The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride

by John Horst

  “I see. And why are you being so good to me? Is it my lovely disposition, or are you just smitten?” She batted her eyelids at them and blew a plume of smoke over the older man’s head.

  “Miss Del Toro, it is a gamble, we won’t deny it’s a great gamble. We know it, but we know that you are a savvy business woman. We won’t deny either that our studies have been promising. We believe we could extract upwards of a million dollars in oil from the land.”

  “Hah! More like ten or a hundred million or more. And, while I am thinking of it. Why is nothing mentioned in that pathetic excuse for a contract you’ve shown me about gas rights, or minerals?”

  “Gas rights? Don’t know that there’s ever anything in the contracts about gas rights, Miss.”

  “Oh, you’ve not heard of the Coal Lands Acts? Are you actually in the oil business, Mr. Talking Horn, or is this some sort of hobby for you?”

  “Miss Del Toro!” He finally stood up. He’d had enough. “I have been patient with you. My company has offered a generous compensation for some frankly, worthless grazing land in the middle of a country in the midst of a revolution. You’ve done nothing but insult me and my associate since we’ve arrived.”

  “I have actually not insulted him. He’s been a perfect gentleman, and he’s handsome.” She gave him a wink. “You on the other hand have attempted to go around my lawyer and steal the land that my poor late uncle spent a lifetime of robbing and marauding and rustling to make into a proper little empire. Now you want me to sell it to you for a fraction of what it is worth in oil and gas and likely gold. Well, that is not going to happen, sir. Not to mention what would happen to the people who call the land home anyway. I have many families who rely on the place. I can only imagine what you’d do to them if you had full control of the property.”

  She finished her cigarette and her speech. She looked on at the young man.

  “May I have another?” Curtin looked down at the pile of cigarettes on the blotter in front of her, grinned, and opened his case again.

  She lit it and blew smoke into Madame Boutin’s desk. “Sit down, gentlemen. Let’s work this out.” The old man did as he was ordered.

  “Now, it’s clear, crystal clear. I’ve made it perfectly clear to you that the land is not for sale, so there’s an end to it. I don’t want to hear another word on it. However, I have a great interest in allowing gas and oil rights to you, exclusively, if you still want them.”

  The man spoke at his lap. “We do.”

  “Okay, then. Take this back and rework it.” She patted the document in front of them. “Make it right and get it to Dan George. He knows what I want and he’ll complete the contract. This way, you can go back to California and save another trek across the continent.”

  She stood up and walked around the desk. She stood before the old man and extended her hand. He shook it. She looked on at the young man and extended her hand to him. “You don’t look like a lawyer or a clerk.”

  “No ma’am, I’m an engineer.” He smiled broadly at her.

  “It’s rich, isn’t it?”

  “Yes ma’am.” He saw his companion stiffen out of the corner of his eye but didn’t care. “It’s rich as all hell, ma’am.”

  Curtin looked at his watch. Six o’clock, right on the money. The old man was always in his cups, thankfully, by six. He could get away from him then. Tolkenhorn was especially drunk this evening. He was hissing at his companion who looked around as the old fool was particularly animated.

  “That little bitch.” He glared at Curtin, eyes wild, not yet bleary, but bloodshot and angry. Called me a philistine! Me!”

  “Bohunk.”

  “What?”

  “Bohunk. She called you a bohunk, not a philistine, she said you were…”

  “Enough. Don’t care. Little bitch. I was trying to do her a favor.”

  Curtin stood up. He usually put the man to bed, but he didn’t want to help him this evening. He looked around the lounge of the Emerson hotel. It was a grand place. He was going to have a good dinner, a good cigar, and go to bed. The young woman put him in a good mood. He stood up and walked away from the old man.

  Robert Curtin would be twenty-nine on his next birthday. He planned to be a millionaire by thirty, but that had not yet panned out. He was a happy man nonetheless. He’d worked hard, nearly made a fortune in Alaska and nearly lost his life. He loved traveling and adventure. He was a fearless though unimpressive looking man. He was handsome but not manly. He was quiet yet not shy. He’d rather listen than be heard. He swore off adventuring after nearly meeting his maker, then just as quickly jumped at the opportunity in Mexico. It was an exotic land, full of excitement, in the throes of revolution, civil war, strife. The people were exotic and interesting and he thought it might be the place where everything would come together for him. He loved it.

  He picked from the menu and while he ate, thought of the young woman. What a live-wire. She was incredible, beautiful, saucy, articulate. He was pleased that he’d be working for her, even if he’d likely never see her again. Her land was good from an oil perspective.

  He liked the big Indian lawyer in Bisbee too. He was a good lawyer, a good judge of character and Curtin knew that he didn’t paint the young engineer with the same brush he’d use on the old man. That was a peculiar quality about Curtin. Even though he had to associate with the fool Tolkenhorn, no one seemed to treat him as if he were the same kind of colossal ass. And it was also why he was sent everywhere with the old man. The fellows at headquarters knew Tolkenhorn well enough, and they knew that Curtin, a man almost one third his age, would keep him in line.

  Not that Curtin liked or trusted the headquarters men, either. He essentially trusted no one and it was interesting that a man of such a young age should be so cynical, but he learned early on that the only one looking out for him was him. He trusted no one. He knew their game. He knew the game of most of the big mining outfits. They’d sell you down the river for a dollar. It’s how he nearly died. They sent him on a suicide mission and he gladly went along, too young and too green to know any better. Well, he knew better now, and he didn’t care what they liked or didn’t like. He was a good engineer, he could find work wherever he wanted. He certainly wasn’t going to let them take advantage of him again and he’d be keeping an eye on the young woman’s situation as well. Not that she needed his protection. It was very likely, to his mind, that that woman never needed protecting by anyone.

  He was not surprised, either about the young woman. He knew what to expect, and she did not disappoint him. The dope Tolkenhorn was both surprised and disappointed. He thought he’d waltz right in there, get some silly, frilly, self-absorbed rich girl to hand the place over to him, just by waving a few dollars in her face. The old fool paid no attention to anything. He was clueless. But Curtin learned, observed and knew all about the young woman. He learned about her while he was working at the hacienda. He definitely knew. He’d seen enough of the culture down there to know that she was unique. He heard it in the reverent tone of the people living on the ranch. He could see the love for her in their eyes. Her people were unique, the way she ran the place was unique. The people were happy, engaged, empowered. If only all of Mexico was run the way the young woman’s ranch was run, there’d be no revolution.

  He looked at his watch again. He thought about taking a cab, looking her up at the school. Just chat, just be in her presence. He wasn’t attracted to her in a sexual way, and he was surprised by that. And it wasn’t because of her age. She was old enough, and old, wise beyond her years. But he was awed by her, by her intense power, control. She was impressive, attractive to him in a way no woman, particularly a beautiful one had ever attracted him in his young life. She was something different and he found himself grinning kind of foolishly to himself at the thought.

  But he didn’t go look her up. Instead, he settled for the cigar and bed. He could not wait to get back to the lady’s hacienda and start making her millions. In a sudden flu
rry of energy he got up, dressed, packed, went to the front desk and checked out. He scribbled a note to Tolkenhorn and gave it to the clerk. He’d take a train to New York, jump on the next steamer to Tampico and get to work. He couldn’t bear the thought of spending more time with Tolkenhorn on a train back overland.

  Winter passed quickly into spring and the girls were having a time. In short order they’d be graduated, a year overdue as Madame Boutin and Abuelita had convinced them to stay on, more to help out with the younger ones with their French and Latin than for their own preparation for college. The reality of it was that the two old matrons could not stand to have the girls leave, and convinced them to stay just one more year.

  Next it would be a leisurely summer in Paris, then on to Smith. Rebecca was giddy with excitement. She loved to travel, loved France and loved to be doing things with her sister. And Marta could relax now, as well. The hacienda was settled. Dan George was making regular visits to check on the overseer of the ranch as well as the men from the mining company. The strikes had been rich and the money was flowing generously to everyone. If the Revolution would settle down, all would be right in Marta’s world.

  She’d been well behaved through the winter and spring, only slipping off a half dozen times to the seedy streets of Baltimore, a few late night trips to the Gaiety, some all-night forays into the back alley dance halls down in Washington, a couple of cold nights spent up in New York. On a sleeper train all the way up to Montreal once with two young college men from Georgetown, nothing happened, according to her journal, regrettably. Most men were terrified of Marta. But all in all, despite the inappropriateness of her shenanigans, nothing happened that would get Abuelita’s heart rate up, or her bankroll down, had the grandmother ever found out about any of it.

  Rebecca was always waiting for her. She’d never be cross, never lecture, never ask questions. She knew her sister had a compulsion so strong, as strong as a human being’s need to breathe and she’d never try to stop her. She’d never try to stop her, and would never go with her either. Rebecca didn’t want to know what Marta was up to when she went away, could not bear to be in the places Marta sought out.

  Marta possessed an insatiably curious mind, and it often went into the recesses, the lonely, ugly places of the human condition. She was a sort of anthropologist in these matters, always above them, never caught up and never weakened by them. She was always searching for some kind of lesson or truth in these experiences, forays, but always returned unscathed.

  It was as if Marta was remembering the days of Sombrero del Oro, the days with the savage bandits and all she’d endured. Marta once confessed that she was a voyeur, assuring Rebecca that she’d never put herself in harm’s way, but was fascinated by the silly and self-destructive pastimes of human beings. She liked to see people on the edge of sensible behavior, behaving badly, being dangerous, reckless, squandering their lives. She studied it, analyzed it, used it as her own form of therapy from the degradations she’d suffered in her early life.

  The only exception to this was her adventure that spring, sneaking in to ride the Maryland Hunt Cup. It was a fantastic notion, preposterous as the officials would never knowingly allow a woman to participate. Marta did it, and with Rebecca’s help.

  They’d bribed the smallest jockey, Jake Spencer into allowing her to run in his place. It was thrilling, dangerous, the jumps were high, too high, more deadly than any other point-to-point in history, in the world, and Marta ate them up, every jump, she and Tippy took them as if they were no more than a rosebush in Abuelita’s back courtyard.

  It was a grand little scheme and they pulled it off without a hitch. Marta would have won, too. But she knew her identity would have been given away at the winner’s circle, and she didn’t want to embarrass Abuelita or Jake. So she held her beloved Tippy back and gave way at the last two jumps, feeling the frustration in her mount, the animal wanting so badly to win, knew they could, could not understand why she was not allowed to go on, fly over the last two fences and on to victory. Marta watched, satisfied as the much heavier men, with their winded mounts, plodded past her. She could have won the damned thing riding side saddle.

  She came in fifth, to the delight of Jake who’d never made it so far. He didn’t really want to ride anyway, so it was no great sacrifice on his part. He had, the year before, lost his nerve after watching one of his companions break his neck, waste away in a hospital bed and eventually die. Jake was yet another victim, not of the Hunt Cup, the young man was under the exceptional Marta’s spell, and he carried their secret to his grave in France in nineteen-eighteen at the age of twenty-nine.

  Basking in the glow of her success, she thought of her mother who would have been proud of her, both for her performance and for her little deception and she decided that one day, she’d tell her all about it. It was just the kind of adventure Chica would have and Marta could not wait to tell her.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Excerpt:The Mule Tamer III