7th Sigma (21 page)

The driver was not a tall man, but he was wide, both in his shoulders and his belly. The keeper, standing beside Kimble, took one look and said, “Christ, Heimie, you keep that up you'll kill that mule!”

Heimie glared at the keeper. “Would suit me!” He pulled up his left pants leg. On the side of his calf an oozing bruise, black and blue—and several other colors—stretched across swollen skin. “That bitch has kicked me for the last time!”

Under his breath the keeper muttered, “But who started it?”

Heimie drove the mule on toward the water trough, which was placed back from the tanques to keep the livestock from fouling the water. Heimie stamped up to the treadle-operated pump that lifted the water from the tanques. He thrust down on the lever with his good leg, bracing himself against the trough until water splashed across the dry bottom of the trough. But he stopped pumping almost immediately.

The mule slurped at the water, chasing the dribbles across the bottom of the trough.

For a moment Kimble thought the man was being careful not to let the mule water too fast, but it looked like he was taking a perverse pleasure in watching the mule try to get the last bit of the water off the boards.

The keeper said, “Heimie!”

“What?” Heimie said belligerently.

“You don't water her, you'll never get back to your place. You want to carry that stuff yourself?”

“Damn your eyes. Mind your own business!”

The keeper turned and walked away in disgust. Kimble, deeply disturbed, followed him.

“Is that legal? Isn't that animal cruelty?”

The keeper looked at Kimble. “Sure it is. You want to take it up with him?”

“Tell the Rangers!”

“You think the Rangers care about some mule? They don't even interfere when bastards beat their wives and kids, much less their livestock!”

Kimble winced, remembering his own childhood. The Rangers hadn't saved him. It was the Territorial Medical Service that had taken his father out of his life. And that was for his father's sake, not his.

“It makes me sick,” said the keeper. “That's a right pretty mule and deserves better.”

Kimble turned back toward the trough. Heimie had limped over to the people pump, the one that drew water from a covered cistern that was filled from the spring above. He was letting the cold water pour over his bruised leg. Kimble walked over to the treadle pump and began working it hard. He got several inches of water into the trough before Heimie noticed.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Heimie yelled. He struggled to his feet with the aid of his stick.

“Oh,” said Kimble, smiling. “Saw you were laid up. Thought I'd help. You want me to start unloading her?”

Heimie was taken aback by this apparent conviviality. He frowned. “Why would I want to do that? You know how heavy that crap is? It would only have to be reloaded.”

“Oh. Sorry. Just saw that the mule was all in, and with that bum leg you'd probably want to rest before moving on.”

“You see too damn much. Get the hell away from my mule!” He lifted his stick as if to hit Kimble.

Kimble raised his eyebrows and took a step away from the mule, but closer to Heimie. He stared up into his Heimie's eyes. “You're kidding, right?” The man outweighed Kimble three to one.

Heimie lashed out at Kimble's side, just as he'd lashed at the mule's rump to drive it.

Kimble slid back a step and the tip of the stick missed him, cutting through the air a couple of inches away. “I'd think about that, if I were you,” he said calmly.

Maybe Heimie wasn't used to people not being afraid of him. He jerked the stick high and this time aimed for Kimble's head, but Kimble skipped forward, inside the swing, and kicked Heimie in the calf, right on the mule's previous strike.

Heimie screamed and fell to the hard dirt, dropping the stick in his attempt to catch himself.

Kimble picked up the stick and stepped back. He raised it in the air experimentally and cut sharply through the air. “You hit your mule with this? I wonder how it feels?” He brought it hard down toward Heimie's face, but stopped short of his flinching head. “Tempting.” He broke the stick over his knee and threw the pieces far out into the brush.

Heimie swore at Kimble. He rolled over and tried to get up, but his leg buckled under him.

“Looks like you're not walking anywhere for a while. How about I unload that mule.” He didn't make it a question.

The mule did try to kick him as he unloaded her, but it was half-hearted and Kimble sidestepped it easily. He left the beams and cement stacked neatly off to the side where they wouldn't block the watering trough and tied the mule to a piñon where the runoff from the people pump had greened the grass. There he rubbed the mule down with tufts of dried grass and fed it an apple from his food bag. She didn't try to kick him once after that.

While Kimble tended to the mule, Heimie had scooted back into the shade of the cistern. Without comment, Kimble dropped the saddlebags and bedroll beside the man, keeping his distance.

Kimble was swearing at himself.
Invisible. You're supposed to be invisible!
He sighed heavily.

“You'd probably do a lot better with carrots than a stick,” he said.

“Go fuck yourself,” Heimie said.

*   *   *

KIMBLE
walked up the ridge to the spring, and then higher, where he could see off to the west, where the caravan route cut across the lava flows of the
malpais
—the Bad Lands. The old freeway also cut through the lava flow north of the tanques, near old Grants, but it swarmed with bugs.

He sat in the shade of a piñon and tried to make out movement but there was no sign of the caravan.
Well, Bentham had said it could be another four days.
He took a nap by the spring before returning to the watering stop, trying to avoid any more conflict with Heimie.
Could Heimie be the drug contact?
If so, and if he distributed drugs like he managed his livestock, the drugs weren't going far. As nice as it would be to ID Heimie as the distributor, he doubted it was the case.

When he got back down to the tanques, the neat pile of building materials was still there but Heimie and the mule were gone.

“He had to hop on one leg, but he managed it,” Tomás told him. “The mule tried to kick him several times, though, until he put a twitch on its lip. He said he'd be back for his materials and that you'd better be gone when he got here. What the hell did you do to him?”

“I watered his mule and unloaded it.”

“And he
let
you?”

Kimble said vaguely, “I think his leg hurt.”

Before sunset that evening, a group of Dineh drove in in four wagons, returning from a trade fair at the capital. They laughed with Tomás and traded some pottery for dry goods at his store.

About sunset, the clip-clop of hooves came up the path and Heimie's mule walked up to the watering trough and stood there. Heimie wasn't on her and the cinch strap was loose and the packsaddle hung under the mule's belly. Though she still wore her bridle, one rein was missing completely and the other was snapped off near the ground.

When Tomás walked up she shied away, showing her backside, one hind hoof lifting, and Tomás backed off. He circled around until the trough was between them, then pumped several gallons of water into the trough.

“She bucked him off, you figure?” asked Kimble.

“Looks like. Don't blame her, really,” said Tomás. He tried to reach the mule's bridle as she drank but jerked his hand back when her head shot forward and her teeth snapped together.

“Uh, kid? You want to see what you can do with her?”

Kimble went back to his food bag and returned with an apple, which he broke into small chunks. He didn't approach the mule but sat upwind on a stump. When she'd drunk her fill, the mule turned her head. Over the course of several minutes, she worked her way over to Kimble. He hand-fed her half the apple before he attempted removing the bridle. The composite bit was worn and jagged, and when he unbuckled the straps, she spat it out, glad to get rid of it.

Kimble put the rest of the apple on the stump and, while she ate it, he got the twisted cinch and saddle pad off. He went over to where the dry grass grew, to pull some tufts to rub the mule down, if she'd let him. He thought that once the apple was gone, she'd move off, but instead, she lipped up the last of it and followed him.

“Heading back to the path, girl?” Experimentally, he stepped off to the side, to give her room to pass, but she swerved toward him when he did. When he stopped, she walked right up to him and nudged his stomach with her nose.

Aren't
you
the vicious beast
, he thought as he rubbed her down.
Ah, well, in the morning, you'll probably be gone.

He woke the next morning with her standing next to his mosquito netting, pulling grass from the ground beside his bedroll.

When Tomás watched the mule follow Kimble up to the store, he said, “I guess she's not so scary after all, are you girl?” He raised his hand to pat her neck and the mule's mouth jerked around and snapped like a striking snake. Tomás jerked his arm back and tripped over the porch step.

Kimble stepped between the store and the mule, concerned, and the mule turned back to the trough. As she drank, Kimble stroked her neck and she stood there, meek as a kitten, leaning into it.

Tomás picked himself up, rubbing his backside. “O-kay. Wonder how she'll react to Heimie when he gets back.”

But Heimie didn't show up and, by noon, Tomás was frowning. “Hate to say it, but someone should go look for him. He could be lying out there with a broke back or something.”

Kimble had just returned from one of his walks up the ridge. He knew the caravan wasn't anywhere close and, since the Dineh left that morning, there were no candidates around for him to evaluate as possible drug distributors. “Where was he going?”

“He's got a place due south of here, right next to his big brother's ranch. I got a lot more use for Linc, his older brother. Family man—certainly doesn't mistreat his livestock.”

Is that what a family man is?
“How far?”

“Ten miles, maybe.”

“Huh. Why do you think the mule came back here, then?”

Tomás shrugged. “Well, the water here is especially good. Most of the wells hereabouts are brackish. Linc has some pretty good rainwater cisterns but Heimie just has the one well. Reliable—doesn't dry up, but brackish, not like our sweet spring.” He looked over at the mule's hindquarters. There were some raised welts and a little crusted blood left over from Heimie's rod. “And maybe she just didn't want to go home.”

Kimble got detailed directions to Heimie's place and packed up some food, some parachute cord, a blanket, his first-aid kit, and refilled his half-gallon water jug. He didn't want to be gone overnight but he also didn't want to be stupid about travel in the territory.

He started walking down the trail and he heard noise behind him. It was the mule, braying. He turned and looked. She was stretching out her neck toward him but she was standing back by the watering trough. When he turned, she straightened and put her long ears up. He waved, and then walked on. More braying, getting more and more urgent.

“What?” he shouted. The mule danced in place, moving forward and back, reminding Kimble of nothing more than a child who really needs to go to the bathroom. He shrugged and walked on, doing his best to ignore the frantic braying.

When he reached the first bend, a gentle switchback to help wagons get up the hill, he heard hooves pounding down the road. He glanced back and saw her galloping after him.

His first fear, that she was going to attack him, calmed when she dropped back to a canter, then a trot as she neared him, but then she passed him and turned, blocking the path.

He tried to walk around her and she sidestepped, swinging her shoulder across his path. He moved back the other way and she brayed at him. He stopped again and stroked her cheek, letting her shove at his other hand with her soft nose.

Still stroking her head he started walking. After a moment she seemed to give up on the blocking and let him continue on his way, but she followed right behind him. “Not much water out here,” he told her.

She snorted.

He thought about riding her but decided against it. He might be able to survive being bucked off better than Heimie, but so much of the landscape consisted of jagged lava or thorned branches that he didn't want to risk it.

Heimie was about four miles along the southern trail. He hadn't broken his back but had badly sprained his good leg by trying not to land on his injured one. He had his saddlebags and his water bottle and he'd rigged his bedroll for shade. He was not happy to see Kimble and he was even less happy to see “that god damned bitch of a mule.”

“Well, glad to see you're alive,” Kimble said. “Tomás thought you were lying out in the sun with a broken back.”

“You telling me you came
looking
for me?”

“Well, when Molly came back, figured she threw you.”

“Her name is Mrs. Perdicaris!”

“That's a mouthful. Who's responsible for that?”

“The original owner. She named her for some movie character. Why did you come after me? Revenge?”

“Revenge? I don't need revenge. Maybe Mrs. Perdicaris wants revenge.” He patted the mule's neck. “As I said, it wasn't my idea.”

“Well, if you thought to loot the body, I don't have five bucks to my name.”

Kimble grinned. “Well,
that
wasn't my idea either. Guess I just have a soft spot for dumb animals. You want to try and ride her again? Doubt you're walkin'.”

The suggestion was not popular, so he rigged a sledge of lashed cholla skeletons and deadwood, padded with Heimie's blankets. Kimble's rolled blanket became a strap across Mrs. Perdicaris' chest with lines of parachute cord running back to the sledge and held up with more line running over her withers and her back. The sledge lines were doubled for strength. He would've liked to triple it but this would've put Heimie perilously close to Mrs. Perdicaris' rear hooves.