The Mule Tamer

by John C. Horst

  Dick Welles impressed the man. He looked tough. He looked like most of the lawmen he had encountered. He would be the one to worry about, and the man made a mental note to collect intelligence on him as soon as possible. Every man had an Achilles heel, and he would find the one for Dick Welles.

  He sat in the corner and eavesdropped on the clerk, taking down the names and as much vital information as possible about all the new Rangers. It amused him that there was such a variety of men being appointed Rangers. He attributed this ridiculous embrace of such a diverse force to Arvel Walsh. He knew that he was a nigger-loving abolitionist. He figured it as another weakness and another opportunity to beat the new Rangers. He figured that Dick Welles, despite his Yankee past, was not, could not, subscribe to such a philosophy. He thought this might well be the wedge that could be used to push them and the organization apart. As he engaged his mind in these fanciful exercises, he saw a peculiar looking man limp into the room.

  The young deputy sauntered into the courthouse, following signs to the room where the applications were being accepted. The room was hot, the air still and thick with a billowing cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke. There were many men milling around. The reporter from Tombstone was there. He had attached himself to the Arizona Rangers and was resolved to chronicle their every move. The other applicants stood around talking, sizing each other up, moving off into their preferential groups. An officious clerk with a pen sat in the corner. He was responsible for recording each new Ranger’s information.

  Dick and Arvel recognized him at once, but the young man had gotten into the habit of not looking people in the eye. He would cast his gaze downward, and avoided any unnecessary conversation. Dick spoke up first.

  “How’s the toe, partner?” Arvel looked at Dick with incredulity and then at the young man.

  He sneered. “I didn’t know you two were the captains.” He looked around the room at the new Rangers milling about. There were Indians, Mexicans, Texas cowpunchers, a buffalo soldier, and a lanky man from New York dressed in a sack suit and wearing a derby.

  Arvel tried to warm up to the fellow: “So you are interested in joining us?”

  “I was. Didn’t know there’d be so many darkies.” He looked again at the strange collection of men, some of whom had heard him. They stopped what they were doing and looked at the little fellow. The young deputy regretted speaking so loudly.

  Arvel began to speak, and Dick cut to the chase. “We don’t need you, son.” He glared at the young man, who by now was turning red.

  “Suits me fine, didn’t know this was a nigger-lovin’ outfit run by two old women.”

  “That is a lot of swagger for a gimp in a room full of armed darkies.” Arvel said with a smile. “We appoint Rangers based on their character, not the color of their skin or the flash of their outfit, boy.”

  The young deputy puffed up his chest; he hoped they would not see him shaking. “I won’t forget you two. I’ll be keepin’ my eye out for you, and hope to return your hospitality some day. I’ll take my talents elsewhere.”

  “You do that, son. You go on and do that. There’s a fine place down the street needs a spittoon polisher. And if that is above your station, you can go dig the shit out of privies.”

  The young man wheeled, and hobbled away, he looked back and told Dick to go to hell.

  Dick sat up in his seat, “I’ll go there before you and be waiting for you, you little bastard.” The other Rangers looked on. Wondering what had gotten the captain riled.

  Arvel smiled at him. “Don’t be getting on your high horse, wearing that star, Mr. Ranger Captain.” He poked Dick in the arm.

  “Oh, he did not get at me.” Dick smiled and tried to calm himself. “That little whelp should know better than to try to sign up here.”

  “I still pity him. I shouldn’t have shot his toe.”

  “One day, your kindness’ll be your undoing, Arvel.”

  “I know. I’ve heard that before.”

  The young deputy limped into the nearest saloon and began drinking. He tried his luck at the faro table. He was angrier than he had been since he was buffaloed and shot by the two men whom had just humiliated him again. He vowed to himself that he’d get back at them some day. He would make a point of it, he’d only have to make certain that their paths would cross again.

  He played badly and got drunk. He began running his mouth about the new Arizona Rangers, and how they would be dead by winter.

  Wade Tully followed him from the courthouse. He had seen the exchange between the young man and the captains, and it intrigued him. He took a seat at a table at the end of the saloon. He watched the young man for the better part of two hours. He waited for the deputy to grow weary of losing and waived him to his table and bought him a drink.

  The young deputy gazed, through bleary eyes at the dirty-looking old man. He always looked dirty, even when clean. He sat with his head tucked into his collar, like a turtle, hiding his neck. His flash ditto suit of broad mustard plaid stood out among the patrons, like a gaudily painted sign, and he kept his brown derby on even while drinking. He was always too friendly when he first met a mark. The young deputy was definitely a mark. He would likely be of use to the greasy man.

  He extended his hand and then retracted it when the young deputy ignored it. “Name’s Tully.”

  The Young deputy kept drinking, staring at the bar.

  “I heard you mention the new Rangers.” He waited for a response. The young man might be too drunk to have this conversation.

  After a time he replied: “So, what?”

  “So, it is just that I wanted to say, well, that you’re not necessarily whistling in the wind, if you get my meaning.”

  The young man looked confused, then thought on it for a moment. Tully began to think the boy too stupid to consider.

  “What do you mean?” He poured again, and Tully grabbed his arm, much harder than one would expect. “You might want to stop drinking, lad, until you have heard what I have to say.”

  He looked at the man’s hand around his wrist, then into his face. “What is this about?”

  “There are others who are not keen to have another police force meddling in their affairs.”

  “You’re talking to a member of the police force Pop.” He pulled his hand away and poured again.

  “Hah, in a pig’s eye.”

  The young deputy looked him in the eye again, “You’d better be careful, Pop. I’ve had about enough needling today. I’ve killed men for less,” he lied.

  The old man sat back, and put his hands up, “Now, lad, take it easy. I meant no harm. It just seems you are too smart and big for any lawman job. That’s all, no harm done.”

  The young deputy snorted.

  “So, do you have a place to stay in Tucson? I have a strange feeling that you might be out of money and looking for a job.”

  He unsteadily pulled what he had from his pockets. He was quite drunk now, “I have, les’ see, I don’t know,” he handed the bills to the old man. “You count it.”

  “Let’s see, ten, fifteen…thirty…forty…eighty…you have sixty dollars, chum.”

  The young deputy belched. And swallowed hard. “Had two hundred.”

  “Not enough. You come with me. I’ll take care of you.”

  VII Rangering

  By late summer they had nineteen privates who had affected forty-three arrests. The newspapers, particularly from Tucson and of course the Tombstone Epitaph kept up a steady stream of news about the new lawmen. No one quite knew how to take them, this bipartisan, long arm of the law, consisting of both Democrats and Republicans alike.

  The majority of the arrests were for theft, and that pleased the cattlemen, but the general populace had something to be pleased about as the lawmen apprehended three rapists and seven men involved in a string of stagecoach robberies. It seemed that these new Rangers were not simply a tool of the big money interests.

  Arvel and Dick exemplified good lawmen. They chos
e their men wisely, and every one, except one, had lived up to the high standard set from the beginning. The bad one was let go early on, as he was caught stealing from a prisoner. He was a Texan. Arvel teased Dick, as he had chosen the man; “You know what they say, Dick; the fish rots from the head down.”

  Governor Murphy’s office was a most organized administration and provided a constant stream of intelligence for the Ranger captains. Dick spent most of his time riding the rails, constantly spanning the territory, keeping open communication with his men. They became expert at using the telegraph and embraced any new technology available to them.

  Arvel was pleased, as once the system was put into place, he, as planned, took a less active role and returned to his ranching life. He split his salary with Dick, who now received an income that assured his family’s comfort.

  Dick set up an office in Bisbee next to the courthouse. He spent his time here when he was not traveling. He was assisted by a young law clerk he hired as his secretary. Dan George became indispensable to the operation. Arvel enjoyed watching his partner sitting uncomfortably at his desk, pen in hand. Dick was more at home in the saddle, with a six-shooter. He did not like the administrative part of his job. He would look about, confused and agitated, by midday his desk would be heaped up with papers, and by morning, Dan George would have it all back in order. All through the day, Dick could be heard, calling out, “Dan, Dan, where is that warrant, Dan, Dan, where do I sign this thing, Dan, Dan, where is that writ?” And every time, Dan would calmly come to the rescue. Dick was never terse or mean to Dan George.

  Arvel liked Dan, and was pleased and surprised at Dick’s choice, as Dick seldom surrounded himself with anyone but whites. He was one of the finest and most educated young men Arvel had known in the territory. He was a Sioux and had been taken from his family at a young age and raised as a white. They forced him to go to the Indian School where he discovered a love for book learning. He read constantly and he and Arvel would often chat at length about issues from politics to history, art and literature.

  Arvel and Dick had one challenge at this time, which helped pull the Rangers together as a cohesive team. The Dunstable brothers had made their way into the territory after robbing a Kansas City bank and killing four people, two employees of the bank and two customers. They had also wounded a deputy who was expected to survive. These boys were unlike the typical desperadoes who turned up in Arizona. They were Englishmen, both well-educated and well bred. They were evil to the foundation, and had run from England two years earlier, when Michael, the younger of the two, had been arrested for the murder and mutilation of a young prostitute in Holywell Street, famous for its merchants who dealt in pornographic materials. Michael was obsessed with pornography and learned the craft of photography to satisfy this proclivity. James, the older, had a penchant for prostitutes and gambling, and had also been in several scrapes with the law. Colonel Eli Dunstable, father of the ne’re-do-wells and hero of the Crimea, could not keep them out of trouble and the scandal which inevitably ensued. The young men escaped to America where their crime spree began in the high end gambling houses of New York City.

  They were well dressed always and never looked the part of violent criminals. They were intelligent and crafty. They left a trail of dead men wherever they went, as lawmen and citizens alike mistook their foppish manner for a sign of refinement and civility.

  They had made off with fourteen thousand dollars of the bank’s money, and stopped periodically to steal new mounts and harass or kill whichever unwitting citizen got in their way. Their most recent, and by far, most horrific antic occurred just twenty miles northeast of Tombstone, practically in Arvel’s back yard. The family of settlers had no reason to fear the two young adventurers from England. They were apparently kind to the children, as the oldest girl in the family, a child of fourteen, wrote of the two dashing gentlemen in her journal. She wrote that one had camera equipment, and promised to photograph the entire family the next day. Her journal contained no further entries.

  The crime scene was more gruesome than that of the settlers killed earlier in the year by the gang of Mexicans and Indians. It was difficult to fathom that such a blood orgy could be carried out by only two men. Every corpse; man, woman, boy and girl had been defiled. Organs had been removed and flung about the inside of the home. Intestines had been draped along the rafters, loops of gut hanging down, like a macabre smokehouse of horrors. The liver and heart of each victim were gone. The oldest girl, who had written in her journal, was nowhere to be found. The trail was nearly a week old, as no one had known of the incident until a neighbor had made his monthly visit to the family. He lived twelve miles away.

  Arvel and Dick received information from the bank in Kansas City, and a wire from the British Consulate in Washington. There was a considerable reward for the live capture of the two, and the communiqué stressed that unlimited funds were available to the Ranger captains to ensure the request was carried out. Apparently, Colonel Dunstable knew something of frontier justice, and was exercising all the influence in his power to protect his sons. Arvel requested twenty thousand dollars in funds to be wired to the Rangers’ account. The thing was done in twenty four hours.

  Dick was surprised. “You aren’t going to do their bidding?”

  “Hell no,” Arvel smiled, “But the Rangers sure can do with the extra money.” He winked at Dick. “Don’t ever turn down funds when they are so willingly waived before our noses, Dick.”

  They pulled half of their men in on this detail. The best trackers were out in front, and these men directed the scouts, of which there were two, to move forward on the trail based upon their best guesses. They followed this process for three days; and picked up corpses along the way. The Dunstable brothers stole two horses the second day out and killed the prospectors who owned them. These men were gutted, their entrails wrapped around their necks.

  They next killed an Indian family, robbing them of their food stocks. They only murdered them. There was no sign of any molestation or mutilation. There was one curious similarity, however, in that the bodies were all posed, lined up next to each other, as if they were having their portraits taken.

  The Rangers were on the trail, and it was getting warmer, as they had finally come upon a camp on a high mesa that had been occupied by the Englishmen that day. The murderers and their captive had spent two days here. They apparently had success hunting, as there were remnants of an elk and two deer. The animal carcasses were mutilated, much in the way as the human victims of the homestead. The girl had left her initials scratched in a bolder nearby. She put a ribbon under a rock beneath the scratches. It held a strand of her golden hair.

  Arvel and Dick resolved to rest the horses at the murderers’ camp, and the Rangers settled in for the night. Arvel took this time to get to know the men a little better, and, as he had done in the war, made the rounds to each group. It tickled him how men liked to find their own kind. The men from back East, to include the young New Yorker, stayed in their small group, the Mexicans in theirs, the Texans in theirs.

  Arvel overheard one of the Texans comment quietly to his companions that the Captain had once shot a man for molesting a mule.

  A buffalo soldier kept away from them all. He worked constantly, not as a servant, but scouted and guarded the camp. He was a man of forty and had been in the army, first as an orderly then as a buffalo soldier since the time he became free in ‘sixty fo’ as he stated it. He had seen a lot of action, and fought a lot of Indians. He knew violence, but was shocked at the brutality of these men. He had expected such behavior from Indians, but was always surprised and disgusted when he had seen it from white men. Some of the soldiers in the army would mutilate victims. One trouper he knew made a canteen from an Indian’s uterus, and he could never understand why people acted in such a way. He did not have a problem killing an Indian, but even when he saw his fellow troopers mutilated, was never compelled to act in kind. He was a devout Christian and prayed a lot. He
found himself praying more so while on the trail of these men. He thought for certain that some otherworldly evil had taken hold of them, and the sooner they were taken the better off everyone would be.

  Dick was running this show, and he informed Arvel of his plan. He knew they would catch up to the two around mid day next. His thoughts were to go ahead with two of his best marksmen, and shoot the horses with buffalo rifles. Once the men were afoot, they would be easy enough to apprehend, and the chances would be better that they would not kill the girl, thinking more likely that they were under attack by bandits. They rode on for a few hours, Arvel removing his big hat and wiping his brow often. “Only a few more weeks ‘til the end of summer.”

  Dick groaned. “Don’t be wishing the summer away.” He hated winter, especially the long nights, and Arvel knew this.

  He grinned. “Before you know it, it’ll be Christmas time. Nice crisp days and even colder nights, my God it’s hot.”

  “What do you have against a little heat?” He looked at his partner. “Where did you get that ridiculous pepper belly hat? You should be cool in that, hell; half the troop could stand in the shade it makes.”