“Thees hijo de puta is just a head, because I made him that way.”

Walter Ufer “This is the head of Enrique Gomez, the famous murderer of California, who was killed by a posse in 1861. Too far out in the desert to carry the entire body, the industrious lawmen severed the brigand’s head in order to prove his demise.”

“Tha’ is not right, Pendejo.” Before he could say or do anything, Chica had the head upended and removed the lid.

A young man rushed in to stop her. “Madam, please, please.”

Chica continued her work. “This is a not Enrique Gomez, or whatever you say, Pendejo.”

“Miss Maria?” Another man joined them. This one was wearing a Prince Albert suit and long cape. He wore a high silk topper. He had a strange accent, never heard by Chica before.

“Sí, I am Chica.” She looked up from her work of removing the head from the jar.

The man in the topper bowed to Arvel and Chica. “I am Ivan Yakovlevich.” He reached out and took Chica’s hand, began to kiss it, then thought better of it. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her hand. “Mr. Joaquin has told me so much about you.”

The young man interjected, “Mr. Yakovlevich, the lady is taking the head out of its container.” He was flush with excitement.

Yakovlevich patted the man on the shoulder, “Now now, Vladimir, it is okay. Miss Chica, how may we help?”

“This is not Enrique Gomez. And none of that written there is right.”

“How do you know?”

“Thees hijo de puta is just a head, because I made him that way.”

 Yakovlevich chuckled. “Miss Chica, he died a long time ago, and you are a young lady. Perhaps you are thinking of another head?”

“This is my head, go ahead an’ look at his mouth. He has a gold tooth, right here, she pointed at the upper front tooth of her mouth. And he has a no tooth next to it.”

“How so?” said Arvel. He was intrigued now. Chica never stopped surprising him.

“He had two gold teeth and I pulled one, but the other I could not pull. Go ahead and look.” She began to reach into the blood tinged alcohol to retrieve the head.

 Yakovlevich waved her away gently, “Madam, please, you will soil your dress.” He nodded to Vladimir who unwillingly carried out the morbid task, peeling back the bloated lips to reveal the interior of the miscreant’s mouth.

“See, see, I told you.” She looked at the men, satisfied. “I sent this one to hell. Look, pull his hair up; you will see the bullet hole. I shot him in this side.” She pointed at the left side of the skull. “A little hole, I used a little gun, two-shot I had in my sleeve. I cut his head off and carried it in a bag for three days, then sold it to a prospector. This was at leas’, let’s see, four years ago.”

“What did he do to you?” Vladimir asked, intrigued.

“This excremento did nothing to me. He hurt a child I knew. He did not kill her but he hurt her. And that is all I will say. He is in hell now, where he belongs, but he has no head, so he cannot see where he is going. He cannot hurt little children anymore.”

“Then the plaque will be changed and, Miss Chica, we shall make certain it is accurate.” The Mule Tamer