Maria's Trail (The Mule Tamer) (23 page)

 She pulled her dress down and looked at her
back through a mirror. The bullet had not gone through. She breathed deeply and
it was difficult to get her breath and this made her cough. She tasted blood.
She was lung shot and knew it. She looked down and watched the blood seep out
from the hole. She packed it with a washcloth and put her dress back on. She had
to get to Alanza and out of there.

She gathered her things and barred the door
with a chair. She stepped over the gringo dealer, looked him in his good but
lifeless eye and grinned. “See you in hell, my gringo friend.” She opened the
window and was gone.

She woke up the liveryman and his wife to fetch
Alanza and her traps. The old man tacked Alanza up and worried over Maria. He
could she was in no fit state to ride and her dress was now quite wet with
blood. She ignored his protests and the man’s wife resolved to at least clean
and dress Maria’s wound as best she could. She did a capable job.

“Adios, people. Thank you for your help.” She
rode off, swaying a little in her saddle and the man was certain she’d fall
before getting to the edge of town. They were good people and not used to
patching up bullet holes in Mexicanas, but did not want to cause the girl any
more trouble so they closed up and extinguished all the lights as soon as she
was out of sight. They waited and watched, and sure enough, two riders came
through, stopped momentarily at the stable and looked around. They continued in
the direction Maria had ridden. The man’s wife gave his arm a squeeze. She’d
been with him more than thirty years and could read his mind. He wanted to help
the señorita. “It’s not for us, Dad, it’s not for us.”

Alanza galloped south as Maria went in and out
of consciousness. By daylight they were at the edge of the red rocks, near her
Indios, when she finally fell off. She slept heavily in the desert and began to
dream of the couple she’d beaten at cards the evening before. The dream was
vivid. She could hear them talking but she could not move or even wake up.

“She dead?”

“Not yet. Lost a lot of blood. I’ve got it.”

“Should we take her traps?”

“No. Someone could make a connection, just get
the cash.”

“It’s, it’s a lot.”

“How much?”

“More than we lost, a lot more.”

“I pity her. Look at her. She was a card
playin’ little bitch.”

Maria dreamed of the Indios and the red rocks
and of Alanza whinnying at her. She dreamed that a dog was pushing her with its
nose and then the dog became Alanza. She was hot and soaking wet with sweat and
blood. At one point she felt beneath her head and thought she was resting on a
comfortable pillow like at the lady fence’s house. It was a big goose down
pillow and she put her hands up to feel it, fluff it a little, enjoy the
coolness of the underside with her hot hands and her pillow was now little
Rosario and her baby was hungry. She put her to her breast, the one that was
shot and it hurt, ached all around her breast like when the German infant was
nursing on it.

Then she sat up, too close to a fire ring.
Juana and Ulla and Bronagh were all at the fire, but Juana was ten years old
again. She was eating and Ulla pointed at Maria, signaling to everyone that she
was finally awake. Bronagh chastised them, “Now, don’t be gettin’ on your high
horse. She needed to go a wanderin’, it was in her blood.”

Juana pointed at Maria with a drumstick. “Look
at the state of her. She’ll surely die, then where will we be?”

Ulla reached out with an ointment and now she
was the yellow-haired whore from Nuevo Casas Grandes, “Put this on your
nipples, Maria, it soothes them.”

She sat up, leaning on an elbow and looked at
the fire. She was too sleepy to speak or take the ointment and soon dropped
back down. She could no longer find the pillow or Rosario but she was just too
tired to care. She turned to face away from the fire and felt liquid hitting
her face. The man, the shop owner, the dirty bastard Sanchez was there with the
coal oil and was splashing her all over with it. He’d come back to burn her up.
She sat up sputtering and felt the coolness of the rain. She was awake now and
getting cold; the rain was coming down hard and lightning bolts were
illuminating the sky. She had to get off the mesa.

Alanza knew it, too and was not far away. She’d
been trying to wake Maria for most of the day and steadfastly waited nearby for
her mistress to stir. She walked over and pushed her with her muzzle, as if to
force her to mount up.

Maria did and they rode to an arroyo and waited
at the edge, out of lightning strikes and away from the impending flood of
water. She felt better now, drank some and ate a little dried beef. This she
immediately vomited and resolved to drink only sips of water. She’d worry over
food later as vomiting pained her in the breast terribly.

She was tired again and leaned back into the
muddy bank, drifting between wakefulness and sleep. A thunderclap woke her and
she looked around. Every time the lightning flashed, it illuminated a face in
the bushes. Over there, the old man and old woman who raised her at the church,
at another spot the old padre, looking as glum as ever, then the lady fence and
her companion, and finally, all the Germans. They were in a group, the Germans,
as if they’d formed a choir, were planning to sing at a Mass, but they never
did. They just stood there, silently, watching her, waiting.

She shook herself and finally came fully awake.
She was freezing cold and knew that she had a fever. She needed to find shelter
fast.

The Indios finally found her after she’d fallen
from Alanza again. She was sleeping at the base of a slot canyon, not more than
a mile from their home. Alanza was a good scout and seemed to know the trail,
seemed to know where to take Maria to get the help she needed.  The Indios had
little trouble getting them to Maria’s special Hogan. She slept there another
five days.

When she finally woke her fever was gone and
she could keep food down. The Indios had cleaned her wound and it was beginning
to heal. She could breathe better now and it did not pain her so to move about.
She’d keep the bullet as a souvenir, lodged under her shoulder blade for the
rest of her days, and whenever the weather was changing, Maria would know by
the ache from the little lead slug. 

She smiled at all the faces peering in at her
when she was finally with them once again. They loved and admired Maria so much
and could not bear the thought of losing her.

She had no fortune now, but at least she had
all her guns. Her vaquero outfit was still good and the Indios had cleaned it
and readied it for her, so she was not in such bad shape. She looked through
her things and found a small roll of cash in one boot, then another; in her gun
belt was a slot and she kept cash there, there was more in her war bag and
under her saddle skirt.

The old man taught her well. She remembered his
story as she looked over the cash she now had. He told her an old story of a
man who’d been shipwrecked, Robinson Crusoe was his name, and he had gunpowder
from the wreck. He had hidden it in little caches everywhere in the event that,
if lightning should strike it, not all would be lost. This is what the old man
told her to do with her money. Never keep it all in one spot. So she had some
seed money, a few hundred dollars, with this the fortune could be remade. It
didn’t bother her so much at the time, she was lucky to be alive.

She stayed with them for nearly a year and was
eventually as good as new, perhaps even better than she was before being shot,
as she had no mescal or cigars or bad places to go and gamble to wreck her
health. She was becoming a fixture with the little band but knew she’d
eventually have to move on. This was not her home; this was not how she wanted
to spend the rest of her days. The wanderlust had once again taken hold.

Maria spent the next two years crisscrossing
the desert. Making her fortune and becoming a hacendada no longer seemed so
important.  She just wandered and looked for adventure, looked for a game. She
was a little lost now as the games and small skirmishes just did not pay off in
entertainment value as well as they used to. She was drinking more mescal these
days and it was becoming difficult to get a good game. She’d developed a
reputation in Arizona, the incident at The Cage, then at Canyon del Muertos
where she’d shot up the three men and even in Flagstaff, where she was famous
for killing the dealer, had made it difficult for her to get by. No one wanted
to gamble with either their money or their lives with the beautiful wild
Mexicana.

This is when the gringos started to make her
angry. They were hypocrites. They could gamble, fight, kill, but when there was
a chance they’d be bested by a Mexican and a woman, they’d run the other way,
like a cur with its tail between its legs. They liked to look at her, liked to
try to bed her, but they would not play cards with her and soon she was run out
of the bigger places in the territory.

She soon developed a remedy for this lack of
cash source. She became an excellent thief. She’d steal anything that was of
value, portable and not tied down. She was careful about it; she’d never steal
from the poor or from honest working men. But she would steal from big companies:
mining companies or the railroad or the stagecoach lines. She’d steal from
other thieves or anyone who insulted her, just as she’d done with Colonel Gibbs
when she’d taken his fancy rifle.

Whenever she was run out of a town or
settlement or refused a game, she took the same path, a habit she’d formed. It
went along the lines of stealing whatever she could, downing half a bottle of
mescal, then galloping Alanza up and down the street, emptying her six shooters
into the saloons and brothels on each side. This is how she became known as the
beautiful devil.

The loot always made it to the Indios, in one
form or another. Most of it she’d turn into cash and purchase foodstuffs for
them. Sometimes she’d splurge and get the little ones candy or toys. For the
women she’d buy coffee, tobacco and sugar. It was the one thing in her life
that gave her some satisfaction and made her a little happy.

She went to visit the padre. It was bittersweet
to see the place at the church where the old man and old woman raised her. A
new family had taken over and the padre introduced Maria to them. They offered
her a meal and it felt so queer as nothing had changed except the people. The
chairs and tables and plates and stove, all of it was exactly as she’d left it
when the old folks were murdered and she ran away from God and the church. They
let her see her old room and this was different; they had three small children
living in it now. It was nice to see children’s things and she did recognize
the chamber pot that had caught her little Rosario when she was born.

She rode out to the desert and visited Rosario
that day. She found the spot where she amputated Crisanto’s leg and then, a
little farther on, she could see the remains of Rosario’s grave. Her bullet
wound suddenly ached and she had to leave. She had to ride on to the west and
visit the lady fence. There were only good memories there and she needed some
now. She should not have visited the padre.

But the lady fence and her companion were gone
when she arrived. The store and the house behind it were shuttered and the
place looked as if it had not been occupied for some time. This was mostly
Kosterlitzky’s doing, as he’d been tough on the bandits in the region, thus the
lady fence had no real commerce any longer. She’d moved on with her companion
and Maria was truly heartbroken to find them gone.

She broke into the home and climbed the stairs
to the garret. The bedframe was there but the mattress was gone. She opened the
window and let the sea breeze in. It felt good on her face and she closed her
eyes and remembered back to the first time she’d visited. So much had happened
to her in all that time. She remembered Juana, her chubby little body pressed
against hers in bed, how she was always eating, it seemed.

She thought about Juana. She missed her and
hoped that she had babies by now, hoped that she and Ulla were happy down south
with the Guatemalan workers and the coffee plantation and the Germans. She
suddenly felt like she would cry and she didn’t understand why; this had always
been such a happy place for her. Her bullet wound ached again.

She took Alanza down to the beach and they
camped by the surf. She didn’t want to be alone up in the garret and Alanza
always comforted her.  She was always nearby watching over her, ready to sound
an alarm, to give her own life for Maria if that was what was required of her.

They ate and Maria had half a bottle of mescal
and listened to the lapping of the surf. She went for a swim and sat naked next
to the fire to dry. She felt good being naked. She thought of men when she was
naked and considered that maybe this was what was lacking in her life. She
liked men. She loved making love, at least the one time with Crisanto, and
imagined it might be better with a partner who was not mostly dead.

By morning she was ready to travel again. She
wanted to see the Indios. She’d gotten some money and would buy them some
things. It was when she was with the Indios that she was happiest and it made
her feel like it would be possible, perhaps someday, to have what they had. To
have children to nurture and love and this made her bullet wound ache again. It
went all the way down to her womb and she wanted to cry again. It seemed that
she wanted to cry almost all the time now. The only way for her to keep this
from happening was constant travel and mescal; lots of mescal.

So she rode with purpose to the Indios and
stopped off to see Uncle Alejandro, who was thrilled and begged her to stay. He
worried about her. Maria did not look well. She looked haggard and worry-worn
and just not as pretty as she once was.

“Please, child. Stay. You will never want for
the rest of your days. We have good men here. Find one, find the most handsome
boy and I will make you queen of the hacienda. I will make all your troubles go
away.”

She felt like crying at his words and her wound
ached. She smiled weakly. “I know, Uncle. I know this thing and I thank you for
it. I must make one more trip and then I will return.”

He nodded sadly and Maria thought she could
discern just a hint of a tear in his eye. The old man loved her and did not
want to lose her. He feared what the next trip would do to his precious charge.

Maria made him this promise and had every
intention of fulfilling it. As she rode off, she looked back at the old Jefe.
“I will be back, Uncle. I promise you, I’ll be back.”

She rode into a small hamlet and was furious to
be, once again, denied a game. Now even in the little places she was known, or
at least not given any respect or consideration. This bunch was especially
disrespectful: rude and angry and self-righteous. They would not give her a
game and told her that gamblers and tramps and Mexican whores were not welcome
in their town. They stood back, not willing to fight, none of them even armed,
yet they talked like tough men, they talked and Maria got angry and stormed
out.

She found some shade and sat there until dark.
She had three bottles of mescal and downed two. She was completely drunk and
looked for something to steal. She could find nothing here. The little
settlement was just too small, the people too resourceful and hard working.
They did not have time for the frivolities of the cattle or mining towns. There
was no fun here, only hard work and severe and boring people. It was totally
civilized and Maria did not like it much.

She dozed a little and by midnight was ready
for some action. She mounted up and galloped Alanza up the street. She surveyed
the place and the people, more people than usual were milling about. She
wheeled and pulled her six shooters, firing wildly at each side of the street,
scattering the offensive inhabitants of the town. This was a little bit of fun
and she stopped to reload. Suddenly, she was pulled off of Alanza and
everything went black. She was out.

She awoke in a little shack to find a man
fiddling with her guns. She sat up slowly.

 “Ay, chingao!” She glared at her captor.
“Pendejo, what are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to wake up.” He placed the gun
back in its holster and set the rig down, out of her reach.

“Ay, look at my clothes.” She took a damp scarf
and began brushing herself off. “Did you wipe me down, Pendejo?” She looked at
him suspiciously.

“I did.  But not anywhere I shouldn’t.”

“What?”

“Not on your private parts.” He smiled at her.
“Are you trying to get hanged, or are you just stupid?”

She rubbed a knot on her head with her scarf,
then looked at it for blood. “Ay, my head is sore.” She looked at him again.
“What are you talking about, gringo?”

“Do you not know of the troubles?”

“No.” She was trying to focus. “Are you some
kind of law, mister?”

“No.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it,
offering her one. She refused it and pulled out a cigar, leaning forward so
that he could light it. “So you don’t know about the murder of the family
outside of town?”

“No, I know nothing of any murder.  Ay, you
really hurt me, Pendejo.” Rubbing the back of her neck, she looked around the
room. “So I am not arrested?”

“No.”

“Where is my horse?’

“Beats me. Tombstone by now, shot dead, not
certain. It ran off like its hind parts were on fire, heading south. Heard lots
of shooting, so the towns’ folk were probably shooting at it. What kind of
stupid stunt was that anyway, shooting up the town?”

She rubbed her head then picked up her hat. “I
don’ know, Pendejo. When I drink mescal, I do some things.” She stood up and
stretched her back, blew smoke at the ceiling of the shack. “I really gotta go,
Pendejo. Will you let me go?”

“Not without a horse.” He looked at his watch.
“I tell you what, let me go find your horse and you stay here. Don’t leave,
understand?”

“Sí, I understan’.” She reached for her gun
belt and looked for his reaction. He allowed it.

She waited until he was gone and then began
looking around her little hideout. This was a strange gringo. He was dressed
too well to have such a shop, the shop of a laborer. This could not be his
shop; he was dressed like a gentleman. She wondered at his game. She started
looking through drawers and broke a lock on a desk. He came in and discovered
her.

 “Hey, stop that!” He pushed her away and began
straightening up. “So, you’re a thief as well as a drunkard?”

“I need money, Pendejo.”

“Has working or getting married or doing
something honest ever crossed your mind?” The man continued to put the place
back in order.

She spit on the floor. “I don’ need to work and
I don’ need a man. I take what I want, Pendejo, like you gringos take and take
from the people who have been here for hundreds of years. You are just as much
a thief as me.”

He laughed. “Well, you have a point there.”

She looked him up and down. “You are a strange
gringo, Pendejo. You don’ look very much like, like…”

“Not very tough?”  He smiled. “I know, I know.
I’ve heard that before.”

“Why are you not so mean to me, Pendejo? Most
gringo white men don’ want nothin’ to do with me. They avoid even to look at
me.”

“I think you’re funny.” He smiled.  He looked
at his watch again. “You’d better beat it out of here.”

“Why so secret, Pendejo?”

“What’s this ‘Pendejo’?”

“Oh, I don’ know, it just seem to fit.”

“It wouldn’t be good if the people around here
caught you. They’d likely string you up, just for good measure. A bandit gang
of Mexicans and Indians killed a whole family just outside of town. It was
pretty bad. The leader wears a gold sombrero. Maybe you know him?”

“Ay, chingao, sí, I know him, Pendejo. He is
mal puro. One day, I will meet up with him and kill him, but he is like smoke,
he is hard to catch.”

“We’re meeting up in a couple of hours to go
after that gang.”

“You, Pendejo?” She chuckled. “You better not
go after bandits or they will be digging a grave for you, especially Sombrero
del Oro.”

He took her by the arm and Maria was surprised
and a little impressed with his resolve. “I appreciate your concern, Chiquita,
but I’ll be just fine. How old are you, anyway?”

“Guess, Pendejo.” Maria eyed him devilishly.
She liked the attention he was giving her.

“Sixteen?”

“Hah! I have twenty-six years, Pendejo.”

“Well, you won’t have twenty-seven years if you
keep this up. Now, get on your horse and ride. Don’t stop.” He tossed a
half-eagle at her. “And I don’t want to hear from you or see you in these parts
again.”

She turned to leave, then grabbed him and
kissed him hard on the mouth. She thought for a moment and kissed him again,
harder this time. “You kiss good, Pendejo.” 

She got on Alanza and rode past a couple of
mules and realized they belonged to the pendejo. Another odd thing about him.
Mules. Who rode mules? Mules were good animals but they were made to bear heavy
burdens, pull great carts or plow fields and tear stumps from the ground. They
were not made for riding, that was the purpose of a horse. She thought hard
about the strange gringo. He was a very odd one.

She could not believe her luck. She rode on.
She had a lot of money from the man and he had let her go. She even lifted his
watch and she believed that maybe he even knew it and let her. She could not
understand that. He let her go. It was confounding enough that he captured her.
Maria had only been bested once, and that was by Uncle Alejandro. Now she was bested
by a gringo who looked for all the world like a complete alfeñique.