A Mule for a Princess

Prologue Early October Southwestern New Mexico Bobby Estrada kicked a stone, then hopped, wincing at the pain. He came down on a sharper one and let out a yell. He was not used to worn-out shoes or much walking. These last few weeks, he had gone farther on foot than he had ever walked in all his nineteen years. Talk about dumb moves. He had racked up half a lifetime’s worth. Still, he was not going to go back. No fuckin’ way! Crawling back to his folks to admit he was wrong was not an option even if he didn’t have many others. Three weeks ago, instead of enrolling at New Mexico Western in Silver City as he was supposed to, he had bought a beater Chevy and headed off to northern Arizona and the south rim of the Grand Canyon National Park. His behavior during his senior year in high school had cost him the car he would ordinarily have had before he left home for college, riding with a friend. One more screw-up would be one too many, and he’d probably end up disowned. The ad had made it sound so great—working as a guide and wrangler while taking tourists down into the canyon or on shorter rim rides on the string of mules the concessionaire managed. Hey, he knew how to ride and stuff. What a great way to meet some cool people, maybe even some rich celeb looking for a protégée, and there’d be no tests, no studying, no dumb dorm rules, would there? Wrong answer. They’d had rules out the ying-yang, and besides, they had almost laughed at him. The grizzled old cowboy type who seemed to be the head wrangler asked him only a few questions. His glib answers hadn’t hacked it. “Go get some real experience, kid. And while you’re at it, adjust that attitude a bit. I wouldn’t hire you today to muck mule muffins out of the barn. Come back next year with a pair of well-used boots with s**t on them instead of them fancy city shoes, and I might talk to ya.” Bobby had been by turns indignant, crestfallen, and downright discouraged. When the folks found out he was not in school, he’d be in deep s**t at best. He was already walking a shaky rim with too many scrapes and close calls with the law, although he had quit running with that wild gang of boys in Santa Fe. Maybe one point in his favor. Their new game of mobbing and doing hard drugs instead of MJ and booze scared even him. All that was now history. He was walking into a dubious future, along a narrow two-lane highway toward what might be his last best hope. There had been another ad in that mule magazine, not as big or glitzy, but he read more into the simple words than some might. “The Mule Men—we train and sell the best in trail-wise, mountain-trained saddle mules. If you can rough it, we might take you into some of the last real wilderness in the lower forty-eight to choose and then try out your mule. Orr Loveless and Jase Keller, Gila, New Mexico.” That ranch was supposed to be somewhere up this road, if he could stand the hunger pains and battered feet long enough to get there. When the old car quit somewhere between Flagstaff and Tucson, he’d left it beside the road. Since then, he’d ridden his thumb. The way he felt now, he’d muck stables or just about anything for a couple of meals. Some of Nana Estrada’s old sayings echoed in his mind. “Pride goes before destruction” and “How the mighty are fallen.” He hadn’t been exactly mighty, but he had been proud, arrogant, and basically a total asshole. Whether he could dig himself out of this hole he’d slipped into remained to be seen. For the moment, he’d settle for a few meals and a bed instead of a tattered and holey sleeping bag wherever he threw it down. Fifteen minutes and a mile or so later, the road dipped into a cottonwood-shaded hollow. The leaves were starting to turn gold, and a few had dropped onto the pavement. That was when he saw the sign. It looked freshly painted with “The Mule Men” in frontier-style letters and an arrow pointing to the right off the road, down a steep incline to a level near that of the stream that chortled along under a bridge the highway crossed. He hoped there would be more sand than stones on that road. * * * * “Hey, Orr, we got company. Looks like a stray mutt just found his way up the road. Come take a look. You’ll laugh your ass off.” Orr looked up at his partner’s shout. He let the foreleg of the mule whose hoof he was trimming slip from its clasp between his knees before he straightened with a muted groan. No wonder farriers always seemed to move like they were eighty-five. Those hunched postures could sure kill your back. Jase was down by the house, where he’d gone to fetch them some coffee as they went about their daily chores. Orr had to admit it was good to have a partner, someone who shared his enthusiasm for the strange long-eared critters that many folks scorned, although lately around here, mules had gained a certain cachet and class. They sold damn well, too, if you found the right guy or gal who wanted one. Business had sure picked up this last year. Jase was a good businessman with a flair for marketing and skill in dealing with people, which had always been Orr’s weak spot. However, Jase had also surprised Orr and probably himself by fitting into the cowboy lifestyle and developing a real sense for working with the stock. For a guy who’d grown up in cities, he was amazing. Not bad in some other areas, either. In spite of himself, Orr grinned, remembering the night before in the king-sized bed they now shared in the refurbished, traditional adobe ranch house. Wherever he had gained them, Jase had some amazing talents in the bedroom. Orr ambled down the lane toward the house where he could soon see Jase and a somewhat shorter man, standing near the back gate to the yard around the old adobe. Jase turned as he approached. “Hey, Orr, meet Bobby Estrada. Says he wants to learn how to be a mule man so he can get a job at the Grand Canyon. I don’t think he has the gear, but I could be wrong. What do you think?” * * * * Bobby’s gaze skated back and forth between the two larger and older men. He tried to read from their expressions what they were thinking, how they responded to him. He had no real paradigms to evaluate them against. Teachers in school? Hardly. Not even his old coach or scoutmaster. These were real manly, outdoor-type guys. The one called Orr seemed to be in charge. He was big, real big, definitely more than six feet tall, and lean, although he looked totally hard and strong. The other man was not as huge, but he had a presence, energy, and control, something that made you listen and take notice. Orr fisted his hands and planted them on his narrow hips. “You want to become a mule man, huh? Just so you can work at the Grand Canyon and impress some rich dude? Won’t work, kid. The mules will know right away if it isn’t about them, that you’re a fake, and they’ll ignore you. Now, if you were sincere, it would be different.” Bobby fidgeted a few seconds, scuffing the toe of his badly worn shoe in the soft loose dust. “Well, that’s only one reason,” he hedged. “I think mules are pretty cool. I spent two summers down on my uncle’s ranch in Texas. He had some mules, and they were awesome.” Orr, the apparent boss, spoke again. “Why don’t you go back and work with him, then?” I may as well come clean. It’s my only chance. “I f****d up bad, I think. I’m supposed to be enrolled in college, but I skipped out. I’m sick of books and rules and authority-type s**t, you know? I wanna live free and do something, something real and tough.” Both men laughed. Orr sobered first. “Do you know how to use a shovel, a wheelbarrow?” “I—I think so. Like to clean corrals and stalls?” Orr nodded. “Yep, that’s it. That’s where you need to start if you’re going to work here. We’ll give you two good meals a day and a light lunch, a bed to sleep in, and probably find a pair of boots your size unless you want to muck stalls barefooted.” “Yes, sir, er, I mean no, sir.” The meals and the bed got him and the boots were not far behind. “I don’t like being homeless and hungry and…” Jase broke in. “But there are rules. No booze and no drugs. No sassing back, whatever you’re told to do. You just do it as best you can. You can ask questions as to how or when but not why. Okay?” Bobby nodded. He might have jumped right out of the frying pan into the fire here, but he was pretty close to being out of options. He’d try it for a while. They had not mentioned wages, but if he worked out, that might come later. For now, a bed and regular meals sounded pretty cool. And what could he spend money on out here, anyway? He hadn’t seen a convenience store or even a gas station for a lot of weary miles. No candy bars, sodas, or even probably cigs. Talk about roughing it.