John C. Horst's Blog, page 12

Please, Señorita, don’t run away.

William Robinson Leigh The posse finally made it to the river and began to cross. They eventually all made it. When the last man was on the bank, and they were all dripping and exhausted and taking inventory of their progress, they heard a voice, way off on the Mexican side. The pretty bandit was waving her sombrero. “Yoo hoo, boys.” She turned and began to ride away. “What are you doing all the way over there?”

Some of the men drew their guns but the colonel ordered them to stop. He raised a white flag and called back. “Please, Señorita, don’t run away. We have something for you.”

With that, the youngest and fittest rider crossed back. He handed Maria a parcel and she opened it. There was a note which she read with difficulty. Handing it to the young gringo she said, “Read this for me, please.”

“To the wild creature who we never caught. God be with you. C. Gibbs, Esq.”

Maria held up a watch by the chain. She removed her sombrero once again and gave a deep bow. Kicking her horse into a run, she was gone.

Many years later, in his memoirs, Colonel Charles Gibbs wrote that if he’d managed to capture the beautiful wild Mexican who ran him through the hell of the northern Sonoran desert, he would have proposed marriage on the spot. No one was certain whether it was an attempt to make amends for all the Indians he’d slaughtered or to serve his own vanity. Perhaps he was actually expressing his true feelings. No one would ever know. Maria's Trail

The woman was washing Maria’s back and becoming too friendly.

William-Adolphe Bouguereau She took her to an empty room in the back. It contained a big bathtub. It had been prepared especially for Maria. She stripped down and they took her outfit and cleaned it. She relaxed in the hot water, smoked a cigar and drank some mescal. She’d rest for a while and decided that now would be a good time to interrogate her escort.

“Tell me. Were there two men here in the past day? They would be from the south, wearing black boots to the knee and striped trousers. One had long moustaches and the other no hair on his face at all.”

“Oh, yes. They were here. They had a lot of money. They had some things to sell from a church.”

“And where are they?”

The woman was washing Maria’s back and becoming too friendly. Maria gently pushed her away and the escort blushed.

“I am sorry.” She grinned and bit her lip. “You are just too beautiful not to touch.”

Maria rinsed off and got out of the tub. “Come now, darling. Pay attention.” She dressed quickly so as not to distract the young whore. “Where did the two men go?”

“Oh, the saloon across the way. They’ve been drinking in there for the past two days. They are trying to gamble but no one will give them a game.”

Maria was now dressed in her fresh clothes. She looked at a clock on the wall and then outside. It was nearly midnight. This would be as good a time as any.

She gave the woman some money and kissed her cheek. “You’ve been good to me. Thank you, darling.” Maria's Trail

“Please, pendejo. Please!”

William-Adolphe Bouguereau Marta was up early, long before everyone else, and so as not to disturb their slumber, resolved to wash her own hair out in the clear cool of the veranda. She liked washing outside. Felt like she was camping, roughing it. She’d soaped up and was full of lather when she heard the thundering hooves of a significant army and worked diligently to rinse her hair when she felt the presence of a stranger beside her. She squinted enough to see dusty black boots and big Mexican spurs. They were big, the big feet, the big boots of a big man.

She felt about for a towel and could see the man was helping, but not helping, teasing her and other men were quietly laughing all around her. She was barely dressed, barefoot and, in her haste to rinse the soap, had wetted her petticoat quite thoroughly. Now she stood on the veranda and the audience of the little army could easily see all the gifts given to her by the almighty. She was losing patience very quickly.

“Pendejo, you might think this is funny, but I don’t like soap in my eyes. Hand me my towel, now!”

“Ah, but you must say please, Señorita.”

“Please, pendejo. Please!”

“That’s better.” The big man handed her the towel and she was now able to see. She looked down at her naked form pressing through the sheer wet fabric and blinked twice. She recognized him immediately.

“Emiliano Zapata, at your service.” He laughed and the army laughed and Marta gave him a coy smile.

“I am likely the only person to ever call el Tigre a pendejo and still be alive.” Everyone laughed again. Emiliano Zapata enjoyed a good joke and he bowed to Marta and took her hand. He looked her over, not leering, but also not trying to not look. He unashamedly looked on at her as he would a beautiful work of art. Emiliano Zapata appreciated stunning women and made it his policy to never try to hide it.

“Young lady, please get dressed. My men will not want to fight, they’ll want to go for their women, you’ve given them such ideas.” The Mule Tamer III, Marta's Quest

Mexicans, even pale Mestizos, should not have so much cash.

Frank Tenney Johnson Ramon Jesus Santiago de la Garza rested by the fire as his men settled in for the night. They were on the southernmost part of the Scotsman’s ranch, closest to their homes in Mexico. The gringos left them alone. They’d waste no time heading back home as soon as was practicable. Most would be happy to get away from the chilly northern land.

“Jefe,” the old man called to the boy, his leader, his patron who was one third his age. Ramon nodded but refused the bottle. He looked beyond his old friend and trail boss toward the ranch house. The light was dimming and he wondered what was taking them so long. The pay would be good but, in cash, which he did not want. It was contrary to the deal made and he liked to keep things as planned, as his father had taught him.

However, the old Scotsman had been insistent, terse and gruff, almost rude, and falsely friendly. He’d droned on about doing real business as real men, with cash on the barrelhead.  The Scotsman was the kind of man Ramon did not much like, the kind of man who represented the sort of gringos Ramon generally avoided.

Now he’d have to carry cash to the nearest town with a real bank and then deposit it. It would be a lot of trouble as Mexicans, even pale Mestizos, as was Ramon, were not trusted and should not have so much cash. He’d have to explain, and convince them that he was a man of property with a proper bank account and simply wanted to conduct business without being treated like he was doing something wrong. Allingham: Desperate Ride

There did not seem to be much else that Hilola could do.

William Etty As expected, Hilola had done nothing while he was gone. She was a terrible camp mate. She was lazy and inept at just about anything but swimming and looking beautiful and doing the things that women did to drive men mad.

There did not seem to be much else that Hilola could do. Ramon shrugged and thought that if a woman could do nothing else, swimming beautifully and fornicating wildly was not such a terrible repertoire. He dropped the sheep at her feet and set about methodically breaking it down.

“Oh, goody. I’m about sick of dried pork and fish.”

He liked her company. She sat and watched him work and liked it. He was proud of his skill as a hunter and woodsman and proud that he knew how to skin and dress an animal. He was showing off a little and while he had her attention, decided to break the news to her.

“I found a good spot to hide the gold.”

“What?” She looked up from the work he was doing, into his eyes, as if he’d suddenly started speaking to her in his native tongue.

“The gold. We’ll leave it in a slot canyon over there.” He pointed with his bloody knife, “We’ll give the authorities a map as to its whereabouts.” He casually walked over to the map that had survived his fall into the river. He opened it carefully and pointed to the spot he was certain was their present location. He looked up at her and waited for the battle to ensue.

“Like hell we will!” She stood up and looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. “Are you completely nuts?”

“No. Only partially.” Allingham; Desperate Ride

“When will you marry me, Mags?”

William-Adolphe Bouguereau They’d made it way south. Francis invented a story about traveling to visit a family member and Mags made up a story about visiting a cousin in Tucson. They wanted to find the warmth of the mid-autumn Arizona sun. They wandered and camped in the beautiful red rocks, not far from Jerome, but far enough south to be pleasant and warm. They found a clear stream and a big blue pool and stripped naked. They spent the day there, bathing in the water and the sun, reveling in their youth. They gloried in their passion for each other and Francis knew he would never be able to surpass this moment of ultimate happiness.

“When will you marry me, Mags?”

She rested, her cheek pressed to his. She felt him inside her and squeezed with all her might. “Soon. We’ve got to marry soon, Francis, or we’re going to have troubles.” She smiled at her own naughty thoughts. She never imagined she’d not be a virgin on her wedding day. Now, all she could think about was being this way with Francis. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in her life.

Getting up, Francis wrapped his love in a blanket. He built up a fire and they lay together. They ate and caressed and loved again. He was fairly exhausted by now and wanted to sleep but could not waste this time in slumber. He’d never had a woman in his life and now he had and she was the most perfect being he could imagine.

“Mags, when we get back, I’m going to ask your folks if we can be married. We’ll marry and then we’ll move up to Flagstaff. I’ll get work. We’ll have a proper home. I’ll take you out of the camp towns and buy you a proper house, Mags. We’ll have a decent life.  You’ll never have to live in a dump like Canyon Diablo again, I swear.” Allingham

“It’s easy enough to throw a rock. Shooting a gun is entirely different.”

Joe Sharp ~ Shelling Corn One day Maria was working with some horses when shots drew her to the back of the fancy store. The old man was teaching Crisanto to fire a six shooter. This amused Maria very much, as Crisanto was inept at just about anything that required dexterity.

They’d set up bottles on a fence and Crisanto stood, one hand on his hip and the other pointing a big six shooter. He fired and missed, fired and missed, fired and missed. He was disgusted as he reloaded and Maria sauntered up beside him. She waited and let him fire and miss again before she picked up a rock and hurled it at one of his targets. She smashed it easily. He looked at her, humiliated, then turned his attention to the next bottle. He fired and missed. Maria threw again, shattering the next bottle.

“Maria, we’re going to run out of bottles.”

“Someone needs to break them.” She grinned.

“It’s easy enough to throw a rock. Shooting a gun is entirely different.”

She shrugged. “No it’s not.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not.” She turned and ran to the church, retrieving her own gun. She nodded to Crisanto. “Go on, try again.”

He fired and missed. Maria fired and shattered the target. The boy turned and looked at the old man in disgust. It wasn’t the teacher, since the old man had taught Maria, too, at least rudimentarily. Maria could shoot a gun as naturally as she could throw a rock.

“How do you do that?”

Maria shrugged. “I just do it.”

He was completely frustrated now and fired wildly and too fast at the bottles, missing every one. He opened the gun and tore at the empty cartridge cases.

Maria smiled, “That’s even worse.”

“You do it, you’re so smart.”

She fired quickly and killed four more bottles. She deftly reloaded and fired again and killed five more. She looked behind them and spotted a rifle propped against the trough. “Oh, with a Winchester it’s even easier.”

She grabbed the rifle and began shooting again, this time shattering the pieces of the broken bottles until there was nothing more to kill down range.

“That’s a nice rifle.” She handed it to Crisanto and picked up her gun. She walked, a little too provocatively, back to the church and the shooting lesson was ended for the day. Maria's Trail

Many bad things have happened to the Navajos. Many bad things.

Frank T. Johnson Francis was up before sunrise and ready to ride. Rosario was there, holding the reins of his mount, sitting on Hobbs’s favorite gelding. Francis looked at her and gave a wide grin.

“What’s this, Mamacita?”

“I will go with you, Francis.” She handed over his reins, turned and started riding out, forcing the young man to catch up. He did and rode up next to her. She looked extra pretty today and he wondered at that.

“What are you up to, ma’am? How the boys goin’ to eat? They’ll starve to death without you.”

“No, they are fine. I made extra food and the boys are planning a stew, an Irish stew, God help them all, that sounds disgusting.”

They rode and Francis thought on it and waited for her to tell him her big secret. He knew there must be a connection. Maybe she wasn’t a Mexicana after all. Maybe she was some long-lost Navajo princess.

“I know Redshirt very well, Francis.” She saw him grin and knew he didn’t understand. She figured she’d just go ahead and get it over with. “He used to visit me when he was out this way doing business.” She smiled and looked on at Francis who she knew could be quite the bumpkin sometimes. He still did not understand. “In a biblical way, Francis.”

“Oh, oh!” He blushed and she smiled again.

“He’s a good one, Francis. He is a good lover and he is a good man and good friend. I am not going to give him any trouble. This is our secret. Redshirt has a jealous wife. You understand?”

“Sí, Mamacita, I understand. Mum’s the word.” He put a finger to his lips. He rode on and looked back at his companion. “You are full of surprises, Mamacita, full of surprises for sure.”

“I know he trusts you, Francis, but he trusts me, too. Between us we will get him to go in, I am certain of this. We need to do this. He’s a good man, and he’s had many bad things from you gringos. Many bad things have happened to the Navajos. Many bad things.” Allingham

I would like to make God angry by loving women, but it just is not my way.

William-Adolphe Bouguereau Maria stepped into the water and turning over, floated on her back. The sea was so salty that she could do this effortlessly. She was drunk enough to tell the pretty assistant what she wanted to know. She grinned and said, “I was talking to God.”

“Oh?” The pretty assistant swam up to Maria and put her hand on her head, leaned over and kissed her passionately on the lips. It was the softest, most tender kiss Maria had ever felt and she looked at the woman, then stood upright and put her palm to the assistant’s cheek.

“I am sorry, Bonita, but I am not that way.” She watched the woman’s heart break and gave her a smile. “I wish I were that way, but I am not. I would like to make God angry by loving women, but it just is not my way. I am sorry.”

The woman smiled and walked back onto the beach and dropped down upon the sand and stared up at the moonlit sky. Maria joined her. Maria's Trail

“Jesus, Mary and holy Saint Joseph, look ahead!”

William-Adolphe Bouguereau Ramon laughed to himself at that thought. The Virgin was always depicted as fair, often with golden hair just like Hilola’s, and lily white skin. He knew from his study and reading of history and philosophy with the Jesuits, that the Virgin was likely as dark as his own Mexican people, since she was an Israelite Jew.

But the ones making the statues, and the ones making the rules, were the European whites, and they were obliged to make the images of God and Jesus and the Virgin, and all the saints, as white as they. It always tickled him to think of that.

He was suddenly relieved. This could likely work to his advantage, though the Indians held onto their own faith, despite the padres’ best efforts, they’d incorporated certain things that they liked, and the Virgin was always a little seductive. There was sex there; any good religion had sex. That was a given.

Hilola awoke to the sound of voices. She looked up at Ramon whom she’d caught absentmindedly glimpsing her nether region. She thought a little more torture was in order and moved her legs even further apart. He ignored her and looked at the east bank. Up high, there were Indian children playing and they called out and waved and the couple waved back.

The Indians suddenly started gesticulating wildly and Hilola was amused. She began mimicking them until she saw the look on Ramon’s face, which had lost all color.

“Jesus, Mary and holy Saint Joseph, look ahead!” Allingham: Desperate Ride