The Mule Man

Chapter 1 Orville “Orr” Loveless got out of his battered, faded-red Chevy pickup. Even before he shut the door, the first sounds he heard had him running for the huge steel barn near which he’d parked. He could hear somebody inside cussing up a storm and then a sharp crack, like the sound of a whip. An animal gave a shrill squeal. Next, he heard the drumbeat of hooves slamming into wood. Holy s**t, seemed like somebody was having serious trouble. He burst through the half-open drive in door and looked down the shadowy interior aisle of the barn. About halfway to the opposite end, a paunchy man fought to hold onto a lead rope. At the end of the lead, a sorrel mule screamed and struggled. The man lashed at it with the whip he held in his left hand while he fought to keep the mule’s head toward him with his right. The mule strained, trying to wheel around and present its hind end to the man who belabored it. Orr fought back a red haze of fury. No animal deserved to be treated like that. Nine times out of ten, a calm, quiet approach would settle even a spooky outlaw. “Hey, hold on. Give the poor critter a chance. Looks to me like it’s scared shitless.” “f**k that poor critter s**t. Goddamn jackass tried to bite me and then kicked, just missed me by inches. I’ll whale the hide off the mother f*****g piece of garbage. Think you’re so smart, you take the misbegotten thing.” “I think I was planning to. Is this the mule advertised for sale in the local paper? If it is, I’ve got money in my pocket that says you need to quit beating my mule.” By that time, he’d reached the pair. Orr put a hand out and grabbed the thick cotton lead rope. He edged between the other man and the mule, turning his attention totally to the animal. It halted, snorting and shivering, eyes rolling in obvious fear. Ignoring the sputtering livestock dealer, Orr began to speak to the mule, talking in a low, mild tone, sending out all the calm and easy vibes he could. Still using the same tone, he glanced quickly the other man’s direction. “Back off and take that f*****g whip with you. I’ve got p*****t for the animal and you’ll get it as soon as I calm her down and get her into my trailer.” By then he had recognized the mule was a mollie or female mule. She was a pretty thing, too. Within a few minutes, she began to calm down, quit rolling her eyes and paused, as if waiting to see what he was going to do. He’d bet she was out of a good cowpony mare, if not a registered Quarter Horse. She had the sturdy, well-muscled Quarter Horse body, covered with a sleek hide, despite the sparser mane and tail and the long ears she’d inherited from her donkey father. Though young and a little leggy, he felt sure she’d grow quickly into a good saddle animal with the right handling. He wasn’t known as the mule man for nothing. Within about ten minutes, he had her steady enough that he turned without concern to lead her out to his rig. She followed obediently, keeping a little slack in the lead rope. It took a few more minutes to get her to enter the trailer. He gave her time to sniff it over and decide it was not a mule-eating monster. She showed no vicious tendencies as he led her in and secured the lead to a ring in one front corner. Only then did he ease out, close the tailgate, and return to the barn. The abusive, loud-mouthed dealer stood at the door, his jaw hanging. “You some kind of mule whisperer? She was always like a wild tiger with me. I was ready to kill the bitch.” Orr restrained an urge to grab the whip the man still held and give him a taste of his own bitter medicine. “Get the bill of sale for me. Here’s the check. If you get any more mules, just let them run in the pasture and call me. Unless they’re ancient or crippled, I’ll buy them with one caveat. You leave them alone until I get here.” The dealer nodded. “You got a deal, mister. The less I have to do with those long-eared hellions the better. I’ll stick to horses whenever I can. Even cattle are better. Don’t have to f**k around with them.” He handed over the documents and took the check. Orr hoped none of those horses got on the bulky man’s bad list. Although he was tempted to call the officials, he knew the stock dealer was a buddy of the county sheriff and, at the most, would get only a slap on the wrist. While city dogs and cats might be at least partly protected, rural animals in the southwest were still not accorded much legal defense and their abusers usually skated. That being the case, he could not save them all, but he rescued as many as he could, especially mules. Despite their evil reputation, he found most of them smart and teachable. And most, after a period of training and gaining their confidence, could safely go to good caring homes where they gave their new owners hours of pleasure and riding fun. Mules were getting very popular among trail riders and other equestrians across the country. Orr thought that was pretty cool. As he drove back to New Mexico to his Muleshoe OL Ranch, Orr decided he’d name the sorrel mollie Penny. She was the right color, and he hoped she’d be lucky as well. A glance in his rear view mirror showed her pert face looking through a window at the front of the trailer. When he’d gone into the barn, he’d caught her with both ears pinned flat to her neck, her eyes rolling to show half white and sheer desperation in her expression. Had he not arrived when he did, somebody would have been hurt badly. Even if it might and should have been that sorry bastard of a livestock dealer, had the whip caught the mule across the face, she could be blind or scarred now. The idea curdled in his gut. He’d like to meet that piece of s**t out somewhere with no one around…Frontier justice had a lot of merit in some cases. * * * * Two hours later, he pulled off on the winding dirt road that led to his little ranch alongside the Gila River in southwestern New Mexico, about a hundred miles from the livestock market in Arizona where he’d picked up Penny. She’d never have to put up with that whip-wielding fool again or anyone like him if Orr had any say in the matter. He stopped beside his hay barn, parked, and opened the tailgate to get Penny out. She gave a soft, nervous snort as he untied the lead, but made no move to resist or do anything like biting or kicking. He led her around a bit and then tied her to a sturdy hitching post in the middle of his round training corral. Taking plenty of time, he worked his way from her muzzle to her tail, lifted all four feet and concluded she’d soon be totally reliable and probably a damn fine mount. After that he put her into one of the smaller pens with a sun shade over the manger and a big basin of cool, fresh water in another corner. “Bet you think you died and went to heaven, don’t ya, girl?” She made a whuffling sound as he threw a flake of hay and a scoop of grain into the manger. In a nearby pen, his favorite big black john mule, Horatio, stuck his head over the rails and brayed a greeting. Orr turned Horatio’s way. “Yep, brought you a new lady friend, old boy. You be sure to treat her nice. I’ll put you two out in the pasture in the morning to get acquainted.” Since mules were sterile and Horatio was also gelded, there would be no romance or mating. Still, he hoped the two would become friends and good working partners. The word partners lingered in his mind as he turned to the restored traditional adobe house he called home. It would sure be nice to have a partner himself. Unfortunately, his lifestyle wasn’t one many found attractive. He worked long, hard hours, spent a lot of time alone in the wild country, and although he got by, he’d never be rich. Hell, he’d never be more than a thin notch above poverty, if the truth were told. Although he loved what he did, it sure wasn’t sexy, glamorous or any road to luxury. Mules had gained a lot of status since he’d started out in the business of training and selling them when he was just a kid, but he still ran into lots of prejudice and scorn for his loyalty to the long-eared critters.