The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride

by John Horst

  The Mule Tamer II

  Chica’s Ride

  John C. Horst

  Second Edition

  Copyright © 2012 John C. Horst

  Still for Peggy and Kate

  Contents

  I Heartbreak

  II Getting Ready

  III Resolution

  IV Captive

  V Hunting

  VI Healer

  VII Down Mexico Way

  VIII Marta

  IX Arvel

  X The Mexican Cossack

  XI Subterfugio

  XII Gentle Will Panks

  XIII Nemesis

  XIV Fiesta

  XV Chica’s Ride

  XVI Sappers

  XVII Tarahumara

  XVIII Attack

  XIX Coming Home

  XX Wedding Day

  Epilogue

  I Stonefields 1911

  Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle

    I Heartbreak

  Alice Walsh watched her girls sleep as the train puffed rhythmically east. A man watched her watch her little Rebecca, her only granddaughter and her Maria, the young woman who had given her everything she held dear in the world. She was happy. He watched her until she acknowledged him as he was eager to talk. She looked at her hands, hoping to avoid the inevitable, as she did not like the man.

  He was dressed too busily and did not seem to care enough to maintain a kempt appearance, despite his obvious means. She never held anyone in contempt and, like her son, whom she taught from a young age, was tolerant and kind to everyone she would meet, even oafs and simpletons. The man persisted and she finally gave him a smile, looked him in the eye, and let him proceed.

  He grinned, baring incomplete tobacco-stained teeth, stood up into a crouch, ape-like, and tipped his hat. He looked on at the lady’s sleeping companions. “How’s she working out for you?”

  “I’m sorry?” Alice was genuinely confused.

  “How’s the Mexican working out for you? They’re usually better than the darkies. If you get one that’s not too lazy.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The servant girl. I am sorry, madam. I should properly introduce myself. I am…”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir.” She waved him off dismissively, in the superior attitude she’d known all her life but only rarely used. “I believe you have mistaken my daughter-in-law for someone else.”

  The man retracted his hand. “Humph. There’s no telling what will be on first class these days.”

  “I could not agree more, Sir.”

  He stood up abruptly and made his way to the lounge car.

  Chica woke, shifted little Rebecca’s head to a more comfortable angle and smiled at her mother-in-law, speaking through a yawn into the back of her hand. “Abuelita, who were you talking to?”

  The old woman smiled at her daughter-in-law. Abuelita. She loved her Spanish name. “No one, Maria. Absolutely no one.”

  Chica smiled and stretched, looked at the watch pinned to her blouse. They’d be in Tucson soon. She yawned again and pressed her daughter’s shoulder. “Wake up, Cielito.”

  The little girl smiled at her mother and grandmother. “I was dreaming of Daddy. I miss him.” She suddenly looked anxious and into her mother’s eyes. “I’m not sure I want to go back East, Mamma.” She looked on at her grandmother and down at her own lap.

  Chica smiled and hugged her, straightening the child’s hair. “I know, my darling, but it will be all right. Abuelita will make everything nice at her home and you will make many friends and learn many wonderful things and Daddy and I will come to see you many times.”

  “That’s right, Rebecca. And I have a lovely pony waiting so impatiently for you there. I have told her all about you and she can’t wait to meet you.”

  “Sí, and you will ride like Umberto taught you. Like an Englishman. And Abuelita will ride with you all the time, and you can ride, even at school.”

  “And dress like the people in the picture over the mantel, in the red coats, Mamma?”

  “Sí, sí.” You will find out. It is a grand place, and there are many trees. It is so green Rebecca, greener than up north in Flagstaff. You will love it, I promise you.” She patted the girl and felt better now that the child was smiling.

  She, herself felt as if she might cry at any moment and she never ever cried. Her little girl’s anxiety was the hardest thing to take and she was not certain she could stand to let the child leave. They were constant companions, but it was Chica’s idea to send her away, and she bore the burden heavily. She thought Rebecca was growing up wild. The child was nearly eight years old and, despite the tutoring by Uncle Bob and the nice young woman who’d been hired as her governess, it did not seem enough to her mother. Chica wanted her girl to be prepared for a new world, a new century, and she knew that living back East would be the right thing.

  Chica stood up and looked at her reflection in the window. She put a strand of hair in place. “I am going to find the porter. I will be right back.”

  As she wandered through the coach car, looking for the old man who’d been so helpful when they left California, a red rubber ball bounced across her path and she deftly caught it as a pretty little boy with blue eyes and sandy hair lunged for it. Chica smiled and pretended to take a bite of it, as if it were a fresh apple. The boy looked up at her, mouth agape. She cast a spell over even miniature versions of men.

  She held out her hand as if to present the ball to him and his mother snatched it away, ignoring Chica and remonstrating the child for playing too aggressively. Chica moved on, looking over her shoulder at the unpleasant mother and feeling sorry for the little fellow.

  “If you do it again, I’m throwing it out the window.” The pretty redhead spoke at Chica’s back, then looked out at the landscape as they rode on. She was thoroughly miserable, as the seats were terrible and the ride much too long. She could not wait to get up to Flagstaff. Her sister promised her mostly whites up there. She was full up of these Mexicans, like that one who’d just passed by. In their fancy clothes, putting on airs like a white. She hated them all.

  The little boy squirmed but dared not look up from the ball. He knew when she’d gotten into these moods that it was best to try to be invisible. He stole a glance at her now and she was watching something off in a distance, he looked in the direction she was gazing and saw a gang of men high up on a hill. Mexicans. No wonder she was in such a foul mood.

  His father had left them that winter. He dragged them to the farthest point south in California and she hated it. Then the money ran out and his father ran out of steam and then he ran off with a damned Mexican. She hated him for it and every time she looked into the boy’s blue eyes, his father’s eyes, she thought of how she’d been mistreated, how unfair it was that she was in such a predicament, stuck with the boy and no means and no prospects for the future.

  She, herself was a fine looking woman, big, big boned, nearly six feet tall. She had big features and big breasts and flaming red hair and fair skin and freckles all over.

  She still remembered when it all fell apart. He used to be smitten with her, used to fawn over her, then that one night, when they were intimate and she was lying on him, he pushed her away, told her she was suffocating him. That’s when she knew what he had been up to and later she saw her, a little woman, tiny, like the one who’d just passed them on the train. Her own polar opposite.

  The Mexican woman was coming back. The redhead looked at her, looked her up and down and felt the twinge, deep in her gut, it bothered her even more that the woman walked along, so proud and confident. She didn’t even acknowledge her. Here she was, staring the Mexican down, and the
woman didn’t even have the presence of mind to notice that she was being stared down. That’s what she was like, all dark with the black hair and pretty shape. She was ten years younger. Oh she hated him so much for leaving her.

  She looked back at the hill, where the Mexicans were, but now the train was coming around a bend and high hills obstructed her view. She thought more about her sister. She was lucky. She married a much older and ugly man. He had money, though. Her sister told her to marry well and not for love and she didn’t pay heed and she’d gotten the handsome man and now she was paying for it. She’d chosen Willoughby and she should have chosen Colonel Brandon, but Jane Austen had not written her story and that ship had sailed long ago. She had one chance and she blew it. Now she was damaged goods, with a child, a husband who’d abandoned them, over thirty, and not even divorced and all the eligible men her age had been gobbled up.

  They lasted six years together and of those, only the first nine months were good. Then the boy came and then his wanderlust took hold and he began dragging her around from one stupid idea, one hell-hole to the next. She’d had nothing to show for it except a boy she never wanted in the first place, and one who looked too much like his father to boot. And on top of all that, she’d let him have her dowry. It wasn’t a huge fortune, five-thousand dollars, but it was her money, and she stupidly let him have it. He promised to return it a thousand fold, and they’d be rich and never want for anything again. They’d travel all over Europe, live well. It was all going to happen, soon. The next town, the next opportunity, the next venture. But it didn’t. Nothing happened but the loss of her fortune, youth, beauty, and the love of her life. All lost in the span of six years.

  Well, at least her sister had a governess, and the boy would be taken off her hands soon enough. Then in a year, just one short year, back to Michigan, to school. She’d not have to deal with him at all then.

  Chica wandered through the car and into the next before she remembered her task as Rebecca was on her mind. She suddenly thought of the old bandit, Sombrero del Oro, and she did not know why. She felt a chill as she walked between the next two cars, despite the heat of the midday sun. The hair on her neck stood on end and she had goose bumps on her arms. The smell of something familiar, cordite or burning fuse suddenly assaulted her nose. She looked off to the south and a rider could be seen, galloping hard, closing quickly. He wore a big sombrero and bandoliers full of cartridges crisscrossed his chest. He carried something in his hand, smoldering, dangerous and Chica immediately comprehended.

  She wheeled and ran back to the coach trying desperately to reach little Rebecca and Abuelita. She heard the explosions behind her and knew she had little time as she burst through the door of the car. No one but Chica seemed to know what was going on.

  “Go to the back of the train!”

  Abuelita looked up, confused. “What is it, daughter?” She had never seen the young woman so agitated. Rebecca knew to take heed when her mother gave orders. She jumped to her feet and grabbed her grandmother by the arm.

  “Come, Abuelita, come.” She dashed to the rear of the car. The train lurched and shook, bobbed one way, then the other, like a great serpent being pecked by a flock of diving crows. The engineer saw the attack coming, hit full throttle despite the fact that they were coming to a bend. He tried to outrun them and only managed to make matters worse. The train was now out of control.

  The little girl flung open the door as the explosion ripped through their coach, tossing her like a ragdoll into the lounge car, tearing her away from her grandmother’s grasp.

  Everything turned sideways, and she was now shoved into a corner, what was once the ceiling underneath her, careening into the desert floor beneath her. More explosions and now gunshots and screams of fear and pain and panic welled up, as if all the passengers were singing a chorus of agony as one.

  She lay there, half conscious as the train skidded and burned up and broke apart all around her. She could feel the heat of the friction and wondered if this is what it was like to die. She wanted her mother and grandmother. She wanted to know why this was happening.

  The redheaded woman stood next to the boy in the hot sun next to the crashed train. Bare-headed, they’d already begun to burn. She had a small fan and waved it, but it just moved hot smoky air and the labor required to operate it cancelled out any cooling effect. The bandits rode up on them and two dismounted. The boy had dropped his ball when they looked on at him and he dared not retrieve it. One bandit kicked it, like a football, manipulated it deftly and bounced it off the toe of his boot. Another and then another joined him and soon they were playing about like school children, deftly passing the ball to one another in a loose circle.

  Another bandit, still mounted, unwound his riata and put on a show for the little boy. Around and around he spun the rope until the loop was big enough to contain his horse. He wound it again and again, first left, then right. It was a spectacular feat, and the boy stood mesmerized by the man’s skill and the child momentary forgot his predicament.

  But despite this distraction, they all had their eyes on the pelirroja de grandes. The bandit who’d been playing ball approached her. Leering at her breasts, he reached out until he was soundly cracked on the knuckles with the folded fan. The man jumped back dramatically and smiled at his companions.

  “Oh, she is a spirited one.” They all cackled, like a flock of grackles. He bowed to her apologetically and she was able to relax just a little, consider that perhaps their predicament was not so dire.

  She looked on at the men playing with the ball and looped rope; they did not seem so terrible. She’d made it clear that she was not to be trifled with. Maybe they only wanted the loot from the train. Maybe they’d be gone once they’d extracted anything of value. She looked at the boy who had the beginning of a smile on his face. He was enjoying the men. It looked as though he was primed to start in playing with them, his body erect, leaning forward, just waiting for the invitation.

  Now another bandit rode up and began to mirror the actions of the man twirling the rope. It was quite the choreography and she too was enjoying it a little. Suddenly the first one reeled the riata in a bit, then threw it at the boy, he looped it around the child’s shoulders, and the boy stood, smiling, as it was nice the man was giving him so much consideration. The bandit just as quickly adjusted it up, and like a snake, wriggling up the boy’s body, was maneuvered around his neck and suddenly tightened; a death grip. He wound the end in his hands around the big saddle horn and casually turned away, knocking the child off his feet and dragged him away, through the dust and rocks and thorny brush.

  The redheaded woman screamed. She demanded they stop it at once and the bandit who’d had his knuckles cracked walked up on her. He was not smiling now and he punched her hard in the nose, opening a stream of blood and causing her pain she’d not known in her life. Even the pain of childbirth was not as intense as the pain she was feeling now. She fell back, sitting on the ground, she grabbed her face. The pain shooting through her, searing and now she felt the other bandit’s stiff rope hit her on the shoulders. Like her son, she too was now dragging through the desert, the friction burning her thighs as she tried desperately to get fingers between her windpipe and the strangling line.

  Chica awoke to darkness. The train engine was wheezing, like a dying giant, far away. The air was thick with smoke and dust, burning oil, burning paint and wood, and burnt gunpowder. She called out to Rebecca. Abuelita answered, somewhere above her, seemingly off in a distance yet only just inches away. Chica felt as if her eyes were closed. All darkness, yet she knew they were open. She tried to reach up, in front of her face, but her arms were pinned by something hard, wood, splintered wood. She focused and wood was covering her eyes. Something dripped, wet on her face, it tasted salty, metallic. She called out again, more carefully, a little quietly.

  “Maria, you are buried under debris, child. Stay still, I will help.” She heard boards being shifted. She talked to Abuelita
as the old woman worked. Alice felt something drip on her neck, looked up overhead and peered into the dead eyes of the ugly man she’d only recently spoken to on the train, mouth agape, the incomplete tobacco stained teeth showing through his slack jawed gaze. Only his head and neck remained, stuffed through the shattered splinters of the wooden wall of the train. She could not determine where the rest of his body had gotten to. She caught her breath, pushed back the urge to wretch, wiped her neck quickly and continued to work.

  “Where is Rebecca?”

  “I don’t know, child. I don’t know. Hold on, I nearly have you free.”

  It was going to be dark soon. She had been unconscious for some time and missed the attack. By the sound, or lack thereof, she figured there were few if any survivors. The last boards were removed, and she pulled herself free. The old woman looked terrible, but there was light, and fight, in her eyes. Chica patted her hand as she pulled herself up onto her feet.

  “Maria, look.” She pointed up at the remains of the corpse hanging above them. “I just spoke to him a little while ago.” She looked ashamed of herself. “I wasn’t very kind to him, Maria.”

  Chica looked the man over. “He is beyond our help, Abuelita. He is either with God or the devil now.”

  “I looked everywhere for Rebecca but could not find her, Maria. I fear the worst. I came back in here to try to find you when I heard you call out. Where could she be, child, where could she be?”

  “Come, Abuelita, we will find her.” Chica took her mother-in-law by the hand and led her outside. Here and there a few survivors stirred, wandered about, dazed, not knowing what to do next or where to go, or even if the attackers were finished with them.

  The bandits left little of value and few victims alive. Only old people seemed left, all the young ones who’d survived the wreck had been taken captive. Some of the survivors unrealistically looked for a porter, expected it, demanded it, looked about for some kind of aid, some manner of authority to tell them where to go, what would happen next, when help would arrive, but there was no help, no porters or conductor or engineer. They were all, every one of them, dead. The two women were lucky to be alive.