John C. Horst's Blog, page 10

Oh, Robert Curtin, kill me again.

Claudio Sacchi He thought he heard an operetta, off, a long distance away, he listened in his dream and he heard it again, an angelic voice, la petite mort, la petite mort. He looked up and she was there, naked and beautiful, leaning on an elbow and absentmindedly, as if she too were in the same slumber and repeating the verse, over and over again, la petite mort.

His awakening brought her around, she looked on him and smiled. “Oh, hello.”

“What were you saying?” He reached over and pulled her head down onto his chest. “My French, is not good, I mostly slept through all the classes.”

“La petite mort. The little death.” She smiled. “Marta used to read naughty books to me at night, after all the lights were out. We’d make a little tent with the sheets and we’d have a flashlight. I’d hold the light and Marta would read under the tent. One book, about a woman in love,” she hesitated, a little embarrassed.

“Go on, please.”

“She would describe things, things we didn’t understand, of course we knew what they were doing, you know, it, but we didn’t fully understand. And she said, the character in the book said, she felt la petite mort. Every time it would happen, it was like a little death.” She looked up and kissed him on the mouth, moved her hand down over his body and smiled. “And now I know what she meant.”

“Yes, yes.” He thought on that for a while. “It’s sad, there’s a sadness to it, isn’t there, Rebecca? Like a feeling that is too overpowering, that it is like Christmas morning, but then Christmas morning turns to Christmas afternoon and then, there’s sadness.” He kissed her hair. “That’s stupid. That’s not what it is.”

“No, no, Robert. I know what you’re saying. It’s like having the feeling and the feeling is so wonderful that, you are afraid that it doesn’t get any better, or that, having it is somehow so deliciously bad that you will be punished for your sin, your sin of happiness. That being this happy, no one has the right, no one deserves to be so happy, and something has got to give. It’s almost as if la petite mort, it would be better to just go on and die, and not recover from it, it…” She suddenly looked into his eyes, they both, now misty-eyed, overwhelmed, so much in love that it hurt. Their hearts, literally, ached.

She pulled him on top of her. “Oh, Robert Curtin, kill me again.” The Mule Tamer III, Marta's Quest

Now he just looked like himself, old, but not so old as to be decrepit.

Claudio Sacchi She tied Alanza off and had a look around. She could see well despite the fact that no lamps were burning. Everyone was in bed for the night. She wandered to a big window and peered in. It was the mule man’s bedroom and he was there, sleeping peacefully with his mouth agape. Now he looked about a hundred years old and Maria thought all this an idiot’s errand. She watched him some more and he turned and closed his mouth and was facing her and no longer looked a hundred years old. Now he just looked like himself, old, but not so old as to be decrepit. Maria's Trail

She was an entertainer certain enough.

Evan Wilson “I’m an entertanoar.” She straightened her back proudly as she made the declaration.

“A what?”

She thought hard about it, knew that wasn’t quite right and tried to remember the correct word. It wouldn’t come to her so she repeated the same word, with the accent on a different syllable this time and an extra consonant for good measure. “An entra, entratrainoar.”

“An entertainer?” Ramon laughed politely. She was an entertainer certain enough.

“No, no, a person that’s in, in business. I’m a business lady.” She poked herself in the breast with a thumb, defiantly.

“Oh, an entrepreneur.” He stood up dramatically and, pretending to pull a hat from his head, made a deep bow. “A thousand pardons, my lady Hilola. I did not know.”

She was pleased and smirked a little as she pulled her knees to her chin. Ramon grabbed a blanket from inside the tent and carefully covered everything below her waist. It seemed everything she did, every movement she made, was designed to keep him distracted. Allingham; Desperate Ride

“How many men have you killed?”

Claudio Sacchi “How many men have you killed?”

“I’m sorry?” Del Calle was not certain he heard the question clearly.

“How many men have you killed? You’re a soldier.”

“A marine.”

She shook her head dismissively. “You’ve been in the banana wars. How many men have you killed?”

“I think that’s something I’d like to not discuss. How many have you killed?”

“Six.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

He looked back to the horizon.

“Why?”

“I used to be a bandit, down in Mexico. My father was a brigand, a cutthroat. Rebecca’s mother killed him.”

“I thought you were sisters.” The Mule Tamer III, Marta's Quest

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.

Moonlit Nude ~ Etty 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 over at Billy who was looking a bit 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 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 looked 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, the 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 over at 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. The Mule Tamer II, Chica's Ride

And, Señor, I ain’t too old for babies, I know that.

Gianni Stine She looked back at the house and saw Adulio and Paulo working and they waved to her from a good distance away. She smiled and waved back and continued. “I wanna tell you, Señor, that I’m so happy and I’ll do my best to make your son happy, but I’m afraid. I’m so afraid ‘cause I ain’t smart, and I’m old, and I just ain’t up to your boy’s measure. I ain’t by a mile and I know it.” She shrugged and tried to make her voice stop shaking. Hilola was working herself up into a fairly agitated state. Her nose ran and she sniffed hard and wiped the tears from her eyes. She went on. “But Ramon keeps tellin’ me I’m fine and he loves me just as I am and he don’t act like he’s getting’ sick of me at all. And, Señor, I ain’t too old for babies, I know that. And I think I’m goin’ to be makin’ you a grandpa soon.” Allingham: Desperate Ride

Hira is one with his God. He fears nothing in this world.

Artist: Emily Eden “Why don’t you pray, my love?”

He didn’t know the answer. Then thought about it. “I, well, I’ve, I don’t know, Rosario.”

“You need to pray and you need to remember Francis more, not less. I know you believe in God. Your God, your Jewish God, no?”

“Yes.” His headache was coming back, and the tickle was bad deep down in his chest, he felt his heart doing flip-flops again. He shifted his weight to hold her more comfortably. “I’m not much of a Jew, Rosario.”

“But you believe?”

“Yes. I guess so.” He thought about it. “I, something Mr. Singh said, has got me thinking. You know, the man is without fear of any kind?”

“Sí, I know this thing. Hira is one with his God. He fears nothing in this world.”

“Well, he said that his turban, his hair, his beard, the fact that he stands out, even in his own land, is an important part of his faith. And, well, I, you know, we Jews, the good ones, the devout ones, we’re the same. You saw Blume, you know he stands out like a sore thumb, especially here. And I, well, I turned from that path long ago. Rosario, I feel a regular damned coward for it.”

“Tell me why you did this thing, my love. I do not believe it is because you are a coward, just as I do not believe that you want to forget Francis.” Allingham; Desperate Ride

“It is nice to see another Jew for a change. Shalom Aleichem.”

William Robinson Leigh Hobbsie snapped back with a savagery Rosario had never known in her husband. “What’s it to you?” The trip was beginning to wear on old Hobbsie’s nerves.

The diminutive man threw his hands up in surrender and quickly pulled his own star out, hidden behind a cravat and hanging from a chain around his neck, revealing to Hobbsie the fellowship. Hobbs nodded just discernibly and began to relax. He’d not seen the man’s yarmulke, hidden by an ample crop of bushy silver hair.

“It is nice to see another Jew for a change. Shalom Aleichem.”

“Aleichem Shalom.” Allingham, Desperate Ride

"Must be a church in Monto."

Mike tipped his hat to One-Eyed Sal. “Ma’am.”

“How are you gentlemen getting along this night?” Sal was pleasant to them always, even if she, like Annie, would like to slide a blade into their boss’s gut.

“Oh, quiet as a church, ma’am, quiet as a church.”

With that, a loud scream erupted, then a cackle; one of the whores was having a good time.

Paddy shook his head from side to side. “Aye, you must be thinking of a church in Monto, me brother. Must be a church in Monto.”

Mike looked at his watch and then across the way at French Annie’s bordello and gaming house. He pointed with a nod of his head. “How’s your friend, Miss Annie?”

Sal snorted. “She’s not choked on her own vomit, I know that. Still alive and kicking.”

“You have a nice evening, ma’am.” They walked off to the other side of the street. Allingham

Damn, he was a Jew and a lawman and he didn’t care if someone didn’t like it.

He felt silly, at first, wearing the head covering. It was typically worn only by rabbis or the most devout of his faith. And most Jews did not wear such a thing in public, something that would point them out and announce to the world that they were members of a group often vilified, derided and thought of in a contemptible manner. It was preferable to hide one’s Jewishness, not advertise it.

He suddenly straightened his back and looked down at his marshal badge and felt proud. Damn, he was a Jew and a lawman and he didn’t care if someone didn’t like it.

His reverie was interrupted by a little girl who could not have been more than five or six, leaning on the rail next to him. Hobbs could have sworn she was mimicking him, as she stood with one foot resting on the first rung of the rail, just as he had been doing.

“Good morning, mister.”

“Good morning to you, young Miss.” He nodded and would have tipped his hat, had he been wearing one.

“What’s your name, mister?”

“Hobbs.”

“What were you thinking about so hard just now, Mr. Hobbs?”

“I beg your pardon?” If she were not so adorable, Hobbs would have considered her impudent.

“You were thinking real hard. You had a funny look on your face and I was just wondering what you were thinking about.”

“Oh, just, just thinking. Nothing worth talking about.”

“I’m Kate Walsh, eh, Katherine, but everyone calls me Kate.” She reached out to shake his hand and Hobbs complied, taking her small hand gently, engulfing it in his great fist.

He looked about for an adult. A child such as this should not be on her own, and Hobbs suddenly wanted to admonish both the little girl and her guardian.

“Don’t you know that it is not wise to speak to strangers, little girl?”

“Oh, my daddy says it’s all right when it’s a lawman, or when it’s a man of God.” She looked him over. “You’re both, and besides, my mommy is right over there.” She pointed to a pretty, well-dressed woman conducting business with an agent. The woman smiled and waved to the little girl. Her attention had been diverted from the business at hand.

Hobbs felt a sense of relief, and smiled at the precocious child.

“You’re a Jew, aren’t you?” She did not wait for a reply. She held up a hand and her face turned serious as she remembered what her father had taught her. She straightened her back and gave the greeting she’d been taught. “Shalom,” nodding seriously as she said it.

“Shalom, yourself.” Hobbs was pleased and gave her a broad smile.

“Those are our mules,” she pointed to the barge dragging a good distance behind the churning wheel of their craft. “My mommy and daddy and Uncle Bob breed the best mules this side of the Mississippi.”

“I see. They look to be fine beasts.”

“And every one tamed and trained, either for hauling or riding, so as to suit the customer’s requirements.” She sounded like an advertising poster saying that, and it tickled Hobbs to hear it from such a tiny voice.

She looked her stock over as they floated across the river. “I’m going to miss them. I love those mules. Lots a people don’t like mules. Say they’re stubborn and mean, but they’re not, mister. My daddy says that mules are the smartest animals on earth, and he even counts people in that.” She grinned. “My daddy says a mule is smarter than the human trying to get them to do things, and once you know that, you can get a mule to do anything, as long as it fits into the mule’s ideas of what’s right, and not what’s wrong. As long as you only ask the mule to do the things he thinks are right to do, you can get them to do anything for you.”

“Well, Miss Kate, I am certain of that.” Hobbs hid his cynicism. He never did like mules very much.

“We’re from Cochise County, Arizona Territory, soon to be a state, God willing. Our ranch is just north of a town named Tombstone. Do you know Tombstone, mister?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Where are you from, mister?”

“Flagstaff.”

“Oh, I like it there. Mommy takes me there sometimes. Winters are cold up there.”

The child was intriguing; almost unnatural in her maturity and Hobbs found himself drawn to ask her more about herself, which was odd, because Hobbs was not generally good with—or interested in—children of any size.

“What is your business, Miss Kate?” Allingham; Desperate Ride