Marta's Daughter

By Gordon Rottman

Scammed by a street woman-con artist, seventeen-year old Arsenia Eugen, daughter of the legendary Bud and Marta Eugen, vows revenge. But in a whirlwind of events, Arsenia finds herself rescuing her nemesis twice, and then partnering with her to take over a notorious cantina and cathouse. Ranch-raised and as capable as any vaquero, as well as educated at St. Joseph Academy in Eagle Pass, Texas, she finds herself in a world of fallen angels, gamblers, drunks, conmen, smugglers, gunrunners, banditos, treacherous militiamen, spies, and traitors.
When she is dragged into the Mexican Revolution, Arsenia falls for both a dashing turncoat Mexican officer and a shadowy gringo gunrunner. But if she has to fight, she fights to win, and disdains the mere shotgun as wielded by her mother--machine guns are more her style. Not always sure which side is worth the fight and sacrifice, Arsenia finds herself instead determined to survive the war and protect not only the women following her, but her sanity and her heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Rottman
• Release date: Jun 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463208779

Gordon Rottman

Gordon Rottman lives outside of Houston, Texas, served in the Army for twenty-six years in a number of “exciting” units and wrote wargames for Green Berets for eleven years. He’s written over 130 military history books, but his interests have turned to adventurous young adult novels—influenced by a bunch of audacious kids, Westerns owing to his experiences on his wife’s family’s ranch in Mexico, and historical fiction focusing on how people lived and thought—history does not have to be boring. His first Western novel, The Hardest Ride, garnered three writing awards and was a USA Today and Amazon best seller.

Book preview

Prologue

Bud

N ow you listen up, young lady. I gave Arsenia Eugen my sternest look. She stared back, poker-faced. I never was much good putting the fear of God in that girl. Too much like her mama.

I’m all ears, Pa. She patted her horse’s neck, him being anxious to get going.

You know your way round Eagle Pass, but you’re not going to be safe and sound like when you was in St. Joseph Academy down there. Now the Fitch Hotel’s a good place, you know that, but you’ll be running errands and shopping and such for Yolanda, not just bookkeeping. You’ll be out on the streets, and there are a lot of bad folks out there.

Pa, I know all that. I’ve kicked around Eagle Pass for years when they’d let us loose from the St. Joes. Nobody ever bothered me, much.

That’s because of the reputation your mama and me have. I don’t like bragging about a rep grounded on how many evil men we…put outta business, but you know how life is out here.

I do, Pa. All I have to do is say I’m Marta’s daughter, and they pretty much leave me alone.

She carried a Colt New Army and Navy revolver in .41 Long Colt. A big kick for a little lady, but she handled it.

Sad, but true. Don’t let that go to your head, I remindered her. I sure weren’t proud to make a claim like that; sounded like boasting. "You know the peculiarities of la Frontera. Anything unexpected can sneak up on you. Keep your eyes and ears open and always reload first thing."

She laughed real sparkly, like she always did when I said something like that.

It’s 1912, Pa. It’s not like when you and Mamá first showed up here, what, over twenty years ago?

I know that, Sugar, but bad things still happen, and the Pass is filled with soldiers and that crazy fight cross the Rio Grande could splash over. I surely don’t want you mixed up in that ruckus. Folks can’t even tell who to root for.

She raised her hand pledge-like, and all serious said, "I cross my heart and hope to die that I won’t join in that ol’ revolution. ¡Viva la Revolución! she sudden-like shouted, making the horses jerk; me too. Sorry, Pa," she said with a phony guilt smile.

Dang, girl. I don’t know when you’re funning. And you mind Yolanda. She be keeping an eye on you.

I could tell right then I’d said the wrong thing. She bristled up like a javelina.

She doesn’t have to do that, Pa. How could you even tell her that? You don’t trust me?

No, that’s not it, Sugar. She’ll just look out after you, you know, for your own good.

I saw Marta in that girl, the thick black hair all let out long now, eyes as black and crafty as a raccoon’s, kind of sneaky-looking, and as pretty as her mama. Marta had been a scrawny maverick lost on the range, barely reaching five feet—but Arsenia was as tall as me. Marta was mute as a tombstone angel, and she was hungry and cold, but anything but scared when I found her. Kinda mean. Marta was sixteen then, a year younger than Arsenia. We got hitched after we’d taken care of some trouble cross the border and because I wasn’t letting a woman with her grit get away, not that I could have run her off. I’d already tried that. We’d started up a ranch, Rancho el Consuelo, and Marta had given me two strapping sons and this fine young lady. I sounded like I was worried about her, but we knew she could handle herself. I was just a little leery of a big ten-dollar town like Eagle Pass.

Well, you mind your Uncle Gent too.

I always do. I can’t believe you’re sending him to the Pass on errands with me on the stagecoach. He’s still whining about going without a horse. ‘How am I gettin’ round? On boot leather?’ She did pretty good at sounding like gravely Gent and set me laughing.

I’m giving him fifty cents a day to rent a horse once he gets there, I said. He’s just bitchin’—sorry—griping like an ol’ spinster lady.

I felt kinda of guilty because I’d kept her from taking her own horse. Being without hooves might keep her more glued to the Flint.

I could see the dust of the Del Rio-Eagle Pass stage. Time she got down to the Dry Well schoolhouse. I saw Arsenia look back to the ranch house. I knew she was wishing her mama was there to see her off. Marta has some strange ways and saying goodbye was something she never much cared for. They’d said their goodbyes when we left the house. Marta had a pressing need to wash the breakfast dishes. Heck, I didn’t much like farewells my own self.

We’ll come down to the Pass sometime, Sugar, maybe this winter.

Long ways off, Pa. I’m missing y’all already.

We sidled up our horses, did a big hug. You take care, Sugar. Gent was down at the school with a luggage-piled wagon waving his arm.

Papa, dile que incluso ahora la amo— Tell her even now that I love her.

Arsenia took off like a shot, head down, elbows out, leaping rocks and arroyos. She jumped the barbed wire fence even though the wagon gate was open. I watched her, Gent, and Eduardo load her trunks on the stage. She climbed on top above the dust and to catch the breeze. Eduardo shut the gate and brought the wagon back with Arsenia’s and Gent’s horses trailing.

I was sad to see her off. Just like I was when she went back to St. Joseph after her every other month’s week off. She was going to be just fine, even in that rough as a corncob town. Four thousand souls and almost that many soldiers now. Kinda scary. She’d have the sense to stay out of Piedras Negras. It was plain loco there with Mexican soldiers, rebels, refugees, smugglers, renegades, banditos, and plastered skirt-chasing Americanos.

I raised my arm, hat in hand, as she and Gent waved. I’d try not and worry overmuch, but I knew I would. She had trail smarts and was plain shrewd, but she could be a little too trusting and quick to give her love, like that wolf cub she had to put down or the lost starved Mexican boy she found who died in her arms.

I watched until even the dust drifted outta sight.

Chapter 1

Yaqui Ana Mendoza Gomez was hungry and had no money, but she did not expect to remain destitute for long. This was only a temporary condition. Mulling it over, she thought she had been having a lot of temporary setbacks of late. However, a woman of her abilities would not remain in such a state for long, if only the right person would come along. When that person appeared, she would set a certain sequence of events in motion. She stood at Garrison and Ryan Streets in Eagle Pass where the stone and iron International Bridge led to Piedras Negras on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande, or Río Bravo del Norte as she knew it.

The October afternoon sun warmed the north breeze. It was a clear dry day. On the americano side where she stood smelled of mud, tobacco, wet horses, and horseshit. The Mexican end of the bridge smelled of chilis, goats, and dried corn.

The new streetcar rumbled across the bridge. Two American soldiers always rode it to the red stripe painted on the Frontier line bisecting the bridge. They waited there for the trolley’s return and hung over the railing spiting into the brown river far below. She took a moment to wonder at the modern marvels 1912 offered. It was the second year of the Revolution, which so far has caused nothing but misery and inflation, she thought. And soldiers. There were soldiers wherever one turned. A big tent city stretched around Fort Duncan on the town’s south side. Half the U.S. National Guard had been called up to keep the Revolution from overflowing la Frontera.

Yaqui Ana was looking for a woman, more specifically, a younger woman. Young enough to be naïve, but old enough to have a little money. She, of course, had to be alone. That was the hard part. Young women did not often travel alone, especially over the International Bridge. The Mexican soldiers riding the trolley back got out and were joking with the gringo soldiers getting back on the trolley. The Mexican soldiers hung over the railing spitting into the river.

She spotted a young gringo, probably a railroad worker, trudging along the bridge’s walkway. A gullible young man would do as well as a woman. He looked innocent enough, but she rejected him. He’d probably ask her how much she charged. She was tired of hearing that from men. It must be something about herself, she thought guiltily, or she reasoned, maybe they thought every Mexican woman was a whore. She wasn’t ready to drop that low again, not yet anyway. Soldiers, she never bothered with baiting them. They barely had money for infrequent drinking, gambling, and cheap whoring.

Then she saw her. She looked perfect, a Mexican girl, maybe sixteen or eighteen carrying an empty tote bag probably heading into Piedras to shop in the mercado. Excellent, she no doubt had money on her way to the market. She wore a light brown pleated skirt and coffee-colored jacket. A black rebozo—scarf—covered her head and shoulders. As the girl got closer, Yaqui Ana saw she was wearing sturdy buckled boots of high quality. Then she could see her eyes. This was no naïve subservient María-girl. She looked self-assured. The girl brushed off a flirtatious soldier without turning her head. Maybe she had better let this one go. No, all she could do is say no.

As the girl came closer, Yaqui Ana figured her for a half-breed. She has gringo blood in her veins. Most half-breeds have been down a rough road and naivety was seldom a trait. She was struck by the girl’s high cheekbones, full lips, firm chin, and raven black eyes.

She checked her hair, tugged on the hem of her jacket, and ensured her Crucifix necklace could be seen. People were more likely to give you money if it looked like you had money and were presentable. She tried to soften her expression. Yaqui Ana knew her face was not one to instill compassion; it was the face of a fox she had been told. She stepped onto the walkway, and the girl’s hand went into her bag but eased out. What was that about?

"Señorita, possibly you can help me," Yaqui Ana said in proper Spanish keeping from sounding pleading. She could easily change to street Spanish and pouty or desperate if necessary.

The girl stopped and gazed into Yaqui Ana’s face without blinking. She was as alert as a cat guarding a dead rat as another cat approached. Yaqui Ana knew she’d have to use finesse on this one. I have an embarrassing problem.

The girl’s eyes questioned, but she did not say anything. It was still Yaqui Ana’s move. I owe six dollars to my hotel. I have the money in my room, but the clerk will not let me in until I pay what I owe.

Yes? said the girl, seemingly not understanding.

If I could barrow six dollars, I can pay the clerk, get the money from my room, and repay you immediately. You would be blessed for helping a sister in need.

The girl was looking thoughtful. Yaqui Ana resisted saying, What do you have to lose?

Which hotel?

The Río Bravo.

I guess it is all right, said the girl, not sounding too convinced.

Bless you. I thank you very much. She was trying her best to sound sincere, a difficult feat for Yaqui Ana. I will do this as fast as I can. The hotel is only a block away.

I am familiar with it, said the girl. It was a small hotel catering mainly to Mexican businessmen doing business on the Texas side.

They started walking. Wandering off-duty soldiers were not too annoying for once. Yaqui Ana immediately noticed the girl stayed well to her left out of arm’s reach. As an experiment, she stepped left around a pothole putting her closer to the girl. The girl subtlety sidestepped left. She noticed too when a disheveled peón walked toward them that the girl slid her hand into her bag. She no doubt had a knife or truncheon. The girl kept Yaqui Ana to her right so she would have free use on her right arm and not have to turn left to face Yaqui Ana. This girl is shy but smart, Yaqui Ana thought.

My name is Alicia Arroz, Yaqui Ana said, offering her hand.

Renee, was all the girl said, ignoring her hand.

To seem friendlier, Yaqui Ana began chatting. This clerk, he is always trying to get me to come to his room. You know how men are.

Renee only nodded. So much for getting her to be sociable.

The hotel was on the corner. I am so embarrassed to ask this of you. You do not even know me.

I understand, said Renee. Difficulties befall us all at one time or the other. She brought a leather purse out of her bag. Turning from Yaqui Ana, she took out and handed six dollars to her. The girl hesitated a moment.

Yaqui Ana wondered just how much money might be in the purse. She shook her head. Yaqui Ana had stooped low many times, but she wasn’t so low as to simply rob another girl. A man yes, but not a girl, even a half-breed.

She made certain she didn’t grab the money too quickly or seem too eager. I thank you so very much. You can see the desk through the window. I will give him the money, run to my room, and bring your money back immediately.

At the hotel’s door, Yaqui Ana turned and gave a cheery wave to Renee—Snooty half-breed.

Chapter 2

Renee watched the hotel window, what did the woman say her name was? Alicia, yes. Alicia was talking to the loathsome clerk and at one point turned and pointed at Renee. She must be explaining where she got the money. Alicia disappeared into the lobby. The Mexican clerk glanced at Renee, giving her a scornful glare. What was that? she wondered.

Time passed. No Alicia reemerged. Renee had been unable to read her cryptic eyes. Why had she given her the money? Something had compelled her. She knew better than to trust strangers and did not give them money. The woman looked to be desperate, or had she read too much into her plea and plaintive expression? Sister Aquinata often said she had a sympathetic heart. Unlike your mother, she’d add with a smile and wink.

Presently Renee went into the hotel and asked the frowning clerk in Spanish, "Señor, there was a lady in here. She was paying you for her room and…"

"Get out of here, cholo," shouted the clerk.

More surprised than hurt, Renee said, I was only… She knew immediately that somehow she’d been duped.

"I know what you are doing. You asked the lady for money, telling her you owed it for a room and you would pay her back from the money you had in your room. I let the lady out the back to avoid you. I do not want your kind around here. Now go away, cholo."

I am sorry, she muttered. The name calling was of no importance. She’d been called a half-breed and worse before. The clerk displayed a lot of dark indio features. He wasn’t exactly pure anything himself. Heck, she thought, there aren’t many who are pure anything in Mexico except the hacendados who still called themselves gachupines—Spaniards immigrated to Mexico, even if a hundred and fifty years ago. Pa said, They got no room to talk. There’s been a lot of pot-stirring going on. She’d giggle in mock embarrassment.

Stepping on to the boardwalk, Dang, she muttered in English. She got me good. She figured it for a scam, but she was too smart for her own good. She thought she could figure it out as it unfolded and maybe the clerk was in on it. She didn’t see what was happening until too late. The woman was gone.

On the street, she looked both ways, not really expecting to see that Alicia person. Nothing but soldiers. No doubt it was a fake name. Just like Renee wasn’t her real name or at least not her first name. Her pa had always urged her not to be so trusting. He and Mamá knew better than anyone what the world was like.

She had detected a shifty look in the woman’s eyes. She should have known better. I’d better not let Pa know I got taken, she thought. He’d rub it in good, worse than her brothers.

Her work at the Fitch Hotel gave her some free time. She wasn’t angry, but Arsenia Renee Eugen resolved, I’ll find her.

She started down the boardwalk heading to the Fitch. This is not important, she thought. She’d been taken for only six dollars, granted, no small amount. She shrugged. Obviously, the woman desperately needed money. That was not uncommon these days. In one way she felt sorry for her. The Revolution had turned everything topsy-turvy.

A loose boardwalk plank tripped Arsenia, and she stumbled, banging her left knee. Shit fire! She wrenched the offending board up and swung it into a porch post. The end snapped off and struck a free-ranging chicken on the street, barely missing a startled soldier. She snatched up the wounded hen, wrung its neck and shoved its corpse into her bag. Supper, she grumbled. "I’ll not be made the fool. Yanking the irritatingly still quivering chicken out by its legs, she smashed it into the post to make it stop. What’re you looking at you lout? she shouted at the dumbfounded soldier. She limped down the street, smoldering. I’m going to find and thrash that fucking bitch!"

Arsenia’s first move after shopping was to return to the bridge and watch it from a shadowed alley, as much to not be seen by the woman as to avoid annoying soldiers. She noticed the American flag at the bridge was still the old forty-six-star and not the new forty-eight. Just like Eagle Pass, behind the times. Sometimes she wished she was in San Antonio like her brother Thiago. After half an hour, she thought it was a waste of time, and the alley smelled. It was bad enough that passing soldiers kept asking her how much she charged—¿Cuánto cobras, chica? or "How about a pop, niña?" waving a dollar bill.

She shook her head. I could have made that six dollars back by now, she shamefully thought and chuckled at the brazen sinfulness of such a thought.

Walking back to the Fitch Hotel, she thought about the woman. She guessed her age to be anywhere from twenty to mid-twenties. No doubt a con-artist. She was well-spoken though, good grammar and diction. Definitely educated, perhaps better than herself. Maybe someone just in temporary trouble. Don’t get soft, she chastised herself. Arsenia had been taken, and she’d find that woman and make her pay, one way or the other. Of course, she’d never mention this to Yolanda, who would report it to Pa.

She needed to get back to the Fitch, as Yolanda would be waiting for her and the purchases she’d made for the night’s supper menu.

Yaqui Ana had not quite gotten her desired sequence of events into motion. The first thing she had done with the ill-gotten six dollars was to spend half a dollar on a decent meal—the first in two days. She knew she would have to keep some back for other meals. Next, she spent two dollars on counterfeit raffle tickets. She had not expected for them to have gone up so much, now a nickel each that she would sell for ten cents. She did not have much luck peddling them. Money was tight. She played up to and outright flirted with the cowboys, railroaders, lint-backs, teamsters, Mexican and American soldiers, and other border riffraff. "Joo go Cantina Pollo Negro tonight. I good to joo." She would not be there. Playing up to gringos took a lot out of her. Yaqui Ana regarded men about the same as a calf did a branding iron. Men were only a source of money, and it was to be taken from them by giving as little in return as possible.

The fake raffle tickets were normally an easy, low-risk means of bilking men. They were all greedy and wanted something for nothing. In Yaqui Ana’s world men took and woman were made to give. Well, if she was giving, they’d have to pay for it. She wasn’t giving anything away for free. It made no difference if it was a worthless raffle ticket or what was between her legs. That last was reserved for the direst circumstances because the very thought of a man having his way with her was repugnant beyond imagination. She’d been made to give and give in that regard. She would be the only one with any say about that now, which is why she stayed away from Cantina Pollo Negro. Besides, it smelled like tobacco, beer, tequila, and men…all stale.

The raffle tickets weren’t working out, not only because their price had gone up, but her customers had become tightwads. Mexicans weren’t buying any at all. In normal times, a peso was worth fifty American cents, but with the Revolution and inflation, a peso was only worth ten cents. At least there was one benefit in selling raffle tickets. No one checked to see if they were legitimate and since they really did not expect to win; gypped customers did not know to beat her up for cheating them if they saw her again. That was another reason to avoid the Cantina Pollo Negro. She did not want men to know where to find her.

Yaqui Ana did have one piece of luck. She had found a nice-looking jade green vase in a trash heap. It was, of course, broken, and she had to dig in vegetable peelings and pig guts to find all the pieces. The day was warm enough to cause the garbage smell to linger on one. She placed the cleaned up fractured vase, rolled it and the shards in newspaper, and put it in her tote bag. By luck she found an almost empty bottle of cologne to splash on herself. After digging through trash bins behind several shops, she found a pencil-written receipt she altered giving the vase’s price as a dollar. She managed to accidentally bump into two different gringa shoppers, dropped the one-of-a-kind vase and created enough fuss that both women paid her the receipt price. The third one did not offer to buy the frequently dropped vase as it was now in tiny fragments. Young lady, I have children, and I’ve heard enough vases and jars break to know what they sound like. Yaqui Ana knew enough English to get the idea. She also said something about Yaqui Ana’s fragrance.

Even though she was eating only one meal a day, it was outrunning her cash flow. At least she had a dry, if not too warm place to sleep, the loft of a livery barn. The hay smell covered the horseshit, mostly. She had to be out at dawn to avoid discovery. Yaqui Ana was fortunate, too, that she had a place to clean up. She knew one of the prostitutes at Cantina Pollo Negro de Santiago—Santiago’s Black Chicken Cantina. Some illiterate sign-painter had left an l out of Pollo, so the sign read Polo, which means the same in Spanish as English making the sign absurd. The owner, that scumbag Gustavo Ortiz, was usually out on Sunday and Lupita would sneak her in to take a bath when the girls did.

Lupita always tried to convince her to work there. So long as you give the customers what they want, do not cheat the boss out of money, and you give him some when he wants it, he hardly beats anyone. The money was good. Lupita even lent her some pesos from time to time. Yaqui Ana wasn’t having any of that, not yet anyway.

"The jefe—boss, Don Gustavo, he is always asking about you. He has seen you and says you will make him richer…and you too." Lupita laughed because they both knew it would only be Don Gustavo who got rich from Yaqui Ana working on her back or her hands and knees.

Yaqui Ana knew other scams, but most required a partner. That demanded someone smart who she could trust. Lupita wasn’t interested. She would also have to share the ill-gotten money with the partner and with money so tight; it was not always worth it.

The prospect of rutting with drunken gringos in a tiny room on the Cantina Pollo Negro’s second floor was creeping closer. She had to think of something fast. There were not too many tricks left in her bag. A bag…that reminded her of another scam, one she had not actually attempted.

Chapter 3

Even after the passing of two weeks, Renee—Arsenia—still kept her eyes open for the woman when in Piedras or around the International Bridge. Yolanda preferred vegetables from Mexico and Arsenia made the trip three or four times a week.

She was carrying to the hotel a heavier than normal tote bag filled with onions, tomatoes, various peppers, carrots, and assorted greens as she approached Mexican end of the International Bridge. She heard shouts of an unfriendly nature.

Ahead a grubby gringo ran onto the street from an alley and turned back to face the alley. A woman in a gray dress and brown serape was backing out of the alley and after her came three more gringos. The woman was in a crouch and had a knife in one hand and gunny sack in the other. She looked to be in dire distress.

Arsenia immediately recognized her. No matter what trouble you’re in with these fellas, your troubles are just beginning, she said aloud and stalked toward the shouting mob.

The woman had made a bad mistake. She’d come out in the open, and the men were moving to surround her. If she’d stayed in the alley, she could have kept her back to a wall. Maybe the woman was hoping that by breaking into the open someone would aid her. Not I, thought Arsenia. I just might join in the fun.

One man had a beer bottle and another, a nail-studded board. The other two pulled knives. Now it was getting lopsided and looked to be more serious than she’d thought. The man with the board took a swipe at the woman, who jumped back, tripped on her dragging serape and fell on her butt. Her sack fell open, and a yowling cat leaped out. A cat! What the heck? The man with the bottle smashed the neck off on a hitching post and darted in to jab at the prostrate woman in the mud. She rolled to the side, bounced to her feet and went into a knife fighter’s stance, backing away.

The men looked to be railroaders. Doubtful they have guns, thought Arsenia. The man with the board tossed it into the woman’s feet and down she went again. They closed in on her and Arsenia jammed her arm into her bag. She wasn’t fast enough to do anything before the men closed in fast yelling, Greaser bitch, fuckin’ Mex whore, and less kind words. That’s when the kicking started. One kick sent her knife flying. The woman rolled into a ball, her arms up protecting her face.

This has gotten out of hand, Arsenia thought. She pulled her hand out of the bag and shouted, Enough. Stop and desist you rascals.

The ruffians didn’t appear to hear, but even if they had, why should they pay attention to a Mexican girl, especially when they were having such a grand time?

Arsenia’s pistol crack rebounded off the walls and muck sprayed all over when she shot into the mud street. Just like that, the four scoundrels were as meek as mice with their hands grabbing for clouds. Back away, you scallywags! Arsenia shouted motioning with her revolver. They did. She appreciated the equalization effect of a.41 Colt New Model Army and Navy double-action. What in Hell is going on here? she said as her sense of authority swelled.

Now girly, don’t be doin’ nothin’ rash, said one of the louts. He was missing a couple of fingers, common for a railroader. She caught the whiff of coal smoke and oil.

His voice sounded alien. Damn Yankee riffraff. Y’all don’t have to worry about that so long as y’all do as I say.

The woman stayed huddled in a ball in the mud.

Yes, ma’am. They seemed surprised a Mexican girl talked just like a Texan.

What in tarnation’s going on here? What mischief are you scamps up to?

This bit… this woman here tried to sell us a piglet, and she had a damn cat in that bag. Piglets don’t meow. That just ain’t right, he shouted, all aghast at the transgression.

Arsenia struggled to keep from laughing. What a bunch of saps. They’d almost fallen for it, which was why they were so vengeful. You hooligans give her any money?

Nope.

Nope, what? she demanded.

Nope, ma’am.

Then no harm’s done?

Nope, ma’am. We was just havin’ a little fun… He let that trail off realizing the pistolera might not see it that way.

How about if I were to have a little fun by giving y’all a ten-yard head start before I start shooting? Pa once said that to a bungling road agent.

I guess that’ll be fair… another started, but the spokesman slapped him with his fur felt railroader’s hat. Shut up, idgit.

No problem, ma’am. I guess she learned her lesson. We’ll be on our way, by your leave.

At least one of them was halfway smart, she thought. But she doubted the woman had learned any lessons, except maybe keeping her back to a wall and taping the cat’s mouth. She didn’t like that last idea. Y’all hooligans be gone! she ordered.

The four turned, the spokesman tipping his cap, You have a good day, ma’am, and they wandered down the street real docile in search of cheap Mexican beer or women. Ma’am. Funny how under different circumstances he’d call her a greaser or spick.

Arsenia had never felt so much power. It was mind-boggling. Then she remembered Pa’s words when she roped her first calf from a horse. Don’t let your butt get too big for your saddle, girl. Ya jus’ might not be able to stay in it.

Arsenia stepped up to the still huddled woman. ¿Puede usted pararse?—Can you stand?

The mud-slavered woman uncoiled and looked up at her. ¿Usted?—You?

Me debes seis dólares.—You owe me six dollars.

I am sorry. I will repay you, somehow, she said in Spanish.

With a flash of indignant inspiration, Arsenia kicked her in the face, plopping her onto her back in the muddy street.

You kicked me in the face. Her hand was clamped over her bleeding nose.

Do not bother paying me back. Now we are even. Arsenia looked into the dark eyes glaring up at her. They looked hard, uncompromising, but sad too. Her face was already bruising and her lip split.

You are not the lady you appear to be, muttered the woman.

Arsenia reloaded like Pa had always told her while glaring at the woman and dropped the pistol into her bag. She asked again, ¿Puede usted pararse?

The woman eased herself upright, gritting her teeth. She held her side and looked at Arsenia, ready to dodge another kick. No. She looked and sounded like admitting defeat was something abhorrent. She wiped mud off her face deposited there by Arsenia’s boot.

Arsenia glanced around, remembering her Pa’s warning. Don’t let your guard down just because the shooting’s over. She retrieved the woman’s knife, putting it in her bag.

Standing in front of a farmacia was a Mexican Army officer, mid-twenties, clad in a precise khaki uniform, high leather cavalry boots, and what she recognized as a holstered broom handle Mauser pistol.

That’s the last thing I need, she thought, a Mexican officer nosing into this.

He began to step off the walk toward her when an older officer came out the pharmacy’s door and stopped him with a word.

Good, she thought. I don’t need them throwing their self-importance around.

Much to her surprise when the older officer turned his back, the younger officer gave her a jaunty little salute touching his pith helmet’s visor and a quick smile.

That’s a first. She nodded back stiffly as he turned and left. She consciously ensured she did not return the smile.

Arsenia stared down at the woman for a moment and made a decision. Give me your hand. She went to a knee and hoisted her up with an arm over her shoulder.

Barely groaning, I might have a broken rib.

You came away with nothing. What did you expect to grain?

The woman grinned, reached into her dress’ pocket and held up a railroader’s pocket watch with Roman numbers.

You are proud of that? Arsenia asked, frowning. The woman was a bit ripe.

No. She stared at the ground shamefaced.

"I should hope not. What