. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, a little hole.” She pressed on it.

  “Looks to be about a thirty-one.”

  “Si.” She laughed at the Pendejo. “It was a little gift from a gambler in Flagstaff. He thought that if he bought me some drinks that it meant something else, Pendejo.”

  “And he didn’t use enough gun.” Arvel looked her over for other wounds. “Where is the gambler now?”

  Chica stretched, arching her back again, like a cat. She yawned. “He is in hell, where I sent him, Pendejo.”

  Colonel Chica Gibbs was gone when he awakened the next day. His watch and twenty-five dollars, along with a silver money clip given to him by Rebecca on their tenth anniversary, were gone, as was Rebecca’s cotton dress. As he carried his bedroll out of the cave, he slipped on a loose rock, and fell backward. The snake he had encountered the day before struck at him and caught its fangs on the top of his boot. It hung there, coiling, attempting to disengage itself from the tough hide. Arvel severed its head with his big knife.

  VI The Limping Deputy

  The young deputy did not wait around for the inevitable. He wandered back to Texas, doing odd jobs and working some of the gambling parlors in the small towns bordering Texas and New Mexico. He even spent a few days in Mexico. His wound had healed but left him with a slight limp, which was the continuous reminder of his humiliation and the shame he felt over the way the bastard mule rancher had mistreated him. He was angry, and grew angrier every time he heard a comment or snicker from the patrons of the establishments where he tried employment.

  He featured himself a tough and wanted to be a lawman or at least a bouncer, but he was ineffective in these endeavors. He was convinced that the man who shot him in the toe was responsible for his misfortunes and knew one day that he would get his revenge. His cowardice kept him in check.

  Through the summer he scratched out a living as a faro dealer, but he did not have a good mind for cards, and consistently lost money for the house. He was developing a reputation as a rather dull-witted and ineffective enforcer. And it was not due to the debacle in Arizona, as he was relatively anonymous, and no one really cared one way or another about him. The main problem was his inability to control men effectively. He walked the walk, more or less, as well as a man can with nine toes, but he could not deliver the goods when it came down to a real showdown with some loudmouthed drunken cowboy who, like a mean dog or horse, must sense the toughness and know that the wrath of God is about to descend upon him if he does not comply. The young deputy simply did not have that in him.

  He had happened on one of the Tucson papers one day and saw the ad for the new Arizona Rangers. He did not make a connection with the names of Capt. Welles and Capt. Walsh, that these were the two old timers who had made a fool of him. He seemed cheered by the prospect of becoming a Ranger, as the only time that he’d been happy was the all-too-brief career as a Texas Ranger, until he had disgraced himself there and had been run out of that state.

  It did not take him long to pack. He’d been living with the old whore named Lila who had become a third rate madam in a small settlement known as The Hump. She had decorated the room in which they shared a bed completely in pink and he looked more the fool in it than in any other setting.

  She had no respect for him, but he was companionable in
a biblical sense, and young, and not terrible on the eyes. She had gotten him a job as a bill collector for a Shylock who was part owner in the saloon out of which she operated. This was a good job for a pretend tough, as his victims consisted of young widows, scrawny Indians and consumptives. He could push them around pretty handily and feel like a man.

  He was so cowardly that he tried to leave before Lila returned from her night’s work, but he managed to make a mess of that. She looked him over as he moved around the room, collecting his traps among the sea of pink. “What’s this?” She sucked on the end of a carved ivory cigar holder and glared at him through the smoke.

  “I already told you. I’m going up to Tucson to find work.”

  “At what?”

  “Law work.”

  She began coughing through her laugh. “You? A lawman?” She was a cruel woman, especially when she was not getting her way. “What kind of law can you enforce? You think the territory up there is populated with scrawny Chinks and women? You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  He flashed with anger, but would not raise a hand to Lila as she was a big woman and he’d seen her kill men tougher than him. “You don’t think much of me, do you, Lila.” He put the last of his clothes in a carpet bag.

  “No, it ain’t that.” She decided that ridiculing him would not make him stay. She sat up straighter and leaned forward. “Sugar, you’ve got a good thing here. You’ve got a place to stay, nice companionship, you’re making good money. Why would you want to give all this up for living rough and running down some silly cow thieves?”

  “I’m leavin’ Lila.”

  “Go ahead, you yellow son of a bitch. You’ll be dead by winter. Remember what the half breed Mexican did to you, and that was a girl!”

  He looked up at her in disbelief: “You said you’d never bring that up again.” He looked back at his packing. “You know that if I’d a killed that girl we’d have every Mexican within ten miles of here breathing down our necks.”

  “Oh, Paleeze! You didn’t know that when you were cowering under the heel of her boot. If you did, why’d you go after her?”

  “Cause Bill’s a halfwit drunk and needed my help.”

  “Hah!” She blew smoke at him, like spittle. “You didn’t know any such thing about her, and you just walked up on her, like a lost puppy, and she took you down like she was John L. Sullivan.”

  He crouched over, covering his ears. Like a child in the throes of a tantrum, he turned a deep red. “Shut up, shut up, Lila. I am sick of you. I am leaving, and that’s it. I’m going to be an Arizona Ranger, so just shut your stupid fat mouth.” He began to cry.

  She was furious now. “Go ahead, you dumbass, and don’t even think of comin’ back here. We’re finished if you walk out that door. Hear me?”

  He rode north, stopping along his way out of town to collect interest from three pathetic souls. He beat one young Chinese man until his eyes were shut. He kept the money, as there is no honor amongst cowardly thieves, madams, or Shylocks.

  At one time, stealing had been repugnant to him, but as he haphazardly progressed through his twenties, and opportunities presented themselves, he learned that stealing and cheating people was much easier than earning an honest living. As he made his way up to Tucson during the dog days of summer, he found several opportunities, and by the time he reported to the application board he was in possession of over two hundred dollars and a fine horse with a Mexican saddle.

  Recruiting day was big news in the territory. Many men came out just to see what it was all about. Arvel was especially cheerful, and he was pleased with the turnout. Dick bristled a little at the nonwhites, but knew Arvel too well to protest. He let Arvel deal with them. One was a middle aged Mexican Vaquero. He was once a handsome man but the sun and the hard living and stark terrain had weathered him. He was tall and wore his well-seasoned outfit with pride. He was not so ornately dressed as Chica, but also could not ever be taken for anything but a Vaquero. Arvel liked him immediately and signed him up. He smiled at the man as he completed the enlistment papers. “I have a question for you.”

  The man looked up from his writing. He’d put on brass framed eyeglasses to read his contract and suddenly appeared more like an old grandfather than a Ranger. “Si?”

  “What is the meaning of Pendejo?” Dick looked up at Arvel, confused by the question. The Vaquero smiled.

  “It literally means pelo púbico, ey, a pubic hair, but it is really an insult word.” He wondered at the strange captain’s even stranger question.

  “An insult term?” Arvel smiled.

  “Si, it means dumb-ass.”

  Arvel laughed out loud.

  One particular man who came to see the recruiting was remarkable in that he was an wholly unpleasant being. He looked unpleasant: greasy, oily. He acted unpleasant. He was just plain unpleasant. He was remarkable in this respect. He dressed properly, but in a garish ditto suit of loud plaid and a mustard brown color, the kind much younger men wore to make a statement. He wore a brown derby a little too big for him. It rested on protruding, hairy ears. The man possessed the singular distinction of not having worked an honest day his entire life.

  His family had been in the slave trade. They did not apologize for or rationalize their actions. They knew they were trading in human beings and simply did not care. This was the family legacy. They did things for simply selfish reasons, as they were devoid of any sense of morality. They would wring the profit out of every opportunity and leave nothing behind. During the war, the man was a profiteer and worked both sides. He was also an agent for the English government, and worked that angle as well, in the event that any success on the part of the South would allow a strengthening of England’s position and power in the states.

  After the war, he worked both sides of the growing labor disputes in the country, often finding himself on the side of the business owners and organized labor at the same time. And despite all the intrigue and his ability to make up the most elaborate and complicated schemes possible, these never amounted to any kind of significant success. He never amassed any kind of fortune. He most always had no money. He had no station, no property, and no real assets, and this was not a good position to be in for a man approaching his seventieth year.

  He ultimately found his way to Arizona, as it seemed one of the last frontiers on which to suck out some matter of wealth. Like a good parasite, he took advantage of the vulnerability caused by the lawlessness of the land. He had been here for two years, and, despite the elaborateness of his plans, nothing had, up until now, panned out.

  He had attached himself to a new organization, the American Anarchists, and hoped to finagle a way into some real money. He adopted a false zealotry, which got him noticed by a few of the minor officials in the organization. They gave him a stipend to make inroads into the Arizona territory in the hopes that they would be able to obtain an early foothold.

  The fact that it bordered Mexico, and the Central / South America region was encouraging as well, as organized labor had promised to increase interest in their cause, and subsequently, increase their power at the polls, and it helped swell their coffers in the form of membership dues and contributions.

  So, it was in the best interest of this fellow, and the organization, to keep tabs on the new Rangers. Law and order were not ideal conditions in which such an organization would flourish. In fact, it was the antithesis of the Anarchists’ creed. The man with no principles did like the Anarchist concept of The Propaganda by the Deed, as he was a violent man, and hated humanity.

  He was cruel, and he liked to hurt others, particularly those who were unaware of the danger they might be in and any person unable to fight back. He was the quintessential bully. He liked to play this concept up, as he thought it would endear him to the leadership of the organization, and keep the money flowing to him. It would also make them appreciate that he was quite willing to carry out acts of terror. He had knowledge of dynamite and was expert in its use. Additio
nally, he was given free rein to carry out robberies and burglaries in the name of the cause, with the understanding that the proceeds, after a hefty commission, would be forwarded onto the organization. After each successful caper, of which there were few, there seemed to be very little money left over. His expenses always exceeded expectations.

  He observed the two Ranger captains. He featured himself a great judge of character and had overconfidence in his intellectual and observational skill. He was immediately put off by Arvel Walsh. He thought the man effeminate and priggish. He dismissed his easy-going nature and pleasant demeanor. This one would not be a significant threat or worthy adversary. He sat and worked on a cigar, blew great clouds of smoke through his remaining yellow teeth. He watched Arvel Walsh laugh and glad-hand the darkies. The man always had a stupid grin on his face. He’d like to shove a blade into his liver and watch that stupid grin fade away. He hated wealthy Yankee carpetbaggers like Walsh. He thought of his old father and remembered the look on his face. He’d spit on the ground, hissing; the devil always shits on the biggest pile. He hated them and taught the old man to hate them even more. Men like Walsh, they destroyed the South, and now they were destroying the rest of the country with their do-gooder, miscegenation, their meddlesome ideas about integration and having inferior people do work that was beyond their station and comprehension. But Walsh would not be the problem. He did not worry about him nearly as much as he did the captain’s partner.