by John Horst
Other than fornicating, sitting on their asses around a fire, with full bellies and plenty of spirits was their greatest pleasure. They sat and drank and got drunk and spoke their stupid, simple minded conversations with their stupid simple minded companions. There was no boss around and none of them had the discipline to work collectively or post a guard or take turns being sober in order to keep a watch out. They were like little spoilt children whose parents were not around. It was going to be a good night.
The two women appeared next to them as if by magic, as if they were two ghosts. Perhaps they were the ghosts of some of the victims of the train robbery. None of the bandits stood up or even addressed the two. They just sat there, around the fire, smoking and passing the jug. The women just stood there, saying nothing. A good breeze was blowing and the women’s hair and clothing blew about in the wind, making them look even more ghostly. The fire reflected their faces and dresses red, as if they’d returned from some otherworldly place, hell perhaps. Certainly real women would not act in such a way, they must be ghosts, they must not be real.
The men became quiet and looked at each other and then at the two ghosts. None of them knew what to make of them. They did not see the shotguns in the women’s hands and finally they comprehended as the younger one began firing into them close up, so close that there was not even enough distance for the buckshot to open up. The first bandit took the fist-sized wad of pellets to the head, and most of his brain blew into the fire causing it to hiss and smoke and let off a puff of steam and acrid odor of burning meat or flesh or grease.
The next one’s breastbone was destroyed, driven to the back of his spine and on and on until the sixth shot had been fired. The old woman did nothing. She did not fire at them and she did not run or help the bandits or hurt the bandits. She just stood there, watching the carnage, expressionless, until the young one dropped the shotgun that she’d been firing. The old one then handed her shotgun over, in a casual, matter of fact way, like she’d hand over a bauble or a bouquet of flowers and the young one took it up and fired another six shots, just as quickly, into the backs of the now fleeing survivors of the first barrage. She dropped this gun when it was empty and pulled the six shooter from her belt and emptied it. When she had stopped firing, they were all either dead or dying, and Chica had carefully avoided a lethal shot on one so that he could be interrogated.
Chica approached this man directly, moved through the air, thick with gun smoke and the stench of death, the stench of gut and offal and torn flesh and clotting blood. He was wheezing and blowing bloody bubbles out of his nose. Chica shot him low, aimed for the gut, went a little high and destroyed most of his left lung. He was not more than seventeen and he was as pale as Abuelita. Chica did not have to threaten him and instead gave him some water to drink. She brushed the hair from his eyes and propped him up to ease the last of his breathing. She held him gently, like a mother with a suckling babe. “Tell me, muchacho. Where are the rest, and where are the hostages?”
“With the gold hat, señora, they are all with the gold hat.” His eyes were wild with fear and he looked up into Chica’s beautiful brown eyes. He wanted her to hold him and make his pain go away. He didn’t know yet that he was dying. He gagged and spoke with difficulty. “He told us to stay behind and stop any posses.” He breathed hard again. Chica looked up at Abuelita.
“This is what Sombrero del Oro do all the time, Abuelita. This is what he did to Arvel the day I met him. He keeps part of his gang back and he always get away.” She turned back to the boy. “How many are in the gang, muchacho?”
“Many, many Señora. At least fifty.” He gagged and choked up a rope of clotted blood.
“How many hostages?”
“Que?”
“How many captives, from the train?”
“Trenta, Señora.”
“Did you see a girl with a blue dress?”
“Sí, she was one.”
“Is she unharmed, muchacho?”
“Sí, she is. Sombrero del Oro said she was a special prize. She was okay, Señora.”
She looked back at Abuelita and nodded. There was hope.
“You are going to die now, muchacho. Do you wanta pray or say something?”
“Sí, Señora, lo siento mucho, lo siento mucho.” Chica shot him through the head.
Alice Walsh jumped at the shot. She looked on at Chica, shocked. “Why’d you have to shoot him, child?”
Chica turned and looked her in the eye then pushed past her. “Shush, Abuelita! No questions, you promised.”
They rested by the fire, upwind of the corpses until morning. Chica did not sleep and watched the old woman as she rested. Arvel was her mother’s son, there was no mistaking. They were good, kind people. She found some cigars amongst the bodies and picked the ones not wet with blood for smoking now, the rest she saved for later. She smoked one after another through the night.
It would be difficult to kill fifty men. She thought and thought. She considered everything she’d ever been told about Sombrero del Oro. She considered his strengths and limitations, his proclivities and weaknesses and what motivated and what made him fearful.
It was perfect timing, for the new millennium, the year of nineteen hundred, and all the talk about the things that the new century would bring, the various theories that the world would come to an end and, perhaps the second coming of Christ.
These things would help to prey on Sombrero del Oro’s diseased mind. This would be her advantage. This would be her ace in the hole. Every man had an Achilles’ heel, and Chica was certain of Sombrero del Oro’s, certain he could be defeated if she played off this weakness. She knew she could beat him and ultimately get her little girl back.
And finally, after three cigars, she came up with a plan. She’d let the old woman sleep until sunrise and would then get her to Bisbee. Bisbee held the key to Chica’s plan. She picked through the corpses for better guns and more ammunition and rode out after eating the bandits’ breakfast.
Abuelita looked spent, utterly played out. She was much older than she appeared and Chica ultimately realized this as she rode.
She finally spoke. “Abuelita, I killed that boy back there because he was gonna die in a few minute anyway. I just decided to end his suffering. I am sorry, Abuelita, I do not like to make you sad.”
“No, I am the one who should be sorry, child. I promised no questions, and I failed you. I am not used to these things, though. I have never killed a human being, and even shooting birds or hunting foxes has always upset me. The suffering of any creature is appalling to me.”
“Understood, Abuelita.” She looked on at the trail. The old woman could see they were no longer traveling south and asked why.
“We are going to Bisbee, Abuelita. You must go get Arvel and get help and I will go on after the bandit and get Rebecca.”
“But I want to go with you, child. You promised!” The old woman suddenly sounded childlike herself and this amused Chica.
“Ay, no questions! We are all of the same purpose, Abuelita, and you must do what I say. Arvel will know what to do, and we need many good men to get these bandits. I am counting on you, Abuelita to do this thing. Arvel will know what to do when you tell him.” The old woman became quiet.
As they entered Bisbee, Alice Walsh dozed in the saddle until the crack of a shot and the whir of a bullet past her ear brought her out of her trance. She looked over at Chica who sat her horse, unfazed. She looked on, down the street at the two lawmen pointing their rifles menacingly at the women.
“Go on out of here, you Mexican scum.” Alice became livid and cantered her horse up, nearly running them over.
“Stop that this instant, you fools! We are no bandits!” She pulled the big sombrero off her head and placed it over the horn of her saddle. “I am Mrs. Walsh and this is Señora Arvel Walsh, wife of the Captain of Arizona Rangers.”
“Beg your pardon, Ma’am.” The older one tipped his hat and the other followed. “From a distanc
e you didn’t appear as yourselves.”
“Well, we’ve been after the ruffians, doing your jobs.” Chica lit one of the blood tinged cigars she’d taken from the bandit gang. She looked on at the two lawmen, amused at the lambasting her mother-in-law was giving them.
“We were sure you all were dead, ladies. Captain Walsh, poor fellow will be relieved. He’s had quite a bad turn of health.”
“Que?” Chica looked down at the man, the first time Abuelita had seen any real emotion, concern in the young woman’s eyes. “What is wrong with my husband?”
“Well, ma’am, not sure I’m the right person to tell you all this, but it seems he had a sort of fit…”
“A stroke.”
“Yes, an apoplectic fit is what they called it, at the train station, when he learned about the attack and the report that you all were not found in the wreckage.”
“Where is he? Where is my boy?”
“He’s home, ma’am. His Uncle Bob got him home. Last we heard he’s better, resting comfortable.”
Chica looked at Abuelita. “I must go now.” She looked at the youngest deputy. “You take Abuelita to a hotel and get her cleaned up and get a telegraph to my Arvel and tell him that we are okay.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Abuelita. Go an’ tell Arvel to get as many men as he can and go to San Sebastian. Tell him that I am going to get Rebecca and I will meet him in Mexico. Go on, Abuelita.” She rode quickly into town and the old woman watched her, tried to understand what just happened, tried to make sense of Chica’s cryptic instructions. She looked down at the two deputies who seemed as confused.
Chica knocked on the door of the Convent of the Sisters of the Poor Clares. A diminutive nun let her in and led her to the mother superior. They offered her food and Chica ate ravenously. She did not speak.
Chica knew the place, but none of the nuns recognized her. Dressed as she was, her beautiful dress now in rags, wearing the bits and pieces of the garments of the disgusting bandits she had killed, she did not look like the wife of a wealthy rancher and captain of Arizona Rangers.
She felt calmer now, calm in the austere environment of the nunnery with its plain adobe walls and tile floors. Here and there a simple painting of a religious image and bare windows, it reminded her of the trip Arvel had taken them on to Italy, the lovely monasteries and the lovely Italian people who understood Chica so well.
“How may we help you, child?”
“I needa become a nun, sister.” She drank quickly and water poured down her chin and onto her front, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Not to join your orders, sister. I needa get my little girl, she has been captured by Sombrero del Oro and taken to Mexico.
The diminutive nun gasped and crossed herself at hearing the name of the terrible man. Everyone, especially the nuns, knew of the terrifying bandit boss. They’d spent enough time helping the poor creatures who’d survived and ultimately escaped his barbarity.
“I am the wife of Capitan Arvel Walsh of the Arizona Rangers, and have much money. I will give you much money if you will help me.”
“What do you have in mind, child?”
“This man, you know, is a man of the devil. He trades in people and he will take my little girl and sell her and I will never see her again. I have been a bad woman, sister, and I know how to fight and kill many bad men, but Sombrero del Oro have over fifty men and I cannot do this thing, they are too many to kill. I will needa sneak into their camp and I needa be a nun to do this.”
The nun sat and watched Chica as she spoke. She now made the connection. She knew of the young woman, knew of Chica, everyone in the territory had heard of the courageous young Mexican woman. She knew that Chica had killed many men, but knew by the stories that she had a good heart, that she was no wanton murderer.
“When will you be embarking on this journey, Señora Walsh?”
“Tomorrow. I will ask you to let me wash up now, and sleep here tonight and I needa learn to dress and be like a nun, to trick the bandits.”
They showed her to a cell and gave her hot water and soap and a towel. One of the nuns had gone to the dry goods store to get Chica a riding outfit. After she bathed and was dressed, Chica headed to the gun shop she had visited many times over the past years with her husband. The proprietor welcomed her. The news had already spread.
“Miss Chica, I am so sorry to hear of your troubles.” He shook her gently by the hand.
“Gracias, Señor.” She placed the shotguns she had used in the earlier slaughter of the rear guard on the counter. “I need these barrels cut down, Señor Wallace. I want the stock cut like a pistol on this one. An’ I need swivels put on and a leather sling. Okay?” He nodded. “I need a rifle and two six shooters of the same size bullets and I need a powerful rifle to shoot from a far away. I need belts for the bullets for all these. I needa five hundred bullets for the six shooters and rifle, one hundred bullets for the powerful rifle and one hundred bullets for the shotguns, and I need all of these things sent to the convent. I need them by sunrise tomorrow.”
“It shall be done, madam. Think nothing more of it. It shall be done.”
The little nun escorted her back to the mother superior. They put Chica near the fire and began dressing her. The transformation was quick, and Chica soon looked like the others. The little nun whispered into the mother superior’s ear and the old woman smiled.
“Sister Margaret says you are too pretty and your feet and hands are too pretty to be those of a nun.”
Chica cast her eyes onto her hands and feet. They’d become soft since her long trip through the civilized places of California with her mother-in-law and little girl and the last two days on the trail had not roughened them sufficiently.
She began biting the nails on her fingers and tore them down to the tips. She licked her ring finger and pulled the diamond encrusted wedding ring that Arvel had ordered from Tiffany’s in New York for their engagement. She handed it to the young nun. “This is my firs’ donation to your order, sisters. You sell this and use the money any way you like. I wan’ you to make many prayers for my baby and make sure I get her.”
She reached into the hearth and grabbed a handful of ashes and broken mortar. She rubbed them across her nails, dulling their luster.
She looked at the old nun. “What can we do about my face, sister? I will let you make me ugly if you need to. I will let you do anything you need; you may destroy my face if it is required.” She caught herself and looked at both women, “I am sorry, sin ofender.”
The mother superior smiled. “I have an idea, Señora.” She called the young one over to her and whispered in her ear. The nun smiled and left the room. The mother superior looked on at Chica. “I have an idea that will help you move about amongst the bandits and assure that they will not detect or molest you. Sombrero del Oro has no respect for any women, even ones who have taken vows.”
That night, the young nun held the diamond ring up to the light as she reclined on her cot in the cell next to the one housing their special guest. It was the most beautiful object she had ever seen in her entire life and as she moved it one way and then the other the candlelight’s reflection became all the colors of the rainbow. Mother Superior had charged her with the safekeeping of the ring and she was pleased, though she had no desire to own such a worldly object, it was lovely to behold. She put it on the finger that fit best and held it up to the light, then across her knee, across the covers of her bed, everywhere she placed it, it seemed to change. She moved the ring in one direction and it made a little rainbow across the bed sheet. It reminded her of the sacristy of the lovely big church up in Tucson where she worked for a little while, when she first arrived in Arizona. The two objects were equally beautiful. She began to wander, to remember all the pretty lights on her first Christmas in the order, how happy she was to be warm and safe, among good people who regarded her well, how the church and the convent kept out the New Hampshire cold and how happy she was to be a nu
n.
She was brought back from her wanderings by the sound of crying in the cell next door. She could not believe it was the Mexican lady, but it was. She wanted to comfort her, but was too afraid and she listened intently at the crying. It was the sorrowful despondent crying of a mother with a broken heart, and it was more significant, sadder, more desperate than any other crying because it came from a woman who, at least from what she had in a short time learned about her, did not cry and she prayed to God that this woman’s suffering would soon end.
She knew that the woman would likely kill many men and she regretted this as she was a nun, a woman of God who did not condone violence or killing but she knew also of how terrible Sombrero del Oro was and that perhaps, like the Archangels, and like the soldiers who have fought in righteous wars, the Mexican lady was sent by God to smite this foe and bring some calm and peace and justice to the land.
She’d once had to help take care of a child who’d escaped del Oro’s clutches, and the scars, both physical and emotional were nearly too much for the nun to bear. The poor child was so badly abused that, despite their best efforts and best nursing and best nurturing, she soon died, a pathetic broken shell of a human being, and the young nun could only imagine what lie in store for this poor woman’s daughter.
She felt like she too would cry now, but instead said a rosary and prayed harder than she usually prayed. She heard the woman move in the bed, heard the old ropes creak, and apparently turn on her side, facing the far wall of the cell away from her and she heard her talking to someone. It was not a prayer, but a conversation. The Mexican woman was talking very plainly to a child and she guessed the Mexican woman was having an imaginary conversation with her little girl. She was going through their nightly ritual, what they likely had done since the child could speak and walk. She went through their prayers together, and the woman told her that her father would be in shortly to kiss her goodnight, and then she spoke lovingly to her little girl and kissed her goodnight and now the young nun started to cry because her heart was breaking at the muffled sound of a broken woman talking to her child who was likely in the most hellish place on earth. She finally put her veil tightly over her ears and tried her best to stop hearing and she eventually fell asleep.