The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride

by John Horst

  Rebecca could not understand all this. She looked at the little brigand. She was so queer, like looking at a miniature version of a woman. She could not understand her attitude about all this. “But that’s not right. Do you think it’s right? Do you think your father should have me as a wife?”

  The child shrugged. “I don’t much care. By the time you are old enough to breed, he’ll probably be dead and I will take over.” She was suddenly distracted, as if she’d remembered some important task. “We will stay here the rest of the day, then we will move on tomorrow. I’ll be back later and you will teach me this tatting.”

  The little brigand did not come back all day and Rebecca stayed on her cot and tried to do her tatting, but her insides were shaking so badly and her hands were shaking and she could not hold the shuttle properly. She looked out toward the flap whenever she heard a sound and eventually it became dark and she got sleepy. She wasn’t hungry and did not look for food. No one brought her any.

  The anxiety invoked by the little brigand had exhausted her. She was more afraid than she had ever been in her life, and she could not forget when the horses and mules bred on the ranch and she could not think of herself like that with the ugly, mean old man and it made her shake so badly that her teeth tapped together and she pulled her knees up to her chest to try to stop the shaking. She did not want to cry but the thoughts and her fear of what was to come were too much and she did cry very hard and she shook and cried into her pillow and tried so hard to think about her mamma and how much she wanted to hold her and be held by her. Finally, mercifully, her brain stopped torturing her and she drifted off to sleep.

  She slept for a while, not long and was startled out of a light slumber by the mean fat assistant to the maestro. She peaked around the tent flap and watched him. He was changing clothes, and despite her anxiety, Rebecca had to suppress a laugh as, when he pulled his shirt off she could see that he was wearing a chemise under his clothes. He looked ridiculous with his bloated brown skin pressing tightly against the white satin garment, great tufts of black hair protruding from his armpits. His breasts were as big as Pilar’s and he wiggled a little to get the garment to fall back down around his bulbous buttocks after it had ridden up while removing his shirt. He picked a bit of the material out of the crack of his behind.

  He went about looking through the chest the maestro brought in the first day, when the bandit boss made her go through it and put on one of the women’s dresses. The ugly assistant now searched through them with great care and smelled the armpits of each one. He decided on a red satin dress and pulled it over his head. He looked in a mirror, one way, then the other and walked out.

  He was feeling good tonight. The maestro was in a good mood and the little half-breed girl was now just inches from him. He could smell her. He wanted her and he knew, if he’d play his cards right, he’d have her. The maestro could be persuaded.

  He wandered about the camp and made his way down a little hill to the place where the captives were held. The men had tethered them to each other by the necks with hemp rope. They were all nearly starved and kept from drinking enough water. This was always the best way to keep them from running. It was also a good way to entice the ones he selected. A little water and meat would always get them. Once he had them lured away, he could control them easily.

  He became distracted at one of the bandit groups. They were especially drunk know and were firing their six shooters at empty bottles. Some bullets whizzed past him and he called out for them to stop. They laughed at him and cursed him. He walked in their direction to give them hell and was again distracted by another group playing a guitar badly.

  He thought about the old days. He and the maestro had been together many years. They were children together in the same village and they were not always the way they were now.

  In the old days, the maestro was scrawny and weak, and he was four years younger than the clown man and the clown man was the big one among the children. The kids used to tease the maestro and beat him and the clown man was usually the one to instigate the humiliation.

  One day, everything changed when the maestro lured the clown man into the fortress ruins. He awoke in one of the dungeons and the maestro had trussed him up with some old chains that had been left behind, discarded, but no less effective. He hung there, waiting, naked and bleeding, not certain what was to come next. The maestro stood over him, watched him writhe in pain and call out for water, and he began beating the clown man with a quirt, all over his body, until the blood ran from every limb. The maestro abused him many times over the course of as many days, and something strange, something completely unexpected happened to the clown man.

  He learned that he enjoyed every minute of the terrible humiliation, and from then on, he was the devoted servant of the maestro, for fifty years he served the man and was rewarded well. He was rewarded with money and power and all the vices an earthly being could imagine. He was allowed to abuse children as often as he liked and even when the other bandits objected, the maestro stood between them and the clown man. He was impervious to any of their insults or attacks.

  And the maestro learned from this experience as well. His control over the clown man gave him confidence and he learned that, if he was cruel enough, he could control others. Soon he had an army of misfits following him like he was some great military leader, which he was not. He was neither clever nor wise. He was just more malicious than the rest.

  The men eventually quieted down, and he remembered the task at hand, he changed directions and moved back down the hill to the captives.

  The red headed woman saw him and called out to him, “Where is my boy? What have you done with my boy?”

  The boy had been taken from them a day ago and never returned. She thought a lot more about him than she ever thought she would. She’d been abused so many times by now, she was numb to it. The poor little fellow always stood by her though, and always just kept his mouth shut. He kept his eyes to the ground, he felt so sorry for her that he didn’t dare look in her direction for fear of upsetting or embarrassing her. Even though she was never very nice to him, she was still his mother and he loved her very much. He’d never seen her abused, but knew, nonetheless that the bandits were very bad to her when they took her away. She could tell he wanted to help her, but there was nothing he could do.

  She knew, instinctively what he was thinking, and now that he was gone, she felt so despondent and sorry that she had not treated him better. She could only imagine what the fat man had done to him and this made her ill again, but she was so dehydrated and starved for food that she couldn’t vomit. She looked at the powdered buffoon and thought that if she ever had the chance, she’d cut his throat and be happy about it.

  He ignored her, pushed past her, untied another child who had just fallen to sleep. He looked the child over, grunted, disappointed. This one would have to do.

  Rebecca woke after some time, it was fully dark, and there was no sound outside. All the bandits and captives were apparently asleep. She listened intently for the sound that woke her coming from inside the tent. It was Gold Hat. He was sleeping and having violent nightmares. He spoke terrified gibberish and, at first, it scared Rebecca, but she soon settled down and listened. She sat up on her cot and pushed her ear toward the flap nearest the man. She suddenly thought of the clown man and looked in the direction of his little room. She could tell he was not there, apparently off on some terrible adventure. She turned back and listened to the old bandit. He was hissing and babbling.

  So naturally good and kind was Rebecca that she stood up, automatically, ready to go to his aid, to wake and comfort him. Then something brought her to her senses. She felt a new sensation that she’d never known. The child had never known malice or corruption of wickedness and now, for the first time in her young life she was experiencing such a feeling. It now became apparent to her that she was enjoying the pain and suffering of another human being. It was a queer sensation, and she was not certai
n she liked it, but somehow it seemed right. This man needed to be punished, and punished he was in his fitful night terrors.

  She thought of Mamma who said one time that a bad dream was normal, and that everyone had them from time to time, but to have terrors meant that you were not right with God and you weren’t right in your own mind, that you had done some bad thing in life and it was torturing you.

  Mamma told her that people who were evil never slept well and it was one way that God punished them for their wickedness. Rebecca listened again. It made her feel glad and sad at the same time. She thought about the old maestro. Maybe he really would die before he made her his wife. Maybe she would escape, or Mamma would find her, or Daddy. She knew they were okay. She knew Mamma was fine and didn’t believe the old men when they said she was dead.

  She thought about the little girl. She felt sorry for her as the little brigand did not scare her, and despite the fact that she smoked a cigarette and dressed like a man, Rebecca could tell that she was just a girl, like her and that she apparently did not have a good Mamma and that she was not nearly so tough and wily as she acted. She thought about all her wonderful birthdays, as far back as she could remember, every birthday was even better than the last, and this girl never had a birthday, not one, she didn’t even know how old she was. That made her feel very sad and she wondered at how completely evil the place was where she was headed.

  She wondered where the girl slept and how she spent her day, wondered with whom she kept company. She tried to imagine the girl as the leader of the bandits, and it did not make any sense.

  Finally, the Gold Hat became quiet. His terror had burned itself out, or his mind finally became exhausted enough to stop terrifying him and he became quiet, so quiet that Rebecca thought that he might be dead, and for the first time in her young life, she was glad at the thought of the death of another human being. She drifted off and dreamed of helping Pilar bake her favorite, pan de muertos.

  She was up early and the camp was active. They were ready to move out when an excited guard rushed into the tent. Gold Hat and the Clown man were sitting at a desk when he interrupted them. “A man, Maestro.” He pointed excitedly toward the south.

  “What man?”

  “He looks to be an Americano. He is sitting at a rock, with a white flag. He wants a parley.”

  Gold Hat grunted. “Go out and see what he wants. Then kill him and tell me what he said.”

  Two riders approached the Indian, sitting in a fine ditto suit with a small table and chairs. The men rode up quickly and looked down at him from horseback.

  Dan George stated his business. He motioned to a small chest beside him and told them he’d speak to Gold Hat only. The first bandit pulled his six shooter but before he could point it at Dan George, the man’s head came apart, splattering brain onto his colleague’s lap. The other bandit looked on, dumbfounded.

  “You tell Gold Hat, I have enough money to make him richer than he’s ever been in his life, and I’ll only talk to him, and if anyone tries to do me any injury,” he looked down at the corpse, “that’ll happen to ‘em.”

  The bandit wheeled and galloped back to camp. In short order, Sombero del Oro and the clown man were slowly riding up.

  Gold Hat dismounted casually. He looked down at the corpse and stepped over it. He did not look out onto the mesa for the shooter. He looked on at Dan George indifferently.

  “What’s your business, Indian?”

  “Rebecca Walsh.”

  “Don’t know such a thing as this.”

  “The pretty girl with black hair and blue eyes, had a blue dress when you took her.”

  “So, what’s your business, Indian?”

  “In this chest is thirty thousand dollars.” He nodded for the clown man to look in. He did and pulled out several stacks of notes, held together with paper bands.

  “Paper money means nothing to me, Indian. Words mean nothing to me. Gold coins and good human flesh mean something to me.”

  “This is good US currency and it is only one quarter of what we will pay for the child.”

  “And where is the rest of this great fortune?”

  “In notes. I have the power to release the balance to you, to be redeemed at the nearest bank of your choosing.”

  “What is this, redeemed?”

  “Made good.” Dan George was surprised at the man’s ignorance. He thought that at least Gold Hat was an intelligent man to evade the law for so many years. He was just another stupid bandit.

  “So, what am I to do with these notes, eh?”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what you do with them. Turn them into quarters, and jamb every one of ‘em up your ass for all I care.”

  Gold Hat did not understand and turned to the clown man. “Que?”

  The clown man shrugged. Dan George was growing impatient. “Let me tell you something, old simpleton, when you attacked that train, you unleashed the Leviathan, and if you don’t take heed of my warning, it will be very bad for you.”

  The two old men cackled back and forth to each other and the clown man spoke up, “What’s this Leviathan?”

  “One of the monsters of hell, its gatekeeper, and I warn you it will be coming for you. You should take my offer now, Gold Hat. Because if you do not, I can guarantee you that a rain of shit will fall on you like you have never known.”

  This the old bandit understood and he became angry at the Indian’s impudence. “Tell me, swine, why did this Walsh family send a red-dog savage to make a trade?” He began to pull his piece and the ground kicked up near his left foot. The report of a shot could be heard, off in the distance. He stopped.

  Dan George stood up from his table. He whistled for his horse and mounted up. He grabbed the chest of money and began to ride away, suddenly stopped and looked down at the two men and then glared at Gold Hat. “You are doomed.” He rode away.

  The two old men stood, staring stupidly for a moment, then suddenly pulled their pieces. They began to point them at Dan George’s back when another bullet found its mark, striking Gold Hat in the left buttock. He spun about, as if he’d suddenly been nipped in the backside by a mean dog. He limped to his horse and both men rode back to safety.

  Chica smoked a cigar as Dan rode up, disappointment in his eyes. “Well, that didn’t pan out.” Chica helped him with the chest and gave him a little smile. She never expected it to work, but had to give Dan his chance.

  “Don’ worry, Dan. He have a sore ass now, and we’ve killed one bandit. Only forty eight and a half to go.”

  They all rode off quickly, going south. Dan was livid. “There’s no reasoning with that son of a bitch, Chica.” He remembered the mother superior and nodded, “beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  When they were a safe distance away and certain they’d not been followed, Chica stopped their little party. “You go find my Arvel and Dick Welles, Dan.” He suddenly looked hurt.

  “I want to stay with you, Chica.”

  She lit another cigar off the butt of the one she’d been smoking. “We.” She looked at the old nun, “have to go in the camp and get Rebecca. You go an’ get the rest of the boys and wait at Sombrero del Oro’s fort. Mos’ of his band will be heading there, and you can get them then.”

  Dan was confused as usual. Chica did not let him in on her plan, but he could not argue with her. He shrugged and quickly got his bearings. “I hope you know a good plan, Chica. I’m not going to tell you to be careful. I can see in your eyes you don’t plan to be careful at all, but I’m not afraid for you. God help those poor bastards now.”

  “Adios, Dan.” She grabbed him and kissed his cheek. She sent him on his way.

  IX Arvel

  Arvel and Billy rode most of that morning without incident. Arvel’s right leg was tethered to his stirrup which was in turn tied to Tammy’s front cinch and he was able to keep upright on his favorite mule well enough. He’d been working on controlling his right thigh muscles, then calf, then ankle. He was convinced he could
move his ankle by late morning and that pleased him very much.

  They rode into a little settlement, pretty well a ghost-settlement by now and Billy grunted at the dilapidated sign with words barely discernible. It read The Hump. Arvel looked over Billy’s shoulder.

  “They ought to change that sign.”

  “Don’t think anyone cares much, Mate.”

  “No, not to make it clearer. They need to change the name of this God forsaken place.” He pulled a cartridge from his pocket and scraped at the sign, using it as a pencil. “There, that’s more like it.” He looked back at his work approvingly. The H was now a D.

  Billy wanted to stop to top off their canteens and check on Arvel’s skin. He didn’t want the man getting saddle sore as Arvel still had little sensation in many parts of his body. The one and only good thing The Hump offered was decent water.

  Two ruffians stood outside the only building. They eyed the men suspiciously, with contempt. They would have been more dangerous had they not been so drunk. It appeared that getting inebriated was the only pastime at The Hump.

  Arvel shuffled past them and into the establishment. It was filthy dirty. A broken down piano in a corner, and a disused faro table, no chairs anywhere. It once sported a big mirror behind the bar, but that had been shot to pieces a few years ago when a horrendous battle had taken place.

  Arvel knew of the battle, and it helped to relieve him and Dick of eight bad hombres who had given them trouble in the southernmost part of the territory. It was a mismatched battle between two rival gangs. Six on one side and two on the other. The only difference was that the two had repeating shotguns and the others only six shooters. They all killed each other, the first justice any one of them had ever done in their miserable lives. Arvel shuffled over to a table and sat down on an empty beer keg. He leaned back against the wall.