The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride

by John Horst

  The proprietor brought him a bottle of whiskey as there had been no beer for many years. It would not keep and no one cared much anyway. He turned the man down and asked for mescal and got it. He requested two glasses and got them.

  When Billy walked in the man put his hand up. “No niggers.”

  Arvel called out. “Bullshit!” he laid the Greener on the table, muzzle pointed at the proprietor’s guts. The man ignored him, but let Billy pass.

  Arvel grinned sideways at his companion and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “Right friendly around here, aren’t they, Billy?”

  “Yeah. But the name shouldn’t be Dump, it should be Shithole.” He drank the mescal down quickly and removed the rawhide loop from the hammer of his six shooter. Arvel sat back and looked at the ruffians, who’d by now taken up positions on either end of the bar.

  Arvel watched them. “What do you boys do for fun around here?”

  “Drink.” One called out and the others snickered.

  “And hang niggers.” Said the other.

  “Hah!” Arvel laughed out loud. “Good thing there aren’t many of them around.”

  The bigger and bolder of the two walked over to Arvel. “Why don’t you buy us a drink, Mister?”

  “Now, why the hell would I do that?” He grinned his crooked grin at the man. Billy sat, staring at the bottle in front of him.

  The man moved quickly for a drunkard, covering the distance between them and casually picked up the cut down shotgun. He looked it over carefully. “Why would anyone bugger up a nice shotgun like this?”

  Arvel grinned.

  “What the hell happened to your face, Mister?” He stood back, out of reach of the two seated travelers. He held the shotgun casually.

  “Had a fit. Made my body go all catawampus. Weak as a newborn baby.”

  “Awe, that’s mighty sad, Mister.” The other one was emboldened now, as was the bartender. They were pleased at their luck, a dude and his servant, wandering into their little lair with expensive traps, nice mounts, a nice healthy mule. It was all worth at least several hundred dollars, when you added it all up and that didn’t count whatever cash they had on them. The dude evidently had money, he was dressed well enough.

  “Well, son, I thank you for your concern and kind words. It isn’t everywhere you’d hear that sort of compassion for one’s fellow man. God bless you.”

  “So, how about that drink?”

  Arvel leaned forward a little and shifted his weight. “Well, boys, get the bartender to bring you glasses, hell, you can have a drink.”

  They drank in silence and they poured greedily, knocking down three apiece before getting back to the business at hand.

  “Why’s it you’re traveling with a nigger?” The man grinned at the others. He was pleased with himself. “You own him?”

  “No, no. Technically, the term is used to describe the peoples who originate in sub-Saharan Africa, where this gentleman is actually from Australia.”

  “Subsa what?” The man laughed again, but he wasn’t smiling, “Gentleman? Mister, you sure use some fancy goddamned words.”

  “Yes, well, lads.” Arvel brushed the dirt from the palm of his hand as he’d been resting it on the dusty table. “This has all been very stimulating.” Arvel pulled a twenty-dollar gold piece from his vest pocket. He dropped it on the table. “Can you make change for that, barman? It’s time my friend and I went on our way.”

  The bold man guffawed. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, Mister.”

  Arvel grinned again, “Well, that is true. I am not going no-where, it’s actually quite impossible to go no-where, but I am going somewhere, and that is on with my journey down to old Mexico. You boys wouldn’t want to impede me and my companion.” He looked on at Billy and nodded his head solemnly. “I believe that would be against the law.”

  “You sonofabitch. Ye’r playin’ with the wrong hombres.” The bold man was livid now. He’d grown sick of the dude’s stupid grin and lack of concern for the danger he was in. He should be shitting his pants, and he just sat there, with a stupid, sideways grin, just as casual as you please. “Mister, let me tell you what we’re goin’ to do.” He pointed the Greener at Billy’s head. “First, we’re goin’ to shoot this one in the head, and then you.”

  With that he pulled the trigger, and the Greener’s left barrel emitted nothing more than a crisp click, he tried the other barrel, with the same result.

  Everyone stood still, waiting for what was to happen next. Arvel spoke up, “Now you see, boys, that’s the first lesson in the safe handling of a shootin’ iron. Whenever you pick up another man’s gun, always check to see if it’s loaded.”

  “Sonofabitch!” The drunk dropped the shotgun and went for his six shooter as Billy squeezed off a shot that removed the back of his head. Arvel fired next, from under the table, shooting the other man in the lower gut, the bullet tearing an oblong trench in the battered tabletop. The proprietor stood behind the bar. He began shaking and suddenly cried out.

  “No, no, no!”

  Arvel prepared to shoot him and changed his mind. He turned his pistol and pointed to Billy’s left. “Cover your ears, mate.” Billy complied and Arvel shot the glass out of the only intact window. A strong breeze began clearing the smoke from the room.

  Arvel suddenly had a thought. “Damn it, Billy. He looked on at his friend now casually pouring another mescal. “I never got to tell ‘em you were half Dutch.”

  Billy grunted then drank his mescal. “A little too much with the twenty-dollar gold piece, mate. I think you had ‘em pretty well hooked without that.”

  “Sorry.” Arvel looked down at the man with half a head. “That’s some brain surgery, doctor.”

  “Never had any complaints after performing that procedure.” Billy looked on at the man behind the bar. “What do we do with him, mate?”

  Arvel looked at the man. “You have a horse?” The man did. “You’ve got five minutes to get your shit and get out of this place.”

  “Yessir.”

  Arvel drained the bottle equally between them while the man knocked around in a little room in the back of the bar. He eventually sauntered by. He finally looked back at the two.

  “You ain’t just some dude, are you?”

  Arvel pulled back the lapel of his coat, revealing his star. “No, son, I’m not.”

  Once the man was gone, riding, Arvel limped up to the bar. The Hump was now officially a ghost town. “He lit a smoke and with the match still burning, set fire to the contents of the bottles of mescal he’d upended on the floor of the old saloon. The whiskey was too watered down to catch fire.

  They made their way outside and Arvel and Billy watched it burn. “I should’ve done this years ago, Billy.”

  They rode out and Arvel looked over at his companion. “Did you see how that fellow dropped? I never killed a man so quickly without shooting him in the head.”

  Billy thought on that for a moment. “Probably got the superior mesenteric artery. That’s a big one. One thing’s for sure, Mate.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You can shoot with your left hand.”

  Will Panks waited on the trail. The two riders where a quarter mile away, but he could see them and they him. When they finally arrived, he pulled off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Welcome to Mexico.”

  Arvel grinned crookedly. “Will!”

  “Jesus, Arvel, you’re bent over worse than me.” He patted his old friend on the back.

  “What have you been up to, old fellow?”

  “Back to prospecting again, can’t shake it. When I heard of all your troubles I came as quick as I could, Arvel. Sorry about your little girl.”

  Arvel choked back his tears. He looked on at Will’s traps, then remembered Billy mounted behind him. “Will, you know my doctor, Billy?”

  The old prospector shook the aborigine by the hand. “Everyone knows Billy Livingston.” He nodded respectfully at the healer. “You boys
keep away from old Pop,” he nodded to his mule, a nice big black that he’d gotten from Arvel many years ago, “he’s full up of dynamite.”

  “Jesus, Will, you got enough here to take down a mountain.”

  “Or enough to kill old Gold Hat and a bunch of his minions.”

  They rode on together until just before dusk and set up camp near some good water. Arvel limped around and handled his own traps. Will watched him as he fought his debility, remembering his own battle many years ago when he’d shattered his spine all alone in the desert. “How’s it coming along, Arvel?”

  Arvel smiled his crooked smile. “Oh, thanks to Billy, coming along pretty good. I was droolin’ like an infant, now I can control my spit.” He smiled. “I can shuffle, and I can start to move my right hand a bit. And most important, I don’t shit myself anymore.” He reached over and messaged his right hand with his left.

  “Keep fightin’ old friend, keep fightin’.”

  It was a clear night and the men passed a bottle and smoked and stared into the fire. Arvel felt like talking. He felt good to be with a man who had overcome a trial similar to that which he was now living through.

  “So, back to prospecting.” Will grinned and looked into the fire. “You ever find anything out there, Will?”

  “Oh sure. Millions.” He looked at Billy looking up at him a little confused. “Problem is, every time I find a million dollar claim I soon figure out it would cost a million and one dollars to get it out of the Godforsaken land I find it in.” They all nodded, knowingly.

  Arvel looked up at the canopy of stars overhead. “The old man is playing with us, sure enough.” He blew smoke at the moon. Billy Livingston grunted and Arvel grinned. “What?”

  Billy poked at the fire and kept his eyes fixed on an ember. “Nothing.”

  “You think there’s a grand plan, gents?”

  Will Panks spoke up first, “Naw, Arvel, you don’t want me to give you advice about the great beyond or God or heaven or hell.” He’d been playing at an anthill next to his saddle.

  Billy nodded at Will. He reached over and scratched under his arm and echoed Will’s sentiments about his own agnosticism. “Yep, don’t look at me for any idea about some great spirit sittin’ on some clouds, dispensin’ justice to mankind either, Mate.”

  “My God, in the company of a couple of atheists.” Arvel smiled and passed the bottle to Will. “You boys just don’t think there is any great creator, who made all this?”

  Will picked an especially feisty ant up on a stick. “How’s it that we’re any different than this ant?” He crushed his cigarette out. “Maybe we come up with the idea of God to make us feel better about our situation. Maybe we’re no different than any other creature on earth, that the life of this ant colony’s no more or less important than the lives we lead.” Billy grunted out a plume of smoke.

  Arvel sunk down into his blanket. He worked at the exercises Billy had taught him. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  It wasn’t a new thought for Arvel, he’d struggled with his own mortality and faith for years. He decided to pry into the minds of his companions a bit more. “So, what’s the point of going on, boys? Why do we do it, why do we fight the Gold Hats of the world, or work hard, or constantly look for gold in the hills of Arizona, kill wolves for the government, heal gimps and apoplectics?”

  “Don’ know about that, mate,” Billy watched Arvel working and reached over, grabbed his right arm and shoulder and began stretching it for Arvel, “but some idea of a God floatin’ around up on a cloud never did it for me. Like that bloke, what’s his name, Marx, said Religion is the opiate of the masses, or some such nonsense.”

  Will grinned and sat up from his ants. Arvel smiled through his pain at Billy, pulling on his arm. “Son of a bitch, you’re a regular philosopher, Billy. Never took you for a utopian socialist.”

  The aborigine sat back down and lit another smoke. “Not one, not at all, mate. Just always struck me, that idea, that people made God, not the other way ‘round. But I don’t have anything against it. Whatever gets you through the day.”

  “Amen!” said Will. “Whatever keeps you from findin’ a stout rope and a stout beam to throw it over, religion’s as good as any other crutch, better’n booze or the pipe or whorin’ around. My religion’s hard work.” He took a sip from the communal bottle and pointed it at Arvel, “yours is breeding mules,” he pointed to Billy, “yours is readin’ tripe in the Bisbee library.” Billy grinned.

  Arvel finished the bottle and thought of starting another, but he was growing drowsy and decided to call it a night. “Billy, remember that shit you fed me in the clay jug, the first time we met?” Billy grunted and Arvel looked on at Will, “Will, that was the craziest potion I ever had.”

  Billy sat up and arranged his blanket and spoke into it. “Never did figure out what was in it.”

  “I had the oddest dream I ever dreamed after drinking it. My God, that was a long time ago.” He yawned and began to drift. “You boys ever hear the story of Kit Carson?” He fell asleep.

  Arvel was up before the others. He suddenly thought of Rebecca and Chica and wanted to cry. His gut contracted and the pain ran through him, into his back. He sat up and took a deep breath and lit a smoke. The fire was out but Billy had put plenty of kindling and makings together and soon he had it going again. He felt better doing tasks and was certain, no, was convinced he’d gained more strength and control over his right side. He was not shuffling so much and could move his arm about, helping his left side do the work at hand. Soon he had coffee going and the men awoke to the aroma of pork frying. They ate silently and by sunrise, were all mounted up with the old dynamite pack mule, Donny, and Alanza in tow.

  They were getting well into Mexico now. Will led the party as he knew the location of Gold Hat’s fort and the fastest route to San Sebastian. By early noon they arrived at a dirt crossroads where a small boy, no older than five, sat, waiting.

  It was as if he was waiting for them and he had been apparently in some great distress recently. His eyes were puffy and his nose ran. He was hungry and exhausted from the stress and from not sleeping and from not having enough to drink. He barely had the energy to address them.

  Billy and Will looked down at him indifferently as they passed. There was much heartache and pain and suffering in this land and these men had learned to ignore it, as if they’d passed a deer or horse carcass, or some other poor creature who’d met its doom, they moved on past, moved on with their lives. It wasn’t that they were cruel or uncaring, both Billy and Will were the opposite, but they had the greater mission on their minds, and they could not save every creature from pain they ran across out here. They’d never get anything done.

  Arvel stopped next to the boy and lowered his canteen by its strap. The boy drank, gulped the water down. Arvel handed him a hunk of jerked beef and the boy hardly tasted it, it went down the way a dog eats steak gristle when given the opportunity. “What is the matter, muchacho?” Arvel looked on at Will and Billy as they stopped and turned back in the saddles. Billy got down from his horse as he knew they’d be there a while. He made a small fire as Arvel comforted the child.

  “My Mamma.” The child began to cry again and Arvel had difficulty understanding him.

  “Slow down, muchacho.” He dismounted and sat on a rock next to the boy. He patted him softly on the shoulder.

  “My Mamma. A big man with a hairy face, he took my burro and he said he would go back to my home and get my Mamma.”

  “For what, to come and help you, are you hurt?” He began looking the child over for an injury.

  “No, no, no! He is a bad man. He hurt me, he pulled me from my burro and he beat me. He said he would go to my home and do the same to my Mamma.” The child began to cry harder. Will Panks walked up on him.

  “What does the man look like, muchacho?”

  “He is big. He has a big beard. He has a funny face, all crooked. His mouth is crooked, like this.” The child lifted his u
pper lip, pushing it upward, as if to stick it up his nose.

  “Son of a bitch.” Will Panks slapped dust from his chaps. Arvel looked at him.

  “You know him?”

  “Yeah, I know him all right. Should’ve killed that bastard a long time ago, when I had the chance.”

  “Mexicano?”

  “Naw, Goddamned Dutchman. Features himself a prospector, the son of a bitch couldn’t pour piss from a boot if the directions were written on the heel. Always shadowin’ folks who know what they’re doing and try to claim jump when he can. Likes the whores, and cut one up real bad up in Jerome two winters ago. He’s been wandering down here ever since. No goddamned beard’ll ever hide that harelip, though. It is a dandy.”

  Arvel looked on at the child who did not seem to have any English. He did not seem to understand Will at all. “When did the man leave to go to your home, muchacho?”

  “Esta mañana.”

  Will motioned Arvel to the fire Billy had been working on. “Arvel,” he looked at the boy for any comprehension. “That woman’s probably dead by now. That crazy Dutchman likely had his way with her and cut her throat.” Arvel looked on at the child.

  “What’ll we do with the boy?”

  “Let’s give him some provisions, and a few pesos, tell him to go to his family. He’s gotta have family somewhere around here. We give him two dollars in pesos and he’ll be the richest peon for miles.”

  Arvel considered it. He looked at his watch; it was nearly two in the afternoon. He looked up at the sun as if to verify the watch’s time. He looked on at the men. Billy spoke up.

  “Arvel, it’s the only thing we can do, mate.” He’d seen that look in Arvel’s eyes before. He knew what it meant. “We gotta get moving, mate. We can’t drag a child with us.”

  Arvel grinned his crooked grin.”