MOJAVE MULESKINNERS

They came from most everywhere, these Muleskinners, converging on the oblivious old mining camp of Goldfield. I watched as they knocked the dust of the Los Angeles basin, and the Mojave Desert, from their frocks and coats. They came bringing their flair for reenacting to the street of this restored and prolonged old town, and judging by the applause, did it in grand style. United with the Muleskinners who reside here in the Territory of Arizona, the old structures were soon veiled in gunsmoke vented from the gun barrels of these blended characters who revel in entertaining all with their pseudo gunfights contrived to end in humor.

 

Then on the eve of the new year, our gracious hosts Sure Shot Sharon, and her faithful companion 'The Judge' made certain that the 'skinners were all well fed with good Arizona beef before warming their bellies around the campfire.

 

Then as the nearly full moon rose above Superstition Mountain, the melodious McNastys, made music and satire for the amusement of those still attentive. I say this because people with such potential personalities as the 'skinners, tend to create a show within themselves wherever two stand together in dialogue. And to kindle this condition into yet more vigor, a large brown jug filled with a mysterious concoction called perniciously enough, "apple pie," kept traveling from mouth to mouth throughout the assembly. And with some of the boys and girls already well on their way to a grand and glorious celebration, it didn't take long to see the inspired become even more enlivened. The latent genius of each of them soon soared to prominence.

 

My good friend Misfire, was soon leaning forward gesturing enthusiastically as he related a tale to three or four young people who sat enthralled by it until Misfire paused and then they would leave and another group would come to listen. In between listeners Misfire would become sullen. He loves to perform. Over yonder was this new character, The Preacher, alias Minnesota Kid. Book tucked faithfully under his arm, strolling piously about with a self righteous expression on his face. Then as the apple pie went past reaching out sanctimoniously to partake voraciously of its content. Minnesota Kid, indeed. Any youth he has left comes from that apple pie.

 

Then sitting nearby looking into the deep red coals of the fire was Windy Bill. Here, the scourge of the west, the dandy, the rebel, the buckskin clad Colt brandishing badman of Brimstone, sits holding a smiling baby. His eyes searching the fire while his memory rides the sage. Cutter, a mere saloon girl from the green hills of Indiana, having tamed him into seduction. Over there stands poor old White Horse, I saw him a bit earlier squeezing the last of his previous shot of apple pie from his whiskers. The world was his oyster. But he swallowed it.

 

Then there was Dead Eye and his pretty little gal. I watched them and could never figure out exactly what was motivating them. They would come into the gathering, walk about for a time then disappear. Each time she seemed determined to kiss all the boys, and nearly did. Especially at midnight. But my favorite spectacle to watch was my friend Griz. Yep. It's true. As the old year drew to a close, he, being filled with yearning, sauntered unsteadily through the throng in pursuit of happiness. In fact, he was so close to catching it that he declined my offer to let him ride to the rooming house in my buggy. He was bent on a last grasp at it. I'm not sure Griz caught it. But some say it was a dark haired lady from Germany? Others claim it was a blonde from Bismarck. All I know for sure is Griz was found on the floor of the boarding house with a dreamy smile on his countenance.

 

Next morning as I managed to drag my old bones out on the veranda of the boarding house to appraise the quiet street of old Goldfield, I pondered the coming new year. My missus and I sure enjoyed the hospitality of these Arizona 'skinners. They helped to make these holidays outstanding in our book of recollections. And as I said at the beginning of this dissertation, the Mojave Muleskinners are a gifted bunch. Anyone who can linger long among them and not receive the benefit of a good laugh, is somewhat of a barbarian. Of course, they are a rather pagan unwashed lot. Right Preacher? All the best for the New year to all of yez.

 

 

~ Weakeyes Cody